How about some links to the first published Conan short story by Robert E Howard? I've reformatted the text into something on the smaller side of a trade paperback, and there's even a choice of font. Bembo is the standard for pretty much every pulp publication and mass market paperback. Garamond though has what are called text figures and they read nicer. This is actually quite a nice version of Garamond with the exception of a wonky z.
The Phoenix on the Sword by Robert E Howard, Bembo font
The Phoenix on the Sword by Robert E Howard, Garamond font
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 March 2018
Sunday, 23 November 2014
The wave
The surly depths can conjure up that which we, even in our most concietful imaginings, would baulk at, with our carefully acquired hoard of ridicule and a pittance of spite we labour to, not quite, quell the urgings of doubt. The drama, comedy and tragedy of human life rolls along the well beaten path someone dies, another is born we spend the time lying, stealing--murdering, If I met an honest man I wouldn't know his name but he probably lost it, face down in a ditch. Then something like the wave happens, in this place so dense with miracle and catastrophe, you would've thought we'd learned some lessons regarding the unanticipated. That's not the case it seems, for even with the days that rain meat and kerosene in New York to remind us, the butterflies beat their wings unheeded.
'What was it like before the wave?', she asks, as if it was an ordinary question, what's your favourite colour, how many people are in the world, what is Father Christmas bringing me for Christmas?
Startled, I do my best to satisfy her curiosity, 'It was different--people were different--er no, people were the same, it's just that...'.
'You didn't know about the wave did you?'.
Such candour concerning the wave seems incongruous, I'm embarrassed, it's as if she asked me to explain birds and bees to her while we were under public gaze. 'No--I didn't--but some others... well they didn't exactly know about it, they...'. She's pouting now, the pinkness of her lips turning pale under the pressure of frustration. 'It's hard to explain sweetheart, it's like when you first went to school, you'd never been inside one before had you?'.
'No Daddy, I hadn't'.
'No sweetheart, that's rhetorical, you're not supposed to answer those kind of questions'.
'Sorry daddy'.
'It's not necessary to apologize sweetheart, not for those kind of mistakes'. As she falls silent for a few seconds, I allow myself to believe I've diverted her inquisition but the tension on her brow belies the motion of thought beneath.
'Sometimes... people make very big mistakes--ones they should apologise for--don't they daddy?'. As the light catches her eyes fixed upon mine, I see a hint of heterochromia amongst the the green I once thought as uniform as the deep of the sea. Fugitive splinters of light, the tell tales of horse mackerel evading predators.
'Yes, sweetheart'.
'That's OK daddy--it was rhetorical'.
-*-
'What was it like before the wave?', she asks, as if it was an ordinary question, what's your favourite colour, how many people are in the world, what is Father Christmas bringing me for Christmas?
Startled, I do my best to satisfy her curiosity, 'It was different--people were different--er no, people were the same, it's just that...'.
'You didn't know about the wave did you?'.
Such candour concerning the wave seems incongruous, I'm embarrassed, it's as if she asked me to explain birds and bees to her while we were under public gaze. 'No--I didn't--but some others... well they didn't exactly know about it, they...'. She's pouting now, the pinkness of her lips turning pale under the pressure of frustration. 'It's hard to explain sweetheart, it's like when you first went to school, you'd never been inside one before had you?'.
'No Daddy, I hadn't'.
'No sweetheart, that's rhetorical, you're not supposed to answer those kind of questions'.
'Sorry daddy'.
'It's not necessary to apologize sweetheart, not for those kind of mistakes'. As she falls silent for a few seconds, I allow myself to believe I've diverted her inquisition but the tension on her brow belies the motion of thought beneath.
'Sometimes... people make very big mistakes--ones they should apologise for--don't they daddy?'. As the light catches her eyes fixed upon mine, I see a hint of heterochromia amongst the the green I once thought as uniform as the deep of the sea. Fugitive splinters of light, the tell tales of horse mackerel evading predators.
'Yes, sweetheart'.
'That's OK daddy--it was rhetorical'.
Saturday, 12 July 2014
Fireball (fiction)
About this: A very short story, it's could probably be categorised as fan fiction I've included an updated version of that xl5 illustration and should offer a warning it does throw up some fruity language, mostly confined to the start though.
Fireball
'Z'dayak -- Steve Z'dayak!' Steve enunciated firmly into his communications mike, an image of girl a smirking at his contrived pronunciation wormed through his mind as he waited for a response. Sure enough the girl's tone attested to the amusement she's gleaned during the few seconds she'd stolen to, not quite effectively, quell her chuckling.
'Ehem yes Mr. -- Zed - ay - aher -ak! -- we're waiting for your clearance to the enter the outer traffic control zone. If you can hold your present pattern, we'll give you clearance shortly, control out'.
'Bitch!' Steve Zodiac wasn't sure if he closed his mike in time to mask his petulance as he threw his headset at the console, 'it's Captain Zodiac - you fucking cow!'.
'Now now, you know that military designations are optional for civilian flight control, Captain -- Z'dayak,' said Venus as she stepped into the flight deck. Steve didn't have to turn to witness the smirk on his female colleague's face. The fact that she'd caught him out pronouncing the name he'd been baptised with would certainly have accentuated that expression which seemed to be permanently stamped onto her fizog.
'What is it?' he inquired, he kept his face turned towards the flight console with faux attentiveness.
'Oh I've just come to ask Robert if he'd like to watch a movie in the leisure suit, we are holding for flight control -- aren't we?' Venus made it perfectly clear she was aware that Steve's apparent preoccupation with the flight controls was a pantomime.
'MOVIE -- MOVIE!' Robert piped as he sat in the copilot's chair.
'I need the robot here, clearance will be through in a few minutes!'
'Captain, with all due respect...' does anyone use that phrase, thought Steve, when they have an ounce of respect for the person they're addressing, '...according to Space Patrol guidelines, Robert...' she pronounced the name with deliberate emphasis '...should be afforded the same working practices as human crew members, to ensure optimum effectiveness. He's been on the flight deck for four hours, which mean he's due for a twenty minute break'. Yeah twenty minutes with which you do what together, thought Steve, watch a movie? Venus's and Robert's relationship was a source of constant ire to Steve, Robert was a true Robot, a synthetic human of sorts but with a rather limited personality, a limitation imposed by the current state of the art of robotics. The state of that art though, was advanced enough to endow Robert with the full complement of human physical characteristics.
'I've been here six hours!'.
'Yes Captain, I'm aware rank does come with certain commitments,' said Venus 'but I really must insist, we don't want to make an issue out of this -- do we?'.
'ISSUE -- ISSUE, DON'T WANT TO MAKE ISSUE!' Robert bleeped, somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, thought Steve.
Steve festered inwardly at Venus's veiled threat, his reprimand for his conduct with her predecessor had already put a break on his career. He was stuck on this rust bucket XL5, known by the name Fireball by the rest of Space Patrol, an ironic reference to its reputation as being the slowest ship in the fleet. He was going to put his foot down this time though. 'No -- we're not going to make an issue out of this, he's needed on the flight deck. Regulations give me prerogative to override scheduled breaks when there's a clear imperative for a crew member to remain at his station'.
'REMAIN AT STATION!' Steve thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in Robert's metallic synthesized drone, 'REMAIN AT STATION!' Randy bastard.
'Fireball, Fireball, Fireball XL5' the communicator rattled with the voice of the female flight controller, abruptly interrupting the discourse.
Steve fumbled for his headset, 'What?' he barked into his mike a he placed it on his head, then his gathered his composure quickly, 'Er, Xl5, Xl5, Xl5 -- responding, control'.
'Please observe voice communications protocol, Fireball'.
'The call sign's Xl5 control' Steve was eager to reciprocate the supercilious tone.
Undeterred the faceless controller continued, 'We have a delay here -- FIREBALL, you need to hold for another two hours, can you acknowledge?'.
'Roger -- two hours delay,' he said with a grunt that betrayed his exasperation.
'Thank you Fireball, control out'.
'So -- no imperative then, Robert's free to come with me,' Venus smirked.
'FREE TO COME -- FREE TO COME,' yeah I bet you are.
'Yes -- you go, just leave me here' Robert jumped from his his flight seat with something too akin to eagerness for Steve's comfort, then they left the flight deck together. 'Have fun,' he uttered when he felt sure they were out of earshot.
'Two hours,' Steve moaned to himself, 'two hours of staring into bloody blackness, why did they make the observation canopies on these bloody flight decks so huge? what the bloody hell is there to look at. That bloody robot better be back here in twenty minutes,' he said as he checked the chronograph on the flight control panel. He started to absent mindedly strum his fingers on the instrument panel, as he did so he accidentally flipped the cover of the main retro switch, 'Oh bugger!'. He folded his arms and sat silently for a few moments, then lapsed into daydream.
To pass the time on such occasions, Steve had fostered a elaborate but a rather unimaginative fantasy life. He was Colonel Zodiac and no one laughed at his name in his world. Somewhat incongruously for someone of such advanced rank, he was still an acting Space Patrol pilot, an inconsistency he never bothered to reconcile. Instead of exercising his imagination to explore The Lost Planet of Nubile Nymphomaniacs, he'd concern his meandering thoughts with petty revenge on those who frustrated him or drew his envy in reality. Venus was a compliant ingénue, attentive to his every word, Matt his able chief engineer, a myopic scatterbrain, Robert a grotesque android constructed from waste perspex and yoghurt cartons. This time though, the inadequacies that plagued his reality permeated his subconscious and the strings he'd tug to manipulate the characters of his fantasy coalesced into a physical form. His characters turned into marionettes and inside his mind he couldn't stem the transformation, it continued until his entire world was populated exclusively with caricatures hopping around on strings. When he looked into his fantasy world mirror and saw the comically furtive eyes of a puppet staring back at him, his fantasy concluded abruptly.
Startled by this exit from his fantasy world, he tried to think of something to take his mind off the experience and pass the time. Then it occurred to him that he could review the Space Patrol bulletins, the last thing he normally choose to occupy himself, although he was supposed to attend to that task daily. 'Let me see,' he said as he thumbed through the bulletins on his clipboard, 'new procedures for engine maintenance, Oh I'll have to tell Matt about that. Nutritional guidelines, blah blah, Oh what's this -- product warning for XK2ooo robot personnel'. After a few moments reading Steve flipped on the internal communication switch, 'Venus, call the flight deck please'.
Moments later Venus's voiced broke in over the communications system, 'Yes!' she didn't sound too pleased.
