Some stories or varying length and quality.
This Is Not A Knee Play
Branded Memories
Memory Book
Jamie's Wishes
A Strange Kind Of Illness
The Pattern
Dream Recollection
On Writing
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Monday, April 12, 2010
Dream Recollection.
Last night I dreamed I had to escort a kangaroo wearing a head scarf on the London Underground.
She shook her head when we approached the escalator and so we walked to the side of the station to take the lift. Looking back now I realise she had hooves, which I can't explain. I remember feeling very scared of her as the doors shut on us and we travelled down together in the dim light. I tried not to show it but something about her stillness and unblinking eyes unsettled me. I felt pretty ashamed of myself for feeling like it.
When we got out I left her for a minute as I walked up the platform. It was mainly empty, but a man was sitting on a bench a bit further up and was clearly looking at us. He muttered to me as I past.
'It's fucking disgusting.'
'What is?' I shot back aggressively, because I hate feeling judged.
'Headscarves.' he said, 'In this day and age.'
I got into a long loud argument with him where I defended her right to wear whatever she chose and he argued she was doing it out of religious repression. I largely agreed with a lot of what he said by the end, but I stuck stubbornly to my point because, even though he never said it, I couldn't help but think by the way he spoke that his argument was filled with prejudice and hate
The kangaroo stood further down the platform, still and probably listening, either dignified or terrified, I couldn't tell.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Bus Journey
There were three things I saw that I don't think I'll ever forget. The first, seeing an old woman take off her hat, and a little live baby bird being under there, chirping, holding up its head and opening it beak wide, hoping its mother would drop worms in. There she was, just walking down the street with this little thing balanced on her head as I passed by on the bus. I turned my head to watch her, peering through the condensation until she was out of sight.
Then I turned my head back and saw the second. Her almond-shaped face, large brown curious eyes, pink glossed lips and hair cropped very short, like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. And she was looking directly at me, inches away. She must have been turning to see the bird lady too, from the seat in front, but she was still looking when I had finished, and suddenly we were there, close enough to kiss and I breathed in the mint on her breath. I smiled and she smiled back, but she didn't turn away.
“That was...” she said.
“Yeah,” I know... just... crazy” I said.
“No,” she said. “Well, yes, but also, wasn't it... Margaret Thatcher?”
I gave a little laugh, one that I hope didn't come out as malicious or belittling to her, but just from surprise. “Ha. No, no, I don't think so”
“I'm sure it was.”
“I'm pretty sure I'd have recognised her” I insisted. “Even with the bird on her head.”
“Bird?” she said.
“Yes. The little bird that was... under her... hat” I trailed off, realising she didn't know what I was talking about.
She had a... bird... on her... head?” she said.
“Are we talking about the same woman?” I asked.
“Well, I'm talking about Margaret Thatcher, who was just sitting next to you on the bus. And you're talking about a woman with a bird on her head, so... we're probably not.”
“No. No. I guess we're not”
There was a very awkward silence. She studied me quizzically for one last time before sighing and turning back to face the front. I could feel my face burn and I felt annoyed, like she judged me! I wasn't the one with the bird on my head for God's sake, and why wasn't this traffic light changing? Shouldn't the lights have changed by now?
And then I saw the lights had changed, who knows how long ago, but we still weren't moving, because there she was, the Iron Lady, holding up the traffic, as she stood in the road right in front of the bus, bending over and regurgitating worms into a baby bird's mouth which sat on the head of an old woman kneeling beside her. I'll never forget it.
Then I turned my head back and saw the second. Her almond-shaped face, large brown curious eyes, pink glossed lips and hair cropped very short, like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. And she was looking directly at me, inches away. She must have been turning to see the bird lady too, from the seat in front, but she was still looking when I had finished, and suddenly we were there, close enough to kiss and I breathed in the mint on her breath. I smiled and she smiled back, but she didn't turn away.
“That was...” she said.
“Yeah,” I know... just... crazy” I said.
“No,” she said. “Well, yes, but also, wasn't it... Margaret Thatcher?”
