"You know, when I have kids, I'm never gonna sing them nursery rhymes."
"Why?" I asked, dreading the answer. She's always been like this.
"Because they're dangerous."
"How exactly are they dangerous?"
"They give us unrealistic expectations. I mean, think about it, every guy you've ever gone out with, you've dumped because he wasn't perfect. Right?"
"Well...yeah."
"And that would be fine, except nobody's perfect."
"Okay, I don't dump guys because they're not perfect. I dump them because they're no good. I don't freak out over little things like he only wants two kids and I'm having three, regardless of what my husband wants. You remember Scott? He was gay. That's a perfectly legitimate reason to break up with a guy."
"And Ben?"
"Can we please not talk about Ben?"
"Fine, whatever," she said, waving her hands dismissively. "The thing is, nursery rhymes give you unrealistic expectations and then you don't know how to function in a real relationship. You don't know how to compromise, you expect Mr Perfect to stroll right into your life and then be perfect forever. And it's not healthy."
"What about Luke?"
"We're not talking about me."
"We're always talking about you," I said. "Didn't you break up with Luke because he wore odd socks? They were both black, but one was a slightly different black to the other? And when you told him you couldn't see him anymore because of the odd socks, he pointed out that he only did it because you'd previously said that you couldn't spend time with a man who wore shoes without socks."
"It's gross."
"But it was a ridiculous reason to dump him."
"Whatever. So I'm the perfect example of my point. Nursery rhymes are dangerous."
"Yeah, I think maybe you mean fairy-tales," I said, and that shut her up.
Thursday 31 May 2012
Nursery Rhyme by Sam Smith
‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses’: A Critical Essay, by Dr. Samuel Smith
‘It’s not the words that give a nursery rhyme a purpose, it’s the lyrics,’ said Daniel Batinski in his seminal essay on the subject of connotations and hidden meanings in nursery rhymes, titled ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’ (New York: Idle Press, 1986). In the essay, he discussed the tale of the ‘Three Blind Mice’ as being an allegory about the songwriter developing a fear of unknowingly eating mice tails when having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ obviously being a metaphor for performance enhancing drugs in 10-pin bowling tournaments, among others. However, there was one nursery rhyme missing from Batinski’s essay which I felt has some hidden meanings that are worth discussing; that nursery rhyme is ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses.’
It is a deceptively short nursery rhyme, only one stanza long, although this does not stop it from being completely full of connotations intended by the author, whom has asked to remain anonymous due to reasons that will become evident further into this essay.
The focus on flowers throughout ‘Ring…’ suggests a positive atmosphere for the piece, but these are metaphors for a darker, disturbing topic, that of hoarding. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hoarding as ‘…The act of stockpiling a large number of items, to the point of being kind of ridiculous,’ (England: Oxford University Press, 2004). It has recently gained attention from major television networks and many shows have been made about the subject, but ‘Ring…’ is the first recorded reference to hoarding in popular media. The roses and posies mentioned shows that a collection is growing in the author’s house, probably including other well known flowers, such as daisies and stinging nettles. We can tell that the hoarding has become a problem, as the author points out that he has… ‘a pocketful of posies.’ He has run out of room in his house and is forced to carry around the collection in his trousers. Whether or not ‘Ring…’ is meant as a cautionary tale, a warning against hoarding, or as a small tip about finding space for more items, is still up in the air.
The last line of ‘Ring…’ is perhaps the most controversial for it’s time. ‘We all fall down.’ There are many interpretations of this, but the only one that is backed up by my intense research is that this refers to 1997, when our friendly neighbouring star, the Sun, decided to stop shining for us everyday. On the 31st of May, 1997, we were plunged into darkness as the Sun threw a small, interstellar tantrum and became selfish with the light emanating from its gargantuan mass for five months. This was a big subject in most newspapers for at least three weeks, inspiring incredibly creative headlines, such as ‘Dis-SUN-peared!’ from The Daily Mail (England: News Corp., 1997). Because there was no light, many people found falling over becoming a regular part of their day, so much so that in a survey carried out by The News of the World documented over 80% of people carried plasters around with them wherever they went (England: News Corp., 1997). The author wanted to reference this in ‘Ring…’ because falling over must have been a big part of his life in those five months.
Honestly, no matter how much research I did, I could find no interpretations for the third line, which consists of one repeated word; ‘Atishoo! Atishoo!’ While the repetition is obviously meant to emphasise the phrase, the meaning has obviously been lost to the ages. It is probably about having a cold or the Plague.
As we can see, ‘Ring…’ is an incredibly deep and complex nursery rhyme with many different ways to interpret every line, although the ones within this essay are more than likely the correct interpretations. It is a complete mystery as to why Batinski did not include it in ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’. It is as if he thought that it was about something quite obvious and just ignored it. I suppose it is lucky that some of us cannot get out of an analytical mind frame when reading, no matter what it is. We are programmed that way. It is a blessing and a curse.
‘It’s not the words that give a nursery rhyme a purpose, it’s the lyrics,’ said Daniel Batinski in his seminal essay on the subject of connotations and hidden meanings in nursery rhymes, titled ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’ (New York: Idle Press, 1986). In the essay, he discussed the tale of the ‘Three Blind Mice’ as being an allegory about the songwriter developing a fear of unknowingly eating mice tails when having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ obviously being a metaphor for performance enhancing drugs in 10-pin bowling tournaments, among others. However, there was one nursery rhyme missing from Batinski’s essay which I felt has some hidden meanings that are worth discussing; that nursery rhyme is ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses.’
It is a deceptively short nursery rhyme, only one stanza long, although this does not stop it from being completely full of connotations intended by the author, whom has asked to remain anonymous due to reasons that will become evident further into this essay.
The focus on flowers throughout ‘Ring…’ suggests a positive atmosphere for the piece, but these are metaphors for a darker, disturbing topic, that of hoarding. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hoarding as ‘…The act of stockpiling a large number of items, to the point of being kind of ridiculous,’ (England: Oxford University Press, 2004). It has recently gained attention from major television networks and many shows have been made about the subject, but ‘Ring…’ is the first recorded reference to hoarding in popular media. The roses and posies mentioned shows that a collection is growing in the author’s house, probably including other well known flowers, such as daisies and stinging nettles. We can tell that the hoarding has become a problem, as the author points out that he has… ‘a pocketful of posies.’ He has run out of room in his house and is forced to carry around the collection in his trousers. Whether or not ‘Ring…’ is meant as a cautionary tale, a warning against hoarding, or as a small tip about finding space for more items, is still up in the air.
The last line of ‘Ring…’ is perhaps the most controversial for it’s time. ‘We all fall down.’ There are many interpretations of this, but the only one that is backed up by my intense research is that this refers to 1997, when our friendly neighbouring star, the Sun, decided to stop shining for us everyday. On the 31st of May, 1997, we were plunged into darkness as the Sun threw a small, interstellar tantrum and became selfish with the light emanating from its gargantuan mass for five months. This was a big subject in most newspapers for at least three weeks, inspiring incredibly creative headlines, such as ‘Dis-SUN-peared!’ from The Daily Mail (England: News Corp., 1997). Because there was no light, many people found falling over becoming a regular part of their day, so much so that in a survey carried out by The News of the World documented over 80% of people carried plasters around with them wherever they went (England: News Corp., 1997). The author wanted to reference this in ‘Ring…’ because falling over must have been a big part of his life in those five months.
Honestly, no matter how much research I did, I could find no interpretations for the third line, which consists of one repeated word; ‘Atishoo! Atishoo!’ While the repetition is obviously meant to emphasise the phrase, the meaning has obviously been lost to the ages. It is probably about having a cold or the Plague.
As we can see, ‘Ring…’ is an incredibly deep and complex nursery rhyme with many different ways to interpret every line, although the ones within this essay are more than likely the correct interpretations. It is a complete mystery as to why Batinski did not include it in ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’. It is as if he thought that it was about something quite obvious and just ignored it. I suppose it is lucky that some of us cannot get out of an analytical mind frame when reading, no matter what it is. We are programmed that way. It is a blessing and a curse.
Wednesday 30 May 2012
Cuban Heat by Emily Chadwick
They say there comes a day in every man’s life when he deserves to smoke a Cuban cigar. A rite of passage, if you will.
My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.
I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).
As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”
There was no response.
I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.
Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?
I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.
Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.
Disgusting.
My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.
I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).
As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”
There was no response.
I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.
Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?
I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.
Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.
Disgusting.
Cuban Heat by Lesley Whyte
The air was thick and muggy. The sky was red streaked with orange. We sat on his balcony, looking out over the ocean. Watching the figures walking along the shore, silhouetted against the bright sky.
He smoked a cigar. I tried not to choke on cigar smoke.
The sweat crept along my collarbone. A gunshot rang out in the distance. The wind rustled through the trees. Our skin stuck to the warm, metal chairs.
The sweat crept along my collarbone. A gunshot rang out in the distance. The wind rustled through the trees. Our skin stuck to the warm, metal chairs.
He smoked a cigar. I tried not to choke on the smoke.
Cuban Heat by Sam Smith
There was a three month period in my life where I would put something odd in the microwave once a day. I had just moved into my first place by myself, so I felt pretty free from rules. Mum would have never let me use the microwave for entertainment purposes. It was for cooking in her house. I used it to warm up my socks on a cold day a couple of times. I did the same with my pants once, but it’s quite hard to know how long pants need to be in the microwave to get them warm but not so hot that they burn some sensitive areas of my body. I have the scars to prove it.
Finding things to put in a microwave wasn’t too difficult. At first, I just looked around my flat, picking up old books and toys from boxes that Mum forced me to take because they were taking up room in her house. Books don’t really do much unless you leave them in there for a long time, then they start burning in a weird way. All the pages curl up and darken. When you take it out, the middle pages are sort of soggy. Toys just melt if they’re made of plastic. Not as dramatic as I thought it would be as a child.
Soon, I started to run out of stuff and I started to steal things just to microwave them. Beer mats, potted plants, sandwiches, fancy Cuban cigars from some prick at a club, hats, oranges. All sorts of rubbish. It taught me a valuable lesson. Everything reacts when it’s exposed to enough heat. I started to apply this theory to situations in life. I argued more with people, stared at them until they felt uncomfortable, shouted every once in a while to see what would happen. It was a strange time in my life.
The novelty of putting things in the microwave eventually wore off when someone complained about the smell of burning plastic coming from my flat. I guess they thought I was making bombs or something because they rang the police, whom swiftly turned up at my door. They shouted at me to get on the ground. I reacted. Currently I am serving a five year sentence for throwing molten plastic at a police officer. Prison is no fun.
Finding things to put in a microwave wasn’t too difficult. At first, I just looked around my flat, picking up old books and toys from boxes that Mum forced me to take because they were taking up room in her house. Books don’t really do much unless you leave them in there for a long time, then they start burning in a weird way. All the pages curl up and darken. When you take it out, the middle pages are sort of soggy. Toys just melt if they’re made of plastic. Not as dramatic as I thought it would be as a child.
Soon, I started to run out of stuff and I started to steal things just to microwave them. Beer mats, potted plants, sandwiches, fancy Cuban cigars from some prick at a club, hats, oranges. All sorts of rubbish. It taught me a valuable lesson. Everything reacts when it’s exposed to enough heat. I started to apply this theory to situations in life. I argued more with people, stared at them until they felt uncomfortable, shouted every once in a while to see what would happen. It was a strange time in my life.
The novelty of putting things in the microwave eventually wore off when someone complained about the smell of burning plastic coming from my flat. I guess they thought I was making bombs or something because they rang the police, whom swiftly turned up at my door. They shouted at me to get on the ground. I reacted. Currently I am serving a five year sentence for throwing molten plastic at a police officer. Prison is no fun.
Tuesday 29 May 2012
Grey Lace by Emily Chadwick
“You can’t get married in grey lace!”
I paused in my perusal of the wedding dresses on the rack. “Whyever not?”
“It… well, it makes you seem like…” My mother lowered her voice, in case someone might hear. “Used goods.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the dresses. “Mum, no one’s a virgin on their wedding night anymore. It’s 2012.”
My mother uttered a little shriek and stared around as though the world was eavesdropping. Her dreams of a huge white wedding for me seemed to be crumbling around her ears.
Just to see her reaction, I pulled out a gothic dress hidden at the back of the rack, a huge black monstrosity shot with red ribbons.
“What about this?”
My mother fainted.
I paused in my perusal of the wedding dresses on the rack. “Whyever not?”
“It… well, it makes you seem like…” My mother lowered her voice, in case someone might hear. “Used goods.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the dresses. “Mum, no one’s a virgin on their wedding night anymore. It’s 2012.”
My mother uttered a little shriek and stared around as though the world was eavesdropping. Her dreams of a huge white wedding for me seemed to be crumbling around her ears.
Just to see her reaction, I pulled out a gothic dress hidden at the back of the rack, a huge black monstrosity shot with red ribbons.
“What about this?”
My mother fainted.
Grey Lace by Sam Smith
‘Great lakes?’
‘What?
‘You want me to wear great lakes?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Oh. Did you tell me I had great legs?’
‘No, I didn’t say that either. But, that’s not to say that-’
‘How rude! I take great pride in my legs!’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, it just wasn’t what I said!’
‘Fine. Did you tell me about a race? Someone called Ray is running a race?’
‘That’s not even near what I said.’
‘Fine. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had got your hair done recently.’
‘Oh. I did go to the salon last week.’
‘It looks very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You should probably get your hearing checked or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘What?
‘You want me to wear great lakes?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Oh. Did you tell me I had great legs?’
‘No, I didn’t say that either. But, that’s not to say that-’
‘How rude! I take great pride in my legs!’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, it just wasn’t what I said!’
‘Fine. Did you tell me about a race? Someone called Ray is running a race?’
‘That’s not even near what I said.’
‘Fine. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had got your hair done recently.’
‘Oh. I did go to the salon last week.’
‘It looks very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You should probably get your hearing checked or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
Grey Lace by Lesley Whyte
"I like the yellow one," six-year-old me said, pointing.
"No, no, no. The yellow one used to be white."
"So?"
"So it's no good."
"Why not?" I remember pouting. My grandmother pulled a similar expression, though she wasn't mocking me. We were picking out doilies, she had some ladies coming for tea that afternoon, and had spent the morning at the beautiful black piano in the drawing room. When my mother had dropped me off, my grandmother had looked me up and down with her lips pursed, judging me. Once she'd had me change into one of my mother's childhood dresses - it had ruffles, the less said the better - she'd plunked me down at the piano and instructed me to play.
I remember staring up at her, mouth agape. I didn't know what she wanted me to do. My life hadn't exactly featured a lot of pianos prior to that point, and she was livid. Her watery grey eyes bulged out of her head, but she sat down beside me on the bench and started to play, ordering me to watch closely. I couldn't take my eyes off her fingers as they flew across the ivory keys, the most wonderful sound I had ever heard seeming to pour out from under the grey lace cuffs of her dress.
I thought about nothing else all afternoon. The ladies, all of them ancient and wiry and as judgmental as my grandmother, thought me simple. I just stood there, slack-jawed, with no real sense of what was going on. When my mother returned for me, not coming up to the house but honking the car horn from the bottom of the drive, I was dismissed with a command uttered through those pursed lips.
I didn't see my grandmother for many years after that. She and my mother had fallen out about something years earlier, and the latter's refusal to explain what it was convinced me that it was my fault. I was about fifteen the next time I went to the house. It no longer seemed huge and majestic, it had lost its magic, but I couldn't believe the same would have happened to the piano. I let myself in using the key hidden inside the casing of the porch light and called out to my grandmother. No response. Unable to stop myself, I headed for the drawing room.
