Between the Cracks
Another piece which I've just recently found from my Prose Fiction seminars. We were given this assignment after we'd studied the book 'Moles' & were asked to attempt to mimic the style of Louis Sachar's opening chapter, which provides an in-depth description of the place the main character is in; the catch is that it uses a limited amount of words in which to do so.
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To say the Antarctic was cold would be what most people would call ‘an understatement’. Not me though. To me, the Antarctic could be summed up in three words: cold, cold, and fucking-cold, with that last one being a personal favourite of mine.
Hard to believe really that this barren blanket of lumpy polystyrene makes up twenty per cent of the Southern Hemisphere. On a good day, that’s twenty per cent of pure, blistering, minus-thirty-degrees cold; but once you’ve been here long enough, you begin to realise that there aren’t too many good days at the South Pole.
I do try to look at things from a more optimistic perspective every now and then. You learn to do that fairly quickly around here. A lot of the time, I just think about how the A-Scott, or the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Research Station as the clever folk prefer, must look like a tiny little shit-stain on the underwear of Antarctica. It makes me laugh.
Outside of the A-Scott there’s a bunch of flags, clinging to life, like candles wedged inside the icing of a birthday cake – a very cold, very vast, very white birthday cake. Every day when Dad and I walk out the main entrance there they are: France, Britain, America, Finland, Australia and Russia, waiting patiently to wave us good morning.
When I was younger, I would stare out of my window onto the vast, white canvas of the South Pole and see something truly breath-taking; if I stared from outside of my window it would tend to be even more breath-taking, literally. I used to pretend my eyes were like little birds and I would let them dance among the glaciers. They’d fly to the top of their glistening peaks and leap off into the thin, white air, slowly gliding towards the ground before finally meeting the busy blue of whatever ocean lay between the cracks. These days though, whenever I look out of my window, all I ever see is cold, cold, fucking-cold.
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To say the Antarctic was cold would be what most people would call ‘an understatement’. Not me though. To me, the Antarctic could be summed up in three words: cold, cold, and fucking-cold, with that last one being a personal favourite of mine.
Hard to believe really that this barren blanket of lumpy polystyrene makes up twenty per cent of the Southern Hemisphere. On a good day, that’s twenty per cent of pure, blistering, minus-thirty-degrees cold; but once you’ve been here long enough, you begin to realise that there aren’t too many good days at the South Pole.
I do try to look at things from a more optimistic perspective every now and then. You learn to do that fairly quickly around here. A lot of the time, I just think about how the A-Scott, or the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Research Station as the clever folk prefer, must look like a tiny little shit-stain on the underwear of Antarctica. It makes me laugh.
Outside of the A-Scott there’s a bunch of flags, clinging to life, like candles wedged inside the icing of a birthday cake – a very cold, very vast, very white birthday cake. Every day when Dad and I walk out the main entrance there they are: France, Britain, America, Finland, Australia and Russia, waiting patiently to wave us good morning.
When I was younger, I would stare out of my window onto the vast, white canvas of the South Pole and see something truly breath-taking; if I stared from outside of my window it would tend to be even more breath-taking, literally. I used to pretend my eyes were like little birds and I would let them dance among the glaciers. They’d fly to the top of their glistening peaks and leap off into the thin, white air, slowly gliding towards the ground before finally meeting the busy blue of whatever ocean lay between the cracks. These days though, whenever I look out of my window, all I ever see is cold, cold, fucking-cold.
Ready, Steady, Assassinate!
This is the opening of a piece that I never actually finished, which is a shame because reading this back, I think I might have been on to something with this one. It was an assignment set in my Prose Fiction seminar to bring back after Christmas, but due to the fact I got delayed coming back, along with everything else that was happening at that time, it never got finished. We were asked to write a funny, Christmas themed short story segment about a criminal mastermind who was trying to take over the world/country. The only additional criteria was that the criminal had a flare for cookery.
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“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today’s Ready, Steady Cook Christmas special!” he said through his sleazy, plastic grin. “I’m your host, Ainsley Harriott, and today’s dish is one to die for, that’s for sure!”
If you were seeing him for the first time, you wouldn’t think Ainsley Harriott was the kind of man who was thirty minutes away from assassinating the Prime Minister and his deputy.
