Broken Ankles - Jow Bates

I wish I could apologise enough for this, he coughed through alate lungs. Choking on feathered perspective, a rising torrent of smashed flight and broken dreams.

INT. OVERTLY GREY WAREHOUSE, DUSTY WALLS FORGED INTO WORKABLE CORNERS FOR SPORTS OUTLETS, THE SCENE RECENTLY BOTTLENECKED INTO WHAT SHOULD BE A BASKETBALL COURT. ORIGINAL FEEL TO THE PLACE; APPLE BASKETS AS NETS, CHALK LINES OVER FORGOTTEN FLOOR-PLANS.
PANS TO CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HOPEFUL SOULS; RED JORDAN HI-TOPS, AND YELLOW LAKERS JERSEY'S RESPECTIVELY SPLIT THE DIVIDING FACTIONS OF PERSONA.

BANKS:
And like dreams floating on fucked up clouds we smash hope into ourselves.

JALL:
We be all up in this, the tyranny of shattered dreams and cold skull masks.

SHATTERED GLASS AS JALL AIMS ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE AGAINST THE WICKER RIM OF THE CHAIN NETTING MARKED AS THE MAKESHIFT GOAL.

BANKS:
God plays the puppeteer to these sports, Jall be killin' it.

JALL:
Y'all be killin' it.

BANKS:
Hollar motherfucker.

JALL:
Another real estate agent fuckin' wid'chall broken minds. For three!

ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE CAST INTO THE ETHER AIRBALLS; THE BOTTLE FLIES WIDE OF THE PSEUDO-NET TO SMASH ON DUSTY CONCRETE.
SLOW PAN ACROSS THE SHADOWED WAREHOUSE FLOOR, TO A GAGGED MID-FORTY YEAR OLD, STILL DRESSED FOR WORK, SALIVA POURING OVER HIS BALL-GAG, EYES WIDE WITH A MIXTURE OF  CONFUSION AND FEAR.

MAN:
Mmmphuughl! (MUFFLED CRIES)

JALL:
And the crowd goes fuckin' wild y'all! Broken bottles and shit nigga! We be ballin';
chain be commandin',
niggas be wantin' ice on their stand in,
liquid kissin' on that cold b-boy stance 'n',
Banks be bustin' tanks-style these mans and-

BANKS:
-The fuck y'all be usin' my name?

JALL:
Witness!

BANKS:
Shit Jall, another sacrifice?

JALL:
God love 'em, right?

BANKS:
Maybe ain't all day, aight?

JALL:
Praise Allah, motherfucker.

BANKS:
Jall, y'ain't Muslim.

JALL:
Dayaam' Banks, suit never clocked that.

BANKS:
Ain't be clockin' the Glock in my low bats, gats is packing' names be flavour, fucker.

JALL:
Fuckin' balls deep in this shit nigga!

JALL, FINISHING ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE, PASSES IS UNDER HIS LEG, THEN ROUND HIS BACK IN ONE FLUID MOVEMENT BEFORE ATTEMPTING A PRECISION FADEAWAY SHOT AIMED AT GAGGED-MAN.
BOTTLE SMASHES INCHES ABOVE GAGGED-MAN.
GAGGED MAN RECOILS IN FEAR, CRYING.

BANKS:
'Ey Jall, enough;
And life is tough enough,
Without, niggas be actin' an ass.
Chattin' like Kanye meets Eddie Murphie on nitros gas.

JALL:
Haha, whitey's been trying to talk.

BANKS:
No shit.

JALL:
I'mma cross his white ass up.

JALL BRIEFLY EXITS INTO SHADOW, LEAVING BANKS GLEEFULLY BEATBOXING BETWEEN SIPS OF NATIONAL BOHEMIAN.
JALL REENTERS WITH A BASKETBALL.

JALL:
I'mma snap yo' ankles Mr. Whiley!

BANKS:
He'll fuckin' do it too, man.

JALL STARTS PASSING THE BALL ROUND HIS BACK, THROUGH HIS LEGS AND OVER HIS SHOULDERS WITH ALL THE PRECISION OF A SEASONED STREET-BALLER, THE FLUIDITY OF HIS ACTIONS CONTRASTING STARKLY WITH THE LINEARITY OF HIS SCENERY.
TERPSICHOREAN POETRY CAST BRIEFLY OVER ABSTRACT SHADOW.
WITH DAZZLING DEXTERITY JALL PASSES THE BALL OVER HIS SHOULDERS AND AHEAD OF HIMSELF, HE LEAPS FORWARD JUMPING ON MR. WHILEY'S ANKLE WITH BOTH FEET.
A SICKENING SNAP FILLS THE ROOM.
A GAGGED MR. WHILEY CRIES OUT.

BANKS:
He's on fire!

JALL:
I'mma be all star Mr. Whiley.

BANKS:
Yo Mr. Whiley, you want his autograph?

JALL:
Hahaa, yo Mr. Whiley, I'll sign yo' cast.

BANKS UN-GAGS MR. WHILEY AND LEANS IN.

BANKS:
Tell us about the fundamentals again Mr. Whiley.

JALL:

Triangles, Banksy, triangles.

CAMERA PANS BACK ACROSS WAREHOUSE.
FADE TO BLACK.


Wish we understood
Broken ankles and splints of wood
We could fly on these
Severed wings and ten foot dreams

God is, God is.

Broken Ankles - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

"Who the fuck are you" asked the stranger infront of me.
"Pumpkin sheepshanks, and you are..." i replied expectantly
"Not important. what a stupid name, it sounds like bumpkin weepwanks..." the stranger replied with a smile on his face. Continuing to talk at me despite no interest shown, I tried to continue my walk around him when he shoved me.
"What's your problem?" I asked, noticing the rest of the pub had now been attracted to the commotion. I looked back at the table i had come from, a couple of friends and their partners oblivious to the commotion a few feet away. I looked over to his table where he had his football team friends staring quite intently at the scene.
"You are, weepwanks" the stranger took a step closer with a face that begged to be hit/cut/spat on/stamped on.
"Why, I dont even know who the fuck you are and your getting up in my foice" my voice changed a little to a chicago mob boss at the end, I didn't know why at the time but I later realised that it was the great chicago mob boss Al Capone possesing me through the ether.
"the girl I liked liked you bumpkin, thats my beef, so now I will hurt you, to make me feel better" the stranger replied most pathetically.
"dude, thats seriously lame, come on, hear me now, I dont even know this broad who apparently likes me, but im a drug addict, I have no sex drive, I am no threat, I havent had a hard on in four years." i was bullshitting through my teeth, but i did it for a living so was quite natural and this seemed the best way to diffuse the situation.
"I dont believe you" said the stranger still sizing up to me, "When you were talking you eyes kept on going in a down left direction, that to me communicates your bullshitting" the was only about a foot between me and him.
"what the fuck man, are you the eye police or something" i was pissed he sussed me so quickly, but reasoned what ever i had said he would of dismissed it as bullshit, such was his animosity towards me. Realising speaking was a suckers sport i spat in his face and as he went to wipe the gob from his face i suckered him with a meaty right hook, twisting my body to create maximum force through body dynamics i brought me knee up to his face i had grabbed and begun to bring down. his nose made a cracking sound, blood began pouring as the sound of a dozen chairs being emptied resonated over from where his friends had been sat.
"little cunt" one of them said as he grabbed me and threw me to the floor, sending a table over as i landed. four of them took it in turns to kick and jump on me. i lay there for a while expecting the pain to be greater than remembering the chunky line of k i had done in the toilets from which i was returning had probably kicked in, and it would hurt when that had worn off. finally they were pulled off me by bouncers and escorted off the premises. i looked around whilst laying on the floor, noticing the strange red hue that wasn't there before. i tried to stand up but immediately fell back down. my friend came over and helped me up on to a chair.
"have you still got my k" my friend asked. i had a rummage around my pockets and nodded. "are you ok pumpkin?" i nodded again.
A few tables had been pushed over and glasses had smashed. mine and the strangers blood was being mopped by one of the bar staff. the footballers had left a bag containing a load of balls, which i motioned to my friend to collect so i could keep it as a prize.
"what do you want with a bag of balls pumpkin?" one of my friends girlfriends asked when i hopped back to the table, "it looks like you broke your ankle so cant see you using them."
"one mans balls is another mans gold" i replied, thinking i was being humerous/philosophical but probably just coming over a twat.
"Do you not want to go the hospital?" my friend with the k asked.
"manana manana, ill just have another line of your k for now if thats alright" i replied, lounging back across the built in sofa pina colada in hand.
"can you even make it to the toilet?" one of the group asked.
"ill just put the note in the bag, whats the worse that can happen?" i smiled, knowing my broken ankle meant a few weeks off work.

Broken Ankles - Megan Pozzi

My mother was the most beautiful ballerina you ever saw. As a child, she would walk around, right on her tippy toes – graceful, elegant, captivating. As an adult, she remained just the same. ‘Oh mummy, how I would love to dance like you,” I would cry, twirling around the room.

“Oh my dear, aren’t you the sweetest! You should know by now that talent like mine cannot be bought, taught, or learnt. It is a gift,” she replied, smearing her crimson red lipstick around her pursed lips. At that moment, I noticed that her top lip was much thinner than her bottom.

Still I loved her, foolishly and unconditionally. Mother called me petite ombre: little shadow. But I was no shadow, I could not replicate any of what she did with any flair or finesse. My mother began to tire of my undying devotion and adoration, “Ma petite,” she would say, “why don’t you play outside? Leave me to myself please, for once.”

“But I love you so, I love to watch you dance and one day I will be just like you.”

And, at this precise moment she snapped, “You will never be like me! Do you understand? Never – not even the best teacher in the whole world or a new set of feet will help you.”

So I sat. And I cried. But I could not shake the love for my mother. I stood in front of the mirror and lifted myself up onto my tippy toes as I had seen her do countless times before. I felt the strain of my body weight on my ankles and heard my bones click together. I was determined and I would not rest.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves. Me? I used a hammer. Did I steal my idea from Misery? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. And I realised, I was looking at the situation from entirely the wrong perspective. I could not be like her, not even with the best teacher or a new set of feet; but with a new set of feet, she could be just like me.

Broken Ankles - Michael Geedrick

My ankles are all broken;
Why am I so outspoken;
I said my prayers;
Fell down those stairs;
And lost my subway token

Broken Ankles - CammyWhite

Everyone had said it was a bad idea.

Sam hadn’t listened.
Sam wouldn’t listen.
It had all seemed like such a good plan.
It should have been awesome.

