The Magician, Her Hat, Tea Leaves, And The Shadow of Byker Wall

A post about the reading of tea leaves.  This is the fourth and final post of short pieces that were written in Writers' Cafe sessions this week.

Personally I don't believe in the power of the tea.  I believe in the power of the reader of the tea.  Not to read the tea of course.  But to see into a situation and form ideas and pictures based on that situation and upon human psychological skills to instinctively see or cognitively analyse and comment based on what's in a person's head rather than what's left in their tea cup.  I believe the same about other methods of divination and analysis too, from palmistry to tarot to numerology and the roll of dice.  Feel free to disagree and ascribe power to lines and cards and leaves or to a mystical, prophetic guide who places the leaves and cards in the right order for a situation.

I've been to a place sometimes and we've drawn cards to represent our lives.  Everyone goes "Wow!" at the interpretations given.  The next week we're there again.  We draw different cards.  Everyone goes "Wow!" again.

Have all of our lives changed so drastically in the course of a week?  I don't think so.

Divination, I believe, teaches us of ourselves.  It can be useful - or it can be dangerous.  Sometimes it's just a bit of fun.  And on occasion, a rarity, it can be a writing prompt.

So it was at the Writers' Cafe.  Each of us had our tea leaves read.  With mint tea because the leaves were more varied than those of the tea tea in the cafe.  The woman who runs the group read us.

Here's my cup.  I ask you.  What do you see?  A friend just saw a cup that needed cleaning.  Another friend saw Jesus - but she is a Carmelite lay sister so she sees Jesus in many things.

Our group leader saw a magician with a wand.  She decided that the magician had lost her hat.  She said other things too but as a writing prompt the magician appealed.  Can you see too?

Here's the writing, the same words as were freely written in not many minutes at the end of our session.  I gave myself a D minus for it.  People seemed to like it though.  That, I suppose, is magic.

Byker, for those who don't know, is a district in Newcastle Upon Tyne.  A children's programme was set there but not filmed there.

Byker has a wall.  The wall contains 620 flats and homes and encloses the Byker Wall estate.  The whole place is architecturally famous and is now Grade II listed.  Fame doesn't imply beauty of course.  Some very ugly places are listed.

Some will speak of the estate in terms that say "Abandon hope all ye who enter" and imply that just walking into that estate will lead to a consequence somewhere between losing your possessions and losing your life.  Others speak of the estate in terms that say "I really like it here.  There's an amazing community and loads of artists."  I find I have friends there.  It's not a rich estate.  The millionaires live in other parts of the city.  And it's had its problems.  Every impoverished city estate does.  We were told when moving to the city, "Don't, whatever you do, move to Byker."  We were taught to fear a dangerous ghetto behind the Wall.  It must be admitted that crime levels in Byker are higher than those where I currently live.  The crime map for that area has more than twice as many reported crimes as the map for this area.  But most people of course are just getting on with their lives.  And there are loads of good people in the area too.  Yes, including artists.  Including friends.

It took me six years to enter the estate.  And at that moment I fell in love.

The magician lost her hat.
But somewhere, under the shadow of Byker Wall,
Her magic will be returned to her.
In the Wall is life.  In the wall is death.
In the Wall the elemental gods play together.

Under green wood and rainbow rooftops,
Among addictions and artists,
Within the underclass and dispossessed -
The purest of humanity.
Above Tyne waters returning to ocean,
Full-felt, full-flung source of Poseidon's blessings.

Through sacred seclusion, close community,
The magician will not find her old hat.
But she'll weave, spin, breathe a hat
Fine enough that the original may be gladly forgotten.

Replaced, reborn under Byker Wall,
The magician will learn to speak.
In the new beginning was her Word.

The Remains of the Life. Mister Cohen's Attic

This is the second of four short pieces written quickly in writers' groups this week.  This one finished in a completely different place than I thought it would.  It was all going so well.  Until that sudden change of direction that took it into a place I didn't particularly want to be.  You will see what I mean.

The line structure is as it is for one reason only:  I was writing on the right-hand third of a sheet of paper having filled the left-hand two thirds with the poem I posted yesterday.

Tomorrow I'll post the first of two pieces from the writers' group the following day.  The prompt given for that related to the origin stories of different types of tea.  I didn't stay within that box.  At the Writers' Cafe we're very good at leaving boxes behind and just seeing where the words carry us.  Every time there's something produced that leaves me in awe.

After the auction of the house
Of the late Mister Cohen
I found his forgotten family waste
In the loft of my new home.

Three torn cookery books.
A broken framed, scratched photo
Portrait of an unknown soldier.
Worthless antiques.
A pair of porcelain potties.
Souvenirs of holidays in Taunton.
Silver plate spoons.  Half a set.
Tarnished beyond hope.
Moth-eaten wedding dress,
Once white, once born of love.

He left me newspapers:
Bundled.  1960s Daily Mails.
A Victorian taxidermy display
Of birds.  Decayed, under broken glass.

And in the locked chest
I had to break, forced by chisel
I found my prize.

Coins.  Stamps.
And a collection of Herr Cohen's love letters.
Each one from the Fuhrer himself.
Each one sealed with his kiss.

The Came From Darkness - Creatures In The Attic

I've enjoyed being with creative people in different groups this week.  On both Tuesday and Wednesday morning I was able to attend The Writers' Cafe.  Both occasions were a joy.  It's great to meet with the people there; to chat and to write.  It's great to be among people who are enthusiastic for the process of writing and who encourage each other in that process.  It's great to get feedback.  And it's great to hear the wide range of work we come up with, quickly written, from the various writing prompts.

Each session is themed and during our time together we will write from one or two prompts.  This week has given me four short pieces of writing.  Today I'm going to post the first of these.  Our topic was attics.  This remained the theme for the second piece.  I have homework to write about a cellar and a discovered place.  My confession is that I haven't done my homework yet even though the idea for what I will writer was already there in my head on Tuesday in the group.

Today I've spent the day with my little autistic theatre group.  Those people are great.  The radio play I've written there is complete with the exception of sorting out the files for sound effects and background music.  I've found it all but haven't been disciplined enough to download and convert it all.  Some more homework.

Here then is the first little piece from The Writers' Cafe this week.  In many ways it's the weakest of the four.  It needs more detail and perhaps one day it'll get it.  For now though here are the words, as free written in the session.  They're in 5-7-5 syllable structure, like haiku but not true traditional haiku themes or image structure.

Image from here.

They came from darkness.

Grinning yellow teeth; grey eyes.

Whispered sour nothings.

They came from darkness.

Slow descent of attic stairs,

Torn clothes, dead scarred chests.

They came from darkness.

Fingers: Beckoning.  "Join us.

Cursed, But not alone."

They came from darkness.

With one flick of loft light switch

They vanished from sight.

Glaring, naked bulb

Shone through my fierce fear haunting

Revealed only dust.

Later, I upstairs

Explored the memory space.

Boxes of other lives.

In the light, safety.

I smiled.  Relieved.  Began to laugh.

Then, they laughed with me.

The light dimmed to black.

Hands.  Breath.  My body held.  Squeezed.

They came from darkness.

Consequential Loss - Notes On A Radio Play And Autistic Theatre

I recently took the plunge and joined up with a theatre group for autistic people.  It's a pretty new group and the people there are varied.  There autism is as varied as they are.  What everyone shares is enthusiasm.

The core group meet currently for one day a week, being joined for the morning by a group from a local college of ESPA (Education and Services for People with Autism).  We have fun and are supported in what we do by two paid staff members who work more or less full time for the Twisting Ducks Theatre Company which is run for people with learning difficulties and (now) autism.

I feel very fortunate to be able to go and have fun with the people of Spectrum Theatre - the autistic child of the Twisting Ducks.  It is hoped that in the future some extra funding can be obtained which would mean that the work of Spectrum could develop a lot further.  Also in the near future there's going to be an eight week creative writing course - which we're really meant to call creative storytelling in recognition that there may be people on that course who have amazing imaginations but who can't write or can't write well enough to set down their fantastic stories on paper.

I'm also very fortunate in that the current funding obtained for Spectrum means that the day that's laid on for we autistic people is free of charge.

I've met some great people in Spectrum, all autistic and all experiencing joys and trials that accompany our condition.  And it's just one more way for me to open up to my own creative possibilities and the possibilities of others.  For now it is a place I will stay.  I make no predictions for the future.

Almost the first thing the core group were asked to do was to write a radio play.  Each of us would write, with the idea being that we will record the plays and put them out on a local community radio station.

I've written quite a lot in the past year, though not as much I would have liked.  But I've never attempted a play either from scratch or from adapting one of my crazy stories.

I have now written a play.  And then it had to be edited - the censor's pen had to be used.   The broadcasts would be daytime and I accidentally wrote something with adult content and language including rather more swearing than families would appreciate.  I'd written a late night show or something to adapt into a theatre piece with a 15+ age warning.

