Long Cold
Long Cold
It is more difficult
to trace the contours of
your back with a
chewed ball-point,
than it was with my
fingers.
Working Title, The Sod
- This is the first paragraph of what will be my East of Eden, the thing I am most proud of, the thing that some lucky publisher will get and print within the year. Publish it for goodness’ sake.
The Sod
In a little din and a little light, it was a cellar, he danced awkwardly and she danced quite well, the two together making a pair of connected arms. They connected through the hands and through the clasping clasped fingers. Although he was uncomfortable with the action of moving himself to rhythms, the situation was, on the whole, agreeable to him. They moved back and forth and in some instances around with the room to the left or right, indeed backwards and forwards also featured, but for the most part they moved together and yes he was too conscious but he was functioning in the manner appropriate to the situation. Another hearty swell of foaming lager or a little whiskey may have seen him forget himself a little further, into a haze more of himself where the consideration of self falls away, but the momentary bravado that inspired his asking her vertical in the first place had confounded itself by now. To find another sip would mean parting at this point, and parting would sever the current reward from the initial deed, betraying the previous deed, done in itself out of a harsh rush of a muck water American dribble that he had only lashed down his neck to escape the sitting and the speaking.
Love’s Theme or, The Jar or, Sisyphus
“Small Paddy.”
“Water?”
“Small drop.”
Two glasses. Seared like a pan of cider on a high heat. Necked by a large grey stone with a drinking hole and a separate mouth to create noise, permanent distraction from the permanent slurp. An old grey stone digeridoo that drank gold and spouted shite from the ropes until blown over them and it all stops.
“Do you see you there, I can tell you’re a man after me own heart.”
And he’d collapse on the bar and shout holy jaysus mother. He would. No luck yet, he’s only searing. And the pints were two, and the pints were too big for her hands. And I winked with one eye as I winked with the other, and said it’d be alright because there were two of us and two pints and that I’d get the next ones, which meant that there’d of course be next ones. And in this dark you wouldn’t know what could happen if that pink little cheek came near me. I’d bite it off in sweet love, like a maniacal butterfly, and there’d be nothing left and it’d be mine forever. I’d eat it up, or put it in a jar and admire it when I was old and searing cider in a pan for Dave and me, or just for Dave because I’d hardly get that far. He’s eighty but he’s going up, and I’m a quarter that and I’m going off, by the look of me.
Six pints of cider at the table and now I have Arthur in front of me telling me I never was such a bold boy as when I was sober. I’m more calculated then he says, like a sober calculator, and he doesn’t trust technology. It might be Arthur’s influence but I swear I’m sitting across from several women all staring at me in mild disgust and I blink and they’re gone so I decide to go home but not before a -
“Small Paddy.”
“Water?”
“A drop.”
- and a pint for the road. One for me and one for herself there with the small hands that’d fit in mine so well if only they reached across the table. Sure, to have it that way she’d need fierce long arms and the hands wouldn’t look so well. Imagine the hand of a child on the arms of a tall man, no, not at all at all. That would be too much. We’ll leave it there because he tells a story or a song, and that is about a young woman stricken by a suspicious growth on her wireless internet box. Her service provider tells her that it is nothing to worry about. It is fine madam, nothing to worry about. I know, I know it doesn’t seem like anything to worry about but there’s one on the back of the screen now. Is it a flat screen? Yes. Well there you go, that’s normal madam. But no, you don’t know, there’s one on the return key, and I think some of the other keys are springing up. Okay madam, just relax, we’ll send somebody out within three to five days, and they’ll have a look at it all. And a man arrived the next week and he found dark little lumps all over her body and her fingers stuck in her ears and her curled into a ball and she was dead but the internet connection was still functional.
Kettle Poisoning
Kettle Poisoning
I tried to stand up straight, as high as I could. There was an awful weight on my shoulders though, metaphorically speaking, and the ongoing task of improving my posture moment by moment proved quite difficult, even more than usual. I shook out my shoulders and arms, loosening myself, only for the irksome downward pressure to fall upon me once again when I settled. I found myself frustrated, not because of the anxious tension I could feel physically, that did not bother me as such, but because of my inability to stand straight and right at such a moment. I concentrated.
While I did not know very much about the clear contents of the unmarked plastic bottle in my hand, I trusted Anthony, who knew about this sort of thing. He said that he had used it before for similar pursuits. I did not ask him any more questions as he gave me a look that told me not to. He is such a character like that.
So I poured it into the kettle, gazing out through the large bay window that lit the kitchen as I did so, out into the little garden behind the house. I was a little worried that I didn’t feel particularly bad about him. Should I not have naturally occurring human empathy? I did not know him, a good man maybe, but I did not know him nor wish to know him. I could only think that a face, or even a name, would dull my resolve.
Having done the deed, I walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway and out the front door, shutting it behind me. I left the key back under the mat, where I had found it earlier, careful to leave everything as everything should be left. I felt that I had finished him. He was not dead yet, but I had planted the poison, and it was only a matter of time. I still felt no guilt, and slowly strolled away assuming that I never would.
Train Story
Train Story
“Yellow.” After much deliberation, she decides upon her favourite colour. Blue falls short, losing by a half a length. Yellow is a happy colour, perhaps the happiest, according to her. My thoughts quickly turn towards poisonous yellow. The image of a yellow tree frog flashes behind my vision, staring at me with black eyes full of passive aggressive potential. The hazard signs that draw attention to the lethal threats of radiation, high voltage, biohazards, all black on yellow.
“Trefoil.” It comes out as I awaken from my yellow reverie. Thought doesn’t exist, but here it penetrates reality. But a word does not exist either, does it, insofar as it leaves no mark? I could look her in the eye and deny having said anything at all. A semantic investigation into words like ‘exist,’ or ‘reality,’ she might enjoy that.
“What?” She leans towards me very slightly, clearly thinking that I had said something. Her eyes are very blue.
“Nothing.” And I never said it. She looks out the window. I stare at her. She’s a dainty thing. The train trundles north at a steady speed. She absently surveys the landscapes as they pass.
“I think you’re having an emotional affair with me.” The train moves through the land. The next stop is hers.
An hour earlier she watched me drink a coffee. We talked about films, music and food. There was a moment where her face was about twelve inches from my face. We walked to the station together as we both were going towards the city. When I tried to buy my ticket at the machine, she kept pressing the wrong buttons on the screen. She laughed at her exploits. I told her to stop being so annoying but I didn’t mean it.
“I have to be there at nine.” You’ll be late, I think.
“What are you doing there, something fun?”
“Going for another walk.” No more questions from me.
The train moves through the land. The next stop is hers.
“What?” She leans towards me very slightly, clearly thinking I had said something. Her eyes are very blue.
“Nothing.” And I never said it.
