The actor’s façade, the lie,
Is an art, like painting,
covering the white of character
with the colour of falsity.
Sometimes it’s fine calligraphy,
Each new falsehood curling like smoke
In the thick air of conversation,
A new twist for your peers.
Sometimes the tales harmonise,
Like a chord,
Other times you must weave in new strands
Of the garment you are now bid to wear.
Paranoia dresses you in this compulsive art
For all to see,
Weighing you down
Exhausting every breath.
This is a surrealist piece I wrote to explore the relationship I have with with my sister through the medium of dreams, particularly those involving my worst fears. It’s a little bit experimental; my first second person piece.
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Surrealist Piece: Brother.
Brother.
Brother, can you hear me?
Brother.
First, only darkness. Then, a blinding, clinical, white light. You are in a room, a room of people you don’t know, people I don’t know. The room is familiar to you, like a doctor’s waiting room. Just. Not.
All the people sit on old wooden benches, pushed right up against the wall. They don’t even
Brother.
Brother can you hear me?
notice you’re there. They just stare at the grey tiled floor, transfixed at everything and nothing.
Brother.
Can you hear it? I’m sure you can. They can’t, but you can. It’s a familiar voice. So near, yet so distant. A young voice, a female voice. Soft, pleading, scared. There are no doors in this room. Only walls. White walls. The walls close in
Brother. Watch out.
on you, always closing, never stopping, inch by inch grinding their way towards you at the centre of the room, closing in until there is nothing left but fear and sweat and the white, white walls.
White.
You stand by a lake, in a forest. It is night and the height of summer, the stars light up the night sky and the warm air hits you like a brick. The mosquitos buzz around you like
Brother.
clouds of black, blood-gorged needles, flying over the surface of the blue, blue lake like squadrons of fighter planes. A deep breath. You start into the lake, step by step, allowing the blue water to rush around your knees, your
Brother.
waist and your armpits and shoulders and your mouth and nose and eyes until there is nothing but the blue water and the voice. The voice is still clear in your mind.
Brother, don’t waste your breath.
You hold yourself under the water, and panic sets in. Daggers fly into your chest as you seek a breath but all you can breathe is the blue water and the light is fading fast all you want to do is take a breath and you know should because
Brother, it is time.
You inhale and feel the ecstasy, the release from pain as the cold blue water floods into your lungs, freeing you from this watery prison, sending you to a new place.
Black.
You sit at a desk. The room is dark, but lit by a table lamp, grey chrome, unreflective and frosty cold. You cannot see the walls, or the ceiling, only endless grey stone floor and the dark, the dark that seems to
Brother. Watch out.
Swallow you up. The light gutters like old flame, bringing you closer into the dark’s embrace. Only the voice, she, knows what lurks within the endless dark that closes in on you.
I am here, Brother. I am close.
You wait for the dark to finally make its move and envelope you in its cold embrace but it never comes for he is here and he is ready to get you, that demon with butterfly wings and a smile that cuts you like a piece of glass whenever you look into it
Brother, look away.
because you just can’t cope when it leads you along like a rat to the sound of a flute then you cry when you find yourself in its arms like a helpless infant, screaming out a name you never thought would be worth your time.
Brother, focus.
Brother, run.
But you are being told to run, so run is what you do, run into the darkness until there is nothing but the dark surrounding you and a crack on the head (it’s what you get for asking).
White.
Brother, stay with me.
You awake in a hospital bed, the light is white and clinical and the walls and the bedding and the chairs are a safe blue. You hear the cries of other children, and you know you are safe. You go to sit up
Brother.
but you do not have the power to do so. You try and push up with your legs, but you can’t feel them, so you push up with your arms but you can’t feel your arms. You have no arms. You have no legs. You cannot move. You try and cry out, but you can’t, you have no tongue. You can only stare and hope. No-one comes for you.
Brother, leave this place.
Closing your eyes to the white light, you once again embrace the black.
Black.
Brother, you are nearer now.
You are safe in your room, with all your limbs. The night air is hot and dense, but it is not summer. This air is not the summer air by the lake, but a thick air, and air that swallows you up. It is not normal air. You go to open your door
Brother, listen, feel.
and are greeted not by the hallway as you once thought but by a wall of flame and smoke that suffocates you like a rope.
Brother, go towards the light. I will find you.
You have no choice but to step into the flame, there is no way back, and the voice says you will find her in the flames, so you step and step and step and the flame tickles you stinging like bees as it burns its way through your flesh and to your bones until there is nothing but the white light and
Brother. It is time.
White.
