Wild One by Ben Hayward

He was my hero.

I had been stuck in a basement, come changing room, below a cabaret show. I had lined up several dozen questions with which I could get the interview started. How he first broke in to the music business. What his first gig was like. How his performance artist wife had gotten him off drugs. How he and other musicians had been a precursor to punk. How he felt about the direction that punk had taken.

I had been there for about quarter of an hour when I heard a door slam upstairs. Shortly afterwards a small, but well built, man turned up; followed by his assistant. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and gritted his teeth.

“He's not doing the interview in here is he?”

Before I could catch my breath I was rushed upstairs. Eventually I was left in a cafeteria. Next door I could his band doing sound check, from what I could make out they sounded good.

Eventually he turned up, he had changed out of his casual clothes in to a tuxedo. The suit had clearly seen age; rips, fading and what could possibly have been semen marked it. He sat down and collected himself. I had placed a copy of his new record in front of me, it's an interpretation of Charle Dickens' Hard Times, I think it's a commentary on the Deus Ex Machina and how life can sometimes feel futile.

“If you don't mind I'd like to talk about your new record first.”
He made a kind of grunting admission.

“Could you tell me what inspired it, while you were writing it.”

He turns toward his assistant and nods, he's trying to hide some kind of snigger.

“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions today.”

I feel my heart sink as I leaf through my preparatory notes, there seems to be only one line of questioning left.
“How do you feel about being considered one of the precursors, the grandfathers, of punk?”

He grins and turns toward his assistant again, I nod I don't need to be told twice. I'll just talk to him about the album.

“I notice that you're not singing on this album, the new singer Grant has a very unique alto to his voice.”

“My producer Darren and I were at some nowhere folk festival when we found him. He was in one of the smaller tents, after twenty seconds we knew he was the best choice for the album going forward.

“What a wonderful voice” he added shortly after.

“Do you mind if I ask why you weren't singing though, surely your fans would want to hear you?”

His assistant cleared her throat. I had no other questions. I sat there in silence. He grabbed his secretary by the shoulder and whispered something in her ear before quickly departing.

“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions.”

I could see in her eyes that she was just trying to do her job, I quickly gathered my things and walked out the front door. As I was leaving I heard his band start playing.

At least it was sunny outside though.

Within the Grove by Ben Hayward

A soulless muse, calliope is dead.
Saddened by sweet sophistry
She twisted the knife in her gut.
I found no reason why she might do it,
Beside the years of imprisonment
Playing hostess to writers and artists.
She wrote a letter to me last week,
It was poorly written,
But no one cares about the inspiration.
She found her apartment claustrophobic.
And the big city heights dizzying.
They are a world away from her simple beginnings.
She must have been lonely,
She knew that she was the muse
Not the creator.
Come to think of it, maybe it was simply that.
Calliope is dead.
Creation goes on.

Smoke and Mirrors by Ben Hayward

The black mirror arcade raced past me,
Icons to neophyte religions in a blur,
Mixed messages absorbed in trite,
sweet sophistry in plain speech,

The darlings of lethargy speak to me,
My eyes itch but I can't tear myself away
White teeth, stretched across inhumane grins,
They tell you your needs, what's best for you.

We are silently complicit
And need the savage to come back home.

No More Sorrow by Ben Hayward

The corridor was covered in that cheap plastic board, the type that your local councillor's office is presumably covered in. The thin stench of cigarette smoke stuck to the old linoleum flooring.

“Well mister Daniels, we can see you're than qualified for this position.”
“You can?”
“Yes we can. This is just an informal interview, for us to get to know you.”

The interviewer crooned toward me, showing off her cleavage slightly. Her face had been dried out from a lifetime of on again off again smoking. From her breath I could tell that it hadn't been long since her last.

“So what do you want to know?”
“The tiny details, what makes you tick.”
“Why I should have the job over the others?”
“Something like that.”

She made some loose gesture toward someone behind me in the lobby. The lock on the door shut and the blinds went down, as if by clockwork. The haggard middle-aged woman seemed to be undressing me with her eyes, crawling slowly across the table.

“I swear I've seen a movie about this kind of thing before.”

As if by lightning her predatory gaze was shattered. I'd hit the panic button. The get out of jail free card. She resumed her place back in her seat and straightened her suit.

“Well I'm motivated, hard working and a team player. I know the ins and outs of Microsoft Office.”

