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Somewhere to capture all sorts of writing |
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This is a blog where I will write all sorts. Freewriting, splurges, stuff that just comes out. Please comment & interact. |
I’m not like some of these others. They’ve only been around since the move and the refit and the upgrade and the general decision to get rid of most of the reliable old faithful and replace them with these shiny new little bastards. I’m sure it’s just as bad in the other rooms, but I can only speak for the kitchen, well mainly. Obviously I get around, bedroom, front room, most mornings, with his nibs coffee. Still have that to look forward to I guess. He seems a creature of habit, maybe it was her idea, all this new stuff, new plates, never seen anything like these freaks, they’re not even round and they’re certainly not white. All sorts of bizarre colours and no respect for their elders. I heard that octagonal side plate the other day, talking about Winston, my old pal, from the bone china set, been around longer than I have, in the family, the old parents, presumed dead now. We never see them anyway. Anyway, where was I, oh yeah, that little octagonal shit, calling Winston granddad and threatening to smash him, push him off the shelf – it’s a disgrace. I’m expecting the same from these stainless steel upstarts, whole load of them next to me now as we wait, cringing for the timer to kick in and blast us with water, at 4.30 in the morning of all times – just because its cheaper. What about us and our sleep. In the old days, when we were washed by hand, OK, it was a bit rough, being scrubbed with a brush or even a scouring pad if you were unlucky, but at least it was always at a decent hour. The only time I can remember having to wake up this time was when he came home late one night, coughing and slurring his speech and staggering around and deciding he wanted a cup of coffee, he needed it, that’s for sure and he needed me, his old faithful silver spoon, to stir it and make that sugar melt and I was happy to do it. It didn’t feel abusive like this does. It felt like stepping up to the plate, or the cup, obviously, but you know what, I felt proud. If you’re treated right you don’t mind a bit of hardship from time to time, makes you feel like you’re special and well thought of and indispensible and all that. So now, here we all are, jammed in the rack with a load of cheap shiny angular cutlery, woken up early or actually, I wake up before the machine now, anticipation; getting old I guess. Problem is I don’t get to bed any earlier. He still has his late night cup of cocoa and I still have to stir it, always the hardest of jobs too, getting all the lumps out. I cant manage it so well now though, what with all these early mornings, don’t have the energy. I noticed he’s been complaining a bit to her, saying it’s all lumpy, did you heat the milk up, did you stir it first or enough? Won’t be long until he works it out; I’m knackered, not fit for this modern world. Get one of the youngsters in, they burn out quick, they’ll be out in the next refit but they’re cheap, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t mind too much, I guess I’m banking on a display cabinet. In the old days I would have felt useless and bored and redundant, but now it feels like a nice way to have a rest and it also means that I won’t have to go in that bloody machine any more. I remember when they got it. He said to her, don’t put the old cutlery and china in there will you, oh no she says, but within a couple of days we were all chucked in with everything else. My shine’s gone and so have at least 6 of the old plates, couldn’t stand it, shattered, all the heat, it gets so hot in here. I want to get up on that shelf over the fireplace with his coins. Feels proper somehow and I’m hopeful. He seems like the sort to keep an old favourite like me even when I’ve outlived my usefulness in this modern world. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Rounded Sunlight in the snowfield Stoned Golden Caramel mood Slowly walking towards the sunset barefoot Something there flickering at the back of his mind Doesn’t matter Nothing can get past the bliss Gwen screaming, blocked out as the guitar kicks in Then it starts to build to a crescendo and he’s lost , utterly lost, he runs around the padded room, no one can see in and he cant see out and if he falls over its soft and luxurious everywhere. He’s never felt so completely without care or pain or as loose and numbed. Gwen screaming, blood running down her face He turns to an imagined sound or movement but there’s nothing there The music takes him way again, this time he sees on the wall in front of him the ocean, in Hawaii, 10 years ago when he went with Gwen, their first time away, he’d taught her how to surf. He can see her now standing on the board. She fell off time and time again, the first three days that’s all she did, fall over, but she kept wanting to go back. If you can do it I want to learn And she’d get that slightly stubborn look on her face. He knew she’d just keep going. Her face now as she stands without falling for the first time and slowly rides into the beach on a small wave, she’s beaming and he’s running towards her and she leaps off the board into his arms nearly choking him. They are rolling around now in the shallows, waves rolling over them, he can taste the salty water and feel the sand on his skin and smell her salty hair. The screen’s blank now though and Gwen’s not there. He remembers the scream now and looks around him again, trying to figure out what’s happening. The music has stopped and it’s utterly silent in the room now. He turns round slowly in