There would have been cheers.
Maybe even been a smiling girl or two.
And everyone would have been looking at him.
Well... that bit worked out at least!

Sam had planned to do a trick.
Sam had thought it through.
Jump the first set of steps, ollie the rail,
Jump on to the bike shed roof and land on the path below.

So that is what Sam had done.
At 10.15, (morning break)
Only things had not gone to plan.
And here we now find Sam.

Sam is in a lot of pain.
Sam has broken bones yet ...
He knows he’s learnt something key
He’s learnt to practice first.

Broken Ankles - Beau

I'm sitting in the car, happy as hell
My joy will remain as long as my appendages swell
But Mum drove me anyway, so I could watch
My teammates play the soccer game. Oh, they just lost

I got injured last week. Thank fuck!
Now I don't have to play a game that sucks
Too much running around. That sport fucking rankles
I'm so fucking glad that I now have broken ankles

Plastic - Jow Bates

Strange thoughts cast organic bubbles over plastic heads. They wade through polystyrene rivers to get to you, Hephaestus.

Hephaestus stared in open wonder at them, more than a thousand homunculi of plastic souls shook with ersatz life as they began to "wake". Pouring out of his forge in droves, the cathartic drone of simulated consciousness shook his workshop and cracked the exhausted mould from which they came. New animatronic wonder as they explored their artificial lives.

Just like us.

"Hephaestus, you can't keep them." Boomed the smith's internal monologue. Hephaestus knew this; they couldn't exist, they shouldn't even be, but there they were. Nearly living.
They probed their surroundings with collective awe, their pseudo-consciousness looking every bit as real as their synthesised movement.

"They have to go, Hephaestus."

Hephaestus, eyes wet with remorse, reached for his hammer.
As the homunculi's creator rose above the world of plastic souls before him, their synthetic hopes pooled in holistic interest. Chemical dreams, abstract to the organic ether they were fostered in. Life, wonder, belief, routine. Time blinked elastic constance to their brief polyethylene existence.


Routine scribed a synthetic interest,
As distance fogged their recycled horizon.
Hard plastics bleed together,
Mixing colours and compounds.
Until their swirling indifference,
Palettes a spectral tainted sky.
A manufactured shade of sunrise,
To their polyesoteric lives.

Plastic - Fargo

MR BABOO WALKS INTO THE DARK ROOM WHERE UNDER THE GLEAM OF LIGHT EMANATING FROM THE LAMPSHADE ABOVE SITS IAN AT A DESK, OF WHICH HE IS HANDCUFFED TO. APART FROM THIS THE ROOM IS EMPTY. BEHIND IAN THERE IS A WINDOW, BUT YOU CANT SEE ANYTHING THROUGH IT AS ITS BLACKED OUT. MR BABOO SITS IN A CHAIR OPPOSITE IAN. BABOO CROSSES HIS ARMS. HE LOOKS AT IAN WITH INTEREST.

Baboo
Why are you here Ian?

Ian
You tell me, I’m not sure where I am. Why am I under arrest?

Baboo
What makes you think your under arrest?

Ian (Looking annoyingly at his handcuffed hand)
I will give you 3 guesses! My fucking hands are handcuffed, that sort of gives me the impression that I’m under arrest or I’m here against my will.

Baboo
So you think you’re here against your will? That’s interesting. (Brings out a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, and jots some notes down)

Ian
I don’t know why I’m here, so yes Sherlock, I’m here against my will, because I haven’t done anything wrong, in fact I don’t even think you’re the police.

Baboo
Your right, we’re not the police and you have not broken the law, nor are you being held here against your will, so Ian, what do you think about that?

Ian (Looking irate and perplexed)
What the fuck? Then where and why the HELL am I here, you have had me waiting ages you obnoxious little four eyed prick, handcuffed to a desk not knowing what the shitting balls is going on, what am I supposed to think? I want you tell me what’s going on right now. And STOP writing everything I’m saying!

Baboo
I understand your level of anger, but let me assure you that its not I or anyone else that’s responsible on your being here other then yourself.
Now before you start going off on another irate tangent I’m going to need you to listen to me, and do as I say, as it’s a matter of life and death, and believe me when I say that this is no exaggeration. Are we clear Ian?

IAN LOOKS OF ANGER TURN TO LOOKS OF CONCERN. BUT A FEELING OF TRUST SUDDENLY SWIMS THROUGH EVERY FEELING IN HIS BODY, WHICH THEN LEADS HIM TO NODD HIS HEAD.

Baboo
Good man. Right I know why your here, and I’m doing my up most to make sure that this isn’t the case for much longer. But this means as I said full cooperation.. And I think we understand each other on that one now, so I’m going to need you to close your eyes, and keep them shut until I say otherwise are we clear Ian?

IAN AGAIN NODDS AND SHUTS HIS EYES. BABOO LEANS OVER AND REPEATEDLY FLICKS IAN ON THE FOREHEAD NUMEROUS TIMES. THEN HE STOPS AND SMILES, IAN DID NOT SAY ANYTHING OR FLINCH AS THOUGH NOTHING AT ALL HAD HAPPENED. BABOO WRITES SOME MORE NOTES, AND THEN LOOKS UP AT IAN, HIS EYES STILL REMAIN SHUT.

Baboo
Just as I thought, open your eyes.

Ian (Opens eyes)
What was that for?

Baboo
Can you tell me, what do you think a coma is?

Ian
A deep sleep, sort of thing, everyone knows what a coma is.

Baboo
Indeed the word coma comes from the Greek word Koma, K-O-M-A, which means state of sleep, but in fact a coma is not the same as being asleep. You can wake someone easily who is asleep, by er, talking to them or shaking them and so on, but this is not the case for a coma. If your in one, your alive and breathing, but so unconscious that you can't respond to any stimuli, for example pain infliction, or direct noise. You could say if it were you Ian, in a coma and I flicked you say, in the forehead, it would probably be safe to assume that you would not be able to feel it.

Ian
I don’t get your point, all I want to know is how I got here, (turns to blacked out window and points) and I want to know who’s behind there! I can hear shuffling so don’t tell me that no one is behind there.

Baboo
When did you start hearing shuffling?

Ian
Just now, who is it?

Baboo
Excellent, we are making good progress, I’m going to need you to forget about me now, we are in danger of making things worse, I’m going to leave the room, your going to have to relax and not think too much. Just do one thing for me when I’m gone, concentrate on the noise from behind the window. Bye for now Ian, its been a pleasure talking to you.

Ian
What the…???

BABOO LEAVES THE ROOM. IAN LOOKS CONFUSED, AND FRIGHTENED. HE LISTENS HARD TO SEE IF HE CAN HEAR ANY NOISE. THE SHUFFLING IS THERE BUT VERY FAINT, HE TURNS TO SEE IF HE CAN SEE ANYTHING, BUT HE CANT. HE TURNS BACK AND LOOKS AROUND THE EMPTY ROOM, THEN HE CAN HEAR A NOISE COMING FROM THE DOOR IN FRONT OF HIM, HE LOOKS FORWARD, THE DOOR SLOWLY OPENS A SHADOW APPEARS. THE SHADOW WALKS NEARER AND TO IAN'S HUGE SHOCK AND SURPRISE HE SEES HIMSELF STANDING UNDER THE GLARE OF THE LIGHT IN FROM OF HIM. IAN 2 SITS DOWN AND SMILES AT IAN. IAN LOOKS DUMBSTRUCK.

Ian 2
Hello Ian, now this may seem somewhat of a shock but please lets put that to one side and discuss the situation of Baboo.

Ian
What the.. How… what Jesus, fuck…who is Baboo?

Ian 2
Baboo? He is the very charming man that sat in this very seat just now, funny thing is, a charming man he is not! No sir, I was watching his sham of a display from behind that window, it was me you heard shuffling through there, I heard every word he said. Or every Lie he said, now this is going to sound strange but lets face it its not that normal of a day so far anyway, your sitting in front of yourself having a conversation about Baboo. That’s not what we normally do on a Sunday is it Ian, no, so Baboo was trying to make out that your in a coma! I know, what a cunt! I don’t know why he tried telling you that, its of no use at all, and he was flicking your head, I’m gonna say it straight, the mans a menace.
But unfortunately I wish I had some good news, your handcuffed to that desk because you cant ever leave, and soon enough your going to loose the use of your limbs and the use of everything, Bloody hell mate, I don’t like being the one to tell you this but your dead. Your moments away from nothing, it’s a shame but I’m not going to sugar coat it for you, that won’t do any good. Your dead there’s no two ways about it, and there is nothing I or we or whatever can do about it. I’m so sorry.

Ian
What the fuck am I, are you, are we talking about, how can I be dead, I’m talking to you right now, in a room, in this place wherever the fuck this place is…

Ian 2
That’s my point, this place, its nowhere, all I can say is it’s the place between life and death, that’s all I know sort of like plastic tits, feels like their real, but in the end you find out its all false. I’m sorry Ian but we, I and you are truly up shits creek. And yes without a paddle. (Pause)
Its happening, I can feel it, you cant move your arms now, I’d better be off!

Ian (Trying and failing to moves arms)
What’s happening you cant leave, help me get out of here, please….

Ian2
No can do!

IAN 2 WALKS OUT OF THE ROOM, IAN THEN STRUGGLES TO MOVE, HE CANT MOVE HIS ARMS BUT STILL MOVES HIS TORSO AND HEAD AROUND. HE BEGINS TO CRY, THEN FROM NOWHERE HEARS SOME MUSIC, ITS KATE BUSH’S WUTHERING HEIGHTS SURROUNDS THE ROOM HIS FAVOURITE SONG. A LIGHT APPEARS BEHIND HIM. HE TURNS AND THROUGH THE BLACKED OUT WINDOW IS IAN'S WIFE MICHELLE STANDING IN THE LIGHT. THE MUSIC IS STILL PLAYING.

Michelle
Don’t listen to you, your alive, get up and walk out of the door.

Ian
Michelle, I can’t move.

Michelle
You can move my love, just do it, look the handcuffs are not there, (she points at Ian’s hand, the handcuffs have gone) You see just stand up and walk out. I’m on the other side. And Ian I love you, believe in me!!

Ian
I love you to.

MICHELLE VANISHES. THE MUSIC IS NOW MUCH LOUDER. IAN LOOKS AGAIN AT HIS HANDS, THEY ARE FREE, HE THEN TRIES TO STAND UP, AFTER SOME STRUGGLING HE MANAGES. IT BEGINS TO GET WINDY IN THE ROOM, AND HE SLOWLY MOVES OVER TO THE DOOR. HE OPENS THE DOOR WITH A SMILE.

