I'm working on a tumblr blog and it's making me feel like a child.
I blame the caffeine free nature of my body and the late hour.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
The Thirst
"Why can't I drink from the bath?" Jake whispered into the night. Frustration and tiredness forced a few tears from his eyes.
He knew he shouldn't drink from the bathroom, his mum had been very clear about that,"You can't drink from the bath or sink upstairs Jake, there's chemicals in that water. It makes you mad," she had said, "They'll take you away."
Jake didn't want to be taken away but he didn't want to go downstairs either, "I should just go to sleep again," he thought. He closed his eyes. The thirst scratched up his throat and sat in his mouth like a curse. Sleep would not cover him. He opened his eyes.
It was very dark. A flickering street light stencilled leafy shadows on the bedroom wall. His room, the entire house, was a dark forest.
Jake knew that older, braver people filled this time with life but to him it was dead time. His sister Penny would be awake in her room at her computer. She wouldn't help him. She would shout again if he asked for help.
Jake sat up, shaking, and dismounted the bed. He breathed like a diver about to plum the deeps and exited his room.
He tried being quiet but his little lungs tore the still air around him into sheets and sucked them in with a rasp. Nothing could possibly be louder than the panting and pulsing of his inner tubes. He knew that his movements were known. Like a small fish darting between reeds in a pond, his movements stirred up the beast.
At the top of the stairs, staring down into the dark, He tried to still his panic. In the end the thirst nudged him on again, like a badly chosen friend, "Go downstairs. We must drink."
Every step contained a creak and every creak lived a nomadic life on the steps. The chords of the stairs would always confound him. They'd dart under his feet just as he put his weight down in a previous safe spot.
He reached the bottom of the stairs with a fanfare of creaks and echoing breaths. The hall and kitchen floors were tiled. Slippery under his socks but silent.
Jake moved to the sink and grabbed the nearest glass and held it, vibrating, under the flow of water he twisted from the tap.
The beast stalked him from the moment he set foot in the kitchen. Creeping round wall and over ceiling, it waited for him to turn his back on the sink.
Jake took in a shuddering breath, gathered all the courage of his seven years and spun. He pelted across the kitchen floor as the beast lashed a spiney limb toward him. A near miss.
He ran into the hall, shadows of leaves whipping at his face. He turned his head to avoid their sting and lost his footing. He splayed his arms ahead as he tumbled but in that slow moment before he hit the floor he thought of the water, how he couldn't lose it. Not now. Not after all this.
He clutched the glass to his chest and fell with his other arm across his face.
The crash woke his mother. Moments later, her scream catapulted his father from his last deep sleep. Penny, headphones blaring, was dragged into the car with her dad in the wake of the ambulance. She stared wide eyed at the blood on the way out.
As Jake lay beside his weeping mother, he strained to hear the paramedics telling him to hold on. The beast had cut deep and they were pressing on his chest so hard it hurt.
One by one they shut the lights off in the back of the ambulance. Everything stopped. Staring at his mum frozen beside him, Jake tried to reach out to pat her hand, to tell her he was sure everything was going to be okay. Everyone was awake now. Everyone would help him.
He couldn't move. He shut his eyes and let sleep come.
He wasn't thirsty, not any more.
He knew he shouldn't drink from the bathroom, his mum had been very clear about that,"You can't drink from the bath or sink upstairs Jake, there's chemicals in that water. It makes you mad," she had said, "They'll take you away."
Jake didn't want to be taken away but he didn't want to go downstairs either, "I should just go to sleep again," he thought. He closed his eyes. The thirst scratched up his throat and sat in his mouth like a curse. Sleep would not cover him. He opened his eyes.
It was very dark. A flickering street light stencilled leafy shadows on the bedroom wall. His room, the entire house, was a dark forest.
Jake knew that older, braver people filled this time with life but to him it was dead time. His sister Penny would be awake in her room at her computer. She wouldn't help him. She would shout again if he asked for help.
Jake sat up, shaking, and dismounted the bed. He breathed like a diver about to plum the deeps and exited his room.
He tried being quiet but his little lungs tore the still air around him into sheets and sucked them in with a rasp. Nothing could possibly be louder than the panting and pulsing of his inner tubes. He knew that his movements were known. Like a small fish darting between reeds in a pond, his movements stirred up the beast.
At the top of the stairs, staring down into the dark, He tried to still his panic. In the end the thirst nudged him on again, like a badly chosen friend, "Go downstairs. We must drink."
Every step contained a creak and every creak lived a nomadic life on the steps. The chords of the stairs would always confound him. They'd dart under his feet just as he put his weight down in a previous safe spot.
