Jonny Hopper

Oak Tree

2011-10-15T16:10:00.003+01:00

The sun hung low in the sky, promising barely an hour more light before the night set in. Already a thin sheet of frost covered the grass - the horses' hooves crunched through it as they trod. The smaller horse, a young bay, seemed nervous, stepping lightly and skittishly over this unfamiliar surface. The two riders sat slouched on their mounts. Ahead, a lone oak tree silhouetted itself against the orange sun, its negative burning onto the riders eyes every time they blinked. It had been a long day.
"I married her because my parents said we were a good match," protested the rider on the left.
"You married her because she had a nice rack and a pretty smile," replied the one on the right.
They continued in silence. A minute passed.
"That may be true. But I wouldn't have got the confidence to ask her to marry me if my parents hadn't convinced me we were a good match."
"You wouldn't have got the confidence to marry her if your parents hadn't forced you to?" He laughed, briefly sitting up straight in his saddle. The tired horse below barely seemed to notice.
"Something like that." He paused. "Artley?"
"What is it, friend?" replied Artley.
"I think I made a mistake."
"Oh, I know you made a mistake. I knew that from the moment I met her. The way you cowered when she moved. Duncan, you're wearing the trousers but she is the man in that marriage."
"I'm not weak."
"No, you're just her bitch." He laughed again.
"It's not funny."
"Duncan, you are the finest man I know. You are a great leader, a fine example to my children, you are noble and upright, you perfect bastard. And the best bit of all is that you realise none of it. But you're also a numpty when it comes to women. It's your only weakness and it utterly baffles me. But thank the gods you have a weakness." He smiled gently, the kind of smile only lifelong friends understand.
"Thanks, I think," conceded Duncan, and sat up slightly straight himself. His horse, the skittish bay, settled with him and began to tread more confidently. "My back hurts, I can't wait to - " The silence of the early evening was rent sharply apart by the hiss of a crossbow bolt. It was audible for barely a second before thudding thickly into the bay horse's flank. The horse screamed, rearing up and to the side, its injured back leg unable to take the weight of both horse and rider. The mount crashed to the ground, crossbow bolt jutting grotesquely from its buttock.
"Gods! Artley, I'm pinned." The horse squirmed on the floor, screaming and trapping Duncan beneath. "Shit. Ow! Artley, if you ever loved me, get me out from under this horse."
"Shut up." Artley jumped off his mount and knelt to the ground. He shielded his eyes with his hands, peering into the setting sun. "Hard to tell where they are. We can't see them if they're in the sun ahead or the dark behind." The bay horse whinnied once more, but then fell silent. Artley looked down, expecting to see Duncan trapped beneath a dead horse. Instead, the trapped man ran his fingers through the horse's main, whispering sweetly. Artley shook his head. "Amazing."
Another crossbow bolt whipped through the air, slicing through Artley's cloak. The uninjured horse felt it too, bucking, tearing the reins from Artley's gloved hands and sprinting back the way they'd came.
"Shitballsfuck! That was close." With no horse to hold, he dropped to the ground and crawled to Duncan, putting his arms under the other man's shoulders. "Ready?" Not waiting for a reply, Artley heaved as best he could from his awkward position, and pulled Duncan out from the now alarmingly peaceful horse. "You ok?"
"I just got crushed by my own horse, of course I'm not ok," replied Duncan.
"Apart from your pride, I mean?"
"Then yes, I'm fine. Bruised but fine."
A third bolt thudded into the bay horse's neck. The unfortunate horse gurgled its last few breaths as crimson blood bubbled out of the wound, spilling onto the white, frosty floor.
"Oh for - Stop killing my horse!" shouted Duncan. His words hung in the silent air for a moment, unsure of their recipient.
"First the horse, then you!" came a reply.
"Arsehole. Who kills a horse?" Duncan asked quietly, but again to no-one in particular.
"Dunc, it's time to move," whispered Artley. "Chances are they can't see us - " A fourth cross bolt hit the now dead horse, "They just know where we last were. Stay quiet, stay low, and head for that oak tree ahead."
"That oak tree must be four hundred metres. I'm not crawling four hundred metres, Artley."
"You could run and die, or crawl and live. Come on Duncan, you don't need me to tell you that."
Duncan replied meekly. "True. But its cold and these are new pantaloons and to be honest I just hate crawling." A fifth crossbow bolt snapped into the cold dirt four inches from his head. Duncan raised his eyebrows. "Wow."
"Wow indeed. You'll get used to crawling, don't worry. Just pretend it's your wife with the crossbow. You wouldn't want to give her the satisfaction of killing you, would you now?"
"In some ways, friend, she already has.'

Miaow said the cat

2011-09-30T20:53:00.000+01:00

Miaow, said the cat, lounging on the chair.
Miaow, said the cat with her distant, superior stare.
Miaow, said the cat, lazing quietly in the sun,
Miaow! said the cat, because stretching out is fun.
Miaow? said the cat to her humans in the garden.
Miaow. said the cat, as the humans begged her pardon.
Miaow breathed the cat as the humans stroked her tail,
Miaow. frowned the cat when the humans became frail.
Miaow...? said the cat while the humans were asleep,
Miaow! scratched the cat, nipping at their feet.

Miaow, cried the cat as the humans didn't stir.
Miaow? asked the cat as they were buried in the dirt.

Miaow. wept the cat on that bleak and doleful day.
but then
Miaow! said the cat as she leapt outside to play.