The smell hit me from several paces away. I frowned and pushed the door open fully. Someone was slumped at the piano. Someone who, judging by the stench, had been dead for quite some time. I couldn't go near her. I couldn't bear to look at the tainted piano, but I caught a glimpse of grey lace cuffs.
White lace turns yellow with age. Grey lace stays grey.
"No, no, no. The yellow one used to be white."
"So?"
"So it's no good."
"Why not?" I remember pouting. My grandmother pulled a similar expression, though she wasn't mocking me. We were picking out doilies, she had some ladies coming for tea that afternoon, and had spent the morning at the beautiful black piano in the drawing room. When my mother had dropped me off, my grandmother had looked me up and down with her lips pursed, judging me. Once she'd had me change into one of my mother's childhood dresses - it had ruffles, the less said the better - she'd plunked me down at the piano and instructed me to play.
I remember staring up at her, mouth agape. I didn't know what she wanted me to do. My life hadn't exactly featured a lot of pianos prior to that point, and she was livid. Her watery grey eyes bulged out of her head, but she sat down beside me on the bench and started to play, ordering me to watch closely. I couldn't take my eyes off her fingers as they flew across the ivory keys, the most wonderful sound I had ever heard seeming to pour out from under the grey lace cuffs of her dress.
I thought about nothing else all afternoon. The ladies, all of them ancient and wiry and as judgmental as my grandmother, thought me simple. I just stood there, slack-jawed, with no real sense of what was going on. When my mother returned for me, not coming up to the house but honking the car horn from the bottom of the drive, I was dismissed with a command uttered through those pursed lips.
I didn't see my grandmother for many years after that. She and my mother had fallen out about something years earlier, and the latter's refusal to explain what it was convinced me that it was my fault. I was about fifteen the next time I went to the house. It no longer seemed huge and majestic, it had lost its magic, but I couldn't believe the same would have happened to the piano. I let myself in using the key hidden inside the casing of the porch light and called out to my grandmother. No response. Unable to stop myself, I headed for the drawing room.
The smell hit me from several paces away. I frowned and pushed the door open fully. Someone was slumped at the piano. Someone who, judging by the stench, had been dead for quite some time. I couldn't go near her. I couldn't bear to look at the tainted piano, but I caught a glimpse of grey lace cuffs.
White lace turns yellow with age. Grey lace stays grey.
Monday 28 May 2012
Moonlight Bay by Emily Chadwick
The sound of gunfire cracked across the bay.
Before the fighting had started, it had been a quiet evening. The water was unusually calm, waves lapping gently at the shore as they glistened in the moonlight. The sky was a clear, inky blue, and the stars were scattered like glitter over the dome of the heavens.
It was a still night, a perfect night.
And then the guns shattered the silence.
The gunfire was followed by screams, panicked, frightened screams that rose in number. Every so often, there was another burst of gunfire, and the screams spread.
Then the docks caught ablaze. Dark smoke filled the sky, blocking out the stars, and the light from the fires swelled hungrily.
It seemed as though the whole world was falling apart.
Before the fighting had started, it had been a quiet evening. The water was unusually calm, waves lapping gently at the shore as they glistened in the moonlight. The sky was a clear, inky blue, and the stars were scattered like glitter over the dome of the heavens.
It was a still night, a perfect night.
And then the guns shattered the silence.
The gunfire was followed by screams, panicked, frightened screams that rose in number. Every so often, there was another burst of gunfire, and the screams spread.
Then the docks caught ablaze. Dark smoke filled the sky, blocking out the stars, and the light from the fires swelled hungrily.
It seemed as though the whole world was falling apart.
Moonlight Bay by Sam Smith
Whenever I get scared or worried or anxious or depressed or tired or uncomfortable or ill or feel emotions that I do not want to feel at all, I remind myself of things that I enjoy but can’t have at the moment, as it reminds me that I am only human and sometimes humans will not always be happy and want things that we are not allowed to have all the time. Being reminded that I am human makes me feel better. Two days ago I was sat on a bus and it was a very hot day and the bus was very busy because it was late and everyone had finished work and was going home and suddenly there was a wasp on the bus and people started to panic because of the little bug, especially one woman who said loudly that she was allergic to wasps and it was very loud and I was anxious so I started to make a list again. Here is the list.
The colour blue. Televisions. Plug sockets that look like faces. Books on tape. The sound of static. Hypothetical situations. Dogs wearing hats. Spiderman. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. Long movies about journeys to unknown lands. Icing sugar. Evaporation. New socks. When I smoked a cigarette. A moonlight bay that I visited once in Spain as a child with my mother and my big brother who said that he was bored and wanted to go exploring but I liked sitting near the end of the bay looking out at the sky the sky the sky and the sea and not being able to see a difference between the colour of the sky and the sea because it was so dark that they were the exact same colour even thought I tried very hard to explain this to him. Equal numbers of pens. Wolves. Myself. BLOCK CAPITALS. Right angles. Leaves. Two and a Half Men. Religious imagery from the 17th century. When magazines have CDs stuck to the front cover. Dice.
An old man hit the wasp with a rolled up copy of The Times and everyone had calmed down.
The colour blue. Televisions. Plug sockets that look like faces. Books on tape. The sound of static. Hypothetical situations. Dogs wearing hats. Spiderman. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. Long movies about journeys to unknown lands. Icing sugar. Evaporation. New socks. When I smoked a cigarette. A moonlight bay that I visited once in Spain as a child with my mother and my big brother who said that he was bored and wanted to go exploring but I liked sitting near the end of the bay looking out at the sky the sky the sky and the sea and not being able to see a difference between the colour of the sky and the sea because it was so dark that they were the exact same colour even thought I tried very hard to explain this to him. Equal numbers of pens. Wolves. Myself. BLOCK CAPITALS. Right angles. Leaves. Two and a Half Men. Religious imagery from the 17th century. When magazines have CDs stuck to the front cover. Dice.
An old man hit the wasp with a rolled up copy of The Times and everyone had calmed down.
Moonlight Bay by Lesley Whyte
This whole trip was a mistake. I knew that now, though it didn't really help me. I'd realised about four minutes after the plane left the ground that I was setting myself up for three miserable weeks. When we landed, I didn't even leave the airport, I went and found the airline's desk and tried to change my return ticket for the next flight home. They were happy to help, as long as I was prepared to pay $3000 for the privilege. Bastards.
So I came to the hotel, which actually turned out to be a bunch of little villas. Perfectly designed for honeymooning couples. Less so for men who had just been abandoned at the altar and were looking for some time to process the fact. Every evening, I'd sit outside, it was too hot to sit in the villa, and look out over the ocean. The moonlight glittered on the lilac water. I sipped a beer and wondered why the water was such a peculiar colour. Must be a trick of the light. As usual, the still night air was filled with the sound of lovemaking from the other villas. Have you ever noticed that sex actually sounds quite unpleasant?
It was worse during the day, when you'd go to the hotel restaurant to eat and they'd clear away the second place setting at your table. When you'd go to one of the activities and find out that it was designed for couples. When you'd wander down to the beach and say an awkward hello to a couple from the hotel and realise you knew exactly what they sounded like when they were fucking. The whole place was designed for couples. And I hated it. In fact, there was only one benefit to the whole thing. My father-in-law, well, he was supposed to be my father-in-law, paid for the whole thing. And encouraged me to go on the trip after his bitch of a daughter ditched me. Yeah, that was the only good thing about it.
That and all the drinks were included. That was pretty cool, too.
So I came to the hotel, which actually turned out to be a bunch of little villas. Perfectly designed for honeymooning couples. Less so for men who had just been abandoned at the altar and were looking for some time to process the fact. Every evening, I'd sit outside, it was too hot to sit in the villa, and look out over the ocean. The moonlight glittered on the lilac water. I sipped a beer and wondered why the water was such a peculiar colour. Must be a trick of the light. As usual, the still night air was filled with the sound of lovemaking from the other villas. Have you ever noticed that sex actually sounds quite unpleasant?
It was worse during the day, when you'd go to the hotel restaurant to eat and they'd clear away the second place setting at your table. When you'd go to one of the activities and find out that it was designed for couples. When you'd wander down to the beach and say an awkward hello to a couple from the hotel and realise you knew exactly what they sounded like when they were fucking. The whole place was designed for couples. And I hated it. In fact, there was only one benefit to the whole thing. My father-in-law, well, he was supposed to be my father-in-law, paid for the whole thing. And encouraged me to go on the trip after his bitch of a daughter ditched me. Yeah, that was the only good thing about it.
That and all the drinks were included. That was pretty cool, too.
Sunday 27 May 2012
Potato Cake by Lesley Whyte
Kayleigh paused and took a deep, steadying breath before she pushed open the door. She needed a second to prepare herself for the surprise birthday party on the other side of it. She knew what it would be like, pretty much the same as it had been fourteen months ago. Yes, fourteen months ago.
At that point, her father appeared at her side and snatched the remaining blue cube from her.
She pushed open the door and everyone yelled and burst out at her. Kayleigh fixed a bright smile on her face and pretended to be surprised. She went around the room, saying hello to the few family members who had arrived, her father's 'friends' and the women who worked at the centre. She noticed her father was scrurrying around, adjusting bunting and rearranging badly-wrapped presents on the table. She avoided him, and the food.
"Kayleigh, sweetheart," Karen said, wrapping an arm around her. "You're such a good sport about all this stuff, it's wonderful. It means so much to him."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Is there any food?"
"Well, that depends on what you mean by food."
Kayleigh nodded. This was standard. She headed over to the food table anyway, since her stomach was rumbling loud enough to hear over the awful early-90s music. She looked at the chocolate digestives sandwiched between slices of bread and smothered in mustard. She looked at the crisps floating in what appeared to be Coca-Cola. She looked at the cheese-and-blue-tack-squares-on-sticks. Kayleigh sighed, then slid a cube of cheese off and popped it in her mouth.
At that point, her father appeared at her side and snatched the remaining blue cube from her.
"Hey, Dad. How are you feeling today?"
"You can't eat that yet! Kayleigh will be here soon!"
"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't realise. How are you doing today?"
"Everything's gone wrong," he said, his face red and sweaty. "I need to make sure everything's right for when Kayleigh gets here. It's her birthday, you know?"
"I know, Dad."
"Don't eat anything else," he said, and scuttled away again.
Kayleigh wiped at her eyes, hating herself for thinking this time might be different. Karen, her father's nurse, came over and hugged her gently again. "At least the cake looks edible," Kayleigh said, not wanting anyone to see her cry. She picked up a knife and cut herself a slice. As she lifted it onto a paper plate, she sighed. Mashed potato. He'd piled a bunch of mash on a plate and then covered it in blue icing.
"Kayleigh..."
"Well, at least it's not my birthday," she said quietly.
Potato Cake by Emily Chadwick
The garden-variety potato cake is nothing to write home about. It’s basically mashed up potato, in a cake-patty form, fried until golden brown.
If you really want to make an interesting potato cake, you have to add other items to the recipe. This helps the potato cake from being bland and potatoverwhelming. My personal favourite is a tuna and cheese potato cake, but you can also add onion, chili peppers, bell peppers, chives, mushrooms… anything you want, really!
If you add an egg to the mix, it helps the potato to stick together whilst you’re cooking it. There is nothing sadder than a broken potato cake.
If you really want to make an interesting potato cake, you have to add other items to the recipe. This helps the potato cake from being bland and potatoverwhelming. My personal favourite is a tuna and cheese potato cake, but you can also add onion, chili peppers, bell peppers, chives, mushrooms… anything you want, really!
If you add an egg to the mix, it helps the potato to stick together whilst you’re cooking it. There is nothing sadder than a broken potato cake.
Potato Cake by Sam Smith
It was a game we played as children. Honestly, we weren’t the coolest bunch of kids, but we had our own little group and we had fun, so it wasn’t that bad at all. There were seven of us in total, more than enough to play.
Sometimes the other groups would pick on us or make us the butt of their jokes; we were frequently called “The Butt of the School”. Kids can be mean. That’s just what they were to us. Mean. But we were mean too, which is where the game comes into play.
Let me set the scene. We would just be sitting on our table, eating lunch or working or something, and one of the other groups would say something stupid to us. It was normally either they sporty group of the group that wore sunglasses during P.E., because no matter how obvious and cliché it is, that shit actually did happen.
Anyway, yeah, they would say some little remark and we would immediately start to play the game. Whoever said the first word to us would be the focus. We knew most of the pupil’s names and where they lived because it wasn’t that big of a school. A little glace would go around the table and we would have our focus.
The next day, we would all take the day off school. We weren’t smart and didn’t really care about grade or anything stupid, so it wasn’t a big deal. The meeting place would be behind the focus’ back garden at five in the morning. Everyone knew what to bring. A mask, a hammer, some E-Z Bake cake mix and a bag full of potatoes.
The focus would leave their house around eight or so, which was when we would go to work. Hopefully no one else would be home to hear us break the door down with our hammers. Sure, there were probably easier, less destructive ways to get into a house, but that’s not really the point. In the kitchen, some of us would get to work on making as much cake as we could. It was usually chocolate cake. The rest of us would start filling every nook and cranny with smashed up potato. Cupboards filled to the brim, under the beds, in the toaster, shoes overflowing, behind the radiators, between the pages of books and magazines, in VCRs, atop the mantelpiece, stuffed into trouser pockets, down drains. It was kind of awesome how much we could get done in an hour.
When the cake was cooked, we would sit at a dinner table or something communal and eat the cake. It was like a little present to ourselves for taking the mean comment so well. We would leave afterwards.
No one is sure how this game got started, but we damn well finished it.
Sometimes the other groups would pick on us or make us the butt of their jokes; we were frequently called “The Butt of the School”. Kids can be mean. That’s just what they were to us. Mean. But we were mean too, which is where the game comes into play.
Let me set the scene. We would just be sitting on our table, eating lunch or working or something, and one of the other groups would say something stupid to us. It was normally either they sporty group of the group that wore sunglasses during P.E., because no matter how obvious and cliché it is, that shit actually did happen.
Anyway, yeah, they would say some little remark and we would immediately start to play the game. Whoever said the first word to us would be the focus. We knew most of the pupil’s names and where they lived because it wasn’t that big of a school. A little glace would go around the table and we would have our focus.
The next day, we would all take the day off school. We weren’t smart and didn’t really care about grade or anything stupid, so it wasn’t a big deal. The meeting place would be behind the focus’ back garden at five in the morning. Everyone knew what to bring. A mask, a hammer, some E-Z Bake cake mix and a bag full of potatoes.
The focus would leave their house around eight or so, which was when we would go to work. Hopefully no one else would be home to hear us break the door down with our hammers. Sure, there were probably easier, less destructive ways to get into a house, but that’s not really the point. In the kitchen, some of us would get to work on making as much cake as we could. It was usually chocolate cake. The rest of us would start filling every nook and cranny with smashed up potato. Cupboards filled to the brim, under the beds, in the toaster, shoes overflowing, behind the radiators, between the pages of books and magazines, in VCRs, atop the mantelpiece, stuffed into trouser pockets, down drains. It was kind of awesome how much we could get done in an hour.
When the cake was cooked, we would sit at a dinner table or something communal and eat the cake. It was like a little present to ourselves for taking the mean comment so well. We would leave afterwards.
No one is sure how this game got started, but we damn well finished it.
Saturday 26 May 2012
Soft Steel by Lesley Whyte
"So, Mara, what did you learn at school today?" Mum asks me, fixing her gaze and cold smile on me. She's trying the whole let's-pretend-we're-a-happy-family thing again. It worked a lot better when Dad was still here.
"Nothing," I say.
"You must have learned something," she says, and I can tell it's through gritted teeth. She's annoyed because Jake rattled off a whole bunch of stuff while we were eating dinner. Now that we're onto dessert, she's onto me.
"Well, there was one thing," I say around a mouthful of yoghurt. Strawberry. I'd rather have raspberry, but she doesn't listen to me.