He reached the bottom of the stairs with a fanfare of creaks and echoing breaths. The hall and kitchen floors were tiled. Slippery under his socks but silent.
Jake moved to the sink and grabbed the nearest glass and held it, vibrating, under the flow of water he twisted from the tap.
The beast stalked him from the moment he set foot in the kitchen. Creeping round wall and over ceiling, it waited for him to turn his back on the sink.
Jake took in a shuddering breath, gathered all the courage of his seven years and spun. He pelted across the kitchen floor as the beast lashed a spiney limb toward him. A near miss.
He ran into the hall, shadows of leaves whipping at his face. He turned his head to avoid their sting and lost his footing. He splayed his arms ahead as he tumbled but in that slow moment before he hit the floor he thought of the water, how he couldn't lose it. Not now. Not after all this.
He clutched the glass to his chest and fell with his other arm across his face.
The crash woke his mother. Moments later, her scream catapulted his father from his last deep sleep. Penny, headphones blaring, was dragged into the car with her dad in the wake of the ambulance. She stared wide eyed at the blood on the way out.
As Jake lay beside his weeping mother, he strained to hear the paramedics telling him to hold on. The beast had cut deep and they were pressing on his chest so hard it hurt.
One by one they shut the lights off in the back of the ambulance. Everything stopped. Staring at his mum frozen beside him, Jake tried to reach out to pat her hand, to tell her he was sure everything was going to be okay. Everyone was awake now. Everyone would help him.
He couldn't move. He shut his eyes and let sleep come.
He wasn't thirsty, not any more.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
The Message
The day was cold, windy, dry and dull. The beach was a mile long and deserted. The tide was halfway out. The sand revealed under the ocean’s withdrawing blanket was compact and wet. It rippled before him to the receding surf. Shallow pools of orphaned sea water reflected the pitiful light of day.
A chill wind howled inland, sweeping any loose sand towards the dark blotch on the pale, silver shore.
He knelt, shielded from the pins and needles of wind-slung sand by the high collar on his long over coat, and stared intently at the ocean. He rested his right elbow on his raised, right knee. His right hand contained a sheet of paper flapping in the wind with the tails of his coat.
The fingers and nails of his left hand squeezed and dug into a cork.
An opaque, long necked wine bottle lay embedded in the sand to his left. It was dark brown, alternately scratched by sand and smoothed by sea. The label was long gone, removed by the soaking waters. The rim of the open bottle neck was a perfect ring of hollow darkness.
The man looked down at sheet of paper he’d extracted from the bottle and read it once more.
He raised his gaze to the horizon and scanned. There was no island in sight. The sea was choppy. He knew this stretch of sea. He knew her currents and moods. He knew the lay of the land. He knew the scattering of islands along the coast.
From the note's contents he could reckon where this message had come from. If he put his mind to it. Anyone local could.
The man rolled the note up and placed it inside the bottle with care. He stopped the opening with the cork and tore the bottle from the sand.
He stood up and transferred the bottle to the right pocket of his long coat. This done he raised his gaze to stare at the sea again. His hand rested outside his pocket, shielding the bottle within.
For a long time he stood there with little movement. The elements whipped his clothes and hair around him. His eyes studied the horizon.
He nodded.
With two steps back he spun towards land and began retracing his wind scuffed tracks back up the grass-locked face of the dunes that lead down to the beach.
He walked with the ease of a young man though his hair was grey at the temples. He walked up the track splitting the dunes, lined with long grasses, bushes and the rustle of small animals.
He walked up past where the track gave way to a small path that was marked by slats of wood half buried in the sandy soil.
He followed the path as it climbed higher until it terminated at a fence.
He vaulted the fence and surged up a steep 3 meter incline through a row of old oak trees. He crossed the dark tarmac of a small road.
There was a lay-by on the other side of the road, one of many on this coastal route. He’d left his car here. He fished his keys out of his trouser pocket with his left hand. His right hand patted his right coat pocket while he opened the driver’s door.
He took off his coat, wrapped the fabric around the bottle within and tossed it lightly into the back seats. Wrapped around the bottle the coat clunked as it hit a large, irregular bundle covered by a rug on the back seat.
The impact of the bottle stirred the bundle's contents. The folds of the rug pulsated and stretched over the movements beneath. There was a groggy groaning sound.
He hopped into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and patted the folders that lived on the passenger seat.
He looked into the driver's mirror, at the now quiescent mound. He took stock.
Callum found a stretch of the coastline to walk along two, maybe three mornings each week. He liked to walk and think. He walked regardless of work or other commitments.
