Ghostchild watches
And on his face is a smile
A humour not all good
And a smirk indistinct
He listens to his beast
To snorts and snuffles and
The clicking of something hard
And something like warmth
Or maybe death
Sighs and moves between his feet
elouise stood at the roadside
and waited
when she was four
she had seen the sky fall
the shattering of the heavens
upon the fragile earth
screaming and the dying
the stink of humans burnt
when she was nine
in a remote and distant field
she found an angel cowering
battered and all broken
wings of bloodied stumps
just mewling and just shitting
eyes seeking upwards
and on her fourteenth birthday
at the village fete
the child of her fair sister
lay crushed beneath a cart
in her nineteenth year
her lover died in her arms
at the age of twentyfour
in the winter sun
the earth shook and crumbled
and the dead walked
til evening dawn
at twentynine
when the goats where herded in
one was heard to speak
and amidst the burning
and the prayers that swiftly
followed
turned and called her name
as she turned thirtyfour
a demon struck a deal
for the soul of her dead mother
and daddy lived forever
on the count of thirtynine
the sun darkened for three days
and three nights
and ghosts crawled the land
on the dusk of fortyfour
she simply stood
and simply waited
until the world
ended
ghostchild brought memory
and bitter rage
bequeathed us hatred
and taught us age
monkey crafted mercy
and melancholy
wrapped us in dreams
and the meaning of folly
ghostchild sang terror
whispered sadness
taught us weariness
and bound with blindness
monkey constructed hope
carved in caution
dug up happiness
and played compassion
ghostchild knotted greed
and bandied fears
and doubting voices
that played with tears
monkey battled
and fought all fronts
ghostchild simply sat
and won
Bad man
In a sad place
All alone
Holding the hand
Of the slaughtered ones
The breath
Of their last breathing
Trickling like wayward smoke
Through the dampness of
His fingers
And the bad man
Just sits
And sighs
And wonders that
The dimness does not fade
The raging does not quiet
The burning in his head
Is a monologue
A ranting of something darker
Than the blood upon his face
And he cannot understand
Why his tears are so grimy
His lips ravaged by black muck
His lungs dance so madly
And in his darkness
Beneath a cage of flesh
And unreal bone
Hurt is blossoming
In a garden of swaying aches
And he cannot ask
He cannot see
Or hear or smell
Or simply just divine
A single reason why
“I can’t believe we get paid to do this shit.”
“What?”
“You know, lay down our lives for blah-blah-blah-blah.”
He blinked at her. Owlish smiled back at him.
“Have you seen it down there? It’s a fucking mess.”
The Colonel settled back and scowled at her.
“It’s what we do, Owlish, its what we do.”
“Yes, but its a fucking mess down there.”
“You’ve been in messes before, you’ve survived. Its just the same again.”
“Fuck that,” said Torvey, staring over the edge of the wall, “I ain’t never seen no fuckin’ mess quite like that fuckin’ mess.” He sat back down, pressing his helmet down on his head with one hand, as if it might make a dash for freedom.
“Fuckin’ people are gettin’ fuckin’ murdered down there.” He continued.
“Gotta earn our dollar somehow, people.” Said the Colonel, tipping his hat over his eyes as he leant back against his pack.
“Why does he keep saying that?” asked someone, “And what the fuck is a dollar anyway?”
“Some sort of credit. Pay.” Someone else answered.
“What the fuck is pay?” asked the same complainant.
There was a brief outburst of chuckling. Someone smacked a helmet, receiving a muffled curse in response. They all settled back in silence, listening to sounds coming from down below. Even here they could hear the tumult of that mess. Owlish thought she could hear the the screams of the dying. She scowled.
“Proper end of the world stuff, that.” Someone said, quietly. Belvue, she thought, always to the chase, that one.
“Well, it is.” Jackson.
“Who’d a thunk it?” Tamper.
“Fuckin’ mess.” Torvey.
Owlish closed her eyes and listened to the continuing to-ing and fro-ing of the words, drinking in the familiarity of the voices. Familiar as family. More so even. They were fucking family. Too many lost though, too many missing, buried in mud and shit and ash. She missed them. All of them.
She laughed then, silently, to herself. End of the world indeed. Fuck.
Silence settled, each buried in their own thoughts.
