INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - Tricycle Tales

The outrageous pumping of his desperate little heart. The determined turning of his hips, knees and ankles joints, madly whirling round and round and round and round the wobbly shank and it's peddles. Breath more belaboured and heavier with the purposefulness of his youthful exertion. The sweat beading on his brow. Accompanied by the most cacophonous of noises, caused by the stones and various odd objects, gems he'd collected, thrown into the tin boot to tumble around in one immense aggregated rattle. All in imitation of those large empty dump trucks he loved, that hurtled by his home clanging, banging and explosively booming, like anarchic drummers announcing the pitted unevenness of the road on which he lived.

This activity felt too wonderful, fully exhilarating, the most alive any 'not yet a five year old boy' could ever experience. This young boy and his tricycle, had for a moment become furiously focused, one piece of united energy. Who could have known such short legs, with so little muscle, could generate this amount of momentum. But to his boyhood imagination the sense of propulsion and speed felt immense, utterly intoxicating. He wanted much more of racing along the pavements hell for leather. Then an adult hand caught him, and brought it all to an abrupt stop. 

It was always like this it seemed, some adult, usually a parent, spoiled the fun. To them it was all about stopping him, making him consider the effect of his actions upon other people, that he needed to be more respectful. It was, after all, early afternoon, and lovely kind Mrs Greenwood would be having her afternoon nap. They'd completely over rule his excuses. Downplaying the value of his enjoyment. For one moment he had been riding his tricycle without a care in the world. Now could that ever have been wrong? Adults were relentless spoilsports, trying to force him to feel guilty. And there were tears, but more out of a sense of loss. Grieving for this one blissful moment in his life, now trashed and sullied. Apparently the problem with him was he did not think. And so he'd cried, but did so with such an angry pout of disapproval on his face. They had ruined his entire day. He'd been, and still was to his mind, guilt free, enjoyably pedaling his tricycle around and around the block, along pavements, up and down cobbled snickets and back alleys, between the terraces. They'd obviously forgotten what that was like.

Going round the block, this was his race track, around which he was timing himself. But for some reason adults, they always wanted to get him to 'stop making that bloody racket' They always swore, and his Mum always said it wasn't clever to swear. Rude language, was vulgar, indicating a lack of intelligence. Poor vocabulary spoke volumes about who you were. He never understood a lot of that. Why was it adults could swear and he couldn't? This he could not comprehend. The racket, the noise, was what made this particular form of playfulness special. It was what adding all the stones and objects was all about. To see what difference they made to the overall sound. The stones were cargo, that needed delivering, and he was now behind with that delivery, thank you very much. He had to catch up, if he was ever to be on time. 

The metal tricycle had once been a spanking new red. Now it was seriously dented and scuffed, some of the battered pock marks were beginning to rust badly from being left out in the rain. His Mother was already firing warning shots about him out growing it, and the time to throw it away. He had not, at first, recognised the possibilities a tricycle gave him. Perhaps initially too young for it, his legs did not quite meet the pedals right. It had felt as though it required too much effort. But a mere few months later, suddenly it all clicked, exactly what a tricycle could do. At first he was endlessly cycling up and down the pavement in front of his home. It was only when he went up and down the echoing cobbled snicket for the first time, that it's acoustic possibilities became the decisive revelation of love. What an immensely pleasurable noise that was, as you were shaken and bounced up and down over every little minor cobble and rut. 

He ventured further afield, to discover what different surfaces and places looked and sounded like. One day he got so carried away with his peddling, he actually reached the very limit of his road. Never having ventured this far before, he started to feel uneasy, out of his depth and a teeny weeny bit scared. He scanned what was at the road's end, spotting a few things he'd like to explore later, on another day, when he was feeling braver. Aware, on this occasion, that it was probably nearing tea time, and he really ought to be heading for home.

His Mother took him with her on a shopping trip into town the following day, what a tedious waste of time that was to 'a not yet five year old boy" intent on adventure. Consequently he was only able to perform the return journey, a few days later, back to the road's end On his previous glance around, he'd spotted a row of semi-dilapidated garages on the corner opposite. He reached these easily, part pushing with his feet, part waddling across with the tricycle still placed between his legs. To the right of these garages was a lowish stone wall, one he knew he could easily climb. This turned out to look down onto the railway cutting and shunting yards, things he'd only heard before, never actually seen. They were incredibly close, so near he could wave to the drivers. And he spent many a subsequent idle afternoon, hanging around just watching these magnificent beasts, with massive engines moving back and forth. Occasionally older boys, ones he didn't know, turned up. They'd hassle and teased him too much, that he started to clear off home sharpish the moment he saw them heading in his direction. 

There were, of course, other places to explore. He could see them in the distance, over the other side of the wide road junction, where the main road out of town split off in two directions. Could he cycle over there? He'd give it a try. Setting a determined chin peddling his tricycle furiously across this main road. With such intensely that he hit the kerb opposite with great force, and was nearly thrown over the handle bars. Quickly heaving the tricycle off the road, he reviewed whether there was any lasting damage. Well, none that he could see. And having finally arrived there, he could take in the bank of allotments the other side of a shallow stone wall, the suggestion of a valley beyond them. These all were enticing. He couldn't possibly drag a tricycle all that way, so what was he going to do with it?  Improvising a hiding place behind a hedge, and hoped that that would be enough for it to remain secret. 

There were a few adults pottering around the allotments, so he'd need to behave like the Indian tracker he saw on TV. Keeping low, move slow and quietly. There'd obviously been children here before him, with a well flattened grass path to crawl around the back of the allotments. And then that path suddenly veered downhill. You could fully see the heather on the top moor opposite, and how the road curled in the valley beneath it. Having rapidly descended, the path curved horizontally across the slope until it came to a soot blackened granite shelf of rock that stuck out dramatically, what the boy instantly christened 'the cave'. He hung around entranced by his discovery for seemingly an age, looking out at the hills opposite, rapt in his imaginative reveries. Until again he started to feel on edge, nervous about it getting dark soon, of being here on his own, that maybe he hadn't hidden his tricycle well enough, what if he couldn't find it?  What time was it now? Suddenly hitting the panic button, he pelted as fast as his legs could carry him, passed the allotments, back to his tricycle hidey hole, back across the road junction. 

By the time he'd reached home, the panic attack had subsided and he was on full beam with the sheer joy of today's adventuring. His Mother was waiting for him, standing by the back door looking bad tempered and cross. He'd been seen by a neighbour cycling across that busy main road, what was he thinking? There was a hard slap across the thigh. He was to stay at home for the rest of the week. This one incident proved to be the death knell for the tricycle. But the young boy 'not yet five years old'  quickly got over mourning it's loss. He wasn't visibly angry or sulking, well, maybe invisibly he was, just a little. After all, he was now ready to move on to pastures new, he'd found himself a cave.

INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - Learning Moon Language

Looking down from the hills of forty years later, I believed I'd forgotten how this all came about. Once I brought my attention to it, all too easily the circumstances rekindled in my mind exactly as to why. Jas would've been bored. And whenever Jas was feeling jaded about life, or in the middle of some unresolved internal conflict about to flare wildly up, she'd strike out. She'd loudly and trenchantly suggest we all must go do something. And we two, weak-willed compliant adjacent men, went along with whatever she suggested, simply because we had no better idea to resist the power of her insistence with. 

Barry, or Baz to his close friends, well we went way back. In our late twenties we'd ended up sharing a large flat together in one of the cities satellite suburbs. So large was it, that when Baz found a girlfriend, Jasmine, she could move in without cramping anyone's style. They occupied the sole spacious room in the entire flat, the one up top in the attic. I had the self contained smaller room on the floor below the shared kitchen, living room and bathroom, situated between. It was a neat fit. Inevitably Jasmine's name got shortened to Jas, solely for reasons of alliterative teasing. For if Baz and Jas were salt and pepper complimentary condiments, they would prove to be very abrasively so.

And this was how I'd become drawn into the unnerving psycho-drama that was Jas's life back then. A constant act of indiscriminate rebellion was going on. Several cause celebre proceeded simultaneously, within herself, with the way the world was, but mostly with her family. A recurring focus for fury being the faults and self evident class treachery of her Father. 

Whenever Baz and Jas had sex, this was raucously loud. Whenever they argued, it was savage and loud. If she was in one of her frequent mental meltdowns, the moaning and screeching emanating from the attic was for me, even two floors down, disturbingly way too loud. And not that many days after one such crisis had alarming come to a head with her failed attempt to overdose on paracetamol, she brightly piped up. 'I know, let's all go to the seaside, right now '.