His Christmas jumper/Oxford shirt combination wasn’t one you’d associate with a criminal mastermind; nor were his innocent looking facial features.
I have to hand it to him, getting David Cameron to agree to do the show was an impressive feat; and pitting him against his partner in crime Nick Clegg was nothing short of genius. I mean, who wouldn’t watch the leader of the Conservatives doing a cook off against the leader of the Liberal Democrats? And most importantly though, who would ever dream that Ainsley Harriott, a harmless celebrity chef from London, would be working as a government operative for the Labour party, about to execute one of the greatest cover ups in British history?
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“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today’s Ready, Steady Cook Christmas special!” he said through his sleazy, plastic grin. “I’m your host, Ainsley Harriott, and today’s dish is one to die for, that’s for sure!”
If you were seeing him for the first time, you wouldn’t think Ainsley Harriott was the kind of man who was thirty minutes away from assassinating the Prime Minister and his deputy.
His Christmas jumper/Oxford shirt combination wasn’t one you’d associate with a criminal mastermind; nor were his innocent looking facial features.
I have to hand it to him, getting David Cameron to agree to do the show was an impressive feat; and pitting him against his partner in crime Nick Clegg was nothing short of genius. I mean, who wouldn’t watch the leader of the Conservatives doing a cook off against the leader of the Liberal Democrats? And most importantly though, who would ever dream that Ainsley Harriott, a harmless celebrity chef from London, would be working as a government operative for the Labour party, about to execute one of the greatest cover ups in British history?
The Joker & the Thief
Originally, this short story was written as part of a task which required us to use one of a few selected 'story generating techniques' which our tutor had offered us, one of which was to continue the narrative of a song. I chose to continue the narrative from the song 'All Along the Watchtower', by Bob Dylan. However, I feel it should be noted that the inspiration for this story came not from Dylan's version, but from Jimi Hendrix's 1968 cover version. After an initial first draft, I decided to rework and perfect this piece so that I could use it as a submission for my Creative Portfolio. Here we have the finished article, that did have to be shortened to meet word count requirements, but hopefully still packs enough punch.
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All along the watchtower, the Princes and their men kept the view, to ensure that no threatening outsiders could enter the castle walls.
As the Joker and I approached the tower, we could feel the wind howling all around. We were unsure of what the night would bring.
I had only known the Joker for a short time. We’d met in an ale house a few nights earlier. Two men searching for answers at the bottom of their tankards. He told me how he had become disillusioned with life and wanted a change. He was tired of being humiliated by King Charles, for whom he worked as a Jester at the King’s castle.
I myself had an issue to resolve with King Charles, although my troubles were far more personal.
Living as a thief was never going to make me an honest man, but I felt I could justify taking money from the wealthy and giving it to the poor.
A week earlier, I had been caught stealing some royal treasures from the castle and was sentenced to death. On the day of my execution, I managed to escape. However, having failed to end my life, he took it upon himself to hurt me more than any execution ever could; he murdered my beloved wife and son.
My entire world ended that night. My purpose in life ended that night. Nothing I could beg, steal or borrow would ever replace what I’d lost.
After talking exhaustively between the ale we consumed, The Joker and I finally arrived at our conclusion. We pondered the question: could we kill the King and live to tell the tale?
“I perform for him tomorrow night,” said the Joker. “He won’t be expecting a threat from a stupid Jester like me.”
“And you’re sure you can get me past the guards?” I asked.
The Joker sighed, “I assure you my friend, he’ll suspect nothing. I’ve been given permission to bring props with me. The King tires of my dancing and singing.”
Speaking through his sinister grin he said, “He never has guard during my performances. I mean, how could I threaten the King?” He chuckled, “When I tap twice on the box, you’ll be within range to throw a knife straight through his putrid heart.”
I smiled at the image. “You just get me close enough. With God as my witness, my blade will meet his Highness’ black heart.”
* * *
Slaying the King had taken over my thoughts since the death of my family. It kept me alive. And now it was time. Tonight was the night.
Through a thin slit in the Joker’s box of props, I could see two men from the watchtower approaching us; a Prince and a guard.
“Halt! Who goes there?” enquired the Prince.
“Fear not,” the Joker reassured him, “It is only I, the King’s faithful Jester; here to provide entertainment for his Royal Highness.”
“What be in the box, Jester?”