WHATS REAL, WHATS NOT.

FADE TO BLACK.

Plastic - Beau

Now, what could I rhyme with the word "plastic"?
An obvious choice would have to be "drastic"
Another lazy choice I could use would be "spastic"
I think I'll go with "drastic"; this poem is fantastic!

Now that I've used the main word, I can deviate
Since I'm being lazy with this poem, I'll abbreviate
OMFG,TPIG
"OH MY FUCKING GOD, THIS POEM IS GREAT!"

Like that choice of words? I was trying to use
The easiest word to rhyme with bar 2, line 2
I think my speed-writing is the best, don't you?
I use the loo to poo-poo, cows go "moo"

(Audience - "BOOOOOOO!")

Apologia - D'oh

“Sorry, I must’a backed over it this morning” Reginald held up Sully, the cat Jesse had been given for Christmas.

Jesse’s kitten, once full of life and curiosity, now lifeless held by the neck within this old man’s stubby little fingers. It’s head propped awkwardly to the side and it’s once admired ginger coat was smothered in dried blood. Lots of blood.

The only words Jesse could find to softly utter were “Sully” before breaking into loud obnoxious cries that caused his mother to go investigate.

Jesse’s mother rushes to the door to see what all the commotion is about. Gasping at the sight of her son’s dead cat clutched within her neighbours hands. “My word Reginald, what have you done?!”

Reginald solemnly removes his hat and places it on his chest as a mark of respect.
“Trudy, I am sorry, I must’ve hit him when I was backing out the driveway this morn’n. I didn’t even see him at’ll, didn’t find him till I got back just now”. Jesses mother nods her head understandingly and tries to usher her boy away from the door.

“I will replace ‘im I will, if the boy’ll let me” Reginald adds
“That’s kind of you Reginald, we’ll see.. come on Jesse, come away from the door”

“You know what’s strange though miss? This poor little bastard, completely soaked in blood ‘e is.. but my driveway, barely a drop on it. And you’d think I woulda heard him, or felt him had I ran over it this morning, but I don’t ‘member anything out of the ordinary”. Reginald wasn’t sure if Jesse’s mother had heard his defence over the young boy’s wailing, but she responded quickly and sharply.
“He was just a kitten, a small cat, I doubt many would notice if they back over it. Now I thankyou for your honesty and bringing Sully back, but I must tend to my poor boy now, he is traumatised”
“Very well miss, I truly am sorry” Reginald turns to walk away before turning back once again “Oh miss, what would you like me to do with this?” He held up the dead cat in his hand, Jesses crying seemed to get louder whenever he did this.
“Put it in a box, leave it by our door.. my husband will take care of it when her returns from work” Reginald nods, feeling genuinely sorry he had caused such grief among his favourite neighbours.

After a long while of coaxing Jesse to calm down, she managed to get him into bed and to sleep. Her husband comes home not long after.
“How was your day?” He lovingly asked his wife.
“Good, bleach seemed to work wonders on that stain you left in the driveway”

Apologia - Borealis

Even when I was a toddler I was nerdy. I used to ask my mum to make me flashcards to learn new words on. She had to buy more paper we went through so many. When I could read more fluently my chosen books were encyclopedias and I spent Sunday afternoons flicking through our Longman's copy, a book so heavy I couldn't lift it. After finding something interesting, I'd follow all the cross-references until I had enough to make a project out of it. Whales; Copernicus; Hieroglyphs - I covered them all. My project on whales featured a small A5 booklet, with messy little pictures of whales and all the facts about the different types and why they were going extinct. I recently googled whales and discovered another kid with my same name, doing her own online project trying to save them. That made me very happy, like I didn't have to defend myself on that front anymore, at least. Copernicus was another favourite, where I remember making the front cover of this A4 booklet by doing stripes of different-coloured crayon and then covering over in black and etching out his name and the orbiting planets. There is no word for this other than geektastic. I was a little researcher in the making.

Then there was the maths. My mother is convinced it's because I liked to bake and balance out the weights and measures, but it's more likely it's the pay-off that got me, grinning at the ticks and furrowing my eyebrows to fathom out the crosses. I love it. Not realising that I was ingraining in myself an innate understanding of indices at a young age, I used to sit and double 2 until I had sums too long to fit onto a piece of paper. I work in a school, in a maths department, and I'd probably feel sorry for any kids I saw doing that.

17 years on and I've found the world doesn't find all this quite as whimsically adorable as I'd hope. Starting off doing a maths degree and then switching to History has lead to years of questions on the topic. "But why?", people ask. Working in a high school means topic often comes to degree choices, the mathematicians assuming that anything other than Maths, Science, Medicine or Law makes you a lightweight. History is often mentioned in passing along with other 'unworthy' subjects like "Art, or Media Studies". If I was a cat, my hackles would be up. But it's easier to stay quiet than to defend, mostly. When we go to school we are encouraged to enjoy and excel in as many subjects as possible. In the outside world, people want you to stick to one thing, it seems.

For all that I adore studying Maths, it saddens me that so many mathematicians view it this way. Historians seem much better; "yes", they say, "mathematicians are geeky, but they are worthy". Historians have to have a huge amount of self-belief to weather all the comments like "Gosh, all those facts to remember!", a phrase which only serves to emphasise why people rarely learn from their own mistakes - facts yes, but the analysis, the pondering, trying to understand the other side, that's why people choose to devote years to studying History.

So at work, I live with my apologia for History. In the outside world, I live with my apologia for Maths. It's always a bit embarassing explaining you find maths really, really fun. Responses include: gobsmacked looks; my nan's favourite of "oh yes I was always good at arithmetic too dear"; and another classic upon telling someone about my apparently paradoxical love of History and Maths - "I'm glad you studied History though, that's what makes you interesting!" After this, I understand why my Maths teacher at Sixth Form used to tell people she did Psychology instead. Much easier. Anything sounds better than Maths when strangers strike up a conversation with you.

The facts of the matter are this: I adore studying History and trying to see something in a way no one else has ever seen. And I adore studying Maths, having to be creative in solving problems and seeing the world from this other mechanical and precise view point. I love them both. They don't match up but I don't mind that. And the older I get, the clearer my reasons become. And that's what means I don't mind defending myself for it.

The first thing I found when wiki-ing this was the example, "The finest apologia of what drives a man to devote his life to pure mathematics". This piece could never be described as such, but in 45 minutes it's the best I've got.

Apologia - Jow Bates

"I'm not really sure you can get away with doing that." Quibbled Paul over the thunderous drone of early morning traffic.
"Get away with what?" Retorted Tom. "I'm engaged in a public service, anybody can see that."
As Paul had little to counter this argument with, he remained silent as Tom continued to spray paint the word "BALLS" across the newly painted white walls of the Cambridge Police Station.

Sunlight began to pierce through the rain-broken cloud cover that had been blanketing the majority of Cambridge that morning. As light gamboled playfully of the wet cars and pavements of Cambridgeshire's Constabulary car park, the strong smell of damp flora mingled with the ever-present  exhaust fumes of main road transit to create a quintessentially English backdrop for the two 'graffiti artists'.

"Is it morning already?" Enquired Tom.
"It's been morning for hours mate."
"I'd better get a move on then."
"So you don't get caught? Mate you're definitely getting caught, you're practically in a Police Station, there's fucking loads of cameras."
"Say what?"
"Cameras, fuck-loads, Police Station."
"Ah." Tom sipped from a rain dappled can of Carlesberg Export and studiously eyed the four foot high, orange "BALLS" in front of him, nodding approvingly.

"I literally have no idea why I'm still here." Lamented Paul to the inquisitively poised CCTV camera pointed directly at them both, about ten metres away.
"This is a thing of beauty." Tom proudly continued, his slight frame swaying in the wind as he swigged again from his beer can.
"It's balls."
"It's art! Creative expression and I'll defend to the death my right to do it."
"You've written 'BALLS' in massive orange letters on the side of a Police Station."
"Don't stifle me Paul."
"You're definitely getting arrested."
"That's only probably going to happen. I had my hood up the entire time."

The hood of Tom's black Parker jacket had indeed been up for a large portion of the time he'd spent painting, however Tom had pulled it back a few minutes earlier to study his work and had since been brazenly standing, hood-free in the middle of the now well-lit car park.

"I've got paint on my Arsenal shirt." Declared Paul to no one in particular.
"It was for a good cause."
"It wasn't a great cause."
"The fact that it was for a cause at all is enough mate. 'Cesc would be proud of you."
"Why am I here?" Paul moaned rhetorically.
"Because you're a dreamer Paul,  a stalwart prevaricator of justice and social liberty, you're part of hope's militia, staring undaunted into the heart of everything that's wrong and saying proudly; 'we deserve more'. Now sign my 'BALLS'."

Apologia - Beau

Apologia
I don't know what that means
Hilarious, Jow

Apologia - Megan Pozzi

Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I’m boring you and you seem busy.
You’re not, you’re really not and I’m not. I’m not busy. I’m having fun but if you want to go you can. I want you to stay.
Really? You’re having fun?
I am. I really am.
Cool. I’ll stay then.
Cool.
Soooooooooooo....
Soooooooooooooo when you say you’ll leave me to it; it actually makes me feel as though you want me to go. If you’re looking for an out just say you need to go and leave.
I like talking to you...it’s just that you’re so interesting I can’t help but feel that someone like me would bore you. I am dull, vacuous and generally of no interest to anyone.
Don’t say that.
Why? It’s true.
If you say so.
Huh? If I say so? What do you mean by that?
Nothing. I’m just saying that if that’s how you believe yourself to be, then you must be like that. Of course, I don’t think that, but I don’t see much point in trying to change your mind.
Right. I get it.
Well, what do you want me to say? You’re wonderful, interesting, amazing, fascinating, intriguing, destined to change the world? I can say it if you want.
I just want you to say what you think.
I think you were born to expand others’ minds.
Shut up.
...
...
Have you seen Zombie Kid Likes Turtles? It’s pretty funny.
Yeah I have. Anyway, I’m going now.
Cya.
Bye.

Apologia - Darly Bites

This is my first go
At a Haiku. Don't judge me
Harshly; I'm trying.

Apologia - Dogmatix

The word vexed him, he’d looked it up, that’s what he always did when he wasn’t certain . The etymology lead him to Greek, and the same route word as the modern apology. They said they didn’t want him to apologise, but it felt like it was an apology they were asking him to write.

He stood barefoot looking through the bars, the window faced east he knew that much, he got to watch the sunrise. He never used to watch the sunrise, it had seemed unimportant, how could it be unimportant? he thought. Sitting on the floor he leaned back against the concrete, the cold against his naked back waking him, giving him momentary clarity.

