Keisha

Standing just behind me, breathing excitement with eyes full of wonder and curiosity. Dallying in a flowerbed or sniffing at some post or rock. She is there. Snoring by the radiator or dancing on her side, chasing invisible prey and waking with a surprised look. Following each piece of food with a longing gaze or barking at nothing and for no reason. She is there. Held close when things are hard and full of love for who we are. Expecting no more than a gentle breeze, some food and a bit of attention. She is there. Whether wrestling with a young one or engaged in polite ‘hellos’, meeting and sharing the day. Standing close beside us, to keep us safe from harm. She is there.

She is always there and though we might not always see; our shadow will never really leave.

Loved

Keisha, January 19th 2012 xxx

Squashed two

I am squashed between two worlds
and though grown from my roots,
trying to maintain some clemency.
Hoping to think and not offend;
I was raised too cautious,
but in awe of heroes;
I fought inside my mind:
I did not step on grass.
I did not talk in class.
I did not sleep around.
I held back most I felt.

Understanding is the rarest thing,
a ghost amongst ideas.
And when the call was sounded
and as usual I had no heart,
but on hearing violent voices and
displays of casual threat,
the petty digs and schadenfreude,
provoked a hidden rage.

Speaking a little louder,
at risk of unknown change
then in a moment critical,
SMIILING.

To share an open feeling
of honest lost belief,
where no one is a victor,
but everyone is heard.
Better loud than silent
I suppose, or else I’m wrong,
to roar my thoughts ferocious,
as I retreat in to my cage.

Squashed one

I don’t agree with all I love,

but love those who don’t agree.

If my mother taught me anything,

it was how to be contrary.

The Mortographer

This nasty little tale is my contribution to the ME4 writers short and nasties collection, which can be downloaded at:  http://roysmith.podbean.com/ 

He throws open the shutters that have kept out the past few days and wicked light invades our hidden world. I had watched you drift into endless sleep, as your tiny nails cut into the palm of my hand, waiting whilst your breath whispered to pathetic silence. A man of straight lines, dressed in black with a coachman’s hat and cane; his servant carrying assorted boxes, as he stands stiff at the centre of my room. Through thin wire glasses his yellow eyes flit from my chair to the bed where you sleep no more.

I heard you cry that night; a choking fit then nothing. Left alone in silence with your porcelain skin and gentle face, hoping for one more sign of life, but knowing it would never come. Your father sent this shade to solve his guilt, to grab one last glimpse of his fading creation and free himself of the obligations his family would never allow. He never met you, but I saw him looking back at me every time you laughed or smiled and even when you lied. They kept us well, or so they had me suppose. A terraced house upon a hill overlooking the banks; a small house, but clean, surrounded by boat builders, dockers and their whining wives. The family sent us money, just enough, but not so much, yet we were happy and I loved you dearly. They will send no more, after today I am worthless, and despite this I know your father cared for us, though was far to weak to show it.

The straight line man and his bulky assistant pull wood and metal apparatus from their weathered boxes, building a scaffold to hold the heavy machine they move with such care. They bolt and screw and tighten each part, so the thing stands firm in the centre of the room, pointing down at where you lay. He powders your face and ruffles your hair, not happy with your sweat stuck curls, twisting them around his fingers and pulling to spring. You lay too straight my beautiful boy. He turns you to the wall and puts his knee behind yours, forcing a bend with a crack, before flipping you back to face his lens, propped up on a tear soaked pillow. My nails scratch at the arms of the chair and I feel my blood racing as I watch him manipulate your fragile limbs. You mustn’t fear my child, you have no more need of this broken body. 

I met your father whilst I was working at his mother’s house. She rarely spoke, but everyone obeyed; her few words were bitter-cold and empty of kindness. He was the life in that house, as you were in mine. When he was away the days dragged on in mechanic isolation, unchanging and grey. That long summer he left a trail of smiles behind him, I ached for the relief of his presence, the lightness brought by his casual words. We loved one night, time caught and kept and there you were, a secret in my belly. Her screeched orders sent me packing, hidden behind these prison walls; to birth you here and raise you, in silence away from him and her.

He hides beneath a darkened cape that flows from atop the metal box. The cloth of his pristine suit stretches over his hunched back, close to ripping and I swear the daggers of his shoulder blades protrude in the way of severed waxen wings. I cannot watch and bury my head within my hands, he twists and turns the dials of his vicious lens, clicking and snapping into some ghastly configuration. I look up at your peaceful face and feel your love beaming back at me from your unnatural pose, your painted eyes staring into nothing, but somehow pleading. 