I've been my own censor though.  The fruity language has been removed or toned down and I wonder in places whether I've lost realism.  I've adjusted quite a few lines.  Watered down sex references and some imagery that the BBC controller would have banned.  I'm glad the actual plot is unchanged.  There's still the darkness and light, the despair, the betrayals, the hope.  I'm glad I haven't been asked to make the plot insipid

There's also the matter of religion.  One of the characters is a religious homophobic bigot.  I can write religious bigots.  I know the subject first hand!  The character is quite extreme but I've known people who are equally extreme and equally nasty about it too.  I thankful I didn't get quite that bad myself in my own years of religious homophobia.  I think that the character worked as I wrote her.  She's still there too.  She's surviving the censor.  But her language and bile is a little mellowed.  I also considered the intended audience and wondered whether they would be up in arms about my attack on the Christian faith.  It's not really that of course, just an attack on a particular manifestation of the faith, the version that names people like me as abominations.  For a late night broadcast or a theatre I'd let it stand.  But not for this intended broadcast.  So I've taken pains to point out that not all Christians are like that.

Since the broadcast will be in Newcastle I've pointed to a few of the churches here in which being queer won't result in the preacher abusing you or consigning you to hell for your sexuality and gender.  Who knows?  Perhaps someone will hear it who is a Christian and is queer too but hiding the truth and fighting against themselves through guilt.  Just as I did.  Perhaps someone like that will hear and something will be planted in them that helps them seek out a place where they can live their faith in more freedom.  I can live in the hope that a radio play might do some good.

I've deliberately kept the scenes simple.  Deliberately linked them with narration from the main character.  I think, as a first attempt at writing a play, it has worked out well.  Unfortunately I now want to re-edit it to put some of the fruitier language and imagery back in and have two versions of it to play with.

Each of us in that core group has written a play.  They are as varied as we are.  I've ended up being the only one of us to include nothing from the realms of science fiction and fantasy.  Much as I love those genres - and need to get back to working on my post-apocalyptic dystopian novel - I've ended up firmly rooted in the real world.  The other plays are each filled with their own surprises and it's a good thing that they are such contrasts from each other.

My first scene was initially written at a Spectrum session.  We were all told to write a scene.  One simple idea popped into my head and it just flowed with hardly another conscious thought.  Two friends meet in a cafe.  One confesses to the other that she is having an affair.  She was having it with a man named Graham.  But as I wrote his name my pen paused, almost the only break it gave to my writing hand.  My pen considered its options.  Crossed out the word Graham.  And wrote the word Erica.

Since that day I haven't made any enormous changes to the scene - just a few, arising from details the characters gave me about themselves as they wrote the rest of the play for me.  It's always nice when people can hardly believe that I've just written something from scratch in a writing session.  That happens sometimes.  Other times I can hardly write anything at all and any words that get miserably scrawled should really only be filed in the embarrassing section.

I hope that writing the play has taught me something about the process.  Something I can put to good use later.  I hope too that it will give me a little more confidence in writing conversations.  I never used to include much in the way of conversation because I didn't think I understood the rules of conversation well enough to write one.  I hope that this play is a step on the path to being able to write realistic and engaging talk.  I don't think I'm there yet.

Sometime soon I'll probably post the whole play here.  Unless I go crazy, edit it more and try and get someone more professional to record it.  That's always a possibility.

So, onwards with Spectrum.  See where it leads.  I'm guessing it may throw me in a few surprising directions.  And I'm happy with that idea.

Eyes That Follow You Round A Room - A Poem And A Prose Piece

A day for feeling mentally a little wrecked and I'm proud of myself because I made it to the Writers' Cafe this morning and managed not to walk out even though I was feeling totally nauseous with anxiety and for a while could hardly process verbal inputs among the noises from other parts of the cafe.  And the wallpaper?  Oh God the wallpaper.  I find it difficult on the best of days.  Today it came alive and at times engulfed my whole existence.

Our theme this morning was "Eyes That Follow You Round A Room" based on art work, John Berger and our own thoughts.  I wanted to get out of that place.  Instead I managed to write a few words.  The poem below.  And I had an idea, the first fruits of which are below in prose.  One scene out of what could be a larger tale.  I just free wrote it and the scene was not quite the one I'd had in my mind when I began.

The wall of wallpaper.  Someone CHOSE this paper.

The Joy of Painting

Alone unpainted.

Forced to bear my existence

Among silenced lives.

The don't speak to me.

Except to say their contentment

Is found on canvas.

In paint there's no pain.

Even the eyes of The Scream

Are calmer than my own.

Without words they call:

Join us.  Stretch yourself.  Bare flesh

and blood is your paint.

No walking future.

A blade is the artist's brush

Releasing my life.

In death I'll be preserved.

Freed into quiet.  Lifted high.

Held, framed on a wall.

The Faceless One

Having forced open the French window it was still difficult to climb inside, across a large desk and into Doctor Wilson's study.  On the way I knocked my knee hard into the window ledge, placed my hand down painfully onto something jagged, and knocked something heavy to the floor.  When it landed on the floor the thud sounded to me more like the chiming of the clock in St. Matthew's church down in the village square and I held myself motionless, hardly daring to breathe.  No lights were turned on though and I could hear nothing beyond the ambience of the night.

Once in the study I turned on my flashlight and found that the jagged item had been a crystal of some variety, purple and sharp.  I removed my glove to check my hand and was relieved to see that there was no blood.  Nevertheless I wiped down the crystal carefully.  The thud had been caused by a large paperweight.  I was only slightly shocked to see that the resin contained two human ears and a tongue.  I placed it carefully back on the desk hoping that I'd put it roughly where it had been before.  It wasn't what I had come for and it wouldn't do anyone any good were I to remove it.

I turned and scanned the study with my flashlight until the beam hit the bookcases on the other side of the room.  Somewhere among them was my prize.  I began to tiptoe towards the books, worried that each step would cause an almighty creak in the floorboards and the doctor would wake and discover me.  I didn't want to consider whether I might be able to talk my way out of the situation.  I doubted I could.

As I crept past a green leather sofa in the centre of the room I heard a squelching noise behind me.  Faint.  But definitely present.  I swung round and shone my light in the direction of the sound.  Nothing.  I was alone.  I scanned the room with the beam a few more times to make sure before turning back to my goal.  Two more steps.  The noise again.  I turned.  Was everything the same?  I thought so.  Something was making that noise though and my heart beat faster.  I knew I was beginning to sweat and hoped beyond hope that I could find the book and escape.  The doctor's study would be the worst place for a full blown panic attack.

I took deep breaths.  Willed myself to relax.  Told myself I was alone.  And then, I am almost ashamed to admit it, I crossed myself and said a prayer before heading with greater speed to the bookcases.  The squelch squelch began again and I tried to ignore it.  There's nothing there.  Nothing there.  Nothing there.  I tried to convince myself but in that situation I was the queen of sceptics.

I shone my flashlight across each shelf of books in turn.  Books of anatomy and physics were scattered among volumes of stage magic and actual magic and books of stories and poems by writers so obscure their names didn't even ring vague bells in my mind.  All the time the squelching.  Louder.  Closer.  Or was I imagining it?

I cursed my luck as I didn't find what I was seeking until the final shelf.  A precious book.  At least it was precious to me.  Because it had been mine.  I hadn't bought this book in a shop.  I had hand crafted each page, making the paper and the binding myself.  And I'd filled it with the results of my own researches.  Ten years of work distilled into one journal.  Stolen by Doctor Wilson.  The theft had taken place the previous year and it had taken this long to discover the perpetrator.  I hoped he hadn't been able to decode too many of my ciphered scratchings and drawings.

I hastily took the book and placed it into my bag.  Turning I saw a hint of movement on the dark floor.  The squelching stopped.  I shone my flashlight at the movement and there, in the middle of the floor, I saw two eyes.  Just eyes.  The eyeballs and connecting tissue that would normally hold an eye to a head.  No head.  No face.  No eyelids.  Just eyes.  Staring up at me.

I realised in that moment that the eyes had been following me round the room.  I realised too that Doctor Wilson's experiments had progressed further than I feared.  If he could remove a person's eyes and they could continue to live apart he had followed his science to a level I hadn't dreamed.  Perhaps I could help.  Rescue these instruments of vision.  Perhaps even one day locate the face they had been cut from and restore them.  Maybe I could find a way to communicate with an eye and it would help me find its true home.

Without a further thought I picked up the two eyes and placed them in my bag with my journal.  Thought could wait until I was standing in a place safer than the doctor's study.  I climbed back across the desk and out of the window, sliding it closed behind me.

And then I ran, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the night.

Guest Post: Joshua James, Spirit Medium and Healer. My Story.

This was free written on paper, Nexus Art Cafe, Manchester on 9th March.  Typed up with no alterations at all, 10th March.  At this point it's possible that I will miss a day or two of posting on this blog.  I'm visiting Manchester and haven't got a lot of time for writing and posting.  While I gave myself a little leeway I'm not sure I gave myself enough.  We'll see.  It's possible I won't have time to write again until I'm home.  But I could always borrow a story I posted elsewhere towards the end of last year.  I haven't posted it on this blog or on any of the blogs I was creating last year.  We will see.  I don't want to miss days but a post a day for a year is always going to be a challenge.