Upon Loss

2011-09-19T21:28:00.000+01:00

Overnight, the snow has fallen. Not much, but enough. First time in a while though - the early morning peace will undoubtedly by shattered by business chaos and schoolchild glee. And stuck in the middle, the parents, doomed to enjoy neither. A four inch white quilt covers the land, but it seems so much deeper on the window sill next to me. I love this time. It's early, not yet light, and most of the world is still asleep, or fumbling coffee into a mug through blurry eyes. Street lamps cast their amber glow across the broad white blanket. A few listless specks of snow saunter downwards, unworried that they are apparently late to the party. Plenty of room for them, anyway. From my vantage point the whole vista seems muted, as though someone turned the volume down on the television. Or just wrapped it in a quilt. It could be a Christmas card, all that is missing is the frozen lake and a puppy somewhere.

Even the birds are staying home today. But in the corner of my eye there's a shadow, a darting movement in the ivy on the wall next to the window. A leaf flutters downward, put out by some hurried step. I wonder how much life carries on in the darkness, hidden from view. The shadow stops, and I see a beak. A single beady eye, peering out at me. Who is this strange, huge creature, my new neighbour? it seems to ask. Bravely, it hops out of the ivy, cocking its head to one side.

A fat little robin, chest puffed out, legs spread and diffident. You can't touch me, her cocked head says. I'm invincible. She hops further forward onto the snow but recoils back. Weren't expecting that, were you? Yes, it's cold, and yes, it's not quite as solid as the window sill used to be.

She tries again, gingerly placing one foot in front of another. Half way across the window, her delicate footprints are laid out like shadows themselves in the snow. She goes further, ignoring me now, confidence returned, red breast leading the charge. Reaching the end of the window sill, she flaps her wings once, as if testing the cold air for resistance. She finds it the same as always, lifts her head to the cold dawning sun, flaps again, and is gone.

The scene is motionless once more. A car feels its way silently down the road, driver unsure quite how to behave in this unfamiliar land. Slow is good, be gentle. Be humble in face of the soft and awesome power of the heavens. Our street is hemmed with cars, just wide enough for one to slip down the middle, but there's no room for manoeuvre or error. Infinitely slowly, this car fumbles its way down the gauntlet and disappears round the corner. Safe to crash later, I think to myself.

On the window, someone else has been watching. Another robin. A different one, I'm sure, for a start it's a He. This chap doesn't seem quite so sure of himself. He looks at the disappearing car, then at me, then the thin line of gentle footprints in the snow in front of him. He follows them to the end of the window with his eyes, then back to the start. He takes a hop, and looks around. Where do these tracks lead? Why do they end? And why has she gone? Another hop, towards the far end of the sill. Some snow comes loose from somewhere above and patters down on him, giving the little bird a tiny white crown. He looks more foolish than regal. Sensing this he shakes it off, more interested in the prints laid out at his feet.

Making his way slowly to the end of the sill, the second robin stops and flaps his wings. Will he follow his mate, frolic after her and enjoy the snow day like so many children will in a few hours? He flaps again, unsure, and steps back. He can't do it. This world is too new, too different. Today is not his day. And so he steps away from the edge, and looks at me once more. I can't help you here, little guy.

Head bowed and confidence shaken, he walks back into the ivy, becomes a shadow once more, and disappears into the pale greenery. The only sign he is in there is the occasional dusting of snow knocked from a leaf as he moves between branches. I follow this trail away from the window, but soon the movement stops.

I peer into the ivy anyway, trying to catch any small sign of this little bird pottering about his daily business, but he is now alone in there, invisible to the watching world.

And then, unbelievably, I can hear the dustmen.

Moonwalk

2011-09-13T08:32:00.000+01:00

It is a curious thing, walking on the Moon. Space is silent and vast, as you would imagine space to be, unless your whole experience of space is defined by cheap afternoon sci-fi filler. A word to the wise - not only do laser blasts not make a sound in space, but no-one actually fires lasers in space. There's no-one to fire them at, no evil alien despots, no roving interstellar pirates, no time worms. We are very much alone out here.

People say "journey to the edge of space", but the edge is right where we are. For all practical purposes we can't get very far, and as such we are sat on the edge of a vast swimming pool, utterly unable to dive in. "One day," we think, and then we dream and strive and invent and spend to make that day a reality.

But if you tip yourself ever so slightly closer to the edge and dare to dip your toes in the murky yet infinitely clear waters of the galaxy, you might find yourself on the Moon. I dared, I dipped, and here I am.

And it is breathtaking. Not least in the literal sense, as you are surely aware, even if you're one of the ones listening out for percussion torpedo explosions and ion cannon windup. Imagine yourself as far away from home as you can possibly be, then double it, then double it, and keep doubling it. And then imagine that you're that far away, further than any distance a human can reasonably comprehend, and imagine that home still feels so close you could stretch out your arm and touch it.

I am alone out here. A single step out of the lander and I am further from human civilisation that almost anyone has ever been. If I walked a hundred steps I might very well be the furthest.

I say walk, but we all very well know that it is more like a peculiar, loping bounce. An enormous, slow motion hurdle. That's a bit romantic and lush though - it's basically a waddle. A space waddle, the most expensive waddle in history.

And so here I am, waddling about. There's a mission, some reason for being here, but right now I can't completely recall it. Vast, breathtaking, alone, and so very, very far away. All these sensations cloud my thoughts, and I can't remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing. Something about Moon rocks. Of course! The scientists want Moon rocks for a thing.

I drop, again in slow motion, to my knees. I gently and gracefully lower myself to the ground with a silent thud. A pool of dust whirls out from under me and I know that the shape of my bottom will be forever etched in the surface of the Moon. That's something to tell the grandkids about.

But I don't have any grandkids, not yet. Better get on that. Not right now though. That would be inappropriate given the serious nature of the mission, and I don't think they make two person space suits. At least not yet. It would be inappropriate, but nice. A good zero gravity screw is what I need right now, help me focus. The mechanics, ha ha, would be tricky, too. Little science joke for you there, did you get it?

