Posts tagged with "story"
Saturday, July 17, 2010 5:53:19 PM
This much is known. We need a "them or us" kinda way of thinkin' so we can unite against a common enemy.
Some say that's purpose. Others say it's just a conduit for the hate that humans carry around inside 'em.
Way I see it, there's more than just a divide.
See now, we'll start off with religion. Sore subject for most folk, sure. People have their beliefs and so many hold them so damn tight because they're afraid they're gonna blow away in the wind. That's why whenever a challenge comes along, you'll find these supposed peace-lovin' God-fearin' folk turn nasty as you can expect from a common bandit.
'Course, they're not all like that. There's them with that "live and let live" way of thinkin'. Not just on the surface, condemning all those that believe somethin' different deep inside, I mean those either secure in their faith or just sensible 'nough to realise that life on Earth is meant to be lived, not spent lookin' at the heavens tryin' to figure out answers as old as man while their fellers suffer before sky-blind eyes.
Then you got your non-believers, and they have two basic types.
Your first guy mocks the believers, friendly or no. He believes himself above those taken in by the need to believe in an afterlife. He'll bait and goad the believer, belivin' him to be nothin' more than a fool. Cursin' mankind's stupidity, all that riot. Mostly there's part of him jealous of the believer for his capacity to believe, you ask me.
Your second guy's much like that peaceful believer I was talkin' about not too long ago. He's fine with anyone's personal opinion and doesn't look on 'em any less just for havin' a whole different outlook on life.
That's just how people treat each other as far as faith goes.
What about how they live?
I've met a lot of people in my life. I've lived a long time, and an eventful one at that.
I've met believers who do good things. Talkin' sugar and handin' out pretty favours for strange folk around, and I've asked, "why?" Nine times outta ten, person's scared of their god. They wanna get to heaven, scared of hell, n satan. They don't want their asses to boil in the fires of hell so they'll treat everyone like some kinda royalty all while secretly resentin' those folk. Cause they're scared, is all.
Then you got those more pious than-thou believers. They figure they believe more than any damn person else in the world, so the world oughta recognise that greatness. Maybe not, maybe they're instead the type just run around ignorin' pleas from their fellow man, or rapin', stealin', lyin' murderin' or nature knows what else because they can just rinse and repent.
Then you got your nonbeliever who figures life's too short to be nice. Nothin' after death but a pretty hole in the ground if ya lucky, so why not just do whatever you want and damn anyone else, because what's the point if this is all there is?
Then, somethin' else in entirety.
The nonbeliever who's good to his fellow man. Not 'cause he's scared of ultimate penance. Not a con-man or hustler lookin' for rewards.
Just is. You ask him why and he'll tell you that it's simply "the way he wants to live. The right thing to do."
Now, I ain't gone and told ya which one of these four I am. Or even if I fit into one of them categories.
Nature knows there's more than four types of folk out there.
Far as I see it, doesn't really matter one way or 'nother.
Ain't nothin' you can prove, religion or otherwise. People make up their minds based on what they see and what they think. My truth and your truth, well, they're probably two whole different animals.
Truth never comes into it. It don't exist, 'cause truth's a relative thing, friend.
Friday, February 26, 2010 8:29:46 PM
It has claws.
No, not claws.
Digging. Digging, hurts, can't pull it out... But not claws.
Suckers. Like on octopi. No, too soft. Strong, immovable. Simple pressure to correct points would enable release. No.
No flesh, no bone. Can't smell it, can't see it...
But it sees me.
No eyes, yet it sees. It knows, hears, thinks.
Has no soul, no form.
Smoke? Black, spiralling, encircling, no vent.
Can't be numbers, numbers they're not good not evil, numbers impartial.
No words, so not letters. No ink or graphite, coal, lead no no mineral vegetable animal.
Classify soul. Conscience, heart, awareness? All, some, none? Can't categorize, can't magnify can't see it sees me.
Hurts. Hurts. Physicality fine. Unharmed. No blood internal or otherwise spouting gushing fountain where it should not pour, no. Thoughts, brain, physically functioning. Or above. Senses untainted.
Hm, tainted? Perhaps a taint. No, unseen by machine by man or spirit monster otherwise. Taint visible. This... Can't see. Nothing sees, it sees me.
It stares with no eyes can't see it yet know by no sense aural olfactory no, no, yet I know. I know, it sees.
Teeth? No, no bone or flesh vapour or solid? No. No mineral animal organic factory metal produce nobody put it there just is. How long? Days weeks months years millennia, no, not blood pumping for millennia impossible.