Image taken from here.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Spirit Medium.  That's me.  I'm gonna be famous.  Want your fortune told?  Come to me.  Want to get a message from you mum?  I'm your man.  Believe me.  Come to one of my shows and you won't leave unchanged.  That's what one reviewer said.  Look it up.  If you like.  It's on my Facebook page.  They wrote that they'd never spent a better ten pounds and that I'd made them a believer.  That's what I'm here for.  And twenty pounds is nothing compared to the comfort.  Price of fame - I had to charge more but it's still a bargain.  And with every ticket you'll get a two pounds of voucher for my book.  I'll even sign it too.  For free.  Photos cost more.  Great book.  You'll never forgive yourself if you don't buy a copy.  And some for your friends too.  "Joshua James.  My Life With the Spirit World."  The stories will amaze you.  All true.  All of it.  That's what you get from me.  Truth.  Truth and revelation.  No charlatan tricks.  No fakery.  I'm no Psychic Sally.  I'm the real deal and you wouldn't catch me with someone feeding me messages.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Medium.  Healer.  Yes, healer.  I only discovered my healing power a while back.  Thirty quid a session.  Can't beat it.  And while I can't claim you'll be totally well in a day I can say that if you come back regularly things might surprise you.  Lisa Colgan said so.  Said I'd cured her asthma, her bad back.  And her depression too.  All in only twenty sessions.  And you know you can trust Lisa.  She's got a good heart and mentioned me on TV once too.

It's down to her I got my next gig.  I'm playing the West End.  Seven nights in a theatre there.  They're gonna love me.  Of course.  I'll start with something simple.  A few words for the sick.  Then get on with the fine art of contacting the dead.  It'll be excellent and then I'm pretty sure I'll get a TV show.

It's all be worth it.  The years of struggle, rejection.  The times I got laughed at for saying it's real.  I used to play in local halls I did.  I was a half decent conjuror and mentalist.  Used to play to mainly empty rooms exposing the tricks of people like Psychic Sally.  Awful woman.  That's what I think.  I thought it all nonsense.  Cast myself as a follower of Houdini, James Randi, and the school of skeptics.  My friends kept telling me I'd make more cash if I fleeced the vulnerable.  But I kept telling them no.

Those were hard years. The Humanists would pay me thirty quid for an evening.  That was about it.  I went on tour once.  Paid for it myself.  Lost a lot of money because nobody wanted to know about Sally.  One time I played in Manchester.  Same night as Sally.  She sold out one of the big theatres.  I sold seventeen tickets.  I had a happy audience of course but happiness doesn't pay the rent.  Sally had no rent worries.  It was all so unfair.  Of course it was.  People are completely gullible.  Don't want to know they've been fooled, fallen for a false cult of spiritism.  "Joshua James Exposes The Charlatans" wasn't ever going to be a hit show.  But I was proud of it.  There were jokes too and demonstrations of fake mediumship, and fake healings that some people thought real even when I said they weren't.  I could hold an audience.  It's just I didn't get an audience to hold.

Everything changed a couple of years back.  Made a discovery.  I discovered that if I truly believed it was true then it might be.  I read Psychic Sally's books.  Saw her life.  Saw how she wrote about it all even while faking those messages and getting messages from people who weren't even dead.  And I decided.  I wanted a house too.  Wanted to be able to afford nice food.  Wanted to be on TV.  So I decided I would choose to believe.  Present it all as true until it became true.  In the middle of a drunken binge I realised I could change my act.  That I'd be more loved as the real thing.  That there wasn't room for two Derren Browns but plenty of room for another Sally.  One called Joshua.

So that's what I did.  The exposer of frauds became the fraud.  The monster slayer became the monster.  New show.  New act.  Totally.  My old friends laughed at me.  Called me scum, a traitor to reason.  That was fair.  I was that traitor.  Totally.  I own it.  But I didn't care.  The Royal had booked me without a second thought based on a five minute proposal.  Tickets sold out in a week.  And I became psychic.  Medium.  And lately a healer too.

Imagine my surprised expression when halfway through my second fakery show everything became real.  I received a gift.  Was given second sight.  I saw the dead.  Truly.  Saw the dead.  Lots of them.  I could have kept up that show all night, there were so many dead people.  It was brilliant.  You can read about it in chapter eight of my second book, "My Moment Of Truth."  Only twenty quid from all bookshops and two pounds off at my shows.  Chapters nine to twelve bring my story up do date and there some fabulous, totally true stories.  My psychiatrist tells me they're imaginary, that I just want them to be real and that I know so many magic tricks that my brain can just pretend.  She recommends anti-psychotic drugs.

But I know what I see.  And I'm going to be rich.  I can tell.  I can.  Because I'm psychic.  It's a gift.  You'll realise it too.  If you come to my show.  You might even be blessed with comfort.  You never know.  It's what you all want.  So come.  Be amazed.  And tell your friends.  Spread the word.  My name is Joshua James.  The real thing.  The best.  Psychic to the stars.  To Lisa Colgan anyway.  And I do it all for you.  The money is very good.  But I do it just for you.



(1043 words)

Some Found Diary Entries About The Mystery Of Babies (And Sex)

I found a book in the street today.*  I'm going to try to get it back to its owner if I can find him.  Inside the cover are the words, "Henry Rodgerson.  My Diary."  There was no address and I confess I read from the diary in order to try to return it.  I haven't been able to locate Henry.  Perhaps you can help.  These are the final two entries in the book.  If you have any ideas let me know.  I want to return the book if I can.

Thank you.

That's me.  About six weeks old and already looking happy!

March 7th 2017

The greatest mystery of life is this:  Where do babies come from?  They just seem to appear.  One week a woman is walking in the park alone.  The next she's in company.  Baby in a pram.  And then she'll gather with others.  Eight babies.  Eight prams.  And eight women, all sharing this special secret knowledge.  Babies.  I was one once.  At least that's what I've been told.  I don't remember it.  Perhaps they're right.  I was that small and helpless too.  I can't quite imagine it.  Maybe my parents were privy to that secret knowledge too and maybe they knew of deep mysteries.  Not me.  I've thought long and hard about these things.  Am I the only one who doesn't know?  Is there some kind of global conspiracy against me?  I mean, I know where to find a pram.  That's easy.  I even know where I might find a woman with the necessary skill to push the thing.  Women are everywhere.  I know that.  Everywhere.  I don't understand them though.  The only woman at home was mum and she's mum.  Not a woman like the ones in the park.  And there weren't any of these strange, somehow different creatures at school.  But I see them now.  Everywhere.  In shops, in the street.  I even see them at church and have talked to some of them too.  They don't seem very different but I can tell most of them are another species.  Because of their clothes.  Sometimes it's hard to tell.  No.  I don't understand what women are meant to be at all.  They're a bit like men.  Are they a new invention?  Did a doctor invent them round the time I left home?  I don't know.  Some of them look too old but I can't tell for sure.  Do women appear in the same way as babies?  Another secret.  How do I find out?  Anyway, I can find a pram.  Find a woman.  But a baby?  Where on earth can I find one of those that isn't already in a pram?  Why do they all know?
Long.  Hard.  Difficult.  That's how I've thought.  Yesterday my dad gave me a clue and it's what I'm going to investigate today.  I asked him about babies.  Again.  I keep asking him and he just goes silent.  Mumbles incoherently.  Or says to ask mum.  I ask her and she does the same.  But says to ask dad.  It's not fair.  I don't think so.  I mean, they know the secret.  Why don't they want me to know?  I'd quite like a baby.  They're so cute.  Except when they cry.  And so pink.  Except when they're other colours.  People are different colours.  Did you know that dear diary?  I was amazed to find that out when I left home.  It's okay though.  Doesn't matter.  It was a shock though the day I first saw a person who wasn't pink.  Now I'm used to it and wonder why I only saw pink people at school.  Anyway.  I asked dad again yesterday.  And asked again.  I want answers.  I want a baby and if there's a special shop I want to know where it is.  So I asked him.  Over and over.  Forty-seven times.
It was at this point he snapped at me.  Looked mean.  Shouted, "Damn you stop asking about such disgusting things."  I don't think babies are disgusting.  So I asked again.  "Please dad, you got me.  Where do babies come from?  Where did you go to get me?"  Dad boomed.  "For God's sake Henry.  Didn't you listen to Secks Ed?"  Then he stormed out.  Slammed the door so hard the walls shook.  I've never seen him to that before.
A clue.  Secks Ed.  Secks Ed.  Funny name.  I know someone called Ed.  But his first name isn't Secks.  Secks.  Secks?  Funny word.  What kind of a word is that?  Secks Ed.  And then in the middle of the night I realised.  Secks.  I've heard the word before.  In hushed tones.  It was a long time ago.  I was still at school.  Fifteen years old.  There was a rumour.  All of us were going to meet Secks Ed.  Maybe he was a clown.  Big red nose.  Perhaps he'd read us a story or teach us about another country.  Or tell us about politics.  No wonder the tones were hushed if he was going to mention dangerous things like politics.
This morning I remembered.  I never got to meet Secks Ed.  Never.  I would have to find him.  And so later I'm going to the library for the first time.  See if they know Secks Ed.  They might know his address.  I'm excited to find him.  I'll tell you why I didn't meet him when he visited my school.  Did he say something about babies?  I can hardly believe it's possible.  Circuses and maths.  That would be better.  Much preferable and I'd like to have seen his big red nose and ...