Better get moving on those rocks. Can't let down the human race by not picking up rocks. There's a good one, over there. Probably the best rock I've ever seen. Got it. There's another one! That one's even better. Of course, the previous 5 sentences passed in about 10 minutes, such is the nature of life on the Moon, but I don't want to bore you with the finer details. Tell you what, here's a taster. Lift left foot up, move left foot forward, place left foot down. Concentrate really hard on not falling and not floating away.

But I know I won't float away, that's silly! You're silly. Why do you think I'll float away? Because I won't - I don't want to and my mind is better than yours so I'll win this battle of concentration. That's why I am an astronaut and you're not. Unless you are. That would explain what you're doing up here with me.

Are we even up? I mean, I look up and I can see the Earth.

That would explain what you're doing down here with me.

But that doesn't sound right either. Sounds like we're in Hell. Imagine if everyone in hell wore a space suit! They would be hot. Although a space suit is supposed to regulate body temperatures and protect you from the harsh environment of space. So perhaps we should start a campaign to get space suits to those poor souls trapped in Hell.

Think I've got enough rocks now, best start heading back. I can't really carry all of these. But wait till I get them back to the lander, the other guys will be so proud of me! Where is the lander? I can't see it. How long have I been here? I do have a lot of rocks, at least ten. Must have been a while.

Maybe there isn't a lander. Why would they send a space rocket all the way up here with a bunch of guys for me to prance about and collect rocks? That's stupid. Maybe this is what I do. I can't really remember anyway. I'm tired. Wish I could lie down. I can lie down! I'm master of my own destiny out here, no-one controls me. These rocks aren't going anywhere. Maybe then I'll take a nap.

And so I lie down, and make dust angels in the silence.

Daily Scrivening

2010-09-21T08:03:00.002+01:00

The air is cold but the sun is warm. I pad outside into the new day with the recycling, and feel similarly warmed at doing my civic and environmental duty. Yes, I am Good Citizen. I feed the cat and change the cat litter. I move about the house with my head held slightly higher than before. I am Responsible Pet Owner. I drink my Fairtrade, ethically sourced coffee and eat my healthy cereal. As I do so I remember how the supermarket categorises cereal as Children's Cereal and Healthy Cereal and I smile. My wife sleeps soundly upstairs because I managed not to wake her with the coffee grinder. I am Good Husband, too.

Soon I will embark on my short commute to work. When I say short commute, I really mean Ten Minute Walk. Yes, life is good. Easy, even. But when I arrive at the office, my micro-reverie will come to an abrupt end. Or rather, an abrupt pause. I will stride to my desk, full of hopes and dreams and vision, I will settle down and try to Get On.

I drag myself home, slower now. I have plenty of time to wonder exactly why getting home is taking so much time. I'm going back to my safe place, my house, my home, my wife. Oh yes, and my cat. I should feel like an Olympiad carrying a torch, the hero, the Adonis all in one. I should be racing, unstoppable. But I am Atlas, the weight of my little world on my shoulders and my shoulders alone.

My wife greets me with a smile, a kiss and the cat. We all three flop on the sofa, and Atlas retreats. I am Conqueror.

Sunday Night

2010-08-08T22:11:00.000+01:00

It's late.

Probably should be going to bed soon, that would be the 'responsible' thing to do. But Dizzy and Oscar are on the headphones and it's so frenetic and joyous, I can't stop. I have to listen. That and they drive me to write. I don't know why.

As I listen it seems as though something is being created in my ears right hear and now, that I owe it to them to do the same. They poured out their heart and soul into this record, moment by moment, and so my only response can be to do the same. You can't listen to jazz passively.

But then all too quickly my reverie is defeated by Molly the kitten. She's destroyed something or broken something. Ah Molly, the Dervish Of The Downstairs.

It's okay, nothing's broken. She looked suitably contrite however. Her eyes say 'I won't do it again' but, well. I'll settle back down again.

Yesterday it was old champagne and hobnobs, today it's peppermint tea and hobnobs. I love hobnobs. They're good for you, because they're full of oats and everyone knows oats are good for you. Which is also why it's better to add oats to an Apple Crumble. The health benefits. Then it's got everything the body needs: Apples, Crumble, Oats and if you're lucky, Custard. The four main food groups. Guinness is a kind of meta-food group in and of itself, so that doesn't count.

Ha Oscar's just coughed on the record. Reminds me of that bit in that Ben Folds Five record where the phone goes off at the perfect moment and they start laughing.

I bet they didn't have to contend with a dining room dresser with a resonant frequency of G# just above middle C. It's murder when you're playing in E. Or a lot of keys, I suppose. I've just been playing in E today - The Harmonious Blacksmith.

Anyway. I'm full of peppermint tea and hobnobs and wistful jazz dreams so I should attempt sleep. I'm not particularly hopeful.

One Hour Fiction: Trapeze

2010-03-24T21:31:00.002Z

“No, Cecile.” I slumped down onto the stool and rested my elbows on my legs. My shoulders were heavy, rounded in tiredness. We had only a few minutes.

“Why?” she practically spat at me as she spoke, “You always say no.” Hands on hips and wearing a comical yellow leotard and tutu, nose painted red, Cecile did not at first glance appear to be much of anything. A small angry child, perhaps. Somehow, however, she had the ability to get inside me and break down my defences, not in love but by force.

“It’s too dangerous,” This same conversation had been reoccurring with increasing frequency over the past weeks. Cecile wanted us to perform our routine without a safety net. It wasn’t that I was scared, or anything. I wasn’t scared, and just wasn’t confident. Of her, of me. Of us.