I could feel their eyes piercing holes through the box.
“I bring the King a new performance which requires props. You can search the box if you would like…” the Joker bluffed.
My heart froze as the air of uncertainty grew more fearsome. The guard stepped toward the box.
“… but,” the Joker swiftly interrupted, “I am already late and the King would be very dissatisfied if I were any later.”
The sound of silence was unnerving. I did my best to steady my breathing, but I could feel the tremor as I exhaled.
“Hmm…” The Prince paused for a moment.
I desperately tried to avoid making any noise.
“Well, perhaps it is best if we delay you no further. Precede, Jester.”
“Thank you gentlemen, good evening to you,” said the Joker falsely.
My fears of being discovered faded away like a setting sun, and my hunger for revenge resurfaced like the new moon which follows. Tonight was the night.
* * *
The Joker wheeled us in to the King’s entertainment hall.
Putting on his usual façade, he said, “Ah, my Lord, good evening to you!”
“You’re late,” the King said without emotion.
The Joker laughed nervously, “I apologise your highness, the Prince was keen to search my props and…”
“I don’t want to hear excuses.”
I stared vengefully through the slit, thinking how ironic it was that the King was hurrying the Joker’s performance. Soon he’d be wishing it had never begun.
I tried to glance to either side, but my view was limited. The slit was very small.
“Well, your highness,” the Joker exclaimed, “Tonight we have a performance like no other!”
The Joker introduced the show, telling the King to prepare for a night he’d never forget. I mused upon his choice of words and a wide, sinister smile crept across my face, like the one the Joker had worn the night before.
I waited for the Joker’s hand to tap the box, holding my knives tightly; so tightly that I could feel the skin on my knuckles clinging to my bones.
I thought about my wife and son. I could see their beautiful faces smiling back at me, only to watch them melt away into a sea of crimson disappointment.
Suddenly, the Joker’s words gripped me, “And now my Lord, I shall prepare my props, if I may?”
I was hysteric with anticipation. I watched the word fly from the King’s lips, like a majestic phoenix.
“Proceed.”
It was as if the Earth shook as the Joker’s fingers collided with the box. I felt a waterfall of euphoria consume me…
TAP! TAP!
I burst from the box, extending my arms, knives in hand and eyes fixated on the King’s heart. Everything stopped for a moment. I took aim and steadied my right arm backwards, preparing to throw the first knife; I was staring so hard that my eyes were aching.
As my arm tore through the air and I tried to extend my forearm, I was overcome by an excruciating pain in my bicep. My knife fell from my hand and collided with the cold stone floor. I turned my head to see a blood-stained arrowhead staring back at me. Ignoring the pain, I quickly pulled back my left arm and took aim again. Once more I tried to extend my forearm, only to feel another arrowhead embedding itself, symmetrically, into my left arm, followed swiftly by two more arrows bursting through my legs in poetic synchronicity.
As I fell to my knees I turned my head, seeking help from the Joker. Our eyes met as he stared back at me vacantly, with that sinister grin of his.
I felt a knot in my stomach tighten rapidly as I began to realise what was happening. The Joker had betrayed me. My mind tried to sew together the pieces of the twisted tapestry which had unfolded. I should have seen it coming. The Joker had been doing the King’s bidding all along. I should have known our befriending of one another was too coincidental, that we had come about our plan far too quickly, and that we had gotten into the castle far too easily… I should have seen it coming. I had been blinded by revenge.
I glanced around the room to see the four longbow men, two standing either side of me, responsible for the agony that was raging throughout my limbs. As my knees finally met the ground, my eyes met the King’s, as he flaunted his teeth in my direction.
“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you dear boy?” The King chuckled, but quickly returned to his usual emotionless delivery, “I don’t forget and I don’t forgive. When I sentence someone to death, it isn’t a question of if they will die; it’s a question of when I decide they will die!” The King paused to regain his composure. “I told you I’d kill you, boy… just like I killed your family.”
He began to walk towards me as I knelt, helpless and defeated. I was too weak to comprehend the King’s disrespectful speech.
The Joker skipped over to me and put his hand upon my face, squeezing my weary cheeks together.
“There are two kinds of people in this world who should never be trusted,” the Joker explained as he leaned his face close to mine. “Jokers, like me” he said with a grin, which slowly reversed to a frown as he finished his sentence, “and thieves like you!”