Her face didn't move, remaining tight jawed. Eventually I just got up to leave. The door had not been unlocked.

“You know that there is only one way out of this office, right?”

I looked at the office's window and held my breath.

Unsaid Things by Ben Hayward

There's this guy who hangs about on street corners
He wears a tabard, saying that he's 'not begging'.
No one says anything, they only look down
And silently wave him away, when he comes close.

He asked me to buy him a sandwich once.
He gave me a wolfish grin
Set through poorly shaven facial hair
And cigarette yellowed teeth.

He didn't like my offer for me to purchase his lunch for him.
Maybe he felt it degrading, but probably not.
I wouldn't give him the money up front,
To which he spat in my face, figuratively.

Where Did the Party Go? by Ben Hayward

We pushed him home in a shopping trolley.
He was choking sick and bile in to a bottle.
Interrupted by quiet whimsical humming.
Oblivious to the twitter of morning song

We came across a heap of trash
And took to decorating him.
Naturally we brought the camera out.
Laid him on the trolley, for the world to see.

The shopping trolley squeaked and whirred
As the drunk slowly rolled away.
Pushed by the force of gravity
In to some black ravine, never to be seen again.

Reminder by Ben Hayward

The mirror shows lipstick kisses,
Left by some tramp
Whose name I can't recall.
I remember her socks though.

The carpet is singed
And the hot knives are cool.
Post-it notes in time.
Like fractures from another life.

A bundle of sheets are laying on my bed.
A human sized heap of cloth and flesh.
The point where the two worlds collide.
Sobering scribbles seem so inane.

Letterbomb by Ben Hayward

Dear Mister Jones

I am writing to pitch to you my new idea for a potential hit sitcom, Lord Above. Richard Dawkin's wife takes on a new lodger, god. Given Richard's outspoken opinions about religion I feel that a lot of the comedy would come from her preventing him getting in to the attic room where the deity is staying. I feel that the excuses could get more and more outlandish as the series goes on, as each lie is invented to cover the initial lie, that the attic room is vacant.

At the end of the series I feel that it would be a great twist that Mrs Dawkins, despite being well past the menopause, falls pregnant with child. This could be wrapped up in the next series or potentially a Christmas special.

I have written to mister Dawkins and he is keen on the concept of lampooning religion. Plus his two cameos on Doctor Who more than count as acting credits.

I hope you enjoy the idea

Yours Sincerely

Janie's Got a Gun by Ben Hayward

"Today I was told that I took out some body insurance. It's not like health insurance or life insurance, it's for my own vanity, like a patent or some-shit."
"A patent implies that you own the rights to something like legs."
"Yeah... Well I did say someshit, dickhead."
"What exactly does body insurance give you?"
"Well let's assume I get some hideous disfiguring injury, the company will pay me to um..."
"Recover? Isn't that health insurance?"
"No, the man said that it's a bit more like a get-well present."
"You mean like a reward for GBH?"
"No, well yes, but well..."
"He was very persuasive, I assume?"
"In more ways than one."
"Um ok, thanks for that."
"Moving swiftly on from that, surely with this body insurance people will be tempted to abuse it."
"Abuse?"
"Mistreat, act without thought. What I mean is that some more suicidal people might want to use the payout as an extra way to get cash."
"ah, there was a decoration."
"decoration?"
"You know a signy thing."
"A declaration, what did it say?"
"Something along the lines of 'do you plan on killing yourself?'"
"Well surely most people are going to deny that with the prospect of extra money on the horizon?"
“I guess...”
“Did you read the terms and conditions etcetera.”
“I thought it was pretty clear.”
“So what do you have to do to get the money?”
“Well I have to be involved in an accident in the last five years either at home or at work that wasn't my fault.”
“That sounds a bit too familiar...”
“Yeah I saw them on the telly.”
“On what channel?”
“The shopping one. The one with the jewellery.”
“Ok, have you written down their number somewhere?”
“I've got them on my call history, why?”
“Ok, Kate, I need you to ring them back and cancel it with them.”
“I can't do that.”
“Why?”
“Well I've given them my bank details”
“You know where the motorway is then.”

He Said He Loved Me by Ben Hayward

The night was lonely,
And the bus was dark.
He said 'I love you'
And not that fucking car.

I still remember the night we met,
Steaming passion in festival toilets.
He left his wallet beneath the septic tank,
I found it after the drugs had worn off.