We had met 5 years ago, in Berlin. Me, the young upstart trapeze artist in the circus and her fresh from ballet school trying to make a name for herself. Me a young buck and her a gentle fawn, both wandering lost in the clamor of what we used to call “Showbiz”. I suppose I had given her her first big break, comparatively. They had asked me if I would tutor her and partner her, get her ready. It was good back then. We danced, performed, drank and, well, we lived. Who wouldn’t want that?

“It’s not too dangerous and you know it,” she replied. Like I said, I disagreed with her on that point. She pierced me with her eyes and I hung my heard, staring at the floor.

“Cecile, I -”, I what? Everything seemed to be going wrong and I knew we were going with it.

“Is it me?”

“No.” Yes.

“What is it then?”

“I don’t know.” You.

Trapeze is not easy, of that much I’m sure you’re aware. Split second timing, reaction, instinct. Anyone becomes frail when they are soaring through the air one hundred feet above the ground, doubly so when another’s life is in their hands. If you cannot trust, or do not like, your partner then trapeze is not worth doing. It’s a death sentence, even with a safety net.

Perhaps we had gotten old, fat, lazy. Metaphorically, I guess. Old and fat and lazy when it came to each other. There was the money and the success and the attention, and they were a seductive cocktail. When was the last time we had had a day together away from the circus, from Charles - our boss and mentor and friend and constant thorn in the side – from life? I couldn’t remember. We made excuses, mostly. Oh, I have an interview with such-and-such. I promised to have dinner with my sister. You know what I mean. Easy excuses. The crime of it all was that neither of us cared enough to catch the other in the lie, the evasion.

Do you want to spend time with me?

I do not.

And so, in the most sepia over-exposed cliché, we grew apart.

“Well you’d better find out,” she said to me, her words clipped and pointed. I suppose I had.

“We’re not good enough, Cecile.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the best in France and I’m not far behind you.” Her eyes softened slightly as she remembered the first couple of years, “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team.”

“I don’t mean our performing.”

“Then, what?”

I paused.

“We. Us. You and me. We’re not good enough.”

“What has that got to do with it?” Exactly.

“Everything.”

Was this it, was this that time, the boundary that, once crossed, cannot be returned over?

“2 minutes Monsieur and Madame Sebastien!” came the call from the other side of the curtain. Neither of us said anything for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a few heartbeats. At last, I raised my head.

“I can’t do this any more,” I said at last, almost in a whisper.

“Well you’re going to have to. Come on.” Had she understood what I meant? I couldn’t tell.

She turned and pulled the curtain back. The roar of the crowd turned from muffled white noise to the roar of a great waterfall, surrounding us and hemming us in. She was right; I really did have to. I stood up behind her and walking forward, grabbed her hand. Slightly taller than her, I looked Cecile in the eyes and she stared defiantly back. We lingered for a moment and then she pulled away. Was she embarrassed by the tenderness of a gaze passing between husband and wife? Did she feel it to be somehow inappropriate?

We walked slowly hand in hand, rounding the corner to the ring. The crowd was deafening and the spotlights were blinding, we were trapped in a cavernous tunnel of light and noise. Smiling now, as we always did, Cecile looked at me and I looked at her, and then as one we surveyed the crowd. They welcomed us and we welcomed then. We threw our arms high in the air in triumph and the cheering grew even louder. Almost imperceptibly, I felt her right hand squeeze my left and her arm rub mine as she pulled me in closer.

Perhaps, after all, she did not hate me. And perhaps I did not hate her.

One Hour Fiction

2010-03-22T13:14:00.002Z

At the moment, I don't have loads of time for extended periods of writing, unfortunately - Getting married at the weekend (which is not in any way unfortunate!), and busy with lots of things at work, too. However I'm trying to keep writing anyway, hence the "One hour fiction" idea. I'll take a topic and after an hour, be done with it. In one sense it's a bit wasteful - am I relegating great ideas by "using them up" in a tiny piece of throwaway fiction? I hope not! If nothing else, the shorts can be used as platforms for ideas and longer, more worthy pieces.

So, I ask you: What shall I write about? Think small, contained scenarios that can be adequately explored in 1000 words or so (probably not going to get further than 1000 in an hour!).

If you have any ideas, stick them in the comments. I'll blog the results.

One Hour Fiction: Rain Patrol

2010-03-16T11:29:00.005Z

For days, it had rained. He had forgotten when it had started and forgotten what being dry was like, becoming accustomed to the mud, the constant companion of damp and the sheer brown of his existence. And then, as suddenly as it always started, the rain had stopped. The clouds parted just long to let the twin suns of this barren, forgotten rock peek through to remind him they did in fact exist.

"In The Rain" © Vitaliy Smyk

Three stinking months. That’s how long he had been here, this time round. He still wondered quite why he had signed up to return, knowing that the promises of forging new worlds and bringing hope to oppressed peoples were nothing but empty marketing drivel. Instead, all that awaited him was foot rot, tepid meals consisting mostly of rainwater and a near statistical certainty that he would return in one or more body bags.

His company of men lived in what seemed to be a plughole for the whole planet. How did all the water drain here, from both the ground and the sky? Last week a mobile command post had been washed away. Three guys now missing – dead, really – after the building had been torn from its moorings and swept down the valley. He had heard them yelling for help on the radio, but what could be done?

Now, the rain had been absent for maybe five minutes, all told. He had been so used to its constant hammering on the thin shell of his living unit, demanding to be let in, that the quiet was eerie and almost unwelcome. A company of forgotten troops, each man separated from the next by the dreary slog through the wet, brought together for an instant by that simple distilled silence.