And, yeah, this had been a horrendous time we'd been through recently, we needed a fresher sense of the potency of air. For open fields, seascapes to breathe in and expel to the wind dark shadowy squalls of imprisoned feelings. We needed to get the hell out of this grubby urbanity, that I scathingly called 'The Boil'. So I looked at Baz, his eyes visibly shadowed, rubbed sore with crying in private, over the pain and evident strain of his love life. So I put aside any reservations I had, about following yet another of Jas's impulses, and agreed that this was actually a really apposite thing to do. Well, I didn't say apposite, cos that would have been a really poncy thing to say. More 'That's a great idea Jas, let's do it.' To ape the unplanned for spontaneity and intuitive spirit of it, we all enthusiastically piled into Jas's battered blue Citroen 2CV. Deciding we'd head roughly east until we hit the ocean, somewhere. 

As the 2CV rattled like a tin can chugging its way roughly eastwardly. Baz and Jas chatted away to themselves in the front, seemingly quite amiable, having fun most of the journey. I couldn't hear exactly what they were talking about, above the general car gear cranking cacophony. But I'd learned to spot when Jas's still forming feminist perspective, was being tried out on Baz as some sort of object lesson. Observe and inwardly digest it, lest I incur her withering wrath for giving the wrong answers to 'the quiz questions.' 

I kept my profile low down in the back of the car, not wishing to get drawn into any incipient debate. Until I'd met Jas, I'd never met anyone who called themselves a feminist. Nor did I fully understand at the time why Jas became so ardent. I naively didn't understand what feminism's purpose was. I was just a confused and befuddled young man. Whose life just seemed to be getting increasingly entangled in the cultural contradictions and privileges of the accident that was my masculinity. That was already wrapped up in its own veil of mysterious uncertainty. In short, I didn't know the fuck who I was.

I gazed through the rear car window at the turning of the sky above. Observing how the severe rectilinear gray mirrors and rain stained glass of the inner city slowly softened into suburban tree lined boulevards, then into woods and wider golden, not yet harvested, countryside. It was mid autumn, and in the bright of a clear sky, the midday sun turned full on the colours of leaves. The further east we went, the more intense the colours, the ochres, burnt oranges, burgundy reds became, dressed up in sycamore, oak and beech leafed spatters. All illuminated like an altar window in praise of the celestial profundity of some pagan godly nature. 

This all passed over me in an ever changing wave of shades dappled, dashed and swirling across my vision, as though I was partaking in a hallucinogenic dream. Much of my journey was executed in this intoxicated manner, occasionally sinking into a light slumber, woken by an abrupt pothole or a wicked cackle erupting between the pair upfront. And before I knew it hours passed and the loud cry of 'The Sea' went up.  Immediately sitting upright to catch my first glimmerings of azure on the horizon, as we came down through the tree lined approach to this seaside town, that was apparently somewhere in the east.

The sun had waned and become more muted by the time we'd parked. Our legs and bums grown sore. Re-engaging our limbs with the whole concept of walking, momentarily stumbling around like self intoxicated excitable young babes. The town itself felt subdued, as though it's summer of enthusiasm and noise had drained it of all its residual energy. Shops and cafes were closing early, just as we were setting our minds to exploring the high street. So we headed in the direction of the sea front to inhale some brine.

Jas loudly proclaimed she was 'done with any more driving' so we'd need to find a place to stay overnight. Because none of this had been planned for. There was a quick scrum to work out how we were going to pay for this, and which of us had the most in the bank right now. This was the 1980's, so any concept of credit cards was a relatively novel option, and in places like this east coast seaside town, pretty much unheard of. Baz was flush at the time, so he paid for two rooms in a pub just off the main Promenade. With a cheque he assured us wouldn't bounce. But also we'd both solemnly swore that we'd pay him back immediately upon our return. Which I remember doing, and Jaz notably didn't, because her taking financial advantage of Baz was to become this persistent bone of contention in future fracas between the two of them. Aggravated by Baz knowing she came from a really wealthy family who paid her a monthly allowance, which they constantly attempted to use as leverage to make their wayward daughter conform. Which she rarely did, or did with all the ungrateful hostility she could muster.

After chips and beers in the bar, we retired to Baz 'n' Jas's room in the eves, all warped wooden floorboards with roof beams to match, surrounding a capacious bed. We chatted raucously and playfully for a while. and when it looked like Baz and Jas were on the preliminary embarrassing slopes of fore play, I made my excuses and left. 

Not wanting to return to my own rusticated guest room straightaway, I strode out of the pub to take in the night-time air. The moon was full on by then, I stood by the groins and sea defenses, gazing in wonder at the calmness planetary forces can instill. It was then that the uncalled for inveigled itself into consciousness, with disturbing imagery, feelings and sounds flashing back. Of Baz coming to my room in the flat pleading for help, finding Jas by the sink in the loo, simultaneously taunting us. whilst continuing to shovel pills down her throat. Her jeering disparaging manner. Eyes full of hateful disdain, because,' that she was doing this was all our fault', because after all we were both men.

Inwardly turning my face away from this memory, I shut my eyelids, to draw the discomfort of it to an end. I breathed in as deeply as I could. Re opened my eyes to the moon glimmering across the sea's surface, the sound of shingle rustling as waves hit the beach. Just to feel and see my breath broke the persistence of the spell. This was how I found myself on a sloping launch jetty of wooden logs. Laying myself out like a cadaver on a slab, motionless, but receptive to the moon. Observing the scudding thin wisps of clouds part, reveal, then re-obscure that moon, like a celestial striptease routine. Breathing in, then out, in time with the tidal shuffling of pebbles. This whole sonic soundscape filled me to the brim, mimicking then calming the residue of my inner turmoil. 

I took in the brightness of the moon, which with its silver like clarity spoke directly to me. Now, when I was in a state where I could actually listen, to really hear - well, it was either the Moon or it was me whispering to myself in my mind - Stop living your life in the unsettled shadow of others.

INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - A Voice You Could Die For

Some days no one in their right mind would wish to be in charge of the framing department. They'd offer to work the till, counter, wrapping, stocking up or unpacking deliveries out the back. Tasks that could easily keep them occupied, be productive, generally busier. Mind deadening boredom would not descend. You could credit yourself with not living an empty meaningless life. The regular staff, full or part time, even the customers on occasions, could all be fun to engage with.  Unless you were single handedly working the mezzanine framing counter, on the coldest wettest morning in January.

The young man was perched disconsolately on a stool, with hundreds of frame and mount samples ranked behind him like legions of aircraft . He knew full well he could be sat there for hours, trying to maintain this fictitious look of engagement on his face. Fiddling with the arrangement and alignment of the ready made picture frames and pre-cut mounts, for the third time in the last hour. Dusting dustless shelves. Gazing enviously down the stairs, that so few people ever stepped up, to the active chattering hustle going on around the main counter by the exit.

Paradoxically, this was the type of day when you could easily become the magnet for time wasting enquiries. The sort that were always two questions away, from a framing sales assistants perspective, of feeling you were dangerously over committing yourself. Someone would present you with this abstract concept of their picture. The one that has been hanging around for ages, but just needs a frame to set it off better. They have it at home. Their fingers helpfully form imaginary frame corners in the air, just to give you the idea of its size. Describing its subject matter in extraordinarily loose, cartoon like terms. Would you be able to give them some idea what frame would suit and the likely cost thereof? And you might be tempted to miraculously pull a rabbit out of thin air. Though fate might bounce this price badly back on you, should they return later with said picture, wanting that previously quoted price, exactly. They'd be righteously annoyed, for you had made to their recollection, not a general quote, but a specific promise, and they wanted you to keep to it, not betray and potentially rip them off. In short, these sort of customers were inevitably going to be a nightmare. 

His only customer this morning, had entered bedraggled from the rain, soaking a large area of the carpet through dumping their umbrella, numerous shopping bags and a wet Burberry coat upon it. Used up an entire half hour or more of his attention and expertise, and then left with barely a thank you for his time. Another enquiry he'd never see the fruits of. This had been followed by the areas resident piss artist and loud mouthed alcoholic Mr Gordon Smiley teetering in, like the portent of doom he was. Seizing the opportunity of the framing department not appearing busy, came in brandy breath all a flambe. Shouting profanities about the pictures we sold and how your framing charges were effin robbing people blind. He was a difficult one to contain once he'd sufficiently warmed to his theme, which never took long.  Becoming increasingly declamatory in voice and hand gestures. 

Usually, as happened today, the manageress saved him. Gordon appeared to like her, respected her on some level. One got the sense that she felt some mutual ' there but for the grace of god go I' recognition going on. Charitably amusing him, he instantly became more amenable, and quieter. As she walked slowly, gently ushering him in the overall direction of the door. With a stagger and a flap of his grubby coat, he exited stage right, and was gone. The manageress turned towards the framing department, winked conspiratorially and returned to her office. There was another one he owed her.