'Look, I don't need Robert here for an hour or so, tell him to take an extended break, Oh and by the way, I've released the lockout on the zero g facility for the leisure suite'. Steve knew the prospect of zero g gymnastics would ensure that Venus and Robert availed themselves of that facility, his face broke into a wicked smile.
ITEM 9 PRODUCT WARNING XK2000 ROBOT PERSONNEL
As a result of a notification from the manufacturer, Cyberdrone Systems Inc. The following additional operational parameters for the XK2000 robot have been set:
1. The XK2000 should at no time be operated in zero g environment, doing so can seriously compromise the XK2000's operational effectiveness.
2. Crew members, should refrain from certain: recreational practices in the presence of the XK2000 while there is a risk of encountering a zero g environment.
Note:
Failure to comply with the above will seriously compromise the fabric of the unit's dermal component, causing the chemical bonds of a constituent of that component to break down. Subsequent to component failure the unit's skin will revert to a gelatinous form. While this fault does not represent a hazard to crew members, several units have already failed in this manner and crew members report that the adhesive properties of the consequent gelatinous mass are such that it will adhere to human skin with a bond of indeterminate but substantial strength. This bond can not be safely broken until the skin's decomposition is complete, a process that takes approximately four days. This failure is accompanied by a strong odour, similar to that of decomposing herring.
ITEM 10 XK KIPPER
The following directive has been issued by the Space Patrol working practices committee:
1. The use of the, Term, "XK Kipper" in relation to crew members...
Fireball
'Z'dayak -- Steve Z'dayak!' Steve enunciated firmly into his communications mike, an image of girl a smirking at his contrived pronunciation wormed through his mind as he waited for a response. Sure enough the girl's tone attested to the amusement she's gleaned during the few seconds she'd stolen to, not quite effectively, quell her chuckling.
'Ehem yes Mr. -- Zed - ay - aher -ak! -- we're waiting for your clearance to the enter the outer traffic control zone. If you can hold your present pattern, we'll give you clearance shortly, control out'.
'Bitch!' Steve Zodiac wasn't sure if he closed his mike in time to mask his petulance as he threw his headset at the console, 'it's Captain Zodiac - you fucking cow!'.
'Now now, you know that military designations are optional for civilian flight control, Captain -- Z'dayak,' said Venus as she stepped into the flight deck. Steve didn't have to turn to witness the smirk on his female colleague's face. The fact that she'd caught him out pronouncing the name he'd been baptised with would certainly have accentuated that expression which seemed to be permanently stamped onto her fizog.
'What is it?' he inquired, he kept his face turned towards the flight console with faux attentiveness.
'Oh I've just come to ask Robert if he'd like to watch a movie in the leisure suit, we are holding for flight control -- aren't we?' Venus made it perfectly clear she was aware that Steve's apparent preoccupation with the flight controls was a pantomime.
'MOVIE -- MOVIE!' Robert piped as he sat in the copilot's chair.
'I need the robot here, clearance will be through in a few minutes!'
'Captain, with all due respect...' does anyone use that phrase, thought Steve, when they have an ounce of respect for the person they're addressing, '...according to Space Patrol guidelines, Robert...' she pronounced the name with deliberate emphasis '...should be afforded the same working practices as human crew members, to ensure optimum effectiveness. He's been on the flight deck for four hours, which mean he's due for a twenty minute break'. Yeah twenty minutes with which you do what together, thought Steve, watch a movie? Venus's and Robert's relationship was a source of constant ire to Steve, Robert was a true Robot, a synthetic human of sorts but with a rather limited personality, a limitation imposed by the current state of the art of robotics. The state of that art though, was advanced enough to endow Robert with the full complement of human physical characteristics.
'I've been here six hours!'.
'Yes Captain, I'm aware rank does come with certain commitments,' said Venus 'but I really must insist, we don't want to make an issue out of this -- do we?'.
'ISSUE -- ISSUE, DON'T WANT TO MAKE ISSUE!' Robert bleeped, somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, thought Steve.
Steve festered inwardly at Venus's veiled threat, his reprimand for his conduct with her predecessor had already put a break on his career. He was stuck on this rust bucket XL5, known by the name Fireball by the rest of Space Patrol, an ironic reference to its reputation as being the slowest ship in the fleet. He was going to put his foot down this time though. 'No -- we're not going to make an issue out of this, he's needed on the flight deck. Regulations give me prerogative to override scheduled breaks when there's a clear imperative for a crew member to remain at his station'.
'REMAIN AT STATION!' Steve thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in Robert's metallic synthesized drone, 'REMAIN AT STATION!' Randy bastard.
'Fireball, Fireball, Fireball XL5' the communicator rattled with the voice of the female flight controller, abruptly interrupting the discourse.
Steve fumbled for his headset, 'What?' he barked into his mike a he placed it on his head, then his gathered his composure quickly, 'Er, Xl5, Xl5, Xl5 -- responding, control'.
'Please observe voice communications protocol, Fireball'.
'The call sign's Xl5 control' Steve was eager to reciprocate the supercilious tone.
Undeterred the faceless controller continued, 'We have a delay here -- FIREBALL, you need to hold for another two hours, can you acknowledge?'.
'Roger -- two hours delay,' he said with a grunt that betrayed his exasperation.
'Thank you Fireball, control out'.
'So -- no imperative then, Robert's free to come with me,' Venus smirked.
'FREE TO COME -- FREE TO COME,' yeah I bet you are.
'Yes -- you go, just leave me here' Robert jumped from his his flight seat with something too akin to eagerness for Steve's comfort, then they left the flight deck together. 'Have fun,' he uttered when he felt sure they were out of earshot.
'Two hours,' Steve moaned to himself, 'two hours of staring into bloody blackness, why did they make the observation canopies on these bloody flight decks so huge? what the bloody hell is there to look at. That bloody robot better be back here in twenty minutes,' he said as he checked the chronograph on the flight control panel. He started to absent mindedly strum his fingers on the instrument panel, as he did so he accidentally flipped the cover of the main retro switch, 'Oh bugger!'. He folded his arms and sat silently for a few moments, then lapsed into daydream.
To pass the time on such occasions, Steve had fostered a elaborate but a rather unimaginative fantasy life. He was Colonel Zodiac and no one laughed at his name in his world. Somewhat incongruously for someone of such advanced rank, he was still an acting Space Patrol pilot, an inconsistency he never bothered to reconcile. Instead of exercising his imagination to explore The Lost Planet of Nubile Nymphomaniacs, he'd concern his meandering thoughts with petty revenge on those who frustrated him or drew his envy in reality. Venus was a compliant ingénue, attentive to his every word, Matt his able chief engineer, a myopic scatterbrain, Robert a grotesque android constructed from waste perspex and yoghurt cartons. This time though, the inadequacies that plagued his reality permeated his subconscious and the strings he'd tug to manipulate the characters of his fantasy coalesced into a physical form. His characters turned into marionettes and inside his mind he couldn't stem the transformation, it continued until his entire world was populated exclusively with caricatures hopping around on strings. When he looked into his fantasy world mirror and saw the comically furtive eyes of a puppet staring back at him, his fantasy concluded abruptly.
Startled by this exit from his fantasy world, he tried to think of something to take his mind off the experience and pass the time. Then it occurred to him that he could review the Space Patrol bulletins, the last thing he normally choose to occupy himself, although he was supposed to attend to that task daily. 'Let me see,' he said as he thumbed through the bulletins on his clipboard, 'new procedures for engine maintenance, Oh I'll have to tell Matt about that. Nutritional guidelines, blah blah, Oh what's this -- product warning for XK2ooo robot personnel'. After a few moments reading Steve flipped on the internal communication switch, 'Venus, call the flight deck please'.
Moments later Venus's voiced broke in over the communications system, 'Yes!' she didn't sound too pleased.
'Look, I don't need Robert here for an hour or so, tell him to take an extended break, Oh and by the way, I've released the lockout on the zero g facility for the leisure suite'. Steve knew the prospect of zero g gymnastics would ensure that Venus and Robert availed themselves of that facility, his face broke into a wicked smile.
--*--
ITEM 9 PRODUCT WARNING XK2000 ROBOT PERSONNEL
As a result of a notification from the manufacturer, Cyberdrone Systems Inc. The following additional operational parameters for the XK2000 robot have been set:
1. The XK2000 should at no time be operated in zero g environment, doing so can seriously compromise the XK2000's operational effectiveness.
2. Crew members, should refrain from certain: recreational practices in the presence of the XK2000 while there is a risk of encountering a zero g environment.
Note:
Failure to comply with the above will seriously compromise the fabric of the unit's dermal component, causing the chemical bonds of a constituent of that component to break down. Subsequent to component failure the unit's skin will revert to a gelatinous form. While this fault does not represent a hazard to crew members, several units have already failed in this manner and crew members report that the adhesive properties of the consequent gelatinous mass are such that it will adhere to human skin with a bond of indeterminate but substantial strength. This bond can not be safely broken until the skin's decomposition is complete, a process that takes approximately four days. This failure is accompanied by a strong odour, similar to that of decomposing herring.
ITEM 10 XK KIPPER
The following directive has been issued by the Space Patrol working practices committee:
1. The use of the, Term, "XK Kipper" in relation to crew members...
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Lessons
| About this: recently I was reminded about the demands placed upon illustrators, stuff like: Draw it this way and no he's too tall. I could go on the list would be endless, when someone's paying you for your effort there's a tendency for them to view you as proxy for their own vision, of course it doesn't work like that and when faced with overbearing demands I would occasionally hand the offender my pencil and say, 'Here you go!'. Well anyway I wrote this story quite a while ago and it got a certain amount of feedback, mostly hostile it has to be said although one rather conscientiousness fellow did offer some rather good criticism which I did mean to act on. Unfortunately I haven't got round to that yet. Anyway I though I'd give the un-amended version an airing here. There was some withering views from a jolly fellow, who I gather didn't appreciate the humour, at the time this was quite a surprise cos I hadn't intended any, which is probably not a good sign. Our protagonist's plight here does reflect actual events although you shouldn't interpret him as literally autobiographical. When I took up illustration for the short period I did, I'd given up drawing for a number of years, I only really did learn to draw properly, on the job, so to speak, when you're doing it professionally the incentive to learn is acute, so his rather incredulous initial inability to draw female figures, does actually reflect reality quite closely. |
Work, a reprographic studio just before they went electronic, had become a chore and I was suffering under the tyranny of my immediate superior, a woman named Cheryl. First names at work, don’t you just hate them? I view those days, when the mutual disdain shared by manager and underling was more honestly acknowledged, with a certain degree of regretfulness at their passing.