I gave a little laugh, one that I hope didn't come out as malicious or belittling to her, but just from surprise. “Ha. No, no, I don't think so”
“I'm sure it was.”
“I'm pretty sure I'd have recognised her” I insisted. “Even with the bird on her head.”
“Bird?” she said.
“Yes. The little bird that was... under her... hat” I trailed off, realising she didn't know what I was talking about.
She had a... bird... on her... head?” she said.
“Are we talking about the same woman?” I asked.
“Well, I'm talking about Margaret Thatcher, who was just sitting next to you on the bus. And you're talking about a woman with a bird on her head, so... we're probably not.”
“No. No. I guess we're not”
There was a very awkward silence. She studied me quizzically for one last time before sighing and turning back to face the front. I could feel my face burn and I felt annoyed, like she judged me! I wasn't the one with the bird on my head for God's sake, and why wasn't this traffic light changing? Shouldn't the lights have changed by now?
And then I saw the lights had changed, who knows how long ago, but we still weren't moving, because there she was, the Iron Lady, holding up the traffic, as she stood in the road right in front of the bus, bending over and regurgitating worms into a baby bird's mouth which sat on the head of an old woman kneeling beside her. I'll never forget it.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Missed Opportunities
I woke up with a shudder after troubling dreams that I already couldn't remember. I lay in bed for at least half an hour more, desperately telling myself I wasn't enjoying lying there and that I had to get to work or I'd be late again for the fourteenth day in a row. Eventually I made my way up onto my elbows, and then to sitting on the side of the bed. My pyjamas were still moist from sweat and I could smell them. I peeled off my top and dropped it on the floor. With my half-open eyes I looked down and was depressed to see my belly sitting on my lap like a bald and apathetic pet. I stumbled into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, really just to have an excuse to sit for a while longer.
The bathroom scales looked back at me as I sat, the two glaring red zeros on its display outstaring me easily, and I looked away, ashamed and judged. Once the toilet was flushed I knew there was no way of putting it off any longer and stepped out of my pyjamas and onto the scales to watch its eyes roll.
I jumped as a loud alarm sounded from the scales and a flashbulb went off. "Winner!" was scrolling across the screen again and again. And then from somewhere inside the scales came a familiar voice. It was the voice of that northern quiz show host, the one with the endless enthusiasm and all that personality.
"Congratulations. You've hit the jackpot weight. One million pounds and a holiday of a lifetime to the Four Seasons resort in the Seychelles. Don't Delay! Take this print out to your local post office to claim your prize today!"
I watched as a piece of paper printed out from a slot I'd never noticed before on the front. On it was a picture of me just seconds before from the scales point of view. Short legs, a withered little penis, a pot belly, double chin and a startled ruddy face. I sighed. I could never take it to the post office of course, which was a shame, because I really could have done with that million, and a holiday would have been a delight.
The bathroom scales looked back at me as I sat, the two glaring red zeros on its display outstaring me easily, and I looked away, ashamed and judged. Once the toilet was flushed I knew there was no way of putting it off any longer and stepped out of my pyjamas and onto the scales to watch its eyes roll.
I jumped as a loud alarm sounded from the scales and a flashbulb went off. "Winner!" was scrolling across the screen again and again. And then from somewhere inside the scales came a familiar voice. It was the voice of that northern quiz show host, the one with the endless enthusiasm and all that personality.
"Congratulations. You've hit the jackpot weight. One million pounds and a holiday of a lifetime to the Four Seasons resort in the Seychelles. Don't Delay! Take this print out to your local post office to claim your prize today!"
I watched as a piece of paper printed out from a slot I'd never noticed before on the front. On it was a picture of me just seconds before from the scales point of view. Short legs, a withered little penis, a pot belly, double chin and a startled ruddy face. I sighed. I could never take it to the post office of course, which was a shame, because I really could have done with that million, and a holiday would have been a delight.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Spider
The giant spider has human skin, flaking like eczema, and its eight legs look like long fingers with three or four extra knuckles. It is half Ben's height and is crouched over something that is twitching, eating it slowly. It spits a sticky, grey, foul-smelling fluid through a soft rubbery sphincter, and then waits while the liquid cures the meat and softens up the next mouthful. It is hungry and scared and angry. It's getting angrier, but it doesn't know why yet. It is feeling more with each mouthful. It is growing fast. Its many eyes twist wildly around the room. It sees the door and knows it will take what's inside it soon.