a circle looking for the door, it was over by the screen he thought but the screen is gone now and all that’s there is the soft white padding of the, cell… He’s in a padded cell; even a padded cell in a mental hospital would have a door or a window or something to watch him by. There must be a camera, maybe in the light up there. They were watching him, somehow he felt certain of that now and he needed to act as if he didn’t know, it was vital they didn’t know. He walked around with a carefree swagger, trying not to make it too obvious he was trying to look carefree. He couldn’t resist a look up at the lamp every now and then and he was sure he saw some tiny movement up there as he moved, the lens following him, maybe, zooming in and out. Gwen needed him to get out and he would get out. He just had to figure it out, wait for a bit, she’d know he wouldn’t let her down, he’d be there but not yet. He might have to wait and listen and watch and soon, or maybe in a day or two he’d work it out. They might be clever but he was a genius, he was top of his class, of any class, he couldn’t be outfoxed, and that was the genius of it. No one really knew how clever he was. He seemed like an average kind of guy, did quite well, didn’t seem to get into trouble, managed to cope with life, but nothing stood out, or so they thought. That’s why they’d probably thought they could get away with this, but they couldn’t. He’d known, he knew it was a trick, the music, the drugs, the hallucinations. They had Gwen and he would make them pay for that, whatever they’d done to her he would do to them three times over, only way to teach them His Dad taught him that, or something like that. If you get in a fight, you either have to run, or be prepared to do far worse than they are, kill them if necessary. He was only 11 at the time and he freaked out a bit, thinking he’d have to kill anyone who gave him a dead leg in the playground or put chewing gum in his hair. Eventually he’d got the hang of it though, well he didn’t really ever have to do anything like that but he knew he was ready, he’d been ready all his life, waiting for a moment like this so Gwen, I know they’ve got you, but don’t worry. He was shouting now he realised and that was good, they would hear him and see him on the camera and think their stupid plan had worked that he’d gone crazy and they’d think , soon, that they could come in and get him, he wouldn’t be a risk, would he, if he was loony. They could just sedate him and trick him into staying there longer so they could do things to Gwen, horrible things. He saw her bleeding again then and he screamed out in a terrified high pitch. No! Gwen No! Those fuckers. Once he’d had a bit more time to think he would work out exactly how to get out and get Gwen and get them. He was going to fuck them up and no one would be able to stop him. The music started again and he swayed from side to side feeling his brain melting and the air around his head turning warm and soft and smelling of caramel. He lay down in the room and stared at the ceiling smiling ecstatically. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Haddock, cod, salmon and loads of other fish that I didn’t remember the names of but it didn’t really matter if I remembered really. The point was that I had to live here now, above the bloody fishmongers and although I’d spent most of my life hating fish, the smell of it, the taste and the look and the texture of it. I had to find a way to cope now. After all, I would probably be here for years, maybe for ever, a horrible thought but not so horrible as going back. At least I was safe here and the hideousness of the fish was nothing compared to the hideousness of waking up in the middle of the night thinking I’d heard someone downstairs or being afraid to open the front door just in case it was someone coming to kill me. Karen said I was being melodramatic, well, dear, you wouldn’t say that now would you, if you could say anything, you might be saying, yes dear, I’m so sorry you’re right, I am scared, in fact more scared than you and can we go now, get away, like you suggested. Didn’t get a chance though did she, poor cow. Borrowed my car, without asking, serves her right, obviously didn’t check it, not that she would have known how, or what to look for and then bingo, up in smoke. Funny in a way but not really, she was harmless, if a little irritating. Didn’t deserve that did she, still, rather her than me frankly. It might sound harsh but who didn’t think like that, really, deep down, who didn’t want someone else to die rather then them. Parents maybe, wouldn’t know, never been one or wanted to be one, all those snotty nosed little brats running around in the school near the old place was enough to put me off for life Frankly what I want, what I really want, is to just be left alone. Not sure I would have chosen this dead end seaside resort in a flat smelling of fish day and night, but that’s why I left it to the experts. It might be a little bit unpleasant but frankly, not as unpleasant as getting your throat cut, like Greaves, or having your cock cut off and stuffed down your throat like Harrington. No, in comparison a little whiffy fish seemed OK. Lately though, I’ve been feeling a bit like I used to, back before I got involved in all this bullshit and had a normal life, socialised a bit, had a laugh, spoke to people without having to hide anything, well not too much anyway. I fancied, yesterday when I woke up, I fancied a bit of a chin wag, with an old friend, someone like Graham Jenkins, good old Jenksie. Whatever happened to him? No idea, no idea about any of that lot. Once I joined the firm I left it all behind, they insisted and I was happy to, at first anyway, seemed totally worth it. The thrill of not being able to tell anyone. All a bit childish and like boys playing at war but so fucking what, that’s what I thought, so fucking what, why not have a bit of a thrill. If only I’d known. Inspired by: http://www.writingforward.com/exercises/fiction-writing-exercises/fiction-writin... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Gerard was right, probably, it made no real sense to go after them. The possibility of getting any of the food or horses back weighed against the fact that it would leave us all more at risk, divided and depleted. It all made sense but that lying little toad had looked me in the eye and sworn that nothing was happening, just last night. I knew or I suspected, he was planning to do something. The way he looked at Gerard or looked around at others, just the sly glances when he was making a pronouncement or deciding what we would aim for. It was undermining and it was cowardly. We’d always allowed for challenge but it should be declared in the circle, before everyone then a decision could be made. This way no one had a chance to think about it, they just woke up to find 6 men gone, 8 horses and half of our food. This left us with just 6 horses between 12 men, and there were the women and children too. Some rode in the wagons but there weren’t enough horses now or food to do this. We were in trouble now and two nights ago we’d found another of the lookouts with his throat cut and the guts spilled out just like all the others, dragged out really and tied round the neck in some primitive savage ritual. Whoever they were it was clear they didn’t show any mercy and had no problem killing a man. Why would they want to kill us? Same reason I guess that we would kill anyone of them if we saw them, which we never did of course: fear, defending your own and trying to survive. I guess you could see their point of view; this was their land and he we were invading. We didn’t need much and there seemed to be so much room for the people that were here, judging by the forests and the amount of game that was available. It was easy hunting really, the food replacement wouldn’t be too much of a problem, it just took time we didn’t have, or though we didn’t have. No one knew really but we thought, based on the only information that had ever come back from this place once someone set out, based on the news from the Herrington Expedition, although no one ever saw any of them only found a journal apparently, so it wasn’t necessarily reliable. But still we gathered that we had to get west, right over to the far west of this strange land before winter and according to calculations, Gerard mostly and Esther, who fancied herself a bit of a seer, the winter was only 2 months off. So if we stopped for anything, to hunt or to fight, for long, we wouldn’t get there and then we’d die in the freeze. Once the cold came it came hard, so they said. Heavy heavy snow and it didn’t let up for months. It all made sense then or added to Gerard’s argument that we shouldn’t go chasing after the traitors, but I couldn’t help it, I took a horse, one we could ill afford to lose, I agree, and told them to move fast and I would catch them. It would be easy as some were on foot now so they’d have to go at their pace, hence the rush, to get west. If I could get some of the horses back and in the process kill that smug faced bastard then it would help them and it would help me. I couldn’t go on, in the end without having a go. At first I’d tried to buckle down to Gerard’s decision and move along slowly with the group heading ever west and eking out our food. But there’s nothing else to think about out here, little to see except grass and trees and animals, a load of buffalo and some strange looking deer-like creatures, always just out of range but still, it got me thinking all the time about them, and I couldn’t go on. The group let me go, which was amazing of them really. I think a lot of them felt the same way but they knew I was the best rider and I could throw a spear better than any of them, so they let me go, gave their blessing and I will NOT let them down, I will not! Why they’d headed North anyway Job only knows, its well known that we have to head west but that was typical of him, he always thought he knew best and he would roll his eyes whenever Gerard made one of his speeches urging us to keep going, keep struggling and we’d get there and we’d be rewarded for it was a paradise and there was hardly a winter to speak of in the west and the sea was emerald green. He reckoned it was baloney, never said it to anyone’s face but I’d heard him whispering, reckoned North was the place to go, reckoned that the Herald and his people, who’d come here more than 20 years back, reckoned they were up there and they had it all sorted. Cattle and ploughed land and some order and some army that kept away the savages. Job knows where he gets his ideas from but if I get my hands on him he won’t be having any more ideas and he won’t be rolling them eyes at no one because I’ll have plucked them from his rotten head. Two hours ago I found a track and I’m pretty sure it was my horse, Meredith; I recognised her left back foot print. It looked pretty fresh and the manure I’d found was almost warm so I could be on the bastards in a few hours if I kept this pace up I reckoned, then we’d see who was the savage. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| So, its apparently a good thing, or an expected thing in most jobs now that you should work longer hours than you’re supposed to. OK, so everyone moans about it and thinks its not fair that they are always expected to do more and no one cares about them or looks after them or considers them and there’s always more and more pressure coming from above and not enough hours in the day etc etc. BUT, if you, agreeing with this, demonstrate your agreement by actually going home when you’re supposed to or, sometimes, going home a bit early because after all isn’t it shitty the way we just have to go to work every day and do things for other people for not enough money and the weekends are always too short and the holidays are a bit depressing and not long enough and when you come back all you can think about is that you don’t want to be there and you wish that you were still on that beach or up that mountain or touring that vineyard or sitting on your arse at home getting stoned or whatever it was that you loved about your holiday. Most people seem to agree about these things, work is a bit of a shitty deal for most people and they talk about it and they moan about it and they often seem to really fucking hate it. So, hearing this and agreeing with this what happens when you act on it? You say, fuck this, there’s too much to do, this is too stressful I’m going home early. I’ve done what I consider is a good days work and I feel OK in my conscience about fucking off early. Aah, well, they say, that’s just lazy, that’s taking the piss. I mean we all moan and we’d all love to go home when we want or not stay late or not have all this extra work given to us but, come on. Someone’s got to do it and if we don’t do it there’s going to be hell to pay. Or maybe they’ll say something like, well you go, lucky old you. Go home, wish I could. Because you see they’re much busier or much more important or much more caring or have a much bigger conscience. They couldn’t possibly go home early or even at 5 o’clock. I wish I could, they say, I don’t know how you do it (subtext, you must have a fucking easy job, not like mine, I have much more to do than you and I am the sort of person who just gets on with it – you on the other hand are clearly a waster and a lazy fucker and if it wasn’t for people like you I wouldn’t have so much to do) Or, maybe there’ll be something on the news, ‘today the blah blah union announced that they are going to call a strike in reaction to the way that their members are being treated.’ Basically the story is that their pay is being eroded or they are striking to stop it being eroded or their conditions are being worsened, pensions reduced, perks taken away hours lengthened, all the sorts of things that people at work hate and moan about all the time but when they hear about a group of people deciding to try and stop that happen or even, God forbid, to try and improve their working lives, have some more perks, better pay, fewer hours, more flexible working conditions; the same old bullshit gets spouted. These people are lazy apparently, I wish I could get their pay, I wish I could have their hours – how the fuck do you think that comes about you fuckwits? By working long hours , by never complaining by agreeing to all the extra work by complaining about each other, by actually realising that you have something in common, the need and the desire to make your working lives better and more enjoyable and less stressful and, surprise surprise, if you don’t ask, and sometimes insist, it won’t happen that way. How many times have you been invited into your managers office or asked to come along to a meeting with your directors or shareholders or whoever the fuck is in charge and told, look, we’ve been thinking about it and we recognise that you all work too hard for too little pay and we get much more money than you for much less effort. We want to improve your working lives. We’re announcing today, with no pressure from anyone, reduced hours and increased pay. Maybe if we keep our heads down and don’t complain and slag off anyone who isn’t prepared to work harder than they’re supposed to and anyone who make a fuss or asks for more, maybe then this will happen? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| His week started with a break in. He woke hearing a noise downstairs, breaking glass. Not one of those moments when you think, it’s probably nothing, just my half-asleep imagination, no it was someone smashing a window downstairs. He got slowly out of bed and crept down the stairs to find two huge men with balaclavas in the kitchen, holding baseball bats. One walked towards him, he said ‘what the fu…’ and then he was hit on the head. When he woke up most of the house had been smashed to pieces and tipped onto the floor, he had no idea why. Must be someone else they were looking for or maybe I’ve pissed someone off and I didn’t know it or maybe that bloke who I shouted ‘ wanker’ at out of the car window yesterday as he cut me up, noted down my registration number, traced my address and sent someone round here to teach me a lesson. He didn’t know. He knew he wouldn’t want to stay there that night though so he got dressed, packed an overnight bag and went to work, phoning his friend James on the way and arranging to go there after work. On the way to work the tube train stopped in a tunnel and stayed there for almost two hours. After about 20 minutes a few people started to get anxious and paranoia infected the carriage he was in. I have to get out of here, screamed a woman with fluffy hair and a huge head. A man next to her eventually grabbed her by the shoulders and told her to calm down at which point she punched him in the face causing his nose to gush onto a bloke next to him who stood up and pushed the large headed woman over. He decided to keep quiet even though he was really pissed off that people couldn’t just wait and not make a fuss. Their making a fuss was making it much worse for him. The announcements of the driver weren’t much help either. Please don’t worry nothings