Cheryl’s hostility towards myself was never overt and always something of mystery to me. In fact, for a while, the surreptitious nature of her malice left me wondering if it was indeed deliberate and not just the fact that we didn’t get along. It wasn’t until the day she pulled out some of my artwork, to verify that it was square, that I caught on that our problems together had been at her contrivance. Indeed the artwork was out of square and she made sure that every one in the studio knew about the deficiency. She chastised me as loudly and vehemently as she could manage without shouting. After this indignity had passed and when she was out of the studio, I took the time to examine the parallel motion on my board. The sabotage was subtle, it had been wired up asymmetrically with an extra turn around one of the pulleys at the top of the board. From then on I was always extra careful to furnish her with as few opportunities as possible for her to justify her contempt. Of course this didn’t do anything to pacify our relationship, fuelled by frustration, her sniping became more frequent and her accusations more demonstrative.
Working in this atmosphere I contrive to stave off depression with frequent lapses into daydream. The usual fayre, crushed coral beaches, populated by bronzed maidens, the white sand clinging to the soles of their feet as they kneel attentively beneath shade of the palms. Today though, I’m in Peach-nut Grove, a pastoral haven blessed with orchards streams and idealised children, who spend their days fishing and playing hopscotch.
-*-
‘Why are there are no women in any of the panels?’ she inquired her malice concealed neatly.
It's an illustration, in the form of comic strip, I perform some duties as an illustrator as well as the tedium of reprographic artwork. The reason there's no women in the comic's panel is that I'm not good at drawing them. Excepting a few prosaic life classes my limited skills have been honed on the imitation of comic strip super heroes. My efforts at portraying feminine pulchritude make the Libyan Sibyl appear as svelte as Michelle Pfeiffer in comparison.
‘No reason,’ I trip my answer out, my mind invoking an image of an innocent child skipping through a lush field of green punctuated by the occasional vibrance of daisy. Unfortunately someone’s been busy building,and there now seem to be a railway line bifurcating my summery idyll. It's not long before a thunderous smoke belching diesel appears.
‘Don't you think...’ oh dear I think that innocent child's in trouble ‘...it's a bit...’ yep things are defiantly looking dodgy in Peach-nut Grove ‘...Sexist?’
Of course It’s rhetorical, I’m supposed to nod like one of the ugly steel riveted nodding donkeys that’ll soon accompany those diesels with an incessant thumping. ‘No, it's not sexist,’ I assert, reinterpreting her question, to an inquiry of fact instead of opinion, despite the fact I completely lack any innate comprehension of the concept of sexism.
Her eyes narrow, ‘I think it is sexist’.
‘Nah you're mistaken, why would I draw anything sexist?’
Now it's her turn to state fact, ‘It is sexist, you're going to change it, add some women in the group in the bottom panel.’
‘There's no time, the bike is here in half an hour and Clair's already signed off these drawings.’ I say knowing my protest will be as fruitless as the sickly trees poisoned by the incessant trains running through Peach-nut Grove.
‘There's plenty of time, we'll hold the bike until you finish.’
Undermined by my own productivity with pen and ink and mindful of Cheryl’s devious malice I return to my drawing board. As I take my seat Carlos, my neighbour in the studio, offers some mocking wisdom. ‘Yeah, can't have you being sexist Mick, I think should point out that all the figures are white too.’
‘What, oh no please Carlos...’
‘Just kidding’.
‘Thank god for that, I haven’t a clue how to do black skin with ink, they'd end up looking like golliwogs.’
‘Careful,’ says Carlos.
‘Oh god yeah, I mean, looking like that racist artefact, children used to play with that was fashioned to resemble a Minstrel.’
Carlos chuckles and returns to his work, I sit and look at a blank page in a Frisk pad for a few minutes before I gather the will to hone my pencil to a point. More precious minutes pass while I try to forge my Venus of Willendorf into a recognisable female figure. It's a cruel fact that nature robs the feminine form of much of the elegance of youth soon after puberty. There's a reason why people will pay to witness the athletic grace displayed at professional football. While the ungainly gait and flaying arms of the women's game, requires the devoted eye of a parent or spouse to be truly appreciated.
As I cast around to discover the genius of the female form, I recall my experience in the life drawing class. Our models were women in their thirties or late twenties, deliberately posed to resemble a sack of swede in order to suppress any sexuality or eroticism in our drawings. I smile briefly as I imagine the scandal and embarrassment caused if one of us had produced something akin to a Klimt drawing at one of those life classes. I had always done rather well at those classes though, mainly because I didn't bother with the ungainly bits. While others included the elephantine hips together with every crease and buckle formed in the sack by those bulging swedes. I kept my drawings focused, omitting anything I didn't care for. Women have these rather elegantly curved clavicles so I'd concern myself the neck, face and bust area. This would, of course, incur accusations of a breast fixation, during those tedious post class crit sessions. The unfortunate practical upshot of this though, was that it left me unpractised at rendering the wider female form.
So I find my self drawing this clavicle as a starting point and the familiar curve inspires an idea, why don't I use that curve for the rest of the figure? After all that's what distinguishes the female form from the male, its er, interesting curves. I start marking out the curves of the figure with my clutch pencil, hesitantly at first but pretty soon I've finished my first figure and when take a look I find I'm rather pleased with her. Her head with its neatly flowing hair, askance atop a serpentine spine and her purposeful arms terminated with delicately poised fingers, I quickly integrate her into the composition and decide to try it again. The second figure is better, the next better still, hey, I'm getting good at this. By the time I've finished the women are in danger of outnumbering the men. I use a brush to ink the figures because the artwork is on drafting film and pen work takes too long to dry. ‘There finished with time to spare,’ I say as I set the artwork to dry under my Anglepoise.
‘Lets have a look’ Debbie one of the girls in the studio is curious, Carlos too and they saunter over to inspect the masterpiece. ‘Why was this changed?’ Debbie Asks. Debbie’s fair, with waist length hair about 5'2" and a be-freckled complexion, I suspect she’d be very attractive if she wasn’t so bloody fat. Don’t get my wrong while I appreciate svelte figures and flat bellies, I’m rather partial to women with somewhat rounder curves, just not that round. With her figure being as it is though, Debbie finds herself having to try harder than most to lure men into the sack.
Just how much harder I was to find out some time later when she employed a bottle of gin to in effort lure me into such a position. I was saved from disgrace only by the fact that she had to encourage me to consume such copious amounts of alcohol before my natural reluctance was overcome, that I promptly passed out.
‘Oh Cheryl said, the original was sexist,’ I inform her.
‘ I don't think this what she had in mind when she said that.’ warned Debbie.
‘This is the non-sexist version?’ Carlos chimes in.
By now a certain trepidation is starting to arise in my mind ‘Yeah...’ I say, looking for reassurance, ‘...It's the new non-sexist version, that is totally non-sexist!’ I exclaimed with poorly feigned assurance.
‘What...’ Debbie tilts her head slightly as she examines the drawing, ‘...what are they wearing?’
‘Look I didn’t have time to think up a wardrobe, I just covered up the curvy bits with a few lines.’
‘The bikes here!’
Cheryl moves to join us. She arrives at my desk and I hand her the artwork. ‘Here it is, I finished a few minutes ago. I think you were right about the first one, this version is much better’.Cheryl lifts her eyes from the artwork and stares at me, Given the right pretext Cheryl could instantly conjure up the mood to take a flame thrower to every child who ever ventured onto the meadow at the long since idyllic Peach-nut Grove. Instead though, I witness a curious self satisfied smile appear, it's then I realise this was a obstacle I was never meant to hurdle.
‘This is no good, give me the original.’ Cheryl barks.
‘That's is the original.’ I reply.
‘No the first version, the one that Clair's signed off.’ she presses.
Cheryl’s attention is momentarily diverted as one of the admins calls out to her, ‘Clair’s on the line for you Cheryl.’
‘Ask her to hold, I’ll just be a minute.’
‘It’s gone,’ I say as she turns her attention back to me.
Now she is getting angry, ‘What do you mean? give me the drawing I saw this morning.’
‘Sorry to interrupt Cheryl,’ the admin interjects timidly ‘it’s just that Clair says she needs the artwork for the back page. If they don’t get it soon they’ll have to put back the print run.’ this plea arouses the attention of the studio manager, David, who walked over to join us.
‘Don’t you remember?’ I say, ‘you used the last of the drafting film yesterday to register those separations for the 35mm slides.’ She’d done so in the face of my protest that they could’ve just as easily used acetate but as soon as I revealed my interest in preserving the stock of drafting film her determination to deplete it unnecessarily grew implacable. ‘But it’s okay, I used this,’ I reached over to my desk where I pick up a T20 eraser. I hold it up between my thumb and forefinger to best display the label clearly, Rotring T20 Ink Eraser.
‘What’s the delay?’ David asks, ‘I thought this artwork had been finished this morning.’
‘But...’ she stared at the artwork as the penny clattered to the floor, ‘...but, it’s ink’. Wonderful stuff drafting film, it's has its disadvantages, the ink takes an age to dry on its impermeable surface but one of the benefits is that you can neatly erase even Indian ink from that surface neatly, with the right kind of firm rubber.
What’s that? I think I hear birdsong in Peach-nut Grove.
Friday, 24 May 2013
1478
| Norman Drainwangle sits alone in a corridor, he's a man like very much like you or I, except Norman has broken the law and awaits his sentence in a court of justice. A court with judges, barristers and lawers going about their business, an every day drama acted out in a thousand such institutions all over the world. But this is no ordinary world, this is world where nightmare tiptoes into the daylight and says, 'Boo' a world where reality and fantasy mingle like the fruit topping on the ice cream you bought your girlfriend at Mr. Whippy's. Tell her to eat it now before it starts to drip on her blouse because now you're about to take a peek through my -- DeadSpiderEye. |
It had to happen eventually I suppose, they caught me out, god I thought I was safe over breakfast just goes to show how much effort they put into catching you.