The smell is strong enough that Ben has to force himself not to gag as he stands shaking one room away. He feels the sudden urge to throw up, which may be fear, but is also because of the twelve bottles of beer he drank at the party last night, with no food all day. He'd taken five ibuprofen before he went to bed in a drunken moment of inspiration, and his stomach is burning.
He tries to be calm, but of course he can't be calm, there's no way. He's sweating; a dirty alcohol sweat that sticks to his body and makes him itch. He sits down on the edge of the bed and concentrates on not panicking. But then he throws up suddenly and as he's retching he sees the shadow under the door as the spider reacts to the noise. He's trapped.
Only about an hour ago he had been woken from drunk dreams by the smell, which in his morning haze he had assumed was because he hadn't taken the kitchen bin out the night before. He spent a long time lying there, coping with it, vaguely planning to get up quickly and then go back to bed for another three hours but not quite being able to bring himself to, and at the same time he was thinking about the night before, the pathetic attempt at seduction of that hot South African girl, the embarrassed dancing as if the rejection didn't matter, the drunk dialling, the bad fuck, the guilt. The guilt was what had eventually made him decide to get out of bed and go to the kitchen.
But then it had been there, on the floor by the television and he had screamed and at the same time he had tripped on something. He didn't have time to look at what it was as the spider darted towards him, so silently and quickly for something so big, and his first reaction was to run back into the bedroom and shut the door behind him, holding it with his back as he reached for the chair and then shoved it beneath the handle.
So stupid he thinks. He could have run outside instead of here. Why didn't he? If he can just make sure that the spider won't be by the entrance, he might just have time to run out. But he doesn't dare to open the door yet and now his brain is going over and over what he tripped over. It couldn't have been - could it? But what if it was? Alice.
He takes a breath and holds the door handle with one hand and the chair with another. He has to go out there now. He owes her this at least, after last night. Stupidly he starts to think about who he'll have to tell if that thing has eaten her. Her annoying mum who still calls her Baby Alice even though she's 37, her ridiculous ex-husband, the people from work. For some reason he imagines telling them earnestly around the photocopier and them nodding sympathetically. It won't ever happen.
Alice, my Alice, he thinks, as though taking ownership of her will make him braver, but he can't move. He's paralysed. Finally he forces himself and weakly calls "Alice?"
The smell of it oozes under the door and he knows it's close. He gags again, but he's empty now and groans. The spider groans back.
And then- "Ben?"
It's Alice. "Alice?" says Ben through the door. "God, are you ok?"
"Ben, I'm fucking scared. Open the door."
He puts his hand on the door handle again and stops. "What is that thing?" he says. "Where is it?"
"I don't know Ben, " she says, saying his name too much like she always does, as if to make up for something missing, to pull him closer and then push him away. "Please, just open the door."
He wants to be braver, to be able to do it. But his imagination has taken over and he starts thinking about what's out there. Stupid ideas from fairy tales, Hansel and Gretel, with Alice in a cage forced to tempt him out or the spider will cook her in a pot. He knows it's ridiculous, but it doesn't stop him.
No, he can't stay here forever. What's it doing to her? He has to do something now. He imagines himself as a hero, tackling that thing, pushing it away, saving the girl, saving the world. He takes a breath and pulls out the chair quickly, trying not to think or hesitate. He takes the chair in both hands as if ready to use it as some sort of weapon. The door is still closed as he stands still in fighting pose. He'll have to change position and open the door.
He holds the chair awkwardly with his left hand and takes the handle with his right, pulls the door open.
The Alice-spider spits something hot at him and he falls backwards. She spits again and it hits his mouth. He feels his tongue and his teeth and his gums disintegrate. The spider screams. A human jaw juts out now from beneath the spider's eating orifice and it speaks with Alice's voice.