You are in a room, a room of people you don’t know, people I don’t know. The room is familiar to you, like a doctor’s waiting room. Just. Not. The room is empty, except for you and her. She looks up at you and smiles, a warm smile that makes you know you are safe. This time you are truly safe.
Brother.
You go to speak, but there is no need, she raises her finger to her lips and utters a silent command, a beckon, so you walk to her and embrace, you greet her like an old friend.
Brother.
Sister.
No fear is truth unspoken. No fear is a fear until you are alone against the world. There is always the voice to pick you up when you fall.
Brother.
I wrote this piece for a uni assignment. It got marked as a 1st, and I enjoyed writing it, particularly translating parts into Italian (I apologise if it isn’t correct, I don’t speak the language) . Reading back through it, I’m not sure it’s my best piece. But you can be the judge of that! Enjoy.
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The date was the 12th of May, 1858. It was during my time in the Université de Paris (studying Classics and Literature, I might add) that I first heard the phrase ‘Risorgimento’. At first, it meant nothing to me; a small piece of Italian, overheard in conversation. But no, it was so much more. It was a whisper of spirit, of longing for an Italy that had never been; an Italy free of the domination of its neighbours. It kindled a spirit within me – I couldn’t help but think of my forefathers, fighters in the glorious revolution that shaped the France we know today. It was all so poetic. And with that, I had truly discovered my life’s ambition; I would travel across the Italian states, and join the resistance! I want to be remembered, immortalised in history as a brave warrior of the Risorigmento. Women would lust after me, and men would toast my name in pride and admiration!
Naturally, I set off immediately. My Father, the ever-so gracious Doctor Sebastian Durand, had insisted that my travels would be naught but fruitless. “Pierre! You stupid boy!” he used to say. “You will find nothing in that place, Pierre. Only jumped-up revolutionaries and hopeless fools, dreamers that focus on an idea that can never be!” But still, here I am.
And now, I find myself upon a road. The date was the 5th August; not half a month into my Italian excursion. This particular road was not 3 miles south of Milan; I had spent the night in the town of Rozzano, and had made the decision over a glass of fine sparkling Lombardia to walk the last 5 miles to my destination. The time was not yet quarter to eleven, but still the baking summer sun burned down of the back of my neck. The hike was made pleasant by a cool Mediterranean wind that had followed me all the way from Genoa.
So, there I was, the warm breeze flowing through my hair, my feet dusty and sore from the hard, stony track, when I came across a ditch by the road. And in this ditch, well, was nothing other than a cart! It was most peculiar. The cart was daubed with bright paints; wonderful forest greens, yellows like the golden sands of the Sahara, and deep reds, red like the blood from a fresh wound. A donkey, as dusty as my boots, sat by the cart, chewing aimlessly on the golden summer grass. Startled by this sight, and the lack of a cart owner, I headed down the steep bank towards the cart. It was clear that one of the axles had been broken; a wheel was left haphazardly leaning against the side of the cart. As I moved closer to the cart, a great cry filled my ears; it scared the wits out of me. “Signore, mi scusi! Aiuto, per favore! Signore!”. And with this, the most peculiar fellow I have ever set my eyes upon leaped over the crest of the ditch. He was short, almost as short as a child, yet a great beard, black and wiry, covered his face. His tailcoat may have once been a deep, earthy brown, but it was now so patched that its original colour was impossible to comprehend. His boots were tall and pointed, and bells chimed as he danced down the slope. Wild flowers poked out of every pocket, and ribbons of all shades and hues were tied to his wrists. Yes, a most peculiar fellow indeed! I replied, of course, in my very best Italian; “Ciao, Signore, come posso aiutarla?” (I have been told my Italian is particularly impressive). “Ah, dear fellow, you are French!” he replied, his deep Italian accent curling around the words like smoke as they fell from his mouth. “Good good, you can help me then, Signore! As you can see, I seem to be having some issues with my wagon, Signore! Old Garibaldi is tired, and I fear my wagon will be in need of a new axle! I must go back to Milano, and I must go today! You will come with me, yes?”
“Why yes, sir, of course!” I replied, both confused and startled by the artillery barrage of his wordplay. “Excellent, excellent!” He replied whimsically, and grabbed me vivaciously by the hand. “I am the great Cattaneo, my friend, and it is a true pleasure to meet you!” he cried, and whisked me off up the slope of the ditch. “Come, Garibaldi!” he called, and the donkey trotted after us. From this single meeting, I knew my trip to Milan had just become far more interesting.