I've not had a licence for some time now, probably about six years, I don't miss it, X-Factor, Coronation Street, the endless trivia and white noise. The only thing I still do occasionally miss is the racing, football, Jeremy Clarkson's banter and his colourful prose. Of course it's not a licence any more, it's officially been a tax for a number of years, they still call it a licence in public though. I suppose they're shying away from the word even though they're eager to embrace the benefits of the licence's status as a tax, evading the licence is now a criminal offence. I admit I don't abstain completely from activities that require the licence, I'm usually careful to avoid situations that would cause me liability though. Avoiding the licence legally is becoming increasingly difficult, if you've got a computer or mobile phone they're after you, there's even talk of you having to prove you use these devices exclusively for purposes other than that covered by the licence fee. I suppose if they just taxed you being alive or having a head on your shoulders that be too reminiscent of Mrs. T's Pole Tax.
They send you threatening mail regularly if you don't have a licence, not the corporation itself mind you, their proxy in the licence fee collection business. They need to have suitable distance between the corporation and the issuing of threats to innocent member of the public, you see how that works? Quite why the licence fee and the attendant coercion is tolerated in what's supposed to be a liberal democracy is a mystery to me. Perhaps it's just a lack of perspective, it's always been there, there's a blind a spot within public perception, a bit like people disappearing when they reach thirty in Logan's Run, if it's all you've ever known it would seem normal.
'Norman Drainwangle!'
Oh that's me, here goes...
Twenty seven minutes later
...oh well that's not so bad, £700 fine, not the maximum, I think that's about £2000. The judge warned that If I'm caught again, it's a custodial sentence I can't risk that especially considering what I was caught doing last time, Dam it, if only I hadn't read the back of that cornflake packet as I sat down for breakfast -- and aloud too, what was I thinking? I suppose I'd better get my Reading Licence now, don't want the BPC, the bloody British Publishing Corporation jumping on me for reading the mail when I get home.
| And so Norman Drainwangle leaves the court chastened, branded a criminal for reading without a licence. An activity that you and I would take for granted in our world, criminalised with offenders and the innocent alike hounded by a ruthless bureaucracy. Take comfort with the knowledge that this could never happen here -- or could it? That's a question to ponder till the next time you dare to peek beyond the veil, through my -- DeadSpiderEye!!!! Doo doodoodoo..... |
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Sheridan's Toadstool
About this: Some of the themes here are a bit touchy, it's not graphic
or anything, there's no violence or real unpleasantness but it might not
be suitable for light reading.
Better, worse, who knows? It's all just for fun anyway, have a gander at the first version here if you're interested.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, arranged in what's known as a wicket gate, the door on the right as you faced them from the street, had a smaller door inset into it for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a Lithuanian emigre who arrived in England during the war, whether he was in flight from German or Russian occupation I never knew. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
A little further down the road from the Sheridan's, on the opposite side of the street is a basement flat, the home of another one of my father's occasional shop staff. The reason why this particular lady's noteworthy is somewhat less tragic. Her daughter, a little older than me, has become the focus of my very first romantic interest although that's no particular reason for notoriety. What is interesting, though only mildly so to anyone except myself. is what became of her. She became a model and with good reason, she grew up into an extremely attractive young woman, not that I ever clapped eyes on her again, aside from her appearance in things like the Pirelli calender. I would have been blissfully ignorant of such if wasn't for the intervention of my darling sister, who took great delight in pointing the fact out to me in my tender youth.
Father wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with the tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seemed was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, with its lurid green and yellow lettering executed in a stylized script. The illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him few questions: 'What's that picture on the front?'
The answer, 'A grotesque caricature' wasn't a great deal of help to a person with my vocabulary.
'What's this word say?' I asked pointing at the script on the cover.
'Toadstool'.
I was still the none the wiser and I could see the patience borne through his contrition was wearing thin, so I opted to forgo the request for a definition and ask the pertinent question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity. The comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets and chanced one last question, 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
Of course a child has a limited concept of death, it's something that happens to people, you know that much. In the comics the heroes had won out and survived, as the they always do in a fantasy. Sheridan's lesson hadn't fallen on fertile soil, 'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' I exclaimed joyously, I'm sure he must have winced at my hubris but I'm speculating, just then mother returned. She probably been gone less than an hour, she thanked Sheridan and we left.
Better, worse, who knows? It's all just for fun anyway, have a gander at the first version here if you're interested.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, arranged in what's known as a wicket gate, the door on the right as you faced them from the street, had a smaller door inset into it for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a Lithuanian emigre who arrived in England during the war, whether he was in flight from German or Russian occupation I never knew. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
A little further down the road from the Sheridan's, on the opposite side of the street is a basement flat, the home of another one of my father's occasional shop staff. The reason why this particular lady's noteworthy is somewhat less tragic. Her daughter, a little older than me, has become the focus of my very first romantic interest although that's no particular reason for notoriety. What is interesting, though only mildly so to anyone except myself. is what became of her. She became a model and with good reason, she grew up into an extremely attractive young woman, not that I ever clapped eyes on her again, aside from her appearance in things like the Pirelli calender. I would have been blissfully ignorant of such if wasn't for the intervention of my darling sister, who took great delight in pointing the fact out to me in my tender youth.
Father wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with the tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seemed was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, with its lurid green and yellow lettering executed in a stylized script. The illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him few questions: 'What's that picture on the front?'
The answer, 'A grotesque caricature' wasn't a great deal of help to a person with my vocabulary.
'What's this word say?' I asked pointing at the script on the cover.
'Toadstool'.
I was still the none the wiser and I could see the patience borne through his contrition was wearing thin, so I opted to forgo the request for a definition and ask the pertinent question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity. The comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets and chanced one last question, 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
Of course a child has a limited concept of death, it's something that happens to people, you know that much. In the comics the heroes had won out and survived, as the they always do in a fantasy. Sheridan's lesson hadn't fallen on fertile soil, 'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' I exclaimed joyously, I'm sure he must have winced at my hubris but I'm speculating, just then mother returned. She probably been gone less than an hour, she thanked Sheridan and we left.
Friday, 17 May 2013
The Toadstool in Sheridan's Garage
About this: Some of the themes here are a bit touchy, it's not graphic or anything, there's no violence or real unpleasantness but it might not be suitable for light reading.
This is a one hit draft, except for some minor changes, that might make it interesting. I'll probably put the revised version for the sake of comparison.
I dropped the, fiction, suffix in the title, it was generating some referrer spam which is very noticeable here cos traffic is a bit low.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, one of them, the one on the right as you faced them from the street, had one of those inset doors for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a polish emigre who arrived in England in flight from German occupation during the war. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
He wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seems was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My my reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, the cover was a lurid green with yellow lettering executed in a stylized script and the illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange though, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him a question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity, the comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets. 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' Just then mum arrived back, she probably been gone less than an hour. She thanked Sheridan and we left.
This is a one hit draft, except for some minor changes, that might make it interesting. I'll probably put the revised version for the sake of comparison.
I dropped the, fiction, suffix in the title, it was generating some referrer spam which is very noticeable here cos traffic is a bit low.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, one of them, the one on the right as you faced them from the street, had one of those inset doors for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a polish emigre who arrived in England in flight from German occupation during the war. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
He wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seems was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My my reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, the cover was a lurid green with yellow lettering executed in a stylized script and the illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange though, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him a question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity, the comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets. 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' Just then mum arrived back, she probably been gone less than an hour. She thanked Sheridan and we left.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
The Life of Samuel Nathan Taylor
| Here's an old one, never too sure what to with this. Wrote it in a state of quite spectacular distress, obviously it should be extended but I just can't bring myself to fill in the blank at the end. Of course I know what's going on cos I wrote it but I kinda like the way it's not explicit. Anyway I'm not sure if the dialect could be sustained over anything longer than about 5000 words, even at that length it would get a bit tedious. There's the option of swapping into the 3rd person or a different first person identity, maybe even something epistolic. I did monkey with idea of a segue into a comic format, kinda gradual with pictures appearing in text first. |
No I dun get me no schoolin', none of any account that is. That being so 'cause ah they let me go from school when that boy Charlie Webb done broke ma slate. The teacher told me I had to pay for another. That Charlie Webb he broke my slate 'cause he were jealous of me 'n' that Peggy Tranter. She were a pretty girl and she were kina sweet on me, tell the truth I were kina sweet on her too. Charlie he's as ugly as mules backside see and twice as stupid but he were burly fellow for his age. So one day he took a mind to beat on me. Well he bein' a burly fellow an' me, I was e'en more scrawny then, he beat on me pretty good, then he smash ma slate just for measure. They weren't our slates see, they were the schools but we're kind mindin' them while we learnt to write and sum an' all. Charlie weren't so stupid as to beat on me infruna the teacher mind. When she saw me an' that broke slate she wouldn't take no mind of me tellin' about it bein' Charlie that broke it.
Paw wouldn't stump up fur the slate, when teacher told him how much it'd cost an' that it was slate from Corn Wall England an' he'd hafta get the money. He got so angry he beat my hide as red as cherry on a bonnet an ‘told me I had get to work an' earn the money to pay the school myself. Course he weren't my real paw, my real paw died some while afore.
No don't remember my real paw too good, I were no more'n kickin' at the buttercups when he gone died. He worked at the tannin mill, ya see the air in that tannin mill is kinda salty, it don't do folk no good to breathe it too long. He weren't around much when I was a youngun he'd be spenin' his time at work course he were breathin' that salty air all that time. Well as I say you can't go chasing pigs without gettin' shit on your legs and pretty soon he'd tender for all that time he's a breathin' that air. First he gets kinda yella, which is the way they go, then he gets ill and takes to bed, pretty soon he's gone.
Yeah day o' the funeral ma's sobin' an' a cryin' I tries to comfort her, she looked at me those tears all rainin' down her face I could hardly look in the eye it where such a sorrowful sight but one thing my real paw done learned me was that a man don't weep even if his heart is a burstin' with sorrow. "What are we gonna do Nate?" she sobs. Course I being a bairn an all, I didn't know what she meant, not then anyhow. Some days later we moved home, ma sold most o' our belongins, I recon all that doctorin' paw had when he were ill must have cost a bit so she had to get the money from somewhere.
No we didn't move into a house, it were just a room at the weigh station it were a mite less comfortable than our old home but as ma said it were better'n sleep'n under the crows. Ma paid for water at the station an she were allowed to take as much as she want an' that's how she kept the wolf away, by doing the laundry of folk who worked in the station. It weren't long afore folk in town learn'd about the laundry an' were askin' ma to take it their linen too. It were extra work but with me helpin' as I could and ma paid two of the boys at the station to do the fetchin' pretty soon she were doin' better than keep'n the wolf away.