He stepped outside and stood on the step. It might as well have been a World War 1 battleground, just like they’d told him. He’d seen old pictures of it but had never really understood or believed them. Now he could all but see the flooded mud planes, troops sinking in filth, retching and choking and drowning.

He smiled and looked up at the suns, shielding his eyes. Glorious.

The rays from the two suns beat down on his sodden face, bleaching the streaks of mud on his cheeks into primitive war paint and evaporating the raindrops that clung to his eyebrows. The crust of salty tears remained.

For a few moments he stayed still and imagined what it might be like to own his own farm, to step out on the porch after a downpour and look across the fields. He thought about owning cows and horses, having a wife and maybe a kid. That wasn’t really too much to ask, was it?

But he had wound up here. So perhaps it was too much to ask, just for now. But a man can dream, can’t he? Sometimes that’s the only thing he can do.

Whenever the rain stopped, it was time for patrol. He knew this of course, and knew he couldn’t feign ignorance or surprise any longer, or even be allowed to enjoy the light from the suns and their brief warmth. A respite from the rain just meant more time for work. He pulled his backpack on and picked up his rifle. Looking for his helmet, he saw it was exactly where he had left it the night before, and was still filled with water. Damn. He tipped it out and placed it carelessly on his head. Immediately, his hair and face were wet again – The rain might as well never have stopped.

He began to walk, joining the others. They marched mostly in silence, the platoon spread out over a quarter of a mile. Through a shantytown they trudged. Somehow buildings still smouldered, all twisted metal and shattered corrugated iron. One of the Natives scampered through the wreckage, trying to forage for something to eat. He didn’t know what they ate or how they survived. Maybe they were actually aquatic and liked to eat mud. There seemed to be nothing else on this sorry moon.

Smiling wryly he thought back to his farm that didn’t exist. One day, all this will be yours, he told himself. One day.

Foot followed foot as they slogged pointlessly onwards. His thoughts continued to wander and he tried to keep reality at bay with thoughts of sheep and hay and harvest. He was brought sharply back to the present as the ground underneath him gave way and he found himself knee deep in a pothole filled with liquid mud. Damn. The mud poured into his boots. So much for being dry.

With a sigh he slung his rifle over his back and searched for some firm ground so he could get free. The mud sucked and clawed at him and the more he tried to escape, the stronger its grip seemed to become. His buddies either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and slowly continued past him as he struggled alone.

He turned his face to the sky, mouthing a silent prayer to an unseen god. Please save me from this hopeless misery.

By way of a reply, a single raindrop patted him lightly on the cheek.

Earth Stood Hard As Iron: Part 3

2010-01-30T17:57:00.008Z

It was her laugh that did it. That glorious sparkling laugh as she threw her head back, red hair splashing out behind her. That was when Gordon knew. She had been looking at him curiously all evening, brow furrowed, mouth closed but turned up at one corner. Eyes ablaze. Come on Gordon, her face seemed to say, I dare you to make me laugh.

Gordon had sat down at Mary’s table earlier that evening. They were all in the Trout and Carrot on Portobello Road, a respected Real Ale establishment of the 1960s. It attracted hippies, oddballs, students, Mary and her friends on this particular night, and Gordon. A low haze of cigarette smoke drifted across the room transforming it, at least in its clientele’s eyes, from a nondescript pub into a furtive noir speakeasy. Low conversation hummed across the tables while protest songs jostled with Thelonius Monk on the jukebox – here was a melting pot of idealists, cynics, critics and dreamers. In the corner by the toilets a drunk man with dank ginger braids threw his hands in the air and talked at all who passed, preaching to no-one in particular about nothing at all.

“Good evening ladies,” Gordon had said, appearing through the smoke and pulling up a stool, flashing his impeccable grin. Curly blond hair tumbled over his forehead and over his ears, and he had face so open and inviting that one couldn’t help but wonder if he was in fact an old family friend on a house call.

“So, I’m Gordon,” he said, cocking his head and nodding knowingly, “And you are?” Four slightly startled, incredulous young women stared back at him. Fawns in the headlights of his devastating social candour. It was Trish who broke the deadlock.

“Trish.” And then Jane.

“Jane.”

“Mary.” Mary!

“Debs.”

Well that was easy, thought Gordon.

They were art students, enjoying a night out on the tiles after handing in their portfolios. Gordon was, as always, charming and courteous, the consummate gentleman. These were the days when a gentleman could approach a lady and it wasn’t thought inappropriate or louche. Back then he was open, honest, joyful; a far cry from the lonely and cold old man into which Time had bent him.

“So Gordon,” the girl called Jane had said at one point, “We’ve told you about us. What about you?”

“Aha!” Gordon’s mischievous grin flashed once more across his face. “Ladies, I work in film.” He could anticipate the response. There was a series of Oohs and Ahs around the table, followed by an unintelligible babble of questions. What films? Who for? How much money do you make sorry for asking? None of them had ever met anyone who worked in film.

“Have you heard of Pinewood?” Of course they had. “I work on the Carry On films – we’ve just wrapped filming one this week, actually.” Gordon leaned back on his stool, trying to combine looking suave and not tipping off the back of it. He had no clue if the film had actually wrapped that week, but it sounded impressive. He finished off his pint.

As the conversation continued, Gordon and the girls became more animated as their defences came down – in part due to familiarity and in part due to beer. They talked life, loves (and ex-loves), they even talked politics. For some reason they discussed at great semi-sober lengths the relative merits of the Shetland pony. Eventually it was closing time and they bowled outside through the frosted glass double doors. The night was crisp, stinging their cheeks and numbing their lips, an unseasonably bitter breeze wound through the streets. Yet it was refreshing instead of painful, after the hours spent in the Trout And Carrot. The reek of second-hand smoke flushed from their noses and was replaced with the simple smell of cold.