Click. I scream, as searing white floods the room, blinding it hangs and fades in a permanent instant. I find myself caught between light and dark, your image burning into my mind. You glow, outlined with streaks of colour and wherever I look you follow, inescapably staring into my soul, accusing, reaching out to cling to earthly things.

I am alone now in the fading day; the room is empty, cleansed of any memory of you. Upon the bed lies a husk. There is no sign of who you were, all that is left is a featureless form, dried of emotion, there is nothing inside. It is not you. He has taken any part that remained, stolen away the only thing that kept me. And as he walked away, I swear those boxes seemed to sit heavy in his servants arms then in the sunset glow I caught a sideways glimpse of unfolding leather wings.

Mourning the dodging of many bullets

If I survive to be old,

I hope that by then society will have learnt that experience does not equal wisdom,

and that survival may only indicate the dodging of many bullets.

If they treat me with reverence,

let it be for my achievements and not from any misguided sentimentality,

they should chide me for my follies

and ignore my foolish advice, but without cruelty or intention to cause pain.

Leave me alone when needed and expect me to function as best I can,

it is a wickedness to control through care,

or to diminish through sympathy.

For now I shall run towards the bullets

and try not to wince if the scrape my skin,

I might need when I am baggy.

Waiting for Charlie – (part of the low expectation project)

This was written as part of the low expectation project, taking minor characters from Dickens and giving them a little bit more to do…

(Two soldiers are walking along a path through the marshes. Mist is reducing visibility considerably, their boots are covered in mud and neither looks too happy.)

Sidney Where the blazes have they got to?

Earnest(Shrugs and makes an unintelligible noise.)

Sidney We should be back at fire side, with a little brew….this tramping is no good for my legs.

Earnest You said go left, and that’s what we did sir…(mumbles) and if you kept up it’d do you no harm either.

Sidney What’s that boy?

Earnest Nothing sir…it is a fair long way and no denying.

Sidney You’re not wrong their lad…not wrong at all…but for this fog we’d be away in no time…

Earnest(mumbles) but for this fool, I’d be in bed by much sooner…

Sidney Are you cheeking me boy?

Earnest Wouldn’t dream of it sir…

Sidney Good…

Earnest Sir?

Sidney Yes.

Earnest These men…

Sidney The brigands?

Earnest That’s them…

Sidney Well?

Earnest Well…what have they done? I mean, I know they’re terrible bad men, but what is it they did to get in one them there hulks?

Sidney Ahh, it is a long sad story and that I’m sure…but don’t mistake they would not be there, excepting those terrible deeds.

Earnest …but sir

Sidney Mmmmmm

Earnest What was those terrible deeds what got them all locked up and all?

Sidney mmmmnn…I’m not sure how that’s the business of the likes of you and I, my boy…they did bad things, awful things…most terrible things…

Earnest yeah, but what things…

Sidney(getting flustered) Look here boy, I don’t care a king’s farthing what things it is they did, all I know is that those things, what that they did, are most terrible things to do and that it is them that did them. And that the likes of you and I have no business to be asking. We are for the finding and the taking and that is all.

Earnest but..

Sidney What…

Earnest Nothing.

Sidney Go on now…you’ve got me this far in your damn silly

questions I’ll have no peace inside me ’til you’ve gotten it out…you were the same about that cat…

Earnest Well, if we are sent to find and take, as you rightly say, then how do we know what it is we hope to find if we know nothing of the cause.

Sidney The cause….the cause? Have you not listened to me one bit? The terrible things is the cause, and no mistaking.

Earnest But what if those things, so terrible as to keep them locked on such hulks, were no more right or wrong than say…a trifle…

Sidney Oh, don’t speak me of trifle. You torture my belly so? How can it be a trifle?

Earnest I dunno, I once heard a man was hanged for bread.

Sidney Bread? Bread in your ears my boy…they hang ’til dead, you cloth eared fool.

Earnest I swear he stole some bread and was hanged for it.

Sidney Well there you go my boy, you say he stole, and rightly so, he likely got his just desserts….terrible things I say, terrible things…

Earnest It seems a bit…

Sidney If a man stole my bread, he’d soon know what terrible meant.

Earnest Suppose, but….hey look up ahead….is that?

Sidney That’s a gibbet and no mistaking…you’ve been training your eyes or maybe this talk of things has made your neck close to the rope.

Earnest How can talk of things make me bad?

Sidney It’s talk that sends you to him, no doubt.

Earnest But I ain’t done no wrong.

Sidney Sure, I would hope you’ve not, but that head of yours will end in trouble if you keep thinking sideways and the like.

Earnest Look, the path goes off in two ways again and right off there it is, the river.

