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.

now i've got no money I can finally get the writing done

i'm skipping the next rainy day man. i've been putting it off for 2 years. and now i'm putting it off for more.

i'm working on a future one, set after the next one. hopefully it should make me buck up and write the important put-off one. sounds a bit confusing but i think i know what's happening.

these ones are going to get a bit more challenging one to write. but i won't be getting any better if i don't push myself.

My mind is doing that thing again

  Doing university work has once again reared its ugly face and is pointing fixatedly in my direction. The worst part is there isn't actually that much to do. That's what makes it so much worse. Talking to everyone else I live with, they have such a mammoth load of work to get done, it makes my work seem incoherently insignificant. which makes me feel bad. Why is my workload, a mere 2,000 words or so, so frustratingly diff-
  -No, not difficult. there. why is my work so there? Why does it sit and look t me with its big, work-y eyes? It doesn't like me and I don't like It. and everyone else has so much to do, It makes my lack of interest in what is only a short essay look so ridiculously insulting to everyone else. They have overflowing bundles of near impossible mind-blowing things to do and I have to talk briefly about the BBC and what I did during filming.

  Work brings out the worst in me. Because it gives me the time and procrastination to think about things. Usually I think about good things, like story ideas or visiting Bold Street Coffee. But during workloads I always think about all the annoying things that bother me. There's a certain amount of self loathing that comes out when you find an annoyance in something. Like if you can't find something you've just put down, you hurl torrents of screaming abuse at yourself for bieng the biggest most useless bastard you know.

  That's what work does. It points out all your character flaws and presents themselves to you in an exaggerated light and then, like a smarmy twat, gives evidence to back it up.

  I'm not saying that I don't like myself, I am very happy with me. I like my Optimism, my love of books and writing, and my introvertedness, to name a few. But everyone has things they don't like. I, for one, am not a fan of my nervous disposition. It can be quite a hinderance, especially socially. Shyness and friendship do not go together. Shyness and love don't see eye to eye. It also brings a slightly paranoid overthinking with it - will spend hours trying to think what others are thinking. Too find out their secrets and hear their silent opinions.

  Thanks a lot, work. Thanks for bringing that up. For pointing out the moments that lack of shyness would have been better. I blame University, and also the Tories, for negative thinking. They both know that i'd be rather watching the Hour, reading and drinking tea, and writing a story about the Thimble Ghost. Yet they set us all this work instead...

not wanting to sound rude to anyone...

returning to university, everyone i knew last year seems different and evasive. a bit like something big happened in the summer and i missed a meeting.
  it was probably my fault - i'm probably not the best friend in the world. introverted, bookish, not that talkative and pretty antisocial, i'm not made for talking to people. clubbing is uncomfortable due to all the pressure put on me whenever i go - dance, drink, talk to people, get drunk and buy someone a drink. no, i say! fancy dress? no, fuck off!
 
  alright, it's becoming pretty plain why i'm not Mr. popular. i'm unwelcoming and not easy to talk to. it's not uni people's fault - it's mine.

never mind. despite this, i shall continue to be this way. because it's fun and fitting to me. and i'm probably liked, by a select few. those people - thankyou. very much.

im not angry at the other people. not angry at anyone.

i'll be hiding in the quietest corners of the bookshops, if you need me.

glass bottle got stuck on finger.

i'm not sure what made me do it. but i wanted to see if my finger fit in the bottle.

it didn't.

tried to remove it, with all the strengh i could. after ten minutes, i was quite paniced, and i took my hand, bottle akimbo, outside and placed the bottle and hand on the floor.

i also had my hammer.

tap. tap. tap tap. bang. Smash!

ahh!

the bottle was broken, but still wedged on finger. and thumb cut on glass where hammer hit.  mix of flat cola, rain, and blood.

more tapping, this time around neck of bottle. little bits coming off, and more cuts.

suddnely, success! bottlecap broke in two. more cuts.

i'm one of those people who bleeds quite profusely. dried blood all over hands. got the worst off with kitchen towel and had some trouble applying a couple of plasters.

it was thirsty work. now sitting, watching Derren Brown, typing roughly with plastered fingers. am quite thirsty.

i have a few more colas.

broke another bottle out. good old cola.

I wonder...