Mary, the quiet redhead who had said very little all night, had captivated Gordon from the start. She was, in truth, the reason he had sat down at the table in the first place. As the group wandered aimlessly down the street he sidled up to her. She pushed her chin into the high collar of her woollen coat, hair spilling over the back, and turned to face him, a soft smirk on her lips.

“What do you really do, you charlatan?” were her first words. Gordon felt her peer right into him. Rumbled. He tried to stare back, to stare her down, but couldn’t hold it for long.

“Films! I work in films!” He threw up his arms in protest.

“Yes of course. But what. Do. You. Do?” She emphasised each word as if he were a disobedient child ignoring a mother’s instruction. Go and sit on the naughty step. He slumped his shoulders and dipped his head slightly in mock defeat.

“I make the tea,” he said quietly and then looked her right in the eye, smiling as if to express his innocence. But this was enough – Mary shook her head in disbelief at Gordon’s liberty with the truth. Then, her smile became a laugh, her warm, wonderful laugh. Incandescent.

“Unbelievable,” was the only word she could manage, taking his hand in hers.

Gordon was smitten.

~~
The morning sun shone through his thin curtains, its pathetic rays illuminating brief pathways for dust motes across his off-white walls. The paint he’d used was called Summer Breeze or something, he knew that, but this flat never seemed to feel the summer. Gordon woke with a furry mouth and a throbbing head, wondering why his nights out always end up like that. He flung an arm across the bed to collect her and draw her close to him, but found himself alone. What time was it? 10am. Late. Where is she? She was here. She must be in the bathroom.

He rolled out of bed tangled in sheets and tripped his way into the bathroom. It was empty and the silence was punctuated by the staccato of the dripping tap that could not be turned off. She must be in the living room. He stumbled forwards again and discovered she was not. The living room was freezing and quiet and he hugged the sheets closer around his naked body.

Gone.

Gordon’s heart nearly fell out.

Mary was gone.

~~
“Hello?” says a voice he almost recognises. He breathes into the phone for a few seconds, unsure he’s even got the right number. “Hello?” says the voice again.

“He- hello,” Gordon manages at last. His mouth is dry, even drier than normal and his heart thuds loud in his throat. “I’m looking for Mary McCandless.”

“This is she,” says the voice. It is indeed she, almost exactly. Faded by time and brittle from cigarettes, but this is undoubtedly Mary. He can almost hear her laughing again and see her green eyes, her startling red hair. Almost.

“Someone – Joseph – told me to call you,” Gordon pauses and swallows, his mouth is dry, “This is Gordon Strathairn.” There is a gasp and the telephone receiver clatters to the floor. Gordon can hear a cough and a muffled curse as she apparently scratches around on the floor to pick it up again.

“It fell under the chair,” she says eventually, slowly, “Must have slipped out of my hand. Gordon – why? What’s going on? Why did Joseph call you?”

“I was hoping you could explain, Mary. It’s been a long time.” His heart is pounding and he doesn’t know why. He hasn’t thought about this woman in many, many years.

“Yes. Gordon, I never said, I-,” she pauses as her voiced cracks almost imperceptibly, “I’m sorry. For leaving that morning. I’m sorry.”

“Joseph called me and said that – I – I don’t understand,” Gordon sits back in his chair and suddenly it is all so obvious: He has lived his entire life in complete ignorance. Ignorance of a family, a son, a descendant. Of Mary McCandless, that radiant young woman from that one infinite evening. “I tried to find you, I went back to that pub every day for a month - ” But that is all he can manage.

“Yes,” Mary’s voice is low as she searches for the words, “I’m sorry.”

“But is Joseph, I mean,” Gordon cannot quite bring himself to say it, not yet, “Who is he?”

“He is your son, Gordon.”

“How?”

“After all these years, you still don’t know how it works?”

“No I mean – how do you know he’s mine?”

Mary does not answer. Gordon is half convinced that this is all a trick, a prank, the other half of him desperate for it to be true. He has no idea why. He is desperate to just wake up, return to his low existence, safe. And then crosses himself – this is no dream. If he had never met Mary then life would be almost exactly the same, right up to this point. He wonders how his life might have turned out had Mary stayed in his bed just a few minutes longer. At last, Mary speaks.

“You were the only one.”

This time, it is Gordon who drops the telephone.

“What?” he says, picking it up from his lap.

“You were the only one, Gordon. I met you and I wanted you, only you. Then… well, then I got pregnant and scared. No man wanted me as a single mother.”

“And you never thought I should know I had a son?”

“My mother wouldn’t allow it. She was a hard woman with,” Mary pauses to consider her words, “different ideas.”

Gordon’s mouth opens and closes slowly like he is speaking through a plate glass window, making no sound because he doesn’t know which words to say. Is there a correct response to news like this?

“He was very much like you were, as far as I could tell,” Mary offers. Gordon is silent.

“What, um, what next?” he says eventually.

“I think that is for Joseph to tell you.” What do you mean? he wonders, “I’ll speak to you soon Gordon. Happy Christmas.” Mary replaces the handset and Gordon is left alone with the low buzzing hum of a dead line.

For a time he remains perfectly still, telephone glued to his ear, breath pooling in front of his face as it waltzes into the frosty air.

Earth Stood Hard As Iron: Part 2

2010-01-15T19:20:00.002Z

Gordon wakes with a start. Nothing has moved, nothing changed. His breath still hangs frozen in the air and his face feels distant and stiff, a marionette he can only vaguely control.

“Cal? Where are you?” He mumbles into the blanket wrapped around his body and tucked up to his chin; it’s hard to articulate words when you’re so cold. “Cal?”