He knew why he was here, he didn’t understand it, but he did know.

No apologies.

Apologia - Tom Swarman

Apologia for playing FIFA

Speakers are broken from the tweeters 

Online line orders of retro sneakers

From a eager beaver with glandular fever

Penumbra - Borealis

This one is maybe a bit autobiographical as I think somebody is trying to subconsciously influence me to write about numbers (perhaps) and I'm having none of it. So instead I'll write about shadows and eclipses and holidays.

When I was twelve I went to the South of France, to a villa esoterically addressed by my uncle as being in 'Campagne'. Since then I have realised that campagne means 'rural area' and that he was being flippant when he scribbled the directions down on paper. We wound on through the hills and the lanes and the fields until we ended up at this crumbly, dishevelled but glorious villa, an hour late, in the fading evening light. Somehow, the trees still glistened and the fields of sunflowers wobbled in the breeze as if there were a thousand tiny suns staying up late for our safe journey.

The villa cast this great shadow over the drive-way as we drove up, emphasising its rusty French beauty. Peeling paint, rusty hinges and missing pieces of stone made up the facade. It was inconsistent, and messy, and my first holiday home.

Our trip was a diversion, or should I say an extension, on a trip to Paris. A timely call from my uncle meant we finished up our Paris trip and hopped on a plane, tracing a trail down the curve of the Earth, to Bordeaux. From there, a train journey to Agen, and finally, a clueless tour of the countryside until we ended up near a place called Villeneuve-sur-Lot, named literally for being near the River Lot. Throughout all this our holiday was characterised by taxi-drivers happy to pretend they were lost to hapless English tourists (and mine and my sister's inability to decide whether gauche or droite was left or right made matters stickier).

So when we ended up in our villa, we were six hundred miles away from the total eclipse that was due to happen August 11, 1999. This meant that while my friends ventured down to Cornwall to peer at the weird, cold eclipse, me and my family stood around in swimming costumes on a scorching patio, trying to capture a glimpse of the sun with the help of a ping-pong bat. The crumbly villa walls were no use as they were full of shadows even in full sunlight.

Now, we do have some photos of the 'penumbra', the shadowy edge of a partial eclipse. They are not quite what we were hoping for. Mostly, my mum balancing on one leg, in swimming costume, extending a ping pong bat on which to reflect the sun and the moon, trying to avoid her own shadow ruining the image, and also trying to avoid melting her eyes in the process. No success was had with the ping pong bat but what we are left with is a brilliant example of my mother's willingness to do anything that might impress her truly geeky daughters. As it is, I much prefer this memory of a blindingly white table-tennis bat to anything else of that holiday. The whole week is characterised by sunflowers and sunshine - nothing even slightly shadowy about it remains. And that's my story of missing a partial eclipse.

Penumbra - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

"The matrix was based on Plato's analogy of the cave, and Plato was only referring to the penumbra..." Steve trailed off, distracted by what appeared to be giant air balloons taking off from trees.
"what the fucks a penumbra" asked Claire, eyes focused through the windscreen on the slowly meandering rain.
"its err, its sir, er" Steve was too troubled with the feeling like he had wet himself but his trousers not being damp.
"fuck it, ill look it up on wiki..." Claires voice faded out as she turned to look in the back of the beat up megane. stretching for her bag, her face was inches away from Toby's as he pulled his head up from the CD case.
"got any tissue?" said Toby, his face lashing with sweat.
"you cant do a line and then blow your nose straight away. its not allowed." said Steve trying to be funny but failing by the lack of laughter that followed. Claire swiveled back to face forward and grabbed her i-phone making a cacophony of sounds in the process. "I cant believe those fuckers brainwashed me into buying their products. Everytime i pick it up i have the music from the advert start playing in my head., why did i get my phone out again?"
"I want to go to the stack." Toby announced, his recently snorted downer having the opposite effect.
"The stack doesn't exist" said Steve matter-of-factly.
"then wheres that douch douch douch coming from then" Claire enquired in a tone that suggested more sobriety than was the case. a face of realisation spread across her face and she stooped into the hunched posture of a smartphone, withdrawn for a moment from the group.
"Even if your convinced the stack doesn't exist, because i think the stack exists it exists in my reality." Toby said in a superior tone of voice, looking smug in the process.
"What about god then, because more people believe he exists than don't believe, he exists in some peoples realities, and even in the ones who don't believe because they form a concept of god in their mind they create a form of god in their reality, even if whats been created is a, er, fuck man i felt like i had a really interesting point." Steve stopped speaking and started looking up to see if he could still see the hot air balloons.
"i kind of get your point, but no, the stack exists." Toby retorted, still smug. the decorative upholstery was small red triangles with bits of green as the detail in a portion of black surrounded by grey. Toby looked at the seat in close detail and decided it was like fractals.
"can someone rack me up a line, I'm almost done" Claire announced, limbering up from her time as a hunchback.
"I want to go to the stack, before it stops existing through Steve's malicious thoughts"
"I love this tune" Steve said, the least surreal statement of his night.
"here it is, something to do with shadows or something, why did you bring this word up?" said Claire.
"it was in context with Plato's analogy of the cave" replied Steve
"what the fucks that about?" asked Toby
"Do you really want me to get into or shall we go have a stomp?" said Steve.
The car made a bleep sound simultaneously with the car door slamming shut, like a little melodic accompaniment to the douch douch douch.

Penumbra - Fargo

MARCUS STOPS HIS CAR OUTSIDE A THE ANGEL PUB IN HACKNEY. ITS RAINING OUTSIDE IN THE DARK OF NIGHT. HE IS LISTENING TO HEROES BY DAVID BOWIE. HE REMAINS SEATED UNTIL THE SONGS CLIMAX. HE SWITCHES THE CAR ENGINE OFF, AND GETS OUT OF THE CAR. HE STANDS AND STARES AT THE PUBS NAME THAT SHINES BRIGHTLY THROUGH THE DARKNESS AND RAIN. HE LIGHTS A CIGAR, AND TAKES A SLOW WALK OVER TO THE ANGEL ACROSS THE ROAD. HE GLANCES THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF THE ANGEL, HE CAN SEE ANDY SITTING AT THE BAR WITH A PINT OF BITTER. MARCUS LOOKS AT HIS WATCH, HE STUBS OUT THE CIGAR AGAINST THE AGED BRICKS OF THE ANGEL. HE WALKS INTO THE PUB AND SITS DOWN RIGHT NEXT TO ANDY. HE TURNS AND SMILES TO ANDY, ANDY LOOKS BUT DOES NOT SMILE BACK. THE BARMAN WALKS OVER.

Marcus
Evening Sir, can I have a scotch if the rocks with a twist please.

Barman
Is that everythin’ ?

Marcus
No actually my good man, I would like to buy the gentlemen to my right whatever he likes.

ANDY LOOKS ON WITH CONFUSION.

Andy
You don’t have to do that.

Marcus
I’m fully aware what I have to and don’t have to do thanks, I want to. And in fact I would consider it a personal insult if you were to repudiate this offer.

Andy
A pint of bitter please..

Marcus
(To the barman)
A pint of your finest ale my kind sir.

THE BARMAN LOOKS AT THE PAIR WITH AN ELEMENT OF ANNOYANCE. AND DRAGS HIS TIRED FEET OFF TO PRODUCE THEIR DRINKS. MARCUS, WHILST WAITING MARCUS TURNS ONLY HIS HEAD WHILST HIS BODY REMAINS JUST AS IT IS, AND HE LOOKS AT ANDY WHILE ANDY JUST LOOKS FORWARD TOWARD THE BAR AND THE DRINKS THE PUB HAS ON SHOW. MARCUS IS SMILING WITH POMPOSITY. THIS REAMINS THE SO, UNTIL THE BARMAN RETURNS WITH THEIR DRINKS, MARCUS THEN LOOKS AT THE BARMAN STILL SMILING, HE REACHES INTO HIS INSIDE POCKET AND PULLS OUT A WALLET WITH CLINT EASTWOODS FACE STITCHED ON THE FACIA , PULLS OUT A 10 POUND NOTE AND LITGHTLY PLACES IT IN THE BARMANS HANDS.

Marcus
Keep the change.

Barman
Cheers boy. (Walks off)

Marcus
(Turning again to Andy)
So, how’s your day been?

Andy
Good thanks, and you?

Marcus
Its been ok, you know same old same old.

Andy
Thanks for the pint.

Marcus
Think nothing of it. If I were you I would enjoy it.

Andy
(About to sip, pauses and looks nervously to Marcus and proceeds to sip)
Oh yeah? Why would that be?

Marcus
There was once a Bald Man who sat down after work on a hot summer’s day. A fly came up and started buzzing about his bald pate, and stinging him from time to time. The man aimed a blow at his little enemy, but his palm came on his head instead; again the fly tormented him, but this time the man was wiser and said:
“You will only injure yourself if you take notice of despicable enemies”
Eddie is a despicable enemy, and you have kept on buzzing, do you have any idea of what I’m talking about?

Andy
Look, I don’t know what you think you know.

Marcus
I know what’s important, and its important that you know that. You have been playing Eddie for a fool, and one thing for certain is a fool Eddie is not.

Andy
I have no idea what your talking about.

Marcus
Now your being facetious, don’t play these games with me sunshine, we know what’s been going on. On the information given to me by our mutual friend is that you have been giving up information , important information that jeopardises Eddies business and his freedom, as you know he considers this a lack of respect and loyalty. And once you loose that, well that’s when things begin to turn ugly.

Andy
I haven’t been giving up information about anything, I don’t know where he has been getting any of this from, but I swear to you I have not done anything like that and never would. You have to believe me, I’m being set up.

Marcus
Its not important that I believe you, its important that Eddie believes you, and this is where I come in. Your gonna finish that pint mate, and finish it quick, then me and you are taking a trip over to Greenwich to the docklands, where Eddie will be waiting for us. Then you can paint your pretty little picture of truth to him.
So drink up my friend, I don’t wish to for you to say anything else to me till we leave, I wanna sit here enjoy my drink in silence. And if there is any funny business, well, you know the rest.

Andy
But…

Marcus
(Interrupts)
Ah, what did I just say.