The saliva danced from his mouth as he removed his hand from my face and spat at me. I didn’t even flinch as the slimy ocean of disrespect erupted upon my crumbling veneer.
I could feel my eyes glazing over with the red of my blood, dripping from my thoughts into my reality.
The Joker let his beloved King take the stage as he stood behind him, wearing that damn grin.
The King drew his sword from its sheath and placed it by my neck. I knew I had just witnessed the beginning of tonight’s grand finale.
“Enough of this delay Jester, it’s time to send this thief to meet his family. Send my regards to your wife and son.”
With the last remaining strength I had left, I shut the lids of my eyes and thought about my wife and son. I could see their beautiful faces - beautiful, smiling faces - waiting for me. The thought brought a smile to my own face and, for a brief second, it felt like a small victory to know that I hadn’t died staring into the King’s sadistic grimace.
I could hear the air fleeing from the King’s sword as he swung his blade toward my head and I felt a sudden…
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)
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All along the watchtower, the Princes and their men kept the view, to ensure that no threatening outsiders could enter the castle walls.
As the Joker and I approached the tower, we could feel the wind howling all around. We were unsure of what the night would bring.
I had only known the Joker for a short time. We’d met in an ale house a few nights earlier. Two men searching for answers at the bottom of their tankards. He told me how he had become disillusioned with life and wanted a change. He was tired of being humiliated by King Charles, for whom he worked as a Jester at the King’s castle.
I myself had an issue to resolve with King Charles, although my troubles were far more personal.
Living as a thief was never going to make me an honest man, but I felt I could justify taking money from the wealthy and giving it to the poor.
A week earlier, I had been caught stealing some royal treasures from the castle and was sentenced to death. On the day of my execution, I managed to escape. However, having failed to end my life, he took it upon himself to hurt me more than any execution ever could; he murdered my beloved wife and son.
My entire world ended that night. My purpose in life ended that night. Nothing I could beg, steal or borrow would ever replace what I’d lost.
After talking exhaustively between the ale we consumed, The Joker and I finally arrived at our conclusion. We pondered the question: could we kill the King and live to tell the tale?
“I perform for him tomorrow night,” said the Joker. “He won’t be expecting a threat from a stupid Jester like me.”
“And you’re sure you can get me past the guards?” I asked.
The Joker sighed, “I assure you my friend, he’ll suspect nothing. I’ve been given permission to bring props with me. The King tires of my dancing and singing.”
Speaking through his sinister grin he said, “He never has guard during my performances. I mean, how could I threaten the King?” He chuckled, “When I tap twice on the box, you’ll be within range to throw a knife straight through his putrid heart.”
I smiled at the image. “You just get me close enough. With God as my witness, my blade will meet his Highness’ black heart.”
* * *
Slaying the King had taken over my thoughts since the death of my family. It kept me alive. And now it was time. Tonight was the night.
Through a thin slit in the Joker’s box of props, I could see two men from the watchtower approaching us; a Prince and a guard.
“Halt! Who goes there?” enquired the Prince.
“Fear not,” the Joker reassured him, “It is only I, the King’s faithful Jester; here to provide entertainment for his Royal Highness.”
“What be in the box, Jester?”
I could feel their eyes piercing holes through the box.
“I bring the King a new performance which requires props. You can search the box if you would like…” the Joker bluffed.
My heart froze as the air of uncertainty grew more fearsome. The guard stepped toward the box.
“… but,” the Joker swiftly interrupted, “I am already late and the King would be very dissatisfied if I were any later.”
The sound of silence was unnerving. I did my best to steady my breathing, but I could feel the tremor as I exhaled.
“Hmm…” The Prince paused for a moment.
I desperately tried to avoid making any noise.
“Well, perhaps it is best if we delay you no further. Precede, Jester.”
“Thank you gentlemen, good evening to you,” said the Joker falsely.
My fears of being discovered faded away like a setting sun, and my hunger for revenge resurfaced like the new moon which follows. Tonight was the night.
* * *
The Joker wheeled us in to the King’s entertainment hall.
Putting on his usual façade, he said, “Ah, my Lord, good evening to you!”
“You’re late,” the King said without emotion.