She winces, like she wants to tell me not to talk with my mouth full but is too relieved that I'm talking at all to give me any kind of grief about it.
"They've invented this soft steel stuff."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm serious. It's steel, but soft."
Mum laughs, her tinkly little laugh. I'll give her credit for that at least, her fake laugh sounds just like her genuine one. Or maybe I've never heard her laugh for real.
"It's not funny," I tell her. "It's a real thing."
"Oh, pray tell, wise daughter of mine, what on earth would anybody use soft steel for?"
"I don't know," I say, and then an idea hits. I struggle to keep my face straight and wait for her
to take another spoonful of her own yoghurt. Low fat vanilla that says more about her than I ever could. "I guess you could use it for condoms."
Her jaw drops.
"And you really should keep your mouth shut when you're eating."
"Nothing," I say.
"You must have learned something," she says, and I can tell it's through gritted teeth. She's annoyed because Jake rattled off a whole bunch of stuff while we were eating dinner. Now that we're onto dessert, she's onto me.
"Well, there was one thing," I say around a mouthful of yoghurt. Strawberry. I'd rather have raspberry, but she doesn't listen to me.
She winces, like she wants to tell me not to talk with my mouth full but is too relieved that I'm talking at all to give me any kind of grief about it.
"They've invented this soft steel stuff."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm serious. It's steel, but soft."
Mum laughs, her tinkly little laugh. I'll give her credit for that at least, her fake laugh sounds just like her genuine one. Or maybe I've never heard her laugh for real.
"It's not funny," I tell her. "It's a real thing."
"Oh, pray tell, wise daughter of mine, what on earth would anybody use soft steel for?"
"I don't know," I say, and then an idea hits. I struggle to keep my face straight and wait for her
to take another spoonful of her own yoghurt. Low fat vanilla that says more about her than I ever could. "I guess you could use it for condoms."
Her jaw drops.
"And you really should keep your mouth shut when you're eating."
Soft Steel by Emily Chadwick
“Once upon a time, there was an evil queen. She had raven-black hair and eyes like soft steel.”
“But, Dad, steel is a metal.”
“Metal can be soft. Like gold.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Okay, fine. The evil queen had raven-black hair and eyes like hard steel.”
“That’s better.”
“Are you going to be quiet and let me tell you the story or not?”
“Okay, I’ll be quiet.”
“But, Dad, steel is a metal.”
“Metal can be soft. Like gold.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Okay, fine. The evil queen had raven-black hair and eyes like hard steel.”
“That’s better.”
“Are you going to be quiet and let me tell you the story or not?”
“Okay, I’ll be quiet.”
Soft Steel by Sam Smith
‘Soft steel, what bloody use is that?’
‘It can be shaped into things I guess. What do you want to make?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still a bit sceptical about this whole thing.’
‘Look, there’s nothing to do worry about. I’ll make something.’
‘What are you making?’
‘Watch.’
‘It’s a boat.’
‘I hate boats.’
‘What’s wrong with boats?’
‘They’re bullshit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Boats are stupid. Just use a plane you bloody idiot.’
‘Fine, hold on.’
‘Are you making a plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m scared of flying.’
‘Christ, what do you want me to make?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’
‘Me. Make a tiny steel me.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to be the strongest man.’
‘But it will be made of soft steel.’
‘Make it.’
‘Please let me sleep.’
‘No, you have to stay awake. Show me something else. I am bored of soft steel.’
‘Here is a small animal.’
‘Okay.’
‘It can be shaped into things I guess. What do you want to make?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still a bit sceptical about this whole thing.’
‘Look, there’s nothing to do worry about. I’ll make something.’
‘What are you making?’
‘Watch.’
‘It’s a boat.’
‘I hate boats.’
‘What’s wrong with boats?’
‘They’re bullshit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Boats are stupid. Just use a plane you bloody idiot.’
‘Fine, hold on.’
‘Are you making a plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m scared of flying.’
‘Christ, what do you want me to make?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’
‘Me. Make a tiny steel me.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to be the strongest man.’
‘But it will be made of soft steel.’
‘Make it.’
‘Please let me sleep.’
‘No, you have to stay awake. Show me something else. I am bored of soft steel.’
‘Here is a small animal.’
‘Okay.’
Friday 25 May 2012
Indian Ivy by Lesley Whyte
"What's this one?" he asked, tracing his fingertip down the words inked across her hipbone.
"It says 'if you're reading this, you're standing way too close.' In Latin."
"Seriously?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You're kidding."
"It's a quote from a book. 'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,' except I'm pretty sure they got it wrong. A friend of mine told me they put an apostophe in the your."
He smiled. "What about this one?" He touched the tiny birds on her neck.
"Freedom. Being able to fly away and leave whenever you want to go."
"Nice."
"Mm."
"And this one?" he asked, running his fingers across her wrist. Ivy crept around her wrist and then down the inside of her forearm, following the line of her veins.
She sat up awkwardly, gently pulling her arm away. He looked up and saw that she had tears in her eyes.
"I got that one in India," she said softly. "A long time ago."
"It says 'if you're reading this, you're standing way too close.' In Latin."
"Seriously?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You're kidding."
"It's a quote from a book. 'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,' except I'm pretty sure they got it wrong. A friend of mine told me they put an apostophe in the your."
He smiled. "What about this one?" He touched the tiny birds on her neck.
"Freedom. Being able to fly away and leave whenever you want to go."
"Nice."
"Mm."
"And this one?" he asked, running his fingers across her wrist. Ivy crept around her wrist and then down the inside of her forearm, following the line of her veins.
She sat up awkwardly, gently pulling her arm away. He looked up and saw that she had tears in her eyes.
"I got that one in India," she said softly. "A long time ago."
Indian Ivy by Sam Smith
Someone threw it out. Drove out of town to avoid suspicious eyes and left it on the side of the road. Not really a surprise that no one picked it up. Everyone has new, flat screen televisions nowadays anyway. This old CRT, a battered bulky box with a dark grey screen wasn’t really worth hoisting up into the boot. On the side of the road it stayed.
People noticed it for sure, but they didn’t take it. All sorts of messages were scribbled or scratched into the plastic. Most of it obscenities, some of them in other languages. The screen had to be kicked in at some point. Break all the glass, expose the out of date technology inside the body.
Soon enough, it was moved further away from the road by some kind soul, spilling some sharp triangles of glass and broken metal. Into the bushes, where it would stay. Animals tried to nest inside it, but that was a bit dangerous, considering all the pointy bits. Plants grew into it until they eventually grew out of the screen, ivy leaking over the edges. Nature can be more accepting that people.
People noticed it for sure, but they didn’t take it. All sorts of messages were scribbled or scratched into the plastic. Most of it obscenities, some of them in other languages. The screen had to be kicked in at some point. Break all the glass, expose the out of date technology inside the body.
Soon enough, it was moved further away from the road by some kind soul, spilling some sharp triangles of glass and broken metal. Into the bushes, where it would stay. Animals tried to nest inside it, but that was a bit dangerous, considering all the pointy bits. Plants grew into it until they eventually grew out of the screen, ivy leaking over the edges. Nature can be more accepting that people.
Indian Ivy by Emily Chadwick
If someone had told Bryn that he would lose his husband before their kids were old enough to really understand, he would not have believed them.
Sure, Kane’s job as a policeman was dangerous and there was always a chance that he would get hurt, and Bryn worried, but… Kane was one of those invincible men. Strong, solid, tall and dependable. Hot-headed, sure, but always a rock. If Kane had died in some drug-raid shoot-out, Bryn reckoned that he could have come to accept it. There was always that chance. To watch his amazing, resilient husband slowly waste away due to an inoperable brain tumour had never even crossed his mind.
Yet, here he was, curled up on his side on their bed, straining his eyes to catalogue Kane’s every slow, painful breath.
The doctor said it would be any day now, but Kane still clung on, though he was only conscious for a few brief moments a day.
Bryn couldn’t help a smile that came out more like a sob. Stubborn until the very end, that was just like him.
To his chest, Bryn clutched a silk scarf that Kane had given him for their anniversary, just a few months before. Bryn had many of these scarves, knotted around the bedhead and the wardrobe and, well, everywhere, but this one was special. It was dyed many shades of deep green – Indian ivy, Kane had called it with his heart breaking smile. To Bryn, though, it was the colour of hope, the last remaining reminder of a time before the word ‘tumour’ entered their lives.
He still had an irrational, stupid, childish belief that, as long as he had the scarf, Kane wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die.
Squeezing the scarf close to his chest, Bryn glanced at the clock and made a face. Time to pick the children up from school. He leant over and pressed a kiss to Kane’s cheek, hoping that he didn’t imagine the flicker of his husband’s eyelids.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, knowing Kane could hear him somehow. “Keep holding on until I get back, please.”
He tucked the scarf into his jean pocket, kissed Kane again, and made himself leave the room. On the threshold, he paused and turned to look at the pale, inert form on the bed.
“I love you, Kane.”
Sure, Kane’s job as a policeman was dangerous and there was always a chance that he would get hurt, and Bryn worried, but… Kane was one of those invincible men. Strong, solid, tall and dependable. Hot-headed, sure, but always a rock. If Kane had died in some drug-raid shoot-out, Bryn reckoned that he could have come to accept it. There was always that chance. To watch his amazing, resilient husband slowly waste away due to an inoperable brain tumour had never even crossed his mind.
Yet, here he was, curled up on his side on their bed, straining his eyes to catalogue Kane’s every slow, painful breath.
The doctor said it would be any day now, but Kane still clung on, though he was only conscious for a few brief moments a day.
Bryn couldn’t help a smile that came out more like a sob. Stubborn until the very end, that was just like him.
To his chest, Bryn clutched a silk scarf that Kane had given him for their anniversary, just a few months before. Bryn had many of these scarves, knotted around the bedhead and the wardrobe and, well, everywhere, but this one was special. It was dyed many shades of deep green – Indian ivy, Kane had called it with his heart breaking smile. To Bryn, though, it was the colour of hope, the last remaining reminder of a time before the word ‘tumour’ entered their lives.
He still had an irrational, stupid, childish belief that, as long as he had the scarf, Kane wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die.
Squeezing the scarf close to his chest, Bryn glanced at the clock and made a face. Time to pick the children up from school. He leant over and pressed a kiss to Kane’s cheek, hoping that he didn’t imagine the flicker of his husband’s eyelids.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, knowing Kane could hear him somehow. “Keep holding on until I get back, please.”
He tucked the scarf into his jean pocket, kissed Kane again, and made himself leave the room. On the threshold, he paused and turned to look at the pale, inert form on the bed.
“I love you, Kane.”
Thursday 24 May 2012
Cheeky Wink by Emily Chadwick
The first time I tried out my now-patented ‘cheeky wink’, I came away with a burning week. It turns out nuns aren’t particularly tolerant of flirtation.
Still, this experience didn’t put me off, and I began to practice my wink every day in front of the mirror.
“Hey, good looking,” I would say to myself, and then I would wink and toss my hair.
It’s a fool-proof tool any man should use if he wants to get laid.
Of course, it hasn’t worked yet, but I remain cheerfully optimistic.
Still, this experience didn’t put me off, and I began to practice my wink every day in front of the mirror.
“Hey, good looking,” I would say to myself, and then I would wink and toss my hair.
It’s a fool-proof tool any man should use if he wants to get laid.
Of course, it hasn’t worked yet, but I remain cheerfully optimistic.
Cheeky Wink by Sam Smith
The day the Sun started to die was anti-climactic. No one noticed. Sort of like when people get a weird disease or something, they don’t really think about it. They might be a bit off, maybe they don’t even feel any different than the day before, but they have begun to properly die. Not the silly dying that pessimistic people constantly go on about that begins at birth. We already knew that being alive means we’re going to die. They’re mentioning it because they only just realised that and think it’s deep and might get them laid. The real catalyst for our death is subtle, like it was with the Sun.
A little flicker. That was it. For a split second, the Sun didn’t project rays of light through our solar system. It took eight minutes for this neglect to reach us, and we didn’t bat an eyelid. I didn’t see it. I think it was cloudy that day. People in California or India might have had a better chance of seeing the flicker, but it wasn’t reported. Maybe a bird flew above them. Maybe they were wearing sunglasses. Maybe they didn’t notice.
It started happening frequently in the following months, which was when we started to find it disturbing. Like a suffering light bulb, the Sun flipped from light to dark in several instants. A bright day interrupted by tiny moments of complete darkness. Scientists had ideas, and they were predominantly right, although they kept looking for a different excuse. A religious leader was quoted as saying it was just a cheeky wink from God. This enraged some people for the trivialisation of the situation and enraged others for the inanity of that statement. Mostly, we just worried.
Lampposts were left on all through the day so people could still see through the flickers. Drivers were advised to constantly have their headlights on. Torches were carried in handbags and backpacks, just in case. Every time the Sun went dark, the same thought flashed through our collective minds. What if it doesn’t fire up again?
We accepted our fate. A new ice age was predicted because all the time the oceans weren’t heated was adding up. People started stocking up on woolly coats and hardhats with lamps on the front. Feeling safe while being alive is important. Some found assurance in religion or technology. I found comfort in inevitability.
The Sun went out and soon so did we.
A little flicker. That was it. For a split second, the Sun didn’t project rays of light through our solar system. It took eight minutes for this neglect to reach us, and we didn’t bat an eyelid. I didn’t see it. I think it was cloudy that day. People in California or India might have had a better chance of seeing the flicker, but it wasn’t reported. Maybe a bird flew above them. Maybe they were wearing sunglasses. Maybe they didn’t notice.
It started happening frequently in the following months, which was when we started to find it disturbing. Like a suffering light bulb, the Sun flipped from light to dark in several instants. A bright day interrupted by tiny moments of complete darkness. Scientists had ideas, and they were predominantly right, although they kept looking for a different excuse. A religious leader was quoted as saying it was just a cheeky wink from God. This enraged some people for the trivialisation of the situation and enraged others for the inanity of that statement. Mostly, we just worried.
Lampposts were left on all through the day so people could still see through the flickers. Drivers were advised to constantly have their headlights on. Torches were carried in handbags and backpacks, just in case. Every time the Sun went dark, the same thought flashed through our collective minds. What if it doesn’t fire up again?
We accepted our fate. A new ice age was predicted because all the time the oceans weren’t heated was adding up. People started stocking up on woolly coats and hardhats with lamps on the front. Feeling safe while being alive is important. Some found assurance in religion or technology. I found comfort in inevitability.
The Sun went out and soon so did we.
Cheeky Wink by Lesley Whyte
I've never really had a way with women. Well, I had a way with them, but it wasn't a good one. That sounds creepier than it was meant to. I've always seemed to have this habit of upsetting women. It didn't matter what I said, they'd react terribly.
Just the other week, I was in a bar and told this woman that she had loo roll stuck to her shoe. I thought she'd be grateful, she was dressed up real nice and I figured she'd be embarrassed if one of her friends or her boyfriend noticed. She slapped me.
That happens a lot. I've never understood why. And then, I was telling my friend that story, and he asked if I did that thing I do. I didn't know what he was talking about. Turns out I have a nervous twitch, it looks like a cheeky wink. No wonder women were creeped out when I talked to them.
Just the other week, I was in a bar and told this woman that she had loo roll stuck to her shoe. I thought she'd be grateful, she was dressed up real nice and I figured she'd be embarrassed if one of her friends or her boyfriend noticed. She slapped me.
That happens a lot. I've never understood why. And then, I was telling my friend that story, and he asked if I did that thing I do. I didn't know what he was talking about. Turns out I have a nervous twitch, it looks like a cheeky wink. No wonder women were creeped out when I talked to them.
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Little Black Dress by Emily Chadwick
It was supposed to be the biggest night of her life.