I learnt many things from Cattaneo on that journey. “Some, Pierre, may call me a jester; a clown, a common fool. But no, Signore, I am more than these things. I am the great Cattaneo!” he would say. “No Signore… I am an artist! A master of illusion, a king of wonder!” He had no wife, no lover, nor father or mother. It was him, his cart, and his donkey. “A good life, Signore” he would say – “Nothing to tie you down! It is the only way to live, Signore!”. He also told me many things about the current state of the Risorgimento; oh how I revelled in that! “There are whispers, from the little birds, Signore.” he would say in a hushed tone, as if people were listening in on our conversation. “They whisper of revolution, Signore, of talks between Cavour and old Emmanuel, and your Emperor, talks of amassing a force and taking Lombardy! Striking the Austrians before they can even think!” he would say, patriotic fury alighting in his eyes. “We Italians, we will be free!”. However, his true purpose soon became clear. “I need you, Signore.” he said, in a friendly tone, a trusting tone. “You will join me! We will fight for Italia! You will help me, Pierre. An act… I must perform, Signore, for Italia – you must understand! In the Piazza, there are many guards, and many people. If we, us Signore, distract the guards… our people can do things, they can act. Act for the Risorgimento!”. I agreed, of course; this was my chance! With this one act, I, a young Frenchman, could become a hero of the Risorgimento!
And before you know it, the great gates of Milan loomed up above us. He took me through the streets, the song of the Italian language floating on the breeze like feathers of golden music. It did not take us long to reach the centre of town; the majestic Piazza del Duomo. The Piazza was huge. All the sights, smells, and wonders of the Lombard state graced its hard, cobbled stone. Market stalls littered the square, forcing the busybodies of Milan down alleys of cloth and wood. The sweet, sharp tang of foreign spices engulfed the air, as did the dark, musty stench of livestock. The Merchants, plump as the pigs they sold and preened to perfection, boom out their wares with the resounding notes of great cannons. Beautiful Milanese courtesans and pompous traders stepped daintily past dishevelled street urchins and scrawny mongrels alike; the Piazza was a true melting pot of the Milanese. However, it too was touched by the strife of occupation. Austrian soldiers stood at every corner; rifles shining in the hot Italian sun, coats as blue as deep midnight. Men whispered in the shadows, making deals and plotting schemes well away from the scrying eyes of the guards.
Soon, we reached a wooden stage, hastily erected between the red velvet of a jeweller’s stand and the pale linen of a Venetian trader’s spice stall. The fiery scent of his wares filled my nostrils; a sweet perfume that dazzled the senses and seeped into the folds of the mind, delicately tracing itself along its subtle curves. Cattaneo snapped back into action, drawing me sharply out of this heaven. “Come, Signore! We have work to do!” he cried, his loud claps like firecrackers in the hubbub of the marketplace. “You stand there” he said, pointing to a spot on the stage. Now, directing himself to the Italian inhabitants of his city, he shouted out to the masses of Market-goers. “Come one, come all!” he sang in the language of his homeland. “See here, for the first time, a trick, a death-defying, life-changing spectacular! Come one, come all! You, Signore, yes, you! And you, my young, beautiful Signora. Yes, all of you!” Soon, a large crowd had amassed around the stage, eager to see what the peculiar man had to offer. “Now, my assistant and I” he said, winking at me with an animated glint in his eye, “have something to offer you. I only ask for three things. Your attention, your money, and an apple, if I may, Signora”. And with this, he plucked a single apple from the basket of a young woman. He toyed with the apple, staring at its surface, a deep velvet red. “What I am about to do, Signore e Signori, should never be done. I, the great Cattaneo, am un coltello-lanciatore, a knife-thrower, my friends! And with this knife,” he cried with glee “I will strike this apple off of my assistant’s head… blindfolded!”. A hushed silence swept through the crowd. I could not believe it! The man, the great Cattaneo, was sure to kill me! There was no way I could make it off the stage. I was trapped, pinned on the stage by the icy glare of the jester. “You will do this for me, Pierre”. He said, fury filling his once bright and cheerful eyes. “I will not kill you, Signore. Not if you stay still”.
And so, there I was, standing on a wooden platform amongst a sea of Milanese eyes, staring not only at the Frenchman lifted high in their Piazza, but the blood red apple perched upon his head. A sweat began to take me; I could feel it, slow, steady droplets creeping down my face and dropping delicately onto my new green coat. But I could not move; oh no… that would result in my sudden and imminent death. One twitch, one false move, and the blade would strike me, straight between the eyes. He promised me it would. One false move and my flame would be extinguished, extinguished in a burst of fiery red on the warm, lifeless cobbles of the Piazza del Duomo. I could not run; I could not take the fruit off my head and leave. They were mocking me; the eyes, the knife, even the fruit. Yet Cattaneo did not mock me. Even if he was mocking me, I never would have known.