A missed train

My train from Blackpool Pleasure Beach had been delayed by half an hour due to a signalling failure at Kirkham.  So when we arrived in Preston, there was ten minutes, instead of the usual forty, until my connecting train arrived.
  At this point, I decided to do something that I had never occurred to me before, something that seemed pointless and time wasting and fun.
  I deliberately Missed my train.

This self sacrificing move left me stranded for an hour and ten minutes in Preston. I wasn't in a rush, and had given myself some time to kill.
  I thought of all the things i could possible do while i was in Preston for this prolonged period of time.
  in truth, i enjoyed my forty minutes break. it made a nice stopper between the two trips, and i could pick up a Nero's and walk to the Waterstone's and back. and i wasn't in any hurry to lose it.
  i thought about all the people you see in their suits rushing for the trains, when they are missing the place they have stopped at. you never know what you might find here. I have only been to Preston properly once, about seven or so years ago, and looked forward to a bigger explore.

I started with a trip to Nero's.

As I was heading there, I thought of all the things I could do with my extra time. I could buy something new, or start a conversation with someone I have never even met!
  But I wanted to start with the norm, so off to Nero's. But I wasn't taking away, oh, no. I sat in. I baught a sandwich aswell.
  I sat eating, smiling to myself at the thaught that I should really be in Leyland by now - the joys of train truancy had started to kick in. I felt slightly special, going against the norm.
  As the train arrived at Wigan, I arrived at HMV. Having not really been to Preston in a while, I was going to stay on the main road, towards Waterstone's. I didn't want to get lost.
  There wasn't much in HMV, so I left, walked to Waterstone's, and went back to the station.
 
OK. So it sounds almost exactly like what I used to do. It was, really, with some small changes. But the important thing is that I wasn't on the train. I had opted for a slow day as opposed to a rushed one. I had done something different form the recommended. Experimenting with society and collapsing train civilisation.
  So when the departures board displayed that the next Train to liverpool was Delayed indefinitely, I was the only one still smiling.
 
  This time I sat in Preston station café - since the train could arrive at any movement, I didn't want to wander off - occaisonally reading NME, drinking a big tea, and writing this down in my notebook.
  The signal failure at Kirkham was still raging on, thus delaying all trains going that way. At the other tables people were phoning their bosses or mates.
 after about half an hour my train arrived, and this time I got on.
 

i write scripts now

writing scripts is not too easy. though perhaps its because its non fictional. perhaps i should flee away into a world of fiction and fantasy. good old head. there's never a problem that cannot be solved by ignoring all of reality around you and pretend your somewhere else.
 though i should probably get on with some work.

procastinating is such an ugly word. I prefer "dicking about"

I am writing a journalistic script for my Media group.

I have it open, at least. some of the words are there. the other ones, the ones the cursor haven't typed yet, are getting impatient because i'm supposed to be typing them.

i'm not supposed to be reading, listening to my Florence and the Machine record, writing something completely different, or, for that matter, updating my blog telling you all the things i'm doing that aren't work.

i think i mentioned that i have no talent for journalism. I showed you some blogs that have too much talent for journalism, some incredibly enjoyable journalistic blogs, that I follow, and read religiously.

another thing i shouldn't be doing, i suppose. why is it so difficult to write jounalism? i have written lots of short stories. perhaps i only have the writing ability for fiction, and am unable to type a report, or study,  or academic journal, or anything to do with my real human feelings. i can only write fiction things. which isn't a bad thing.

but the journalism people can do that aswell...

i can't (unfortunately) write a news report on something fictional, so i'll have to buckle down and write some good old fashioned journalism, even if it kills me.

or i could play videogames, or give the Violin another go. or iron all my socks...

the Harp Spider

From within the web of string,

the Spider's harp begun to sing.

his hammer legs plucked at the maze,

the spider weaves the harp for days.

“It's Matruy. M-A-T-R-U-Y.”

“OK, thanks, I'll write the order number on the receipt. It's out on the 14^th, so we'll see you then”

“OK, thanks. Bye.”

as she left HMV, Viren (Pronounced Ver-ren) Matruy pulled her coat further over her, bracing for the cold autumn winds. She wore a big black woolly duffel, which was perfect for keeping the cold off her in this sort of weather. Her hair, which is very dark purple, neck lengh, and always shaggy, whipped about in the wind.

She had ordered the Blu-ray for Quatermass and the Pit, one of the Hammer films she did not own yet in her collection. She is a keen collector of films, and won't stop until she has converted all of her impressive DVD film collection into Blu-Rays. Her friends always warn her against it; it's needless, expensive, and soon enough a brand new format will come out and she'll have to start again.

