I remember you!

This old thing! Forgot about this. does anyone even read it anymore?

Perhaps I should be more attentive to this blog in the future. for now, I'm writing a proper book sized book - well, a smaller book sized book. the size isn't really important, though. the story will go on for as long or as short as it needs to...

perhaps i'll tell you more about it as time goes on. It's only three chapters in at the moment. there's murders, wonderful haircuts, skate parks, robots, coffee, wars, towels, morgues, museums and all sorts of impossibilities within.

as Sherlock Holmes never said (though he did enjoy the philosophy of the quote's exact opposite) "once you have eliminated what is possible, the remainder, however impossible, must be the truth." I'm making each case sillier and more impossible than the last, each of which has a really simple resolution, when you think about it without really thinking about it. Ask a five year old, they'll suss it pretty quickly. everyone else: look to the options you dismiss straight away. it's that one.

oh, and I've done lots more short stories since we last met. you can find them all at http://crumpetsandtea.me/?s=izaak+stoakes . I'll leave the exploring to you...

Bye!

Remember me?

Hullo again!

i've decided that i'm going to write a book. to get you all excited, here's a not that particularly interesting chapter (it will probably become chapter three).



and yes, it has taken me this long to write.

CHAPTER THREE

“Sorry I'm Late.”

if Keighley could see through his own fringe – which, most of the time, he couldn't – he would have known that no one there to apologise to. The head Barista was outside, under the awnings, drinking a lukewarm coffee from a take away cup, smoking a damp cigarette, not giving a damn about the empty café inside.

It was another slow day at Café Dante. Not as slowly as yesterday, where they didn't make any money - Keighley had zoned out whilst a customer was talking and didn't make his order until 8 hours later - but it was still slow non-the-less.

Despite the inclement weather and the (apparent) constant need for people to have coffee on the go, they never really had much business here. There are always queues in Nero's, Coasta's, and Starbucks', as well as all those other independant coffee shops dotted about, but Café danté seems to work in the opposite way.

It wasn't to do with location – the Café was placed awkwardly between two quite successful shops - one a bookshop and the other a newsagents – in close proximity to the town centre on the perfectly named Steep Hill. It wasn't to do with the look; the place is tidy, spacious, and stylish, all decked out in a ninteen-thirty's art deco design. It wasn't to do with the coffee, which doesn't recieve many complaints, and is ordered from a successful bean provider. It just happens not to be very popular.

The world is full of extroverts; people who live, breathe and drink in a world of parties, confidence, and whirlwinds of high octane, lively, and charismatic personalities. Keighley was definitely not invited to the extrovert's parties, and even if he was, he'd make small excuses and try his best to get out of going to them. Not that he lacked confidence, or friends – he just didn't need them around all the time. He was perfectly happy with a few friends, and the odd meet-up, and was very much into singing, which he was exceptionally good at. If he did attend a party, or a club or a pub, then no one would be able to stop him from rushing up to the open mic or the karaoke stage. was more than eager to present his vocal skills at any party or social activity. But he didn't need to do so to be happy.

Keighley didn't exactly look right, no matter what he was doing, or wearing, or saying – today, for instance, he was dressed in a pale green cotton shirt (which he'd picked up from Oxfam), a thin, stretched woolly jumper that looked more at home in the nineteen-fifties (that probably was from the nineteen fifties; his grandmother had given it him as a birthday present), and a dark pair of exceptionally skinny jeans, that made his legs look over-long, giraffe-thin, and hardly capable of holding up an average twenty-five year old, which ended in a pair of dark blue desert boots. His Dad used to call him Dali, after the painter, who was known for his long-legged creatures in his art.

His Hair, which was still continuing to get in his way, was a very dark soil colour, and was violently unmanageable and raggedy. If the top twenty world championship hair combers, armed with unbreakable combs, were given free run of Keighley's hair, none of them would be able to unknot any of the locks or tangles. He wore his hair reasonably long and footloose, allowing it to do as it pleased. Under the mess of hair, sat on the bridge of a broken nose, sat a pair of thin framed glasses, which he wore more as a fashion accessory than a visual aid (though they are a prescription pair; he doesn't need to wear them as much as he does). Underneath the glasses, his eyes were very dark green.