So this morning had been rough, a humiliating, if not mildly belittling experience. After failing to deal well with a full frontal assault from Mr Gordon Smiley, breathing down fire water upon him. He was now anxiously preoccupied with a desire to take a tea break very soon. If only he could attract someone's attention. So much so, that he failed to notice the man, stood with his back towards him. Singularly maintaining his focus on flicking through the racks of sale frames. Who suddenly piped up, and without turning around, said - 

' Gosh, that one must be hard to handle. Does he come in here regularly.' 

As he spoke, it was as though a bomb had exploded and it's pulse ripped across the room. A wave of emotion broke over, around, through and into him. Had he suddenly stepped into a parallel dimension? How, what, who was this guy? Did he know him? An instinctual feeling of intimacy arising, told him he did. An air of recognition hovered around the voice. It seemed to contain a very ancient longing, for some unrequited love object in the past perhaps, of a much mourned over ex. His memories however, could not settle on any one individual in particular. There was a charm to that voice, like a magic potion, an entrancing spell, the desiring spirit of a sacred love chant from a God. The most beautifully cultivated resonance he had ever heard, that speared, and directly hit love central.

Accompanied by a swoon, those carefully punctuated consonants, with just the light lingering suggestion of a smoothly well disciplined Scottish burr, spread like honey throughout his whole being. A munificent wave oozed a feeling of being deeply smitten, with a man he'd apparently never seen or heard of before. Who had yet to fully turn around, so the young man had not yet seen what sort of face such a voice might emerge from. Every syllable whispering sweet nothings in his ear - whoever this is, he is the man for you. You will be willing to die for this one. Do not miss out. Above all, do not fuck this up.

And the heart burst open, the hands fell lifelessly down, the brain was completely floored. In the bubbling rising moment of ecstasy he forgot that he might need to reply. The response when it did emerge, came out a spluttered squeak. Inside his head all words, phrases, sentences, possessed only the smallest level of intelligibility, drowned under a warbling static, his brain an out of tune radio station. Coughing heavily, he attempted to clear his head and start again. 

' Ah, well.. yeah ..he does....Couple of.. times a week. Harmless really.....But its bad for trade. As you can see, he clears the shop in minutes.'  

These staggered words tailed off in volume and confidence. Though factually all true, they were feeble. Internally he thought : -

'Come on man, perk up, charm him. Engage your wit and banter. Don't let this all die on the deathly desert shore of a stunned embarrassed silence'

So he smartly improvised -

'Can I help you at all? '

Finally the man fully turned around, and it was a fair face, with a youthfulness still surviving even the claws of its eye wrinkles. Thirty something, charming, yeah, he could be putty in those hands.

'Well, maybe you can, I have this picture at home. But, you know as I've been standing here looking through these frames, I think its probably best if I bring it in. You think you can remember a picture well enough, but you really can't, can you? And I'd rather not try describing it to you.  I don't live locally, but I could quite easy pop back later.'

'Oh, OK, yeah, you do that. We offer a quick and professional service. This time of year, it's quieter, so we can turn it around within a week... if needs be'

'That sounds great, I'll maybe see you later then.'

As the man left he briefly flipped this warm beatific, appreciative smile, over his shoulder, as though he were well used to the spellbinding effect his voice could exert. The young man, however, was mortified with himself - if needs be ! - if needs be !! He'd switched on his standard business mode of interaction, and couldn't stop his mouth from this inane babbling. When he ought to have been more himself, relaxed and personable, apply the blokey banter, perfume a select few words with a frisson of come hithery. That usually flushed them out. Either sparkling or scaring the horses. But none of any of that, what a ruddy fool he was,.

Attention came back with a thud to the now empty framing department. A place he now felt extremely reluctant to vacate. To take even the tiniest of tea breaks, lest he missed spending further time with the most captivating male voice he'd ever encountered. Utterly bereft, he preoccupied himself with essentially unanswerable questions, like - do straight men ever flirt with gay men? - he was coming on to me wasn't he? -  or was he just being pleasantly sociable? - he could no longer discern the difference. 

Other thematic variations on these, were much harped upon and circled around for the next hour. Attempting to pin down precisely why he'd found that voice so stirring to his love muscles. Surely it did remind him of someone? He wasn't daydreaming any of this up was he? This had actually happened? Was he conjuring a love object out of a pretty voice? He did have form in that area. But no, this was totally unlike any of that. More akin to being actively benevolently bewitched.

In waiting for the man's return, the imminent became interminable. His manageress couldn't grasp why he didn't want to take a lunch break, after what must have been a rather dull morning in the framing department. Normally staff couldn't wait to get away, you could see it in their deadened eyes. The besotted young man, however, was distracted from rational thought, and from something any framing sales assistant worth their salt should always hold in mind. Casual retail enquiries are the equivalent of a flirtatious tease.

He'd also failed to note, till much later in the day, one crucial word in the man's final sentence - 'maybe'.  No firm commitment there to returning. And so it was, that the man with the entrancing vocal chords, never did return, on that day, nor any other day. The end of the affair had arrived, before it had even begun. The experience of encountering this man, though consciously filed under - this was all a mirage - nevertheless found itself a sacred place where qualities of love were to be lodged and revered.

INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - Keeping A Float

And so he'd become a student. A point in anyone's life when escaping home suddenly revealed a whole new level of disconcerting decision-making, one's he'd never really wanted. He could now, within reason and capability, do anything. His life could assume whatever colour he chose, take on any smell or taste he desired it to have. The internal friction between the risk taking and the risk averse, combined with the financial impoverishment accompanying being an inexperienced sophomore, almost paralysed  him. These constraints of life weighed heavier upon him than you might expect. Why wasn't he more devil may care and fancy free? Well, he couldn't afford to be.

Money proscribed the amount of insouciance you possessed, abundance was liberating, any lack felt imprisoning. Today he was painfully aware that the sparse wafers of cash in his wallet were being drawn from a rapidly diminishing bank account. And it was only mid term. Christmas, and the financial relief of living off his parents income, well, that was more weeks away than there was the money for. He'd never had to manage his own money before. Paid his landlady rent, feed himself, decide when he could afford a special treat? These concerns unsettled him. He'd yet to learnt how to efficiently manage the surges of anxiety. Still in a semi improvised phase, money could indeed suddenly run short without him fully understanding how. Living abstemiously off bread and butter, until the next munificent grant cheque arrived. That, or a quick return home to check the parents were still alive, and be well fed for a weekend or more if he could swing it.

In the meantime, he'd make the most of subsidised meals served in the college canteen, and plugged any remaining pangs of hunger with anything readily and cheaply available in his local Spar. This was consistently bags of crisps (cheese and onion, not plain), doughnuts ( with, not without jam ) and a ubiquitous saccharin filled cola ( bottled, not canned). Cos he did have standards. Cola had long been his late teenage drink of choice, a sugary drug rush he craved with it's sweet caramel fizz. It was bad for his acne, and as a consequence his self confidence. He looked at his puny eighteen year old body in the mirror, saw the small tire of fatty doughy settling around his waist, and sighed with a hopeless shrug. This would only continue expanding, until he took control of his sugar and fat consumption. But you can't fight your genetic inheritance. Anyway, this sort of life shaping decision felt, as yet, completely beyond him. He proudly wore the badge of blind but youthful optimism, convincing himself it took decades for waistlines to turn obesely flabby, anyway. There was oodles of time left to self indulge, before the outward preservation of a deceptively lithe youthful appearance would suddenly enter a more noticeable phase of shameful decline.

Today, he was spending his remaining lunchtime, doing what he often chose to do, wander aimlessly around the semi-rundown, punched out windows of wharf buildings by the old docks. The desultory ruins of an industry broken to smithereens by fishing quotas and adversarial wars over trawling rights, now totally abandoned to historic sentiment. As was his want, he stopped on a favoured wrought iron bridge, once the pride of this municipal trading city. The malnourished bones of which now stuck out like a flicked V sign. Manifesting decay in the sickly flow of its streams that fed into the estuary. There were days when the water seen hurtling down from this bridge, would be a bright scarlet red, or a fluorescent yellow, occasionally pure turquoise blue. Whatever the dye wash the works upstream needed to dump. On this occasion the stream was an unusually normal piddle of shit colour. 

Taking a short cut over rubble and wire infested scrubland. Squeezing between the rotting wood skeletons of dilapidated semi-industrial sheds, he reluctantly ambled back in the general direction of college. The one beacon of bright modernity nestled, as it was, beneath the venerable soot blackened statue of a Victorian anti slavery campaigner, perched atop a pillar like Simeon Stylites. Whose watchful eyes missed nothing. Nope, he wasn't ready to return to the over peopled thrum of college campus yet. He veered off down a cute, narrow, almost Dickensian, alley peopled by single roomed solicitors offices and the smallest pub in the town. He knew exactly where he was headed, the large sprawling family run department store he'd recently discovered. Where he'd found nectar of pure gold. Welcomed smoothly in through revolving doors, swerving passed the perfume counters, he clambered in increasingly excited expectation up the slow moving escalators. Quickly negotiating his way around the complex layout of the men's clothing department, then haberdashery, then interiors, then gardening, til he reached his top floor nirvana, the department store cafe.