The small dog trots obediently in and meets Gordon’s gaze.

“Cal.” A smile spreads across Gordon’s face. Neither is alone. Cal hops up once more onto his lap and settles into the faint depression of the blanket where he had spent the night, enjoying the warmth that reminds him of sleep.

“Happy Christmas old chap,” Gordon says, patting his friend’s head. They sit together for a few moments, Cal immediately beginning to doze as Gordon runs a hand down his weary companion’s back. A sigh from both. “Time to warm ourselves up, I think. Won’t be a moment.” He lifts the dog from his lap and rises slowly, placing Cal back on the warm patch in the chair before turning on the electric fire below the mantelpiece. “Both bars today. Let’s have a treat.”

The television remains on from the night before, having gone from meaningless dross to snow to dross again while they slept. Gordon turns it off and settles back into his chair, pulling the blanket over himself once again. He finds himself facing a bare wall, a glowing fire and a blank screen.

No, it’s Christmas, there must be something on.

With a deep breath Gordon unravels himself once more from the blanket and gets back up again. One of these days he’ll get a television with a remote, but for now this one has picture and sound, and that is all they need. He clicks it on to the BBC. Just the news. It’s cold, people are sad about something someplace, but happy that it’s Christmas. No surprises.

The man and his dog settle into that familiar ritual of Christmas day, of celebrating within one’s meagre means and being glad of it: Special food for Cal (a surprise), a cup of real coffee for Gordon and two bars on the electric fire for them both.

As yesterday it is cold out, too cold to leave the house unless you have to. Church can wait till next year. Instead, they watch Songs Of Praise on the television, Gordon singing along under his breath to those familiar carols. An observer would only see lips moving and hear the occasional deep note or grunt, but Gordon truly is singing; the quiet song of a cold, weary old man. The carriage clock on the desolate mantelpiece ticks over impatiently, marking time until the day’s end.

He gets up only once more in the next 3 hours, to go to the toilet. His hand is cold on the flush, and the water from the taps might as well be ice. As he’s up, Gordon begins to prepare his measly Christmas feast. Peeling the carrots and potatoes, pairing the sprouts; the cold makes these simple things as tortuous as threading a needle. Gordon fills a pan with water, lights the hob and places the vegetables in; one saucepan is enough for everything.

For a moment he stares into the gas ring and allows its heat to caress his face. Suddenly, the harsh bell of a ringing telephone shatters his silent peace. No-one rings Gordon, not even on Christmas. He moves slowly, reluctantly, half hoping it will stop before he reaches it. It does not.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Gordon Strathairn?” An unfamiliar voice on the other end of the telephone.

“Speaking.”

“I - ” the voice wavers, “Gordon, I’m sorry to disturb you, but - ”

“No cold calling!” Gordon slams down the handset, and starts his slow hobble back to the kitchen. The phone rings again before he’s even reached the door.

“Hello?”

“Gordon, I’m sorry, but - ”

“No!”

“Please, I’m not selling anything - Please?”

“What do you want?” A pause on the other end of the line. Five seconds is a long time without words in a telephone conversation and ten seconds might be considered rude. After fifteen, one wonders if the other person is even there. Gordon waits. “What? Who is this?” There is a deep sigh on the other end of the telephone.

“This is your son.”

A thick fog of silence hangs between them once more. For Gordon, time stands still; the television makes no sound, the pipes stop creaking and only the incessant ticking of the mantelpiece clock seems able to break into the stony tomb of the living room.

“I don’t have a son.”

“I’m afraid you do.” This is now the voice of a man, flesh and blood, grown-up. Insistant.

“Is this a joke? Leave me alone.” Gordon moves to put the telephone down again but only gets half way.

“Please.” That note of desperation again, undeniable. “I’m sorry to interrupt Christmas like this, please apologise to your family for me?”

“There’s no-one here, it’s just me and Cal.”

“Cal?”

“The dog.” Cal is asleep in the chair and snoring gently, having made a generous blanket-nest for himself in Gordon’s otherwise vacant chair.

“Listen,” says the voice, again with resolve, “I know you don’t believe me - ”

“You’re right.”

“And you’ve got no reason to. But, you do know someone called Mary McCandless?” At this, all the fight and bravado, all the gruffness, is sucked out of Gordon like poison from a wound.

“I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he says. “Almost forty years.”

“Call her, and she’ll explain. Here’s her number.” The voice says a phone number and Gordon notes it down with a racing heart. Mary McCandless. Notting Hill Carnival in 1966, she was all flowing hair and skirts while he was scrawny in drainpipes and a Beatles t-shirt. They had danced, drank, believed they were in love. And then she went, and he went, and that was that.

“Are you sure?” Now it is Gordon’s voice that wavers. “I mean, are you sure?”

“I’m sure Gordon. Just call her.” This voice was gentle now, kind and caring. Big news for an old man.

“Wait! What’s your name?”

“It’s Joseph. I’m afraid I have to go. Take care now, I’ll speak to you soon.”

“Goodbye - ” he pauses, “Joseph.” The line goes dead and once more Gordon and Cal are alone in each other’s company. Gordon stands above the telephone, staring at it, pondering the conversation. It is like he has just witnessed it rather than actually taken part, a remote observer upon the fallout of someone else’s miscalculations. Mary McCandless. Joseph McCandless. The unfamiliar names twirl around his head. Could this be real? Could this be happening, on Christmas day of all days?

He smiles privately. Christmas day for Gordon is largely the same as any other, except the television is better and the shops are shut. But the sentimentality is still there, the idealism and hope. Perhaps that was what that phone call was – sentimentality. A fatherless man hoping to right some unspoken wrongs of the past, buoyed up by the spirit of the season. But in all likelihood it was a cruel, extremely cruel practical joke. But Mary McCandless! Who could know that name?

