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.”
…and I would jog five hundred more
Just to be the man who jogged a thousand miles for no particular reason whatsoever and then kicked off your new year by blathering on about it*
*last line requires work and possible kickbacks to The Proclaimers
Sitting in front of the Mac eating biscuits and drinking tea in an effort to bleed out the excesses of New Year’s Eve seems like the perfect time to review my year of running.
At this point a normal, upbeat person would insert a line like And What A Year It Was! I shall spare you such vomit-inducing positivity but I will go so far as to say, It Wasn’t Bad.
After a whole month of going cold turkey I find myself two days short of a day that will probably contain warm turkey. Then there’ll be cold turkey again. At least for a couple of days.
“Maybe we should have pizza on Boxing Day this year love.”
“Yeah, I want to try that new place Contrivios on that big circular junction. Apparently it’s better to go for their thicker crust offering as it’s perfectly cooked.”
“The Snowlay Roundabout. Deep pan. Crisp and even.”
Look, I never promised that having a break from blogging would mean an end to dreadful puns…
Forgive me father (and indeed mother) for I have waffled. It’s been eight years, six months and one week since my first blog post and despite my best intentions I have used foul and blasphemous language on several occasions…
Eight and a half years, that’s a fuckload of time!
…furthermore I have rarely had much of any substance to say and have mostly relied on word prompts, tricks and a bunch of other stuff to get by.
Sad but true…but it perhaps needs a little more context and explanation around why it matters.
The net is a world wide web wonder
Where many fine stories are born
Not to mention the sparks of ideas
In amongst all the HD-shot porn
Imagine you’ve landed on Saturn
Prompts a site with a sciencey slant
Your oxygen’s low, and your heart rate is slow
and your co-pilot’s cat is your aunt
“I don’t understand what you see in her.”
“It’s not what I see it’s what I hear. The wit and wisdom born of a medicated tongue. The dark and delicate tones that pierce my goosebumps like the jagged razor of bow on string. The laughter, sometimes natural, sometimes unnatural that dances across my heart. The music of her soul.”
“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
We trade conversation as commodity. The endless bartering of words. Stealthily concealing meaning within grammatically moribund tropes.
The LOL never touches our eyes let alone our lips.
A million words to furnish a life with a cast of thousands. The possibilities are endless.
The possibilities are ending.
“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…”