She had been dropping hints for weeks now, both subtle and pointed. She had switched the plastic ring he had given her on their very first date to her ring finger, and had pretended not to notice when he’d smiled.
They had been ten the afternoon he had given it to her. It had been break time, and usually the boys and girls remained safely separate. But that day, he had crossed the playground to smile at her. After fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he had drawn out a plastic silver ring with a large blue jewel. It had been too big for her to wear, but she tucked it in her blouse pocket and carried it with pride.
On her sixteenth birthday, he had offered to buy her a proper ring, but she insisted that the one she had was enough.
Now, it was her twentieth birthday, and she wanted to marry him. To be his wife, forever and always.
She had put on her little black dress, the one he’d always admired because it showed off a little bit too much leg. She had tied up her hair just the way he liked it. On her neck, she wore a pendant he had given her the day she turned eighteen, with the matching earrings he had got her the year before.
The plastic ring remained on her ring finger, winking in the streetlights.
They had never made it to the restaurant. A car had veered up on the path as they were walking down the road, knocking him off his feet.
She knelt on the pavement, cradling his head in her lap as sirens screamed.
She had been dropping hints for weeks now, both subtle and pointed. She had switched the plastic ring he had given her on their very first date to her ring finger, and had pretended not to notice when he’d smiled.
They had been ten the afternoon he had given it to her. It had been break time, and usually the boys and girls remained safely separate. But that day, he had crossed the playground to smile at her. After fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he had drawn out a plastic silver ring with a large blue jewel. It had been too big for her to wear, but she tucked it in her blouse pocket and carried it with pride.
On her sixteenth birthday, he had offered to buy her a proper ring, but she insisted that the one she had was enough.
Now, it was her twentieth birthday, and she wanted to marry him. To be his wife, forever and always.
She had put on her little black dress, the one he’d always admired because it showed off a little bit too much leg. She had tied up her hair just the way he liked it. On her neck, she wore a pendant he had given her the day she turned eighteen, with the matching earrings he had got her the year before.
The plastic ring remained on her ring finger, winking in the streetlights.
They had never made it to the restaurant. A car had veered up on the path as they were walking down the road, knocking him off his feet.
She knelt on the pavement, cradling his head in her lap as sirens screamed.
Little Black Dress by Sam Smith
There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch. She always took a slightly longer lunch break on Friday’s, because, hey, what the heck, right? It’s almost the weekend! She needed to get in the mood to relax early, otherwise it might just fly past. There’s a line in a film about sometimes life moving pretty fast, but she couldn’t remember it. In fact, at the time, she wasn’t even thinking about it. There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch.
She read the note. It was written in shorthand. To most people it would have looked like a toddler had gone a bit mental with a biro, but Susanna knew what it said. It was a poem.
“Your black dress, covered in flowers. Every bloom is an explosion on the night sky. Fireworks.’
It was a poem. A short one. Susanna didn’t like poetry, and even more she didn’t like this poem. She looked down at her dress. Casual Fridays were quite easy for her. She owned a lot of dresses. This one was her favourite. It was yellow with polka dots.
Love is blind, but the poet was just an idiot.
She read the note. It was written in shorthand. To most people it would have looked like a toddler had gone a bit mental with a biro, but Susanna knew what it said. It was a poem.
“Your black dress, covered in flowers. Every bloom is an explosion on the night sky. Fireworks.’
It was a poem. A short one. Susanna didn’t like poetry, and even more she didn’t like this poem. She looked down at her dress. Casual Fridays were quite easy for her. She owned a lot of dresses. This one was her favourite. It was yellow with polka dots.
Love is blind, but the poet was just an idiot.
Little Black Dress by Lesley Whyte
She wore me on her first date with Henry, and spent the whole time worrying if she was showing too much leg. She kept tugging at my hem, tugging and tugging until she actually ripped the seam away. She never fixed it, either. She hasn't fit into me for years, but she kept me all this time. She was sentimental like that. It's a shame, really. The broad straps and square neckline looked damn good on her.
She wore me the night Henry proposed. She was more confident by then, she had a higher hemline and a lower neckline and she didn't rip me. They went to that restaurant on the river, they wanted to sit out on the deck but it was full. She made some joke about it being too cold to sit outside anyway, even though it was the middle of August. She was covered in sweat, and so was I, but she didn't care. She didn't even care about how small the ring was. Sometimes she was too sentimental.
She wore me for the engagement party that Henry's mother threw them. They refused to let her pay for the wedding, they wanted to do it themselves, regardless of the fact that they were young and didn't have two pennies to rub together. So Camilla insisted on throwing them a big, fancy engagement party. I remember they ate shrimp, even though she was allergic. She sat in the corner, trying to smile at people while fighting back the tears, convinced that her future mother-in-law was actually trying to kill her. Of course, Camilla claimed it was a mistake and that there was plenty of salad that she could eat. After that, she went and cried in the bathroom.
Yes, she, uh...she wore me at the hen party. I'm afraid I'm sworn to secrecy. She never did take me out of the dry-cleaning bag again afterwards.
She wore me on their first anniversary, when Henry took her to dinner. It was their last chance to go out, just the two of them, before the baby came. It was a horrible night. She was tired and bloated and uncomfortable. I was too tight over the bump, I was stretched too tight and made her itch. Her swollen feet were stuffed into strappy sandals, but she didn't feel like she could kick them off in such a nice restaurant. They fought in the car on the way home. Henry said she didn't appreciate the nice things he did for her, asked why she always had to be so difficult. Said he should have taken her to McDonald's, since that was closer to what they could afford.
She wore me on their 30th anniversary, and she'd never looked better. I remember she looked through her closet before picking me, she wasn't the young, thin woman she'd once been, she needed something classier. A demure, wrap dress with elbow-length sleeves. She packed me in her suitcase, not knowing that Henry was whisking her away for a romantic weekend in Paris. They ate snails and mouldy cheese, then walked along the streets arm in arm, giggling like teenagers. Like the young lovers they were once. He told her he was more in love with her than ever.
She wore me again a few months later. I knew it would tarnish her memories of that weekend, but she couldn't face buying something new. Henry had been taken from her so suddenly, no illness leading up to it, but she had to be strong for the children. It didn't matter what she wore. Nothing mattered anymore.
She wore me the night Henry proposed. She was more confident by then, she had a higher hemline and a lower neckline and she didn't rip me. They went to that restaurant on the river, they wanted to sit out on the deck but it was full. She made some joke about it being too cold to sit outside anyway, even though it was the middle of August. She was covered in sweat, and so was I, but she didn't care. She didn't even care about how small the ring was. Sometimes she was too sentimental.
She wore me for the engagement party that Henry's mother threw them. They refused to let her pay for the wedding, they wanted to do it themselves, regardless of the fact that they were young and didn't have two pennies to rub together. So Camilla insisted on throwing them a big, fancy engagement party. I remember they ate shrimp, even though she was allergic. She sat in the corner, trying to smile at people while fighting back the tears, convinced that her future mother-in-law was actually trying to kill her. Of course, Camilla claimed it was a mistake and that there was plenty of salad that she could eat. After that, she went and cried in the bathroom.
Yes, she, uh...she wore me at the hen party. I'm afraid I'm sworn to secrecy. She never did take me out of the dry-cleaning bag again afterwards.
She wore me on their first anniversary, when Henry took her to dinner. It was their last chance to go out, just the two of them, before the baby came. It was a horrible night. She was tired and bloated and uncomfortable. I was too tight over the bump, I was stretched too tight and made her itch. Her swollen feet were stuffed into strappy sandals, but she didn't feel like she could kick them off in such a nice restaurant. They fought in the car on the way home. Henry said she didn't appreciate the nice things he did for her, asked why she always had to be so difficult. Said he should have taken her to McDonald's, since that was closer to what they could afford.
She wore me on their 30th anniversary, and she'd never looked better. I remember she looked through her closet before picking me, she wasn't the young, thin woman she'd once been, she needed something classier. A demure, wrap dress with elbow-length sleeves. She packed me in her suitcase, not knowing that Henry was whisking her away for a romantic weekend in Paris. They ate snails and mouldy cheese, then walked along the streets arm in arm, giggling like teenagers. Like the young lovers they were once. He told her he was more in love with her than ever.
She wore me again a few months later. I knew it would tarnish her memories of that weekend, but she couldn't face buying something new. Henry had been taken from her so suddenly, no illness leading up to it, but she had to be strong for the children. It didn't matter what she wore. Nothing mattered anymore.
Little Black Dress by Sara Travis
As she stared out the kitchen window, she thought about the events which had led to this moment in her life. Could she blame her father abandoning her at the age of four? Statistically, children from broken homes were always more likely to commit random acts of violence than those with so-called ‘stable parents.’ Or so she’d heard. What about Kevin Turner, that spotty 15 year old who’d rejected her invite to the prom in front of their entire Spanish class? That had been the first time she’d felt such blinding rage, that urge from the pit of her stomach to slap that stupid, lop-sided grin off his pale, pimply face. Or what about that guy at the supermarket earlier who’d short changed her by a whole £2.57, and then, when she’d raised the issue with the manager, vehemently denied it. Could anyone blame her for throwing a punch? What a knob.
But no. Really, it was Matthew’s fault entirely. She had asked him again and again to please, don’t leave your mouldy cereal bowls around the front room, to please, pick up those dirty socks which you’ve failed to slam-dunk into the laundry bin, to please, don’t let the bin overflow with McCoy’s crisp packets and Cheesestring wrappers and those disgusting soggy dregs from the bottom of his coffee mug.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood from the knife against her little black dress, and hoped the people at the drycleaners wouldn’t ask too many questions.
But no. Really, it was Matthew’s fault entirely. She had asked him again and again to please, don’t leave your mouldy cereal bowls around the front room, to please, pick up those dirty socks which you’ve failed to slam-dunk into the laundry bin, to please, don’t let the bin overflow with McCoy’s crisp packets and Cheesestring wrappers and those disgusting soggy dregs from the bottom of his coffee mug.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood from the knife against her little black dress, and hoped the people at the drycleaners wouldn’t ask too many questions.
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Wind Chime by Meg Burrows
Morris was not one to take a challenge lightly. It was to be met with precision, conviction and pride. It was his moment to shine in the Edwards household; it was a chance to prove to the family his worth, his purpose, his superiority over the Dog.
He had been perched on the chair for around seven minutes. This position above ground had proved a great place for hunting, not to mention allowing him to see what was being prepared on the counter for the family meals. His favourite so far had been the lemon chicken he swiped Thursday evening.
Kneading slightly with his black sleek paws, Morris twitched his nose upwards at the dangling feathers of the wind chime. They were so close now, the cause of great irritation was in his sights. He followed them swaying in the slight wind with two wide eyes. Left, right, left, right, come, here, you, little, feathery, feather, argh!
Morris, in one sleek movement, propelled himself from the chair. Spreading his paws wide so that he resembled something of flying squirrel, the ball of black fluff flung himself passionately at the feathers.
Shame that there was a glass window in the way.
He had been perched on the chair for around seven minutes. This position above ground had proved a great place for hunting, not to mention allowing him to see what was being prepared on the counter for the family meals. His favourite so far had been the lemon chicken he swiped Thursday evening.
Kneading slightly with his black sleek paws, Morris twitched his nose upwards at the dangling feathers of the wind chime. They were so close now, the cause of great irritation was in his sights. He followed them swaying in the slight wind with two wide eyes. Left, right, left, right, come, here, you, little, feathery, feather, argh!
Morris, in one sleek movement, propelled himself from the chair. Spreading his paws wide so that he resembled something of flying squirrel, the ball of black fluff flung himself passionately at the feathers.
Shame that there was a glass window in the way.
Wind Chime by Sam Smith
Greg didn’t quite understand the band that his daughter wanted to go see. Jessica had asked him if she could go to the gig, but because she was only thirteen she needed an adult with her. There was once a time when Greg went to see a lot of bands play, but that was way before Jessica was born. He agreed to take her, partially because he could rarely say no to his children, but also just to see if he still enjoyed music.
The band was called When We Find The Answer Hidden In The Tundra We Won’t Tell A Soul. He only found this out when he saw their name on a poster outside the Ampnigrande Theatre. Jessica had called them WWFTAHITTWWTAS when she asked to go, which Greg thought was just an odd made up word that people were saying nowadays. That stuff seemed to slip by him now.
Jessica was the youngest person there. She might have been the only person who needed a parent to bring them, but Greg wasn’t sure. Everyone else in the crowd had extraordinarily odd haircuts. Some were slicked back like a ‘50s greaser, others were shaved at the sides with long, dirty strings of matted hair hanging over the edge but some very styled, without one piece out of place. Most of the women had the exact same haircut; a bob with a curly fringe. They all wore clothing that looked like they stole it from their grandparents’ closets. Lots of cardigans and flowery dresses and sensible shoes. No one would look up from their phones for anything. This wasn’t how Greg remembered gigs.
WWFTAHITTWWTAS walked on stage quite a bit later than had been written on the A4 sheets of paper pinned to the doors of the theatre. There were nine band members, all dressed smartly and serious looks on their faces. They barely acknowledged the audience, who in turn barely acknowledged the band. The houselights came up, displaying the array of odd instruments lined up on the stage. Two very different drum kits, three guitars, one with more strings than the others, a double bass, a xylophone, a selection of flutes and panpipes on a small table, a set of wind chimes, a church organ, a keyboard, a scarily complicated looking brass instrument and at the centre of it all, one microphone. Despite there being a lot of band members, they were outnumbered by the instruments. The band members walked around and picked up an instrument, seemingly at random and stared down at the ground. The tallest band member shuffled up to the microphone.
‘Hey. If at some point any of you want to come up and play something, just kind of go for it I guess,’ he said in a strong American accent. He tapped the microphone a couple times and looked at his fellow band members, nodded, and turned back to the microphone. ‘We are a band. This is a song.’
Greg had trouble hearing sometimes and he wasn’t too sure if he was getting the music. It was difficult to understand what was making what sound. The members of WWFTAHITTWWTAS stood stoic but their instruments flailed wildly on their bodies, making a horrible drone. He was a bit mesmerised by the whole thing. The first song last eight minutes and the only lyric he could decipher was ‘We are all liars.’ When the droning stopped, he kind of clapped, but really he just placed his hands together a bit harder than he needed to.
The second song started and it was very similar to the first, a low rumbling with sporadic twinkles. He glanced to see if his daughter was having fun, but she wasn’t standing by his side like she was before, she was squeezing through the crowd of people to the stage. Jessica tiptoed up the steps and stood beside the wind chimes, which were hanging on a stainless steel frame. None of the band members even seemed to notice a little girl up there with them. She grabbed the frame and started to shake the wind chimes. Greg couldn’t hear them very well. A couple of the small metal cylinders dropped off. Jessica had an intense look on her face, starring deep into the wind chimes. She stayed up there for the rest of the gig, never ceasing to shake the frame. Even between songs when the band were fiddling with their own instruments, she was making a sound that reminded Greg of being right years old and sitting on his grandmother’s porch during a wicked storm and watching the wind chimes get knocked around by the heavy breeze and the hail stones pinging off them and stepping back as the fell to the painted wooden floor.
The gig finished and everyone left. Jessica scooted up to her father and smiled. Greg patted her head.
‘Did you have fun, Jessy?’ he asked.
‘It was okay,’ she said, clutching one of the broken wind chime cylinders in her hand.
The band was called When We Find The Answer Hidden In The Tundra We Won’t Tell A Soul. He only found this out when he saw their name on a poster outside the Ampnigrande Theatre. Jessica had called them WWFTAHITTWWTAS when she asked to go, which Greg thought was just an odd made up word that people were saying nowadays. That stuff seemed to slip by him now.
