June 2014

June 2014

Writings by the Say It Right Writers Circle themed around BEING FREE POETRY – River Swimming, by Ali H FICTION – No Signal, by Phil Chokeword FICTION – Loafing Oafs in All-night Chemists, by Orzak Bule FICTION – The Deck, by Alan Marshall FICTION – I Like Speculative Fiction – Dark Narratives of the Future That Looms, by Ben Smith

Find out more about the Say It Right Writers Circle: sayitrightwriterscircle.blogspot.com Get in contact: tensongspodcast@googlemail.com All work licensed under Creative Commons: Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs CC BY-NC-ND

River Swimming

By Ali H It's so unconscious, this water, So still and unknowable; Amniotic, cobbled with lillypads, Thick with pond weed and meadow-sweet.

It's so unthinking too; Just the oozing ecstasy of mud between my toes as I wade out naked from the river bank and the bottom disappears.

Just the sliding of eels and sticklebacks against my slimy calves the thirst-quenching, unending green.

And me, Quietly breast-stroking between willows, Under cloud-heavy skies, Weightless, Free of weight, Free of everything.

No Signal

By Phil Chokeword It seems like the summer will never come and then it does and I’m on holiday and I say goodbye to my friends who I won’t see every day like I usually do for a little while and to Mrs Hedben who smells like cat wee and Mrs John the school librarian who looks like an owl and then mum picks me up and we drive for what seems like forever to the country which I like because it’s very green and there’s a little river and mum is on her phone the whole time but I don’t mind too much because there is no more school for over a month and I’m happy to be somewhere new although I still wonder why her phone is called Blackberry when I always thought that blackberries were little sweet things that grew on bushes by the road like the ones I picked last summer with Sam when someone called us something I didn’t understand but I could tell wasn’t very nice and I ask her why her Blackberry is called Blackberry and she tells me to go away because she’s having an important conversation... Its dark and mum is still busy so I look out the window at the lane and see two foxes who are totally in love because I can tell by how they look at each other and I shout to mum that Robin and Marion are in the road because it looks like the cartoon foxes from the film that she’d bought me that I really like but by the time she comes over they are gone and I don’t think mum believes me that they were there but they were and she makes me a hot chocolate and we put on the DVD and I laugh and watch it like I always do because I know it makes mum happy but I can tell that she isn’t happy and she keeps playing with her phone and pressing buttons and looking sad so I ask her if she is ok and give her a hug and she tells me not to worry, it’s just work, but I tell her she isn’t at work and she looks at me kinda funny and gives me a big kiss... The next day we catch the train into the hills, I love the train because its old fashioned and runs on steam and smells funny and we’re early so we wait at the station which also smells funny and I look around me because mums on the phone and I see that everyone is on the phone and they’re all playing with their phones and I think that’s a shame because it’s so pretty and no one’s looking at how pretty it is, especially not mum who is red faced and sad again, even when I point out the cows in the field opposite and that there’s a cloud that looks a little like granddad if you look at it with your eyes half shut and then I see the advert that says “Blackberry... Now you take the office with you” but before I can ask mum if the reason why she’s always on the phone is because it’s really her office, just folded up really small, the train arrives.... By the time we get back I’ve decided that I’m going to help mum have a good holiday and free her from her tiny office which I can tell is making her sad, it reminds me of how I felt when Mrs Hebden overheard me saying she smelt of cats wee and gave me detention, but worse because there’s no bell to tell mum when detention is over so I wait until she is having a shower and I find her Blackberry in the bedroom where its charging and I look at it flashing away and it makes me wonder how she fits her desk in this little black box, but anyhow I slip it in my pocket and go downstairs to the kitchen where I put the second part of my secret plan into action by crawling under the table and lifting up a chair leg and putting the phone under it so that the leg is on the screen, and then I get up and climb on the chair next to this chair and count to three and jump on to the first chair and there’s a big crunch as the leg comes down and smashes the Blackberry and I punch the air because my plan worked and I just know mum is going to be freer and much happier now...

Loafing Oafs in All-night Chemists

By Orzak Bule ‘The dice were loaded against us ever seeing each other/ But one of us had nowhere else to go’ Dear M--, Sorry about the delay since my last letter. I wrote in April, but it didn’t reach you. This morning I received a message from the chief superintendent: ‘in your letter dated April 22nd to prisoner A1924SH you state that 12 first class stamps are enclosed. As the stamps were not included we have taken to precaution of returning the letter to the sender. We feel that it is our duty, as the service provider, to avoid any distress to our service users’.