Time without? Impossible to tell. Remove? How... No. Can't remove what cannot see.
Nothing can see but it sees me.
Sunday, February 7, 2010 9:40:17 AM
So, here I lie, vaguely aware of the cigarette I loosely hold burning the tips of my fingers. It doesn't hurt, thanks to the half-bottle of whiskey that rests on the nightstand as lazily as I. The amber liquid had ceased its gushing waterfall and now drips those golden drops of numbness slowly, almost peacefully.
I stare at the bottle and chuckle. We are much alike. A lot can come out of a person all at once, but after a time you'll find there's not much left inside and you can do nought but drip, drip, drip away the remnants.
You can fill a bottle back up again, but can you fill up a person?
Take, take, take. There's only so much you can rip from a man, and you can't put it back. Once it's gone, the bloodied hole it left does nothing but fester and rot until it becomes nothing more than a pile of dust that chokes you.
...Which is why god, in his infinite wisdom, created the liquid which is currently pooling on my carpet. You can clear the dust for a time in a stream of searing, numbing nectar, and you can breathe again for a while.
It doesn't last.
Nothing lasts any more.
I took a job a few weeks ago. Dame needed something found, your standard broad with too much money, distraught over a stolen heirloom, recently lost her husband, needed a shoulder to cry on and a big, strong hero to help. I, of course, was more than happy to oblige. I hadn't felt a woman's touch in almost five years, and, I tell you, it was something to be wanted by such a looker.
Hell, she soon decided the heirloom was less than important. She suckered me good and proper. I thought.. Hmmm. I thought she may even be falling in love with me.
I can't remember if I thought it a little shady that she'd so quickly abandon the reason she approached me. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I know for damn sure that I didn't care. She'd give me that doe-eyed look, and everything else just... Dripped away.
They'd both been missing for 29 hours when I got the call. You can imagine how those hours were. It's not like I'm never threatened in my line of work, of course, but these were the only two people in this godforsaken world I cared about. I prayed for hours to a god I don't believe in, imploring the kidnappers to leave them well and unharmed.
Maybe that god punished me.
One was taken from me.
I couldn't look at his body. They told me I wouldn't recognise him, the damage was too... Well, they used the word, "mutilated".
Turns out what she really wanted was revenge on her dead husband. Or someone who looked enough like him.
My 5 year old son was a close enough match.
She'd taken him away from his class and locked him in her basement... And taken over a day to kill him, all because he somehow bore some resemblance to a husband who cheated her and died before she could get her revenge.
She'd come to me because she'd seen me taking him to school. It'd been planned all along. No heirloom. No love.
They found her covered in my little boy's blood, weeping with apparent contrition and pleading insanity. I don't know where they took her.
I can't blame the girl, she was nuts.
So, here I am. I can still smell her on these sheets, and all this brings to my mind is nights. Nights of me telling my boy to be good and go sleep while I stay up with the nice lady. Nights of sweating and gasping, being inside the woman who infiltrated my life to butcher it.
It's my fault.
The whiskey's stopped dripping, but there's still something left inside, it hasn't even reached the neck of the bottle.
There's nothing left in me as I reach for the knife. The dust chokes me, my body and soul perforated with countless holes.
Because after all, there's nought else to do but let the remnants drip away.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010 10:24:07 AM
I don't remember her face.
I remember being thirteen.
I can recite the songs played at her funeral. One still brings tears to my eyes, the other was massively inappropriate but was apparently her favourite song.
I remember meeting her at school. I was new, she was not. The specifics don't matter. We were about to enter a class for Design Technology. We were to make keyrings from cheap plastic. The smell was acrid, it burnt my nostrils.
She had a face like a thunderstorm. I called her a mardyarse, and she screwed up her nose in confusion - this word, "mardy" was alien to her. That was Kelly.
I also remember Harriet.
Harriet preyed on many other girls. She took one look at me, and when she realised I couldn't be of any disposable use to her, she dug her fat, oversized fingers under my skin. My father was not rich - my uniform for school missed the logos of the "proper" school clothes. Plain were cheaper. I grew fast, taller than my clothes quickly.
Harriet mocked me with gusto for my weight. I won't lie to you - I was fat. Thing was, Harriet was almost a foot taller than me and perhaps 100lbs heavier. She'd sit in front of me in class and my lip would curl at the pools of fat she oozed around all sides of the chair. How dare she?
She'd prod and poke at my face in view of crowds, humiliating me. But this is not her main crime.