As I said, I helped as I could but me being a bairn and so scrawny it were of little account. You know sometimes when I'm low I get to thinkin' of those days about me an' ma, in that room. I 'member that smell of soap, we wouldn't speak much. Sometime I used to look at her as she were workin' she'd have her hair tied under a bonnet but it would hang out at the front so when she'd go to the winda to hold the linen to the light those curls of hair would kinda come alight with a red glow an' she'd have this look on her face like you'd see on the statues in church. Anyway those days didn't last long, see the chinamen came along an' started takin' in laundry. Course it don't take more'n a sack o'beans to feed a dozen chinamen for a month, an' they seemed to pull water outa thin air, that were the end of days takin' in laundry.
Things were tight after that, ma she'd pick up some work here an' there but it were more beans than bacon. One day ma pulled on some o' her fine garments an' it weren't Sunday at all. Then she done somethin' I never seen her do afore she paint on her lips I'd seen women with lips like that but I never knew how they got that way, I though they were born like it. Well I must a bin starin' like I were a hungry dog 'cause she looked away from the glass an' caught me lookin' and she just stopped what she were doin' for a while a starin' back at me. Seemed like forever neither of us speakin' a word. Then I saw her take a piece o' cloth to her lip and just as she were a wipin' the red off she looked down at my boots. See when I took 'em off it were my habit to lay 'em on their soles but I must've forgot, one of 'em must've been layin' on it's side so she saw the holes in 'em. "You need new boots Nate!" she said to me, then put that paint back on her lip. When she finished she put a smile on, broader than I'd seen for a long while but as soon as she looked away from the glass that smile dropped from her face like it'd never been there.
Monday, 4 February 2013
Cassandra 3
3 ecch
After a few moments of panic spawned by concerns over spilt tea frying the the laptop, which I hastily power down by pulling the battery, the implications of Carol Reid's letter start to permeate my mind. I've dealt with agents. before and I've seen both sides of them, the obsequious grasping after a cash cow and the supercilious dismissal dished out to hopefuls. To say they're not my favourite people would be underestimating the level of my contempt by a factor analogous to describing the residents' of Mai Lai's encounter with the US army as, unfortunate. My immediate concern is the non existence of Cassandra Wheatfield, the cynicism that had given rise to her and her companions, had not been so thorough as to prompt me to consider the implications should any of their submission actually be accepted. Sure I had a vague plan that I could place myself as some sort of intermediary that I hadn't really though but now the short comings of my perfunctory attention to those details where coming home, especially in the light of the publisher's request for a meeting. The other aspect of the letter that was causing me concern was the seemingly irregular manner in which Reid had made the submission for review to the publisher, whose identity she'd carefully withheld in her letter. I admit I've no real insight on how these dealing are handled. I suppose Reid could have been scraping the barrel to garner interest from this publisher and in desperation fell back on Cassandra submission, not a scenario that holds much conviction for me, a mystery that's will need further inquiry.
For a few moments I consider staying in and mulling over the situation but I decide I might tackle the problems more effectively after I've cleared my thoughts and decide to make my way to the snooker club. I grab my coat and sunglasses. My intense photophopbia makes the low winter sun particularly uncomfortable and the snooker club lies to the south, so shades are a must even on a November Sunday morning. My dependence on such eye wear arouses the amusement of the occasional prick who decides the sight of someone in shades in winter is too good an opportunity for ridicule to pass up. In my younger days I've left more than one them regretting their ignorance, nursing a blood sodden nose on an impromptu trip to casualty or depositing their last meal on the pavement after I've delivered a swift massage to their solar plexus with my fist. I'm a bit cooler now, not that I don't still feel the urge to deliver the odd swift lesson in street etiquette, it's just that I'm a bit warier of the consequences of giving my not inconsiderable temper free reign.
Outside a slight breeze has picked up, stirring the leaves that the street sweeper's missed, not enough to give them flight as they're still a bit sticky from the rain. I get to the end of my road and stop at the curb, to wait for the cars to pass, only they're not there. I don't know how long exactly I've lived here, more than a couple of decades and I've never managed to negotiate the junction at the end of my road with out stopping for traffic. This phenomenon has been a constant since I've lived here, doesn't matter if I'm out at 3:00 am trying to walk off insomnia or its a Xmas day visit to the graveyard. If there's only one car on the road in the entire country it'll be here to make to stop at this junction. There a child on the side of the road, a toddler no more than four or five, he's with grandma it looks like. He chuckles as he sees me, no doubt he's party to the circumstances that have caused habit to make me pause for traffic that isn't there. He waves, his carefree amusement at life strires my spirit, I smile spontaneously and return his wave, something which causes the witch accompanying him a certain consternation. Can't have the joy the children give the world freely dished to strangers I suppose, have to guard it jealously like a spiteful miser. She tugs his arm and admonishes him, "Why are you waving at strangers?" she spits her poison into his ear with her nectar coated tongue. Now I'm the one who feels sick enough to leave his breakfast on the pavement, ecch.
I climb the old viaduct to get a view of the river on my journey, the weed growing between the discarded sleepers and ballast is only the bit greenery left round her too. It's a favorite with dog walkers, who can't be bothered to scoop the poop, so you need to watch your feet. There's a few of 'em ahead, stationary, something in the river has caught their attention. They're strangers to me but one of them accosts me, a woman walking a pointer: "Do you know what's happening?"
"Sorry?" I reply.
"There are men water just there." she gesticulates towards towards the water, and I follow her finger. The glint of the sun on water is too much for me to see any detail but I just make a few animated figures after a while.
"Dunno, perhaps there's been an accident with a boat or something last night." The scene doesn't hold the same compelling interest for me as the dog walkers, maybe because my sight of it isn't as refined as theirs, so I leave them to it and bother with my own concerns.
It's not long before I reach the snooker club, the club lies under the viaduct, the building occupies one of the spans. There was a stop here too on the old railway so it's easy to climb the old stairway, which makes the viaduct a convenient route to the club. It's not till I get in the club that my curiosity about the stranger resurfaces. It takes a while for me to get used to light in club after my walk on the viaduct but I can't see any one in the main hall who looks out of place. There are just a few people here today on the snooker tables, mostly punters, one or two players too but it's not that busy. I'm not here for snooker though, so I make my way swiftly to the back after I've deposited my coat on one of the pegs, it's safe to that here as long you keep old Billy happy, he's the guy who look after the place. I'm here for the nine ball tables. I used to play the old game with red balls but that was another life. I make my way past the snooker tables but it's obvious that my arrival has aroused some interest. No one speaks to me directly but I'm about half way through the snooker hall when I hear it, one of the punters whispers none too quitely to one of his companions, "Cassie Belmont"
Monday, 28 January 2013
Dennis Potter -- kind of
He's a menace...
...he's a wizard...
...he's Dennis Potter the recalcitrant magical playwright, who's always in trouble with the censor.
"Dennis!!" it's the controller of the BBC on the phone, he sounds very angry.
"Oh what is it now?" replies Dennis.
"It's this new play of yours, it wont do, it's far too..."
"Too what?" chuckles Dennis.
"Less of your cheek, sonny, you know far too well what it's too much of, it's far too fruity for BBC1."
"Stick it on BBC2 then, no one will watch it there."
"Now look here you little..." the controller is getting very angry with Dennis now.
"Stick and stones..." taunts Dennis, his delight at the controllers apoplexy is short lived however, as the controller gains control of his temper and tries a bit of charm instead.
"Dennis" he says with all the smarm he can muster, "don't be like that, I know you're a good playwright. I just need you to be a bit more cooperative. What I need from you is another Pennies from Devon, the play about the dairy farmer who smuggled money in clotted cream buns to his brother in gaol, Or the Spinning Detective the play about a crofter in the Hebrides who investigates the mysterious events surrounding the disappearance of his wife every Saturday afternoon while he's watching the football on the only telly on his island.
"Righty oh" says Dennis, I'll knock something out this afternoon."
"That's a good playwright and remember nothing too fruity."
"OK"
"Promise?"
"Oh all right," Dennis concedes wearily "cross my heart"
"Good, by the way, I've got that Mary Lighthouse coming round tomorrow, I want her to read it to preempt any trouble from her and her cronies, can you get it ready for then?"
"Mary Lighthouse! not that old bag."
"Now now Dennis, sticks and stones, remember."
"Yuck, oh alright then" says Dennis as the controller hangs up.
Now what's that spell for a play with no rude bits in, he wonders to himself, "Dramaticus nil perviumdum". Flash!! a collection of Mickey Mouse and Whinny the Poo DVD's appears out of nowhere. No that's not right how about...
"Bardicus no Saucybiticus" Crack!! A copy of Frankie Howard's autobiography appears. "Oh dear."
"Plagerous non tissueneedicus..." Woosh! "...bugger."
"Scriptorius nil filthyiticum,,," Zap! "...oh flip"
"Tellyplayus san bluematerialus..." Fwwap! "...this is getting tedious now."
Finally after hours of fruitless spell casting, at something like 5:00 in the morning:
"Yawhhniodacium me soknackerdius" Foooff! a completed double spaced manuscript appears annotated with stage directions, lighting, camera angles and music suggestions.
"At last!" Dennis says wearily then promptly falls to sleep.
After he's woken by his alarm Dennis calls a bike to courier the manuscript to Shepard's Bush. Bleary eyed he copies the title from the first page and writes the strap-line on a covering note:
...he's a wizard...
...he's Dennis Potter the recalcitrant magical playwright, who's always in trouble with the censor.
"Dennis!!" it's the controller of the BBC on the phone, he sounds very angry.
"Oh what is it now?" replies Dennis.
"It's this new play of yours, it wont do, it's far too..."
"Too what?" chuckles Dennis.
"Less of your cheek, sonny, you know far too well what it's too much of, it's far too fruity for BBC1."
"Stick it on BBC2 then, no one will watch it there."
"Now look here you little..." the controller is getting very angry with Dennis now.
"Stick and stones..." taunts Dennis, his delight at the controllers apoplexy is short lived however, as the controller gains control of his temper and tries a bit of charm instead.
"Dennis" he says with all the smarm he can muster, "don't be like that, I know you're a good playwright. I just need you to be a bit more cooperative. What I need from you is another Pennies from Devon, the play about the dairy farmer who smuggled money in clotted cream buns to his brother in gaol, Or the Spinning Detective the play about a crofter in the Hebrides who investigates the mysterious events surrounding the disappearance of his wife every Saturday afternoon while he's watching the football on the only telly on his island.
