Thursday, 8 September 2022

The door

 


I awoke to the sounds of dead silence. There was nothing, not a hum from nearby electronics, not a gracing of a slight breeze. No tentative rustling from the bugs of the undergrowth, birds in the trees or animals of the land. It was just nothing, even my breathing beckoned no sound. In times like this it was usual, when all the sounds of the world disappear, to hear your own heart pumping life around your body and comforting your being in the knowledge you were still part of the ever evolving, ever revolving organism, earth. 

I heard nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

I was standing in my room, barefoot, bare chested, dressed only with a pair of black pajamas and a black leather wristband. The wristband was of nothing special, just a quaint black leather weave which tied up in a knot, though it felt heavy, heavier than it should. I lifted my gaze from inspecting my wrist and took in my surroundings for the first time. 

 It was my room, but it wasn’t. 

My posters had gone, removed without even a trace of bluetack or sellotape I had used to fix them. The walls instead wore cracks and stains, greyed and flaking. I recognised them, they had been there all the while, I had used my posters and pictures to hide them, but now with no contrast and no colour they threatened, standing tall and hanging from the ceiling, willing my eyes to look closer and pick between the seams. All four walls were the same. I traced the cracks to the floor and noticed, my carpet had gone. In fact all of the furniture in my room had gone. For the first time I felt the coldness of the white stone floor I stood on, and I stretched my toes curious to get a feel for the smooth surface. To my right were my stairs, and the thin, steep, darkened stairwell that housed them. Without thinking I turned and drew my steps towards the opening, surrendering to an unfamiliar feeling of burdening curiosity that coursed through me. My steps made no sound, mute and meagre. I wasn’t sure why the quiet continued through me, why I felt compelled to submit to the silence, why I didn’t just shout and scream and force some sort of reverberation in rebellion, I just knew, something inside me knew, that if I were to protest, I would never see what it was I was to be shown, and so onwards I stepped, noiseless and discreet until I came to the top of the stairs. Faced on, at the top, with toes gently creeping over the first step I looked down into the dark. The first few steps could be made out, but after that it was just black, as if they trailed off into nothingness as if they ceased to be. I leered a little with both hands holding me firm on the walls either side of the stairs, looking, trying to peer down, trying to catch just a glimpse of what lay in the blackness. But my eyes would not let me see past the first few steps. As I leered and leaned in further, keeping my feet on the step I willed my eyes to succumb to the blackness and allow any light to come in. I squinted hard and watched, throwing all my focus to finding the next steps down and what lay at the bottom…

Silence. 

 Without warning the hairs on the back of my neck jolted and raised, and a shock of dread flew up my spine to the back of my head. I inhaled sharply and my eyes widened never moving from the blackness below. What the hell was that, I..? Did my eyes see something I could not. The shudder cloaked my shoulders with a silken terror, the weight of it leading me to stoop and pushed my body forward. Something was not right, I knew that, pistons fired in my head and all the muscles in my body clenched, expectant. The serene sensibility of before had fallen and been trampled by an uneasiness. Still, the shock had sparked an innate unwavering focus at the blackness, I needed to see what had changed me with such swift contamination.  


 My feet moved, one step, one step at a time, hands drawing themselves down the walls as I walked into the darkness. Now there was sound, but only my own, only from within and not from my hands or feet, only from my heart and from my lungs, drumming and scathing from my chest like the quiet rage of an orchestra in the dark of the stage. I reached the bottom, all too soon I had walked beyond the invisible stairs, engulfed in blackness. My feet had found their purchase and lead me through, though my mind had not the slightest idea of how such steps were made, the distraction of the ever growing presence of something had kept my focus. I knew there were walls surrounding me and a floor beneath my feet, but I could see none of them and it seemed I had come to the steps end. A thick blackness like a tarred veil before me told me so. 

Slowly, ever so slowly a thin light broke through it, about 1 foot from the floor, one bright piercing dagger of red light through the black. It’s brightness pierced my iris’ forcing them to be covered to glare through fingers, and I stumbled back as it hit. Suddenly the brightness dimmed and the light squared, and shot out in lines in opposite directions from the initial piercing, shooting out wide to the edges of the black wall then turing at a right angle and darting upwards to the invisible ceiling. The two separate lines flew in perfect symmetry reaching 1 foot from the ceiling, another right angle before charging at each other to a point perfectly in line with the initial dagger point, albeit 7ft above. There the blood light erupted through the geometric seams and splayed out like a million murderous hands reaching for the walls and as quickly as it burst through it drew back dimmer and subdued. It had formed a perfect rectangle. 