You see, Harriet and Kelly did not mix well. Harriet victimized Kelly almost constantly. I'd often see her in tears. Sometimes hysterics. We did not know each other well. We did not talk often. But there was a silent alliance of the weak between us.
I would have liked to know her better.
I remember the phone call. It was two days after Christmas. I'd been living with my father for just over four months, and I'd been at school for three. We were merry with Yuletide sentimentalities when the phone rang, surprisingly for me.
The news brought a choked laugh of disbelief. Then, a need for detail. What I got was truth, coated in disgusting gossip that I will not repeat.
I walked, then. I don't remember how long. I was tired. Lost. By the time I got to someone I knew, I'd worried my father sick. I was sorry. But not really. I couldn't feel.
I remember Harriet and her little gang coming to Kelly's funeral. Innocent, watery-eyed masks painted on. They spoke of their love and admiration for Kelly and I almost vomited.
I didn't attend the burial. More gossip was fed to me about occurrences there - I don't believe this, nor do I care if it is true. Her family has been through enough.
I remember the anger. I remember the frightened little girl inside me clawing for escape. I remember finding strength to draw from. A voice. I remember what she gave me.
But I don't remember her face.
Saturday, January 16, 2010 11:42:35 AM
23 Western Avenue
"Let your hair down. You've got lovely hair!"
"No! I look like a witch when I do that!"
"I don't want to!"
"Yes, you do! Do it."
"Do it. Do it! Go on! Just do it!"
"Come on, time's running out already! Do it, do it, do it!!"
"Fine. I've done it now. Happy?"
"What's next? Oh, the cape. Sure. Hands in position? Check. Candy? Check. Okay... Ready..."
17 Western Avenue
Thomas J Warnes is nine years old. Today, he's dressed in a simple white sheet with two holes for eyes. A cheap costume for halloween, but his family is on a budget.
The candy he brings home will be a treat for all of them - two brothers, a sister and his loving, tired parents.
Thomas is joined by two of his friends from school - Ben carries off his neck bolts well and Philip's mother has obviously spent a lot of time on his clown makeup. They've just come away from the faux-cobweb covered door of a lovely family they've just visited. This makes nine houses on this side of the street and there are exactly nineteen, including their houses, left to go. They all feel lucky to live on a big road, as their parents won't let them cross the road or stray from their street.
And rightly so!
Who knows who might live in those houses far from home?
The boys giggle as they make their way to number 19. They have pumpkins on the path and plastic spiders on the windows!
23 Western Avenue
"When do you think they'll get here?"
"They'll come. Their greed will draw them here."
"Of course. That's what draws them near..."
19 Western Avenue
Wendy Kyle, laughter in her voice, called to the three boys as she closed the door. "You kids have fun now!"
She grinned and placed the bowl of assorted chocolates back on the end table in the hall.
Walking back into the kitchen, however, her smile slowly turned into concern.
"Honey, what do you know about that old lady a couple of doors up? She seems a bit weird to me..."
Her husband put down his book. He loved Wendy, but she was always doing this. Worrying. He looked at her. "Well now, I don't really know. I've seen her in the village. It's her cat, too, that keeps coming round the back and messing up the garden.
Harmless, though. Quiet. I think she lives alone."
23 Western Avenue
"Do I really have to do this?"
"Yes. Now practise. This has to go perfectly. Laugh."
"That's no good. Louder. More sinister."
"Well eat soon enough. Very soon...."
21 Western Avenue
Small voices ring out a gleeful "trick or treat!" in delightful soprano.
Thomas, Ben and Philip stand before the threshold of number 21, joy in their hearts and bags starting to swell with sugary treats.
Mrs Robertson answers the door, and the boys beam all the more brightly.
She's their favourite teacher. She's always smiling, and she knows all of her pupils by name.
Recognising the boys immediately, she complements them on their home-made attire, paying special attention to Thomas. She knows the hardships his family goes through - her smile is fixed as she slips a little more candy into his bag than she does the others.
He's a good kid, she knows. And it's great to see him smile - although not rare for the boy, quite the opposite. He's possibly the happiest child she's ever known.
Treats exchanged for smiles and effort, the children and their teacher part ways.
Mrs Robertson wonders if the children had been to number 23 before her. Nobody knows much about that old lady. She'd seen people go into the house, but, oddly, she'd never seen them leave...
23 Western Avenue
Thomas knocks on the big oak door.
No answer, and it's dark in there.
They stand, peering in the small window.
Perhaps there's nobody there.
The boys turn to leave.