The Joker laughed nervously, “I apologise your highness, the Prince was keen to search my props and…”
“I don’t want to hear excuses.”
I stared vengefully through the slit, thinking how ironic it was that the King was hurrying the Joker’s performance. Soon he’d be wishing it had never begun.
I tried to glance to either side, but my view was limited. The slit was very small.
“Well, your highness,” the Joker exclaimed, “Tonight we have a performance like no other!”
The Joker introduced the show, telling the King to prepare for a night he’d never forget. I mused upon his choice of words and a wide, sinister smile crept across my face, like the one the Joker had worn the night before.
I waited for the Joker’s hand to tap the box, holding my knives tightly; so tightly that I could feel the skin on my knuckles clinging to my bones.
I thought about my wife and son. I could see their beautiful faces smiling back at me, only to watch them melt away into a sea of crimson disappointment.
Suddenly, the Joker’s words gripped me, “And now my Lord, I shall prepare my props, if I may?”
I was hysteric with anticipation. I watched the word fly from the King’s lips, like a majestic phoenix.
“Proceed.”
It was as if the Earth shook as the Joker’s fingers collided with the box. I felt a waterfall of euphoria consume me…
TAP! TAP!
I burst from the box, extending my arms, knives in hand and eyes fixated on the King’s heart. Everything stopped for a moment. I took aim and steadied my right arm backwards, preparing to throw the first knife; I was staring so hard that my eyes were aching.
As my arm tore through the air and I tried to extend my forearm, I was overcome by an excruciating pain in my bicep. My knife fell from my hand and collided with the cold stone floor. I turned my head to see a blood-stained arrowhead staring back at me. Ignoring the pain, I quickly pulled back my left arm and took aim again. Once more I tried to extend my forearm, only to feel another arrowhead embedding itself, symmetrically, into my left arm, followed swiftly by two more arrows bursting through my legs in poetic synchronicity.
As I fell to my knees I turned my head, seeking help from the Joker. Our eyes met as he stared back at me vacantly, with that sinister grin of his.
I felt a knot in my stomach tighten rapidly as I began to realise what was happening. The Joker had betrayed me. My mind tried to sew together the pieces of the twisted tapestry which had unfolded. I should have seen it coming. The Joker had been doing the King’s bidding all along. I should have known our befriending of one another was too coincidental, that we had come about our plan far too quickly, and that we had gotten into the castle far too easily… I should have seen it coming. I had been blinded by revenge.
I glanced around the room to see the four longbow men, two standing either side of me, responsible for the agony that was raging throughout my limbs. As my knees finally met the ground, my eyes met the King’s, as he flaunted his teeth in my direction.
“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you dear boy?” The King chuckled, but quickly returned to his usual emotionless delivery, “I don’t forget and I don’t forgive. When I sentence someone to death, it isn’t a question of if they will die; it’s a question of when I decide they will die!” The King paused to regain his composure. “I told you I’d kill you, boy… just like I killed your family.”
He began to walk towards me as I knelt, helpless and defeated. I was too weak to comprehend the King’s disrespectful speech.
The Joker skipped over to me and put his hand upon my face, squeezing my weary cheeks together.
“There are two kinds of people in this world who should never be trusted,” the Joker explained as he leaned his face close to mine. “Jokers, like me” he said with a grin, which slowly reversed to a frown as he finished his sentence, “and thieves like you!”
The saliva danced from his mouth as he removed his hand from my face and spat at me. I didn’t even flinch as the slimy ocean of disrespect erupted upon my crumbling veneer.
I could feel my eyes glazing over with the red of my blood, dripping from my thoughts into my reality.
The Joker let his beloved King take the stage as he stood behind him, wearing that damn grin.
The King drew his sword from its sheath and placed it by my neck. I knew I had just witnessed the beginning of tonight’s grand finale.
“Enough of this delay Jester, it’s time to send this thief to meet his family. Send my regards to your wife and son.”
With the last remaining strength I had left, I shut the lids of my eyes and thought about my wife and son. I could see their beautiful faces - beautiful, smiling faces - waiting for me. The thought brought a smile to my own face and, for a brief second, it felt like a small victory to know that I hadn’t died staring into the King’s sadistic grimace.