[at this point a page has been ripped out]

... the library.



March 8th 2017

Oh my God.  No.  That's awful.  The man at the library gave me a book.  He said that Ed wasn't a person at all.  His first name was on the front of the book and it's actually spelled S - E - X.  When I got home I started to read the book.
THAT happens?  No.  No.  NO.  God no.

I don't want a baby any more.  Awful.  Truly, gut-wrenchingly the worst thing I've ever seen.  Disgusting.  Horribly, horribly disgusting.  The pictures are even worse.  I feel very ill.

Say no more.  I'm going back to bed.





*All information in the opening paragraph is false. The diary entries were free written in a Writers' Cafe session on March 7th.  The session was based on The Guinness Book of Records but some of us moved far away from the books.  How I got from the world record Rubik's Cube solve to the free writing is a tale that I don't need to tell here.  Especially as I want to write about the Cube at some point.  I put this disclaimer here just so you know I'm not publicly posting the private diary of someone.  As if you ever thought I might.

The Man Who Worshipped Trevor Noah

I went there for some peace and quiet, fool that I was.  I wanted to sit in comfort, sip my drink, open my notebook and be inspired to write something passionate, something that would make the world sit up and listen.  I didn't get my wish of course.  As it turned out I could hardly write a word.  A few hasty scribbles.  Two crossed out lines.  Three more attempts ready to be consigned to the bin.  On another day perhaps that missing inspiration would be found as I sat in the sunny window of that Newcastle café.  Perhaps I'd be able to watch the people pass by, see their faces, clothes, and the way they walked.  Their smiles as they talked with each other.  Their pained expressions as if their lives had fallen apart, perhaps as a result of being mistreated via cruel government policies.  When DWP assessors have (allegedly) asked people why they haven't yet killed themselves, what hope do the poor unfortunates passing by have?  Perhaps a man and woman would pass by having a very public argument, swearing at each other, calling each other worse names than I can think of and then storming off in opposite directions still effing and snarling.  I wonder.  If one of that pair had stormed into the café.  Sat on the seat opposite me.  What would I do?  If she sat, slumped into her chair and burst into tears.  Or if he sat, glared at me and said "What the f*** are you looking at you c***?  She's just a f***ing b**** getting pregnant like that."  What would I do?  I can tell you this:  I wouldn't cope well.  I wouldn't have a clue.  At least, I think I wouldn't.

From a cafe trip. A different cafe.

That didn't happen of course.  I didn't watch the people.  Instead I gave up.  Put my pad of paper away.  Played with my phone.  Gulped my drink.  And left.  Frustrated.  That's one story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The other is the man who caused me to be even more frustrated.   The man who robbed me of any chance I had of finding peace.  Yes, him.  The man at the next table.  He had his phone out the whole time I was there.  That wouldn't have affected me at all of course.  But he wasn't texting.  Wasn't reading.  Wasn't even playing a mindless or mindful game.  He was watching videos.  One after another.  With adverts in between.  And with the volume turned up high.

I tried to ignore him.  I failed.  I put on my headphones.  Switched the noise cancelling on.  And still I could hear those videos.  Loud.  Now, if I weren't English and if I wasn't so scared of people I might have acted.  Don't say I'm not scared.  I am.  I know it might not appear that way a lot of the time - like yesterday when I pretended to find lots of fun in strangling people and stomping on the heads of kittens.  Ooh.  I'm a terrible monster.  Or at least, from time to time, I can create some despicable people for the purposes of fiction and performance.  A monster is much more enjoyable than a Mary Sue.  If I was someone else I might have got up and asked him - or told him - to turn the videos off or the volume down.  Advise him of the benefits of headphones.  But I'm not.  Instead I suffered.  Martyred myself.  Perhaps everyone in the café this morning barring that man were martyrs.

I suffered.  Complained.  Updated Facebook.  And left.  That's another story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The videos he was watching all came from the same source.  The Daily Show.  It's an American TV show currently hosted by Trevor Noah.  It's known for being decidedly left wing.  It's known for not pulling any punches when discussing politics and politicians.  Trevor Noah is a comedian who grew up, of mixed race, in apartheid South Africa.  Before taking over as Daily Show host he used to appear sometimes on UK panel shows.

Under other circumstances I'd have happily watched the videos.  Hey, there's an idea.  Why didn't I just get up and ask the man if I could watch the videos with him?  Stop being frustrated.  Find something to laugh at.  I've watched Daily Show monologues sometimes.  I have friends who adore them.  And, I confess, in the last week I watched an old Trevor Noah one man show filmed in a New York theatre.  It was a comedy.  I have to say that mostly it was more interesting than funny and sometimes my interest strayed.  Perhaps that's because my sense of humour very often doesn't match up with that of many people.  Perhaps I was just in a bad mood.  I had, after all, melted down that morning and was struggling with the after effects of that.  I watched to the end through stubbornness, a refusal to give up on what was meant to be good.  When the end came it took me completely by surprise.  It felt like he was half way to explaining something.  Half way.  And all of a sudden he was all "Thank you New York, you've been great.  Goodnight."  I was waiting for a resolution or at least a punchline and none came to me.  It was as if someone had ripped out the last chapter of a whodunnit.  And yet, and yet.  I'm still going to watch another show he made.  It looks a lot more interesting.  And I'm still going to listen to Daily Show monologues sometimes.

So I didn't ask to join in.  I got up and asked the man to turn off the video or turn down the volume.  I was scared but I did it anyway.  I'm glad I did.  He wasn't aggressive.  Not at all.  Instead, he looked at me with sad, puppy dog eyes and said, "But don't you love Trevor?  Isn't he a dream?"  I have to admit to being surprised.  There I was thinking he was watching in order to witness incisive wit and a stream of insults of the Trump government.  I hadn't expected this total crush.

I said I thought Trevor to be alright.  I didn't tell him that I'd been a bit bored with the one man show.  I also admitted I didn't fancy him.

"Oh.  That's a shame.  Me?  I love him.  He's so clever and he's so handsome too.  Not just handsome.  He's my pin-up boy.  Literally.  I have pictures of him on the wall.  And that voice, oh god wow that voice.  Melts everything.  Just listen."

He turned the volume up a bit more and pointed his phone my way.  Trevor was discussing Trump's policies on immigration with regard to mainly Muslim countries the USA doesn't sell lots of weapons to and also with regard to the wall Trump wants between the USA and Mexico to keep Mexicans out because they're rapists (Trump said).  I watched.  Trevor made a joke.  I was expecting him to mention Trump's campaign promise to defeat ISIS within thirty days.

I'd have happily sat down and had a good moan about US government policy.  And about UK government policy too.  About the pained expressions on the faces of the people I hadn't watched from my window seat.  I'd have told him how the night before someone had exhorted a group of us to "give Trump a chance" and how any chance I gave him had been squandered within a week as he continued to say and do mean things to anyone who didn't fit his perfect picture, some of whom had voted for him.

But the man didn't want to discuss politics.  He wanted to discuss Trevor.  Just Trevor.  His passionate obsession.  I guessed that Trevor was fortunate to be living in America.  That way the man in the café couldn't be his stalker.  Had he desired to be such a thing.

"So why don't you love Trevor too?" he asked me.  "How come you're not hot for him?  How come you wouldn't like to hold him in your arms and be kissed by him in his dressing room after The Daily Show?"

"Well, er, why should I? Not everyone is going to admire him as much as you."

"But why don't you?  He's so gorgeous.  I wish I could meet him."

"Well.  If you must know, it's nothing personal about Trevor Noah.  I'm sure he's handsome in his own way.  I'm told he is.  But I'm a lesbian.  So he's just not my type."

"That's no excuse.  He's Trevor Noah.  He could sway you to the other side if you just listened some more.  He nearly swayed Sandi Toksvig.  He did!  She said so.  On television.  And she wouldn't fib.  Not Sandi.  I love her too.  Wouldn't that have been just brilliant if she had decided to fall head over heels in love with Trevor?  And all because he spoke some Xhosa.  He should have said some more and then she'd have turned.  I just know she would.  He's just so wonderful."

"I don't think he'd ever turn me.  Just the thought of it makes me shudder.  I'm sorry.  But I'm a women only kind of woman.  And I'm not much into them either.  At least, not in that way."

"But what if Trevor said he was really a woman.  Would you fall in love with him then?"

"Er.  I haven't thought about that question before.  I'll have to give it some thought."