The door creaks slowly behind them. It's kind of a spooky sound. All three turn back to see nothing but a black hallway.
They look at one another, none wish to step forward to peer further into the dark..
Except Thomas. Little heart beating quickly, he tiptoes a few inches further.
A few more inches, and the others follow slowly in his wake.
They almost whisper their halloween greeting.
Was that movement?
The boys are standing in line now, slightly unsettled.
They look at one another once more, and as Ben is just about to suggest they leave, a small figure bursts from the shadows, cackling loudly, her wide eyes fixed on the children with a look that could be described as insane.
The children flee, screaming, from the garden of number twenty-three Western Avenue.
"Well, it didn't quite go as planned, did it? You forgot the candy!"
"I just did what you said! And I'm still hungry."
"Okay. I'll take the candy. I'll fix this, and then we can eat. I didn't know they'd be that scared!"
"Good. Hurry back now. I'm starving!"
"Oh, love, before you go, feed the cat out the back, will you? I'll pop a pizza in the oven. Then it's home to your dad."
Sunday, November 8, 2009 7:54:47 PM
I drift into peaceful sleep.
I awake naturally. No abrasive sounds, no tremors as the front door slams, just the sounds of people passing and birds singing.
I look across to my right. He's sleeping. I don't have to worry about waking him up, because I can leave - our lives are no longer led from the confines of one tiny room.
Padding to the bathroom, I notice just how clean it is. I don't have to wait for it to be vacant, nor wonder what disgusting remnants strangers have left behind, because it is mine.
Passing the humming freezer in the hall, I note that it is not in a very convenient space - but far preferable to when it used to click and whirr just a few inches from where I used to rest my head at night.
The light's streaming through the kitchen window. The sink empty of other's dishes, mine sloppily stacked up, I pour some water into the kettle and start making breakfast.
I open the fridge door and smile. Not only does everything in there belong to me, but my food is exactly where I left it. Untouched, unpoked, unstolen. The vegetable drawer is full, as are the shelves. We no longer need to survive on £7 a week, and I am able to eat many fresh things we could not even dream of affording before.
Breakfast in hand, I go into the living room. I'd never had one before. I place my food on my coffee table and turn on the television. Glancing at the bookcase, I take stock of all the media we possess. I pick out a DVD and place it into the DVD player to watch something while I wake.
I look around at the chairs, the computer, the pretty mugs left from last night's supper, and smile once more. The days of selling our possessions for luxuries like.. Well, cake, are over.
I feel a little more awake, so I return to the kitchen to do the dishes. Nobody disturbs me. Nobody tuts or makes irritated noises, because it's my kitchen.
Duties of the morning fulfilled, I return to the bedroom and wake him. Coffee made, cereal laid out, I tell him his food's waiting on the coffee table by his chair, rather than try to scrape some food together as we eat on the bed. Crumbs go on plates and on the floor now, not all over the bed.
The letterbox rattles - that's fine. No more mad dashes to get my post before it's stolen. It can sit there a while.
I return to the bedroom and open our large wardrobe to select some clothes for the day. I have more than one top for each day of the week now, so it takes a little longer to choose.
Later, I decide what we'll have for lunch and we prepare the food with time and care. The chicken may roast without an eye having to be on it constantly, and when it's cooked we can leave what's left covered over to cool - we don't have to strip the carcass and hide the leftovers before we eat.
Later in the afternoon, I decide to bake. Something else previously impossible, I lovingly create delicious treats by my own hand, a grin on my face.
A little after that, I curl up on the sofa under a warm blanket. Perhaps I play a game, do a puzzle or go online. It's my choice, and it's my place.
I take a long, hot shower in a clean tub. Nobody's waiting impatiently for me to finish, nor do I have to make a mad dash through a strange hall to my room so that people don't see me - the curtains in the lounge room are closed and so I stroll, naked, to find my favourite coconut moisturiser to keep my skin soft.
We curl up together and watch a movie. Nobody knocks on the door of the room, nobody disturbs us at all. We get to watch an entire film without interruption.
A little later, we retire to the bedroom - though not to sleep. Things are far more apt now that we don't share three walls with three other households.
My day done, I relax with a hot chocolate or green tea and read or watch a little more comedy.
I brush my teeth, say goodnight and leave to read a little in bed before I sleep. We don't disturb each other - there is no longer television in the bedroom - so I proceed to say my prayers, and read a little of my current novel while he plays a game in the next room.
I drift into peaceful sleep.
Saturday, July 18, 2009 10:10:10 PM
Ask a lotta people about their experiences with rough times, and most share the same opinion, say the same thing.