"Ben I'm sorry, Ben. No! I don't want to do this Ben. I'm so hungry. I'm so fucking angry with you, the way you fucked me last night, as if it's even worthy of being called that and you treat me like shit, but I keep coming back and I'm hungry. You're a fucking pig" and a human hand at the end of a leg scoops into Ben's dissolving stomach and pulls out the meat. It shoves it into the speaking mouth and she's still trying to speak as she chews and swallows, and when she does a membrane of skin behind the jaw breaks and the meat falls back down to the floor and then she's speaking again. "You knew how I felt. I want you. I've just never said it before, but now I know how. You knew the pain I was in after that cunt left, but you've never cared. You've never once cared. You just see me as an easy fuck. That's all. And that's fine. I pretend that's fine, but it's not. Oh fuck Ben. I'm sorry, I don't know what I am. I don't know. I need to eat. Something happened Ben. Ben!" And suddenly the voice seems aware that Ben is beneath her and trying to move, to scream, but can't because his mouth is gone.
Ben looks at her speaking and feels strangely calm now as he waits for everything to end. He can't move and he thinks slowly and rationally for the first time since he saw it, the effect of whatever was in that poison sedating him, but keeping him awake too. He realises, weirdly, that being eaten is actually quite nice. No pain. And this thing, these words she's saying. She's right. He has treated her badly, and maybe he doesn't deserve to die for it, but he deserves some sort of punishment. Who would have thought, all this time, that Alice was really a spider woman? It's so silly! And the thought makes him try to laugh, but of course he can't. And then he thinks again and he doesn't think she was always a spider woman. And it doesn't matter what he thinks anyway. He wants to laugh again as he sees her scoop more of his intestines out with another hand and put one lot of food in the talking mouth and one in the eating mouth. And then he sees her spit on her own hand and her own hand melt away! And he's sure he's laughing now: this must be new to her, she's so bad at it! Oh Alice. This is hysterical! And then she spits on his eyes and he doesn't see anything, but he's still there, laughing, or thinking about laughing, and it doesn't matter.
Then there is nothing left but the noise of spitting, sucking and chewing.
Ben listens and laughs and then he stops listening and stops laughing and he begins to feel again. And he realises this is probably the last time he'll ever feel and tries to take it in. Fear again now, but what else? Pain? No, no pain. Cold? Yes, so cold. He wonders why. Hunger? Yes. He feels hungry. He feels very hungry. Time? Time suddenly, or not suddenly, doesn't mean anything. He's beginning to get lost.
The chewing stops. He thinks about himself as if he's floating above, the body left on the floor, no good to consume anymore. He thinks back to childhood and suddenly thinks of something he hasn't thought of before. Of being lost in the supermarket and not being able to find mum. Then of the relief as he runs over and hugs a familiar pair of legs in a familiar coat and then looking up and seeing it's not mum at all. Being so shocked and crying and crying and he's crying now because this isn't his memory. It's like a splinter in his head. It shouldn't be there and he wants to scream. And he does scream.
And now he knows what it's like to be on the receiving end and the giving end, to fuck and be fucked, and to be fucked over. And he knows about things he never knew, about finances, and gardens, and television, and star signs and philosophers and the history of art and the 1980s and what it's like to need to eat to survive, to feel hunger like it's all you are. And to feel shy and ashamed. And to feel drunk and hungover. And he knows what it's like to be 37 and for your husband to have left and just to have to pick yourself up and get the fuck on with it because that's just how life is. And he knows what it's like to grow. And he can feel himself growing. And he's angry and he's scared, but he doesn't know why yet. He opens his eyes and looks around the room.
The smell is strong enough that Ben has to force himself not to gag as he stands shaking one room away. He feels the sudden urge to throw up, which may be fear, but is also because of the twelve bottles of beer he drank at the party last night, with no food all day. He'd taken five ibuprofen before he went to bed in a drunken moment of inspiration, and his stomach is burning.