"Okay.  Fair enough.  Just think though.  Trevor and Sandi.  Wouldn't they have made the perfect couple?  I can see the wedding photos in my head.  I've designed them you see.  And if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't even have to change.  That would be awesome.  I've designed them clothes for that too.  Here, look."

And the man pulled out a large hardback book from his back.  On the cover he had written, "Trevor Noah is the best man on earth."  He opened it up.  There were pages and pages of reasons.

"And this is the bit where I watched that rerun and saw Sandi nearly become straight.  And this is where I designed them clothes.  Took me all day."

He showed me two pages.  On the first was a picture of Trevor and Sandi dressed up for their wedding.  They were holding hands.  I had to admit that the man wasn't bad as an artist.  Surrounding the picture were lots of notes on how and where the wedding would take place.  He flicked on a few more pages and showed me the second.

"And this is when I realised that if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't have to start fancying man."

A second wedding picture, this time of Sandi and Trevor both in the most fabulous pure white wedding dresses.  The shading he had got into his picture was astonishing.  The notes about the same sex wedding seemed very different although I noticed that both contained a Xhosa musician singing the Danish national anthem.  And why not?

"Wouldn't it be amazing to meet them on their honeymoon and become very good friends with them?  Maybe even with benefits.  It won't happen of course.  But you can't stop a man dreaming.  Anyway, I must stop all this chatting.  I've got another five monologues to watch before leaving this place.  You're welcome to sit here with me and I can point out all the funniest parts.  I know them by heart."

I declined the offer.  I had places to be.  I invented them on the spot in order to have an excuse to leave that didn't seem rude.  I'm glad I talked to the man.  I didn't find out his name.  And I never did get any peace in the cafe.  But I've been able to remember our one-sided conversation with a very uneasy smile.  It's been a pleasure to share it with you and stamp on any confidentiality he might have been expected.  I wouldn't have done it ordinarily.  But when the conversation isn't real and you don't pretend it ever took place perhaps you can't breach confidentiality.

Yes.  I'm glad I talked with him.  I just hope I never see him in a cafe again.


[1971 words]

Death And Life At Sea - A Continuation of A Fallen Life

Note: This post follows on immediately from yesterday's post.  You can find that under this link.

I have been told too that I should return to my private detective, whose first case was posted within the last week.  You can find that under this link.  I also want to continue the story about the stranger on my bed.  I posted the first part of that a few days ago.  You can find that under this link.  I also need to write about The Cafe of Stolen Dreams.  And I have a novel to write too.  So many possible writing projects.  When I began this blog two months ago my only project was to write from a prompt every day.  I am amazed how much has changed in just two months.

This is the first time one post on this blog has followed on from another.  I guess it won't be the last.  Here it is.  The second short chapter of a story.  It began with suicide.  Happy stuff!





I awoke to find myself in someone else's bed.  I could tell it wasn't mine.  The light was all wrong, the covers were too scratchy, and my own bed tended to stay still.  This one was rocking gently and I couldn't tell whether the movement was soothing or nauseating.  I opened my eyes to find a man staring down at me.  He had four long scars running down the length of his face.

"So you've woken up all by yourself.  You're in a strange room and a man like me is with you.  What do you do?"

"Hey, what?"

"What do you do?  Serious question."

"Er, er.  I ask you where I am."

"Is that the best you can do?  How disappointing.  I was rather hoping you might use some magic power to transport yourself onto the deck or that you might see how sinister I look and decide to engage me in mortal combat.  It's been a while since anyone did that.  But no.  Where am I?"  He asked the question with a sarcastic leer.

"Okay then.  Who are you?   And how did I get here?"

"Pulled you out of the water didn't I?  I am Captain Jonas and you're on my ship.  Saw your body floating out in the sea and thought you were dead.  Maybe you were.  But then you had a heartbeat so I stuck you in the spare bed for safekeeping.  Thought it up to you whether you live or die.  You seem to be having difficulties making that choice for yourself but don't let my face scare you, I'm a kind old fool and thought you should have another chance."

It all came back to me.  My suicide.  My miraculous resurrection on the rocks and how I had subsequently drowned.  Or maybe I hadn't.  I couldn't have drowned could I?  Not totally, because I was here now.

Jonas kept talking but I hardly took in the words.  Something about death and life and turning of wheels.  I looked around at the cabin.  It contained two other beds, both with the same rough grey fabric that covered me.  Decoration was sparse and the grey paint on the walls was disheartening.  The only break from the grey was two pictures hung next to the door.  The first was of a whale.  The other of a blue wizard's hat and at the bottom of the picture I could just see that it was being worn by someone.  I lay back on the bed.  Started to drift away into sleep.  Until Jonas said something that brought me back to full alertness.

"Your friend wasn't so lucky."

"Wha .. wha ... what friend?"

"That other woman who was with you.  Sorry to have to tell you.  She's dead.  Won't be coming back to life any time soon either.  Not with the state of her.  I really don't understand how these things work.  There she is, all puffy and her skin a total mess.  Looks like she's been sleeping with the fishes for days.  And there you are, all bright eyes and perky in the first mate's bunk, with your skin all smooth and gorgeous as if you had only been out for a quick dip.  Say, you're not related are you?  She's all puffed up and it's a very sorry sight but she looks a bit like you.  Stuck her down in the freezer until we get to a port if that's okay.  Don't tell me you were out with your family and lost them all.  Not that.  Oh, why must I be so insensitive all the time?"

I understood.  My corpse from the rocks had obviously washed out too and been picked up with me in some freak of currents.  The bloated flesh was odd but I guessed that stranger things had happened.  Somewhere.  At least once.

"Can I see her?"

"Later, later.  There's plenty of time for that.  We won't be in port for a day or two unless that changes.  First off you should eat.  Must be hungry after nearly drowning and all.  I've put out some clothes for you on the other bed.  Yes, yes, you're naked.  I've seen it all.  Too late.  But I don't care about any of that and don't suppose you want to stay that way.  They're not much to look at and won't fit well but they're better than nothing.  Can get a bit cold on deck too when the wind takes us."

"Thank you captain.  You're too good to me."

"Nonsense lass.  Nonsense.  It's nothing.  Shame about the other one though."

"Was it bad?  How broken is she?  How bad do her injuries look?"

"Injuries?  Oh my no.  No injuries.  You don't get injured in the sea unless something eats you or you get stung by jellyfish or electric eels or find yourself caught up in the propeller of an ocean liner."  He laughed heartily.  "Injuries indeed.  My, my, you do have some funny ideas about the sea don't you?!"

Maybe I didn't understand after all.

"Please, I need to see her.  Need to know.  I couldn't eat a thing without knowing."

"Calm yourself.  Calm yourself.  Get yourself dressed and I'll take you down there.  She's not going anywhere.  And then afterwards I'll tell you what's what and you can help me clean the net.  It'll do you good.  Otherwise you'll just be thinking about it.  Why you're alive and the other one is very, very dead."

He left me then.  I got out of the bed.  Examined my body.  Everything was where it should be and I had to admit my skin really was quite gorgeous and smooth.  Where it should be?  Not quite.  It should be smashed up on the rocks and then washed into the sea.  If indeed the waves dislodged my corpse from those spikes.  That's where I should be.  Quite dead.  But nothing had gone to plan since I jumped from the cliff.  Nothing much had gone to plan in the year before jumping.  Otherwise I guess I would never have wanted to die so much.

As I dressed into Jonas' clothes I reflected that, having died twice, I didn't want to do it again.  I wanted to live.  Find a future.  Turn from all those things which had gone wrong and forge something new.  New town.  New people.  New everything.  I could do it.  Why not?  If others could sort their lives out why not me?  I didn't know why I wasn't dead.  Twice.  A rush of gratitude coursed through me and I burst into tears.

Once I had composed myself I left the cabin and found myself in a simple galley kitchen.  Jonas was there.  He took one look at me and burst out laughing.  "I'm sorry.  You do look funny though.  Dwarfed by my clothes.  And grey really isn't your colour.  I'll find you something in a bit to hold up those trousers.  Can't have you having to hold them up yourself all the time, not that I care.  Come on, I'll take you down to the other one now."

He led me out onto the deck of the boat, helping me climb the steep ladder from the galley although I didn't really need assistance.  On the deck I saw several fishing nets and various equipment that I hardly understood.  There was a wooden building at the front that looked close to collapse. Inside I could see the top of a steering wheel.  And that was it.  Everything was painted in the same grey as the cabin.

Jonas opened a trapdoor that had blended perfectly with the deck.  "Get a move on," he said, "I don't know about you but I want my lunch and if we don't hurry it'll be dinner time already and we'll be wanting to turn the clocks for a ham sandwich."

We climbed down another ladder.  This time I was offered no assistance.  In the room below there were several large freezers.  They all had their doors open.  All were empty.  And in the middle of the room were two smaller chest freezers.  "One's for my food.  The other's for just in case," Jonas explained.  "Wouldn't want the just in cases to get mixed with my food would I?  Even so they nearly didn't give me the second one.  Took weeks of arguing.   Seriously though?  Would you want to keep your fish fingers in the same box as your human fingers."