Calling it a cafe, was a bit of a misnomer. It was more a perfunctory adaption of a series of changing rooms into a wall bar and a gaggle of stools. It's dreary terracotta paintwork, much scuffed with disconcerting major dents in its walls, as if it had suffered the consequences of a pensioner bar brawl or two. This cafe was tightly squeezed into one corner of the retail trading floor. With not one window to look out from, through which to view the grey mist shrouded suicidally inclined world beyond. If you were a troubled introvert seeking the rejuvenating solace of being truly alone, and not just with your thoughts, this was the one, the only place. It was his secret pleasure, one not to be shared with anyone else, ever. Because this cafe served him his new obsession, a highlight of this or any other day - the ginger beer float.

 

STREET OBSERVATIONS - The Invisible Person

As you passed her it was the hand gestures that caught your eye. The woman stood with two hands opened out just so, in a Virgin Mary like supplication, the shoulders shrugging, fingers bent back and then as if being counted, wagged then pointed towards a destination, coy fingers pressed gigglingly tight against the lips. All the facial and digital signifiers of derision, exclamations and enjoyment expressed in a mere few seconds,in complete silence. Not addressed to me, or to anyone in the street, but to this entirely imaginary person who stood before her in her minds eye, with whom she intently. mutely was conversing. Her eyes never looking directly in any living person's direction, This was not street theatre, nor mime performance art. It was one lonely woman half living in this and another world totally divorced from everyone else. One where she could be heard and chat freely, endlessly if needs be. These ghosts who were always reliably there for her, available at any time of the day. Awake, even in the broken hours of evening

She'd found her spot on the octagonal seats round the base of a beech tree. Aesthetically positioned at the conjunction of four busy city streets, before the steps of an old bank. Now a bar and grill trading off its former position of good fortune. There she sat sequentially forming and smoking her own cigarettes. Her practiced tobacco browned fingers betrayed a lifetime of rolling her own shag, twisting and pinching the end, and letting it rest precariously smoldering between the twin beaks of her lips. All the while continuing with the same gentle gesturing of an ongoing polite conversation with the voiceless companion without form, who seemingly sat just to her left.

It was hard to discern what her true age might be, probably in reality her mid fifties, but street life had prematurely distressed her face, by ten, maybe twenty deeply wrinkled years. Spindly legs without much muscle left, disappeared up behind the damaged pelmet of a tan coloured suede mini dress, above it a bare mid riff, with a white crop top slouching down on one shoulder. Yes, she didn't dress her age, but then why should she need to? These clothes were comfortable, its the height of the Summer heat, and here on these benches she could ochre her limbs, Briefly disguising the winter pallor of drained poor health that lay beneath. 

On a casual glance you noticed her long peroxide white hair tied loosely in a stiff bunch. Which she swished backwards and forwards in the animation of her mimetic conversation. On closer examination it was clearly a wig. You could see its wavering loose edges, the hairpins, the hair and the scalp beneath a sickly yellow green colour, the consequence of frequent home bleachings, gone wrong. Scorching the suppleness out of her own hair, turning it lifeless, brittle, reduced to shaven stumps. The wig, a resplendent facsimile for a misremembered fulsomeness of hair. Cut, woven and shaped from the head of someone else.

Why was she stood here now? Well, who knows really? I doubt even she knows. In the past, maybe she'd professionally worked these streets, until drink or stronger intoxicants took the competitive edge off her trading profile. Though that's not the sole reason why you end up on the street. These days where the causes of destitution is a highly competitive market. Hard times undoubtedly fell upon her at some point, and now even this 'performance' is not for real, not for anyone, anything, anymore. This melodrama she's acting out, is cut off from whatever was its primary purpose or place of origin. The existential reasons for surviving this far remains a mystery, long buried. Going through the motions of a life no longer lived, of friends not real or really friends, a charade that you had to take a wild guess at, what it actually meant. 

SHORT STORY - Bibliophilia Unbound

He read the last page, turned over the book in his hands and stroked its cover with some affection. That specific tale now felt safely stored, still seeping into and along through his veins. Its pulse alive still within his memory bank of imaginative worlds. William absolutely loved the act of reading, and as a consequence rarely went out much. He might go for a walk when he had 'a good day' and willingly do the entire circular walk around the nearby park. Great for cardiovascular exercise' though that may be. A good book, well that could transport him to places his mid twentieth century legs could never carry him. Conjure up emotions that otherwise might be left dormant or atrophied through lack of use. 

The internet had become his saviour, as he could order anything he needed without the need to go out and physically buy and fetch it. The supermarket delivery van brought him all his food, and much more. Apart from going to the Library, browse the local bookshop, or visit the Medical Practice to collect his medicines, he rarely had any other purposeful reason to go into the town at all, The more distant city? well hardly ever. Far too many people panicking or in a furious hurry. He could feel their careless haste in the louche style of their clothes, the haphazard dashes of colouring in their hair, a directionless surfeit of attention floating around them in an aura of stressed pheromones. Often very pushy and self righteously too loud. There were never enough hours in the day for urbanistas. 

He could see how they too sensed 'the end times' were indeed drawing ever closer. And by focusing so intently on distracting themselves, they hoped to not to see its arrival coming over the hill. The evil monster of death they hoped would just jump out of nowhere and gobble them up. As an older and now distinctly world weary man, yes he could, strangely enough, empathise with their predicament. For his own terminal resignation was everyone's now. This was yet another reason not to go out, to stay in and surrender oneself to being beguiled by another book.

Nevertheless, like many a retired and prematurely widowed gentlemen living on their own William had a list of 'projects'  he desired to complete before the end drew nigh. They weren't written down anywhere, but lodged in his mind. Just so long as he maintained all his marbles they'd be remembered. He'd see to it they were systematically completed. Realistically he no longer had a full day of energy left in him, so he had to pace himself with these 'project work periods'. Making the most of the mornings perky recharge, then he cooked and ate his lunch, before taking an afternoon nap. All the time that remained assigned to reading. Everything executed in the slow and meticulous manner that his maturity and physical poise prescribed.

At least that was always the plan he thought he had fixated in his mind. But recently he got this unsettling feeling that actually he was wistfully wasting away his remaining years on Earth. Any 'projects' completion becoming more protracted, as the days of rain, excessively torrential wind, and the arrival of a freakishly tropical oppressive humidity, increased. Accompanied by those mornings when he just couldn't be arsed. All these reasons to delay projects began to run into each other. Meaning any weekly steady as you go plan turned into a runaway train escaping any directional plan. Far too easily he vegetated into the welcoming arms of a comely novella. 

Once he got a hundred pages in then he really had to stick with it, no matter what. Novels from small but perfectly formed to an unwieldy trilogy or gargantuan epic, with the occasional topical non fiction, a little bit of history. Whatever the genre he felt compelled to focus on getting them finished, before time itself ran out. His life once so driven and filled with purposeful flourishes of activity, was now gently, almost imperceptibly, being repainted in nerdy bookish colours. Hence the creeping sedentary nature of it. He read about all sorts of people, explored the world through the vivid imaginations of others. All reached from the comfort of his own living room sofa. Lifting his finger only to turn a page. 

When to stop and cook himself a meal, became mediated through how many pages of a book he had left to read. Just another ten pages and that would be halfway, or two thirds, or its only fifty pages from the end - let's go for it! Completing reading a nourishing book taking priority over actual nutrition. Not all books won his instant approval. So when he found a book he loved from its opening paragraphs, he was propelled into a state comparable to a spiritual, nay transcendental, uplift.  Ecstatically life fulfilled for the brief few hours whilst reading it. For William a great book was manna from heaven, a God given thing. The universal being was speaking directly to meet his most heartfelt desires. These moments were so very rare, he cherished them the minute they emerged. Slowing his pace of reading so he could wonder at the phrasing, the construction of each sentence, to fully absorb its conjured mood. To intravenously feed and fix his soul, so repeatedly injured by every time he read a daily newspaper.

He began to really hate it when a book wasted what time he had. Turning out to be disappointing in its basic premise or worse just dull, dull, dull. Then all progress would stall. Time dragging at the heels of his engagement. To give up on a book, however, would be synonymous with giving up on life. Who on earth would voluntary chose to do that? Novels that were far too cleverly constructed for their own boots. That hurled the reader over a whole gymkhana of linguistic jumps, of abandoned punctuation with complex sentence structures rendered willy-nilly, all to no real gain in meaning or enriching of the narrative. What a waste of time and space those sort of writers were. Their masturbatory self congratulatory indulgences poisoning his enjoyment. He cursed them! 