"Righty oh" says Dennis, I'll knock something out this afternoon."
"That's a good playwright and remember nothing too fruity."
"OK"
"Promise?"
"Oh all right," Dennis concedes wearily "cross my heart"
"Good, by the way, I've got that Mary Lighthouse coming round tomorrow, I want her to read it to preempt any trouble from her and her cronies, can you get it ready for then?"
"Mary Lighthouse! not that old bag."
"Now now Dennis, sticks and stones, remember."
"Yuck, oh alright then" says Dennis as the controller hangs up.
Now what's that spell for a play with no rude bits in, he wonders to himself, "Dramaticus nil perviumdum". Flash!! a collection of Mickey Mouse and Whinny the Poo DVD's appears out of nowhere. No that's not right how about...
"Bardicus no Saucybiticus" Crack!! A copy of Frankie Howard's autobiography appears. "Oh dear."
"Plagerous non tissueneedicus..." Woosh! "...bugger."
"Scriptorius nil filthyiticum,,," Zap! "...oh flip"
"Tellyplayus san bluematerialus..." Fwwap! "...this is getting tedious now."
*****
Finally after hours of fruitless spell casting, at something like 5:00 in the morning:
"Yawhhniodacium me soknackerdius" Foooff! a completed double spaced manuscript appears annotated with stage directions, lighting, camera angles and music suggestions.
"At last!" Dennis says wearily then promptly falls to sleep.
After he's woken by his alarm Dennis calls a bike to courier the manuscript to Shepard's Bush. Bleary eyed he copies the title from the first page and writes the strap-line on a covering note:
The Blue Remembering PIlls
One man's fight to find a cure for dementia.
After the courier call he trundles wearily back to bed for a snooze. He's woken a few hours later by an angry controller.
"Dennis!" the controller shouts angrily down the phone.
"Wha..." Dennis peeps meekly
"That play you sent over, The Blue Remembering Pills, I've just had Mary LIghthouse in my office tearing me off a strip over it"
"What's wrong"
"You put the wrong title on it, it's called The Blue Restraining Hills, it's a play about a group of bondage fetishists who conduct their wanton habits amongst the heather clad hillocks of the lake district"
"But... but..."
"But what?" says the controller
"But..."
"Grrrr" snarls the controller.
"But..."
"...heather's purple"
Sunday, 13 January 2013
Cassandra 2
2 Pssshh
I close the door behind me, rest my back against it and close my eyes. For a few seconds there's the tiniest fear that I know has no rational foundation but I can't help thinking for a moment, that if I open my eyes and turn around I'll see her silhouetted through the dimples of the door class. The Sunday Morning sounds tiptoe through my head as I listen for clues: the beat of pigeon wings, some birds are startled from their perch, a baby cries for mother's milk, a dog barks for an early meal, the bells of some distant church summon the faithful, the blessed absence of stiletto on paving stone.
As I'm eating breakfast the mobile rings, the real one, It's Jack, "Where did you disappear to last night?" he asks.
"Oh nowhere" I consume breakfast while we converse, he knows full well what happened and who I left the night club with. He also knows I'm not going to tell him anything, I don't know why he bothers, after a few minutes of fruitless querying he gets to the point.
"You coming over?" he's not actually asking if we're going to meet up with, he's asking when am I going to turn up. I don't miss a Sunday morning at the snooker club, unless someone's died.
"Of course I am, what do think I'm going to do"
"It's just that it half ten already and there's no sign of you," he patters out with a hint of sarcasm, "must have been a busy night"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there, don't twist yer knickers over it" it's later than I thought but not that late, he's just being a pain. Last nights activity had taken it's toll though, must be getting old. "I may be a bit later than normal though, something’s come up."
"Don't be too late, we've got a game set up for you," then he hung up, that means there's a stranger in the club, I don't mean a literal stranger, could be someone who's familiar but it'll be someone from outside the club, not a regular. That struck me as slightly odd for a Sunday but I didn't think any further about it.
I threw the coffee into the sink, give the mug a rinse and drown a teabag as soon as the kettle boils, then toast the last of the loaf. I retrieve my laptop from the den, ready to re-familiarize myself with the details of Cassandra's biography. Once I'm comfortable again I sit at the table with my repast and take out Cassandra's letter.
It's an interesting compulsion, this desire to get the words out. I once had a vision of a man standing on the banks of the Thames at Henley, holding a bible and cursing the river at the top of his voice. No one who witnessed the event could comprehend his words, he wasn't sure he did himself. I'd been feeling a lot like that man when Cassandra came along. She was a name I pulled out of the hat, amongst others. Massada Willmot, Beatrice Clattinger were a few of her compatriots, there was even an Angus Moeketsi. Fictional allies I'd enlisted in my efforts to get something published to a wider readership, you know, something a bit further along road to kudos than lining the local cat baskets. Each of these pseudonyms were accompanied by a biography, a suitable tale of hardship, misfortune and woe, something to get the sympathy vote. Some of the trials and tribulations I'd put these hopeful authors through were quite extreme. My imagination took off and I took a some satisfaction in pushing them through ever greater bounds of misery all of which they'd overcome with their outstanding fortitude and strength of character.
As far as I know there are no Wheatfields in the phone book but it sounds a bit like Whitfield so it could be an alias consistent with Cassandra's biography. She's a migrant from Lithuania who's family were all tragically killed while at a picnic site by a swarm of hornets whose natural aggressive instincts had been aggravated by a discharge from a local chemical plant. In an unfortunate coincidence, her children and husband were all fatally allergic to insect stings. The incident had been covered up by the corrupt local officials who conspired with the callous owners of the chemical plant. I'd provided similar such culprits with all the biographies, pandering to prejudices and sentiments I identified in their intended recipients. The actions of the conspirators had driven Cassandra from her native land, that she pined for so deeply while alone, a stranger trying to make her way working as as a mushroom picker, in this foreign and often hostile land called England. Cassandra had struggled, heroically, to overcome her trauma but its legacy had left her with a morbid and paralyzing fear of the colour yellow.
The letter's from an literary agent called Carol Reid, a one man band I think, in one of those offices somewhere near Leicester Square. I've met Carol or rather people like her, in a previous era she would have chain smoked Sobraines from an ebony cigarette holder, today she probably makes do with rolling supply of double strength cappuccino from the nearest Starbucks. As I digest the letter it reads a little on the eager side, not as effusive in its complementary tone as something you'd get from a member of the vanity press but not quite the measured response I was expecting. Still, she's an agent, I think to myself, hyperbole is their trade. Then I read the final paragraph.
| During a meeting with a Publisher three months ago your submission garnered positive attention from my contact who complimented your work on it's rare insight and pointed commentary. After such positive feedback I took the liberty of submitting your work for review. You might be aware that opportunities for such a review are rare and submissions to this publisher by new authors are seldom successful. However I received notice last week that the reviewers regard your submission as suitable for publication and have provisionally offered a payment in advance of publication of £4000. This sum would of course be subject to a 14% commision payable to this office. Please let me know if this arrangement is agreeable so I can arrange to have a contract drafted for your inspection. I hope we can successfully conclude this matter promptly as the publisher has indicated they would like to conduct a meeting with yourself at your soonest convenience. |
Onomatopoeia is tricky but I think Pssshh is a suitable rendering for the sound I made when i nearly choked on the toast and the tea squirted over the screen of the laptop.
Saturday, 22 December 2012
Cassandra 1.
1 Muzz
"Bugger!" Sunday is the only day I bother with breakfast, it's my treat for the weekend, bacon, fried eggs, toast and marmalade if there's any bread left. My exclamation was uttered in concern that the previsions set aside for this weekly treat would be thoughtlessly denuded by my temporary companion. Hastily, I made a grab for the pile of cloths as I got up but halted myself in favour of fresh ones from the wardrobe, though doing so it would take an extra minute or so to get the kitchen and ease my mounting concerns. I arrived there with a feigned nonchalant air even though I was still tucking my shirt as I did so. "Morning!"
"Oh hi" she smiled broadly as she spoke, briefly I recalled the labours of the previous
night, I'd had a good time too -- then, the light of day brought more prosaic considerations to the fore though. She was sitting at the table sipping black coffee from my mug and helping herself to the last of the bread that she'd toasted, rather too lightly for my taste, and lightly smeared with marmalade. I noted Saturday's mail and a second mug of coffee on the breakfast table as I sat opposite her, she had been a busy girl. That's when she posed her question, just as I was about to take my first sip.
"Cassandra Weatfield?" In all honesty, the name was lost on me within this incongruous context, so my puzzlement as I reiterated her question was genuine.
She handed me an envelope, "Looks official," she said, "has it been delivered by mistake, you think? By the way, there's bacon in the Fridge, I can fry some breakfast if you like?"
Oh dear, that's how it starts, I noted how she's said, some breakfast, not you breakfast, I resented the notion that she could share my hard earned bounty that this implied. I thought on me feet, "Er, yeah, I should throw that out I suppose, found the cat nibbling at it when I'd left it out the other day," I spoke as I examined the brown envelope. For a few moments I was confronted with a genuine mystery, then the light dawned, "Casandra Weatfiedl!" my exclamation was too loud and exited to go without comment by my guest even while she was apparently still reeling in disgust at my remark about the bacon.
"Someone who used to live here then?"
"Er -- no, it's nothing like that" I wiped the knife that lay on the table clean and made to open it.
"Should you do that?" she said with a note of reproach that had a ring familiarity about it that me want to shudder. Now I was really annoyed with her, she beginning to pester me, why the heck should I have to explain to her about Cassandra Wheatfield
"It's for me" I spoke as succinctly as I could and with the minimum explanation, given the constraints of the circumstance. I wanted to tell her to, get lost and mind her own business but I was wary of the peril of spawning post-coital regret.
"Do you have a cat then?" Oh dear, the cogs in my guest's mind where turning laboriously slowly as she now considered my lie about the bacon.
"It belongs to a neighbour," I said as I opened the envelope
"We used to have a cat..." my attention was fixed on the contents of the envelope but my guest's apparent unconcern for the possibility that I might want to read it undisturbed gave her licence to compete for my attention with her aimless recollections, "...Lucky, we called him, he was..."
"Dear Muzz Weatfield..." my inner monologue balked at the salutation, I couldn't recall the detail of Cassandra’s biography but I knew she'd addressed herself as a Miss.