Jessica was the youngest person there. She might have been the only person who needed a parent to bring them, but Greg wasn’t sure. Everyone else in the crowd had extraordinarily odd haircuts. Some were slicked back like a ‘50s greaser, others were shaved at the sides with long, dirty strings of matted hair hanging over the edge but some very styled, without one piece out of place. Most of the women had the exact same haircut; a bob with a curly fringe. They all wore clothing that looked like they stole it from their grandparents’ closets. Lots of cardigans and flowery dresses and sensible shoes. No one would look up from their phones for anything. This wasn’t how Greg remembered gigs.
WWFTAHITTWWTAS walked on stage quite a bit later than had been written on the A4 sheets of paper pinned to the doors of the theatre. There were nine band members, all dressed smartly and serious looks on their faces. They barely acknowledged the audience, who in turn barely acknowledged the band. The houselights came up, displaying the array of odd instruments lined up on the stage. Two very different drum kits, three guitars, one with more strings than the others, a double bass, a xylophone, a selection of flutes and panpipes on a small table, a set of wind chimes, a church organ, a keyboard, a scarily complicated looking brass instrument and at the centre of it all, one microphone. Despite there being a lot of band members, they were outnumbered by the instruments. The band members walked around and picked up an instrument, seemingly at random and stared down at the ground. The tallest band member shuffled up to the microphone.
‘Hey. If at some point any of you want to come up and play something, just kind of go for it I guess,’ he said in a strong American accent. He tapped the microphone a couple times and looked at his fellow band members, nodded, and turned back to the microphone. ‘We are a band. This is a song.’
Greg had trouble hearing sometimes and he wasn’t too sure if he was getting the music. It was difficult to understand what was making what sound. The members of WWFTAHITTWWTAS stood stoic but their instruments flailed wildly on their bodies, making a horrible drone. He was a bit mesmerised by the whole thing. The first song last eight minutes and the only lyric he could decipher was ‘We are all liars.’ When the droning stopped, he kind of clapped, but really he just placed his hands together a bit harder than he needed to.
The second song started and it was very similar to the first, a low rumbling with sporadic twinkles. He glanced to see if his daughter was having fun, but she wasn’t standing by his side like she was before, she was squeezing through the crowd of people to the stage. Jessica tiptoed up the steps and stood beside the wind chimes, which were hanging on a stainless steel frame. None of the band members even seemed to notice a little girl up there with them. She grabbed the frame and started to shake the wind chimes. Greg couldn’t hear them very well. A couple of the small metal cylinders dropped off. Jessica had an intense look on her face, starring deep into the wind chimes. She stayed up there for the rest of the gig, never ceasing to shake the frame. Even between songs when the band were fiddling with their own instruments, she was making a sound that reminded Greg of being right years old and sitting on his grandmother’s porch during a wicked storm and watching the wind chimes get knocked around by the heavy breeze and the hail stones pinging off them and stepping back as the fell to the painted wooden floor.
The gig finished and everyone left. Jessica scooted up to her father and smiled. Greg patted her head.
‘Did you have fun, Jessy?’ he asked.
‘It was okay,’ she said, clutching one of the broken wind chime cylinders in her hand.
Wind Chime by Emily Chadwick
Coltan Kingshield stood on the balcony of his new room, looking out over the Summerstone estate. He sighed, raked his fingers through his dark hair and leant on the railing, reflecting. He still was not sure that he had made the right choice in coming here.
The room he had been given was light, airy and Spartan, dominated by a large bed with a soft, heavenly mattress. The pillows were plump and stuffed with goose-down and the sheets were crisp and white. A medium pine desk was crammed in one corner, in case he wanted to bring work to bed. Aside from the door leading out into the main hallway, there were two other doors set into the walls of his bedroom. Through one door was a medium sized room, for a servant to liv in, if he so wish. Through the other was an en-suite bathroom, with a large bath set into the stone floor.
It was not home, but it would do.
“Coltan?”
Startled out of his reverie, Coltan turned. Elery Summerstone, the young master of this estate, was hovering in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Would you like a tour, or do you want to settle in?”
“I’ll settle in first, if that’s all right.”
Elery inclined his head and withdrew.
Crossing to the trunk at the end of the large bed, Coltan knelt and opened it. He searched through the pile of clothes his mother had insisted he pack, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he drew it out.
The wind chime was made of the finest crystal, carved into thin, dangling spires. He held it up to the sunlight. Rainbows scattered across the dark wood floor.
Coltan smiled and hung the wind chime from the roof above his balcony. It sung in the gentle breeze.
Perhaps this place could become home after all.
The room he had been given was light, airy and Spartan, dominated by a large bed with a soft, heavenly mattress. The pillows were plump and stuffed with goose-down and the sheets were crisp and white. A medium pine desk was crammed in one corner, in case he wanted to bring work to bed. Aside from the door leading out into the main hallway, there were two other doors set into the walls of his bedroom. Through one door was a medium sized room, for a servant to liv in, if he so wish. Through the other was an en-suite bathroom, with a large bath set into the stone floor.
It was not home, but it would do.
“Coltan?”
Startled out of his reverie, Coltan turned. Elery Summerstone, the young master of this estate, was hovering in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Would you like a tour, or do you want to settle in?”
“I’ll settle in first, if that’s all right.”
Elery inclined his head and withdrew.
Crossing to the trunk at the end of the large bed, Coltan knelt and opened it. He searched through the pile of clothes his mother had insisted he pack, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he drew it out.
The wind chime was made of the finest crystal, carved into thin, dangling spires. He held it up to the sunlight. Rainbows scattered across the dark wood floor.
Coltan smiled and hung the wind chime from the roof above his balcony. It sung in the gentle breeze.
Perhaps this place could become home after all.
Wind Chime by Lesley Whyte
She hung the wind chimes in the garden just a week after they moved in. They were young and in love and ready to face whatever the world threw at them. They would lie in bed at night and listen to each other's breathing, listen to the tinkling of the wind chimes outside.
They hung there for years. Every summer evening, after the children were safely tucked into bed, they would sit quietly in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the night air. In the winter, they would curl up in front of the fire, with music or the hum of the television filling the room, masking the rattling of the wind chimes outside.
The new owners blazed through the house, ripping out walls and doors and windows as they went. They wanted something new, something fresh. Something to call their own. They didn't turn their attention to the overgrown jungle of a garden for months, almost a year. The young woman found the wind chimes hanging from the corner of a shed, old and broken and discoloured. She never guessed that they had once been every colour of the rainbow. She unhooked them and threw them into the rubbish pile, ready to cart out to the skip.
They hung there for years. Every summer evening, after the children were safely tucked into bed, they would sit quietly in the garden, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the night air. In the winter, they would curl up in front of the fire, with music or the hum of the television filling the room, masking the rattling of the wind chimes outside.
The new owners blazed through the house, ripping out walls and doors and windows as they went. They wanted something new, something fresh. Something to call their own. They didn't turn their attention to the overgrown jungle of a garden for months, almost a year. The young woman found the wind chimes hanging from the corner of a shed, old and broken and discoloured. She never guessed that they had once been every colour of the rainbow. She unhooked them and threw them into the rubbish pile, ready to cart out to the skip.
Monday 21 May 2012
Golden Rambler by Sam Smith
'And the Golden Rambler goes to...' she said. A short drum roll before the very attractive host opened the shiny envelope. She read the name and didn't look too surprised. 'Benjamin DeClement!'
Benjamin stood up and looked so proud of himself. Walking up to the podium on the small stage, he waved at a couple of his friends and gave a cheeky wink at the woman he was almost flirting with.
He held the small, plastic trophy in one hand and started his speech.
'This is the biggest thing that's happened to me since my...'
And it just went on from there.
Benjamin stood up and looked so proud of himself. Walking up to the podium on the small stage, he waved at a couple of his friends and gave a cheeky wink at the woman he was almost flirting with.
He held the small, plastic trophy in one hand and started his speech.
'This is the biggest thing that's happened to me since my...'
And it just went on from there.
Golden Rambler by Emily Chadwick
The first time I laid eyes on him, he was lying in a clearing. The sun spun his blond hair into sunshine, dappling his fair skin with puddles of molten gold. He was like something out of an oil painting, the brush strokes that created him too perfect to be real. He had a stalk of grass held between his soft pink lips.
At first, he had his eyes shut, but, as I shimmied on my branch to get a better look, they flew open. I was so startled I almost fell out of the tree. Bright blue eyes blinked once, and then twice.
“What are you doing up there, little one?”
I didn’t answer, just cocked my head to one side and mustered my best attempt at looking puzzled.
The man smiled.
“I’m sorry if this is your tree. I’m just taking a rest, and then I’ll be on my way.”
I shrugged, and the man closed his eyes with another smile.
It shames me to admit what happened next. I should have left quietly and took care of my business elsewhere, but instinct took over.
And I pooped on his face.
The man leapt to his feet with an almost inhuman scream.
“Fucking pigeon!”
At first, he had his eyes shut, but, as I shimmied on my branch to get a better look, they flew open. I was so startled I almost fell out of the tree. Bright blue eyes blinked once, and then twice.
“What are you doing up there, little one?”
I didn’t answer, just cocked my head to one side and mustered my best attempt at looking puzzled.
The man smiled.
“I’m sorry if this is your tree. I’m just taking a rest, and then I’ll be on my way.”
I shrugged, and the man closed his eyes with another smile.
It shames me to admit what happened next. I should have left quietly and took care of my business elsewhere, but instinct took over.
And I pooped on his face.
The man leapt to his feet with an almost inhuman scream.
“Fucking pigeon!”
Golden Rambler by Lesley Whyte
"I've got it! I've got it. The Golden Rambler. Huh? How good is that?"
"I don't even...what...what is that?"
"The name for your villain."
"Wait, hold on, let me make sure I understand." She took a deep breath, trying to focus on how eager he looked, how proud he was of his fucking awful contribution. "You want me to name the killer in my oh-so-serious crime drama The Golden Rambler? Seriously?"
"Yeah, why? Don't you like it?"
"He sounds like he should be wearing yellow spandex!"
"I know, but that's what's great about it. It'll really liven things up. I mean, the guy kills what...thirty-four people in the first chapter? There's got to be something about him that people can like, and a cool superhero like name would really help."
She set down her pen and took another deep breath.
"So, what do you think?" he asked, still beaming.
"It's the worst fucking name I've ever heard. Seriously, what are you, twelve? Do you not understand what I'm trying to create here? This is not a joke. You just don't understand what it's like to be a serious artist."
"And you do? You're sitting in the kitchen in your pyjamas talking about this great masterpiece you're working on. How many words have you even written?"
"Well, I...I can't start until...the number of words...that's not the-"
"Get over yourself. You're just some chick who wants to write the next great novel, but it's never going to happen until you put some words on paper. Until then, my suggestions, fucking awful as they may be, are just as valid as yours. I'm going to work. Some of us actually have proper jobs," he said, and then stalked out of the kitchen.
She waited until she heard the front door bang shut before allowing the tears to well up.
"I don't even...what...what is that?"
"The name for your villain."
"Wait, hold on, let me make sure I understand." She took a deep breath, trying to focus on how eager he looked, how proud he was of his fucking awful contribution. "You want me to name the killer in my oh-so-serious crime drama The Golden Rambler? Seriously?"
"Yeah, why? Don't you like it?"
"He sounds like he should be wearing yellow spandex!"
"I know, but that's what's great about it. It'll really liven things up. I mean, the guy kills what...thirty-four people in the first chapter? There's got to be something about him that people can like, and a cool superhero like name would really help."
She set down her pen and took another deep breath.
"So, what do you think?" he asked, still beaming.
"It's the worst fucking name I've ever heard. Seriously, what are you, twelve? Do you not understand what I'm trying to create here? This is not a joke. You just don't understand what it's like to be a serious artist."
"And you do? You're sitting in the kitchen in your pyjamas talking about this great masterpiece you're working on. How many words have you even written?"
"Well, I...I can't start until...the number of words...that's not the-"
"Get over yourself. You're just some chick who wants to write the next great novel, but it's never going to happen until you put some words on paper. Until then, my suggestions, fucking awful as they may be, are just as valid as yours. I'm going to work. Some of us actually have proper jobs," he said, and then stalked out of the kitchen.
She waited until she heard the front door bang shut before allowing the tears to well up.
African Adventure by Ryan Kane McGuire
“Anyway, chap, could you, uh...?” The large waiter said nothing, but a sad sigh slipped through his lips. “Dreadfully sorry old boy, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
“Again,” replied the waiter, barely maintaining professionalism.
“Again? I know you coloured people have some exotic names but 'Again' just doesn't sound right...”
“My name is not 'Again.' My name is Jamie, sir.”
The hunched old man sneered and looked over his thin, golden-rimmed glasses. “You shouldn't have bloody said it was then. Jamie, eh?” He furrowed his brow and looked at Jamie quizzically. “No. That can't be right.” The old man turned back to the sea and stared out absently.
That was the last straw for Jamie. He had stopped and chatted with the old man as a courtesy as he made his way across the deck of the ship, and he seemed nice enough at first, but it was clear after those short three minutes that he was either massively racist or criminally insane. Jamie needed an out. One that wouldn't lose him his job. It was only a part-time thing serving old white people martinis on a cruise ship, but he was seeing the world and getting paid for it.
“Can I offer you a drink, sir? Another Bloody Mary, perhaps?” The words trickled out through gritted teeth.
The old fellow thrust his glass out towards Jamie without turning away from the sea. “Try not to drown it.”
When Jamie returned with a fresh tray of various up-market alcoholic beverages, the old man was in the exact same spot, still staring out at the ocean. Jamie, having calmed down significantly thanks to a sneaky swig of vodka in the kitchens, tapped the old fellow on the shoulder. His head snapped back in surprise, snapped out of his thoughts, and he took the drink.
“Ah, Jamie, my boy! I thought you'd forgotten about me.”
“No, sir.” Jamie felt a pang of sympathy for the old fool. He had been alone every time Jamie had seen him. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“No, no, that's fine, lad, you've done plenty. I like you, Jamie, I do. You're a nice young man.” The old man's mouth sagged into a sad smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yes, yes... glad to meet you, indeed.” The sadness left the old man's smile. “It's nice, getting out here, meeting new people, on this little African cruise adventure, eh? Must be a wonderful job.”
Jamie closed his eyes and sighed again. “This is the Caribbean, sir.”
The old man paused, and slurped his drink. After a moment he looked at Jamie and frowned. “Which is in Africa, yes?”
“Again,” replied the waiter, barely maintaining professionalism.
“Again? I know you coloured people have some exotic names but 'Again' just doesn't sound right...”
“My name is not 'Again.' My name is Jamie, sir.”
The hunched old man sneered and looked over his thin, golden-rimmed glasses. “You shouldn't have bloody said it was then. Jamie, eh?” He furrowed his brow and looked at Jamie quizzically. “No. That can't be right.” The old man turned back to the sea and stared out absently.
That was the last straw for Jamie. He had stopped and chatted with the old man as a courtesy as he made his way across the deck of the ship, and he seemed nice enough at first, but it was clear after those short three minutes that he was either massively racist or criminally insane. Jamie needed an out. One that wouldn't lose him his job. It was only a part-time thing serving old white people martinis on a cruise ship, but he was seeing the world and getting paid for it.
“Can I offer you a drink, sir? Another Bloody Mary, perhaps?” The words trickled out through gritted teeth.
The old fellow thrust his glass out towards Jamie without turning away from the sea. “Try not to drown it.”
When Jamie returned with a fresh tray of various up-market alcoholic beverages, the old man was in the exact same spot, still staring out at the ocean. Jamie, having calmed down significantly thanks to a sneaky swig of vodka in the kitchens, tapped the old fellow on the shoulder. His head snapped back in surprise, snapped out of his thoughts, and he took the drink.
“Ah, Jamie, my boy! I thought you'd forgotten about me.”