He frequently toyed with the idea of writing a scathing letter to be forwarded to the author by their publisher. But all that would take time away from his reading programme, so such ripostes rarely got much further than a clearly withering opening Dear Sir or Madam. He hoped the future cataclysm would permanently erase such literary aberrations. Though he had one recurring nightmare, that in the coming Armageddon all that survived of literary culture would be his Post Modern bete noire. And in the future, some misfortunate alien visitor would then be left the dispiriting task of deciphering what this endless stream of garbage meant. Trying to establish why late capitalist humankind valued being so deliberately opaque in communicating itself. What was it trying to hide?

Like a lot of avid readers Matthew liked to think he read spontaneously, sensitive in the way he responded to his intuitions. But in reality it was more of a deliberate hunting down of a familiar style of prey, than that. Scanning book reviews, interviews with authors, book shows on TV, or by You Tubers, recommendations from a friendly Librarian, and those scruffily hand written notes by staff on the shelves of his local bookshop. If any of these perked his interest, they were added to his book list, which having become obscenely obese had occasionally to undergo a purge. Focusing first on the books he could no longer remember why he'd listed them in the first place. To be followed by those whose moment had patently passed.

Today he was in the opening pages of a new novel, whose cover artwork of a quintessentially dream like Chagall cockerel he'd been drawn too. The novel called  The Passing Place, was by an author unknown to William - Bernadette Alderman. Thus far the reading had not been progressing at all well. He already had a really bad feeling about it. The prose style was incredibly dense and hard to chew on, so portentously was it wrought with a leaden spirit. His eyes had only to briefly scan its lengthy sentences and he could feel them begin to drowse then droop. Then he'd jolt back awake, only to repeat the very same cycle, but a few minutes later. He wasn't tired from lack of sleep. He wasn't even that physically weary. There was, so he thought a soporific intent woven into the entire literary construction of this book, one that appeared to lead to recumbent slumber as its desired outcome. The text itself was inducing this deep, existential level of boredom.

The story, was a slight character study of a man, who despite all his best efforts, was seemingly doomed to living a life of obscurity. William had thought there was enough in this that he might personally resonate with, to perhaps make it worthwhile. Instead he found himself fighting, both with the book and his own descent into napping at any moment or time of day. He'd awaken laid back on the sofa with the book splayed open like chest armour, and realise half the morning had gone by. And with each increasingly turgid turn of the page these periods of sleep appeared to be getting longer and longer. Until he seemingly had lost an entire day without really noticing. He'd had his breakfast at sun up, started reading and the next thing it was sun down. He could not allow this to go on. He'd have to cease reading it, bin it, burn it, give it to a charity shop, shove it in a book bank. Just put this unhappy state of affairs to its deservedly ignominious end.

He failed to fully carry through on his resolve. Instead inserting a book mark where he'd read up to, and placed the book back on his 'To Read' pile, stacked waist high on the living room carpet. Then he did what he usually did after putting a pause on a challenging read, he reached for the predictability of a detective novel set in medieval times. Even as he refocused his attention on its indulgently trashy novelty, he could feel this pulling on his mind back to The Passing Place. Sitting there inert and unfinished, accompanied by his conscience, perched like a whingeing gremlin on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. This bore all the characteristic habits of drug addictions he'd read about. Nonetheless he felt this compelling need to pick it up and casually look at its pages again, just one little peak. Was it really as bad as all that? Surely not. Maybe its not the book at all, its me.

Upon reading one word of one sentence, he was overwhelmed by a wooziness that ricocheted up,down and across his body, until it hit and exploded like a firecracker in his brain. He could feel himself slumping backwards. A sensation of being knocked over, replaced by the spinning of his spreadeagled body in space, his legs and arms akimbo. An origami like folding together of his beslippered body followed, as though he was a quarto being sewn into the spine of a book. All this happening in the slowest of slow motions. Sensing his own helplessness ever more keenly during each micro second. As his decrepit physicality crumpled, was atomised and then reabsorbed into the content of The Passing Place book itself. 

This encompassing vastness consumed him, absorbing as it did every book Matthew had ever read.. Burying itself inside an immense library containing all people,all cultures, all life, all worlds, all universes, all possibilities, all the gods and goddesses of pasts, presents and futures. Each book was burnished and with a surrounding glowing white light floated around space as though they were these folded paper angels decorating the heavens. Each with the same important message to be declared. One that all mankind was to read, inwardly digest and be totally consumed by in the coming millennia of tragedy.

STREET OBSERVATIONS - The Thirty-Something Couple

It was his stare that caught my eye, it was too intense. Behind him his partner pushed a buggy with a child in a foetus position sucking its thumb distractedly. Half pretending to be asleep, but no doubt secretly bored with being away too long from their toys. The woman is chatting animatedly on her phone, Wrapped up in a conversation with maybe her Mum, her sister or a close friend, sharing confidences or gossip and talking about tonight and their plans for it. She is walking along only half present to the street, whilst purposefully in the abstract moving her child and life forward. Her dress a coordinated range of light dusky pinks with a knitted bolero style jacket which looks as though it were made from Shirley Temple's golden curls. Her hair artfully a disheveled pile, with significant but random outlying strands aligning the face. She seems totally on it today, alert and engaged in her networking.

A good two strides ahead of her is the man, in his mid to late thirties. His body taken by his comfort eating over the cusp and beyond being slim fit, is quickly developing the squared off bulk of the stolid Dad bod. A full well groomed beard on a handsomely structured face. He's wearing all black, that is so well worn and washed that its now softened to a brushed charcoal. It has the air of being a street uniform, with miltary touches, a lot of straps buckles and lapels in a tight practical twill. Maybe this was a definite choice to wear just all black. It captured his mood or something. Or this is that lazy male habit of sticking to one colour, because that never bares much thinking about. And one would never want to make one's appearance seem too considered or deliberate, even though it certainly is. The watch word here is casual, with no observable care taken.

He's walking ahead, almost as though for today at least, he wants to literally be distant or disassociate himself from his partner and child. To appear to walk on this street alone. But not too far that it causes comment. And then there is the intensity of that stare. The eyebrows thick, horizontal but internally scrunched. There is something really pressing upon his mind, preoccupying him. He is not really present to this city-scape at all, so caught up is he in this one memory, of an event, or a cyclical battling argument with himself. Certainly this is tearing at him, tormenting him like a gremlin from the inside. Something seems existentially awry here, he has the face of a Hamlet plotting a future regicide. There is the fetid air of a person substantially stuck. Fearing the eternal nature of his own trap. Either through his own limitations of thought or this relationship. Unable to manage these better or to ever realistically find relief from how they are crushing his esteem.

Is there really no joy left in this life of his? Or has this view now become entirely self-reinforcing?. And the film that he is playing before those searching eyes is probably not helping. Circumstances seem to him, to have robbed him of any power or agency over the direction his life has taken, or will now take. After following the accepted male conventions and found them to be this deceptively tight but imprisoning paper chain. For which love, affection, sex and children form the sticky sentimental and loctite super glue for. In life a man is supposed to have all the privileges born of being male, that the woman through marriage has been deprived of, so the modern orthodoxy portrays it. Then why does he feel like they've both drawn a short straw here? Was this really what either of them wanted for themselves in their pubescent teen romance? Each now performing a role that seems not to represent their true selves anymore. Where liberation can seemingly only be achieved by driving a coach and horses through it all, in one destructive act of rage. 

SHORT STORY - Eaten Alive By Their Own Shadows

When the atrocity took place the world wept archaic tears. Acres of causal sympathy was shed. All the tribes across the Aegean peninsula made sure to express their anger  publicly. Disguising any strategic advantage they privately saw for themselves. Offering the Spartans their arms and armies, their money, their allegiance. They struck a deal and shook their hands upon the coming conflict.

Once again ministering angels were left to mop the brows and wipe away the tears of those left behind. The ones already encased in their shrouds and in their mourning. As vengeance was taken for them, becoming the foremost weapon shaken in the hands of men. And the oracles predicted doom into the emptiness of cavernous spaces.

 

That local delegation, those disingenuous Trojans, had appeared likable enough. Closely resembling the Spartans in their world view and mode of interaction. But then, they'd broken into the palace compound on the evening of their departure. Abducted Queen Helen, taking all her entourage hostage too. Further aggrieving their hosts by the slaughtering of slaves, sacred calves, children and killed King Menelaus's thoroughbred horses as they left. No one would be in quick pursuit of them as they made for a sea bourne getaway. As Sparta, so grievously betrayed, was plunged into mournful outrage.

Menelaus was so consumed by his emotional sophistry, that it never occurred to his imagination, that Helen might have left willingly. That he might have been neglectful and abusive towards his ravishing wife. That this 'abduction' might to some extent have been his fault. As he turned up on his older brother Agamemon's doorstep, to devise together a rescue mission. They compiled a list of those whose skills and fealty they should call upon.