He drew back his arm, his eyes hidden by the strip of red cloth produced from one of his many pockets. I could feel my life battering against my skull. My brain told me to run; nothing told me to stay. His eyes, hidden by a strip of red as dark and bloody as the apple, told no stories. I was wrong to trust the man. Yet stay I did. I closed my eyes, waiting for the sharp, icy touch of the blade between my eyes.
Yet it never came. A cry, from the crowd; deep, guttural German punctured the balloon of silence that enveloped the thick, heavy air of the market. It was the Austrian soldiers! “That man!” they cried, “Fire upon him!”. Cattaneo gasped, the knife falling from his hand as he ripped the cloth from his eyes. The whip-crack of gunfire sounded, white smoke rising from the iron barrels pointed squarely at the short Italian man. The crowd dropped to their feet, astonished and terrified. Surely one of the bullets would hit Cattaneo! But no, a cloud of smoke surrounded the jester, and within moments, he was gone! The soldiers checked the crowds, the stage, even the stalls surrounding the area. There was no sign of the mysterious Cattaneo, nor his scruffy Donkey.
I never saw him again. I often wonder what became of him; maybe he continues to prey on lone travellers, his cart forever resting at the roadside. Maybe he is dead, finally slain by a stray bullet. In fact, I do not even care. I am done with revolution; I am not made for it. That is one thing that Cattaneo taught me: men of revolution are cut from the cloth of madness. I am above that; for now, I am content with my books; I will write of Risorgimento. It is safer. I have his story, and that is all I need.
I walk around these empty rooms.
We once moved like the morning.
Silhouettes they haunt this house,
like a memory haunts me now,
as if it were a dream.
Brian Fallon – Behold The Hurricane.
I’m just an ape like you.
No more steps up
the evolutionary ladder.
Yet still we play the mindless fools,
ape around.
Like we’re the last on Earth.
More Tolkien Fanfiction! Poetry, again. For some reason, wordpress doesn’t like me posting this, always messes up the stanzas. But anyway. A lament for one of my all-time favourite characters, Beorn!
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Hear the bear of Wilderland cry
His long lament to the great eye.
His long-lost love, the mighty moon,
Taken from the bear far too soon.
Deep in the woods lives the bear-man,
Silent guard of the Wilderland,
Friend to the beast, the bird, the fish,
To live alone’s his only wish.
For once he loved a maiden fair,
With Carrock-lilies in her hair.
He saw her dance upon a night,
Her feet were bare, her dress was white.
The mighty man-bear, dark and tall,
Waited and listened for her call.
And every night he’d lie and watch,
The dancing maiden from the rock.
And then upon the light of day,
The moon princess would fade away,
Leaving nothing in her stead,
Just her fey beauty in his head.
One night he braved the moon’s embrace,
He longed to look upon her face.
He came to her dressed like a bear,
The great beast and the maiden fair.
She did not flee, for she was true,
The bear-man’s kindness she saw through
His grim visage, a beast of might,
It did not matter on that night.
So every eve’ he left his hall,
Climbed the rock and let out a call,
The moon-maid came down from the sky,
They’d dance until the day was nigh.
One night when the maid came to dance,
Our dear Beorn had seen his chance,
He asked the moon to be his wife,
To give up her immortal life.
A single tear dropped from her eye,
A silent lament without cry.
“My dear Beorn” the maiden said,
“In the sun’s realm I cannot tread.”
“I love you so, that much is true,
But all the gods refuse me you.
With mortal man I cannot be,
The night forever calls to me.”
That night was a dance of despair,
For the bear and his lady fair.
No more did the moon dance for him,
The changeling with the great bear-skin.
Sometimes at night you hear the cry,
A great bear call up to the sky,
A howl of sadness for the love,
Of Beorn and the moon above.
Sorry, more Tolkien fanfiction! What can I say, I just like Tolkien a little bit too much. This one is another poem, tellng of the fall of Erebor from the perspective of the Arkenstone.
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I am the one, the mountain-born,
I glow with the light of the dawn.
Older than the trees and the sun,
I have waited since time begun.
In halls of rock, entombed in stone,
The Lonely Mountain was my throne,
I laid in wait, kept in the dark,
No dwarf had found my mighty spark.
‘til Longbeard clan, from Khazad-dûm
(descended from the deathless one)
Flew from the shadow, ‘woken deep,
From its dark and unholy sleep.
They wandered in the wilderland,
And came across my lonely stand,
They needed shelter, they were weak,
So settled ‘pon my mighty peak.
A city built, the oaths they swore,
They named my mountain ‘Erebor’.
The dwarves, they came from ‘cross the land,
Their home they carved, royal and grand.