He laughed again.  I didn't.

"Sorry.  I guess that joke was in bad taste.  She's in that one on the right.  I'm off now.  Make lunch for us while I still can.  And then you can tell me about yourself and I can fill in the gaps."

Jonas left and I opened the freezer.  Laid out flat inside was a human corpse.  Bloated, distended, discoloured by the water and by having been dead for a while.  I could still see her face though.  It was mine.  I looked closer and reached in to check.  There were no obvious wounds.  No breakages.  Nothing to show where I had been impaled or shattered on the rocks.  I realised with a start that this wasn't that corpse.

The miracle had happened again.  I really had drowned.  Days ago probably.  And this was my corpse.  Or at least my second corpse.  Somehow I stood here.  Alive.  While I also lay here frozen on a fishing boat with no fish.  Somewhere, presumably, there was another version of me.  I stared at myself a little longer.  Closed the freezer.  And sank to the floor, uncomprehending, not wanting to face the questions that would come.  Perhaps my death would become harder than my life ever was.


[1614 words]

Death On The Rocks - The End and Beginning Of A Fallen Life

This is the beginning of a story.  Today I have no time or energy to complete it.  I promise you, it has a happy ending.  I know where it's going.  And it's going to be positive.  It just begins in an unhappy place.  I realise I'm collecting lots of unfinished projects.  I want to write more about Oxford Brookes.  I want to write more about the stranger on my bed.  Much more.  And I want to finish this tale.

I apologise that what I've written this morning - a shade more than 1500 words - ends at a difficult moment.  That couldn't be helped.  This person is telling me their story and that's the point they reached.  They've told me more but haven't given the details.  I know the destination.  I don't know the journey.

Okay, okay, you've convinced me.  Or rather Babylon 5 convinced me.  Joe Staczynski, the creator of that series, talked of the journey and the destination.  Episodes early on gave away parts of the destination.  We knew big parts of the fates of some of the characters.  We didn't know how they got there.  So I'm going to tell you one thing now about the character in this story.  One thing only:

They do not attempt suicide.

I think perhaps I should leave behind writing prompts much of the time.  I'm meant to be writing from a prompt on a list every day this year.  At it turns out I have only written from one of those prompts on one day in the last week.  I honestly believe it's the worst post out of the seven days.  Perhaps I should use the prompt only when I have nothing else to write about.  Not look at the prompt as my first priority for writing.

It is now the end of February.  I have posted every day for two months.  The blog is not what I had imagined it would be.  It is something more.  I've been pleasantly surprised by the experience.  Two months down.  Ten months to go.  I believe I can make it.

Rock under a cliff. Unlike the story.

To begin at the beginning.

No!  I'm not going to do that.  Other writers, more brilliant than I and with a dozen best-selling novels to their name might start their stories in a sensible place but I am known for being awkward, argumentative and just plain difficult.  So I'm going to begin at the end.

It hurt.  Everything hurt.  I can't begin to describe to you the pain.  As a life choice I wouldn't recommend jumping from a cliff, landing on rocks, breaking most of the bones in your body, getting impaled in two places on a spike and slowly bleeding out.  It's not something you might find in one of those books with names like "1001 Stupid Things You Must Do Before You Die."  If a book of methods of death was ever written, with the methods ranks in order of unpleasantness my choice of actions that day would have been somewhere on the unpleasant end.  Somewhere in between crucifixion and bathing in acid.

I couldn't move.  Screamed for help for a while although I knew there wasn't much of a chance of being heard.  I hadn't chosen my place of death for its publicity value.  Not for me the very visible statement of jumping from a skyscraper or leaping from the Pennine Way onto the M62.  If only I had.  Then perhaps the landing would have led to an instant end to my miserable being.  Or perhaps I was just as unlucky in death as I was in life.  Perhaps no matter how I'd decided to kill myself things wouldn't have gone as planned.

By all rights I should have been killed outright.  Four hundred foot sheer drop.  Onto the rocks.  No chance of surviving that.  And then the sea would wash in on the tide and carry my corpse away.  I'd studied the currents.  I wasn't going to be washing up on any beach.  Let my body be food for the ocean and do more good in death than it did in life.  That's what I'd thought of course.  Now I know better.

My death was slow.  Agonising.  And as I lay dying, in moments of clarity, I got to thinking about my choices and asked myself whether there might have been a better way.  A better way of dying.  Yes, that.  Even as blood seeped from my wounds I chastised myself for not killing myself properly.  Then another thought appeared.  I wondered whether there might have been a better way of living.  Or some reason why carrying on living might have been a good idea.  It was too late by then of course but I couldn't help but regret that I would never see the sunset again or the view from the top of the cliff.

I watched the sea.  It was getting closer and my dying was taking too long, without the pain ever diminishing.  I wondered whether it would be a lapse into unconsciousness that would take away my suffering.  Or whether it would be the sea, stealing me away and drowning me.  Drowning seemed infinitely more preferable to carrying on suffering.  I couldn't even move.  A seal on nearby rocks watched me curiously.

And then I died.  I felt myself sink away from the world.  The last I knew was the sound of the gulls and the waves that would soon claim me.  Death, when it finally came, was a relief.  Peaceful.  Death was a smile and I welcomed it.

That's the end of the story.  The very end.  Or at least it should have been.  I woke up again.  I found myself lying on the rocks under the cliff.  I wasn't in pain any more so that was something.  I lifted up my arms to check them, realising in the process that my right arm was no longer pinned on that spike.  There was no blood.  No sign of injury.  I sat myself up and looked around.

My first thought was to wonder how the heck I was going to get off the rock ledge I sat on.  The sea would cover it soon and there wasn't any way I'd be able to climb far enough to avoid it.  My second thought became clear when I turned round and saw myself.  I was dead.  Covered in blood.  A spike through my arm and side.  My body was a mess.  I walked over to it and examined it further.  Yes.  A mess.  But I looked peaceful.  Even after the torture I'd just experienced and the hurts and uncontrollable urges of the life I'd lived before.  After my hell, my loneliness, after all those years in which hope just kept being disappointed, I finally had a beatific look of peace on my face.  I was glad.

"Death, where is thy victory?  Where is thy sting?"  Okay.  I was dead.  But here I was, up and walking and with a body that made me feel fitter and stronger than I had since my teens.  I was a keen swimmer back then but hadn't even been in a pool in twenty years.  That reminded me.  The sea.  The cliff.  Perhaps I could swim out.  Maybe I'd get there.  Wouldn't drown or get caught too badly in the current.  Start walking now and I could cut down the distance I'd have to manage in the water.

I turned my back on my corpse.  Good riddance to it.  I had a new body now and it felt much better.  I began walking, as fast as I could manage without risking falling on the rocks.  As I walked, the obvious fact came to mind.  I was dead.  Wasn't I?  I didn't feel dead but I must be because I'd seen myself.  Was I some kind of ghost?  Surely not.  I had a physical body not some airy, half-believed amorphous form.  I pinched myself to make sure.  Yes.  Physical.  Definitely.  And I felt good.  Mentally too.  It was as if suffering so much on the rocks and then giving in to dying had cleared a lot of my problems away.  I wanted to live.  Found myself seeing living as a gift and this second chance as a miracle.  I stopped to catch my breath.  Before starting again I screamed out in joy.  I don't think I ever did that before.

The sea continued to advance until it washed over the rock shelf, covering my feet, my shins, my ankles.  A sudden rush of water, and how the hell did that happen?, and it covered my hips and I could hardly see the rocks below.  Walking further was going to be impossible.  I just hoped my swimming technique would come back to me and I'd be able to make it.  I knew I had to swim a couple of miles at least.  I didn't want to die.  Not now.

I swam.  Steady strokes.  It didn't take long until I was swimming like a champion again and in this new body I felt I would be able to swim the Channel.  A few miles would be simple.  I made good progress.  Fighting for new life, for the miracle, with each stroke.  It was all very exciting and under the circumstances I knew I wouldn't be overly embarrassed to climb out of the sea naked.  Even though it was the middle of the afternoon.  And I would be emerging onto a tourist beach.  Hopefully someone would lend me a towel.  After that I could work out what to do.

I worried for a moment that I'd been wrong about the currents.  That my dead body would wash up on the beach in a few days.  Complete with my ID and phone.  It would be far more embarrassing than a thousand tourists seeing my very healthy new body in all its glory.  I'd be there living my life and then I'd show up dead.  I didn't know what would happen then.

Unfortunately I was right.  I had been wrong.  But wrong in a different way.  I'd obviously made an error somewhere because the sea started to tug at me more than I'd expected.  I thought as I swam that I'd be able to stay close to the rocks.  I couldn't.  As the current strengthened I was pulled further and further from the shore.  There was no way back.  If I'd been an Olympic champion it wouldn't have changed a thing.  I grew weaker.  And weaker.  Until I had to stop and lie on my back and float.