He aught to have understood his siblings nefarious nature better. He'd seen the self serving cruelty of him many times. But now Menelaus was not just forgiving of it, but wished to co-opt his kin's less respectable instincts. The more lee way you gave Agamemnon, the more he greedily would make a grab for places, persons and power to service his own advantage. Menelaus, in the righteousness of his anger knowingly failed to restrain the bullish bear, that was his brother when unleashed. This ego inflated leader always on the make.

In Agamemnon's hands their joint mission, quickly turned from rescue into a campaign for annexing Trojan territory. The seeking of an ocean wide continental supremacy. To turn their quickly hewn confederation of warriors, into an undefeatable power across the vast Aegean Sea. No one foresaw then, that the fighting would go on and on for ten grueling years of increasingly futile conflict. During which, Helen and the hostages had become an entirely secondary consideration. The interminable nature of this war focused minds completely, to the point of blind obsession, on wiping the Trojans entirely off the map and out of existence. To put a final end to their darkly pernicious terrorism, with the Greeks own far from virtuous version of it.

And as these two malign military forces  exchanged ever deeper atrocities against one another, no one could be proud of any victory. For each battle won appeared ever more cyclical and pyrrhic in nature. No one could envisage the end to it. So as they grovelled ever closer to the ground they fought over, they were simultaneously being eaten alive by their own shadows. Whilst the oracles continued to predict doom, into the emptiness of cavernous spaces.

On the day the ignoble Greeks finally stepped onto the streets of Troy, all they could think of exacting was genocidal murder. To pillage and bring to ruin this once fine city. The revenge rapes and the immolation of women and children on pyres. Reducing everything, whether despicable or admirable that was Troy, into blackened glowing embers. To pound its walls into the dust of forgotten history. 

Menelaus, once the rightfully wronged man, had over a decade of blood fueled fighting corrupted his image from the god endorsed abused, into an egregious abuser himself. Any moral high ground he'd once occupied, now crushed under the feet of his own actions and utter debasement. 

Helen emerged imperious out of the bonfire of Illium's royal palace, and without a look of recognition walked straight passed Menelaus. No longer seeing him as even worthy of her respect, let alone affection. Any love had been extinguished under layers of grief, for all those fine men and women who'd died as a consequence of her decision to chose self determination, happiness and joy, over a cruel and dependent servitude.

SHORT STORY - The Man Who Wished For Things To Be Different

Adam, was visibly a fully grown adult man, but nonetheless at heart was still a boy. Deep down he retained an unwarranted affection for that free spirited, impulsive, yet shy boy, he felt persisted within his psyche. The boy who would with unabashed confidence, wish for things to be different. Even though life as it had so far turned out, had not proved very receptive to the influence of such magical thinking.

As a child he'd wished for quite simple things. For it to be sunny so he could play out. For it to rain so heavily games period would be cancelled. For the bully boys not to be waiting for him on the way home. When he entered his teenage years, he dearly wished to be different to how he was. Less insular and withdrawn, more outgoing and extroverted. Better at sports than he was, more confident, with taughter muscles, luxuriating in chest hair, more vigorously masculine, braver, fitter, a better fighter, with long flowing hair like a heavy metal rock star. The list of traits he did not possess grew endless.

He knew what he was expected to be like, and in him, inevitably, there was this distinct short fall. And yet the wishing for himself or the situation to change, never appeared to translate into overt action. Passivity took charge of his life's direction, and over his body for that matter, which remained slightly flabby around the edges. To which going to a gym would be anathema as a solution.

Some things did, of course, change. Though he had a sense that this was more coincidence than any godlike ability he possesed to adjust reality, to make it conform to his will. He did, however, hide a special secret, that he was gay. Initially he hardly understood the full consequence of the word, but he never felt the need to wish for this to go away. He was really relaxed and OK with it. Everyone else was simply wrongheaded. 

The wishing would then refocus on imagined erotic encounters. With the boy next door, or the man who regularly walked up the side alley to the Working Men's Club, whoever the latest love interest, slash voyeuristic obsession, was with. And if he wasn't imagining being ravaged by a greasy car mechanic, he dwelt on the trickier question of who he wanted to be career wise, what to do with his life overall. The answers to which, infuriatingly, eluded Adam's imaginative reach. These all seemed frustratingly beyond wishing's remit.

In the midst of indecisiveness, he tended to settle for just getting by, without too much effort being exerted. He knew that this 'easy life' was a huge failure of ambition and initiative on his part. Yet in the quiet and undemonstrative private realm of his imagination, he continued to see himself as a writer, a poet, a pop star, an actor or artist, practically any creative pursuit you could think of. He tended to treat these as oracles. Ones he hadn't the foggiest idea how you could ever forge a career in. As he entered his twenties, wishing no longer felt like it had that necessary fizz anymore. That was never going to be enough. So what the fuck was he actually going to do? He couldn't be this naive day dreamer all his life, could he?

Adam allowed himself to drift, surrendering himself to an sea of possibilities of chance meetings or random events, to direct movement in his job prospects. These filled in the time until the big opportunity would turn up. Then there'd be no oracle to announce its arrival, though he'd have to be ready to act instantaneously, or risk missing dame fortune as she'd sweep imperiously by, like a drag diva.

Alongside all of this there was also finding 'the good man', the man he'd want to spend his life with. This was proving so much harder than he'd imagined. Though he placed much of his vision for the future upon it. Imaginatively pushing for this to happen, despite the spasmodic and disappointing dalliances, the casual pick ups and the all too short lived affairs. Surrounded, as these were, by rather too vast an ocean of celibacy. 'The good man', yeah, he'd waltz in, one day.

But as is often the way opportunities and 'good men' turn up when you're least expecting or are prepared for them. Adam was temping in a call centre, selling home insurance. This was already showing signs of being unlikely to last above a few weeks, before a rebellion would break out. It paid the rent, but provided little else. 

Today he was on the loo, smoking a cigarette, already wondering how much longer he could swing being away from the phones, with this really bad case of diarrhoea. When some one thumped loudly on his cubicle door. 

'How much longer are you gonna be mate? Yours is the only loo not already clogged with shit and paper. Unless, of course your...... blocking another one as we speak."

'Oh...sorry,....just finishing off ... be out in a... trice'

'Yeah, I bet you say that to all the guys'

And with a final perfunctory wipe, and making sure he was leaving the toilet in a respectable state, he gathered up his trousers, put on his jacket, wondering who the guy outside the cubicle was. Did he recognise that voice? Nope. Would he be young or old? Tall or short? Slim or pudgy? Hipster or nerd? With a sharp intake of breath, stealing himself with - lets hope for handsome and fit - like in a horror film he opened the creaking cubicle door.  This was when he first met Gideon.

SHORT STORY - Deep Listening

There was an excited thudding of the heart as an unbidden thought emerged. And that thought suffused and settled itself upon their mind like a descending fog. And that thought spoke to him and said - ' could you listen to a piece of music, without your mind wandering or falling asleep? Wouldn't that be a challenge. Are you up for trying?' A nod of the head indicated consent, whilst a tightly bitten bottom lip perhaps spoke otherwise.

Their mind woke up to what the carrying out of this new task could entail. It was ideal, part applied practice, part pleasure, part strenuous endeavour. What would be the right piece of music to accompany this? Well, that took a while to establish. They had to overcome a certain nerdy ambition they possessed, that quickly infested their sense of the task at hand. How long the music should be, wildly fluctuated in length. They didn't want to be a pussy, and so thought-  lets go for a full twenty minutes. This shifted down in five minute geared increments, then cranked itself upwards again, until another minor genuflecting moment of retreat. Back and forth it went on like a game of hesitant table tennis. 

Having provisionally settled on five minutes, the next issue was musical style. In many ways popular music was better at a short musical form. The discipline of three minutes being widely adhered to. Rarely stretching longer though, even five minutes was a bit of an ask, unless you chose a 12 inch remix. Classical, however, was the reverse, a long form of musical encounter, that placed little value on brevity. You had your minute waltzs, but longer, as in five minutes longer, was harder to find outside of the odd Chopin Etude, a Gymnopedie by Eric Satie, or something considered charmingly unfinished. Most frequently it's romantic loquaciousness recognised no horological boundary.

Annoyingly they found the right music hard to find, let alone forgive. When a piece of music, proved to be even a few seconds over or short of the required time. They reminded themselves they weren't in competition with anyone, except, of course, themselves. Boy this was proving hard. It was an experiment after all. If they should ultimately fail, well, no one else need know about it. Yet, why did four minutes eighty four feel so much worse than four minutes ninety? How come everything always has to be so neat and bloody precise, but mostly wasn't?

Setting aside Sunday evening. They lined up the chosen music on the computer, plugged in the headphones, pulled up a favourite armchair, and pondered whether it was ever possible to truly prepare oneself for listening intently, without distraction. They made a cup of tea. Then realised perhaps that was not such a good idea. What if they needed to pee two minutes in? Thoughts about the distended nature of your bladder, once they seeped into your mind, you'd never be able to shut them up. This 'in the moment' deep listening stuff, needed more careful preparation than anyone would have first imagined.