ANDY SITS, AND THROWS BACK HIS PINT QUICKLY, AND PLACES IT ON THE BAR. MARCUS LOOKS AT HIM AND WINKS. THEN MARCUS NECKS HIS DRINK AND STANDS. GRABS ANDYS ARM AND WALKS HIM OUT OF THE PUB AND OVER TO THE CAR, THE RAIN IS COMING DOWN WITH FORCE, HE SHOVES ANDY IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND SLAMS THE DOOR SHUT, THEN HE GETS IN THE DRIVERS SIDE, AND STARTS THE ENGINE. HE EJECTS DAVID BOWIES CD AND PUTS ANOTHER IN.

Marcus
You like Johnny Cash

Andy
I fucking hate Johnny Cash

Marcus
Good, then this journey will be that much more unpleasant for you.

JOHNNY CASH TENNESSEE STUD DESCENDS FROM THE SPEAKERS, MARCUS THEN DRIVES OFF INTO THE LONDON EASTEND NIGHT.
MARCUS DRIVES UP A LITTLE DIRT TRACK INTO DESERTED WASTELAND NEAR THE LONDON DOCKLANDS. A CAR IS WAITING WITH THE LIGHTS TURNED OFF. MARCUS STOPS, AND GETS OUT OF THE CAR AND GRABS ANDY OUT OF THE CAR. THEY WALK OVER TO THE OTHER CAR. A MAN WALKS OUT FROM THE SHADOWS, ITS DIFFICULT TO MAKE HIM OUT BUT ITS CLEAR TO ANDY THAT ITS EDDIE. HE WALKS OUT OF THE SHADOWS AND INTO THE LIGHT SHINING FROM MARCUS’ CARS DIRT COVERED HEADLIGHTS AND STANDS OPPOSITE THEM.

Eddie
Hello Andy, I’m sure Marcus has filled you in.

Andy
You could say that. But whatever information your going on its wrong.

Eddie
Ah, really well I better let you go then silly me. (Pause) Come ere!

Andy
Look Eddie I would never give you up, or anyone else for that matter.

Eddie
Come over here, now!

ANDY WALKS OVER MARCUS STAYS WHERE HE IS A LIGHTS UP A CIGAR. AND WITHOUT MARCUS NOTICING EDDIE PULLS A GUN WITH A SILENCER OUT OF THE INSIDE POCKET FROM HIS LONG CLOAK AND HANDS IT TO ANDY. ANDY THEN TURNS AND AIMS IT AT MARCUS, THIS MAKE MARCUS DROP THE CIGAR FROM HIS HAND, AND HE THEN TRIES TO REACH INSIDE IS INSIDE POCKET FOR HIS GUN BUT QUICK AS A CAT ANDY PULLS THE TRIGGER AND SHOOT MARCUS SQUARE IN THE FACE DEAD. ANDY SMILES AND WALKS OVER AND SHOVES MARCUS’ EMPTY SHELL INTO HIS CAR AND POURS PETROL FROM THE BOOT OVER HIS THE BODY OF MARCUS AND SETS IT ALIGHT. ANDY QUICKLY MOVES AWAY FROM THE CAR AS THE FLAMES GROW. HE WALKS OVER TO EDDIE WHO STARTS SUCKING A LOLLIPOP.

Eddie
What a double crossing fuck. Tell me Andy, do you fancy an Indian?

Andy
I would fucking love one.

Eddie
Do you like lollipops?

Andy
I love lollipops Eddie.

Eddie
Here have one. (Hands Andy a lollipop) I know a great Indian, shall we?

Andy
After you sir.

Eddie
You drive, we better get out of here quickly. Incidentally what do you make of the word penumbra?

Andy
(Getting into the driving seat)
Not much sir, whys that?

Eddie
No reason Andy, no reason at all.

FADE TO BLACK.

Penumbra - Beau

I'm a mixed raced kid
Not quite dark and not quite light
I'm the penumbra

Penumbra - Jow Bates

It's the beauty in things that don't happen.

Rain poured down over the ashen spectrum of Chicago's grey streets. Light from a window bled white into the otherwise noir scenery of this living tribute to black cinema. Matthew leaned in against the cold glass window of his office.
"Every night the same." Narrated his internal monologue.
The freestyle jazz bebop of rainfall fixed itself a backing track to the broken transmission of his police radio. Matthew lit a cigarette and poured himself another shot of whiskey.
"Another night without a case."
Unused files littered his desk, coffee stains and spilled ink adorned his work station.
"Nothing." There was no romance in this.

Candles play stars to our world,
Their white light the composer
To the dancing penumbra of this;
Our waking jazz fusion.

Matthew switched the radio over. Bach's Chaconne, the violin solo cut through the soporific night of his office, classical life bled through the stagnant ambiance of broken noir. Shadows danced ecliptic penumbra of freeform ballet across his ceiling.

Cold winds change,
Their scenery agaze,
With all the wonder of the world,
The beauty of the stage.

Matthew sipped his whiskey. "Never a case." His self narration grimly reiterated.
"Never a dull moment."

Subway - Jow Bates

They come and go. They come and go.

It's constant, an ever fluctuating blur of faces, the spasmodic torrent of life, highlighting the lack of life. People on their way to a grey-area of grey-life on grey transport, desperately trying to keep up with themselves. Lethargic atheists praying for pseudo-adrenaline, urban spelunking in London's sickly belly. Nearly living.

His coffee stained lips tightened against the warm, damp air that whistled past him. The smell of the earth was masked by concrete and uncertainty. He woke up, finding as he often did, that he hadn't been thinking, like catching himself mid-blackout and snapping back to waking life. He was deliberately slipping out of consciousness; phasing out at work, tuning out the noise of unwanted life, he was desperately not-living in a literal sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The cacophony of giant mechanical worms scurrying past woke him again and he mused insincerely over articles in the metro, fading out of life again. This was how he had spent one third of the last five years of his "life".

/One third sleeping.
/One third traveling.
/One third validating his existence on Facebook.

A wave of service announcements washed over his social entropy as he found himself sat, staring at his hastily work-polished shoes, on what muscle memory told him was the Circle Line. Twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he would find himself at Edgware Road, twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds of subterranean paralysis.

Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds later he woke up again, coffee stained lips tightened against the white hot noise of inversion that screamed past him. The smell of copper was partially obscured by sulphur and panic. He woke up, finding as he rarely did, that he was losing his grip on the seat in from of him, unintentionally slipping out of consciousness, tuning out the noise of an unwanted hysteria, he was desperately living in an indefinite sense, but he wanted to be alive, didn't he?
The  cacophony of giant mechanical worms recoiling in bewilderment woke him again and he grieved sincerely over the last five years of his "life".

A wave of applause washed over his social entropy and he found himself sat, staring at the gilded, scarlet cover of the large tome on his lap.
"This is your life." Announced Michael Aspel, without a hint of irony.
He blinked.

Subway - Fargo

THE FATHER WALKS INTO PAUL'S BEDROOM, FATHER HAS RED EYES DUE TO AN INTENSE DISPLAY OF EMOTION. PAUL IS SITTING ON THE FLOOR PLAYING WITH HIS STAR WARS ACTION FIGURES, FATHER STANDS AT THE DOOR, A SADNESS SPREADS ACROSS HIS FACE LIKE A VIRUS. PAUL HAS YET TO NOTICE HIS FATHERS PRESENCE .FATHER JUST STANDS FOR A WHILE LOOKING AT HIM, WITH SADNESS AND FEAR. HAUNTING IMAGES ARE PLAGUING HIS MIND.
HE THEN TAKES A SLOW WALK WHO IS STILL IN THE CORNER OF HIS BEDROOM PLAYING WITH HIS TOYS MAKING THE SOUNDS THAT SPACESHIP WOULD MAKE AS HE IS FLYING A TOY SPACESHIP AROUND IN FRONT OF HIM. FATHER THEN KNEELS DOWN AND PLACES A HAND ON PAUL'S SHOULDER. PAUL TURNS TO HIS FATHER.

Paul
Hi Daddy, Luke Skywalker is flying Daddy look.

HE SWINGS THE TOY SPACESHIP AROUND IN FRONT OF HIM. FATHER SMILES. BUT HIS IS STILL DISPLAYING A LOOK OF GREAT SADNESS.

Father
Wow Paul he’s really going for it!

PAUL SMILES. FATHER IS ABOUT TO SAY SOMETHING, BUT INSTEAD PAUSES AS THOUGH THE INFORMATION THAT HE IS ABOUT TO BEQUEATH IS SOMETHING OF A STRUGGLE. HE TAKES A DEEP BREATH THEN PROCEEDS WITH THE FOLLOWING, WITH GREAT SORROW AND EXERTION.

Father
Paul, Daddy has to tell you something that you may not understand. But before I do, I just want you to know that me and Mummy love you very much and we are always going to be here for you. (Pause) I have some bad news. When your sister went out earlier in her car there was a terrible accident, then the ambulance people came and tried their hardest to make her better, but, (tears begin to roll down his face) but they couldn’t make her better and now she has gone to sleep.

Paul
When is Shelly going to wake up Daddy?

Father
I’m so sorry Paul Shelly can’t ever wake up.

Paul
(Sadness in his voice) But how comes she wake up Daddy?

FATHER BEGINS TO CRY, AND FORCEFULLY TRIES TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.

Father
Paul, when Shelly had the accident she was in pain, and the doctors tried to make the pain stop, but they couldn’t, and the only way the pain would stop is if she went to sleep.

Paul
But she was going to take me to see where the queen lives.

FATHER LEANS OVER AND WRAPS HIS ARMS AROUND PAUL, THEN PICKS HIM UP AND SITS ON THE BED WITH PAUL ON HIS LAP.

Father
(Crying silently) I know she was, but me and Mummy will now.
Paul
Will I ever see her again?

Father
Shelly will be waiting for all of us in heaven when its our turn to sleep, but that’s not going to be for a very long time, you will see her again but not for a long while. In the meantime she will always be looking over you from heaven and protecting you, and in every hour of every day she will be with you right here. (He places his hand on Paul’s chest)

Paul
Will she be happy in heaven.

Father
Oh yeah, it’s a beautiful place, and she will be at peace and she will never feel pain ever again, and she will be looking forward to watching over you every day.

Paul
Won’t she even get a sore tummy like she used to?

Father
She wont even get her sore tummy.

Paul
I’m going to miss her Daddy!

Father
I know Paul I know, so am I. (Pause) But you can still talk to her whenever you want.

Paul
I can?

Father
Yeah, whenever you feel really bad, and really miss her, you can talk to her, you won’t be able to hear her, but she will here every word you say to her.

Paul
I miss her now Daddy, can I say something to her now?

Father
Of course you can darling, she would love that.

FATHER STARTS TO CRY AS PAUL STANDS UP GOES OVER TO THE WINDOW AND LOOKS UP.