He pursed his lips as he considered the back seat. He chewed his lip.
This walk was one of his favourites. He’d walked along the beach two mornings ago past the spot where he’d seen the bottle with the note inside. There had been no bottle or note two days ago.
He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The car awoke, classical music started playing from the car’s stereo. He locked the steering wheel to the right, checked his mirror’s, indicated to let the empty road know his intentions and pulled out of the lay-by. The car looped out into the road 180 degrees. He drove back the way he’d came.
He needed to drive to the village. He needed to speak to Jim. The damn fool.
Jim had put the man on the island - as they’d planned. Seems he'd put him on the island but somehow left him with the means to send a message to the outside world.
Wine? Jim was losing his edge or wasn't being totally honest with Callum.
Luckily Callum had been the one to find the message first. His plans for the woman in the back seat would have to wait.
For the first time in his career Callum took a vehicle above the speed limit.
A chill wind howled inland, sweeping any loose sand towards the dark blotch on the pale, silver shore.
He knelt, shielded from the pins and needles of wind-slung sand by the high collar on his long over coat, and stared intently at the ocean. He rested his right elbow on his raised, right knee. His right hand contained a sheet of paper flapping in the wind with the tails of his coat.
The fingers and nails of his left hand squeezed and dug into a cork.
An opaque, long necked wine bottle lay embedded in the sand to his left. It was dark brown, alternately scratched by sand and smoothed by sea. The label was long gone, removed by the soaking waters. The rim of the open bottle neck was a perfect ring of hollow darkness.
The man looked down at sheet of paper he’d extracted from the bottle and read it once more.
He raised his gaze to the horizon and scanned. There was no island in sight. The sea was choppy. He knew this stretch of sea. He knew her currents and moods. He knew the lay of the land. He knew the scattering of islands along the coast.
From the note's contents he could reckon where this message had come from. If he put his mind to it. Anyone local could.
The man rolled the note up and placed it inside the bottle with care. He stopped the opening with the cork and tore the bottle from the sand.
He stood up and transferred the bottle to the right pocket of his long coat. This done he raised his gaze to stare at the sea again. His hand rested outside his pocket, shielding the bottle within.
For a long time he stood there with little movement. The elements whipped his clothes and hair around him. His eyes studied the horizon.
He nodded.
With two steps back he spun towards land and began retracing his wind scuffed tracks back up the grass-locked face of the dunes that lead down to the beach.
He walked with the ease of a young man though his hair was grey at the temples. He walked up the track splitting the dunes, lined with long grasses, bushes and the rustle of small animals.
He walked up past where the track gave way to a small path that was marked by slats of wood half buried in the sandy soil.
He followed the path as it climbed higher until it terminated at a fence.
He vaulted the fence and surged up a steep 3 meter incline through a row of old oak trees. He crossed the dark tarmac of a small road.
There was a lay-by on the other side of the road, one of many on this coastal route. He’d left his car here. He fished his keys out of his trouser pocket with his left hand. His right hand patted his right coat pocket while he opened the driver’s door.
He took off his coat, wrapped the fabric around the bottle within and tossed it lightly into the back seats. Wrapped around the bottle the coat clunked as it hit a large, irregular bundle covered by a rug on the back seat.
The impact of the bottle stirred the bundle's contents. The folds of the rug pulsated and stretched over the movements beneath. There was a groggy groaning sound.
He hopped into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and patted the folders that lived on the passenger seat.
He looked into the driver's mirror, at the now quiescent mound. He took stock.
Callum found a stretch of the coastline to walk along two, maybe three mornings each week. He liked to walk and think. He walked regardless of work or other commitments.
He pursed his lips as he considered the back seat. He chewed his lip.
This walk was one of his favourites. He’d walked along the beach two mornings ago past the spot where he’d seen the bottle with the note inside. There had been no bottle or note two days ago.
He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The car awoke, classical music started playing from the car’s stereo. He locked the steering wheel to the right, checked his mirror’s, indicated to let the empty road know his intentions and pulled out of the lay-by. The car looped out into the road 180 degrees. He drove back the way he’d came.
He needed to drive to the village. He needed to speak to Jim. The damn fool.
Jim had put the man on the island - as they’d planned. Seems he'd put him on the island but somehow left him with the means to send a message to the outside world.
Wine? Jim was losing his edge or wasn't being totally honest with Callum.
Luckily Callum had been the one to find the message first. His plans for the woman in the back seat would have to wait.
For the first time in his career Callum took a vehicle above the speed limit.
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Twit Integration
I added a twitter feed gadget. It felt good.