And then I couldn't even do that.  I fought it for as long as I could.  But it was inevitable.  I had to give in at some point.  I despaired.  Just when I'd found an excitement about life it was being stolen away from me again.  I wanted to live.  Desperately.  I wanted to grow old, marry someone, make my life so extraordinary people would write books and poems about me.  It was all so unfair.  Why should I have this miraculous second life if it wasn't going to continue?

I gave myself to the water.  Sank.  Allowed the sea to fill my lungs.  It wasn't so bad.  Much better than the pain I'd felt on the rocks.  I would be food for the ocean after all.  Twice.  It didn't take long.  I died.  Again.


[1548 words]

Last Night I Woke To Find A Stranger Sitting On My Bed

During my post for yesterday I said that a story idea had popped into my head and that I would allow the story to be written at some point during the day.  This is that story.  It begins with someone waking up to find another someone sitting on their bed.  That is the only thing the story has in common with the ideas in my head this morning.

This is a first chapter.  Whether any more chapters are ever written is something I cannot know at this point.  I would like to write more.  Because at this point I don't know who either someone is.  While writing this neither of them told me the answer.  So don't write in and ask me to tell you.  I expect if I wrote more the answers would come.

Here it is.  Chapter one.  It has no title.  They haven't told me that either.

A picture of the end of my bed. Taken by a stranger.

I woke up in the night with a start to find her tickling my toes.

"Ah, there you are," she said with a look of relief on her face.  "I thought for a minute there you might be dead."

I backed away, fear and confusion combining in an unholy mess, and pressed my back up against the wall.  Pulled in my knees to my chest and stared at her.  Too scared to speak.  I wasn't in the habit of waking up to find a stranger sitting on my bed.

"Now, now, there's no need to worry yourself over me.  I'm not going to hurt you my dear."

At that I must have looked closer to terror because she said, "I shouldn't have said that should I?  That's what they say in fairy tales isn't it and then they eat you or kill you in some curious manner or imprison you or force you to work for them for a million years or trick you into sleeping for a hundred.  I must heartily apologise for my breach in positive language skills."

She looked at me and smiled warmly.  "Come my dear.  I did it again didn't I?  I can't help it.  You see I don't think they properly trained me for this job.  I was meant to gently raise you out of sleep or wait for you to wake up naturally.  But when I saw your eyes were closed and couldn't hear snoring sounds I didn't know what to do.  What if you had been dead?  They wouldn't have been pleased with me.  So I couldn't resist.  Anyway, your right foot was already exposed.  Tip time: If you keep your feet covered up you won't get so cold.  Where was I?  Any idea?"

I stared at her some more.  Began to relax a little.  She was a very strange stranger and her long blue hair was an awful mess of curls and knots.  She wore a dress made of purple bubble wrap and a mixture of rainbow colour bracelets all the way from her wrists to her elbows.  What she was doing on my bed was beyond my comprehension.  How she had got into my house was another question.  But I had to admit that it was probable she wasn't going to transform into a giant goblin and gobble me up whole or drag me into the kingdom of the gnomes.  Whoever she was, I didn't sense any danger.  Nevertheless I continued to stare at her silently.

"No idea.  I don't mind.  Sometimes it's better to have no idea.  Sometimes it's better just to take it all as it comes.  I myself lived without a clue for many years.  That wasn't my fault of course.  And it wasn't my choosing either.  It was an enchantment that did it and I never found out who enchanted me although I have my suspicions.  I know it wasn't a human so it can't have been you.  Not that you would have wanted to trap me in such a cruel way.  You hadn't even met me.  Unless of course I make some error so awful that you seek revenge and can find a time mistress to try to stop me being here in the first place.  Did you do that?  Oh, silly me."  She let out a big laugh as if it was the funniest thing in the whole world.  "You wouldn't know.  You haven't done it yet.  I'll tell you know though.  If you are going to be considering cursing me in the past there's no point.  It won't stop me.  Of course it won't.  I'm here anyway.  But it wasn't you.  I don't think.  I believe it was either one of Rose, Rose or Rose.  You probably don't know them because they don't live in your bedroom.  They're triplets.  Identical and their parents couldn't tell them apart so they all got given the same name.  It's ever so confusing.  Yes, I was enchanted.  Now I'm just enchanting as I'm sure you can tell.  Do you like my dress?  I made it myself.  I like purple.  I found the material blowing in the wind one day and had to carefully paint each individual bubble in a slightly different shade of purple.  It took ages.  And the enchantment was hard to break.  Not only was I clueless but my cluelessness reset itself every day.  That's why I was clueless for so many years.  But I'm not clueless now.  I have a clue.  Even if I did wake you so rudely and call you my dear.  I think I've explained myself properly now.  Any questions?"

I could hardly take in her story.  All that talk of revenge and spells was too much for me at half past three in the morning.  It might have been too much at half past three in the afternoon.  And as for her dress.  It was well crafted, I had to admit that to myself.  I wouldn't have thought a bubble wrap dress could ever fit so well.  Yet to my eyes there was only one shade of purple.  Struggling to make sense of her I managed to ask four questions.

"Just two.  For now.  Who are you?  And what are you doing here, sitting on my bed?  No, I take it back.  Another question.  I'm asking three not two  How did you get in?  I'm sure I locked the front door, the back door, all the windows and even the cat flap.  Are you a lock pick or something?"

She squealed and put her hands over her ears.  "Enough, enough.  Stop it right now.  That's four questions now.  I do wish you would stop changing your mind so abruptly.  It's very confusing and I'm not going to answer any questions if you carry on like that.  I'm sorry but that's just how it is."

To prove her point she stuck her fingers in her ears and started singing "La, la, la ..." loudly and without even a hint of a melody.  I wouldn't have even called it a series of notes.  I shook my head.  How rude.  To come and sit on my bed uninvited and not even answer any questions.  I could hardly believe it.  Trust me to get the one bedroom visitor who seemed to be a little unstable.  I changed that thought.  Her instability could have been much worse and she could have been concealing an unbreakable knife in that dress.  I could see she wasn't.  The whole thing was a little opaque.  Not transparent enough to reveal everything but the outfit didn't leave much to my imagination.

I leaned forward and gently touched her arm.  Looked at her with the kindest expression I could manage.  I think possibly my expression was mistaken for murderous because she closed her eyes and shouted "La, la, la, I'm not listening but I'm not allowed to leave."

I gave up and went to make two mugs of tea.  Leave her to her strange tantrum.  When I came back to the bedroom she was quiet.  Quiet and lying down.  Quiet and fast asleep cuddled up to my large teddy bear.  Great.  Now I couldn't go back to bed.  I put on my dressing gown and pulled a blanket from the cupboard.  Sat on my big bean bag and drank my tea.  Then I lay down and got as comfortable as I could without lying on my bed.  She could answer my questions in the morning and then I would see about lending her one of my own dresses.  My imagination may not have had to work hard but I had to work hard to not remember the outline of her breasts - and I confess I felt more than a little guilty for noticing them - or the way she smiled at me, or the fact that I would have loved to give her hair a good wash and then gently comb out all the knots, or the way I found all the odd things she said to be quite endearing.  Whoever she was, it didn't seem an altogether bad thing that she had appeared on my bed.

Presently I fell asleep.  I woke up with aches all through my back and bones.  I groaned as I turned to my side and remembered I was on the floor.  I could see from the clock by the bed that it was seven sixteen.  Quite respectable.  Then I remembered the stranger.  The stranger and her melodious voice and endearing giggle.  The stranger with her annoying habit of la, la la-ing.  I sat up and looked on the bed.

She was gone.

Perhaps I had dreamed the whole thing.  That seemed the most likely scenario.  A dream.  Far more likely than a blue, purple, rainbow girl coming through locked doors - and they were locked, I checked before breakfast - and rambling on about enchantments.  No.  Of course not.  She wasn't real.  Not real.  But vivid enough that I was able to fill two whole pages in my dream diary.  A new personal record.  I looked at the empty mug of tea.  I looked at the full mug.  I wondered why I had made two mugs but guessed I'd been sleepwalking.  I hadn't done that for a while.  Perhaps my dinner had made my head do funny things.  I wouldn't be buying that particular pie again.

Over breakfast I thought about my dream.  If all my dreams were similar I'd look forward to going to bed every night.  As long as I didn't end up sleeping on the floor.  She really had been quite pretty and had an amazing sparkle in her eyes and a cute way of playing with her bracelets while she talked, as if she was counting each of them in turn.  I decided that I would write up my dream.  Present it as a story.  So that's what I've done.

Tonight I will go to bed again.  Perhaps I will dream.  Perhaps I will dream of her.  Maybe she'll come and visit again and this time I won't be scared as I sleep and can find out who my brain thinks she might be.  Perhaps.  I can only hope.  I'm going to bed early tonight just in case.

I'll let you know.


[1696 words]

Oxford Brookes And The Case Of The Blyth Buddleia Burglar

Daily writing challenge.  Day 56.