I could hear the air fleeing from the King’s sword as he swung his blade toward my head and I felt a sudden…
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)
No Soap in a Dirty War
Another, slightly longer, short story opening. The aim was to choose someone you know and imagine writing from their perspective. The title for the piece came from the song by Reverend & the Makers, of the same name, that I was listening to when I was writing it.
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And there it is, right on schedule and red as ever; ‘six fifty nine’. Now there’s a surprise. It’s funny, my body never seems to want to push itself that extra minute. Suppose it just doesn’t want to give the alarm clock the satisfaction. Stupid really, cause I won’t be going anywhere till I see ’zero seven zero zero’. I bet that’s one of them psychology things. You know, like my body ‘sub-consciously waking itself up’ to avoid that horrible fucking – beep, beep, beep, beep, beep – yeah, that. I guess that’s my cue to get cracking eh?
I always figured that since I’ve practiced getting ready for work every morning for the last 3 years, my getting ready for work should be like, a well-oiled dance routine by now. I really should be able to do it with my eyes shut, but I still seem to put the odd foot out of place every now and then. D’you know what I mean? Hmm, let me explain – first of all, I fouetté to the toilet and empty my bladder. Then after that, I’ll couru into the shower. Now my usual routine goes like this: I shampoo my hair, as you do, then wash that off. Then I follow that by putting the conditioner on, as you do, and leave that on while I’m soaping myself up with the shower gel, as you do. Then when all the shower gel’s washed off, I rinse out the conditioner, as you do, and the jobs a good’un. But there’s still the odd morning where I’ll do the shampoo, wash that off, then do the conditioner and wash that straight off by mistake. I mean, what use is washing the conditioner straight off? Jesus.
Anyway, once the shower fiasco is all said and done, I put my towel on – my Ralph Lauren towel I might add – pirouette over to the sink and get to work on making myself look the bollocks. Now at this point, I feel like I need to be clear on something; I’m not one of them gay boys, I just like to take care of my appearance, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, right? Right. So I put a bit of moisturiser on my face, then plié towards my toothbrush.
I squeeze the tube of toothpaste and watch as the blue, white and red bashfully creep out of the nozzle onto my brush simultaneously – big word for me I know! Mam bought me a word calendar for Christmas, you see – But I congress… (I’m just showing off now) where was I? Oh yeah, the toothpaste; it always reminds me of a little French man, very laid back, slightly arrogant, strong smelling and always leaving a trail full of ‘Viva la France’ wherever he goes. I suppose in that respect, after the amount of times I’ve cleaned my teeth, you could imagine them having a dual-nationality by now.
Anyway, I give my teeth a good scrubbing, wash my mouth out, rinse off the rest of the moisturiser, dry any part of me that hasn’t quite dried by itself and then execute the finale of my dance; a calculated grand jeté which lands me right into a pair of Calvin Klein briefs. I find myself standing, with my hands on my hips, in the place where the real magic happens – no not the bedroom – the wardrobe.
Now I’m very particular when it comes to clothes. I’m not one of them pretentious, arrogant types; I just like good clothes, that’s all. They’re somewhat of a forte of mine. I like my Hugo Boss’, my Gucci’s, my Dolce & Gabbana’s and, of course, my Armani’s. I love my Armani’s. So I think I’ll go for the understated navy blue Armani variety today, fully equipped with pinstripes and silk. You see, the pinstripes give off my masculine authority (more calendar words), while the silk complements it gracefully, saying ‘I may be masculine, but I’m also a man of class’.
Basically, I work on the philosophy that a good suit is like a sandwich; it’s all good and well buying in nice bread, but what good is a sandwich without the right filling? In this case, what good is a suit without the right shirt?
Now there was a time when I would pick my shirts to match my mood in the morning, but it would always reach a point where I’d ran out of black shirts and my mood wasn’t usually worthy of a white one. So now I go for the more tactical approach and ask myself the simple question: if I was a woman, what colour shirt would attract me to me? Genius, I know. It makes sense though, doesn’t it? Set out my appearance to get one over on the old enemy. Not that I’m one of those mis… miso… misoj… ah fuck it, you know what I mean! One of those player types! I’m not one of them, I just like my women.
Anyway, I’m congressing again… where was I? The shirt! Ah yes, the shirt; the filling in this very scrumptious sandwich. I think today could be a rare occasion actually. I think today could be a white shirt day. I’m pretty sure I’d want to see me in a white shirt sandwich on pinstripe bread. Very tasty indeed. Plus, I have to admit, I think today may well have been a white shirt day, even by the standards of the old routine.