A door.

 I stared, bewildered, stunned at the sudden outburst in the darkness. Though I did not feel comfortable, as the appearance of light amidst the dark should allow. I did not feel safe. As if it had crawled from inside my soul and out through my pores, and with sharp claws clinging onto to my skin, forced the fleshy membrane around my muscles back inside, forcing my body back into the dark from whence it came. Everything inside me told to leave. Told me to get out, to back away slowly to let whatever was lying behind that door lie in piece. Or to scream, to turn and to run back, run back up the stairs and back into the safety of the silent room. But something forced me to stay, something drew me in. I reached out, out to the door and stepped a little closer, fingers mere millimiters from it and my heart raged as my eyes left my head and breath held, caught in terrorising incarceration. I stretched a little further, a little further still, caught between the dire curioursity of awe and insidious malevolence that flooded the stairwell like an armies first breach…. and my palm touched the door. …


…..abruptly, unexpectedly all became silent once more, and the dim rectangular light retracted. Not my breath, stopped tight in my lungs, nor the rampaging tumultuous pounding of my heart, made a single sound. Quiet… as death, as if all time stopped and all things ceased to be.

 Noiseless like a vacuum

Red light exploded from the seams and a demonic roar came thundering from beyond the backlit door 


“----------!!!! LETtt ....MEEEee …..INNNNNnn !!!!-----------”


The door rattled uncontrollably shaking violently as the voice pounded through the gaps in the wall spitting a rage as it burst though the stairwell vibrating the very floor I stood on and tore through my already shattered nerves like rusted razored claws. The voice was not human, not real, but more alive than I had ever heard, more alive than I wanted to acknowledge, venomous and broken and sinister. It wanted me, wanted my soul, wanted to rip through my chest and ravage my insides intent on never stopping until I was a mere shell, I knew this, I didn’t know how, but my every being told me so. I couldn’t, I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know what to do, I was paralysed in fear and as the words were spat, as the snarl reverberated around the room bouncing off all the walls and attacking from all sides, gravity broke, and chaos vibrated its screeching menace throughout, tossing and turning my helpless body, turning the room, my mind, the stairs, the door, everything, in the very fabric of the space I existed, all spinning uncontrollably in dissolute desperation.


Thursday, 1 September 2022

75 word challenge

 The day he died I stopped drinking.

His guitar sits gathering dust in the corner, Firebeard Jeff laid down to rest.
Memories of music, electricity reverberating through hushed crowds, and a bottle to brew the madness within.
It was a wild ride my friend.
But it couldn't last. So I retire you.
And instead your soulful melodies help soothe a buttercup heart as she rests faultless on my chest.

Thursday, 25 August 2022

Write to music

Write as the beat takes hold. Boldness. 

Drop lyrics falling flawless through limitless spontaneity. Forget prose, forget posing, determining what flows from music to lettered screen. Write script in the inbetween, between deciding what to type and what is written out for you. 

Sit, get lost in it. 

Let waves crash over gaze, and be in the minute. 

Leg finds the rhythm, head provides sequence sentences that pour contemplatively from gravity of finger falls. Allow it all. There is no prose. No rules, decisions to keep constrained within, begin with a tap and let it drive beyond what you notice happening. 

Closed eyes, touch typed, errors are only another bleak break in the road that travels on. 

There is no prose. No continuum.

Nothing written. Feel it tingle bringing with it energy waves of grace as you experiment with what could be. Enjoy the journey. Creativity comes from being one with the situation.

Beat changes, jumps up tempo. Emotions move from sexy slow to groove. Move. Remove any ego. You are not writing for anyone, only the rhythm, let it be your guiding angel. Chaos embraced and placed next to the person you used to be.

  Be free. 

Enormity in the swell of satisfaction as bass drives through the heart of your existence. Exist in this instance, write to music, use it, refuse anything that comes with thinking. 

For there is no prose. There is no proof of identity. There is no determining algorithm of how you should be. There is nothing but tracks backed by drums and symphony. Sleep in Poetry. 