"...he got sick after eating a bir..." she continued while my still sleep sodden eyes flickered over the wording of the letter.
"...Muzz Weatfield... your submission.. .rare insight... pointed commentary... successful... suitable for publication... arrange... at your soonest convenience..."
"...the vet said that she..."
"Yes!!" I shouted, my joyous exclamation prompted by my hasty scan of the contents of the letter was enough to halt my guest's compelling anecdote. Grateful for this cessation and anxious to expedite her departure, I decided it was time to exercise some discretion and ease some charm out of the tap. I used up a good smile on her while I placed the letter back in it's envelope and secured that within the relatively safe confines of my shirt breast pocket. "Oh right --- do you miss her?" I gleaned from the mention of the vet that her precious kitty was no longer with us.
"He!" she said "...it was a he" but my multitasking hadn't been up to the task of providing me with the unfortunate kitty's gender apparently. She greeted my smile with a knowing look, not the fatal look, the one say's you've been found out in your efforts to sneak under the radar. No, this one was the one tinged with suspicion but used to let you know you still have a chance at redeeming your efforts if you try hard enough. I wasn't in the mood for games though, neither did I have the time.
"I know, that's what I said: do you miss him" I lied starkly and batted her look back at her. The incident was trivial enough for her to accept my casual deceit so I took advantage of the opportunity and changed the subject hastily. "By the way, I've got a chance of some tickets to see John Cooper Clark, do you fancy coming?" I smiled as I equivocated glibly, I do have the opportunity of tickets to see Clark this evening but I've no intention of going or a taking her with me. [note: changed tense -- in this sentence] The look she giving me in reply to my query told me she had no Idea who I was talking about, "He's a poet, big a few a years ago, making a bit of a comeback," I prompted, still no light dawning so I tried a different tack, "if you don't like poets though..." that was enough.
"Oh I think I know who you mean, when..."
"Tonight" I Interrupted, "I'll have to pop out soon, pick up the threads from the cleaners."
"Are you dressing up for this?" she asked, "Will it be that kind of thing?"
"Dunno" I replied, "but I'm not turning up without a tie." I reached for my mobile, "Here, take my number and give us as a buzz about three ish, I'll let you let know what the situation with the tickets is." I said, making sure that she was fully aware of the provisional nature of our date. She took the phone in hand and didn't notice that it wasn't the one I was using last night. It was while she was manipulating the phone, something she accomplished quite deftly, I made my move regarding the issue of of her exit from my abode, "Call a cab while you're at it. Don't worry about the price of the tickets, it's my treat, we'll have time to get a meal before too, if you like." I said, speculating that the prospect of future generosity would waylay any quibbling over the taxi fair. She obliged without protest and after some prompting from me on where to find the cab service number on the mobile she'd booked the cab.
Luckily the cab driver arrived promptly and within fifteen minutes she was out the house. I walked her to the cab and and put on a faux show of affection for the diver, planting a kiss on her cheek as we parted, a perfectly executed exit I thought to myself, I couldn't help but let out a laugh as i made my way back indoors.
I should have known it couldn't last, things never go that smoothly without the terrier of bad fortune biting you back on the ankle, I'm just not that lucky.
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
Some truth -- some fiction
You know the novel you're trying to write? c'mon admit it, there isn't a blogger alive that's not writing a novel or written one or revising one or trying to get one published. So It'll be no surprise if I reveal that I'm also writing a novel -- sorry, trying to write a novel. Mine's on holiday at the moment, short of the minimum length by about a factor. Whether this pause in development becomes permanent is something I'm not too sure of. My enthusiasm for the project took a minor hit when I discovered my new and original story outline wasn't so new and original, in fact it turns out to be quite well trodden, oops, never mind, still worth a poke I thought. So maybe, I though I might change the format, make it an anthology, not a cobbled collection of old material mind you, a proper one with a central premise shared between the stories. So I calculated 7000 - 10,000 words for each segment that gives me about 5 or 6 stories for a train journey size work. While I'm going over my jottings and, making a few continuity notes, that kind of thing I come across a line that startled me, I'll quote it in fragment here:
"...he realized that whatever happened, from now on there would be a piece of his soul that always belonged to this girl who called herself Sandrine."
Phillipin-eck, Mills & Boon or what? Perhaps I should re-read, a little slower this time, I think to myself. Which I do and next I find:
"...she'd kindled the spark within him into a blaze..."
WHAT!!!! what the hell's going on here? That's not the end it, I find similar examples throughout. Somehow, I'm not quite sure exactly how, I find I've written a teen romance. That's not the end of it though, it gets worse -- it's unfinished see but by coincidence it ends at a natural break, where the cliffhanger would be. So I've finished reading and I'm wondering: what happens next? and with more than just a little anticipation. So I've written a romance story, read it, enjoyed it -- apparently and now I'm hungry for the next installment. I'm not feeling well, this is worse than the time I watched Cats. I've gotta buy some beer and go through a stack of Tarantino DVD's, I've got Rio Bravo around somewhere too. That'll be good, an evening, beer and the old time tough guys, Bogart, Tracey, Wayne, Gable. Yeah Clark Gable, fabulous actor, really great in Gone with the Wind, fantastic cinematography, outstanding wardrobe too, Vivian Leigh's dress, the one she's wearing on the stair, the green accessories looks so vivid in Technicol...
...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh.
"...he realized that whatever happened, from now on there would be a piece of his soul that always belonged to this girl who called herself Sandrine."
Phillipin-eck, Mills & Boon or what? Perhaps I should re-read, a little slower this time, I think to myself. Which I do and next I find:
"...she'd kindled the spark within him into a blaze..."
WHAT!!!! what the hell's going on here? That's not the end it, I find similar examples throughout. Somehow, I'm not quite sure exactly how, I find I've written a teen romance. That's not the end of it though, it gets worse -- it's unfinished see but by coincidence it ends at a natural break, where the cliffhanger would be. So I've finished reading and I'm wondering: what happens next? and with more than just a little anticipation. So I've written a romance story, read it, enjoyed it -- apparently and now I'm hungry for the next installment. I'm not feeling well, this is worse than the time I watched Cats. I've gotta buy some beer and go through a stack of Tarantino DVD's, I've got Rio Bravo around somewhere too. That'll be good, an evening, beer and the old time tough guys, Bogart, Tracey, Wayne, Gable. Yeah Clark Gable, fabulous actor, really great in Gone with the Wind, fantastic cinematography, outstanding wardrobe too, Vivian Leigh's dress, the one she's wearing on the stair, the green accessories looks so vivid in Technicol...
...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
The Hard Road
"Nice performance" said Clive as James sat opposite him, James looked at him with a quizzical eye but did not speak while he acknowledged the fading applause. a few moments passed, the lights faded and the crowd's attention moved once again towards the dais at the end of the room.
"Performance!" James asked, feeling free to express his reproach now they were safely screened from close scrutiny.
"Sorry, was that a poor choice of words? I meant you were really impressive, held the crowds attention. I didn't mean to imply any insincerity."
"That's OK, it's just that I get so many snide remarks, it makes you a bit..." James paused and was grateful when Clive acknowledged his reluctance to explicitly voice any vulnerability to someone he barely knew with a silent nod. "Where're the others?" he asked, as he looked at the empty seats in the booth.
"Gone outside for a fag I think."
"Typical," he moaned with feigned exasperation.
"Look..." said Clive, James sat back in his seat, readying himself for yet another contemptuous opinion with weary resignation. Mindful of James's assumption and anxious not to cause offense Clive paused while he reconsidered his words, "I agree with you..." that's a good way to start he thought, "..,self determination, self will, freedom, personal responsibility, I like all those things."
"But it's all just Ayn Rand or The Life of Brian," James interjected, preempting what he thought was coming.
"No, I'm not saying that..." Clive paused again and took a swig of his dark coffee. He seemed to ponder for more than a few moments then spoke again, "There's a story I know..." he paused long enough to let James give roll his eyes and groan, "...once long ago there was man who lived in the desert, he was a kind of a hermit but not a recluse. He was a sort of visionary who lived in troubled times and the people considered him to be a prophet."
"That's a bit rich, an atheist raiding bible stories," James smiled sardonically as he goaded Clive.
"Who said I was an atheist? but yeah, well done for spotting John the Baptist." said Clive and shifted his attention back to drinking his coffee, seemingly giving up on his story telling.
A few moments passed before it was obvious to James that Clive wouldn't recommence his fable without prompting, "You gonna finish that story then?" he asked.
"I thought we were done? You're not really interested in what a nobody like me has to say are you?"
"I'll listen to what someone has to say before I decide they're a nobody," said James.
"OK then -- This guy, John, he had a lot to say about the times he lived in. He told the people that there was a better way, that they could live a better life and not have to live under the heel of fear or their masters. And the people liked what he had to say because that's how they'd lived till then and they wanted something different. Wanting something different isn't the same as making something different. You can point the way but travelling on the road is something else and that's what John couldn't do, It takes something more than he had. Then he met this guy, I think he was Mexican but he was ginger and had blue eyes. He'd traveled a great distance to learn form John and John taught him all he knew. When he left he decided to continue Johns work but instead of telling people, there was a better way, he said: 'I can take you to the better place, follow me there but there's a price. You will have to give up everything you own and sacrifice everything you are to reach it with me.'' That's how he changed the world, he knew that to reach your goal, you have to tread the hard road, and see your blood drain away in its gutters, there's no change without tears and sacrifice."
James's sardonic look returned, "Render unto Caesar...!".
"I said he changed the world, not that that he was right" James spoke just as the absentees returned and made their way to the booth. "I see a lot of people like John, someone new almost every week here, they're as common as the salt on this table. The other guy -- well they're as rare as Mexicans with blue eyes."
"Someone going to Mexico?" asked one of James's friend as they took their seats with them in the booth.
"Performance!" James asked, feeling free to express his reproach now they were safely screened from close scrutiny.
"Sorry, was that a poor choice of words? I meant you were really impressive, held the crowds attention. I didn't mean to imply any insincerity."
"That's OK, it's just that I get so many snide remarks, it makes you a bit..." James paused and was grateful when Clive acknowledged his reluctance to explicitly voice any vulnerability to someone he barely knew with a silent nod. "Where're the others?" he asked, as he looked at the empty seats in the booth.
"Gone outside for a fag I think."
"Typical," he moaned with feigned exasperation.