Her watch beeped. Around her arose a chorus of similar beeps. Someone swore softly.
Owlish straightened up and stood.
“Right.” She said, and paused, suddenly at a loss.
“Yeah. Right. Fuckin’ end of the world fuckin’ mess.” Torvey stretched and yawned. They were all standing then, gathering equipment, strapping their shit to themselves as if this time wasn’t any different.
You never knew, thought Owlish, you never knew. She laughed again.
The Colonel was the last to stand, as always, rolling his hat as he did so, stuffing it into its usual sack. He glanced at each of them, taking his time, nodding once in approval, receiving nods and grimaces in return.
“Right, people,” he said, “let’s go…” he paused then and thought, a rare smile breaking across his face. “Let’s go and do this one for free.”
The first of the #wwb challenges (post-nanowrimo) was to write a short story containing the words watermelon, griffin/gryphon and embolism. Several excellent inventive stories were posted, ranging from CKL’s superb pastiche of the ‘Twas the Night before Christmas’ – “Father Christmas Ninja Warrior” to Ella’s intriguing corporate/Christmas cautionary tale to TheSkoot’s energetic assassin story. There is a beautiful post-apocalyptic look at the evolution of the rite of Christmas from (I’m not sure whom) and a equally enchanting whimsical fantasy from Maria. All good stuff.
And, as ever, I am thoroughly awed by the creativity of my fellow wwb’ers.
Below is my effort, changed slightly from the version submitted (ie edited).
—–
“I can’t.”
She stared up at the ceiling.
“You have no choice.”
She said nothing. She ached. She hurt. She burned.
“I can’t.”
“You have no choice.”
“I can’t.” It should have been a scream. It should have been rage and hate and fear. It was a whisper.
“You have no choice.” Each word was deliberate, heavy with emphasis.
She felt the tears then, when she thought she had no more. She sobbed, silently, once, and said nothing.
She felt his hand then on her shoulder. There was no comfort in it, nothing recognisable other than the weight. It lifted then, and she knew he was gone.
“I can’t.” She said once more. And then again, to the pain.
***
She stood on a mountain top. Clouds surrounded it, a sea of white and grey. The air was crisp, cold, the breeze occasionally biting in its temperamental, mercurial way.
The gryphon sat next to her, it’s feather ruffling in the wind. It yawned silently, its tongue bright red against the blue sky. She slid her hand into its feathers, feeling its heat. It yawned again.
“Shall we?” she asked, smiling to herself despite the flaring pain within her.
It stood then, shaking itself as it did so. The gryphon stretched its wings, the expanse of them casting a shadow over her. She looked up at the wing above her, captivated as always by the shimmer and sheen of the feathers. She reached up, sliding her fingers amongst them, feeling the savage heat of the beast. It rose to its feet at her touch, turning its head so that its golden eyes regarded hers.
The gryphon shook its head and stretched slightly, causing her to step back, to lose contact with it, before it stalked forward to crouch at the cliff edge. It stood there, poised, wings half-spread, flexing slightly with the breeze.
“Go.” She said under her breath, and with that it was gone, arcing slowly into the sky, wings beating strongly.
She walked up to the edge, eyes shaded to watch the gryphon as it disappeared into the sky.
Time, she thought, and stepped off the edge.
***
The houses surrounded her, stretching out along the road as far as she could see. They were uniform in their decay, brooding in the darkness of dusk, windows broken, doors absent or hanging loosely. It was cold, a breeze gusting along the street. Detritus, dry and brittle, flitted around her, skittering along in counterpoint to the otherwise eery silence. She shivered, the cold biting at her. She looked up the street, then in the other direction. Seeing no difference in either, she chose a direction and walked.
She wasn’t alone.
“Thank you,” he said, the unexpected sincerity of his voice catching her unawares. Her eyes blurred then.
“Why me?” she asked, after a short while.
“Because you are perfect. Because, amidst all the hundreds of thousands of people who lie dying at this moment, you are the only one. And because you have no choice.”
They walked long, and she began to count the passage of those silent empty doorways.
“Make it quick,” she said, “an embolism, a heart attack, anything. Just make it quick.”
“An embolism isn’t quick.” He answered.
She shrugged.
“Whatever. Just make it quick.”
“It will be.”
They carried on walking, and in that silence she counted thirty-four doorways on the right.
“What is this place?”