 Eyes closed. 

Over and over in love for the overload. 

Keep going, ignore the known. Be slow. Dispose of prose.

And play everlasting in the afterglow


Wednesday, 24 August 2022

Toe

 Fuck you toe

Just let me live again 

Routine rhythm

Something

Anything 


Tuesday, 23 August 2022

Imposter

 The choice is overwhelming

Scanning over spines housing infinite universes, I cannot help but feel surplus 

Where could my world possibly fit in?

Doubt takes centre stage

90,000 words of work too many days spent crafting lore, for what? 

where would I be placed? How would I stand out?

The choice is overwhelming

Reading tales of failure more prevalent than success. 

Keep going keep writing I hear from glorified professionals. JK got turned down by every publisher she wrote to.... 

I retort. It's not that easy. Not that assured. Most manuscripts are scrapped before they're adored. 

So why even try?

The choice is overwhelming. 

Sit down, earphones in. 

Carry on

Keep writing. 

Keep writing

Keep writing 


Monday, 22 August 2022

Night

 


    “Chris . . . . Chris?” I know the voice, the person it comes from, I know not the way it is spoken. A woeful silence hangs down the phone line as I ask my question; “Marie, Marie, what is it what’s wrong?” A knot tightens in my chest and the playful excitement of a few seconds before flees from my conscious. “Marie talk to me, what’s happening are you ok?” 

    “ . . . . What . . . What are you doing?” Her voice quivers with confusion and horror.   The tone in her voice and the question aimed not at me but at some unknown entity hits the alarm button in my body and suddenly I’m scared, and then I hear it. Behind her voice comes a sound of carnage, the crashing of a forced entry and the deep wrenching roar of mechanical destruction. 

    “MARIE?!”  Exasperation explodes from my mouth. 

    “. . Chris??! . . . . . …. ”

The terror in her questioning voice shreds its way down the phone line and stings my ear with a desperate impact. 


“. . . . No . . . STOP! . . .  CHRIS!!”


The first words a command the second a plea. I cant believe what I am hearing. Is this real? My wife. Her terror only draws a thicker darkness over my thoughts and my imagination burns horrifying images onto my minds eye. The sounds, writhing their sickening way towards me, yank my stomach up to my throat and my lungs suffocate my heart. Crashing, crunching, broken ornaments, grinding and banging and the doeful cries of unyeilding lament pour through the phones speaker.  

    “MARIE HOLD ON, I’LL BE THERE, HOLD ON MARIE I’M COMING” I’m torn, in two minds, the instinctive thought to hang up the receiver and get over there as fast as I can burns bright but dies. Instead my despairing curiosity sticks the phone to my ear. Shock and panic roots me to the spot. I think, I hope, I pray.  I hear another timid sound from down the phone line. 

    “No. .” The tearful plea almost inaudible but loud enough to work its way to me. With this, a word never spoken in such form by the other part of my heart, crushes me worst of all. A plea to an attacker. A plea for her life. And then it happens . . . 

    ”aaaAaAAAAAAGHhhhhhh . .CRAACCCCCCSHRUUUKUUUNNK” A loud thud and deafening crunch, the sound of impacting metal and broken bones and torn flesh rings down the receiver in a duet with the horrible cry. The high pitch shrieking sound shocks me like a jolt of lightening burning 10,000 volts of desperation and fear through my torso. Oh god, Marie, whats happening to you, whats happening, no baby, please, please be ok baby

    “I’m  comin, Marie, FUCK, oh god” Panic has its bloody claws around my heart tearing at the flesh like fingernails on a chalkboard. Shit, Marie, please be ok please, oh god I’m about to hang the phone up when a voice I hoped not to hear perforates the silence . . . . 

     “Daddy?” 

    “Charlie?” “Oh god Charlie no, please no. .” A picture of his confused unrefined soft and innocent face flashes before my eyes.  “Charlie listen to me, Run, get out, get away RUN CHARLIE YOU HEAR ME, RUN!” My desperate cries seem to fall on deaf helpless ears as the word comes once again . . .

    “Daddy” His tears run through his vocal chords like the gargle of a slit throat. 