After a quick change, he was now clad in a black, mucky Café Danté apron (noticeable by it's logo: a cup and saucer with devil horns) and standing uselessly behind the counter.

Back in the café, The early-risen Lincoln Populace continued to meander endlessly past the shop windows, none of them daring to come in. The door remained shut, the tables remained empty, and the washing-up remained undone.

Keighley suprised to hear the door rattle open, and the oldest man in town shuffled up to the counter. Keighley waited quietly for the man to choose a drink and announce his order.

Meanwhile, the Head Barista, Maynard, had finshed his lukewarm drink, but was still sat at one of the tables outside, running a stubby finger around the rim of his coffee cup, taking the final drags of his cigarette. His sad, tired features stared blankly into empty air, and occaisonally a dull, heavy sigh would jettison into the public airwaves.

Maynard is not the happiest of chaps. In fact, despite having known, and lived, with him for nearly six years, Keighley had never seen Maynard happy. He wondered sometimes if Maynard was clinically depressed; but it seemed that Maynard was not sad at himself or his life, but at the lives of others. More specifically, why those lives had to continue to get in his way.

Under a sad tangle of short knotty hair hides a sad tangle of features that make for a very forgettable face. Of all the people Keighley had met whilst living in Lincoln, Maynard was the most eager to leave. He was the same age as Keighley, though managed to look at least ten years older. He was hit at the early age of thirteen with the ability to grow a formidable stubble, which required shaving frequently. Today, he had not bothered, and a thick, raggedy black mess covered his jaw like thousands of dark pins. His dark eyes were surrounded by dark bags, which he claimed came from having no sustainable sleeping pattern mixed with insomnia and occasional night terrors. Though, much more likely, it was because he stayed up too late.

He was, like keighley, quite into his fashion, even if he didn't look the sort who cared at all for his appearance. He wore an expensive black shirt and expensive chord trousers under his mucky apron, and very shiny, very expensive, brown leather shoes. His hands were pale, bony, and covered in tobacco stains and slight burn scars.

After another long period of absolutely nothing interesting at all happening, Maynard picked himself up from the table, entered the shop, scowling at the old man standing at the till, and shuddered across to the Coffee Machine.

“Ugh?” he sighed, annoyed.

Humans spent millions of years evolving to master the miracle of spoken communication, a function unique to the Human species; Maynard was the exception to the rule. He mainly clicked his tongue, or made annoyed gestures, or grunted.

This particular sigh-grunt combo Keighley took to mean “Friend Keighley, would you care for a Hot Drink?” so he replied with a “please.” He was proven right when a paper cup full of gloopy hot chocolate was placed on the counter in front of him. he nursed the beverage, sipping occasionally while the old man stood silently scrutinising the menu. Maynard had made himself a cappuchino, which he gulped down in a couple of mouthfulls before throwing the empty cup over the old man's head and across the room. It bounced off a table and landed, rolling, across the wooden floor. Speckles of coffee cartwheeled through the air. Maynard always, at some point, throw something across the shop.

“what did you do that for?” Keighley knew he would be the one cleaning up the mess. Maynard was just as lazy as he was glum, though, in defence, could make delicious coffees. “it could have hit this gent!”

Keighley isn't one for arguments. If he got in more of them, perhaps he would be more practised at it. His words of protest almost always fell on deaf ears.

Maynard gave the strongest hate-glare he could muster, before rebuttling “whatever. Don't think Mr. Moriarty minds.”

Mr. Moriarty, for those of you interested, is the Boss, Though neither Keighley or Maynard had never seen, met, or heard anything from him. He stays behind a large wooden door at the back of the shop. The only reason anyone knew he is called Mr. Moriarty is because his name is written on the door. Inside there there could be anything - Mr. Moriarty could be dead, or non-existent; Satan, Santa, robot, alien, or just a bored man.

It could be the name of the door.

Keighley sighed, only just before Maynard reached over and punched him in the arm.

“hey...ow!”

Maynard smirked, turning back to his machine. Keighley, still holding his arm, turned back to the customer he should have been paying attention to, all this time.

He was still waiting for the old man to decide what he wanted to gum on. For the last ten minutes an old man had been staring purposely at the big board with the menu on above the counter, where all the glasses and cups were kept, stowed away.