Viren loves expensive things. Just look at her. She picked up the Mustard Yellow coloured dress she was wearing from a pricey shop on London's Petticoat Lane. (it is not dissimilar to the colour of the dress worn by the woman on the Stella Artois train advert). It has become her favourite dress, and she had quickly picked up a pair of vintage Doc Martens in the same colour (which weren't cheap). Her black leather handbag is John Lewis, £79, one of the four identical ones she owns. The black Duffel was £200. as far as she is concerned, she is earning the money, who why not spend it on lovely things?

She removed the duffel coat as she entered one of the Café's in her native town, Kenilworth. Today she had shopped around the town, instead of taking the bus to one of the closer cities, like Coventry or Warwick. Despite the easy access, and much larger range of shops available, today was a Kenilworth day.

She was halfway through her Peppermint Hot chocolate and her cream of Tomato soup when she first heard the music. She looked up, though it would be nearly impossible to see her look up, since from nearly every angle her thick, messy fringe covers both her eyes.

The music was coming from somewhere close by. It was a gentle twang of strings, running up and down the octaves like a tidal wave. There was no proper melody, like someone was absent mindedly flicking at the strings without looking, or without knowing how to play.

Viren looked around. There wasn't any harp in the café, and the speakers were playing the usual slow jazz melody tunes those sorts of places usually play.

Pretty much every coffee shop in the world (with exception to all of them in New Orleans) wants to

be like all the ones in New Orleans. The black frame windows, the jazz, the strong espressos. This one was no exception. However, there was no harp player, yet the mysterious plucking continued.

Viren didn't know why new Orleans crossed her mind – to distract from the music, maybe. She hadn't really thought about it before, though she had spent a lot of time, in between shopping, browsing the French Quarter, and visiting the sights, drinking strong, sweet black coffee in the various cafés.

Anyway. The harp music continued to mindlessly twang out. Viren scanned the café. No one else seemed to have taken notice of the music.

his spider heart has picked his love,

the tune will drown them from above.

his hammer legs will never rest,

his spider heart will know what's best.

Viren had spent most of the morning asleep. She had work, but it didn't matter that much.

She worked from her attic. It was drenched in the afternoons sunlight, and the hanging plants form the slanted roof hung around her shoulders like spiders legs.

She sat at her posh desk, turned on her red retro anglepoise lamp, and got to work. She restores the covers of first editions for collectors and dealers. Popular fist editions would sell for thousands. She had restored a first edition copy of the Great Gatsby last month, which had sold at Sotherby's of London for nearly £100,000. there was a lot of money in classic books.

Today she had been handed a copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles, that was in a fair, but not fantastic, condition. It was published by George-Newnes, London, 1902. it was not too big a job, as it was only expected to sell for too much. She was getting £1,000 for the job, and the book was expected to sell for about £5,000, if the job was done properly.

This particular job required the cloth cover re-dying, and some cover design restoration. The first job would be the dying.

She was carefully removing the cloth cover from the back when the mindless tune struck up again. This time, she took it more seriously. Yesterday, In the café, she was concerned, but eventually assumed that the music might have been playing from someone's phone or iPod. She was used to people playing music too loud through their earphones on her many bus trips to Coventry or Warwick.

However, this time, there was no other way around it. The music had to be coming from somewhere. It was still the same, tuneless tune, though this time it sounded lighter, and much more pleasant. Like when you listen to a song at first and it doesn't sound right, but when you come back to it later on and it sounds so much better. Your favourite song, and you didn't notice the first time.

Despite the pleasantness of the melody, she felt the need to find its origin. The music didn't sound like it cam from a particular source. In the café, she had located it to an unnoticed web, hidden in the top corner of the café wall, near the toilets. The web looked thin and full; not cone shaped, but a normal, maze-like web. She told the Baristas, and one of the braver ones brushed it away with a dustpan and brush. After that, the tune had stopped.

She searched through the plants, and on the windowsill, and around the corners of the old room. There wasn't any webs. Yet the music still continued, and the more she searched and the more she listened, the more she didn't want it to go away. It felt warm and light.

Despite herself, she tried to put her fingers in her ears. The music continued inside her head.

his spider harp will always play,

his one will never get away.

the tune will tell them deep within,

the spider's love will never thin.