I spend a lot of time on Twitter. It has shit and it has giggles. It has news and it has fun. It's nice.
A tweet is so free. You don't feel obliged to entertain. Just spout nonsense, reply to friends, vie for celebrity RTs with chums.
And there it is there on the right of the blog. Like some futuristic monster emerging from a misty wood at dawn. In a valley. Outside a cave dwelling. A cave dwelling dwell'd in by a tribe of primitive humanoids. Bone gnawing savages. They're astounded by the green and white sleekness hopping towards them in the dewy air.
It extends an appendage made of tweets. Nonsensical words. Grasping.
They beat it down with clubs and urinate on its chassis.
The rust will set in soon and the child-savages can play peek a boo with the holes time leaves in the corpse.
I spend a lot of time on Twitter. It has shit and it has giggles. It has news and it has fun. It's nice.
A tweet is so free. You don't feel obliged to entertain. Just spout nonsense, reply to friends, vie for celebrity RTs with chums.
And there it is there on the right of the blog. Like some futuristic monster emerging from a misty wood at dawn. In a valley. Outside a cave dwelling. A cave dwelling dwell'd in by a tribe of primitive humanoids. Bone gnawing savages. They're astounded by the green and white sleekness hopping towards them in the dewy air.
It extends an appendage made of tweets. Nonsensical words. Grasping.
They beat it down with clubs and urinate on its chassis.
The rust will set in soon and the child-savages can play peek a boo with the holes time leaves in the corpse.
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
It's a big joke
Did you ever stop to think about it? Not even once? Well I did. I thought and thought. I thought myself out of existence. I wrote a poem about it, I'll include that at the bottom.
You see I don't think the tools provided will help.
Let me start from the beginning instead of mid-stream: I'm talking about flying safety routines.
You know you get on the plane and they go through the 'safety presentation' and ask you to pay attention.
Frequent fliers become numb to this puppet show, this corporate joke. Look here. Pay close attention.
YOUR PLANE IS GOING TO CRASH. OMG.
This is the scenario you can AVOID with the helpful safety talk. Clutch your tools closely MacGyver you'll need them in the afterlife:
Tool the first: WHISTLE
Blow loudly as your plane hits the dry, cruel earth. If there exists other life in this universe, pray they never discover that we as a species, at any point, advocated the use of plastic flourescing wind instruments in any kind of emergency at thousands of feet in the air.
Some clever clogs will no doubt say "It's for when you're at sea. To attract attention," and to you, Mr or Mrs clever clogs I say that I hope whistles have the same effect on sharks as they do on dogs.
Tool the second! LIFE JACKET
Most of the surface of the earth is covered with water. At first glance, a life jacket seems quite sensible. Here's the rub: the 'life' in the phrase 'Life Jacket' informs you that you will be given a lease of life in an environment (water) where an air filled coat will prolong your existence.
What good is a jacket filled with air when you are surrounded by air. Cubic fucktons of it. Going down, all the way down. To the sea. If you're lucky. The sea where these are designed to work. Not in the air. Or strapped into a metal death box. These aren't impact life jackets. They're not 50 feet of bouncing insulation and absorbance. It's flourescent, like the whistle. Should you remain in one piece at the end, this glow in the dark quality will make it easier for the bean counters to assess the overall impact of the crash.
When you're on a boat you have the same (probably better) life jacket. Why do these airborne equivalents not have WINGS? Hm? That would surely be more useful would it not?
The final tool for survival! OXYGEN
See that pirate there? If he weren't a drawing, he'd be breathing air, which contains oxygen. We all need oxygen. Even his little drawn parrot. The artist who drew it needed oxygen too. He probably, though, wasn't drawing this in a plane at a great altitude descending quickly. He probably wasn't on fire. He probably wasn't praying that the oxygen that let him continue drawing his image of a jaunty pirate will be the key instrument that will save his life.
I can't argue that oxygen isn't awesome. I'm taking big, galloping lungfuls of it right now. I must however question the decision makers at 'Plane Safety HQ'. The chaps who decided on 'Jacket, Whistle and Oxygen' as if they were given a brief for 'Things needed to walk your dog safely'.
I question their motives.
In the event of the depressurisation of a plane before a crash, pumping the punters full of the breath of life so they can fully experience their splattering reunion with the earth is cruel.
In the event of the plane losing it's wings and catching fire, nosediving in a catastrophic fireball of a descent, pumping the cabin and passengers full of oh so flammable oxygen just seems a bit like overkill does it not?
In any case, this was my morning reflection on plane safety. Not that I'm afraid of flying, nor do I worry about turbulence every time it jiggles my air-ride.