Sidney And full of mud it’ll ever be.

Earnest So, which way then?

Sidney(He licks his finger and holds it in the air)

Earnest What you doing?

Sidney I’m getting the feel of it.

Earnest But how will the wind get us where we need to go?

Sidney The wind knows, boy. The wind knows.

Earnest What? How can the wind know?

Sidney Trust me son, the wind knows. It’s blown right along with us, from hill and down and now its saying that way’s right.

Earnest The left path?

Sidney Right, the left path.

Earnest But if the wind knows the way then how did we get lost in the first place?

Sidney There are mysteries my boy, mysteries not meant for you and me.

Earnest I don’t think the way we walk is any mystery, we go left or right and there’s the river. How can it be left, it we are at the river?

Sidney The wind says..

Earnest But Sir, we walked towards the river when we came, and come so far left we cannot go much more or will be where we started…

Sidney The wind never failed me yet.

Earnest Then the wind is as lost as us.

Sidney Then what say you…right, I suppose?

Earnest Why not, we keep going left, surely right would be the way to go?

Sidney My poor boy, the fog has got you simple. If left we have walked for such a time then once right will take us nowhere.

Earnest But this ain’t the same right as where we went left, it is another and maybe this right is where we’re wanting…

Sidney But the wind…

Earnest(Angry, then surprised at himself) Will you shut up about the damned wind!

Sidney(Hostile, but calm) ….How dare you talk to me in such a tone, I will not have such talk from a boy like you.

I said you were for the bad.

Earnest I can’t do it…I’ll walk in circles all night long if you have it your way.

Sidney Nonsense man, pull yourself together

Earnest No, I won’t do it. Not no more sir. It makes no sense.

Sidney Calm yourself

Earnest I’m going

Sidney(Chuckling) Where to, the right?

Earnest The left, the right be damned. The river can take me!

Sidney The river?

Earnest(In jest – mimicking Sidney) I see the river, hear it too, and that smells its making. So by that thinking it’s the only way.

Sidney Right you are boy…right you are..

Earnest What?

Sidney You make an excellent case, can’t fault you there.

Earnest(Uncertain) Then, to the river?

Sidney The river, yes…you make some sense with what you say, by Jove I think you’re learning.

(They walk off into the river, Sidney grinning ear to ear and Earnest in petrified dismay.)

Post nude @ the horsebridge

Nikki has some wonderful photo’s on display at the Horsebridge centre in Whitstable of this sort and we saw they were asking for some written nudes…I gave it a try and here are a couple of the drafts…the ones I sent are slightly prettier…but not much

Check out Post Nude at the Horsebridge from now to the 31st May – have fun, be nude!!!

Where is the fool?

Where is the fool who hides in the man?

To question the passing of time,

without which his wisdom does suffer the most,

splintered from protection, it fails.

When spoken in tongues, we see through the lie,

no reverence without ridicule,

subjected to fancy and flowery prose,

full of praise and no sign of ill.

The masses await, enthralled by a day

will question the purpose, not a bit.

Lucky are they who simply feel free

to give up their token of wit.

But suffer the bastards who stand on the hill,

by base, on the heath or beside,

a river that cuts between regal and muck,

who treacherous slogans cry.

Knowing less than they speak,

speaking more than they ought,

and spending much more than they owe,

plagued by such doubts, with no sense of pride

as seeking the truth ain’t no good.

But stand up for bastards, fools and the one

who shake fists in rage at the moon,

as lashed by the storm, in fear of it all,

ungrateful for what they are thrown,

go naked to war with ideas and no more

with knowledge they are alone.

   

(Written between 11am and 12noon, 29th April 2011, with thanks to another William)

Splattered

Something broken.  Spread out and unforgiving of its violence, a fruit salad ending.  The seeds shrivel, finding no purchase on baked concrete, gasping in the dust thick air.  Liquid arms reach out in silent desperation for whatever sustenance is available, but finding only evaporation, fade as flicks of spit.  And yet, the contrasts of red and green play wild in the August sun, shattered splats paint bit parts of utter joy. 

FRANK ‘Boiling point’ – by Neil Colquhoun

Frank, a mysterious bounty hunter gets more than he bargained for in his latest assignment. Becoming mixed up in the beginnings of a gang war, he has to contend with a team of hit-men, who are not like your usual guns-for-hire!

It’s a story about a a bounty hunter, a dead-but-alive hitman partnered with an alive-but-should-be-dead criminal, an escort girl, a man who has a taste for something bad… and the Devil!

Download the trailer for Frank ‘Boiling point’ here or listen to the whole story here.