going to happen, he informed them every now and then but the tone of his voice sounded as if he was sitting on a stack of dynamite with a gun at his head as he spoke and each time the click of the speaker announced hi s next words of discomfort, the tension in the carriage rose. The woman next to him grabbed his hand the third time and he didn’t take it away immediately, finding a certain reassurance, despite the pain from her long nails digging into the palms of his hand. Eventually, someone decided to prise the doors open and although he and several others screamed at him not to he managed to do it quite quickly and was out of the train and walking up the line in a few minutes. Then they heard the train coming from the other direction. A few screamed when they heard the screech of brakes and a definite thudding noise. The teenager, who so far had remained silent, surly and entrenched between his tinny headphones, felt the need to look out and comment about the blood and the fact that you could see his head all mashed up. When they got to the next station they were interviewed by the transport police and then allowed to go, he arrived at work, 3 and a half hours late. His manager who was an arsehole at the best of times, walked over to him and simply told him to go home and never come back. He went out of the door and straight to the pub. There he phoned James and told him what had happened. James was quiet for a while then said, look I’m really sorry Gav, but Shirley just phoned. So he couldn’t go there, he couldn’t go home he didn’t want to go to his parents and his other friend Harry, was away travelling for 3 months. He decided that despite the fact that he would shortly have no money having lost his job and that he was already severely overdrawn, tonight he would stay in a swanky hotel. He booked himself into the Hilton in Trafalgar square. Once he got to his room and changed and showered he thought that he would start to put the bad day behind him. Things were looking up and although this was an extravagance, £250 for the night, it was worth it, he was worth it, after the day that he’d had. He knew that this hotel had a rooftop cocktail bar and he’d been meaning to visit for ages. He decided to go there before dinner. It was a beautiful clear crisp spring day and he could see right across London in all directions. Sitting near the edge, with a vodka martini in his hand he felt as if he was in a James bond movie. He noticed a tall blond woman with a tight fitting dress coming towards him and just as his fantasy seemed about to continue he noticed her expression. She looked furious and she was looking at him. She walked up to him and slapped him hard across the face. You fucking bastard, how dare you do that to me. His protestations made no difference and he could only stop her scratching at his face and kicking him in the balls by pushing her away from him. She toppled backwards, over a chair and knocked herself out cold on the floor. What have you done –this from the bar man who was standing over the prostrate body, trying to revive her. He called over his shoulder. Fred, call the police and then take this wanker out. You are banned and if you’re booked into the hotel, consider yourself checked out. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Shutting up had always been a problem for the cocksucker. He’d tried it a few times back when he’d left school, but it didn’t suit him. Fenton knew this, he’d known him for a long time and it was why he hated him and wanted him to have a bad accident and if possible to die. Even though he knew it was probably one of those things you just thought or said when you were angry, he’d aways thought it about the cockcsucker so he figured it was probably real enough. If he did die or even, sometimes he thought, on a particularly bad cocksucker day, when he’d humiliated him or set him up or just acted like a cunt in one of the many ways he had, even if he actually had a hand in his demise in some way, it would be OK. He had thought about remorse and the idea that after an event like that there’d be all sorts of guilt and maybe even flashbacks, and then what might seem like a good idea, like tampering with his brakes or pushing him off the platform late at night, would suddenly not seem quite so good. He really didn’t want to be tortured, that would be like the cocksucker having the last say or continuing to have the last say or getting the upper hand like he nearly always did. He’d thought it through though and he was pretty sure, having imagined all the details, the incident, the aftermath, other people’s faces, the girlfriend’s tears, the mother’s anguish etc etc, he was pretty sure he’d be OK. That he wouldn’t be too badly affected. Maybe a couple of sleepless nights, but the upside, the fact that he would be able to enjoy free rein at work without the cocksucker getting in his face, sending him an email which he copied into everyone else so they’d all know he’d fucked up, or shouting his name across the car park, that would override everything. Plus, obviously, he’d take his job, get the company car and, if he was lucky and a little extra bit conniving, maybe even the grieving girlfriend. Show a bit of sympathy, no, a lot of sympathy, cry, they loved that. If she tried to kiss you after a drunken grieving evening, say ‘no – it doesn’t feel right’ , all that sort of shit, and she’d be up for it after a few months, maybe even a few weeks. She’d always liked him. That’s how the plan came together. It felt like he had to do it in the end. Kill the cocksucker. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Steve Wybourn ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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