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.