    “CHARLIE RUN . . RUUN!!!” His soft voice breaks through the dam of my resilient heart and the dread and despair drags my thoughts down and with it my fight- and my fears and my fury rise and shudder through me exploding tears out my eyes and profanity out of my mouth

    “FUCKING RUN CHARLIE, GET OUT!” . . . . .


 The silence returns, the other end of the line dead, still off the hook, but silent to the situation. Till one final sound seeps out and tears my heart soul and my world in two. 

    “Daaa. . . uh . h h” His little voice choked off, withdrawn, the sound cupped in wrathful hands and blanked out of existence. His life and my hope suffocated. The phone drops from my hand, the line still active. My memory blanks, my vision blurs, my heart yearns, my soul dies, my world cries for me, the future laughs at me. Daley tries to comfort me. His apartment becomes my wrecking ball. Desperation, anger and despair all help to litter the surroundings with my turmoil.  My world crushed in 1 minute, in one phone call, my bloody raged fists grab the keys, we get in the car and with the last remaining withering hopes, high tail it to my house in fear, in fury, in malevolence and despair. 


Slowly, quietly at first but rising to a great crescendo, a sickening sound pierces the hanging phones’ silence and follows us as we exit. The laugh of a hyena as it’s enjoying its prey. . .  

    “heheh hehe. . . hehahahehah .. . hahehhehheHE HA . . . HAAHHAHAHHAHHEEHAHHAHHEHA”


Sunday, 21 August 2022

Choose life

 What do people do in moments of absolute uncertainty? 

The times when you have no idea what you want; to go for a walk, eat a burger, hang out with friends or watch another episode? Does it render everyone else immobile? Stuck between what could be and what is, analysing through what was to predict expected reaction to choice. Being utterly uncomfortable as Netflix gives a five second window of no noise. Listening to the belly as it gurgles indecision. Watching grey clouds roll around teasing precipitation. 

What do people do in absolute consternation?

 The house is no longer habitable, bed no longer comfortable, phone no longer distracting, Xbox only exhausting. Talking, you gotta be kidding. Meeting, greeting, smiling and participating, I don't have the energy for that! Brain slowly rescinding. Just sit, and stare. Moving images mouth dialect, as self criticising sinks body further into sofa stupor, prophetising about expected outcome, Fuck it. Can't decide. Do nothing.

 What do people do in the midst of delirium? 

Run

Friday, 19 August 2022

Sandals

4pm day nearly done
Fucking little arseholes shouting 
screaming throwing sandals 
fighting with feet and pointed fingers

Wallah
Break it up 
Muhammad here NOW
Amad OUT GO

wallah habibe
Why are you fighting?
no response
bell sounds
other students leave
no time to set homework

Why, are you fighting?
silence
sideways glance 
irritation starting to perforate
fury

"Wallah teacher why you keep me here? Mushkala teacher!"
Eyes lock into spitting rage

lean in flex shoulders
Why are YOU fighting? 
I know he is a good student

Tsssk 
Kiss of lips and click of toungue
looks away then at the floor

silence
few minutes more

"My father"
mutters chin on chest

I touch his shoulder
shrugs, shakes
grimaces
I hold firm
looks up
our eyes meet

quietly I reply
"I understand"
anger irritates defiance
hold firm
clamp enough for control
not to scold

slowly pained lines retreat 
and sorrow washes over
He looks down one last time

"I understand"
Grip lessens on shoulder
release
lower head to his level
bend knees 
eyes clean
"You, are not, your father, Muhammad"
....
..
.
"You are NOT your father"
...
..
.
nods
Sniffs
Shuffles feet
Speaks

"hamdallah"





Wednesday, 17 August 2022

Morning

 The subtlety with which she slipped out of bed

with the sheet covering just enough

to leave plenty for the imagination

broke my slumber.

Through sleepy eyes I loved, lost, argued and made up with her.

Dreams filling in the blanks that conscious reality missed. 

These necessary to keep heart strings baited and entwined with hers.

For if an inch of pride or insincerity were to remove any one of these instances,

my love for her would drift into the unknown,

evaporating like tears on the sidewalk.

Troughs for the lost

 As he slept, fat head on chest, torso contained in the diners booth, his body seemed to contract, to subside.