Paul
Is she up there Daddy?

Father
Yeah that’s where she is, go ahead she can hear you.

Paul
Shelly Daddy say your asleep and that your in heaven, I miss you loads already, and wish you were here with me. But at least your tummy wont hurt anymore, and Daddy says I will see you again but not for a long while so I hope there’s lots and lots of things to do up there. I will speak to you every day. Love you!

PAUL GOES OVER TO FATHER AND SEE’S HE IS CRYING, PAUL THEN SITS ON HIS LAP AND WRAPS HIS ARMS AROUND HIM. FATHER CANT GET THE IMAGE OF SHELLY LAYING DEAD IN THE SUBWAY, HE TRIES TO REGAIN COMPOSURE.

Father
Good boy, and you know she loves you to. Now lets go downstairs and give Mummy a cuddle and make sure she’s ok.

Paul
Does she know that Shelly will be happy and that we will all see her again?

Father
Yeah she does son.

FATHER STANDS UP WITH PAUL IN HIS ARMS AND THEY START WALKING DOWNSTAIRS.

Paul
Daddy?

Father
Yeah?

Paul
Can I get t a hamster?

Father
No Paul they smell and their rodents.

Paul
That’s not fair, I’m never allowed anything I want.

Father
Not now Paul, not now.

FADE TO BLACK.

Subway - D'oh

With a slogan like “Subway, eat fresh!”, you can rest assured that the processed rats tail in the meatballs are fresh.

Subway - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

I should of been a rape victim. On the boat with me was a priest, two scout leaders and a Peruvian. I was 12 and being offered tesco value beer by these brutes to which i refrained. "Stay safe, stay sober" the twelve year old me thought. We had been sailing to Shotley and back just for something to do, or at least that's what i thought at the time. It makes sense years later that should i have accepted the Tesco value lager, the something to do would of been me.
The Peruvian was there under dubious pretenses. The priest was friends with him when he was assigned to a church on the Peruvian cordillera of the Andes 10 years ago. That the Peruvian was only 20 now begged the question why the priest was friends with a ten year old anyway. well it did in my undeveloped 12 year old head, but not in any minds of the adult congregation who didn't seem to question this strange friendship.
So the priest had the Peruvian shipped over, under the guise of a cultural exchange. To keep himself busy whilst the priest did gods work he did the priests housework and gardening. It was through my role as a gardener i met the Peruvian. His English wasn't great and my Spanish was non existent yet we clicked in a platonic friendship way. i stuck to my English gentleman tools of the trade and was embarrassed by his superior work rate using nothing but a pick axe.
"gardening should be a leisure" the 12 year old me would say.
"me violaciones" The Peruvian would reply. I thought he was saying in his native tongue something about vultures at the time, so i shrugged it off, and let him finish most of the work before we went inside the priests abode for some lunch.
Inside i remarked about the guitar whilst he made a few sandwiches and grabbed some crisps.
"I tocar la guitarra" said the Peruvian whilst gesturing for me to pick it up. "Se puede jugar?"
whilst saying this he pointed to me and gestured a strum so i imagined he was asking if i played.
"no", i said, safe in the knowledge it meant the same in most languages. i passed the guitar to him and he began to play traditional Peruvian music. I ate my sandwich whilst i listened to him play and made an executive decision as head gardener, "were done gardening for today. lets go Busking instead."
"bus-king" the Peruvian replied slow and broken.
"yes, your a very talented man, i am going to take you to a place where we can make lots of money quickly, where we wont be troubled by the cops." i was getting very excited, i remembered the commotion around the Peruvian group who performed at the town hall to rapturous applause and bulging begging baskets. "its a ten minute walk" i announced in a language the Peruvian didn't really understand but with an enthusiasm he was drunk on. We walked with his guitar and blowpipes through the park and towards the town centre.
We headed for the subway and we played for half an hour. I say we, he played and blew and sung and i held out a hat. we got 15 pounds, i took 12 and left him with three. he knew he was being robbed but he had a good time and enjoyed himself and he much preferred it to being raped by a priest.

Subway - Patrick

Patrick was a sandwich artist. At least that's what it said on the hat. He'd worn many hats in his years as a member of the part-time workforce that kept the nation's fast food economy afloat. Ah the joys of minimum wage. There may not be perks but at least there were hats. And hats were something you could believe in. At least that's what he told himself as he looked down at his newly issued green and yellow visor. Perhaps this time would be different. He was, after all,
a sandwich artist now. That in and of itself had it mean something he decided as he served his first drunken customer of the evening.

Perhaps however, he reflected as the customer started weeing on the floor, he was just a collector of hats.

Subway - Missy Hannah

Saturday morning
The underground is like hell
Kings Cross, Baker Street

Subway - Dogmatix

Whispering tunnels
Loud speaker, please mind the gap
Stairwells and strangers

Subway - Beau

Boom Boom Boom Ker-PLOW!
Should have taken a taxi
On 7/7

Flashback - Dogmatix

Blur of images
Remembered and forgotten
Her analepsis

Flashback - Borealis

Throwing the windswept hair out of her eyes she grabbed her camera up against the reddening, dying light and snapped. The trees' silhouettes stood out as if someone had carefully drawn each fading, balding wintery-branch onto a canvas.

She hadn't returned to this spot beside the river since she was ten. Back then he'd sat, paintbrush in hand, dabbing away at a tiny portable set of watercolours, and somehow with the minimum amount of effort everything around them had come alive. The pockets of the cartridge paper had captured the watery paint, so that slowly the crystal clear painting looked like someone had rubbed vaseline on their lens. There was something about the way that the page had turned every feature of the landscape into tiny pits of colour - the world turned into indistinct blotches; water; rays of sun, autumny leaves - as if someone had grabbed the sky and yanked down, crinkling it up as they went.

So now as she tried to capture the past, she sighed at the futility of it. The images in her head and the pictures her camera took never matched up; her vision was all squew-iff. It was a long time since she could remember what the scene had actually looked like: the flashbacks she had were always of the painting now. What she'd been trying to do failed as her camera recorded the world with the harsh clarity of a stranger who hadn't read the brief.

Two weeks later her prints were sent back, the world preserved with sharp lines and lacklustre colour. She'd done this on numerous occasions - wandered off to see the old church they went to or the farm that they used to pick gooseberries at - taken photos - and returned, grumpy and discontented with how the world appeared to her now. The images in her head were always so different. Sighing at her silliness, she realised she'd mistaken the clarity of what she saw in her head for the world outside. Like everything else, it was all very black-and-white in her head; but reality always fumbled around and missed the point.

That Thursday she made a decision: quit trying to recreate the blotchy, crinkled up past. Change the time, change the day, change the picture. She hopped on her bike and rode down to the river, abandoning the usual ritual of cornflakes and E4 re-runs, this time just taking a pad of paper and sticks of charcoal and chalk. With the grass cushioning her, she looked out towards the boats on the river, with the stark trees hanging overhead and set about re-making it in black and white, just as she saw wanted the world to be.

Flashback - Fargo

MARK WAKES UP TO THE SOUND OF TRAFFIC, ONCE HE GETS INTO FOCUS HE NOTICES HE IS LYING FACE DOWN IN A PILE OF MUD, HE SLOWLY LIFTS HIS HEAD UP AND TAKES A LOOK AROUND. HOW THE HELL DID HE GET HERE? HE IS IN CENTRAL PARK IN NEW YORK CITY. HE TRIES TO STAND QUICKLY BUT HAS TO STEADY HIMSELF, HE FEELS UNEASY, AND UNSURE ABOUT WHO HE IS AND HOW HE GOT TO BE HERE, ALL HE CAN REMEMBER IS THAT HE’S ENGLISH AND HIS NAME, ONCE HE GETS HIMSELF TOGETHER HE BEGINS TO WALK AT A SLOW PLACE. PASSERS BY ARE LOOKING AT HIM STRANGELY, SO MARK THEN LOOKS AT HIS HANDS, WHICH ARE COVERED IN MUD, THEN HE NOTICES HIS FACE IS ALSO COVERED IN DIRT AND HIS CLOTHES ARE TORN IN PLACES. HIS PACE QUICKENS UNTIL HE COMES ACROSS A PUBLIC TOILET.

HE CLEANS HIS HANDS AND FACE, HE WALKS OUT OF THE PUBLIC TOILET BACK INTO CENTRAL PARK, AND BEGINS A BRISK WALK TO THE CITY.

ONCE OUT OF THE PARK HE WALKS INTO A COFFEE SHOP AND ORDERS A COFFEE, THEN HE THINKS, DOES HE HAVE ANY MONEY? HE CHECK HIS POCKET, AND PULLS OUT A CRUSHED I PHONE AND A WALLET, HE OPENS THE WALLET WITH GREAT INTEREST, THEN INTEREST TURNS INTO DELIGHT WHEN HE COUNTS THAT HE HAS POUNDS. BUT HE IS NOW IN AMERICA SO HE DECIDES TO TALK TO THE BIG AMERICAN MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER.

Mark
Excuse me, I don’t suppose I could pay in English money?

Counter Man
Hey, you’re an English guy, why you look all torn up?

Mark
Its going to sound strange but I don’t know?

Counter Man
You don’t know, what you lost your memory or something?

Mark
You could say that!

Counter Man
So if you lost your memory and you look all torn up, why you ordering a coffee?

Mark
I cant answer that, can I pay in English money.

Counter Man
Afraid Not.

Mark
You can just change it later, I need a coffee, I need to think of how and why I’m here, and I don’t particularly want to walk around New York looking like this with my mind all messed up, a good cup of coffee would really help right now.

Counter Man
Look, no can do, its our policy not to accept anything apart from the American Dollar Bill.

Mark
I will give you £200.

Counter Man
Coming right up Mr, I will bring it right on over.

Mark
Many Thanks.