"Look..." said Clive, James sat back in his seat, readying himself for yet another contemptuous opinion with weary resignation. Mindful of James's assumption and anxious not to cause offense Clive paused while he reconsidered his words, "I agree with you..." that's a good way to start he thought, "..,self determination, self will, freedom, personal responsibility, I like all those things."
"But it's all just Ayn Rand or The Life of Brian," James interjected, preempting what he thought was coming.
"No, I'm not saying that..." Clive paused again and took a swig of his dark coffee. He seemed to ponder for more than a few moments then spoke again, "There's a story I know..." he paused long enough to let James give roll his eyes and groan, "...once long ago there was man who lived in the desert, he was a kind of a hermit but not a recluse. He was a sort of visionary who lived in troubled times and the people considered him to be a prophet."
"That's a bit rich, an atheist raiding bible stories," James smiled sardonically as he goaded Clive.
"Who said I was an atheist? but yeah, well done for spotting John the Baptist." said Clive and shifted his attention back to drinking his coffee, seemingly giving up on his story telling.
A few moments passed before it was obvious to James that Clive wouldn't recommence his fable without prompting, "You gonna finish that story then?" he asked.
"I thought we were done? You're not really interested in what a nobody like me has to say are you?"
"I'll listen to what someone has to say before I decide they're a nobody," said James.
"OK then -- This guy, John, he had a lot to say about the times he lived in. He told the people that there was a better way, that they could live a better life and not have to live under the heel of fear or their masters. And the people liked what he had to say because that's how they'd lived till then and they wanted something different. Wanting something different isn't the same as making something different. You can point the way but travelling on the road is something else and that's what John couldn't do, It takes something more than he had. Then he met this guy, I think he was Mexican but he was ginger and had blue eyes. He'd traveled a great distance to learn form John and John taught him all he knew. When he left he decided to continue Johns work but instead of telling people, there was a better way, he said: 'I can take you to the better place, follow me there but there's a price. You will have to give up everything you own and sacrifice everything you are to reach it with me.'' That's how he changed the world, he knew that to reach your goal, you have to tread the hard road, and see your blood drain away in its gutters, there's no change without tears and sacrifice."
James's sardonic look returned, "Render unto Caesar...!".
"I said he changed the world, not that that he was right" James spoke just as the absentees returned and made their way to the booth. "I see a lot of people like John, someone new almost every week here, they're as common as the salt on this table. The other guy -- well they're as rare as Mexicans with blue eyes."
"Someone going to Mexico?" asked one of James's friend as they took their seats with them in the booth.
Monday, 19 November 2012
The Q -- the V (ammended draft 01)
About this: I know I mentioned that I don't approve of explanation, so forgive the inconsistency in attitude that this brief introduction represents. Writing this represented something of a personal revelation to me, which is good because it's garnered precious little appreciation from anyone else during its, I think, two prior airings. I don't really care to illuminate those revelations at the moment so I'll just mention that this story didn't end the way I'd intended. Yes it's a deliberate allegory, that's obvious I hope but from the reaction it's garnered I suspect my intention is more obtuse than is readily apparent. I have to admit that In my conceit I was rather pleased with this story and somewhat naively expected to instill instant recognition of the subject I was addressing. Alas no such recognition has been forthcoming, which was a disappointing but illuminating lesson to learn.
My CSA arrives today, well it's due today but I live in a Q status housing block, postage to Q addresses has least urgent priority so it's not certain it will arrive today. Still I've been listening impatiently for the postman since I had breakfast this morning. The scrambled eggs rest uneasily as the creeping tension torments my restless belly I feel like a cat is baiting a canary in there. I wonder about the others, the ones also waiting for the postman, the ones waiting to learn what road the rest of their lives will take. Q or V, for me it's a foregone conclusion all the males in my family are Qs yet I'm still here waiting, fist clenched, a sparrow clutching to twig in a gale. How must it be for those less certain, the marginals with an even chance of either a Q or V assignment? I know I'm a Q, it's in my blood, I walk, speak and think like a Q. Still I can't help wondering how it would be if my CSA had a V stamped all over it, I briefly visualize myself gliding down a vstat motorway express lane in my air conditioned vstat car on the way to my preferentially assigned vstat job. My idle fantasy is broken by a hand alighting gently on my shoulder, it's mother, “Here I've made you some tea” she says quietly, “Don't fret too much about it Mac, it's not the end of the world.” Her unguarded fatalism smarts like a knife in my side but I hide the torment with a forced smile.
Everyone gets their
CSA, Culpability Status Assignment, on the September after their 19th
Birthday, it's supposed to be assigned after you attend a compulsory
assessment tribunal. They're called tribunals but it's more of an
exam, you see our education system primarily serves two purposes,
asses your Culpability Status and inform students of the role of
Culpability Status in our society. Indoctrination, that what my
brother called the last part, he got his CSA three years ago today.
It's not a day that my family remembers with any fondness and its
legacy casts an uncomfortable shadow over today.
It's a day I remember
well, David was reading as usual, some underground rag, not one on
the forbidden list just one rated substantially incorrect and
get a you a months mitigation credit cancelled if the authorities
caught you in possession. His unconcerned demeanour had an unsettling
effect on the family mood. Father hid his concern behind his weekend
Truth Journal but he was already a third through his daily nicotine
ration, the clicking of his inhaler the only sound to break the
silence save the rustling of his and my brothers reading matter. The
audible snap of the letter box did not stir David as his focus
remained fixed on his rag. “David, I think its arrived,” Mother
prompted gently.
David glanced at her
with a feigned indifference but even my brother's reluctance couldn't
stand up to my Mother's silent plea. He retrieved the manilla
envelope from the doormat and walked unconcerned back into the room
with it in his hand. Standing as he opened the letter, he read out a
single syllable, “Q!” And that was end to it or so it seemed for
a while, it wasn't till the afternoon when father's nicotine ration
had expired and his withdrawal started to bite that the shouting
started. I'd popped out to get some milk and stretch my legs, as I
returned the I herd them rowing. “... I can look in the mirror dad,
I know the colour of my eyes, how straight my teeth are, how many V’s
do you see without a perfect smile? The Tribunal's a fraud, it's just
dangling a carrot before a donkey.”
I saw father holding
David's mitigation log “There are people who've done it, people
who've applied them selves and followed best practice . You
didn't even try, this, this is a disgrace” my father shook the log
in David's face with his clenched fist.
“Best practice! What
kind of aspiration is that? Here's a thought for you, ambition,
initiative, hard work, how many have been assigned vstat on the back
of those attributes? And how is it a disgrace to take their lies and
spit the truth back at them, You're the disgrace, you know the truth,
yet you eat up their lies as if it was bread and butter to you, you
make me sick.”
“David” mother
cried.
I could see the regret
on my brothers face almost before he finished speaking but it was too
late, the wound betrayed by my father's face could not be concealed,
he placed David's log on the table and left the room when he returned
with his coat and cap he spoke to mother, “I'm going out, I'm not
sure what time I'll be back. Don't bother getting food for me, I'll
get a sandwich in the pub.” Then he walked out of the front door
which he closed behind him with incongruous care.
David broke the silence
after father's departure “Mum I didn't mean it, I know he's putting
our welfare before his pride”
“That's the kind of
man he is,” mother replied.
“I know, it's
just...” David slumped into a dinning char , his head tucked toward
his chest “... it's just that sometimes a son, doesn't want to see
his father that way, deferential, submissive. Sometimes a son would
be willing to go hungry for a day or two just to see his father with
some pride, not burning his flame in shaded lantern.” He sighed,
then lifted his head sharply. staring beyond the walls of our flat he
asked,“Why does he have to always wear that cap anyway, can't he
just let the sunlight on his face for once?”
David, left home within
a month, his work took him out of town. His official post was
construction labourer but my brother had worked hard at a vocational
out of hours school, that father had paid for. His engineering
qualification saw that he'd never be swinging a pick but the blanks
in his mitigation credit ensured that he'd be certain to be at the
basic qstat employment rating. We see him when his work brings him to
town or the occasional weekend. On his last visit the two of us went
out for the evening, I don't leave the house much so my circle of
friends is small but we visited one of David's old haunts where we
met up with a few of his friends. There's no official segregation
here and Qs and Vs do mix socially it's just that more often than not
you find yourself socializing with your own kind, this place was like
that. David and his friends where eager to catch up on each other's
news so the conversation began with personal trivia, work, sex
etcetera but after a while a more political tone arose. David's views
it seemed were held in some esteem by his friends and although I
admit my brother was articulate it was something of a revelation to
witness them being treated seriously rather than the perfunctory
dismissal they received at home. Before long there was a deeply
earnest discussion taking place that I started to find rather tedious
and repetitive, one of the crowd a man introduced as Jason seemed to
be a particularly vociferous contributor. I was observing without any
real interest when I notice the expression suddenly change on David's
face, “You're a V!” he shouted at Jason,
Jason was taken aback
at the ugly look of contempt and disgust on my brother's,face “I
thought you knew.” The other members of the group fell silent for a
moment, after eyeing Jason carefully it seemed obvious now that he
was a V, his uniformly distressed attire the unblemished complexion
should have made it obvious. Some of the group were trying to
placate David, one of the girls seemed particularly perturbed by the
turn of events.
Someone said, “Jason
is a friend...” I didn't see who, maybe it was the girl. David
stood abruptly and walked over to me.
“We're leaving,” he
announced, then made his way toward the door without pausing. I
followed like an obedient spaniel of course but not before looking
back at the at group. They were all standing now, Jason the centre
attention, except the girl who's eyes fixed upon David as he hurried
towards the door. David left the following morning, he was gone
before I got up, that was nine months ago.
I've retreated to my
room, the sedate crawl of the hands of the clock has driven me from
the living room, as I peer through the window at the lengthening
September shadows in the street. I hear the rattle of the letter box.
For the few seconds the gravity of the moment has me pinned, immobile
I recall David's reluctance three years ago. I get up and move
towards the door and open it with a creak, a sound which must echo
like a flock of startled starling through our flat. I see my manilla
envelope where it has fallen on the mat. As I retrieve it I'm
overcome with the certainty that it's not mine and it's been
delivered in error but as I check the address I can see that the
postman rarely makes mistakes on this day, even to least urgent
priority addresses. My parents are seated as I walk into the living
room with my unopened envelope, I open it swiftly and read the
contents to them.
No one laughs, no one
cries, mother puts the kettle on and father gets up to put on his
coat and cap. I go back to my room to look at the September shadows.
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