And mighty Thráin, the wise and old,
He dug and delved, in search of gold.
But what he found was worth much more,
Far more than all of Erebor.
A pickaxe broke my noble seat,
Uncovered me, bright and complete,
The greatest treasure ever found,
A glowing gem from ‘neath the ground.
A gift of me they made to Thráin,
I am the symbol of his reign,
The greatest treasure of his home,
All set in gold, the Arkenstone.
Yet for some time, they left their halls,
The gold was left within its walls,
To Gundabad, they made their way,
To dwell in mountains far more grey.
The Arkenstone they left behind,
To wait again for all of time,
‘til Thrór returned to claim his mount,
And prosper there, years beyond count.
The dwarves, they mined into the core,
Took all the gold from Erebor.
With all their treasures, they were vain,
Their gold was why the dragon came.
So Smaug the great was only young,
Yet tasted gold upon his tongue,
Tasted the treasures of King Thrór,
Longed for the gold of Erebor.
‘pon wings of flame he struck the mount,
The dwarves he roasted beyond count.
His roar echoed in halls of old,
He sought his claim to Durin’s gold.
And Thrór, he wanted to fight back,
Yet none could stand the drake’s attack,
So with him the dwarves left their home,
And with it left the Arkenstone.
I waited in the dragon’s hoard,
With gold and gem and crown and sword,
I waited in Smaug’s warm embrace,
The treasure of the Dwarven race.
And I will wait ‘til dragon’s bane,
Will come for me, the dragon slain,
The mighty King, back for his throne,
And with it I, the Arkenstone.
It wasn’t a mistake.
That doesn’t mean I wanted to do it though. I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident. It was most certainly an accident. Possibly the most accidental accident I have ever committed in my life.
I’m saying that I liked it.
The day wasn’t really an average day at school. It was one of those theme days, you know when everyone comes in for no apparent reason whatsoever to talk about illegal substances or driving or how to put on a condom or whatever. So it was definitely a different day. Loads of people missed it. Raj missed it. He said “it wasn’t a proper day at school, we could be using the time more constructively”. And you know, he was right. I could have been more constructive. Turns out that destruction is just that little bit more fun.
Mum made me come in regardless. “It will be beneficial”. Beneficial. Great word. Ha ha ha.
Laura was one of the unfortunate ones to fall for the trap too. There she was, as usual, with her stupid blonde hair neatly bobbed and her stupid cardigans and her stupid backpack and her oh-excuse-me-sir-while-I-shove-my-head-up-your-arse degrading smile like she’s some queen and we’re all her subjects.
So it was me, Laura, some greasy twat I couldn’t even put a name to, and Ross. Oh yeah, Ross. I forget about Ross. It’s really stupid to forget about Ross because Ross in fact is one of the least forgettable people you could meet because he’s so annoying that he makes you want to tear a house down over his head. But Ross is my friend. So I resist temptation.
Mole took assembly. Now, don’t assume that ‘Mole’ is a derogatory term, or some kind of snide remark. I like the guy. He’s not a bad Head of 6th, just… a little mole-like. Balding, little piggy eyes magnified by huge wire-frame glasses, buck teeth and little whiskers, clingy grey sweaters and Velcro shoes. You know. Mole-like.
So there was Mole, taking assembly to me and Ross and Greasy Twat and Laura and some other unnameables (what can I say, I’ve never been one for putting names to faces). School fundraiser. Blah blah blah. Prom’s only 4 weeks away now, so get excited ha ha ha. More droning. Current Affairs. Now Gaddafi’s dead and gone it’s all Mole ever drones on about. Not that I’m against it. I like Arabs as much as the next guy. It’s just that the record needs changing. I can hear Ross’ headphones, a South Virginia twang echoing faintly in his ear canal. Prick thinks he’s some kind of Yankee. I’m past caring.
I bought my notebook with me today. Started sketching, randomly doodling, a new eye hidden from Mole’s grubby view. There’s something about the eye that fascinates me. A refractive lens from nothing, forged by the need for sight and light. Fascinating stuff. I’m not sure whose eye this is. It’s something everyone takes for granted, the eye. Some more than others. Laura, the bitch, has “20/20 vision, luckily, a hee hee hee”. Mole’s less lucky. It’s not Laura’s eye. It’s definitely not Mole’s eye.
Sometimes I feel like the eyes I draw can see something. All of them are reactive, like something is behind me. Like they’re staring dead straight at something. This one had its gaze fixed straight in the corner of the room, by the sofas. Yeah, sofas. I know, right.
That’s when I spotted it. You know. The accident. Quite literally an accident waiting to happen.