With that he was gone, and she laughed, surprised at the bitterness that came out with it. She laughed again, and thought she knew the answer.
“Fuck you,” she said, forty-seven doors later.
It got darker and colder as she pressed on, the houses in a greater disrepair than ever. The gusting wind dropped but the cold remained and she walked even faster, hands tucked into her jean pockets. The walk became a blur, her head down, the passing of a single elongated moment marked only by the passing of doors and her thoughts.
She looked up.
She was at the end of the street. There was a house there; bright, cheery, in good repair. It was, she realised, her house. From when she was fifteen, sixteen years old.
She walked up to the door, the familiar feel of paving stones beneath her feet. From somewhere came the scent of apple blossom, her memory tracking it back to the small tree in the corner of the garden that always flowered but never fruited.
She stood in front of the door, breathing deeply, a strange sense of deja vu filling her with homesickness and tears. She opened the door and stepped through.
Everything was as it was, as it had been. The hallway was its usual mess, littered with shoes and coats. She listened hearing nothing, not her brothers, not her father or mother, nothing. And yet she felt drawn onwards. She walked down the hall, opening the door to the kitchen, blinking at the sunlight that streamed through. The kitchen was its usual self, the smell of biscuits filling the air. Beyond she could see her mother, standing in front of her easel, as she always seemed to be. She swallowed then, her throat dry, and stepped through.
“Hello mum,” she said. She looked at the canvas on the easel and at the object being painted.
“A watermelon?”
“Hello dearie,” her mother turned towards her, her smile so familiar, tired but warm.
She turned back to the easel.
“You know how I hate these things. I can never get them right. Horrid things.”
“It’s good to see you, mum.” She said.
Her mother turned back to her, smiling.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it? You don’t look so well. Come, sit down with me.”
They sat on the small wooden bench.
“I’m not. I’m not well at all.”
Her mother’s smile was sad and knowing.
“I know, honey, I know.”
They sat in silence for a while, simply looking at each other.
“I have been asked to do something. Something terrible. Something final. And if I do it, the pain goes away. Everything goes away.”
“And are you going to do it?”
She hesitated.
“It will make the pain go away.”
Her mother nodded, once and touched her on the hand.
“Is it worth it?”
She stared at her mother.
“I don’t know.”
***
She stepped through the doorway into a desert. She walked through vats sand dunes, the heat beating down at her. She waded through swamps, thick with mire and mud, sucking and dragging her down. She climbed and scrambled through fields of rock and blasted stone, the shattered remnants of unknown world, bones crumbling at her touch. She walked and marched and strove, and with each step she felt the pain recede a little.
Far above her, beyond the limits of her thoughts and awareness, she knew a gryphon soared.
She walked on.
***
She found herself in a forest, the trees towering silently around her. The light broke through the canopy in broken shafts, dappling the forest floor in muted colours. It was silent and still.
The pain was quiet, inconsequential here, and she knew she was close to her goal. She walked on, following instinct, passing between the giant trees with almost reverential awe.
She was there. She stood, looking down at her goal, staring at it. She felt herself crying. She gazed at it, and wept, and knew the answer to her mother’s question.
***
She stood on the edge of the mountaintop, the wind cold and bitter, the sky no longer blue but filled with hues of grey and black. The gryphon was there, and it was a sickly thing. Its ribs showed through its skin, its eyes were fevered, its feather pale and threadbare. It shivered with the wind and pranced away at her approach.
She grasped it, and eased herself onto its back. It skittered a bit, danced with broken grace, and then settled.
“It is time.” She whispered to it, and with that they were in the air. They climbed, the wind cold and biting, the beat of the gryphon’s wings unsure and uneven. The wind tugged at them, threw itself against them in gusts and bursts and the gryphon began to falter. She held it tight then, and whispered to it, whispered, everything, her dreams, hopes, fears. She whispered the tale of the journey, she whispered what she had found, and what she needed to do. As she did so the gryphon steadied, and continued to climb and she held on as they plunged into the clouds and mist.
***
She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling of the ward. The pain washed through her, biting deeply into her with renewed ferocity. Her eyes pricked with tears and she gasped a little then. She bit her lip, determination and anger and sadness her armour.
She took a deep breath. There was always a choice. Always.
“No.” She said, to him, and to the pain.