So the phone was unplugged, mobile turned off, all the doors either locked or do not disturb signs attached. Did the room need to be darkened? Lights on or off? Eyes closed of open? Headphones or speakers? The issues provoked these questions, and they kept on coming. The sense that all this prevarication over actually starting the experiment, was simply nervous delay. The perpetual nature of them grew increasingly discomforting, until they struck more base, sabotaging, carnal motivations. Shoes on or off? Sitting up or lying down? Clothed or naked? No, just no to that. You know what you'd do - in time to the music no doubt. Shame on you.

Eventually, fully clothed, out of a burgeoning self exasperation they pressed the start button, and just as the opening chord struck immediately put it on hold. No.That was too hurried. Rewind. Pause, take several minutes to deep and luxuriate in the breath. Still a bit hyper, calm down, breath slower - be gentler. Prepare your entire psycho- physical being. Imagine a pond with ripples becoming stiller and unruffled like a mirror. Yes, that one always works.

And....then...they fell asleep. Oops, nodded off for a bit there. Are you really alert enough? Well slept enough? You can always come back to this later. Go take a brisk invigorating walk. After an hours walk at sunset, and a ten - twenty minute nap, have another go. 

This time they sat bolt upright. Touched the button and off they went. Gosh I always love this opening, so magnificent and grand, reminds me of when I walked through those estate woods in Norfolk last autumn, low sun, the extended shadows, and... Hey, are you listening? Nope. Stop the music. Pause. God, you're only giving a bloody running commentary. Not truly listening with the entirety of your whole physical, mental, emotional, spiritual being. You"re writing a review. What's your strategy with this then, oh mighty deep listening guru? Rewind, Start again. Deep, deep sigh. And.......

God, No, I'm just so annoyed with myself now, really really uptight. What to do? Just listen to the god damn music! What's so difficult about that? Cool the anger dude. Deep breaths, let them go, let them go, Let Them Go, from the head down to the feet....and again. 

No, No, No, I can't do this right now, I'm so damn wired. A cup of tea. That's back on the agenda. Get up, switch on the tap, fill the kettle, wait till it boils, bag in the teapot, splash of cold water, pour the hot water in, wait till it's brewed, time three full minutes, milk in the cup, then the tea, retire to the sofa, sit and slowly drink it in. Now why can't listening to music be like that, eh? Like switching on a kettle and making a cup of tea. 

You know, maybe this is simply not the right time, another day perhaps. What am I trying to prove here, eh? OK, move on then - check your phone - one missed call - nope - they can wait - swipe. I'm chillin for a bit, know what I mean?

Written by Stephen Lumb

February 2024

SHORT STORY - The Lineage of Wise Words

At first there was a moment that erupted into time, that became a feeling, an overwhelming surge of inspiration, that came forth in forceful words, the vehicle for eloquence in thought, squeezed persuasively into a sequence of sentences, creating a moving elevating oration, and the person from whom these wise words emerged was as surprised as everyone else was, at how well they came across, the people were awed by their perceptiveness, so when this new sage abruptly upt and left, it also left the people bereft and wanting for more, so they pursued the sage absolutely everywhere, they mobbed them, besieged their house, camped on their front lawn, their lives became no longer their own, they were not let alone day or night for months and months and months, being forced to give impromptu off the cuff speeches, until eventually this all became way too much for an ordinary human to bare, and so the sage quietly retired to a private attic room intent on bringing it all to an end, leaving a note on a side table in the entrance way written in large print capitals - NOW PERHAPS I'LL GET SOME PEACE !

- yet the people who'd pursued the sage, had listened carefully, their emotions were stirred, they'd been broken in their hearts, tears had been wept, an impression was left upon them of something immensely important having been said, yet few could put their finger precisely on what, it was more of a 'you had to be there' sort of thing, afterwards, those in possession of a better memory faculty could recall more content from the speech, so between them they compiled an agreed facsimile that passed for what they thought the basic essence of the sage's speech of wise words had been, they then dedicated themselves to keeping this alive in their memory, through passing on the teachings orally to new devotees they turned themselves into the repository and guardians of the spoken wisdom, for those who could recount the wise words became by a simple process of association - wise themselves - the people came to see them, to hear them speak, the people pleaded : 

- 'repeat for us once again, for we are forgetful of those neat aphorisms, that sum it all up, explain them please, so we might also understand with greater depth, and hold the words of wisdom within our hearts and minds, present them with bullet points if need be, a tick list, whatever will be easier to recollect, maybe a mnemonic, anything to help us feed our yearning to know, to enable recognition within to arise once again, the one so profound that it swept the dust from our souls, it cleansed, consoled, it healed us of our insignificance, our lack of purpose.'

-  it was discovered that this was not solely about the words, but the pauses, brief silences where inner peace could enter to purify the hearts of the people, so embedded in their tawdry guilt, their dirtily greased and obscured perceptions, they were unable to see any other way out, except for when they heard the wise words fluently spoken, and The Retainers of Wisdom were more than willing to respond 

- 'if you cross my palm with silver I will gladly tell you' 

- and such was the demand to hear them simply speak the words, not sotto voce, but bold and clear, out loud, The Retainers of Wisdom became immensely rich, eventually public demand did outstrip the ability of even The Retainers of Wisdom to meet it, even as the pressure mounted they felt a reluctance, none of them wished to give away their exclusive rights - to the profit of a prophet to utter the wise words, until the inevitable day arrived when one of their number rebelled, broke rank and took pity on the people, and said

 - look I'll write it down for you.

- and the people breathed a collective sigh of relief, having had enough of being continually fleeced, whilst confessing shamefaced, that they could not read, so The Retainers of Wisdom, trying their best not to be seen smirking or being patronising, nodded knowingly and seized this opportunity, they set up the schools and took on the task of being the teachers of reading, for a modest tuition fee, only then, once there was a substantial ready made market for books, did they publish an authorised version, a compendium of the sage's wise words, bound in expensive leather, gold tooling and illuminated velum within, for nothing was too lavish for the words of wisdom, however, though everyone was now able to read it, the people were so poor, few could afford to actually buy the book, however treasurable, they'd have to save up, and that could take quite a while, with a gap in the market opening up wide, cheaper bootlegged copies began appearing on the black market to fill it, and so, afraid their lucrative monopoly on the printed word was quickly slipping from their grasp, The Retainers of Wisdom altered tack, ruthlessly undercutting the bootleggers by producing their own cheaper abridged paperback version, with a tacky embossed and foiled cover.

-and yet, once everyone was able to read the wise words for themselves, things fast began to shift and change, and not for the better, but far worse, to deteriorate the very truth of the matter, the wise words themselves, these became the subject of textual analysis and revision, a process through which they became tainted and strangely falsified, elements of doubt were placed, like demon seeds, into the very grammar and syntax of the wise words, that questioned their veracity, their validity, were these exactly what the sage of the wise words had said? how could anyone know for certain these were the sage's authentic words? what if there were later insertions, made up bits? and if the wise words were not authentic did that mean, despite what they felt about them, they were not true? further emboldened they took to challenging the need for The Retainers of Wisdom themselves, as an institution, for it was now centuries, millennia, since the sage of the wise words had martyred themselves, by taking their own life, and things, well they were so different now, and couldn't you find it all for free somewhere on the Internet anyway? the original speaker of the wise words, well, if they were so wise, why did they top themselves, did they even historically exist? what if they were just a phantom stooge, a front, a creation of the illuminating elites, one big millenia long con to preserve the position and status of The Retainers of Wisdom, with all the extraordinary power and wealth they represented, the wise words had been saved for posterity. not to enlighten, but solely to keep the people subservient and needy, to enslave them, the people remarked:-

- 'may be we no longer need wise words handed down to us from above, can we not think for ourselves now? each of us, could we not find our own wisdom? hold to our own truth? we don't need to belong to anything, what use to us is an elitist heirarchy? the sage was an ordinary person just like us, so having grown beyond all of that dependency upon their wise words, can we not now all be spiritual in our own individual unique way?'

- and greatly enthused they organised zoom sessions. posted video lectures on social media, garnered followers, subscribers, hosted there own patroen page, everyone could truly be their own Retainer of Wisdom - though quite rapidly the situation descended into a vitriolic and poisonous factionalism, the distinct cults that emerged, frequently clashed. these formed themselves into roughly two broad strands - the ILP's - inflexible literalist puritans - on the one hand and the CLC's - callous libertarian crusaders - on the other, both of them wishing to appear champions of free speech for everyone, but really only in it for themselves, so only they could be heard above all others, everyone else was to be closed down, roasted in public forums, their arguments destroyed, their integrity defamed through the medium of short expletive ridden social media comments, conjuring up an authoritarian climate online of intimidation and threat, that was no longer about discovering a deeper resonance, meaning, intent or relevance in the wise words themselves, but primarily focused on maintaining the ardent certainty of their followers, what the cults themselves represented, in a 'you're either for us or against us' battle  for allegiance.