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
And there it is, right on schedule and red as ever; ‘six fifty nine’. Now there’s a surprise. It’s funny, my body never seems to want to push itself that extra minute. Suppose it just doesn’t want to give the alarm clock the satisfaction. Stupid really, cause I won’t be going anywhere till I see ’zero seven zero zero’. I bet that’s one of them psychology things. You know, like my body ‘sub-consciously waking itself up’ to avoid that horrible fucking – beep, beep, beep, beep, beep – yeah, that. I guess that’s my cue to get cracking eh?
I always figured that since I’ve practiced getting ready for work every morning for the last 3 years, my getting ready for work should be like, a well-oiled dance routine by now. I really should be able to do it with my eyes shut, but I still seem to put the odd foot out of place every now and then. D’you know what I mean? Hmm, let me explain – first of all, I fouetté to the toilet and empty my bladder. Then after that, I’ll couru into the shower. Now my usual routine goes like this: I shampoo my hair, as you do, then wash that off. Then I follow that by putting the conditioner on, as you do, and leave that on while I’m soaping myself up with the shower gel, as you do. Then when all the shower gel’s washed off, I rinse out the conditioner, as you do, and the jobs a good’un. But there’s still the odd morning where I’ll do the shampoo, wash that off, then do the conditioner and wash that straight off by mistake. I mean, what use is washing the conditioner straight off? Jesus.
Anyway, once the shower fiasco is all said and done, I put my towel on – my Ralph Lauren towel I might add – pirouette over to the sink and get to work on making myself look the bollocks. Now at this point, I feel like I need to be clear on something; I’m not one of them gay boys, I just like to take care of my appearance, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, right? Right. So I put a bit of moisturiser on my face, then plié towards my toothbrush.
I squeeze the tube of toothpaste and watch as the blue, white and red bashfully creep out of the nozzle onto my brush simultaneously – big word for me I know! Mam bought me a word calendar for Christmas, you see – But I congress… (I’m just showing off now) where was I? Oh yeah, the toothpaste; it always reminds me of a little French man, very laid back, slightly arrogant, strong smelling and always leaving a trail full of ‘Viva la France’ wherever he goes. I suppose in that respect, after the amount of times I’ve cleaned my teeth, you could imagine them having a dual-nationality by now.
Anyway, I give my teeth a good scrubbing, wash my mouth out, rinse off the rest of the moisturiser, dry any part of me that hasn’t quite dried by itself and then execute the finale of my dance; a calculated grand jeté which lands me right into a pair of Calvin Klein briefs. I find myself standing, with my hands on my hips, in the place where the real magic happens – no not the bedroom – the wardrobe.
Now I’m very particular when it comes to clothes. I’m not one of them pretentious, arrogant types; I just like good clothes, that’s all. They’re somewhat of a forte of mine. I like my Hugo Boss’, my Gucci’s, my Dolce & Gabbana’s and, of course, my Armani’s. I love my Armani’s. So I think I’ll go for the understated navy blue Armani variety today, fully equipped with pinstripes and silk. You see, the pinstripes give off my masculine authority (more calendar words), while the silk complements it gracefully, saying ‘I may be masculine, but I’m also a man of class’.
Basically, I work on the philosophy that a good suit is like a sandwich; it’s all good and well buying in nice bread, but what good is a sandwich without the right filling? In this case, what good is a suit without the right shirt?
Now there was a time when I would pick my shirts to match my mood in the morning, but it would always reach a point where I’d ran out of black shirts and my mood wasn’t usually worthy of a white one. So now I go for the more tactical approach and ask myself the simple question: if I was a woman, what colour shirt would attract me to me? Genius, I know. It makes sense though, doesn’t it? Set out my appearance to get one over on the old enemy. Not that I’m one of those mis… miso… misoj… ah fuck it, you know what I mean! One of those player types! I’m not one of them, I just like my women.
Anyway, I’m congressing again… where was I? The shirt! Ah yes, the shirt; the filling in this very scrumptious sandwich. I think today could be a rare occasion actually. I think today could be a white shirt day. I’m pretty sure I’d want to see me in a white shirt sandwich on pinstripe bread. Very tasty indeed. Plus, I have to admit, I think today may well have been a white shirt day, even by the standards of the old routine.