A lighter, left carelessly underneath one of the sofas. Who would leave such a thing? I’m not a smoker, but even I know that smokers like to hang onto their lighters. It was pretty non-descript. Almost clear plastic. That horrible sea foam green of industrial lights and value toothpaste.
Such a little thing. Such a big spark.
I waited until after assembly.
Mole sent us away for 5 minutes or so. Grab some water, figure out where we need to be. Pretty standard stuff. I headed straight for the sofas. I needed that lighter. I couldn’t tell you why. The eye told me to do it. And you try and say no to an eye. It doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t.
It was cold. Odd really, considering how much heat it can make. I don’t think I’d ever held one before. Fascinating really. One little flick and it all goes up in flames.
I kept it for a while, just in my pocket. My hand continued to linger on it. Like the eye. A lot like the eye, really. Perhaps the eye was my eye. It would make sense, after all. The lighter stayed in my pocket until lunchtime. Then I took it out, messed around with it. Flame. No flame. Flame. No flame. You get the idea.
Laura was sitting in front of me. I could see her backpack open, class notes spilling out like they were inviting me to do something.
Don’t set them on fire, said the eye. You’ll make a real mess.
Do it, said the lighter. Burn them all. You’ll make a real mess.
I let fate decide.
I took a deep breath. Notice how everyone takes a deep breath before the plunge? Even cats do it. It’s all in the eyes, actually. They look down at the ground. Back up, at their perch. Back down to the ground. A pause. That’s the breath. Then the jump.
I flick the lighter, cause a spark, light the flame. It dances, like flames always do. I consider watching it for a while. But no. I had things to do. People to see. Things to destroy.
I close my eyes, and flick my hand. A little slip, nothing more. That’s what I tell people. An accident. The flame probably won’t even stay lit. I hear that soft fabric sound of a lighter hitting the inside of a backpack.
Then walk away.
I turn my head for a moment, to see what I had done. Flames spread across the paper, the white turning ashy grey with every passing moment. They are getting kind of high. Surely Laura would notice, right? Turns out, she wouldn’t.
That’s when the tongues of flame decided they’d had enough of their paper, and licked her leg.
Cotton’s a highly flammable substance. Fun fact of the day. Up she goes.
It took me a while to realise what was actually happening. There was a lot of screaming, mainly from Laura, then from her unnameable comrades. Trying to bat it out, hitting her leg with very little effect whatsoever. Water? That didn’t work either. I wish I could tell you why. It just didn’t.
Soon, her whole leg was on fire. The screams of pain grew into the frantic wails of hopelessness. Torturous, almost. It spread up her chest. People tug at her cardigan, trying to release her from its fiery embrace, but to no avail. The burns have done enough damage already.
I turn my head, and walk out the door. I don’t really think helping would be an option now.
My accident caused some pain. A lot of pain.
All this pain, from a tiny spark, in a paper eye.
A short story I wrote for an assignment that I am no longer using. My tutor really didn’t like this story. I understood his comments, but I felt it was perhaps a little harsh. Let me know what you think!
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Mr Arthur Pansworthy was not a man of imagination. In such a pleasing and prodigious position as his own, he simply did not have the time for it. Arthur (or ‘Art’ as he was called by those valuable few he would even consider calling friends) sadly lost his imagination to the numbers and sums that made up the core of his oh-so-interesting existence. Most would describe Arthur as ‘nice’, or ‘friendly enough’, but the only real way one could truly describe him was a pompous dullard. Members of the public generally tended to avoid him, which was one of the reasons why he was now sat alone on the bus, black suitcase resting delicately on his bony knees, grey eyes staring outwards at the green belt countryside with the distinct, apathetic indifference of a dull child.
Many would also question why an accountant’s clerk of such prodigious reputation would find himself on an old bus just outside of London. But Arthur never questioned it. Orders were orders, he always said. Even as a child, Arthur was never one to question authority, for it just created more problems, and if there was one thing Arthur hated most, it was a problem.
In this case, Arthur had been commanded to partake in a personal customer visit. Personal visits to customers of such mediocre importance were always left to the younger employees of Simons & Metcalfe Accounting Agency, and unfortunately for our Arthur, it was his turn. This particular customer owned a small hotel in some backwater commuter town, and had insisted the young clerk must stay for at least a night. In reality, Arthur had no choice in the matter; the deal was needed for the company, and he quite liked his job. So, there he was, sitting on his small seat, uncomfortably pushed against the sticky bus window.