The once bulbous, gluttonous, boil of a stomach had calmed, retracted, rested easy back to a cute marshmallow like cushion, free from the toxins thrown into it during the last 2 hours. His puffy, exhausted and inflated face followed the same, and calmed to a natural naked colour. Gentle lightening and softening of the blood red glowing extremities brought humanity back to his complexion. Angered stretched cheeks slowly paled and withdrew, retreating from suffocating his eyes like a deflating airbag on a steering wheel. The change was remarkable, super size to quaint in just a few minutes, his body now showing the slender man inside the once inflated sumo suit of his skin. 

My eyes could not pass from it, could not turn to another thing. The sight, grotesquely captivating. Here, a morbidly obese man who I had seen throwing back all there was to eat at the buffet table, that had countless plates of food stacked high, and all devoured with such fluidity, a constant unstoppable waste churner in rhythmic perfection without once glancing up or pausing for thought, was now merely a man once more.


Hope is a waking dream


The place was a far cry from the teak lined doorways and leather studded queen furniture sets of the Robin Hood pub on the corner of my old street.  My feet had dragged me here, not my head to the dark forest, a bar on the edge of town. How I got here I would never know.  Riding the monotonous waves of an unscrupulous melancholy I had left Virgil’s bleak bungalow without thought or consciousness and this is where the tide had taken me. 'I don’t know this area, I don’t know this place. I know that whiskey though.'  I ordered a double on the rocks and placed myself on one of the scatty looking dark green leather bar stools.  Colour faded from my vision and my thoughts rang through me as a murmured lament. 


‘My boy, my sweet Charlie.' The tiger in my blood reeled and repressed itself in the dark corners of my heart. The tide of my tears gently lapped against my memories as the scotch slid down my throat.  My eyes welcomed the saltiness that swelled and shone from my face. They filled and they fell, a slow soundless drip, mere pennies in the bank of my blackened soul. One tear for each memory. One tear for all the things my boy will never know.  His face smiled in my memory, swollen, blue lipped, eyes pert but rolled away. 


The whiskey warmed my throat and belly but not my thoughts. Through one glass I clawed, at possibilities, at alternative endings at desperation. Through one glass I suffered, through one I angered, through one I denied and through one I submitted.  Until my heart and head could take no more and my eyes cast out from myself and into my surroundings. The place was darker than I first noticed. A few subdued lanterns placed in the corners of the room, some tealights on the round oak tables and a few nestled behind dusty bottles on mirrored shelves behind the bar. Oppressive moody colours of the room added to the darkness and provided a dank atmosphere for customers to wade through. Old men, all of them, littered around the room, staring into a glass of liquid melancholy resting on ice in front of them, each man lost in his memories, each man, it seemed, vacant to the present, taunted by their past and chained to its misery. In their glasses they longed, they searched. For what? I couldn’t tell, each man as solemn as the next, worshipping a deity that evaded them. One man forlornly carved words into the table in front of him with a small pocket knife, the letters large, capital and deep in indentation. ‘HOPE IS A WAKING DREAM’. My eyes hovered on this for a while letting the words drift over me before the rest of the room presented itself. Men, one table for each, one glass for each save for the dusty ruggedly dressed white haired woman propped at the bar three stools down from me nursing two half full whiskey tumblers. In the corner, a worn dark brown leather sofa, tattered and cracked, sat next to the entrance 3 steps from the door and two from the bar. The indentations in it suggested use of prolonged periods of time. Next to it stood a peculiar looking coat stand, metal and tall with only a few hooks on the top. There were no coats on it. As I took in my surroundings, a muffled effigy of myself, my lolling eyes opened wide and the door to the bar did also. 


The lacerations from torment could be seen in his eyes and were mirrored on his face.  In a raise of a hand and a signal to the barman the new entrant to the pub dropped his torso onto the sofa and ungloved his left hand. The hand was blackened and punctured. Though his hand was not what caught my surprise. 