 -gradually reinterpretations of the wise words themselves, perverted and twisted what the truth of them was, putting them to serve a view of the world that was totally anathema to their true spirit. And whether these were Defamers or Defenders of the Wise Words both resorted to actions that were frankly, dictatorial and oppressive, that brooked no free thinking opposition, everyone had to toe the authorised line or face being terminated with extreme silence.

- and so in thought word and deed the populous picked up their faith battered souls and drifted away from the wise words, letting them go, abandoning all overt public devotion to them, the books of wise words were openly burned in the street, the websites were hacked, all proselytising frozen, the people became disillusioned and bellowed:

- 'we must live free of these wise words, for everyone who espouses them now are total cunts - Completely Unprincipled Nepotistic Two-Faced Swindlers - we'd rather wallow in abject despair than have a bogus hope thrust down our throats unwillingly. If we must vomit, let us spew it upon the sage's gravestone, for it is they who lead us all astray for far too long.'

- this reached a shamefully dark place, a dread-filled nadir, where everyone was compelled to keep their faith hidden, their heads down, until the moment when one person finally cracked, ceasing to care what would happen to them, chose to emerge from the crowd, to stand up, to speak out, and as they gave voice to their thoughts in honest, plain and unembellished language, they found themselves transfixing the soul of the entire world.

written by Stephen Lumb

November 2023

SHORT STORY - And So I Float

Being, it is nothing. Its an all encompassing feeling, the container for emptiness, above, beneath and within. So I can successfully suspend myself in such deep and murky water, and feel entirely at home. However, though I float in this expansive pool of water, I'm still rippled like a snake with emotions and sparks of indecision. Am I going to go all the way with this, or am I simply allowing myself to drift for a while, like leaf fall, hitherd and thithered by random instructive breezes? Looking for some sort of egregious sympathy.

Here we are then, rocking, face down, icy cold. The body positioned as though in the slowest of last throws of mortality. Yeah -, 'as though' - not yet - 'as was', or 'as intended.' Somewhere, between casting myself in and the just about buoyant, the resolve became drenched, weighed down by its own extraneous clothing mostly. Here I meander amongst the gentler undulations of my form and thought. No longer sure, exactly what I was meant to be carrying out. Why I've abandoned myself simply to floating.

Its an accidental impression of a human sized waterboatman I make. A sodden island, isolated in the centre of a mere, fed by the upward swirl of an underground stream. A lump of chilled white flesh, with clothes wrinkling and warping ghost like, around me. 

Why am I here? Oh, but that would be to start recounting a tale, already far far too long. No, really, I can't be arsed. Other than, I am a container for mulled resignation. That must be sufficient. Don't ask any more from me, it doesn't help cheer the draught of the mood. I'm passed being 'talked out' of any of this. Even though this now resembles an increasingly redundant gesture. Who is there left to care, eh?

Seemingly I still do. Care, that is. For I was meant to be lancing the boil of all the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks, with this conclusive dramatic finale. But haven't, of course. This floating feels too passive, so altogether pathetic. As time progresses, limbs, dangling so freely begin to hurt. Losing the sensation in hands and feet. Neck and blue veins stiffening. Thoughts began to slur and slip in and out of clarity. Appearing to open up my imagination, like a heart valve, to let the dream like reveries enter in. As though I'd never done any of this? A ship docking myself into some gothic harbour, overseen by the long shadows of skeletal ruins.

Just when I was more reconciled to totally abandoning myself to fate, there are thumping hands grappling for purchase on my body. Clamped around my extremities, lifting me up. Slipping a hammock around me, which with a roar of petrol exhaust and cascading water heaves me up. Hovering and twirling in the air, dribbling waterdrops, all around me. Gutteral shouts into the air - 'Got him'. They've come to save me, from my self, from procrastinating over my demise. Well, this sorts that out for a while, I guess. The hoist swings me over to dry land, face down on the grassy bank. Where the body, strangely does not stir. They stand around it, looking blank and pityful. As do I, I see myself as they do. as I am.

Something isn't right. I hear them chuntering between themselves - another poor bugger - second in as many weeks - looks like he's been floating here all night. Really! That long? Manhandled, then roughly plonked on a stretcher. The advancing noise of a long zip being pulled up from my feet, then over my face. Locked in. They think I'm dead, they actually think I"m dead! -  I'm alive - No - No - No - why can't they hear me?  I left it much too late, once again?  I am lost, in the many senses of that word. Who... what... where am I going to float too now?

Written by Stephen Lumb
October -November 2023

SHORT STORY - Mission Creep

I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror, and there it was, the fungus the bogeyman face. During the day I successfully became yet another variation on a human being. Yesterday an unsightly and obese boy, tomorrow perhaps I resemble a desiccated human walnut, a good deal older. Not always masculine either. Some times the race or gender shifts, even a little indeterminately. Lets just say I can receive funny looks - of the 'what is that?' -  variety.

When I pull myself away from the truth that inhabits mirrors, I imagine myself as this perfect simulacrum, perhaps young, unformed, even gauche. All those small tropes of behaviour that help define the human, the usual things they like to eat, drink and be merry with. 

Once I side glance my reflection in a shop window all of this falls away. Pretences? No longer convincing. Mirrors will not lie. They tear down facades, dissolve any artificial perception filter I've erected. That this happens solely within my vision and no-one else's, is unsettling. My being, being so bloody changeable. This is not why I am here on earth, surely? To visibly hold my sense of self together, with gaffer tape, for the good of the Misson.

I can't remember when this slipperiness in my appearance started. Was there a multiplicity always present? How I was made in my DNA? Except, I've always assumed I didn't have any. I'm made to pass as human, no more than this was required of me. No one will ever know otherwise. I move around, and each gender disguise is never seen through. Successfully I concoct yet another new 'appearance' to add to my wide range of recognisible personas. My being, mind and body is a 3D blank canvas upon which my line managers paint.

Today I was a teacher, I walked into the local comprehensive. I taught mathematics there. I ate my lunch in the canteen, I conversed with the students, with other teachers, the caretaker, nothing went remotely amiss. They all appeared to see me for who I was; a kind and capable supply teacher.  I returned home happily convinced by my own portrayal. A moment of shock, taken a back again. I was a woman, a middle aged woman, smartly dressed, high powered and businesslike. Had I changed gender during the tube journey home? I was a man for sure when I left this morning. Same cheekbones, chin too perhaps, but definitely male. The worrying thing is I didn't notice any change happening.

I've little control left over who I am. It used to be I could set in concrete the gender, the character and career etc. Now it can roll over of its own accord. Its anyone's guess who I'll become any day, any hour, any minute. So far nothing has altered whilst I've been out on assignment. Well, not that I've noticed. Which is fortunate.

Each evening I melt into the armchair and let whoever I've been that day evaporate away. Back to the fat glutenous blob I really am, that only I see in a mirror, its not pretty, not humanly handsome. I sit, an open channel processing and offloading my experiences of that day. Then downloading the life mantle I'm to assume tomorrow. Absorb the notes and details, then prepare for the constructing of the facsimile the following morning.

I've not told my bosses about the unannounced shape shifting. They'll just blame it on me, I know they will. Even during my training I found conforming to a fixed identity hard to maintain. Something within me wants to rebel. Though I thought I had a good handle on it. Obviously not.

I have this intentionally boring foundation character I assume at home, a Mr Average. Its just so I don't arouse the neighbours suspicions. Onto this base is layered today's experiment. Today this surface level is a younger man, early twenties, works in a call centre, hates his job, hates himself, just broke up with his partner of two years, currently on a bit of a downward spiral. Not a cheery chap to be, or be around

He feels considerably more fidgety mentally. I really have to grapple to keep hold of him, more than most 'appearances'. A strong undertow of depression. Everyone I'm encountering so far avoids him. He stinks a bit of piss and liquor. People walk to the other side of the street. I hung around on a park bench for a while, fell asleep, till a park warden gave me a sharp poke with his stick - 'you'd better move on mate, before the bill are sent for, don't make it harder for me please

So I get up, walk around the park a bit, down the edge by the canal. It's quiet here. Until I encounter a group of men. They begin to tease and taunt, and this ends in them manhandling and joshing me. I lose my balance. I fall in the canal. My 'appearance' is totally unable to swim, so I instantly flounder and thrash about ineffectively in the dingey water. I ask for their help, they jeer and walk off. I fight for air, sink and gasp  till the weight of my clothes begins to get the better of me. I become entangled in something in the canal bottom. All my energy to fight for life, proves insufficient. I submerge beneath the turbulent surface. As I slowly descend into the murky sediment, all I can think of is - is this what they do when you begin to malfunction? Am I being taken out?