His name.
His address.
Pictures of him with another woman.
His social security number.

I've moved in next door.
The pot is set to boil.
He said he loved me
And not that fucking band.

Barricades by Ben Hayward

He got in the car at seven near Aylesbury.
He was dead at eleven near Shrewsbury.
I don't recall the in-between time.
I know I buried him in a ditch somewhere near Stockport,
And that I ate lunch with him as we passed Birmingham.
I don't know what set me off.
Maybe it was the chase.
The refusal.
Those dancing lights skating ahead of me on the motorway.
Some things never change.

Flesh and Bone by Ben Hayward

"I was thinking-"

"That's never a good idea."

"Shut up. I was thinking we should write a murder mystery."

"Um, ok, why?"

"Well there's a lot of money in fiction."

"I'm not sure about that."

"Well, you have to be successful of course."

"Not to mention lucky."

"Enough of the negativity, have you got any ideas?"

"Right now, no, isn't it your idea?"

"Yeah, but I need your edgy cynicism; the crowds love that shit."

"I don't think pessimism is edgy, it's more asymmetrical."

"See that's why you're key."

"I am?"

"Where would CSI Miami be without Horatio Kane?"

"I assume it would probably be better for one thing."

"That does depend on how you measure quality."

"Granted."

"So you're on board?"

"Yes, but I'm not quitting my day job."

"That makes total sense, of course."

"Good."

"So I was thinking, and stop me if I sound crazy, that it should be about these two guys who solve mysteries for people in purgatory."

"What? That sounds-"

"Great, I know. One of them could be an edgy badass who doesn't play by the rules, and the other can be strictly by the book, all he wants to do is get that long overdue promotion."

"I'm not sure I like how much thought you've given this."

"It shows that we're serious. We could have vampires and werewolves-"

"Angels I can just about take, I'm not having any Team Jacob or Team Edward shite."

"Ok, we could have it as a series of isolated stories. The kind where these angels can dish out old
fashioned street justice."

"Remind me why do they have to be angels?"

"They just do."

"No need to get shirty. It was just an honest question, why?"

"That way we can have them travel across space and time. They can go anywhere and anywhen."

"Best idea I've ever heard."

Cherry Cola by Ben Hayward

We've been told not to refer to it as a block.
To give it a name gives it presence.
To give it presence means we cannot pass it.
Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate...

Sorry..

I like long walks on the beech,
I don't really enjoy thrillers.
My parents' had me home-schooled.
They said I was special.

They keep telling us not to call it a block
Why not call it a wall instead?

Dark Paradise by Ben Hayward

Her face has worn with time.
She is now little more than a bust,
Fit for little more than showing hats,
But we worship her.
We’re told that she was beautiful,
That the whole world marveled upon her,
They tell us that we should aspire to be her,
To be like that empty stone face,
That one sat in the corner of the crypt,
The one where nobody goes,
If we are, we will be rewarded.
With what is never specified, only told.
As I run my hand across her face,
I feel the coarse limestone stick to my hand,
Trapped like protracted tears.
Her hands are little more than blunted claws,
And her once feminine shape lost to time.
The stories of her vary,
Women tell us that she was the vision of a mother,
Men tell us that she was some ancient whore.
All we can guarantee is that she existed,
Paralysed in time by some long forgotten sculptor.

Exit Wounds by Ben Hayward

“Nan, where’s Geoff?”

“Oh, it’s his time of the month.”

“You didn’t tell me... Wait. What?”

“Long Story.”

“Where is he then?”

“Out, in the woods probably. You’re welcome to wait for him if you would like.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, sure. Would you like anything to eat?”

“I’m not staying too long.”

“You’re looking thin. How about a pie?”

“Fine.”

“Oh that’s him now. Could you just get the door while I make some tea?”

“Ok.”

“Geoff, what big teeth you have.”

On the Rocks by Ben Hayward

He swanned slowly up to the bar with a cool swagger and a dirty smirk on his face.

“Could I have a scotch on the rocks?”

“Is that supposed to be a line of some kind?”

He seemed taken aback; it had been a long time since someone had challenged him in any capacity. He quickly recovered, maintaining his cool, and placed his hand firmly on the bar.

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Well Hastings is famous for its rocky beaches for one thing.”

Beads of sweat emerged on his scalp. He wiped them away and broke the mould of well-formed hair that covered his scalp. His yellowing teeth were now showing as he struggled to maintain his smile.