“His mouth was sown shut to keep the dishonest words from perforating others innocence.” The bedraggled old hag at the end of the bar let the words out in an emotionless sigh. The whiskey in front of her was the initial target but the comment aimed at me.  I turned my head to look at her as the words settled back to silence, and I gasped, a swift intake of breath. She had no eyes. Just hollows where the pearly white of the sclera should shine. I looked back down at my whisky quickly. Knowing to stare is rude, but more so because the hairs on the back of my neck had stiffened into attention and suddenly the bar did not feel so quiet, the drum of my heart filling the silence. Not wanting to look again at the hideous hollow of her features,  my eyes instead darted back to the wretched figure that had walked through the door. The old hag was right, his mouth was sown tight. Like a pair of shoelaces drawn with strength to snugly house the foot, the brown elasticated string crusted through puncture holes on each lip and zig zagged across the mouth like a leather boot. The lips had grown hard and callous with the mutation, stuck together by the cement of putrid saliva. His jaw still moved restlessly behind the tightly drawn covering, god knows what his teeth and mouth would be like without air or hygienic cleansing. My shock at the beldam's words, at a sound being made in the solemn bar was exasperated with some of my own 

“What.. by.. who?” My choice question was not thought through and poured out of me clumsily. I didn’t want to know, I should have kept quiet, offered the crone a nod of recognition, finished my whiskey, taken the hand of my misery and left quietly. Curiosity however is an emotion purely felt in the present, for the present, and because of that can creep out of a person unknowingly.  My eyes rested on the poor sown up soul intravenously injecting the alcohol he had just bought for a battery and two pieces of silver cutlery. The back of his hand showed the track marks of the Jackshots of past. Blackened veins protruded from the holes.  As he picked up the Jackbag and lifted it to the coat stand peg above his head his eyes rolled round in satisfaction. I couldn’t pull myself away from the sight. I had heard of these intravenous alcoholics but never believed I would lay my eyes on them. His desperate state made it all the eerier. A woeful retreat from the present in the worshipping of a habit. The old crone spoke, barely audible. 

“Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, utters another.” Her face suddenly raged with character, the forlorn furrows on her forehead angled sharply downward and encouraged the malice to explode out of her face.  

“TRAITORS, LIARS TO THEIR LORD” The hag, in a flash, whipped up her glass turned and hurled it at the now unconscious sown soul. 

“WORDS EMPTY AS THE WIND ARE BETTER LEFT UNSAID!!” As swiftly as she had erupted she subsided, head drawn towards the counter once more. Her angered state a mere memory as her face regained its broken composure. Not a movement, not a stir, not a word more did she speak, like a gargoyle blessed with nocturnal life returning to its statuesque pose as the sun rises. I turned to see if any of the other burdened men in the bar had noticed the commotion or at least had a reaction to the insanity of it all, but none had moved, not even flinched. All still sucked in and shackled to their thousand yard stare at the glass in front of them.  A chill worked and needed its way down my spine, plucking at every hair on the way down. The glass had struck the sown man in the face, in the mouth, blood trickling as a gentle waterfall onto his chest was the only evidence that any such event had occurred. He remained unconscious, limitless in the dreams provided by the alcohol. The shock I felt from the situation drained from me into my whiskey removing the melancholy that usually took center stage, my heart hammered harder, fingers flushed white at a reactive grip on the glass and I stared down into its contents once again. ‘What the fuck!?’ I mouthed to the glass, careful not to make a sound so as to disturb the old blind crone’s statue. Sweat began to perforate my skin and grow in small droplets around my hairline and I squeezed my eyes closed. Still I remained for what seemed like an eternity, blinded, mute, deafened by the silence. Charlie, my boy, drifted through my solace. I wrenched open my eyes. The barman came out from the back and stood in front of me. 

“You alright?” Came a muttered query from behind the bar. I dared not look at him, nor any other soul in this strange place. Instead, head down I muttered back.

“Yeah, I’m fine” The words were not a part of me, they were an auto-response answering machine, ones that I had learnt over the years could placate any curiosity of misery and I knew it would do me no good to show weakness in a world of opportunists. I stared into my glass. To the barman my response sufficed and he went about his work. Loosening my grip, I downed the whiskey, one glass for the shock, placed it back on the bar and turned to leave. But as I swung round, movement from the end of the bar jolted my stomach and I froze. Staring back at me through hollowed eyes was the white haired hag, expression turned cold, anger scarring her cheeks to her forehead and in her shaking fist she held high the daggered shards of a broken whiskey tumbler.


The door

  I awoke to the sounds of dead silence. There was nothing, not a hum from nearby electronics, not a gracing of a slight breeze. No tentativ...