He tries to be calm, but of course he can't be calm, there's no way. He's sweating; a dirty alcohol sweat that sticks to his body and makes him itch. He sits down on the edge of the bed and concentrates on not panicking. But then he throws up suddenly and as he's retching he sees the shadow under the door as the spider reacts to the noise. He's trapped.
Only about an hour ago he had been woken from drunk dreams by the smell, which in his morning haze he had assumed was because he hadn't taken the kitchen bin out the night before. He spent a long time lying there, coping with it, vaguely planning to get up quickly and then go back to bed for another three hours but not quite being able to bring himself to, and at the same time he was thinking about the night before, the pathetic attempt at seduction of that hot South African girl, the embarrassed dancing as if the rejection didn't matter, the drunk dialling, the bad fuck, the guilt. The guilt was what had eventually made him decide to get out of bed and go to the kitchen.
But then it had been there, on the floor by the television and he had screamed and at the same time he had tripped on something. He didn't have time to look at what it was as the spider darted towards him, so silently and quickly for something so big, and his first reaction was to run back into the bedroom and shut the door behind him, holding it with his back as he reached for the chair and then shoved it beneath the handle.
So stupid he thinks. He could have run outside instead of here. Why didn't he? If he can just make sure that the spider won't be by the entrance, he might just have time to run out. But he doesn't dare to open the door yet and now his brain is going over and over what he tripped over. It couldn't have been - could it? But what if it was? Alice.
He takes a breath and holds the door handle with one hand and the chair with another. He has to go out there now. He owes her this at least, after last night. Stupidly he starts to think about who he'll have to tell if that thing has eaten her. Her annoying mum who still calls her Baby Alice even though she's 37, her ridiculous ex-husband, the people from work. For some reason he imagines telling them earnestly around the photocopier and them nodding sympathetically. It won't ever happen.
Alice, my Alice, he thinks, as though taking ownership of her will make him braver, but he can't move. He's paralysed. Finally he forces himself and weakly calls "Alice?"
The smell of it oozes under the door and he knows it's close. He gags again, but he's empty now and groans. The spider groans back.
And then- "Ben?"
It's Alice. "Alice?" says Ben through the door. "God, are you ok?"
"Ben, I'm fucking scared. Open the door."
He puts his hand on the door handle again and stops. "What is that thing?" he says. "Where is it?"
"I don't know Ben, " she says, saying his name too much like she always does, as if to make up for something missing, to pull him closer and then push him away. "Please, just open the door."
He wants to be braver, to be able to do it. But his imagination has taken over and he starts thinking about what's out there. Stupid ideas from fairy tales, Hansel and Gretel, with Alice in a cage forced to tempt him out or the spider will cook her in a pot. He knows it's ridiculous, but it doesn't stop him.
No, he can't stay here forever. What's it doing to her? He has to do something now. He imagines himself as a hero, tackling that thing, pushing it away, saving the girl, saving the world. He takes a breath and pulls out the chair quickly, trying not to think or hesitate. He takes the chair in both hands as if ready to use it as some sort of weapon. The door is still closed as he stands still in fighting pose. He'll have to change position and open the door.
He holds the chair awkwardly with his left hand and takes the handle with his right, pulls the door open.
The Alice-spider spits something hot at him and he falls backwards. She spits again and it hits his mouth. He feels his tongue and his teeth and his gums disintegrate. The spider screams. A human jaw juts out now from beneath the spider's eating orifice and it speaks with Alice's voice.
"Ben I'm sorry, Ben. No! I don't want to do this Ben. I'm so hungry. I'm so fucking angry with you, the way you fucked me last night, as if it's even worthy of being called that and you treat me like shit, but I keep coming back and I'm hungry. You're a fucking pig" and a human hand at the end of a leg scoops into Ben's dissolving stomach and pulls out the meat. It shoves it into the speaking mouth and she's still trying to speak as she chews and swallows, and when she does a membrane of skin behind the jaw breaks and the meat falls back down to the floor and then she's speaking again. "You knew how I felt. I want you. I've just never said it before, but now I know how. You knew the pain I was in after that cunt left, but you've never cared. You've never once cared. You just see me as an easy fuck. That's all. And that's fine. I pretend that's fine, but it's not. Oh fuck Ben. I'm sorry, I don't know what I am. I don't know. I need to eat. Something happened Ben. Ben!" And suddenly the voice seems aware that Ben is beneath her and trying to move, to scream, but can't because his mouth is gone.