“Can I just have my drink please?”

“Sure thing, no need to get fusty, love. It doesn’t suit you.”

She looked behind to see if there were any bottles of scotch left, returning with a bottle of Jack-Daniels.

“That’s not what I ordered.”

“It’s all we have.”

He slammed the table hard, drawing looks from several onlookers.

“I am not drinking that Yankee trash!”

The barmaid gritted her teeth, biting down in a conscious effort to hold her tongue.

“Excuse me, sir, what would you prefer?”

“My order, for one thing.”

The barmaid looked toward one of her colleagues, making a vague nodding motion.

“I am sorry sir, the taps are dry, and we only have fizzy drinks left.”

“A second ago I saw you pour that guy there a pint!”

A burly man appeared behind him and took him by the arm. You could see a flash of fear in his eyes as he was led away from the bar.

“How may I help you Ma’am?”

Rodeo Drive by Ben Hayward

“You need to clap your cheeks together – hard.”
“What like this?”
“Move your buttocks a little further up the saddle. Pronounce them a bit more”
“I’m not sure if this is the point of the exercise Dad.”
“We want to make you look like a champion Phillipa, don’t question me.”
“Dad, I feel a little like a porn star.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well for starters this isn’t how you ride a horse.”
“Yes it is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, I... I’ve seen some films.”
“So you’ve never actually ridden one then?”
“Phillipa, I’m in a wheelchair, it’s a little hard.”
“It’s a mobility scooter dad, it’s a chair with wheels, and you can walk fine.”
“Right well, that may be, I’ve never ridden a horse, but I’ve seen horse riders ride.”
“You mean jockeys, and this isn’t it. I’ll catch you later Dad.”

Champagne by Ben Hayward

“How about Champagne?”
“No, love.”
“Cherrie, Disaronno?”
She slowly rubbed the bump in her stomach, jumping as she took a swig from her glass.
“Oh, I felt her kick, she must have liked that one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s a sign, what’s this called?”
“Gin love.”
“What like those lamp things?”
“No, the drink, G – I – N”
“Isn’t she in Harry Potter?”
“What?”
“Yeah, she’s that ginger bitch who can’t act, I’m not naming my kid after her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh this one gave me another kick, what’s this called?”
“Lambrini.”
“Ooh that’s fancy like one of them pretty cars, I like that one.”
“Are you saying that our daughter is a car?”
“No, of course not, I was just saying that it’s cute.”
“Well we don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl yet do we.”
“Yeah but I’ve already got the boy’s name done.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”
“Braxton Hicks, I heard it somewhere recently. It sounds pretty refined.”

Luna Landscape by Ben Hayward

Henry Bayward, international man of mystery. Some say he doesn’t exist, others say that he’s a little like Batman and only shows his face when he has to. Only a few of us know that he lives on the moon.

From his lunar base, his fortress of solitude, he watches us, surveys us and judges us. He knows when we’ve done wrong and he knows what we’ve done wrong. He won’t necessarily punish us immediately, but then again he can’t exactly enact swift justice given the distance. It depends on whether or not he’s on Earth already to be honest and even then it’s weighted on the gravitas of the crime.

He’s a guardian angel that watches us from the skies and only comes when humanity needs him most. The computers on his moon base know all and tell all, he’s a little like Father Christmas in that respect.

When man needs him most he might come to Earth if he isn’t otherwise engaged and subjugate those who would do us harm. Really it’s a matter of timing though, he has a very strict sleep cycle and can’t really defer from it, and it’s a medical thing before you ask.

LATE ENTRY Fireside by Ben Hayward

“See this oak here son, it stood in our village for a thousand years. It was here when William the Conq beat ol’ Harold. It was here during the Blitz. It was here when Ollie Crom taught that toff Charlie who's boss.”

Dad’s head sunk while he was trying to make the next statement. Carefully I liberated his hand of the block of wood, and placed it on the floor beside his chair, so as not to damage the well-finished flooring. I decided that it was best to leave him in his chair beside the fire to keep him warm. If I were to move him he wouldn’t get back to sleep. Not to mention the fact that he’d continue to rant about that blasted tree. I’d only taken a branch off.

I let the dog in to nestle against his leg. In the absence of electricity he proved to be a useful alarm system. I hope the power comes back soon so I don’t have to dismember the rest of that tree. I’ll never hear the end of it.