MARK WALKS OVER TO A TABLE ON ITS OWN IN THE CORNER OF THE COFFEE SHOP. HE SITS DOWN SLOWLY AND AFTER THE MAN BRINGS HIS COFFEE OVER HE STARS FEELING ACHING PAINS ALL OVER HIS BODY. HE STARTS SIPPING HIS COFFEE AND TRIES HARD TO REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED. HE STRUGGLES ENORMOUSLY, THEN HE STARTS HEARING LOUD NOISES COMING FROM INSIDE THE COFFEE SHOP, HE LOOKS AROUND, NO ONE ELSE IS REACTING TO THE LOUD NOISE. ITS SOUNDS LIKE POLICE SIRENS. AND THEN HE HEARS SCREAMING. THE NOISE INCREASES A GREAT DEAL, WHICH IN TURN MAKES MARK SCREAM OUT LOUD. THE OTHER CUSTOMERS ALL TURN IN HORROR TO MARK ROLLING AROUND ON THE FLOOR, INSTEAD OF HELPING HIM THEY RECOIL.
MARK GETS UP WITH THE NOISES STILL INCREASING, HE RUNS OUT OF THE SHOP, SOME PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT HIM WITH CONFUSION THE SIRENS ARE STILL THERE, ALONG WITH SCREAMING AND PEOPLE TALKING OF WHICH HE CANT MAKE OUT, HE TURNS DOWN AN ALLY. NO ONE ELSE IS THERE.
THE NOISES STOP.
HE SITS DOWN AND PUTS HIS HEAD IN HIS HANDS. WHEN HE LOOKS UP A MAN IN A PURPLE SUIT APPEARS AS IF FROM NOWHERE.
MARK STAYS STILL UNABLE TO MOVE A LIMB.

Man In suit
Its time.

HE PICKS MARK UP, AND CRADLES HIM LIKE A BABY.

Mark
(Struggling to talk)
Am I dead?

Man In suit
No, your beginning again.

MARK THEN TURNS INTO A BABY, THEN A BRIGHT LIGHT APPEARS, THE LIGHT TURNS INTO A WORMHOLE, THE MAN AND BABY MARK WALK THROUGH AND THE WORMHOLE VANISHES.

2 HOURS EARLIER ENGLAND

MARK IS WALKING DOWN A STREET IN LONDON WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND EMMA. THEY HAVE THEIR ARM LINKED, THEY ARE LAUGHING.

Mark
Did you see his face, he couldn’t believe it when I told him the pompous twat!

Emma
It was priceless, he always said you would never make it, but now you have, we have to celebrate!

Mark
Lets go out for dinner, my treat, now I’m going to be rich!

Emma
Now mark lets not get carried away.

Mark
Why not I have been waiting for so long for this, I’m gonna treat you all weekend, and do whatever you want.

Emma
Getting carried away is what you should do!

Mark
Ha, right lets go to the most expensive restaurant, the best one you can think of.

Emma
Oh I know the one, but it will have to be on you as I left my purse at the flat.

Mark
You wanna go now, okay right lets see. (Feels around in his pockets for his wallet, then checks his jacket) I have gone and left my bloody wallet at the office.

Emma
He did say it wouldn’t be long till you went crawling back.

Mark
Oh haha, Look, wait here I wont be long, I will run and get it.

Emma
Hurry then, my tummy has the rummblies !

MARK STARTS A BRISK WALK AND STOPS AT THE PEDESTRIAN CROSSING, THE LITTLE RED MAN THEN TURNS GREEN AND HE STARTS WALKING ACROSS THE ROAD WHEN HE NOTICES A MAN IN A PURPLE SUIT STANDING A FEW YARDS AWAY, WITHOUT NOTICING, MARK IS JUST STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, THE MAN IN THE SUIT IS STILL STARING AND THEN HE SMILES. MARK THEN COMES AROUND AND REALIZES HE IS JUST STANDING THERE HE STARS TO WALK AFTER THE MAN IN THE PURPLE SUIT, BUT WITHIN SECONDS THE TRAFFIC FLOW AND BEFORE MARK COULD DO ANYTHING A CAR COMES FROM AROUND THE A KNOCKS HIM OVER, HE FLY VIOLENTLY OVER THE CAR AND COME CRASHING DOWN DEAD.

THERE IS A BRIGHT LIGHT AND THEN A WORMHOLE APPEARS, THE MAN IN THE PURPLE SUIT WHISTLES, AND WALKS THROUGH THE WORMHOLE.

Flashback - Jow Bates

GOD IS FUCKING YOUR SISTER

The bold new slogan of St. Matthews controversial advertising campaign stood plainly in  6ft high text outside the nervous looking Lincoln church.
"It's just, I'm still not sure." Fretted the good Reverend John Bale, who had been uncertain about the necessity for an ad campaign to begin with. A tall, Armani clad agent of the Arscott London advertising company was midway through holstering his iPhone when he replied.
"Your religion is dying in a sea of shit, Reverend."
The small elderly man of God looked saddened by the comment, but the suited up Dan Hayward continued undaunted.
"Nobody cares about your God anymore, why?"
"I-"
"Because God is not relatable. He needs to be more accessible."
"Bu-"
"We need to shove God into the faces of every hapless bastard that walks past this church. Do you know what's wrong with your God?"
"…"
"Your God is getting nobody laid."

Rev. John Bale remained quiet as Dan pressed on, his mind cast back to the parish council meetings that had lead up to this. Sunday sermons were quiet, nobody took confession anymore. Roman Catholicism seemed to be getting harder to sell. Rev. Bale had persisted that things would pick up, that a London advertising company would not benefit a small church like this. They hadn't listened, they were interested in good community values, trying to get more people through the doors of churches to boost statistics within the St. Matthews catchment area. Rev. John Bale sighed.

"-Ram a bible down every uncircumcised cock in England." Finished Dan. The Reverend didn't say anything, instead he turned his gaze back to the billboard now incriminating his Lord and Father in breaking one of the most valued commandments.

GOD IS FUCKING YOUR SISTER

Dan continued his unabashed explanation as to why it was a good idea to publicly desecrate the Christian faith on a 2 meter high billboard, using qualifying phrases like "spiritual wank material" and "fuck-ability".  Rev. Bale remembered struggling to come to terms with the use of email, when the church parish had voted it a good idea to broaden their means of communication, spreading the word of God.

The word of God.

Reverend John Bale sighed.

"Sorry."

Flashback - John Browski

I can't really write about a flashback, because I'm having a flashforward of how stressy everything is going to be tomorrow, and the next day, and the fact that I've got to start a course of penicillin, and what if I'm allergic to it and I get really ill, the horrible grasping at the throat when my airways close up oh GOD!
Hahahaha
That last (long) sentence was written partially tongue in cheek, but let's be honest, much of my life is spent worrying about things to come.
I've always maintained that it's the chess player's way of life. If you play chess, you are more likely to think "well, if THIS happens then THAT will happen, which means I'll have to do THIS, and then that will mean that THIS will need to be ready".
It's the sort of thing that you tend to find more with those of us who are chess players. I'm not saying that if you DON'T play chess then you WON'T think like that, but I think the nature of chess playing means that you're more likely to subsequently adopt that mode of thinking.
I used to teach chess to young people who had been excluded from school. I don't mean teach them in the sense that I am a grandmaster, I mean teach them the basics - literally, what a pawn does. What a knight does. What a rook does. And so on.
What I found, and what they found, I think, is that once you start looking at the world through those eyes, you find yourself thinking much more about consequences. For instance... if I steal that, then I might get caught, which will mean.... and so on. It was reasonably successful, I think, in challenging the ways the kids thought and how they acted, at least certainly with us.


Chess also has vaguely tenuous ties with martial arts. The discipline, the different styles, and of course the fact that not only does the Rza play chess (and a load of the WuTang Clan), but there was an incredibly dope film called The Mystery Of ChessBoxing, with one of the truly great martial arts villains, Ghost Faced Killer. (And yes, that's where the rapper got his name from.)

....not quite sure how I got from Flashback to Ghostface, but I think I've made my point. Whatever it was.

Flashback - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

when i was a yout
acid flashbacks dont compare
to my alzheimers

Flashback - Michelle Cleary

As I stood staring into the gaping chasm in front of me I could see nothing but darkness, there seemed to be no life at all.
"Are you coming in? The tour is heading in now and we can't wander alone" asked my friend.
"Sure, I'm comin' in a sec". But as I said it I could not bring myself to move, the darkness scared me, to my very core, it was something that happened as a child and I have never fully gotten over it. No-one but me and my friend knows about it and I intended to keep it that way.
I was with my mother in the park around sunset and we were sitting watching everyone leave for the day as we sat and my mum told me stories about fantastic adventures into the unknown by princes to rescue their damsels in distress so they could be with their true love and live happily ever after. Of course my mum didn't believe in such things but she told me the stories to keep me happy. We sat under an oak tree until it got dark and drank from our flask of hot chocolate. This was our ritual every Saturday, a method of escape from the pursuits of happiness in a world that had given up on us.
"It's time to leave sugar", my mum told me, "lets go."
So we got up and started the journey through the weaving paths out of the park, taking our time and wanting to soak in the calm summer night, stars beaming down on us. They made the walk back in the dark a magical one, but as we were walking jovially a shadow appeared in front of the street lamp ahead and stood rigidly waiting for us to reach it.
My mum grabbed my hand tight and tried to careen away by stepping onto the grass, trying to get away from this shadow.
She leaned down to me and told me not to let go of her no matter what. The person followed us and eventually started walking faster to catch up and out of the darkness I heard a loud noise that took me by surprise and I flinched. I felt my mum's hand loosen on mine as she fell to the ground. I couldn't see her face but I could hear her breathing and it was rushed and shallow.
"MUM!? Mummy?" I wanted her to talk to me, hold me so I would be safe.
The person came rushing at us and stopped so they were leaning over us. All of a sudden he reached down and I screamed , screamed hoping that there was someone around to hear me, I scurried backward trying to get away but I hit a tree trunk behind me. He continued to reach down and gripped my mothers bag, ratched through it and then ran off into the night avoiding all street lamps. I went back to sit with my mother as her breathing slowly stopped. I sat with her in the lingering darkness the entire night until someone came across us on their morning run.
***
"Are you OK?" I heard my friend asking, "we don't have to go in if you don't want to".
"No,lets go, being afraid of the dark is something I'm going to have to get over, what is the point in life when you can't even conquer your own fears, and I WILL conquer mine".

Flashback - Beau

I just had a flashback, which would make this story "Quick Non-Fiction".

There was a 100% chance of snow that day, so I grabbed my umbrella, dressed warm, and headed out the front door early to enjoy the day. I had a mental list of all the places I would be going; first on the list was the grocery store for DXM. (Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide is plentiful in the United States, and it packs a punch, especially if you drink alcohol or smoke weed on it) But on my way to the store, I noticed a large brown lump sitting in the gutter on the side of the road. Upon closer inspection, I realised I had stumbled upon a beaver. Now, I might have seen beavers in zoos when I was a child, but here I was, face to face with one! It was obvious it had recently died, however it was also apparent it had died of natural causes and had not been hit by a car.