Arthur was obviously in a position of great discomfort on his small, discoloured bus seat. He was a man of impossibly tall and broomstick thin stature. His ghostly, gangly frame gave him the appearance of a piece of stretched-out piece of chewing gum, stuck taut between fingers, ready to break at a moment’s notice. Therefore, you can imagine his great relief when the bus stopped at his destination. Clambering out of the vehicle with an awkward stumble, he found himself upon a grassy verge. As befitted his lifestyle, his fashion choices always walked the ever-changing line between ‘smart and stylish’ and ‘bit of a prat’. Today, his perfectly pressed black suit hung loosely over his frame, giving him the appearance of a corporate scarecrow. The tepid wind of the bus ruffled his coat as it sped away, leaving him in a plume of black diesel smog. Straightening his greasy, black hair, his eyes wandered to the emerging image through the smoke, rising out of the black cloud like a Dreadnought on a stormy sea. Yes, he had arrived at the hotel.
The first thing Arthur noted was not the hotel itself, but the distinct lack of anything in the surrounding area. The road stretched for miles in both directions, a cold grey tarmac snake that lingered on the horizon. The fields surrounding him were desolate and bleak in the autumn dark-light, and Arthur highly doubted that even a dormouse could survive in the harsh grasses of the plain. The hotel itself rose out of the grasses like a stump, dominating the flat surroundings. Tall and grey, it almost had a husk-like appearance, an empty shell that once held life. It had the illusion of an old stately home. Except it wasn’t. Faux-marble pillars stretched forever vertically, chipped and worn plaster flaking with age, and window shutters creaked with all the dramatic grace of a children’s cartoon. “Travel-Inn!” the sign said, “Enjoy Your Stay!”
With a weary sigh, Arthur picked up his suitcase and started into the hotel.
The lobby did not hold up much better. A faded red carpet stretched to the desk, a huge lump of worm-ridden mahogany, and old brass lamps gave out a stuttering, electric-yellow light. At the desk sat an old, balding man, almost aristocratic in nature, fat bull-frog chins protruding from underneath a huge, toothy grin and blood-red lips. Small silver spectacles perched delicately on the tip of an aquiline nose, and huge caterpillar eyebrows rested over a pair of watery, piggy eyes. The man did not stop smiling as Arthur pigeon-stepped his way along the carpet.
“Ahem,” Arthur spluttered.
“Mrrr Pansssworthyyy, I presssumeeee?” the man purred, piggy eyes never leaving his customer’s face, still holding his endless grimace.
Arthur barely managed to stutter an unnerved reply. “Ah, yes, I have, um, come on behalf of Sim-”
“Sssimonsss & Metcalfeee, yesss!” the man roared with delight. “I am Rogerrr P. Gallowayyy, my kind sssirrr, the owner of thisss herrre essstablishhhment! Pleassse, pleassse, Mrrr Pansssworthyyy, you look famishhhed!” Galloway hissed, pushing Arthur through a door as he spoke. “My ssstaff will sssee that yourrr bag getsss to your room, Mrrr Pansssworthyyy, but now, you mussst dine!”
Arthur was whisked away by Galloway, and sat down at an old table, white tablecloth stained with the foodstuffs of previous customers. An old candlestick was placed haphazardly in the centre, hot wax spluttering everything as it hissed. Arthur stared at the candle in uneasy apprehension, and remained transfixed on it until Galloway returned.
“Wineee for the honourrreeed guessst!” he cried, placing a piece of chipped crystal-ware on the table, spilling the blood red wine everywhere as he poured. “I will be backkk sssirrr, with the ssspeeecial!” Galloway said, running away before Arthur could even question the so-called ‘special’ was so ‘special’. It was then that Arthur noticed the rapping and the tapping at the window.
Arthur turned uneasily to the window. It’s the wind, nothing more, he pondered. This it is, and nothing more. But the noise still made him uncomfortable. Arthur gently rose from his chair and tip-toed over to the window, pushing back the purple curtains to take a peek at what could possibly be outside. What was there to greet him, Arthur would never have guessed. A ghastly grim and ancient raven perched and sat on the windowsill, burning eyes glaring at the man across the window. Arthur tapped timidly at the window. “Hello,” he whispered. “What are you doing here? What’s your name then?” The raven cried an eerie screech, sending Arthur backwards into the table with fear. There was a moment of silence as Arthur waited for the bird to speak, as if its wild tongue could form the shapes of human utterances.
“Tell me your name!” Arthur screamed.
And quoth the raven, “Ca-caw.”
Because, let’s face it, it would be silly if a raven could really speak.
Arthur closed the curtains with fright, and stumbled back to his seat by the old table. It was then with an almighty clatter that Galloway burst through the kitchen door, holding a platter of what can only be identified as ‘the special’.