Today I didn't have a clue what to write.  I didn't fancy today's writing prompt or any of the ones I've missed out.  I indulged in procrastination.  And then a silly remark made to a friend this morning popped into my head.  I typed four words.  I didn't know what could follow them.  As it turned out, another two thousand words followed.  I'm sure they all make some kind of sense!  So I present to you a short story.

Our buddleia

The Case of the Blyth Buddleia Burglar

Oxford Brookes

Private Detective

The name looked good on the door. It had taken me years to get to this point and I wasn't going to waste it. I had the champagne ready. After years of studying the intricacies and depravities of the human race I gained enough understanding to be able to see past the apparent quandaries a case would present me with. After another three years of working as apprentice to the greatest detective of them all, Lord Comfort, I'd felt ready to move on. Strike out on my own. Be my own man. I'd saved up enough money to hire an office for a year. It was make or break. If I could solve enough high profile cases I'd be set for life. If not, I'd have to give up my dream and become a journalist for a local newspaper.

Or possibly I could write a book about all the unsavoury things I got up to when studying the depravities of the human race. I didn't think you can solve crimes without truly understanding criminals. Couldn't discover the truth about adultery without being an adulterer. And you wouldn't be able to sniff out a drug baron unless you've first sniffed out a wide selection of drugs. Lord Comfort had laughed when I told him all this in my interview. He told me that he had never committed a crime, never taken an illegal drug. He admired my zealousness but not my methodology. If it wasn't for that great man I would never have progressed as I did in the fine art of detection.

I'd even solved the case of the Blyth buddleia burglar. All by myself. I'd taken it upon myself to investigate all on my own when reports came in of someone stealing entire buddleias from gardens in Blyth. I drove to the town and immediately set to work, like all good detectives should. I didn't even take a detour to a restaurant. I didn't spend some hours resting on the beach. And I most definitely didn't get lost on the way there and end up in Blackpool. Definitely not, although Lord Comfort did question me later on why it took me two days to get to my first interview in Blyth and why my driving expenses claim was for three-hundred miles rather than thirty. I explained that it had been a very complicated case and there had been unforeseen clues that needed following up.

The interviews didn't bear much fruit. Each householder told me the same thing. They had gone to bed one night knowing there were buddleias in the garden. The next morning their plants had vanished. Gone. Taken. By person or persons unknown. That person hadn't been seen or heard and hadn't left as much as a fingerprint covered spade or shovel, just a card left at every crime scene in place of the plants. It bore the inscription “Buddleias are us. Get your finest buddleias here.” There was an address and phone number too but I knew from my year spent living with a criminal gang that criminals are dishonest. Those cards could have been left by anyone. Even if they were left by the thieves I knew the information could be forged. Lord Comfort once told me, “If something is too obvious it may be wrong too.” And his teaching had served me well.

As far as clues went, these poor unfortunate souls were perfectly useless. One of them was lying too. I'm almost sure of it, since she lived in a fifth floor flat with no garden. However, since I am a private detective, rather than a policeman, I wasn't able to arrest her for wasting my very precious time, all the more precious since I'd got stuck in a five mile tailback on my way back from not getting lost in Blackpool. She protested that her buddleia had been in a plant pot outside her front door but there wasn't a hint of a sign that a pot had ever been there and she didn't have a receipt from the garden centre.

After the interviews I was left without a lead. Missing buddleias. What was a trainee detective to do? What would Lord Comfort do? I needed time to think and had passed a very nice looking restaurant on my way back from the beach I didn't go to. I would think there. And put the meal on expenses. It was a very fine meal indeed. Four courses because after the first three I still hadn't solved the case. After the fourth I had inspiration. Contact the local drug baron. He would know. And I knew him from my past scholarly examinations of depravity. If anyone was dealing in buddleias on the Blyth black market he would tell me, with proper encouragement. I headed off, without support, independent because I trust my abilities, to see the criminal kingpin.

Their buddleia

It was the right choice. I solved the case. Purely as a result of my finely honed instincts. I didn't even reach the baron. Which is quite a relief because he's a scary man and while I would have done anything to solve the case I didn't want to get injured or be forced to claim the purchase of a quantity of drugs on expenses. Lord Comfort might not have been impressed.

Three streets away from the baron's home I saw two people and in an instant, a brilliant instant of unrivalled detection, I knew I had found my quarry. Not just one thief as the police had assumed. But two. They were unloading a selection of very beautiful buddleia plants from the back of an open truck. The truck door was painted with “Buddleias Are Us” and I cleverly spotted that the phone number was the same as that on those cunningly planted cards. I checked the address too. I used Google maps, an A to Z street map and asked some people in nearby houses as well. I even checked the sign at the end of the street and the number of the thieves front door. Everything matched. Everything. Perfectly. Not even one digit or letter out. Perhaps those cards had been tiny clues after all. Perhaps if I'd gone down that unlikely route and investigated them with due diligence I wouldn't have been able to enjoy a four course meal.

I opened the case I kept in the back of the car and put on one of my best detective disguises. Sometimes it's better not to walk up to potential culprits saying, “Hello, I'm a detective come to make a citizen's arrest.” I thought it better to be in disguise. So I pulled out some glasses, a fake stick-on moustache and a cigar. Groucho Marx makes a particularly cunning disguise. Nobody sees through my Marx, whether Groucho, Karl, or and Spencer.

I walked up to the thieves. At a normal pace. Without trying to hide my presence behind the neighbours bush to observe them for an hour and gather evidence or courage. I didn't do that. Mrs. Mayberry lied at the trial. She did. I wasn't hiding. I walked up to the despicable plant thieves and said, “Excuse me, I couldn't help noticing your beautiful buddleia plants. I'm a great lover of buddleias myself ...” I admit I'd had to find out what a buddleia looked like before my journey to Blyth. “... and I was hoping to be able to fill my garden with them. These are wonderful. I'd love to have them or even come to work for you in the buddleia business. It would be my dream job. Where ever did you get such amazing examples of this horticultural ambience? …” I hoped they wouldn't see through me when I accidentally used an out of place word like ambience. “I don't want to pry into your business secrets and don't want to take over and undercut your prices or anything like that. No, no, not me. I'm just an innocent buddleia lover who bears an uncanny resemblance to Groucho Marx. Where did you get them?”

One of the thieves stared at me. He looked mean. He looked also like he hadn't understood what I'd been saying. Maybe my use of the word ambience had completely stumped him.

The other spoke. He said, “We nicked 'em, didn't we. Went round the town, couple of nights ago and nicked 'em out of people's gardens. Seemed like the best way to start a new business. Ain't our stock the best? People will come miles for all our buddleias. Miles. And loads of people in Blyth are wanting to get new plants so I've heard to replace the ones some gadger nicked.” He laughed.

I said, “Thank you most kindly sir. I would like to buy your plants. Give me an hour while I go to the bank and I'll come back and pay you a fair price.”

But I didn't go to the bank did I? Oh no, not me. I'm far too clever for that. I'd taped the conversation too. I went to the police instead. Told them of my discovery. They were ever so impressed and went off to arrest the thieves straight away. I was a hero in the town. I drove back to Lord Comfort that night knowing I had done very well to solve my first solo case and I only got delayed for two nights in a five star hotel in Scarborough. For the second time in a week I didn't get lost. It was intentional. I promise. Anyway, I needed some pampering after all my mental and physical exertion. Detective work is difficult you know. The hotel would be on expenses so it was okay.

When I returned to his office Lord Comfort didn't seem impressed with my work. I stressed how amazing I had been but he queried every little insignificant detail. The three days I didn't spend in Blyth. The hundreds of miles driven. The restaurant bill. He even seemed worried about the hotel bill and the hundred and twenty pounds extra I'd spent on room service and emptying part of the mini-bar in my room.

The next day Comfort congratulated me on solving my first case. He said I was a fully fledged detective now and said I should be starting my own company. He said I was ready and that it would make him very happy to see me working somewhere else. He said he couldn't bear to think of me still working for him after everything I'd done. I agreed. It was obvious. I'm a genius in the art of detection and it's only one step from buddleias to murder, kidnapping and plots to take over the world.

So, just a month later, there I was. Back at the very beginning of my story. Those bright red letters had just been painted on the door of my new office. I was a happy man and they looked so good.

Oxford Brookes

Private Detective

I shook up my champagne bottle and pushed off the cork so it could spray everywhere. Like at a Grand Prix except my office is far more important than a silly driving race in which it's impossible to get lost or take a wrong turn. I sprayed that champagne joyfully. It went all over me. All over the painter. All over the corridor floor. I could put the cleaning bill on expenses. And all over my new door too.

The paint was still wet. The celebratory booze washed it away. The painter quit. And the cleaner told me to mop the bloody thing up myself. I spent the rest of the day sorting out the mess. It hadn't been an auspicious first day but the only way was up.

Before I left for the night I repainted the letters on the door. I didn't need to pay a painter for such a simple job. It took another month before I noticed why I hadn't received a string of wealthy clients coming to my door in despair. A month before someone pointed out a little error in those big, shiny, bright red letters. They read

Oxford Brookes

Private Defective

[2035 words]