Ben looks at her speaking and feels strangely calm now as he waits for everything to end. He can't move and he thinks slowly and rationally for the first time since he saw it, the effect of whatever was in that poison sedating him, but keeping him awake too. He realises, weirdly, that being eaten is actually quite nice. No pain. And this thing, these words she's saying. She's right. He has treated her badly, and maybe he doesn't deserve to die for it, but he deserves some sort of punishment. Who would have thought, all this time, that Alice was really a spider woman? It's so silly! And the thought makes him try to laugh, but of course he can't. And then he thinks again and he doesn't think she was always a spider woman. And it doesn't matter what he thinks anyway. He wants to laugh again as he sees her scoop more of his intestines out with another hand and put one lot of food in the talking mouth and one in the eating mouth. And then he sees her spit on her own hand and her own hand melt away! And he's sure he's laughing now: this must be new to her, she's so bad at it! Oh Alice. This is hysterical! And then she spits on his eyes and he doesn't see anything, but he's still there, laughing, or thinking about laughing, and it doesn't matter.
Then there is nothing left but the noise of spitting, sucking and chewing.
Ben listens and laughs and then he stops listening and stops laughing and he begins to feel again. And he realises this is probably the last time he'll ever feel and tries to take it in. Fear again now, but what else? Pain? No, no pain. Cold? Yes, so cold. He wonders why. Hunger? Yes. He feels hungry. He feels very hungry. Time? Time suddenly, or not suddenly, doesn't mean anything. He's beginning to get lost.
The chewing stops. He thinks about himself as if he's floating above, the body left on the floor, no good to consume anymore. He thinks back to childhood and suddenly thinks of something he hasn't thought of before. Of being lost in the supermarket and not being able to find mum. Then of the relief as he runs over and hugs a familiar pair of legs in a familiar coat and then looking up and seeing it's not mum at all. Being so shocked and crying and crying and he's crying now because this isn't his memory. It's like a splinter in his head. It shouldn't be there and he wants to scream. And he does scream.
And now he knows what it's like to be on the receiving end and the giving end, to fuck and be fucked, and to be fucked over. And he knows about things he never knew, about finances, and gardens, and television, and star signs and philosophers and the history of art and the 1980s and what it's like to need to eat to survive, to feel hunger like it's all you are. And to feel shy and ashamed. And to feel drunk and hungover. And he knows what it's like to be 37 and for your husband to have left and just to have to pick yourself up and get the fuck on with it because that's just how life is. And he knows what it's like to grow. And he can feel himself growing. And he's angry and he's scared, but he doesn't know why yet. He opens his eyes and looks around the room.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Invitation
An invitation I made for my girlfriend's (and two other old friend's) 30th birthday
Click on the image to see it full size
Click on the image to see it full size
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Stories, Websites, Hope, Despair
Hi, I'm John - Welcome to my website, full of bit and bobs, stories and things left unfinished. Some of it is quite polished, some of it seems like it has been thrown into the internet quickly and with little care, like the junk into the wardrobe when there are guests coming in five minutes.
I'm a web designer who got into web designing by accident. My first site was made just to have a way to display my stories and stop them being left in a drawer for the rest of my life. As the years have gone on, I've found myself writing less and web designing more. I enjoy it though, so I don't feel bad about that. The writing is still there, at the back of my mind though, and I'm hoping to slowly push it forwards.
The website is called cooperking.co.uk because for a while I played with that being my writer's psuedonym, someone who could write better and more exotically than John Griffiths. Unfortunately it turned out that Cooper was no more able than John, so I've reverted to John until further notice.
If you're interested in me doing some freelance web design or are just interested in finding out a bit more about that type of thing then I'd love to hear from you. Email is probably best - john@cooperking.co.uk
If you just want to have a read of some stories then that's also fine. Some of them are now over ten years old, but don't let that bother you. I hope you like them. If you don't then blame Cooper.