“I’m, ah, quite sorry, Mr Galloway,” Arthur stuttered, “But I’ve quite suddenly lost my, um, appetite! I must apologise, but I think I may just, aha, retire to my room for the evening, perhaps?”
“Of courrrssseee, Mrrr Pansssworthyyy!” the owner roared, endless grin glinting in the stuttering light. “I’ll jussst get yourrr keyyy! I believeee you’reee in room twooo hundrrreeed and thhhirtyyy seveeen!”
And so Arthur retreated to the veritable safety of his room, room 237, which was nothing short of mediocre. An old four-poster bed dominated the room, lit by a small bedside lamp of the same stuttering electric brass. A discoloured sink stood by the large windows, which overlooked the west wing of the hotel, a cracked mirror nailed to the wall above it. Arthur wandered over to the basin and splashed water on his face. He noticed that over the dramatic events of the evening, his appearance had become increasingly bedraggled. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, and his hair was out of place. Arthur hated problems, but the one thing he hated more than problems was untidiness. Arthur loved his neatness almost as much as he loved his numbers; every hair cuticle was normally kept in place with an almost stoic vigilance. He was dismayed to see himself in such a state. Taking off his tie, he stepped over to the window, pushing it open for a breath of fresh air. His eyes soon fell on the other open window across the courtyard.
First, it was nothing but an open window. Completely normal. Perhaps there was another guest? But then two hands clawed their way out of the window. Then out came two podgy arms, and a rotund, besuited body. It was exactly what Arthur had feared. A man, clambering out of the window! But not just any man. It was Mr Galloway. Standing haphazardly on the windowsill, the bald owner licked his bulbous red lips and started to climb the wall. That’s right. Galloway was climbing the wall, inching his way up the brickwork with a supernatural, lizard-like strength. Arthur, dismayed and terrified at what he had just seen, let out a fearful cry and quickly closed the shutters.
It was definitely time for a drink.
Arthur quietly made his way down to the hotel bar. The bar itself was very much like the lobby, red carpet and old mahogany, lit by the same eerie electric lights as his room. Old television sets were mounted on the wall in each corner, a thick coat of dust over each screen. A pool table was pushed in one corner, cues and balls left from a long-forgotten game. Arthur stepped through the room and sat himself down on an old, worn barstool. There was no sight of any staff; he considered that maybe the bar had closed. But alas, he heard footsteps, coming from the storeroom! Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Arthur heard the footsteps, but no barkeep came. The steps made their way down the bar, old floorboards creaking under the apparent weight of nothing. Every dragging step brought whatever it was that inhabited the bar closer to Arthur, until they stopped with a final thud, just in front or where he was sat at the bar. All Arthur could do was stare forward, transfixed with fear at the very idea that there was something in front of him that he could not see. A booming, supernatural voice suddenly reverberated around the room.
“Wha’ can A get ye’, Saaan?” the booming voice questioned. It left the young man a quivering mess upon the bar. “Please, sir, I do not mean any trouble, just let me live!” Arthur cried through fearful tears.
“Calm daaan Saaan!” said the voice. “I don’ mean no ‘arm, honest!”
But that was quite enough for Arthur. He got up from the stool and stormed out of the bar and back into the lobby, making a beeline for his room. But someone was waiting for him. None other than the terrifying Mr Galloway, spectacular and sublime in all his un-dead might.
“Whereee arrreee yyyou off to theeen, Mrrr Pansssworthyyy?!” he called, bringing Arthur into his cold embrace. “It’sss a reeeal shameee you can’t stayyy!”
Arthur, rather quickly, opted for an alternate escape, heading straight for the hotel door without his suitcase or his coat. Rather that, than having all of his life-blood removed by a supernatural hotelier.
“Ohhh, Mrrr Pansssworthyyy!” the voice called, following him down the long lobby hallway. “Won’t youuu stayyy? We haveee sssooo much businessssss to attend to!”
Arthur made it out of the hotel that night. Where he is now, no-one can say. Some say that the experience was just too much for him, and he has gone into hiding, forever a slave to his manic fear and paranoia. Never again could he look upon a raven, or even consider entering a bar, let alone having a drink in one.
Others say he disappeared into the night. It’s the only logical explanation; no buses ran to the hotel at that time of night, and the nearest civilisation was over five miles away. There was no way he could have made it by morning. He must have died out there, on the wild and windy moors.
There is more, though. Some say that the denizens of the Travel-Inn got him. It had happened before. Or had it? Some say there isn’t even a travel-inn on that stretch of road. I for one, have no proof. It must have had some placement in reality. It had to be real, because, as we all know; Mr Arthur Pansworthy was not a man of imagination.
A Fool's Hope. 