As a rule I don’t tend toward violence but Hubert, fat useless fuck that he is, brings out the devil in me so to speak. Every movement he makes is a stain on my existence but he is, at least, regular.
Tomorrow morning at precisely 7.27am in he will shuffle, pause briefly next to the dog food then grease-waddle his way along the aisle. For sin I shall play my designated role as the dutiful shopkeeper and attend to him with smiles and no small courtesy.
That is, of course, if I don’t stay out all night in the rain.
Since Theodore took up residence in my scrotum, life has become somewhat more complex.
“Call me Teddy.”
“I’d rather stick to Theodore if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself. I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”
“Why on earth would I want things to be easier? Having a miniscule, talking…thing inside my nutsack seems like a perfectly reasonable and normal arrangement.”
His stance spoke of the softness of academia. The protected air of hallowed halls shielding him from the realities of the world outside.
The slightly stooped shoulder curve. The narrow chest.
To whom it may concern:
I am writing to inform you of my resignation from the position of Acting Junior Vice-Assistant to the Deputy Director of Marketing with immediate effect. I seem to recall something in my original contract about a thirty day notice period but in the spirit of agile management and notwithstanding the fact that I wiped my arse with said document a couple of months back, it’s probably best for all concerned if I slip off quietly into the night.
Go on admit it. You’d love it if I genuinely slipped off into the night. You probably wouldn’t complain too much if I slipped off noisily, say, from a fourteenth-floor window but in the famous words of Mick and the boys…you CAN’T always GET what you WAAAANNNNT.
“It’s time,” she said and in we stumbled like lambs bleating in the slaughtered air. Any lingering hopes that he would be granted some final serenity or peace dashed in a maelstrom of tortured angles and the sweat-soaked rictus of a face that has been long lost to madness.
“No. Not blood. Not exactly.”
It’s always nice to have an excuse to scribble some words on a blog post – and today’s excuse is to tell you that I’ve got a brand new piece up on Literally Stories.
A Single Grain Of Salt is a story that has been trying to get written for a couple of years without a whole lot of success. For me, this often happens when a tale has a link to reality, and particularly when it relates to an event that still haunts me despite the fact that tragedy was avoided.
As befits a man of my advancing years, this will be a quickie.
My week is off to a flier, thanks mostly to the ever wondrous and wonderful people over at Literally Stories who have seen fit to publish another one of my new pieces.
For those of you who’ve read a lot of my stories and blog posts I’m sure you’ll agree that Car Crash Television is a real departure for me. I’ve tried really hard to step away from my usual comfort zone of using flowery prose to expand on weighty and topical themes and challenged myself to write a mostly dialogue-based piece focusing on a bloke moaning about what’s on the TV.
“Come on sweetie, we’ve got to get going.”
“Don’t want to. I just want to stay here.”
“I know you do my love but you’ve got to go, and unless you get moving we’re going to be late. You’ll have lots of fun, just you wait and see.”
“No I won’t. I don’t want to go.”
“Angel, I know it’s scary but everyone else will be feeling the same as you. You’ll make new friends so quickly. It really will be OK.”
“Don’t want to make friends. I’ve got my other friends. Why can’t I just play with them instead? All these new ones will just be weird and they won’t like me.”
“Ah, come in Mark. Grab a chair. Thanks for making the time for this, I know how busy it gets.”
And so the small talk begins. Spare me the camaraderie. We are not the same. I bet if I poked a knife through your cardigan your blood would be yellow. Let’s be crystal clear; the only reason I’m only going through with this farce is the vague and likely misguided hope that it’ll nett me a slightly under inflation pay rise. Why is he staring…oh I suppose he wants me to speak…
“No problem Malcolm. I’m sure you’re busy as well.” Busy doing fuck all of any actual value.
“I’ve always got time for my staff Mark…”
Thank you O benevolent leader. I will lay gifts at your feet.
“…my door is always open…”
Except when it’s shut so you can do your fuck-all-of-value safe from the prying eyes and searching ears of us proles eh Malcolm? What’s underneath that jacket you permanently keep on the hook on the back of the door? Is your soul under there Malcolm? Does it mewl softly at you as you create another spreadsheet? Does it slide its soft, lost tendrils into your skull begging you to remember that once upon a time so very long ago you were…oh bollocks I need to speak again. Continue reading
“All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God…”
“I was told I should report here. What do you need me to do?”
“Shovels are over there, buckets are behind you. Dig or help carry it away.”
“Each little flower that opens
Each little bird that sings…”
“I’m sorry Mrs Jones but you’ll have to move back. They’re going as fast as they can.”
“I just need to know if Tommy is OK. He is OK isn’t he? He said he was feeling sick this morning but you know what they are like on last day of school…”