His ancient eyes dragged themselves through dusty sockets, as they arched over all the drinks and back again, checking twice and twice again. His gaunt and crooked face didn't show any sign of emotion, and his arms swing dead by his dusty old raincoat. It wasn't wet, despite the rain. For a panicky second Keighley considered that he may have had, or was in the process of having, a stroke, and was just about to phone the emergency services when he sparked:

"Coffee, please."

"Which one?" Keighley asked, politely.

"Just a coffee."

"Cappuccino, Macciato, Flat White? Americano, Espresso, Frappuccino, Café Latte, Mussolini, Rossetti..."

Keighley had memorised the drinks available, and had automatically pointed upwards at each drink on the board. I needn't tell you that Mussolini and Rossetti aren't coffees. Keighley occasionally threw In some fake names to see if anyone ever noticed. No one ever did, despite how clever they were, or at least made themselves look.

"Coffee."

"OK." He sighed. "Maynard?"

Maynard,once again, stared his cold murder glare at him.

"What?" he barked, angrily. Though it probably shouldn't be described as angry, as no one had ever heard him use a different tone of voice.

"Flat White."

Maynard mumbled, and was dragging one of the mugs under the big machine that does stuff. Keighley didn't have the foggiest clue what it did, but could operate it. He knew, at least, that coffee comes from it. He has to clean it at the end of the day, but he always puts part of it back in the wrong place, usually a small and tricky little gizmo that has a really important job. Only a month before, smoke had blared out of one of the appendages, due to a misplaced filter and a dislodged piece of gaffer tape.

Maynard didn't give Keighley time to ask whether it was take away, or whether it was small, medium, or large. He grabbed the first thing he could reach. It was large mug, for sitting in. (the shop, not the mug).

"That'll be £2.75" Keighley smiled.

The old man's painfully aged features crawled up into a grimace. "That's disgusting!" the old man shrieked, or at least as much shriek and as much rage as one can muster after watching looping footage of inspector Morse and BBC news 24 for the last millennia. "£2.75? for a coffee? that's criminal, that is!"

Keighley was about to stumble some apology about price in demand, changing times, and recession, when Maynard collapsed into the argument with some ferocity.

"So is your respirator, or life support, or lung machine, or whatever the hell you'll be no doubt plugged in in the next month or so. You'll be lying there, the machine grasping for the last crumbling days of your lifespan, and I'll look down on you, disgusted, and pull the chord. I won't bat an eyelid or flicker a muscle. It would be like turning off a television. I wouldn't have to think twice. The machine would just slowly come to a stop like the remaining static. £2.75, please."

The man seemed to forget, or perhaps wasn't listening, but still seemed scared by this sudden interruption. Looking a mixed of defeated, happy, sad, thankful, and used-to-it (that's an expression and a half), he forked over a crinkly fiver.

Keighley paid his change and handed him his reciept. “I'll bring it over for you.”

Keighley didn't notice, but Maynard accidentally dropped his Biro lid in the coffee as he leaned over to place it on the serving tray. He didn't take it out.

The flow of customers started to increase a little. It was ten, a much more reasonable hour for people to be coming in. Speaking of customers, the old man had perched himself in the corner and, only having half finished his drink, was dozing quietly, his frail arms folded over his dry raincoat, resting on his plump frame. That doesn't say much for the quality of our coffee, which Keighley had taken to assume was full of high energy, thrilling caffiene, but then again he looks as though he could probably fall asleep in the middle of a burning nightclub full of airhorns and hurricanes. he'd wake him up and ask him to leave, but he really don't think it mattered. No one is going to complain, and he's happy, asleep, so it's better for everyone if he stays zonked out for the time bieng.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, without much happening. The Man slept for a good two hours before falling off his chair, slamming into a dead heap on the wooden floor, still slightly damp from the earlier coffee throw. Keighley, once again stumbling over apologies, and Maynard, eyes burning with hate, helped the man up and assisted him to the door. He seemed Ok, not even a bruise. The Customers looked disgusted and shocked and shamed at the two of them – but then again, they hadn't stopped him falling or helped him up, had they?