Me – not including the stamps? Do you remember two Christmases ago when I gave you that framed picture of Billy Bragg (smiling outside the humanities building, arms tightly gripped around you)? I wrapped and unwrapped that - oh, about twelve times, until the paper was all ripped and frayed on Christmas day. I don’t know why I had to do it, I remember vague fears that I’d accidently included a photo of… I don’t know… something really offensive. But by the eighth time that feeling must have gone.

That was two years ago. I get better as I get more worn down. But that doesn’t mean I won’t open, reseal, reread, reread, reseal, reopen a letter five or six times. The stamps were there.

I wanted to send a book, but I don’t know the rules about that now. Obviously it would be Frankenstein. We both thought the creature was a great metaphor for our lives, but we didn’t know why. We could last for weeks in a slow and deliberate monstrous state.

Believing that at any moment we could stop playing the role, but never quite managing it.

Another of life’s dark underpasses. Driving up the M42 on Saturday we saw a truck – bright blue – crammed with sheep, all looking out onto the motorway on the hottest day of the year. My heart swerved, my driving is bad enough. I know you go in for the grand Treblinka metaphors, which I find silly. But are we meant to feel nothing, do nothing? You didn’t. Ovis whines could be human cries. My mind raced to puerile thoughts about slashed tires, smashed windows and broken wing mirrors, or perhaps some Bambi style rescue attempt – thirty sheep jumping into the back of our Nissan bluebird as we exit the Gloucestershire border. Then we’ll all live happily ever after, them grazing on the patio of our maisonette.

What was the driver thinking is he transported his ill-fated cargo? We used to sit on the library steps and say ‘why can’t everyone feel how we do’, or words to that effect. I’ve long since stopped trusting my emotions, I’m not cut out for saying goodbye to an old pair of trousers; and I’ve stayed loyal to my mobile even though the ‘receive calls’ function has long since died. I don’t have the belief you do that we are right. We might be completely deluded. But I find that a more exciting prospect as we navigate through this genocidal world and attempt to make it slightly better.

But you? You trust your emotions, to you it was all about feelings. Was it not knowing what the driver was thinking - but wanting them to feel something? Did you dream of liberating yourself - of feeling alive for just one night? Or did you think about the lives you saved - who will feel something other than wire mesh beneath their feet.

Stay strong, remember some old John Darnielle lyric.

Forever A Bit Peaky, Ozark

The Deck

By Alan Marshall Most people walk with their heads up enjoying the open sky and their surroundings, people watching perhaps. For a long time now I have only looked at the ground.

Years ago (July 15th 1979 to be precise) I made the decision, purely on a whim, to pick up a single discarded playing card I found in the street. It was the 6 of diamonds, and I wondered idly to myself how long it would take to collect a whole deck of unwanted and lost cards. Turns out it takes way longer than I ever could have imagined. * The weather has been appalling recently, and I walked into the wind with my collar up, scanning the margins of the pavement as I always do for the last illusive card. It doesn’t help, the wind still blows right through me.

If there’s someone up there watching over us they sure have a warped sense of humour. There always had to be one card that was the last bugger to find or course, but the real twist of the knife is that mine is the ace of spades. The most famous card of the bunch; the one people imbue with an extra significance, the one that keeps that fucking Motorhead song churning in my brain every single day.

But today, there it was, pressed hard against the wire mesh of a fence next to the park - battered and soggy but unmistakably my card.

Stooping, I thought about the wedge of fifty one rag-tag cards in my coat pocket and the time entwined with them.

The first cards presented themselves easily enough, and within a few years I was at least halfway to a full deck. I was amazed at the kick of adrenalin I got when I found a discarded card, any card, even repeats that I already had, and I found them in the most unlikely places; 4 of clubs – stuck to the bottom of a wheelie bin in Liverpool.

8 of diamonds – folded to wedge a toilet cubicle shut on a cross-channel ferry.

Jack of spades – tucked in a library book with a mobile phone number scribbled across its back.

I have cards depicting everywhere and everything – Amsterdam canals to Russian industrial plants, Homer Simpson to Karl Marx. As for the Queen of hearts, well let’s just say it’s not only her blood that’s blue – if you take my meaning. Truly all human life is there.

The next ten years or so were slow but steady. I took holidays to Vegas as the pace slowed up and I needed a boost by finding a card I didn’t own. Everyone looked up, I looked down. I found the 9 of clubs outside a bar off the strip and flew home broke.