“No, sir.” Jamie felt a pang of sympathy for the old fool. He had been alone every time Jamie had seen him. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“No, no, that's fine, lad, you've done plenty. I like you, Jamie, I do. You're a nice young man.” The old man's mouth sagged into a sad smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yes, yes... glad to meet you, indeed.” The sadness left the old man's smile. “It's nice, getting out here, meeting new people, on this little African cruise adventure, eh? Must be a wonderful job.”
Jamie closed his eyes and sighed again. “This is the Caribbean, sir.”
The old man paused, and slurped his drink. After a moment he looked at Jamie and frowned. “Which is in Africa, yes?”
African Adventure by Emily Chadwick
The jeep trundled along the tired dirt track. Dust flew up from under its wheels, a conspicuous cloud in the vast wilderness of the African bush. A lion roared somewhere in the distance.
At least, that’s what should have been happening. The tin of paint was called ‘African Adventure’, after all.
Instead, I was kneeling on the hard floorboards of my mum’s bedroom, painting the wall a muddy orange colour. Yep.
I’m not entirely sure why this muddy orange colour made anyone think of an ‘African adventure’. There isn’t even the excuse of ‘well, it looks kind of like sunburn’, because who goes orange when they burn.
Perhaps fake tan, but who would bother fake tanning before going to freaking Africa?
I wish I could see a zebra.
At least, that’s what should have been happening. The tin of paint was called ‘African Adventure’, after all.
Instead, I was kneeling on the hard floorboards of my mum’s bedroom, painting the wall a muddy orange colour. Yep.
I’m not entirely sure why this muddy orange colour made anyone think of an ‘African adventure’. There isn’t even the excuse of ‘well, it looks kind of like sunburn’, because who goes orange when they burn.
Perhaps fake tan, but who would bother fake tanning before going to freaking Africa?
I wish I could see a zebra.
Sunday 20 May 2012
African Adventure by Lesley Whyte
"It's called African Adventure? We're thinking about shooting in Africa? Because animal prints are really in right now?"
Why does she do that? Why does her voice inflect upwards at the end like everything's a question? It's incredibly irritating. I should fire her just for that.
"And Africa has lots of animals in it?"
She pauses. I'm required to say something. I look down at the sketches and photos and sample items she's brought in and splayed across my desk. It's not bad, exactly, but it's tired. I mean, come on, animal prints in Africa? What's next, urban styling in a city?
"Hm."
She seems to take this as an encouraging sound. She starts pointing out the features,
sounding a little more confident now. Only every other sentence ends as a question. Africa has lots of animals in it. For God's sake.
"Hm," I say again.
"We can still make any changes that you-"
"It's a lot like the V spread from last July."
"I can see why you'd think that? Because of the animal prints? But they did tiger prints? And
ours is...like a wider spectrum?"
"Hm." I pull one of the sketches towards me, wanting to examine it more closely. It's good,
striking, a pale model in a tiger print bikini against such a dramatic backdrop. I wish we could have something more original, like that damned underwater shoot that Jules Sutcliffe pulled out from nowhere in April. "Fine, go with it. But for God's sake get a black model. Do you know how many complaints we got after we only had white girls in our Indian Exotic spread?"
Why does she do that? Why does her voice inflect upwards at the end like everything's a question? It's incredibly irritating. I should fire her just for that.
"And Africa has lots of animals in it?"
She pauses. I'm required to say something. I look down at the sketches and photos and sample items she's brought in and splayed across my desk. It's not bad, exactly, but it's tired. I mean, come on, animal prints in Africa? What's next, urban styling in a city?
"Hm."
She seems to take this as an encouraging sound. She starts pointing out the features,
sounding a little more confident now. Only every other sentence ends as a question. Africa has lots of animals in it. For God's sake.
"Hm," I say again.
"We can still make any changes that you-"
"It's a lot like the V spread from last July."
"I can see why you'd think that? Because of the animal prints? But they did tiger prints? And
ours is...like a wider spectrum?"
"Hm." I pull one of the sketches towards me, wanting to examine it more closely. It's good,
striking, a pale model in a tiger print bikini against such a dramatic backdrop. I wish we could have something more original, like that damned underwater shoot that Jules Sutcliffe pulled out from nowhere in April. "Fine, go with it. But for God's sake get a black model. Do you know how many complaints we got after we only had white girls in our Indian Exotic spread?"
African Adventure by Sam Smith
Two elephants sat on a bench in the middle of the jungle. The one with bigger ears, called Marcus by his friends, nibbled delicately on a rather large sandwich. He looked like he was having more fun than the other elephant. He had a longer trunk but no sandwich. This elephant was called Jacob by his mother, but no one else knew that. They all called him Trunky.
‘Where did you get that sandwich from?’ asked Jacob/Trunky.
Elephants are quite secretive animals. They tend to not share their emotions or their plans for the weekend. Marcus was actually quite an open for an elephant.
‘None of your fucking business,’ he said.
Jacob/Trunky prodded Marcus in the side with his big, stumpy foot. ‘Go on, tell me.’
Marcus sighed. ‘Fine, I found it in a chest at the end of a big cavern.’
It’s true. He did find it in a glowing chest after fighting his way through the cavern, which was filled with skeletons that had swords and wizards. The whole thing was really quite an ordeal.
‘Was it worth it?’ Jacob/Trunky sat back on the bench, stretching out his legs.
Marcus shook his head. ‘Nah, not really. I was hoping for some purple loot and sandwiches are a bit shit anyway.’
They both nodded slowly and watched the world pass by for a little bit.
‘Where did you get that sandwich from?’ asked Jacob/Trunky.
Elephants are quite secretive animals. They tend to not share their emotions or their plans for the weekend. Marcus was actually quite an open for an elephant.
‘None of your fucking business,’ he said.
Jacob/Trunky prodded Marcus in the side with his big, stumpy foot. ‘Go on, tell me.’
Marcus sighed. ‘Fine, I found it in a chest at the end of a big cavern.’
It’s true. He did find it in a glowing chest after fighting his way through the cavern, which was filled with skeletons that had swords and wizards. The whole thing was really quite an ordeal.
‘Was it worth it?’ Jacob/Trunky sat back on the bench, stretching out his legs.
Marcus shook his head. ‘Nah, not really. I was hoping for some purple loot and sandwiches are a bit shit anyway.’
They both nodded slowly and watched the world pass by for a little bit.
Saturday 19 May 2012
Flamingo Fun by Emily Chadwick
“Do you want to say that again?” My father’s voice was like ice.
I sucked in a breath and ducked my head. “Dad, I’m gay.”
The slap came out of nowhere, so fast I didn’t feel it until it had already happened. My cheek burned.
“No son of mine is going to be a bloody fairy!”
I tried to look up, but my head felt too heavy to stare at anything but the floor.
“Look, Dad… I can’t change this.”
“It’s unnatural, that’s what it is!”
“It’s not unnatural,” I protested without thinking. “There’s been gay penguins. And gay flamingos! It was in the paper.”
My father ignored me.
“How am I going to live with this shame, eh? Did you think about that before you started bending over for random men?!”
I winced.
“Dad, I have a boyfriend. I wouldn’t have sex with random men. It’s dangerous.”
My father didn’t reply. After a long moment of silence, I dared to look up. A vein throbbed in his temple, threatening to explode.
“Dad?” I ventured. My voice cracked and broke.
“You’re not my son,” my father said, and stormed out of the room.
I sucked in a breath and ducked my head. “Dad, I’m gay.”
The slap came out of nowhere, so fast I didn’t feel it until it had already happened. My cheek burned.
“No son of mine is going to be a bloody fairy!”
I tried to look up, but my head felt too heavy to stare at anything but the floor.
“Look, Dad… I can’t change this.”
“It’s unnatural, that’s what it is!”
“It’s not unnatural,” I protested without thinking. “There’s been gay penguins. And gay flamingos! It was in the paper.”
My father ignored me.
“How am I going to live with this shame, eh? Did you think about that before you started bending over for random men?!”
I winced.
“Dad, I have a boyfriend. I wouldn’t have sex with random men. It’s dangerous.”
My father didn’t reply. After a long moment of silence, I dared to look up. A vein throbbed in his temple, threatening to explode.
“Dad?” I ventured. My voice cracked and broke.
“You’re not my son,” my father said, and stormed out of the room.
Flamingo Fun by Sam Smith
The Exotic Burger Van was fantastic. I’m really disappointed that it got shut down. It was run by this old guy who used to wear a blue hairnet over a backwards cap and had a face like a bulldog with stinging nettles in his mouth. He carried a gun tucked in the back of his trousers, the silver handle poking out whenever he turned around to put a burger on the incredibly dangerous looking grill. He didn’t speak much. I always tried to start a conversation, because he seemed pretty interesting, but all I ever heard him say was, “Onions?” His name might have been Gareth.
The small white trailer was always in the same place, at the back of the Homebase/Halfords car park. It never moved. There was an old Ford Mondeo attached to it, but I think Gareth just used to sleep in it. The sign on top of the van read “The Exotic Burger Van” in red block capital letters on a background of jungle leaves. Under the small counter where Gareth would lean out and hand you the food, there was a crude painting of a snake eating a burger made of its own still-attached tail. Thinking about it, that was pretty weird.
But the burgers! They were incredible! The first time I went there was a total accident. I was walking home at six in the morning after camping with a few friends and I was desperately hungry. I smelt the meat on the air and almost magically ended up in front on The Exotic Burger Van. I looked up at the whiteboard menu. Every burger was made of some ridiculous animal. Hippo, kangaroo, shark, it all sounded crazy. I couldn’t see just a regular hamburger and was a bit put off, but I was far too hungry to move from that spot. I ordered a flamingo burger, expecting it to be kind of like a chicken burger from KFC. It wasn’t. It was so much better. It was like eating the hand of God. I cried a little as I ate it.
I thought I might just have still been a little stoned from the night before, so the next day I came back to The Exotic Burger Van and got another flamingo burger. Again, it was absolutely amazing. For the few months, I came back every day and got a weird burger. I couldn’t be happier about my choice. There was doubt in my mind that the burgers were actually made from what they called. As if Gareth could actually get his hands on grizzly bear meat through some shady dealings to feed it to the hungry people of Bristol. Honestly though, I didn’t care. I just kept eating them.
When I found out that Gareth had been arrested for poaching wildlife from the Longleat safari park, I did feel a bit bad, but mostly I was just mad that Gareth got caught. I broke into The Exotic Burger Van, but it had already been emptied by the police. Where am I supposed to get my fix of stupid animals now? I can’t go back to eating beef and pork. It’s just not the same.
The small white trailer was always in the same place, at the back of the Homebase/Halfords car park. It never moved. There was an old Ford Mondeo attached to it, but I think Gareth just used to sleep in it. The sign on top of the van read “The Exotic Burger Van” in red block capital letters on a background of jungle leaves. Under the small counter where Gareth would lean out and hand you the food, there was a crude painting of a snake eating a burger made of its own still-attached tail. Thinking about it, that was pretty weird.
But the burgers! They were incredible! The first time I went there was a total accident. I was walking home at six in the morning after camping with a few friends and I was desperately hungry. I smelt the meat on the air and almost magically ended up in front on The Exotic Burger Van. I looked up at the whiteboard menu. Every burger was made of some ridiculous animal. Hippo, kangaroo, shark, it all sounded crazy. I couldn’t see just a regular hamburger and was a bit put off, but I was far too hungry to move from that spot. I ordered a flamingo burger, expecting it to be kind of like a chicken burger from KFC. It wasn’t. It was so much better. It was like eating the hand of God. I cried a little as I ate it.
I thought I might just have still been a little stoned from the night before, so the next day I came back to The Exotic Burger Van and got another flamingo burger. Again, it was absolutely amazing. For the few months, I came back every day and got a weird burger. I couldn’t be happier about my choice. There was doubt in my mind that the burgers were actually made from what they called. As if Gareth could actually get his hands on grizzly bear meat through some shady dealings to feed it to the hungry people of Bristol. Honestly though, I didn’t care. I just kept eating them.
When I found out that Gareth had been arrested for poaching wildlife from the Longleat safari park, I did feel a bit bad, but mostly I was just mad that Gareth got caught. I broke into The Exotic Burger Van, but it had already been emptied by the police. Where am I supposed to get my fix of stupid animals now? I can’t go back to eating beef and pork. It’s just not the same.
Flamingo Fun by Lesley Whyte
"Flamingo. Definitely a flamingo."
"Really? Why?"
"'Cause they can fly and breathe underwater. You can't beat that."
"What are you talking about? Flamingos can't fly."
"No, it's penguins that can't fly."
"I'm telling you, flamingos can't either. And I hate to burst your bubble, but I don't think they live under the water either. I think they just like being near it."
"You're getting all wrong. Flamingos can swim and fly. God."
"Look, I'm not being funny, but they can't do either. And you-"
"Fine, fuck it, I'd be a penguin and flamingo hybrid. I'd be a pink penguin. What kind of stupid fucking question is it anyway? What would you be?"
"Dog, probably."
"Huh. I like dogs."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Really? Why?"
"'Cause they can fly and breathe underwater. You can't beat that."
"What are you talking about? Flamingos can't fly."
"No, it's penguins that can't fly."
"I'm telling you, flamingos can't either. And I hate to burst your bubble, but I don't think they live under the water either. I think they just like being near it."
"You're getting all wrong. Flamingos can swim and fly. God."
"Look, I'm not being funny, but they can't do either. And you-"
"Fine, fuck it, I'd be a penguin and flamingo hybrid. I'd be a pink penguin. What kind of stupid fucking question is it anyway? What would you be?"
"Dog, probably."
"Huh. I like dogs."
"Yeah, me, too."
Flamingo Fun by Meg Burrows
Pink ruffles,
men in neon tights,
people all smiling wide with
touchy tongues.
One step, two step, three step,
Floor! Holding a bottle of tequila.
men in neon tights,
people all smiling wide with
touchy tongues.
One step, two step, three step,
Floor! Holding a bottle of tequila.
Flamingo Fun by Ryan Kane McGuire
This flamingo was my favourite, but it is broken now. I had seven flamingos. This one was my favourite.
They all stood in their formation in the front garden, coyly propping themselves up on one leg. Sometimes they looked like they were shielding their beautiful pink plastic feathers from the muck, and sometimes they looked playful. Teasing me.
Yes, yes... Last Friday. What happened? Well, I was playing with Svetlana... this one. My favourite one. Mr Dewberry came walking past my garden, that rotter, that horrible man, and he started talking to me.
“Oh, Kevin, Kevin, when are you going to grow up and stop playing with those stupid plastic birds, eh?” What a bugger. No, he didn't actually sound like that. I apologise. My impression was tarnished by anger and for that I am very sorry, mister policeman. What? No, I didn't say anything else to him that day. He walked off with his pointy-faced wife.
Well, then I went in and had lunch, then I took Svetlana for a walk, then... oh. Right. Well, in the evening, once Mr Dewberry had gotten home – I could tell, I watched out the window for two hours until he came back – and then I got the spare key Mr Dewberry always left under his flower pot, and let myself in.
What next? I told you. We killed Mr Dewberry. We bashed his silly, mean brains in. 'We' as in me and Svetlana. I told you that already. That's why she's all broken. Look at her, poor thing... this one was my favourite.
Sorry? Why do the others have blood on them? Well, we let them watch.
They all stood in their formation in the front garden, coyly propping themselves up on one leg. Sometimes they looked like they were shielding their beautiful pink plastic feathers from the muck, and sometimes they looked playful. Teasing me.
Yes, yes... Last Friday. What happened? Well, I was playing with Svetlana... this one. My favourite one. Mr Dewberry came walking past my garden, that rotter, that horrible man, and he started talking to me.