More customers came and went, all of them too busy or self important to cause a fuss or strike up a conversation, so for the bulk of the Morning Maynard tried his best not to have to chat to Keighley. It is difficult, considering that they live in the same flat, but Maynard stood his ground and remained silent for the rest of the shift, only occaisonally grunting if Keighley offered to make coffee, or Maynard offering to make one for him. Keighley didn't mind – he was used to it, and he was too focused on all the different tangents and thaughts bounding about in his head, like a handful of motorised tennis balls in a room made of trampolines. They weren't important thaughts or life changing considereations, just little things that pop into your head when there's nothing to talk about. They were officially allowed three free hot drinks per shift, but due to Mr. Moriarty's constant absence, they felt free to make as many free drinks as they liked.

When it came to one, which is the busiest hour of the day, Maynard announced he was going to take his lunch hour. Keighley, not wanting to struggle by himself with the onslaught of dinner-goers, Work-break students, thirsty businessmen and mid-day prattlers, also took his lunch break. They knocked on the door to Mr. Moriarties office and told the door they'd be back in an hour, and made themselves a couple of free drinks each.Keighley served the last the remaining customers with take-away only drinks and decanted the drinks of anyone sitting in (fortunately no one had baught any food, so they didn't have to repackage that) while Maynard swung the doors closed and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, adding “Back at 2” on the bottom. When all the confused customers had been provided with their drinks, they were quickly ushered out of the café, and the two locked up and left the thirsty Lincoln populace to fend for itself.

They both went opposite ways, agreeing to meet back at the café just before two. Whilst Maynard probably went to skult in some shadows in a bleak and dreary back alley somewhere, Keighley headed uphill. He had much more interesting things planned.

I'm On Amazon Now

Hello, Blog Readers!

two of my books are on Amazon now - for the Meagre price of a single pound!

they are available for Kindle only. here are the links:

The First Case-book of the Rainy Day Man: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0078H55MG

Moons and Spiders: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Moons-and-Spiders-ebook/dp/B007K0AEEU/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331835002&sr=1-2

Have fun!

Richard Littlejohn

in an attempt to not do any work, i've decided to write a story about Richard littlejohn (a columist for the daily mail whos not unlike commander whatshisname from V for Vendetta who shouts at the telly). i read his column for the first time today, and this is what i assme he looks like, aswell as has for breakfast. in short, a childish poke at some big ol' twat.

  Richard Littlejohn wakes up every day at 6.30. it's time for his breakfast.

Richard Littlejohn is not, despite his attitude, not 100% british  - his father was, in actual fact, a Romanian Music-box built into the side of a Merry-go-round - which makes him only 1/3 brit, 1/3 romanian and 1/3 amusement park.

Richard Littlejohn doesn't eat breakfast like you or me. he has to wind himself up like an alarm clock. though he doesn't use a normal winding screw - he goes out into the early morning air and finds three stray cats. when he gets home, he crushes the unfortunate moggies between his hands into a messy powder, a mix of cat-dust and blood, and rubs it into his palms fiendishly.

  then the winding begins. this usually takes 2 hours. at six thirty, he looks like you or me (well, not me. or you, for that matter) but he looks at least human-ish.

  during those two hours he undergo's a change from his usual appearance. his top teeth start to grind up and down in their gums, lke pistons on a giant machine, before changing into colourful metal xylophone blocks. his bottom teeth, which have by now grown into small hammers with round rubber ends, start to chime melodically against the top set. his fingers, which are no longer chubby bone but small brass horns of varying lengh, toot out in time with the zylophone.

  in his sockets, his eyes swivel two and fro, swinging side to side like billiard balls. they mist over, and turn into clear glass orbs, each containing a beautifully crafted match-stick roundabout horse, rearing up in terror, a look of shock and fear swept across its gracefull features.

  across his usually sweaty forhead the words HELP US scar into the skin, backwards, in that traditional font that he uses to haunt the nightmares of children aged five and up.

  his torso rounds, the skin stretching across his bones, and his organs shift to the side, so that he is completely hollow. six of his ribs (three on each side) break out of the skin, and, like his bottom teeth, turn into drumsticks, which beat out a constant thrum, thrum, similar to the thrum of a headache after a joyfull night on the town.

  with his transformation into a music box nearly complete, the melodies mould together to create a haunting cover or the Magic roundabout theme played backwards. with this, his legs start to spin violently, until he becomes a large, music blaring draidle, spinning wildly about the room, arms flailing uselessly like streamers off a child's bycicle handles. a shriek of violin bows start to burst form his mouth, dodging the hammers, and rip out a jaunty tune across his dry, blistered lips.

  with this, he spins into the street, uncontrollably tearing through walls, bins and any other obstacle, before vanishing into shadows and crawling away, like a descovered spider hidden behind a door.

and that concluded Richard Littlejohn's breakfast.

i suppose i should get back to the essay now...  