"The nights are the hardest."
Be it loneliness, loss, struggle, whatever the pain, there's something about the soft sheets, silence and silky darkness that brings out the worst in most of us.
Maybe our minds get tired. Small assurances, little errands, the chatter of people walking about their everyday lives... Our brains focus on these throughout those hours of sun, so that when, finally, we retire to a still, black state with nothing but our own selves for company, we're so tired we can no longer block that little voice that taunts us.
Call it whatever the fuck you want, the idea's the same.
I don't understand it.
I find that nights are the best. Most breathing in the atmosphere in this part of our hemisphere, in this country, anyway... They're in the dark, alone as I.
I can concentrate. Think straight. I'm not distracted, confused by the rabble of everyone going about life as normal while I struggle internally. Failure to contemplate just how, how they dare go about their daily routines like nothing's wrong, when everything's fuckin' wrong.
I watch them busy themselves, seemingly important tasks to be undertaken as quickly as their feet, bikes, fancy cars will take them. Faces turned up to the sun. Laughter drifting along the air. Joviality coming off them in damn waves.
How can they live when everything's so wrong?
But, then, how can I sleep after a day filled with cold sweat, quivering and trembling like a newborn lamb? How, with nothing to distract my mind, do I lie there in the dark and fall asleep so easily?
Maybe cause tomorrow's a new day. Who knows what awaits me when I regain consciousness? I mean, I could be the same wreck I was today, right? Possibilities are pretty high for that.
But there's a chance, no matter how small. A chance that maybe, tomorrow will be a little different.
Maybe I'll prepare a meal, and enjoy it, thoroughly. I might get somewhere.
Maybe I'll look out the window at all those people living as normal, and decide I want to join the party. See the light. Live for today. Whatever.
Something may just click in there...
And maybe I'll have a better day.
Monday, February 2, 2009 4:51:39 PM
I sat slumped over, pondering upon the slippery slopes of death and destruction that led me to the dark, evil place where I was now prisoner. Life hadn't always been this way. But walking streets paved with blood and corruption for so many years'd take a toll on any of us.
I guess it all started on that day, fifteen years ago. Full of young hopes and dreams, the world was mine for the taking. I was working on an important project, holed away from the noise of the busy city so I could focus on the task at hand. There was a rap at the door. Sharp, urgent. I exhaled with annoyance at this intruder as I tore myself away from my work to stare at the doorknob with silent loathing.
No sound carried through the cracks in the rickety frame. I halted my own breathing in attempt to hear sounds of life beyond the wood panels. Nothing. I shrugged off the disturbance an irksome way and turned my attention back to my work, and no sooner had I put ink to paper when the curt tapping wrenched me from concentration once more...
The fires of the underworld ablaze in my eyes, I scattered the papers around me in a fit of fury and threw open the door, red faced.
There she was. She raised an eyebrow quizzically, and looked me up and down calmly as I stood quivering with suppressed rage. I took in her ruby lips and long lashes, the solid quality of her hair, tapping a death rhythm with my foot... Still nothing was uttered.
I folded my arms, then, and raised an eyebrow of my own. This was worth disturbing my work? I had an urgent deadline, for cryin' out loud! The woman shifted a little, not of unease but... Yes, impatience. She breathed,
"I'm sorry! Were you busy?"
My eyes inadvertently rolled around their sockets in response. She knew I was working, so I remained silent. An answer so obvious didn't need to be vocalised.
She pushed past me then, straight into my office. The nerve of the broad! I whirled around to find her ruffling through my papers, an inane grin fixed on her painted mouth. What right did she have to burst into my place of work and go through my files? Was she insane?
Picking up my project, she turned to me, an even bigger smile almost splitting her face in two. Displaying my work out to me, do you know what she said? She shrilled, " Oh, how cute, it says, "To Daddy"... have you finished drawing this picture?" and without waiting for my reply, she hurried, "I'll pop it on the fridge!" rushing out of my office with my paperwork in hand, and down the stairs to find a suitable magnet to display my confidential file to the world, leaving me shaking with fury at the thievery I had just been victim of.
I never retrieved my work back from the insufferable dame. Successfully thwarted time and again, I gave up my dreams of being the top PI in this city. I couldn't even secure my cases, what good of a dick would I be?!
So, that's my tale.
Perhaps you'll take pity on me, perhaps not. This ain't no sob story. This is life. Mean, and tough.
Yeah, I killed her.
And I ain't sorry.
Copyrighted Kimmie 2008
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