“Oh, Kevin, Kevin, when are you going to grow up and stop playing with those stupid plastic birds, eh?” What a bugger. No, he didn't actually sound like that. I apologise. My impression was tarnished by anger and for that I am very sorry, mister policeman. What? No, I didn't say anything else to him that day. He walked off with his pointy-faced wife.
Well, then I went in and had lunch, then I took Svetlana for a walk, then... oh. Right. Well, in the evening, once Mr Dewberry had gotten home – I could tell, I watched out the window for two hours until he came back – and then I got the spare key Mr Dewberry always left under his flower pot, and let myself in.
What next? I told you. We killed Mr Dewberry. We bashed his silly, mean brains in. 'We' as in me and Svetlana. I told you that already. That's why she's all broken. Look at her, poor thing... this one was my favourite.
Sorry? Why do the others have blood on them? Well, we let them watch.
Friday 18 May 2012
Volcanic Splash by Emily Chadwick
Volcanic Splash were the new hot ‘thing’, the band everyone and their mothers were listening to. The radio stations never seemed to play anything else, though perhaps I was just exceedingly unlucky. Ever since their appearance on Britain’s Got Talent, their faces were everywhere. Photo shoots, interviews, tv appearances, and even (weirdly) an advert for strawberry-flavoured condoms.
The five band members were, by boy band standards, extremely attractive. Like, seriously smoking. And their voices sounded ‘like angels had fallen out of heaven’, to quote a rather tearful Amanda Holden.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have minded. I’m kind of partial to boy bands, even if they’re nestled on my iTunes playlist amongst Slipknot and Black Stone Cherry.
But Volcanic Splash, well…
Every single one of them had been in my pants.
I don’t know what possessed my five ex-boyfriends to form a boy band, or how they even met. Was there an ‘Erin’s Exes Anonymous’ I didn’t know about?
Damn it, why did I have to fall for boys with smoky, sultry, sexy voices?
It didn’t help that the song that had rocketed them to fame was, you guessed it, all about me. Worse, it was catchy.
I’m expecting the press to figure out my identity any day now, and then things will really kick off.
Fml.
The five band members were, by boy band standards, extremely attractive. Like, seriously smoking. And their voices sounded ‘like angels had fallen out of heaven’, to quote a rather tearful Amanda Holden.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have minded. I’m kind of partial to boy bands, even if they’re nestled on my iTunes playlist amongst Slipknot and Black Stone Cherry.
But Volcanic Splash, well…
Every single one of them had been in my pants.
I don’t know what possessed my five ex-boyfriends to form a boy band, or how they even met. Was there an ‘Erin’s Exes Anonymous’ I didn’t know about?
Damn it, why did I have to fall for boys with smoky, sultry, sexy voices?
It didn’t help that the song that had rocketed them to fame was, you guessed it, all about me. Worse, it was catchy.
I’m expecting the press to figure out my identity any day now, and then things will really kick off.
Fml.
Liberty Blue by Emily Chadwick
The colour Mum chose for the walls is called ‘liberty blue’. I dunno why. Spose it’s meant to represent freedom or some shit?
It’s a living room. Doesn’t need to represent freedom or anything.
What’s wrong with fucking beige, Mum?
Blue is calming, apparently. But why some pretentious middle-class bullshit like ‘liberty blue’?
The name doesn’t matter, it’s a pretty colour.
Bullshit. Would you buy something called ‘shit brown’? Didn’t think so.
Liberty blue.
Sounds like something a celeb would call their kid, then we’d be stuck hearing about darling ‘Libby’ for years to come. Eventually, she’d go by blue, get hooked on cocaine, and we’d have a hundred pics of her falling out of nightclubs with her tits out.
Yep, that’s what you’re having on your wall, Mum. Drunken tits.
Liberty fucking blue.
It’s a living room. Doesn’t need to represent freedom or anything.
What’s wrong with fucking beige, Mum?
Blue is calming, apparently. But why some pretentious middle-class bullshit like ‘liberty blue’?
The name doesn’t matter, it’s a pretty colour.
Bullshit. Would you buy something called ‘shit brown’? Didn’t think so.
Liberty blue.
Sounds like something a celeb would call their kid, then we’d be stuck hearing about darling ‘Libby’ for years to come. Eventually, she’d go by blue, get hooked on cocaine, and we’d have a hundred pics of her falling out of nightclubs with her tits out.
Yep, that’s what you’re having on your wall, Mum. Drunken tits.
Liberty fucking blue.
________________________________________________________________________
Note - this one did not come in late. I managed to lose it in the inbox. Apologies to Emily.
Volcanic Splash by Sam Smith
We sat on the floor in front of the waist-high bookcase and scanned the shelves, which were packed with DVD cases.
‘Star Wars?’ She pulled out the copy of The Phantom Menace, and started reading the blurb on the back.
‘If we’re watching Star Wars, we’re not watching that bloody one,’ I said. ‘It’s just there to complete the set.’
She nodded and slid it back into the row. ‘I wondered why it still had the wrapping on.’
‘Because it’s not worth the hassle.’
‘What about Back to the Future?’
I shook my head. ‘I watched them last week.’
‘Lord of the Rings?’
‘Those were a gift from my aunt. You will notice that they are also still in the wrapping because those films are bullshit. Three slow, repetitive and boring movies all to throw a ring into a volcano. Might as well watch red paint dry.’
She sighed. ‘Well fine, what do you want to watch?’
My eyes flicked along the shelves. In my head, I found a reason to not watch any of the DVDs I owned. ‘None of them.’
She hummed. It wasn’t a musical hum. It was quite an annoyed hum. A single, flat note.
I stood up and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’m fine with whatever you want to watch.’
‘Mission Impossible?’
‘Nope.’
‘Star Wars?’ She pulled out the copy of The Phantom Menace, and started reading the blurb on the back.
‘If we’re watching Star Wars, we’re not watching that bloody one,’ I said. ‘It’s just there to complete the set.’
She nodded and slid it back into the row. ‘I wondered why it still had the wrapping on.’
‘Because it’s not worth the hassle.’
‘What about Back to the Future?’
I shook my head. ‘I watched them last week.’
‘Lord of the Rings?’
‘Those were a gift from my aunt. You will notice that they are also still in the wrapping because those films are bullshit. Three slow, repetitive and boring movies all to throw a ring into a volcano. Might as well watch red paint dry.’
She sighed. ‘Well fine, what do you want to watch?’
My eyes flicked along the shelves. In my head, I found a reason to not watch any of the DVDs I owned. ‘None of them.’
She hummed. It wasn’t a musical hum. It was quite an annoyed hum. A single, flat note.
I stood up and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’m fine with whatever you want to watch.’
‘Mission Impossible?’
‘Nope.’
Volcanic Splash by Lesley Whyte
The villagers chanted unfamiliar words and banged their drums feverishly as she was carried up the mountain, swathed in white, her hands and ankles bound. Her litter, carried by four burly natives, came in the middle of the procession, the villagers surrounding her on all sides, even at the narrowest points. The priest followed directly behind her, reading the ancient rights in a foreign tongue.
The mountain rumbled beneath them.
It smoked as they reached the top. The drumming stopped. The chanting ceased. She was set on her feet, the ropes binding her slashed. Where could she run to now?
As the priest anointed her brow and cheekbones with ashes, she could have sworn she felt a splash of lava touch her bare foot. She swallowed deeply and leant close to the priest, hoping desperately that he spoke English.
"There's been a mistake. I'm...I'm not a virgin," she hissed.
The priest looked her dead in the eye and then shrugged. "These days, who is? You'll just have to do, I'm afraid."
The mountain rumbled beneath them.
It smoked as they reached the top. The drumming stopped. The chanting ceased. She was set on her feet, the ropes binding her slashed. Where could she run to now?
As the priest anointed her brow and cheekbones with ashes, she could have sworn she felt a splash of lava touch her bare foot. She swallowed deeply and leant close to the priest, hoping desperately that he spoke English.
"There's been a mistake. I'm...I'm not a virgin," she hissed.
The priest looked her dead in the eye and then shrugged. "These days, who is? You'll just have to do, I'm afraid."
Volcanic Splash by Meg Burrows
Volcanic Splash is like…..
short fused bubbles,
the inside of a circle of consuming fire,
an erratic ripple of flames,
a fractured iris looking into the sun,
chilli face paint that’s spilt on a bare arm,
the split second of ignition in a lava fuelled DeLorean.
short fused bubbles,
the inside of a circle of consuming fire,
an erratic ripple of flames,
a fractured iris looking into the sun,
chilli face paint that’s spilt on a bare arm,
the split second of ignition in a lava fuelled DeLorean.
LATE ENTRY Russian Velvet by Nick Trussler
I love her Russian velvet, a dark forest spanning the Ural mountains,
Let me ski, dear devushka, on those white slopes of yours,
Falling into a dark crevice,
A gulag of the soul.
Let me wander along your Nevsky Prospekt,
Smetana on the pavement.
Let me ski, dear devushka, on those white slopes of yours,
Falling into a dark crevice,
A gulag of the soul.
Let me wander along your Nevsky Prospekt,
Smetana on the pavement.
Thursday 17 May 2012
Liberty Blue by Lesley Whyte
Did you talk to adam?
We broke up
Omg, why??
You know last month when i noticed there was 1100 dollars missing from our account? i found out where it went. he gave it to some bitch called liberty blue.
Liberty blue? what kind of name is that?
A stripper name. shes a stripper.
No way! what did he say?
Nothing yet. he doesnt know i know. im guessing hell be calling me pretty soon.
What did you do?
I accidentally forwarded his entire email inbox to his mom. bitch wont try and tell me her sons too well brought up to look at porn again. hey, you want to go for a run later? i got some stuff of adams lying around. im thinking we should drop it in the quarry.
Omg, lol. I am SO there.
We broke up
Omg, why??
You know last month when i noticed there was 1100 dollars missing from our account? i found out where it went. he gave it to some bitch called liberty blue.
Liberty blue? what kind of name is that?
A stripper name. shes a stripper.
No way! what did he say?
Nothing yet. he doesnt know i know. im guessing hell be calling me pretty soon.
What did you do?
I accidentally forwarded his entire email inbox to his mom. bitch wont try and tell me her sons too well brought up to look at porn again. hey, you want to go for a run later? i got some stuff of adams lying around. im thinking we should drop it in the quarry.
Omg, lol. I am SO there.
Liberty Blue by Sam Smith
‘You’re colour blind?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what colour is that?’
‘Red?’
‘No, it’s Scooter Red.
‘Oh.’
‘Idiot.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘What colour is that?’
‘Like, grey?
‘Christ, it’s Liberty Blue.’
‘Liberty Blue?’
‘Yeah, like the colour the Statue of Liberty is.’
‘What, grey?’
‘The Statue of Liberty is blue.’
‘No, it’s grey. It’s made of metal or stone or something.’
‘It’s blue! You’re really colour blind.’
‘Yes, I know. But it’s grey.’
‘It’s blue!’
‘Fuck off! I’m wikipediaing it!’
‘Fine, but it’s blue.’
‘No, look at that. It’s grey.’
‘That’s blue.’
‘Shut up! It’s grey!’
‘We can’t agree on this! Your eyes are stupid and can’t see things good.’
‘Oh, wait. Wikipedia says that the Statue of Liberty has turned blue over time because of rust and some other nonsense.’
‘See? It’s blue!’
‘I guess it is.’
‘So you only trust Wikipedia?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh. Idiot.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what colour is that?’
‘Red?’
‘No, it’s Scooter Red.
‘Oh.’
‘Idiot.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘What colour is that?’
‘Like, grey?
‘Christ, it’s Liberty Blue.’
‘Liberty Blue?’
‘Yeah, like the colour the Statue of Liberty is.’
‘What, grey?’
‘The Statue of Liberty is blue.’
‘No, it’s grey. It’s made of metal or stone or something.’
‘It’s blue! You’re really colour blind.’
‘Yes, I know. But it’s grey.’
‘It’s blue!’
‘Fuck off! I’m wikipediaing it!’
‘Fine, but it’s blue.’
‘No, look at that. It’s grey.’
‘That’s blue.’
‘Shut up! It’s grey!’
‘We can’t agree on this! Your eyes are stupid and can’t see things good.’
‘Oh, wait. Wikipedia says that the Statue of Liberty has turned blue over time because of rust and some other nonsense.’
‘See? It’s blue!’
‘I guess it is.’
‘So you only trust Wikipedia?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh. Idiot.’
Wednesday 16 May 2012
Russian Velvet by Sam Smith
‘What about Russian Velvet?’ he asked, throwing the paper bag in the bin. He brushed some crumbs onto the pavement and a twitchy looking pigeon stared longingly at them, bopping around as if trying to find the best angle of approach.
I wanted him to know what a stupid suggestion that was, so I stopped mid chew, tilted my neck in a very odd fashion and raised an eyebrow. In case he didn’t get the message, I felt like I should probably verbalise some sort of response rather than just giving him the most unfriendly of looks. ‘You are the dumbest fuck.’
‘Why?’ he said. As he sat down on the bench, I continued to chew my bite of sandwich. I hoped that he would use this time to think about what he said and maybe offer an explanation. But no, he just kept looking at me, completely bemused as to why I thought “Russian Velvet” was horrific.
I finished chewing. ‘You have to understand what I am about to say is completely honest. We’ve known each other for a very long and I think we’re past the point of lying to make sure we don’t hurt the other’s feelings. Okay?’
He nodded.
I sighed. ‘Okay. So what you are telling me is that you want to name your child, your unborn daughter, “Russian Velvet”?’ I made sure to enunciate the last two words carefully just so he could hear how ridiculous they sound.
He nodded again.
‘That’s a fucking horrible name. It’s like you want her to become a stripper or something. You might as well name her “Tip Generously”.’ After thinking about it for a second, I felt the need to add, ‘Don’t even think about considering that as a name either.’
‘I wasn’t!’ he scowled.
To make a point, I tucked my sandwich in the paper bag. This showed him that I was mentally involved in the conversation. ‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did! It seems you don’t have much talent in picking names and just read them off of toilet roll packages!’
He did something vague with his hand, like he was trying to discourage an eager bumblebee.
More of a point needed to be made, so I put my hand on his shoulder, a classic move by anyone’s standards. ‘You have to promise me. Do not utter those two words as a suggestion for your child’s name to your wife. Shit, don’t even say them together to anyone. Forget that one of those words exists. Probably velvet. I think you can get away with never saying velvet again. You would have a struggle not saying Russian at some point in your life. But, for the love of whatever, don’t name your child “Russian Velvet”.’
He rolled his eyes and nodded. The pigeon seemed to coo in agreement as it picked away at the crumbs of the floor.
I wanted him to know what a stupid suggestion that was, so I stopped mid chew, tilted my neck in a very odd fashion and raised an eyebrow. In case he didn’t get the message, I felt like I should probably verbalise some sort of response rather than just giving him the most unfriendly of looks. ‘You are the dumbest fuck.’
‘Why?’ he said. As he sat down on the bench, I continued to chew my bite of sandwich. I hoped that he would use this time to think about what he said and maybe offer an explanation. But no, he just kept looking at me, completely bemused as to why I thought “Russian Velvet” was horrific.
I finished chewing. ‘You have to understand what I am about to say is completely honest. We’ve known each other for a very long and I think we’re past the point of lying to make sure we don’t hurt the other’s feelings. Okay?’
He nodded.
I sighed. ‘Okay. So what you are telling me is that you want to name your child, your unborn daughter, “Russian Velvet”?’ I made sure to enunciate the last two words carefully just so he could hear how ridiculous they sound.
He nodded again.
‘That’s a fucking horrible name. It’s like you want her to become a stripper or something. You might as well name her “Tip Generously”.’ After thinking about it for a second, I felt the need to add, ‘Don’t even think about considering that as a name either.’