“No.”
monkey
golden monkey
golden monkey smiling
mad golden monkey smiling
mad golden monkey smiling inanely
dangerously mad golden monkey smiling inanely
monkey
chewing the gristle
that once connected
your lovely jaw
to your lovely head
he is the memory of something near
something stalking
standing silently at your shoulder
watching you stir and slumber
tasting the breath of you
the giddiness of your fear
the fleeting touch
against your back
the darkness that sees from shadows
where you half hear your name
feels your heart sounding
when all else is quiet
***
has he ever touched the ground
felt the life beneath his feet?
Or was he born upon that beast
A foul mewling mess
Slick with the blood that birthed him
That baths him still?
Three nights ago I started tweeting a little story. Like many stories it came out of nowhere, didn’t start as a story and was born from an overwhelming sense of tiredness and a random moment of whimsy. And then several more tweets rolled out, describing and emoting what life was like for this monkey.
And some people seemed to like it.
The next evening I continued, and again last night. And some people still seemed to like it. Most were silent (not unexpected) and some quite non-plussed.
That aside, the effect on me has been interesting. I have written the tweets and posted them just as I am about to go to bed, usually when I am at my most tired and most fretful (I don’t like having to sleep). And yet, post-posting I feel calmer, quieter, almost peaceful.
I guess this is to do with the place the monkey inhabits. I know it well. It is peaceful, and yet it has it’s mysteries and it’s dangers and is as full of adventure as it is of serenity. It is the very earliest backdrop to a story I have been living with and writing for many, many years now, and this little tale’s unexpected birth has been, I don’t know, welcome.
Like a lot of stories it is a little bit of a metaphor, a little tale to tell, and a little bit of catharsis at the end of the day. It is, though, mostly about a little monkey.
***
Some days you have to be brave. Some days you have take the opportunities that come along and embrace them fully, no matter what your fears may be. You have to accept the outcomes and the consequences, because the only thing truly lost is the paralysis of self. Who knows where such moments of blind, courageous optimism may take you?
***
My ((roughty-toughty)man)bag usually contains: Swiss army knife, netbook, waterproof bag, moleskin note/sketchbook, pens, pencils, highlighters, ipod, headphones, wallet, camera, mobile phone, a novel or travelogue, a book of poetry, emergency fruit bar things, paracetomol, usb stick, travel tissues, a carabiner, a light windproof/waterproof, sunglasses, normal glasses and assorted bits of junk.
What?! I like to travel light.
***
Mini-recommendations:
I love Sian’s blog. It is astute, clever, personal, observational, creative and sharp. Just like Sian. Go and read.
When I asked twitter for music recommendations the other month, the stalwart Eyoki came back with Catbird and the Boban Markovic Orkestar. Both utterly brilliant.
Marmite. Awesome. Why am I even having to recommend this? Best on twice toasted crumpets, heavily buttered, so that the butter and Marmite ooze through. Scrumptious. And use the jar stuff, not that squeezy bottle rubbish.
A little while ago I blogged about flash fiction, haiku and entering Nicola Morgan‘s flash fiction competition on her Wasted blog.
The competition was to write a short story of 50 words or less about fate, chance or luck. Being me, I chose all three.
Anyway, I found out this morning that the judgement had been made, the winners chosen, laurels bequeathed, processions arranged, etc. So I went over to have a look (feeling rather nervous).
There are some fantastically written snippets on there, encapsulating both the moment and the beyond (backwards and forwards in time). Tanya Byrne’s piece is deservedly a winner and has many layers hidden within its few words. I am also really taken with Kate Kelly’s piece, a fantastic snapshot of a moment on the Titanic, taken from the viewpoint of a band member.
The School-age category more than holds it own against the adults, the winning piece by Ellis Smith is superb, as are the rest (I was particularly struck by Heather Phillip’s story).
Anyway, I found out that I had been placed amongst the commended submissions in the Adult category, which was both heartening, pleasing and, yes, for a moment, giddiness-inducing. And having my piece considered side by side with such excellent writing is both humbling and awesome (sorry @Eyoki). In all honesty, just entering such competitions is a fun and enjoyable exercise, and it is always intriguing to see what your fellow competitors come up with, given the brief and the word limit.
The winning and commending pieces can be found here, go read, I hope you enjoy and have a go one day.