It's more that, if I ever were to suspect a plane I was in was about to do the unthinkable and happy slap me into the hills I'd simply smile, drink in one last look at life and laugh. Relax. It's just probability. Had to happen to a small selection of you.
Around me People panicking. Oxygen filled lungs hyperventilating. Confused holidaymakers struggling with 'life' jackets, strapped into their right angled coffins. And whistles. I think the whistles would amuse me most. I might even try my lips on one. Blow softly at first. Perhaps I could hold a tune?
I could whistle Party Rock Anthem whilst the death carriage thunders towards the ground.
It would be a pretty accurate portrayal of human folly in the end!
The Poem (written during a safety presentation on a Ryan Air flight):
Falling from the sky
In a metal bird,
I will land safely,
With my whistle,
Oxygen and
Life Jacket.
You see I don't think the tools provided will help.
Let me start from the beginning instead of mid-stream: I'm talking about flying safety routines.
You know you get on the plane and they go through the 'safety presentation' and ask you to pay attention.
Frequent fliers become numb to this puppet show, this corporate joke. Look here. Pay close attention.
YOUR PLANE IS GOING TO CRASH. OMG.
This is the scenario you can AVOID with the helpful safety talk. Clutch your tools closely MacGyver you'll need them in the afterlife:
Tool the first: WHISTLE
Blow loudly as your plane hits the dry, cruel earth. If there exists other life in this universe, pray they never discover that we as a species, at any point, advocated the use of plastic flourescing wind instruments in any kind of emergency at thousands of feet in the air.
Some clever clogs will no doubt say "It's for when you're at sea. To attract attention," and to you, Mr or Mrs clever clogs I say that I hope whistles have the same effect on sharks as they do on dogs.
Tool the second! LIFE JACKET
Most of the surface of the earth is covered with water. At first glance, a life jacket seems quite sensible. Here's the rub: the 'life' in the phrase 'Life Jacket' informs you that you will be given a lease of life in an environment (water) where an air filled coat will prolong your existence.
What good is a jacket filled with air when you are surrounded by air. Cubic fucktons of it. Going down, all the way down. To the sea. If you're lucky. The sea where these are designed to work. Not in the air. Or strapped into a metal death box. These aren't impact life jackets. They're not 50 feet of bouncing insulation and absorbance. It's flourescent, like the whistle. Should you remain in one piece at the end, this glow in the dark quality will make it easier for the bean counters to assess the overall impact of the crash.
When you're on a boat you have the same (probably better) life jacket. Why do these airborne equivalents not have WINGS? Hm? That would surely be more useful would it not?
The final tool for survival! OXYGEN
See that pirate there? If he weren't a drawing, he'd be breathing air, which contains oxygen. We all need oxygen. Even his little drawn parrot. The artist who drew it needed oxygen too. He probably, though, wasn't drawing this in a plane at a great altitude descending quickly. He probably wasn't on fire. He probably wasn't praying that the oxygen that let him continue drawing his image of a jaunty pirate will be the key instrument that will save his life.
I can't argue that oxygen isn't awesome. I'm taking big, galloping lungfuls of it right now. I must however question the decision makers at 'Plane Safety HQ'. The chaps who decided on 'Jacket, Whistle and Oxygen' as if they were given a brief for 'Things needed to walk your dog safely'.
I question their motives.
In the event of the depressurisation of a plane before a crash, pumping the punters full of the breath of life so they can fully experience their splattering reunion with the earth is cruel.
In the event of the plane losing it's wings and catching fire, nosediving in a catastrophic fireball of a descent, pumping the cabin and passengers full of oh so flammable oxygen just seems a bit like overkill does it not?
In any case, this was my morning reflection on plane safety. Not that I'm afraid of flying, nor do I worry about turbulence every time it jiggles my air-ride.
It's more that, if I ever were to suspect a plane I was in was about to do the unthinkable and happy slap me into the hills I'd simply smile, drink in one last look at life and laugh. Relax. It's just probability. Had to happen to a small selection of you.
Around me People panicking. Oxygen filled lungs hyperventilating. Confused holidaymakers struggling with 'life' jackets, strapped into their right angled coffins. And whistles. I think the whistles would amuse me most. I might even try my lips on one. Blow softly at first. Perhaps I could hold a tune?
I could whistle Party Rock Anthem whilst the death carriage thunders towards the ground.
It would be a pretty accurate portrayal of human folly in the end!
The Poem (written during a safety presentation on a Ryan Air flight):
Falling from the sky
In a metal bird,
I will land safely,
With my whistle,
Oxygen and
Life Jacket.
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