March 11th

  There really wasn't that much I could do when the brown parcel arrived at my doorstep that morning. I remember sitting in my favourite chair, a light green affair, facing the glass door and window that overlooked my balcony on the first floor. The manilla parcel was propped on my lap, similar to how a father would sit a child, before telling them a tall tale before bed.

Since hearing the news it has been most awfully rainy, but today, the morning sun shone pale and alone in the sky, its morning rays rolling over the hills and valleys like pastry. The sunlight did nothing more than make the surroundings shine a muddy, decayed brown.

I usually lean against my balcony and watch the life of the countryside sway by. I can see a good two miles from here, all the hills and fields that surround this place like pigeons over bread. the vast armys of trees stand proud in their ranks, and the greenish, greenish grass of the country farms. Up until today, I was used to seeing them coated in a fine rain; the faintest of drizzles that threw itself down with such grim force and determination that one could have mistook it for splinters of a falling sky.

The two things I remember most, as I heard those immortal words for the very first time, was the constant patter of rain against the glass and the cold brass against my ear. She had relayed the news on the telephone, chocking back tears louder and more ferocious than any storm cloud could ever muster. I do not remember if I cried myself; my most vivid recollection after that was that I had planned where I would put a commemorative plaque. It would be just outside her door. It would be light blue, white lettering.

We kept a close correspondence by telephone or letter, though we only saw each other face to face on the occasional weekend. I'm rather glad she didn't tell me the news face to face. I would have hated to remember her in that way.

I slumped heavily in my chair, and called the maid to bring me a tea. I picked up the parcel and read the label for a second time:

The final letter of Harriet Buxton

the maid had told me that grief works indifferent ways for different people, and that in a day or two this might all swell over me, bringing no end to tears, grief, and hurt. All I did was reread the label for a third, fourth and fifth time.

I stared out of the window, wishing it would start raining again in torrents, just as it had been doing. I was surprised when it did so, the first few droplets shattering against the balcony oor, window, then finally an entire tundra of rain showered over the never ending green hills.

Today was March 11^th, a day that will echo throughout my memory as one of the darkest days I have ever faced. She was thirty-two.  

i always think in the wrong direction

everyone else worries about different things from me.

for example, if you are home alone, or walking down a dark street, what do you worry about? most people i've asked worry about attackers, or burgulars, or real life situations.
 
in this situation i worry about ghosts and monsters. i don't give a moments thaught to chavs or murderers or things like that. because they are easily stopped. you can't stop ghosts. i don't like the thaught of not knowing whats going on. i like to be in the loop with things. i can't stand mirrors, worried that i'll see something in them. faces in places and odd shapes in the dark are the real threats. you can hit a burgular with a pan, but something unknown, and unstoppable, will always win. i don't properly believe in these sorts of things, but still, if something looks a bit like a face, or something jolts, then my mind makes things up to fit it. probably due to a childhood watching doctor who, strange but true, x files, and all other sorts of ghost stories.

went and gone and done another one

this one is called "Razorwire faces". it's the third of my stories about spiders.

in floating mazes of

glistening white,

razorwire faces smile

left to right.

pinprick eyes and

barb wire jaws,

shattered legs

and needle claws.

they scratch along

the hairs so thin,

they pierce through

the human skin.

Within the walls of

human flesh

they slice the veins

the blood runs fresh

razorwire faces

have their fun,

eight long legs

and space to run.

Through the heart

and through the tongue,

through the mind

and fingers long

spider scuttles

rictus grin

shattered teeth

with glass within

razorwire faces

know your here

reading this

you have no fear

but beyond

the windows high

darkest spots

the faces lie

Look! Behind!

What's that you see?

Something white?

Something free?

Needle legs

across your back

pinprick itch

and shivers slack

never fear

the spider's song

they're not about

for very long

but as you sit

and as you sprawl,

through your veins

the spiders crawl

razorwire faces

stare from you.

Look at your grin -

it's needles too.