Take Care,
John, June 2009
I'm a web designer who got into web designing by accident. My first site was made just to have a way to display my stories and stop them being left in a drawer for the rest of my life. As the years have gone on, I've found myself writing less and web designing more. I enjoy it though, so I don't feel bad about that. The writing is still there, at the back of my mind though, and I'm hoping to slowly push it forwards.
The website is called cooperking.co.uk because for a while I played with that being my writer's psuedonym, someone who could write better and more exotically than John Griffiths. Unfortunately it turned out that Cooper was no more able than John, so I've reverted to John until further notice.
If you're interested in me doing some freelance web design or are just interested in finding out a bit more about that type of thing then I'd love to hear from you. Email is probably best - john@cooperking.co.uk
If you just want to have a read of some stories then that's also fine. Some of them are now over ten years old, but don't let that bother you. I hope you like them. If you don't then blame Cooper.
Take Care,
John, June 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
On Writing
He wrote every day, but he knew that no-one would read it. He knew this because he screwed up what he'd written each night and threw the paper balls toward his unlit fireplace. He knew the day was coming when he would take a match and burn the paper and himself, and with a bit of luck, his neighbour below with her foul smelling dogs.
Sometimes he wrote about what that day would be like. Somewhere near the unplugged television were thirty pages all about the sound of a match as it struck the matchbox – the box with ‘Ed’s Place’ written on it, with a cartoon of Ed staring at him and smoking a pipe. He had grown to hate Ed’s face and looked forward to the day it burned along with everything else.
He rarely returned to pages once they were written, but sometimes, despite every effort not to, he couldn't help it. Occasionally he would feel an emptiness that he knew only inspiration could fix. He hated scrabbling around amongst the thousands of paper balls, searching for that one sentence that would put him back on course. Often he threatened himself, told himself that the next time he reached for one of the balls he'd just light a match, nevermind the schedule. In the end though, he knew that the schedule was unbreakable.
It was a bright summer's day when it came. He woke up as normal, following his usual ritual of shaving and standing on one foot in front of the mirror. It wasn't until the smell of burning toast reached his nostrils that he felt nervous. He finished his breakfast in the kitchen, the pieces slowly becoming harder to swallow, and walked into the living room. Like every day he locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket. He sat down for his last day of writing.
His last day of writing mainly focussed on the way light hit the dust in his room and how seemingly unconnected particles moved with him as he shifted in his chair. He was pleased with that.
Towards mid-afternoon he screwed up the final piece and threw it towards the fireplace. It toppled down the thousands of other paper balls and fell back towards his feet. He picked up the matchbox and took a deep breath, shutting his eyes. He felt along the side of the box with his finger and slid it open. He didn't open his eyes until he had struck the match. As the match burned in his fingers he was annoyed at the words that popped into his head: "that wasn’t worth thirty pages".
He threw the match at the paper mountain and watched fascinated for a few moments as dust was sucked into the flames. He wished he'd written about that.
A lot of things surprised him about the fire that afternoon. He hadn't expected the television to explode or for his flesh to smell the way it did. He hadn't expected the pain in his lungs or the blindness to come so quickly. He hadn't expected the heat, despite the fact that he had once spent three full days writing all about it. His final thought, as he succumbed to the ashes, was: "cobalt green green green green". He hadn't expected that.
Sometimes he wrote about what that day would be like. Somewhere near the unplugged television were thirty pages all about the sound of a match as it struck the matchbox – the box with ‘Ed’s Place’ written on it, with a cartoon of Ed staring at him and smoking a pipe. He had grown to hate Ed’s face and looked forward to the day it burned along with everything else.
He rarely returned to pages once they were written, but sometimes, despite every effort not to, he couldn't help it. Occasionally he would feel an emptiness that he knew only inspiration could fix. He hated scrabbling around amongst the thousands of paper balls, searching for that one sentence that would put him back on course. Often he threatened himself, told himself that the next time he reached for one of the balls he'd just light a match, nevermind the schedule. In the end though, he knew that the schedule was unbreakable.