Viren didn't get up today.

She lay on her bed, smiling. She was feeling lazy and content. She hadn't felt the need to dress; though eventually she left the bed to put on a mustard yellow dress she was sure she didn't really care about. She would have thought about what to do; the book needed finishing, she could go shopping, she could visit friends, or pick up her blu-ray from HMV, or go on holiday. If only she could hear herself think.

Her head was full of beautiful harp tunes. The soft, mysterious, mindless melody. She could only hear the repeated twang of the harp strings. She could see thin, black, hammer legs, swinging in the air, tapping on long silky wires that stretched across the room in odd directions, like there was electrical pylons out of sight, all connected, all facing different directions. Though it could have been her fringe, which was always in her eyes.

She felt light, and bright, and full of fire. The feeling, the strong sense of relaxed excitement and deep bliss. She never wanted the melody to end.

The midday sun shone through the bay windows. The wires shone a slight grey-blue, and she thought they were slightly vibrating in the air. She tried to brush her fringe out the way, but was too content to lift her arms.

The harp has caught the spiders pray,

the woven tune has had its say.

the lover's caught deep in the spell,

don't try to leave; it won't end well.

on returning to university, and not going out

  this week was the first one back for the second year of university. if I had the blogging talents of the Fantastic people who make these awesome blogs, (here and here) then perhaps I could go into detail more on some of the events, such as the odd question on the bus, and my awkward introduction to my film course. if these things were made up, perhaps I could talk about them in better (or at least some) detail, however my journalistic and autobiographical skills are no match to other blogs. (did i mention this one and that one?)
  not going out, a past time I enjoy, might be coming back to haunt me, however. the world of the student outside lesson circle seems to take place in the clubs, town nights and house parties. I don't have much talent for such things, and might be losing out as a result.
   it might not matter, though. I have got through life pretty well without going out too many times (I do occaisonally wander in, out of curiosity and a need to keep up with the times and things), and I bet there's other ways to keep up with the student social world without going to town every night. all I need to do is find out how...

(in case you were wondering, I was unnessecarily introduced to my film course by another one of the teachers, for no specific reason. the method used ("hi everyone, this is Izaak, he'll be joining your film course. he's brilliant!") suggested a "he's a bit special and scared of everyone, so please be nice to him" approach. then I could find a chair, and stood about like a divvy for a bit while i looked for one. not the best "how do you do.")

(as for the bus, someone i don't really know from my history, but know enough to say hello, asked me on the bus, unespectedly, and quite loudly, "are you single?". it wasn't until after i made some sort of excuse that he explained that he ment single honours. i had misunderstood. however, throughout the week I did get a cake, and a couple of hugs from a couple of lovely friends, so it wasn't all bad.*)

*just to make sure you know, i'm not a bit special and scared of everyone, despite evidence to the contrary.

hmm...

not returning to university until next monday, spnding a non-university week in liverpool is.... dull.

have been spending more than my normal amounts of time in Bold Street coffee, waterstones and the Lego shop. the only problem is that these places cost money.there is little to do to kill time in liverpool for free (there are parks and galleries, but...)
my recently decided mission to make more friends this year should go well. hopefully.

sort of looking forward to monday, when uni starts again.

the Sun and the Moon

Based on an Idea by Ant Briscoe.

The Sun hates the Moon.

Look at him – whizzing about the stars like no body's business. Hanging around that Earth. Only him, as well. Billy no mates. Saturn and Jupiter are the party planets.

“Oy!” the Sun blared, as Moon glided past for the umpteenth time.

“yerwhat?” Moon wasn't listening, shot right past.

“Oy!”

next time Moon came around, he stopped. Moon knows the Sun doesn't like him, so he's less sociable when he talks to him.

“yeah?” Moon asked.

“what do you do, really?”

“what?”

“what do you do? Why does Earth hand around with you?”

“Well...” Moon started, thinking. “I'm night-time, aren't I? When you tip off the horizon, I pop out, keep the sky interesting...”

“only because you reflect me!” Sun protested. “anyway, your not really needed for night-time, are you? I bring light, which is essential for all life. Night-time is just the lack of me. Everyone goes to sleep at night, anyway. Are you that boring, that everyone goes to sleep when you arrive? When I leave, everyone's like 'oh, well, never mind, I guess I'll go to sleep until Sun comes back.'”