But the last years have been the hardest. I can’t deny that the deck has taken over my life. My back is crooked, and dirt from the gutters is constantly ground into my nails. I move through other people on the street unobserved, no eye contact anymore, just the tarmac and me - pinpointing any piece of litter with a momentary jolt of excitement and that sick lurch when it turns out to be a paper cup or a dropped business card.

Not so today.

As I approached I felt nauseous with anticipation, and bending into the gusting wind I scrabbled in the grit and mud to pull the limp rectangle clear of the fence. It was over, this was the last one. Freedom.

But the sickness swelled and I reeled as it dawned on me – I had built this world that I drifted through, the dirt, the loneliness, everything. It was the search that kept me free, not the goal after all.

Reaching into my pocket I felt the heft of the uneven pack laying there, and without knowing why, I bought them out, peeled off the doubled elastic band and threw them upwards with all my strength.

Fifty one harlequin playing cards – battered, mismatched and ragged – scattered from my hand like confetti, and I watched spellbound as the wind whipped them in a dance over fences and undergrowth – homeless, useless and free once more.

I turned and walked away with my solitary ace, feeling better than I had felt for years.

Today, I thought, is a day to look up. Looking down can start again tomorrow. So how long does it take to collect a full deck? –I’ll tell you when it’s done.

“The pleasure is to play, makes no difference what you say, I don't share your greed, the only card I need is The Ace of Spades”

“I Like Speculative Fiction – Dark Narratives of the Future That Looms*”

By Ben Smith 1:00pm, it's time to move, to get going. The body and mind are both unwilling. They want extra seconds of sleep and rest but I said I'd meet Tim at 3pm for the gig tonight and I need to shower and eat before then. I pick up my clothes from the floor where I dropped them last night. The shorts and hoodie pass the smell test but the rest go in the laundry basket. I look round the room and lines from Start Today by Gorilla Biscuits spin through my head, I'll tidy tomorrow.

2:45pm, I'm early. I usually am. I know Tim will be late as well. Never mind, I order myself a pint and settle down at a corner table in the pub where I can see the door. I people watch for a bit until I feel like I'm being rude and staring and then bury my nose in my phone. Nothing exciting is happening there either but scanning through Facebook and Twitter distracts me just enough that time seems to pass slightly more quickly.

3:30pm and Tim walks through the door. I get up and meet him at the bar. It's been a while since I last saw him but he hasn't changed. The same mop of seemingly uncontrollable hair, the same band t-shirts, the same introverted mannerisms. Tim orders us two more pints and we head back to the corner table. It's good to catch up and talk. I am amazed sometimes that there are people who I can not see for months and even years at a time but as soon as we are together it feels comfortable like we've never been apart.

2:00am, I've lost Tim somewhere between the gig and the bar I'm in. It's ok though because I appear to have made some new friends at the gig tonight so I'm not alone.

Other people I don't know who weren't at the gig try to talk to me. I respond as best as I can but just can't muster any interest in what they're saying. I know I should make an effort but they just don't seem the kind of people I want to talk to. Mentally I know I'm writing them off because they're in this bar. You're in this bar too I remind myself.

3:00am, I don't feel drunk at all. I look around the bar and wonder why I'm still here and why there is still a drink in my hand. I've heard it said that nothing exciting happens if you go home at 10pm. However trust me 99% of the time nothing exciting happens full stop. You just end up stood in a bar in the middle of the night having spent far too much money wondering why you're there. I leave the bar and realise how hungry I am. I stop at the nearest takeaway and get some chips and start the walk home.

Midday. I wake up before I want to and as I sit in the kitchen I'm visited by feelings of despair. It's the simplest way to describe it and I can't put my finger on a reason why.

My body feels tired and aches. My hands shake slightly as I try to pour the coffee from the pot into my mug. The thought that there is no real point to existence pops into my head. It's been there before and I don't have an answer. I get up and walk towards the kitchen door but halfway there forget why I got up and go back to my seat. Tears start to well in my eyes and I crouch on the kitchen floor whilst the tears roll down my cheeks. I feel ridiculous lying on the kitchen floor crying and I want to move but I don't seem to have the energy to lift myself up.

1:00pm, I run the bath and make sure it's hot. I take off my shorts but get in wearing my underpants and t-shirt. I pick up the knife from the side of the bath and look at the blade, I wonder if I sharpened it recently. There is the fire of pain as I run the knife down the inside of my wrists. Blood starts to seep into the water. The thought that no one ever tells you how long it takes to bleed to death crosses my mind and wonder if I

should have locked the bathroom door.

1:30pm, I'm starting to feel faint but relaxed. For the first time in a long time I feel vaguely euphoric, am I free now, I wonder?

*Propaghandi – 'Things I like'