‘I wasn’t!’ he scowled.
To make a point, I tucked my sandwich in the paper bag. This showed him that I was mentally involved in the conversation. ‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did! It seems you don’t have much talent in picking names and just read them off of toilet roll packages!’
He did something vague with his hand, like he was trying to discourage an eager bumblebee.
More of a point needed to be made, so I put my hand on his shoulder, a classic move by anyone’s standards. ‘You have to promise me. Do not utter those two words as a suggestion for your child’s name to your wife. Shit, don’t even say them together to anyone. Forget that one of those words exists. Probably velvet. I think you can get away with never saying velvet again. You would have a struggle not saying Russian at some point in your life. But, for the love of whatever, don’t name your child “Russian Velvet”.’
He rolled his eyes and nodded. The pigeon seemed to coo in agreement as it picked away at the crumbs of the floor.
Russian Velvet by Emily Chadwick
Marie looked at the fabric swatches spread out on the coffee table, a frown marring her delicate lips.
“What about this one?”
The tip of one slender finger touched a deep red velvet.
“Ah, that’s Russian velvet.” Anton clapped his hands together. “Very popular in the upper circles.”
“Are Russians well known for their velvet?”
“I don’t really know, madam.”
“Never mind, then. To be honest, I find velvet a rather heavy fabric, don’t you?” She paused. “Do you have any Russian silk?”
“Ah, no. For curtains?”
“I don’t know, I think silk curtains would be absolutely marvellous. They’d practically dance in the breeze.”
Anton dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I… I can make some enquiries.”
“Good. Whilst you do that, could you also find out if Russia is known for its velvet? I’m curious.”
“Of course, madam.”
“What about this one?”
The tip of one slender finger touched a deep red velvet.
“Ah, that’s Russian velvet.” Anton clapped his hands together. “Very popular in the upper circles.”
“Are Russians well known for their velvet?”
“I don’t really know, madam.”
“Never mind, then. To be honest, I find velvet a rather heavy fabric, don’t you?” She paused. “Do you have any Russian silk?”
“Ah, no. For curtains?”
“I don’t know, I think silk curtains would be absolutely marvellous. They’d practically dance in the breeze.”
Anton dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I… I can make some enquiries.”
“Good. Whilst you do that, could you also find out if Russia is known for its velvet? I’m curious.”
“Of course, madam.”
Russian Velvet by Lesley Whyte
"Had you considered velvet for the bedroom? We just received a shipment of this gorgeous plum velvet, Russian. It's divine."
"Velvet? It wouldn't look cheap?"
"No, no, not at all," Avery said, fixing her best professional smile in place. She'd been working with Jennifer Hill for years, she had helped pick out every single item in that woman's house and was offended by her comment. Jennifer Hill was no stranger to cheap, she spent a lot of money to get it. Avery had fought bitterly against the leopard-print satin bedsheets for the master suite last year. And the enormous crystal chandelier in the dining room. Not to mention to the faux polar bear rug in the study. All the money in the world couldn't buy you taste. Avery looked around the Hawaiian-inspired living room, thinking about what she would have done to the house if she'd been lucky enough to marry into the Hill family.
"I'm not sure. Do you have a sample?"
"Not on me, we only received the shipment this morning."
"Plum, you say?" Jennifer pursed her lips, looking at the swatches of fabric that were splayed over her bamboo coffee table. "Could we get it in red? You know how I like red."
"Velvet? It wouldn't look cheap?"
"No, no, not at all," Avery said, fixing her best professional smile in place. She'd been working with Jennifer Hill for years, she had helped pick out every single item in that woman's house and was offended by her comment. Jennifer Hill was no stranger to cheap, she spent a lot of money to get it. Avery had fought bitterly against the leopard-print satin bedsheets for the master suite last year. And the enormous crystal chandelier in the dining room. Not to mention to the faux polar bear rug in the study. All the money in the world couldn't buy you taste. Avery looked around the Hawaiian-inspired living room, thinking about what she would have done to the house if she'd been lucky enough to marry into the Hill family.
"I'm not sure. Do you have a sample?"
"Not on me, we only received the shipment this morning."
"Plum, you say?" Jennifer pursed her lips, looking at the swatches of fabric that were splayed over her bamboo coffee table. "Could we get it in red? You know how I like red."
Russian Velvet by Meg Burrows
‘Russian Velvet – eugh, it makes me feel so cheap!’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
Tuesday 15 May 2012
Venetian Crystal by Emily Chadwick
The glasses were made of Venetian crystal. That was the first thing he noticed. Andrew Rainer wouldn’t be caught dead serving his guests wine in some substandard glass. His eyes then dropped to the rest of the dinner place, set out in front of him like some sort of code. The cutlery was made of pure silver with ivory handles. The napkins were Egyptian cotton, or perhaps somewhere that made even finer quality fabric. He wasn’t exactly a cotton connoisseur.
The last thing that caught his eyes – in retrospect, the most important thing – was a tiny white pill, positioned carefully beside his glass.
“You can take the pill, Davey, and this will all be over.” Andrew Rainer’s voice echoed through the empty dining hall. “If you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my hospitality a little longer.”
Rainer’s ‘hospitality’ ached under his clothes. Davey’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.
“Make your choice, Davey.”
After a beat of silence, Davey picked up the little white pill, rolling it between his fingertips.
Death was easy. Choosing life was harder.
The last thing that caught his eyes – in retrospect, the most important thing – was a tiny white pill, positioned carefully beside his glass.
“You can take the pill, Davey, and this will all be over.” Andrew Rainer’s voice echoed through the empty dining hall. “If you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my hospitality a little longer.”
Rainer’s ‘hospitality’ ached under his clothes. Davey’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.
“Make your choice, Davey.”
After a beat of silence, Davey picked up the little white pill, rolling it between his fingertips.
Death was easy. Choosing life was harder.
Venetian Crystal by Sam Smith
“What are you eating?”
“Crystals.”
“Why are you eating crystals?”
“I was talking to this lady in the shop that always smells funny in town. You know, the one that sells baggy clothes and carpet.”
“The Bazaar Bargain?”
“Yeah, that one. Well, the lady, right? She was telling me about how all the crystals she was selling could, like, change stuff about my life. There were ones that could cure my sicknesses, could rebalance something inside of me with a funny name, and there was one that could get me laid!”
“There was a crystal specifically designed to get you laid?”
“Well, she said it might help me be luckier in love, and that’s like the same thing, right? Anyway, I bought all of them.”
“You bought all of the lady’s crystals?”
“Yeah man.”
“And you’ve been eating them?”
“Yeah. That’s what you’re meant to do with them.”
“No, you’re not. You’re meant to hold them or rub them on yourself. Something like that.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh.”
“Stop eating them.”
“But what if they still work from inside of me?”
“They won’t. That one isn’t even one of the magic sort of crystal. You’re just chewing a fancy wine glass.”
“Yeah, I ran out of the ones that the lady gave me so I got these at the car boot sale going on at the church.”
“You’re bleeding heavily.”
“I know.”
“Crystals.”
“Why are you eating crystals?”
“I was talking to this lady in the shop that always smells funny in town. You know, the one that sells baggy clothes and carpet.”
“The Bazaar Bargain?”
“Yeah, that one. Well, the lady, right? She was telling me about how all the crystals she was selling could, like, change stuff about my life. There were ones that could cure my sicknesses, could rebalance something inside of me with a funny name, and there was one that could get me laid!”
“There was a crystal specifically designed to get you laid?”
“Well, she said it might help me be luckier in love, and that’s like the same thing, right? Anyway, I bought all of them.”
“You bought all of the lady’s crystals?”
“Yeah man.”
“And you’ve been eating them?”
“Yeah. That’s what you’re meant to do with them.”
“No, you’re not. You’re meant to hold them or rub them on yourself. Something like that.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh.”
“Stop eating them.”
“But what if they still work from inside of me?”
“They won’t. That one isn’t even one of the magic sort of crystal. You’re just chewing a fancy wine glass.”
“Yeah, I ran out of the ones that the lady gave me so I got these at the car boot sale going on at the church.”
“You’re bleeding heavily.”
“I know.”
Venetian Crystal by Lesley Whyte
"You'll come to understand that we are more civilised here than you are used to," he said as he led her down the cavernous hallway.
Erin was only half-listening as she gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, it was like the Cistine chapel. Only not full of angels. There was a lot of red up there.
"Ah," he said, noticing that she had come to a stop. "The story of our ancestors. Our family dates back centuries. That," he added, pointing out one of the figures, this one a beautiful woman swathed in black, holding a dagger to an armour-clad man's throat. "Is my great-grandmother. You will love her, she tells such...interesting stories. Come."
They set off down the hall again. Erin heard voices, the clinking of glasses, and frowned. Glasses? What was going on?
He threw open the double doors at the end of the hallway to reveal a surprisingly small and intimate dining room. A table set for twelve ran down the centre, and only two seats were left empty, the one at the head of the table and the seat directly to the left of it. He moved to the head of the table, but did not sit. He gestured for Erin to take the seat beside his.
"I would like you all to welcome Erin. She will be joining us for a while. And now, let's eat." He sat down.
Erin looked around, half-expecting a bunch of humans to be ushered into the room. Instead, several waiters emerged from the shadows of the room, carrying glass bowls. She could smell the blood, and frowned as a bowl was set down in front of her.
He leaned towards her, smirking. "Venetian crystal. Stunning, isn't it?" He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank deeply while Erin watched. Others were using spoons, but most drank straight from the bowl.
When he lowered it to the table again, his lips were stained crimson and parted in a smile.
Erin was only half-listening as she gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, it was like the Cistine chapel. Only not full of angels. There was a lot of red up there.
"Ah," he said, noticing that she had come to a stop. "The story of our ancestors. Our family dates back centuries. That," he added, pointing out one of the figures, this one a beautiful woman swathed in black, holding a dagger to an armour-clad man's throat. "Is my great-grandmother. You will love her, she tells such...interesting stories. Come."
They set off down the hall again. Erin heard voices, the clinking of glasses, and frowned. Glasses? What was going on?
He threw open the double doors at the end of the hallway to reveal a surprisingly small and intimate dining room. A table set for twelve ran down the centre, and only two seats were left empty, the one at the head of the table and the seat directly to the left of it. He moved to the head of the table, but did not sit. He gestured for Erin to take the seat beside his.
"I would like you all to welcome Erin. She will be joining us for a while. And now, let's eat." He sat down.
Erin looked around, half-expecting a bunch of humans to be ushered into the room. Instead, several waiters emerged from the shadows of the room, carrying glass bowls. She could smell the blood, and frowned as a bowl was set down in front of her.
He leaned towards her, smirking. "Venetian crystal. Stunning, isn't it?" He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank deeply while Erin watched. Others were using spoons, but most drank straight from the bowl.
When he lowered it to the table again, his lips were stained crimson and parted in a smile.
Picnic Basket by Meg Burrows
In my picnic basket I put……
apples and strawberries and cream that I spread on scones and wash with lemonade.
Scotch eggs, salad cream, ham and lettuce that all lay in a nice duvet of bread.
Juice boxes of elderflower and turkish coffee that envelopes my nose.
Chocolate cake with thick buttery icing that serenades my taste buds.
Plates to pile it all on, cutlery to scoop it all up with and a blanket to blubber out on afterwards.
But lets not forget…..
bread for the ducks, slug repellent for the kids and a fly trap for Uncle Gerald.
A bird cage for the rats, a potted plant for melted ice cream and a spanner to throw at the mushrooms that look at me funny.
apples and strawberries and cream that I spread on scones and wash with lemonade.
Scotch eggs, salad cream, ham and lettuce that all lay in a nice duvet of bread.
Juice boxes of elderflower and turkish coffee that envelopes my nose.
Chocolate cake with thick buttery icing that serenades my taste buds.
Plates to pile it all on, cutlery to scoop it all up with and a blanket to blubber out on afterwards.
But lets not forget…..
bread for the ducks, slug repellent for the kids and a fly trap for Uncle Gerald.
A bird cage for the rats, a potted plant for melted ice cream and a spanner to throw at the mushrooms that look at me funny.
Monday 14 May 2012
Picnic Basket by Sam Smith
Picnic baskets were just a gateway addiction for Yogi Bear. Every day he would beg, borrow and steal himself a picnic basket and would gorge himself on what he found inside.
But soon, he started to grow a resistance to towering stacks of BLT sandwiches and bags of unidentifiable treats that it just wasn’t enough. He started to take the picnic blanket along with the basket. He would line the food up along the middle of the blanket, roll it up and smoke it like an oversized, checkerboard spliff, just to get the stolen swag into his system faster. After taking a large drag from a PBNJ, cocktail sausage and Pringle doobie, Yogi once coughed so hard that a few speckles of blood dripped from his mouth onto his tie, which he had neglected to iron. This gave him an idea.
A couple walked into Jellystone Park one Tuesday evening. Yogi watched them carry their picnic basket to a secluded area where they ate until they could do nothing but watch the sun set and fall asleep leaning on each other. Yogi had contained himself by grinding down and snorting a Scotch egg, but even then his hands were shaking and he walked out of the bushes. He loomed over the man and starred at his skin. Inside the man, Yogi knew all the picnic molecules were swimming around in his human blood, just waiting to be poached. Yogi pulled out the needle that he found in a cave that was frequently used as a crack den and held it to the sleeping man’s forearm.
Yogi thought to himself, “Is this what I’ve become?”
But soon, he started to grow a resistance to towering stacks of BLT sandwiches and bags of unidentifiable treats that it just wasn’t enough. He started to take the picnic blanket along with the basket. He would line the food up along the middle of the blanket, roll it up and smoke it like an oversized, checkerboard spliff, just to get the stolen swag into his system faster. After taking a large drag from a PBNJ, cocktail sausage and Pringle doobie, Yogi once coughed so hard that a few speckles of blood dripped from his mouth onto his tie, which he had neglected to iron. This gave him an idea.
A couple walked into Jellystone Park one Tuesday evening. Yogi watched them carry their picnic basket to a secluded area where they ate until they could do nothing but watch the sun set and fall asleep leaning on each other. Yogi had contained himself by grinding down and snorting a Scotch egg, but even then his hands were shaking and he walked out of the bushes. He loomed over the man and starred at his skin. Inside the man, Yogi knew all the picnic molecules were swimming around in his human blood, just waiting to be poached. Yogi pulled out the needle that he found in a cave that was frequently used as a crack den and held it to the sleeping man’s forearm.
Yogi thought to himself, “Is this what I’ve become?”
Picnic Basket by Emily Chadwick
The picnic basket was packed for two.
Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.
The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.
My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.
Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.
Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.
The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.
My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.
Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.
Picnic Basket by Lesley Whyte
Why do people like picnics? What is the appeal of eating outside? There are ants and wasps and small children with sticky fingers and faces. There is wind, often sand, always dirt. Even if the food started warm, it ends up cold. And, let's face it, it'll probably rain.
And for that matter, why do people like fancy restaurants? Why pay through the nose for a tiny portion of something that doesn't taste all that good anyway? You'll just end up waking up hungry in the middle of the night and raiding the fridge. And that's if you don't stop at the drive-through on the way home.
No, I've come to the conclusion that any meal that cannot be eaten in your pyjamas in your living room probably isn't worth having. And yet, there's still a picnic basket in the cupboard. It's a nifty Ikea one, though, which makes it okay.
And for that matter, why do people like fancy restaurants? Why pay through the nose for a tiny portion of something that doesn't taste all that good anyway? You'll just end up waking up hungry in the middle of the night and raiding the fridge. And that's if you don't stop at the drive-through on the way home.
No, I've come to the conclusion that any meal that cannot be eaten in your pyjamas in your living room probably isn't worth having. And yet, there's still a picnic basket in the cupboard. It's a nifty Ikea one, though, which makes it okay.
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