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)
Unwelcome
This short story opening was adapted from a haiku that was written during the second Writer's Workshop seminar from my Creative Writing university course.
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The doors opened curtain-like and I staggered into place on the metallic stage that had been revealed.
I always found that whenever I tried to indulge in anonymity, I was extremely gifted at achieving the exact opposite. It would be easy to say that subtlety wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
As I made the timely journey down from 18A, my eyes were fixated on the soothing simplicity of the neon-blue orbs, which were wrestling amongst themselves on the elevator control panel; each one trying their hand at outshining the last. The never-ending string of red continued to bashfully abseil from my once white shirt – much more adept at subtlety than I would ever be – cautiously creeping out from the depths of my torso. I couldn’t help but feel like this trail of crimson breadcrumbs would do me no favours, considering the fact that I would be waiting at the end of it; a cold, usually calculated murderer, who was fleeing the scene of his latest crime.
Despite the pain that was dancing around my watering-can body, I couldn’t stop the pathetic little smile that was crawling across my face.
My ears had finally regained consciousness, after recovering from the onslaught of vulgar, echoing gunshots and they could hear a cheesy refrain lingering throughout the elevator, as if somewhere, hidden within the speakers, was a very miniature band who hadn’t realised that the 60’s had ended. ‘Ba, dada, da, da, da-da, da… ba, dada, da, da, da-da, da.’ Priceless.
Once the nostalgic novelty of the music had worn off, my eyes were the next to awake and they began to wander around the elevator looking for another welcome distraction.
The lift was taking what felt like an eternity to reach the ground floor; an elongation which I would have gladly avoid if I’d had my way.
As my beady eyes continued to scour the Earth for stimulation, they eventually fell upon the one thing I was trying to avoid thinking about; my impending death. Tucked away in the far corner of the elevator, quiet and polite, were the magnificently ugly remains of a wasp. Like an old, dormant piano - so old that it’s ivory keys had turned a yellowy-white – it lay motionless. How ironic, I thought to myself. My little friend was welcome to stay now that he was dead, but he’d have been little more than an uninvited visitor at a party, had there been any life left in his tiny lungs.
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The doors opened curtain-like and I staggered into place on the metallic stage that had been revealed.
I always found that whenever I tried to indulge in anonymity, I was extremely gifted at achieving the exact opposite. It would be easy to say that subtlety wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
As I made the timely journey down from 18A, my eyes were fixated on the soothing simplicity of the neon-blue orbs, which were wrestling amongst themselves on the elevator control panel; each one trying their hand at outshining the last. The never-ending string of red continued to bashfully abseil from my once white shirt – much more adept at subtlety than I would ever be – cautiously creeping out from the depths of my torso. I couldn’t help but feel like this trail of crimson breadcrumbs would do me no favours, considering the fact that I would be waiting at the end of it; a cold, usually calculated murderer, who was fleeing the scene of his latest crime.
Despite the pain that was dancing around my watering-can body, I couldn’t stop the pathetic little smile that was crawling across my face.
My ears had finally regained consciousness, after recovering from the onslaught of vulgar, echoing gunshots and they could hear a cheesy refrain lingering throughout the elevator, as if somewhere, hidden within the speakers, was a very miniature band who hadn’t realised that the 60’s had ended. ‘Ba, dada, da, da, da-da, da… ba, dada, da, da, da-da, da.’ Priceless.
Once the nostalgic novelty of the music had worn off, my eyes were the next to awake and they began to wander around the elevator looking for another welcome distraction.
The lift was taking what felt like an eternity to reach the ground floor; an elongation which I would have gladly avoid if I’d had my way.
As my beady eyes continued to scour the Earth for stimulation, they eventually fell upon the one thing I was trying to avoid thinking about; my impending death. Tucked away in the far corner of the elevator, quiet and polite, were the magnificently ugly remains of a wasp. Like an old, dormant piano - so old that it’s ivory keys had turned a yellowy-white – it lay motionless. How ironic, I thought to myself. My little friend was welcome to stay now that he was dead, but he’d have been little more than an uninvited visitor at a party, had there been any life left in his tiny lungs.
THD.
(Added: 24/01/2011)