I looked down at the still-warm mammal, poked it with a stick, and cursed the fact that I had decided to leave my digital camera at home. But it would have been disastrous to bring it with me, as a blizzard was on its way. For a split second, I contemplated bringing the entire corpse home with me, but decided that the 4 mile walk with it might prove to be too much for me. I touched the beaver's tail to see what it felt like, opened my umbrella, and headed towards the mall as the snow began to fall.

I got high from the DXM. And when I say that, I mean I got REALLY high from it. I had a few beers in my pocket, so I drank a few and got even higher. The day turned out to be eventful and interesting, as most people from Atlanta only see snow about once every year. The mood of everyone that day had changed drastically because of the frozen precipitation. After a long day of being a reprobate, I decided to head home, but the thought of that beaver stuck with me. "Why didn't I bring my camera?", I asked myself as I trudged to the house. "No one will ever believe this story on Facebook without proof.", I muttered. About a week later, I decided to go out again. I walked past the same point and let me tell you, I was surprised to see the beaver sitting in the exact same spot. The corpse was well preserved because of the coldness and recent snow. But, shit! I had left my camera at home AGAIN! Had I expected the beaver to still be there, I would have definitely brought it with me this time.

But I had a plan.

Upon leaving the grocery store, I asked for several grocery bags; I was going to bring this mammal home with me, take some pictures, then leave him to decompose in my back yard and save the skull after the bones were bleached.

Did you know that full grown beavers are heavier than you might think?

I picked up the animal by its tail, and loaded him head-first into the triple wrapped grocery bags.

Did you also know that beavers are larger than you might think?

Imagine my despair when half of the beaver was flopped over the side of the bags; the bags weren't big enough, and the beaver had to have weighed at least 30 pounds. No joke. But I decided to stick to my plan. So there I am, walking down the street, carrying a grocery bag with the bottom half of an animal hanging over the side of it. As cars passed me and stared, I realised that perhaps carrying a bag that OBVIOUSLY had some dead animal hanging out of it might not be such a good idea. From everyone else's perspective, I could have been carrying a dead dog or cat that I had slaughtered for all they knew, and for some reason, people don't take kindly to that. Just ask Mary Bale. I had also been drinking that day, and would have been jailed if a police officer had been called to check out the situation. (Gotta love America, right?)

The moral of the story - Bring a camera with you everywhere you go. Beavers are fucking heavy.

Self Help - Jow Bates

Undiagnosed, unmedicated, unhindered. Left to grow in the wrong way.

Henri tapped his pen against the table irritably.

"Paroles."  He thought.

Unable to think with the deafening silence of his room, Henri flicked open his laptop and pressed play. iTunes, however, sent mixed messages and conflicting thoughts that crowded his inconsolable conscious. The sudden want for quiet caused him to feel ill-at-ease. Henri opened his window and looked desperately over the banlieues for any kind of help, advice from the ether. A barely audible conversation drifted up to his bedsit, forming a light fog of noise which was permeated slightly by the distant symphony of separate car alarms. Henri closed his laptop again, this was better;

"Musique à ne pas écouter." He thought.

He began to coordinate his thoughts, tapping his pen in a more productive rhythm against the off-key orchestra or Paris' forgotten suburbs. Henri nodded along with the ignored sounds of his neglected housing estate and smiled. Nothing was happening with a tenacity and verve. Henri had yet to write anything, black dots filling his otherwise empty notepad, it seemed apt. He sipped a bottle of Stella Artois and thought more about what he ought to write. Maybe the absence of thought encapsulated best his time here, it certainly epitomised it. Henri smiled, thinking of something to write summed up what he was trying to say perfectly, the search for thought, abstract connotation, the arbitrary quest for ideas and ideology.

"Existence." He thought.

Henri finished his beer and stared down at his once empty notepad, now filled with the écrit de la musique of his own plight for concept. Henri sighed, imbathed himself with petrol and signed it.

"Temps pour une cigarette." He thought

Self Help - D'oh

Andy
“I met some‘un today”

Therapist
“Real, or imaginary?”

Andy
Andy pauses for a moment and decides to ignore the question “His name is Jack, I met’m at school”

Therapist
“What’s he look like Andy?”

Andy
“He is real funny look’n. Has a face like a pumpkin, like one ‘em Halloween lanterns. With these long sheep-shank legs. Kids at school make funna ‘im, call him Pumpkin Sheepshanks”

Therapist
The therapist lets out a long disappointed sigh

Andy
“He doesn’t have many friends. Bit like me I ‘spose. That’s why I like him.” He waits for some sort of reaction from his therapist, but she is busy scribbling something down on her note pad. Andy lowers his voice to no more than a whisper “Jack and I have a plan”

Therapist
“Oh? What kind of plan?”

Andy
“We’re gonna build sum’n… he’s found this thing on the internet”

Therapist
“What thing?”

Andy
“Well, um, it’s kind of like instructions…to make a pipe bomb.”

Therapist
“ANDY!”

Andy
“It was all his idea! I swear it. He said that they were all gonna pay, for making funna me and callin’ him Pumpkin Sheepshanks. And all those girls that just laughed at him when he tried to talk to ‘em… they were all gonna pay.”

Therapist
“Andy, have you been taking your medication?”

Andy
“Aye, I have. Everyday like you says”

Therapist
“You must tell me the truth now, otherwise all this work, all these sessions have been all for nothing… Now Andy, is Jack a real person?”

Andy
Andy lowers back into his bed, eyes down full of shame “No, no he’s not… I made him up”

Therapist
“Why would you do that Andy?”

Andy
“I wanted a friend, someone who can help me”

Therapist
“But aren’t I helping you?”

Andy
Andy can hear someone coming up the stairs “Of course you are, you’re helping me loads”

Therapist
“You’re a good boy Andy”

Andy’s Mother
Andy’s Mother pops her head into Andy’s room “Hey honey, I thought I heard voices, who’re you talking to?” She surveys the empty room.

Andy
“No one mother, just myself”

Self Help - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

I stood there a bit awkwardly for her to acknowledge me. i didn't have all day and I wasn't sure if it was worthy of manners, so eventually i burst out with: "Hello, i was looking for a book." How many times had that sentenced been used as an opener within these four walls of Waterstones i wondered. she looked up from the screen that had taken all her attention and smiled.
"any particular one" she responded in that polite sales assistant way that communicated they think your a prick.
"The game, by Neil Strauss". as i said it i noticed my voice break a little bit towards the end as i picked up on recognition in her face.
"Yep, that's in the self help section, ill show you." she said in a way that made me feel like i gave her the right answer. she didn't even look on the system for it, she was well acquainted with the book. since the words left my lips her face and demeanor changed from hard and cold to soft and inviting. i could deal with the hard and cold, they were well worked perimeters for me. But when i sensed a switch from animosity to interest i fear for making a wrong move and make no move at all. this is what happened when the sales assistant started walking towards the self help section and i was frozen at the customer enquiry desk.
I watched as the sales assistant walked the length of the shop, turn around and look suprised. i wondered whether she thought i was behind her the whole time and had been talking to me, even though she was at the opposite end of the store i could still recognise the confused look on her face when she discovered i was still where she left me. she looked over towards me, pointed towards the aisle and began to walk back. i could sense by her face we were back to animosity by the time she got back to the customer service point so i thanked her for her time, and scuttled towards the self help section.
A semi dyslexic shoplifter was shoving self help books under his jumper. i soon saw the book i wanted. it took a prominent position amongst the display that made it seem out of place. a novel with a cartoon picture cover amongst books such as "Fun with Fungus, apothecarian techniques for 21st century" and "how to stop smoking". I ignored these and flicked through an nlp book that i decided to get another day and began walking towards the pretty girl at the till with the book she seemed to know about. the was a look of hope and expectation. she scanned the book and smiled. "anything else" she enquired eagerly. in my mind i was fucking her, and for fear of her being a mind reader i simply shook my head and paid for my goods and left.
When i got outside i told myself to cut down on the dope, its making me paranoid as people cant mind read. An old man walked past and looked me straight in the eye and planted in my head the thought "yes we can mind read you little schnook". he smiled and walked off. I carried on my walk towards work, confused by what it all meant. everything seemed to piece together so perfectly, like when you have a conversation with someone with music playing in the background and when you have a moments silence the lyrics of the background music seem to fit the context of your conversation perfectly, yet words are just a series of sounds which we each attribute our own meanings to. Surely there's a purer form of communication.
I carried these thoughts and my new book with me to work. I stood outside and socialised with the smokers and engaged in slow euthanasia. "Whats in the bag Pumpkin?" asked a friend. i try to only keep friends with intelligent people so presumed they knew it was a book inside the Waterstones bag. When I went in to buy the book i saw it as a journalistic piece on picking up women. i was embarrassed it was in the self help section, i didn't need help just some inspiration. now amongst coworkers some of which i would like to learn to pick up, my initial take on what i was holding didn't seem appropriate.
"a self help book" i responded.
"oh" some one said.

Self Help - Borealis

Between Newcastle and Edinburgh, the coast is enough to make me stop thinking. The edges of the country are half-stroked, half-cajoled by the North Sea. If you look down from the train, you can see Famous Five-coves, waiting for smugglers and hiding caves that hide chequered napkins full of sticky cake and flasks full of ginger beer.

Taking photos is impossible as the train speeds past; by the time you've gathered yourself and your camera together the moment is gone, or a rare bit of sunshine leaps onto the murky glass windows, so that all you can see is yourself squinting after what you've just missed.

After a year I stopped trying to take photos and settled down to smile at it. Two hours of watching an endlessly flat yet impossibly choppy sea. It's almost like watching the ships go in and out at Felixstowe, binoculars in hand. But this time, no pebbles. Padded seats instead which are infinitely less comfortable, and make me ache to get outside, down to the shore.

Bus routes are difficult to find. And maybe that's good, maybe it's the anonymity and the safety of a train that makes it nice. Even the old, entrenched, stone-built houses balance perilously on the rocks next to the sea. You'd have to climb a lot of trees and a lot of crumbly hill-sides before you earned the right to be down there beside the waves.

It never really changes; and I'm not sure what I expect to happen in the space of two months. But that's leveling.

There's only one person that ever distracted me from thoughts of coves and adventures. She was a Roald Dahl-grandmother, with twenty-first-century grandchildren. They bashed away on Nintendo DS's, completely oblivious to the sea-view and utterly incongruent with it. She rummaged around in an old plastic bag, dug out some biscuits and cheese and a knife and smiled at them.

That's all she did, all I noticed. It was all nothingness, and all fleeting; but I invite people to the beach a lot and I'm never quite sure they're not-there with me. For some reason, this one time, I'm convinced someone was down there, not-there, with me.

The coast in Scotland stops me.