“I'm useful...” Moon muttered, still in thought of something to put that smart-arse Sun in his place. He suddenly piped, with more than a hint of pride, “I'm beautiful.”

“what do you mean?”

“I'm romantic. The shivering light of the Moon, the shiny blue haze, the dark craters, the face of the Moon... I'm serene, and peaceful. You, your overbearing. No one can even look at you, or they will never look at anything ever again! You are so ugly and so bright, I cannot imagine what it would be like, how it would feel to never be looked in the face.”

a low blow. Sun burned a strong, deep red.

“you insignificant little rock! You tiny, tiny clump of dust! I could fir out a solar flare, without any effort at all, and blow you, and your whole stinking world into atoms and dust!”

“all right, calm down, Sunny boy...”

The Sun had had its moment. He returned to a bright yellow-y white. He sighed, breathing out slowly. Things were all right again. Moon made a mental note not to push things too far for a bit.

“So..” Sun continued, “why are you important?”

“the seas?” Moon suggested. “I've got the sea's going down...”

“yeah, I'll give you that one.” Sun agreed. “the tides are important to Earth.”

“thank you” Moon quietly replied. Right then, which is better, day or night?”

*

“dawn?”

“dawn is nice,” Moon replied. “I like dawn. A new day.”

“yeah, I like dawn, too.”

“you would,” Moon retorted, “that's when you start working!”

“all right, easy...”

“How about Midday?”

“Midday can fuck off!” Sun snapped. “I hate midday. how do you feel about midnight?”

“I love midnight...” Moon soothed. “midnight is the most peaceful part of any day. It's either a shiny new day, or the last remaining part of the night.”

“I like lazy afternoon.” Sun replied. “its so peaceful. Occasionally I'll burn the sky a slight reddish tint. I think it adds something...”

“I'm noticing a pattern” Moon suggested. “peacefulness. There are certain parts of day and night that are peaceful and serene. Perhaps we cannot really decide on which is better. I mean, without night, there would be no day, and without day, no night. One cannot really be better than the other...”

“still...” Sun suggested. “I prefer day. They may be both necessary, but I'd prefer to work day than night, any time.”

“I would hate to work day” Moon replied. “I love the quiet of the night.”

“Oy!” Earth shouted. “Get to work!”

Sun and Moon may not get along, but they both enjoy the occasional debate. Earth always comes along to interrupt things.

“Well, I better be off...”

“same. I'll see you around, sometime.”

“yeah, see you later.”

and both the Sun and the Moon went back to work. They would meet up, again and again, forever an ever, and they would continue to argue and debate over which of the two is more important. And they would never decide on an answer.

the Starbucks Tree

working on the trams gives you time to write. especially when the work entails sitting in the canteen for seven hours because there aren't any trams to go on. i worte two things during that time, and here is the first:

What did you expect to find
underneath the Starbucks tree?
is the fruits hung on it's branches
really such a Mystery?

did the corrugated cardboard leaves
really leave you that confused?
did you really never know
how the plastic cups were fused?

the cappuccino starts to flow
through the roots and in the maze
the coffee brews, the days go past,
the Earth and Sun both spin a daze

the frappucino branches brew
the freezing chlorophyll to make
the caramel that gets its flavor
from the sugars in the lake

the paper cups pluck from the tree
and are filled with drinks galore
the townsfolk come from all around
they are always after more

so there you are, the Starbucks tree
and I'm amazed you didn't know
that such a tree could ever be, that Coffee drinks
from it do flow

we're you expecting gold, or drugs,
stars or lightening? things like that?
those other trees should have them there,
in the woods your looking at

a tree for everything, for dreams,
a tree for bread, a tree for tricks,
but this tree is the only one
where you can get your caffeine fix

so lets all hail the Starbucks tree,
the only one i ever go
to visit, 'cause it gives you drinks,
and that is all you need to know.

this ol' blog of mine is wearing a bit thin

don't have much to say for a while, and i'm not very good at chatting about things (unlike some of the other awesome blogs I follow), but i need to keep up appearances, otherwise i'd forget.

  if you go on Jottify, you can sell your stories via Kindle (and all the other e-book doodads), and you can put your stories, rants or anything up for others to read and comment. you can even make covers for the stories and put 'em in collections, and join groups related to your stories.

all my things can be found on there Here. thats everythin' i've written that I can remember about.

happy blogging, everyone. (does anyone get the title reference?)