It was a bright summer's day when it came. He woke up as normal, following his usual ritual of shaving and standing on one foot in front of the mirror. It wasn't until the smell of burning toast reached his nostrils that he felt nervous. He finished his breakfast in the kitchen, the pieces slowly becoming harder to swallow, and walked into the living room. Like every day he locked the door behind him and put the key in his pocket. He sat down for his last day of writing.
His last day of writing mainly focussed on the way light hit the dust in his room and how seemingly unconnected particles moved with him as he shifted in his chair. He was pleased with that.
Towards mid-afternoon he screwed up the final piece and threw it towards the fireplace. It toppled down the thousands of other paper balls and fell back towards his feet. He picked up the matchbox and took a deep breath, shutting his eyes. He felt along the side of the box with his finger and slid it open. He didn't open his eyes until he had struck the match. As the match burned in his fingers he was annoyed at the words that popped into his head: "that wasn’t worth thirty pages".
He threw the match at the paper mountain and watched fascinated for a few moments as dust was sucked into the flames. He wished he'd written about that.
A lot of things surprised him about the fire that afternoon. He hadn't expected the television to explode or for his flesh to smell the way it did. He hadn't expected the pain in his lungs or the blindness to come so quickly. He hadn't expected the heat, despite the fact that he had once spent three full days writing all about it. His final thought, as he succumbed to the ashes, was: "cobalt green green green green". He hadn't expected that.
Everything About Her
Everything about her said fuck me I'm vulnerable. That's what I thought, as I sat in my car drinking a red bull and chewing half a Ginsters sausage roll in a petrol station, watching her in the dark. What was she doing out here anyway? It was the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere. I watched her stagger out of the shop, short skirt, hair scrunched up with mousse or gel or something else. Behind the glass she paid for something, cigarettes I think, maybe condoms, or aspirin.
Everything about you says love me, I'm vulnerable, I said to her as she sat in my car. I could see the unease on her face, the disgust as I gently squeezed her knee. I tried not to let the anger get too much. I've lost it before and I don't like how that makes me feel. I'm not a bad person.
I'm not a bad person, I said, as we drove around and around the block as I pretended to be lost. I just need someone to talk to, some people don't understand, but I know that you do. I can feel it. I couldn't feel it. Fucking bitch, I wanted to feel it. She wasn't saying anything.
You can talk to me, I said, as we sat.
Can you talk to me? Please, I said. I heard the sound of my desperation and it was disgusting.
Take care, I said, as I dropped her off on the corner and watched her run away. Don't run too fast I thought, it makes me look bad. I took the other half of the sausage roll out of the glove compartment.
Everything about you says love me, I'm vulnerable, I said to her as she sat in my car. I could see the unease on her face, the disgust as I gently squeezed her knee. I tried not to let the anger get too much. I've lost it before and I don't like how that makes me feel. I'm not a bad person.
I'm not a bad person, I said, as we drove around and around the block as I pretended to be lost. I just need someone to talk to, some people don't understand, but I know that you do. I can feel it. I couldn't feel it. Fucking bitch, I wanted to feel it. She wasn't saying anything.
You can talk to me, I said, as we sat.
Can you talk to me? Please, I said. I heard the sound of my desperation and it was disgusting.
Take care, I said, as I dropped her off on the corner and watched her run away. Don't run too fast I thought, it makes me look bad. I took the other half of the sausage roll out of the glove compartment.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Web-Design
Here's a few hits:
http://www.nlff.org.uk
http://www.dianemorgan.co.uk
http://www.batteriesfeelincluded.com
http://www.questionsforladies.com
http://www.clairwordsworth.com
Please email me at cooperking@gmail.com if you'd like me to do anything for you or just want to talk about the possiblity.
http://www.nlff.org.uk
http://www.dianemorgan.co.uk
http://www.batteriesfeelincluded.com
http://www.questionsforladies.com
http://www.clairwordsworth.com
Please email me at cooperking@gmail.com if you'd like me to do anything for you or just want to talk about the possiblity.
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