Gordon looks at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and the number hastily scrawled upon it. Taking the phone with him, he slumps down in his chair and begins to dial.

Earth stood hard as iron

2010-01-01T16:15:00.002Z

The dull swirling of Gordon’s frozen breath is the only sign of life in the tiny apartment; Choirboys’ voices lilt softly through the still air from the radio in the kitchen, cutting sweetly through the silence. Gordon sits still as a stone, wrapped in blankets whilst Cal, his small mongrel terrier, keeps his feet warm. The room is cold, barely above freezing, a single bar of the electric fire struggling against the bitter winter. It’s cheaper that way.

Gordon blinks as if waking from a dream, moves to stretch his frozen joints, and flexes his numb lips.

“Come on Cal,” he says quietly, “It’s time to go for a walk.”

They shuffle down the hall to the door, and Cal looks on as Gordon agonises over putting on his coat, scarf, gloves and boots. The laces are hard to do. Finally, Cal’s lead is clipped onto his collar.

“Let’s go.”

They tread gingerly from the doorway, the icy gravel cold on Cal’s paws. Normally it’s only a three minute walk to the shops, but this arctic trudge seems like an eternity; The thawed and refrozen snow is sharp and makes progress difficult. Gordon and Cal move slowly through the desolate streets, but finally they round the corner to the welcoming light of the Co-Op. The festive lighting and soft carols on the loudspeakers are comforting, as is the blast of hot air from the door heater. Cal realises he hasn’t felt this warm in days.

Let’s stay?

Cal trots round after Gordon, happy in the warmth – two carrots, a small bag of potatoes, a small bag of Brussel sprouts and a double pack of turkey breasts. Each item is placed carefully, painstakingly, into the basket. A pack of mince pies. The essentials for Christmas cheer. They are greeted at the till by Jan, the lady who manages the store and lives above it. On Christmas Eve, who else would you expect to find working here?

“Hi Gordon! This it?”

“As always, Jan.” Gordon looks to where Cal is waiting patiently, sitting at his feet. “The second one’s for the dog.”

“Lovely, Gordon.” Jan slowly packs the shopping into a flimsy plastic bag – even the heat of the shop doesn’t seem to loosen up her arthritic hands. “Just you and him this year, is it?”

“As always.”

“Yes.” Jan stops packing for a moment and looks straight at Gordon, the first time she has met his gaze since he arrived in the shop. “Stay safe, Gordon, and warm.”

Gordon nods silently and turns to go. He tugs on Cal’s lead and the small dog reluctantly rises to his feet.

Please, let’s stay? Just for a bit?

“Bye Gordon.”

The doors slide silently open and Gordon and Cal step from the comforting warmth into the frigid air of the outside world and onto the crisp snow. They slip and stumble back up the hill, the walk taking even longer on the way back. The world is silent, dead. There is no sound save Gordon’s breathing and the ice crunching underfoot. No one wants to be outside; they are at home, warm, celebrating the season with families, children, mulled-wine and chocolate. One or two cars drive gingerly past but quickly their lights disappear around the bend, and Gordon and Cal are left alone in the dark once more.

Gordon fumbles the key in the lock with his numb fingers, gloves painfully inadequate against the frosty air. Inside is little better. He dumps the bag of shopping in the kitchen and re-opens the half empty bottle of red wine, pouring a mug’s worth into a saucepan. Cal sits obediently by his master.

“Time to warm up, Cal,” Gordon says, gently placing a bowl of dried dog food in front of his companion as steam begins to rise from the saucepan.

Back in the living room again, hot wine in his hands, Gordon holds the mug to his face and allows the steam to thaw his nose, his cheeks. Finally he allows himself a sip, and then another. The warmth spreads through his mouth, his throat, and at last he can feel his fingers once more.

There is nothing of consequence on the TV; a carol service here, the dour weather reports on the other side. Gordon finishes his wine and huddles under the blanket. Cal hops up into his lap and together they warm one another, eventually falling into a restless sleep.

The television, however, remains on throughout the night, casting its silent snow over Gordon’s shivering body.

Upon Owning A Zeppelin

2009-12-09T12:02:00.004Z

I live in a Zeppelin, you know. I do. I got her way back in '97 off some guy who called himself Alf. Swapped her straight up for a timeshare in Tenerife. I always hated Tenerife.

You could say it's liberating. The commute to work is short, or you know, long if I fancy that. The views are good too. Except when it’s raining. Then it’s a problem because it’s hard to escape the rain when it’s all about you. I don't really have to pay bills although the government hasn't yet extended me the courtesy of a Winter Fuel Allowance. I think I’m right in their target demographic – running a Zeppelin is not cheap.

Weirdly, trying to get reception on the telly is a bit hit and miss as well.

Oh hey, you wanna know what my buddies always go on about? Parking fines. I know. Out of all the cool stuff about owning a Zeppelin, they talk about parking fines.

“Hey Mike,” says Pete or Steve as we hit the bar on a Wednesday night, “Got a parking permit yet?” Always with the parking permit joke. It wasn’t funny the first time, Pete or Steve.

“And what's the legal limit for driving a Zepp?” will immediately follow from someone else (usually Gary), and then laughter from the rest.

“Beer's on Mike!” is the chorus before I can chime in with all the air safety regulations and the potential penalties and fines for Piloting A Zeppelin Whilst Intoxicated. Yeah, that’s my buddies.

But you'd think that it'd be easy, wouldn't you? Visiting the family, getting the groceries – just pull up above the place and drop the ladder, job done. Yeah, right. Have you ever tried to refuel a floating Zeppelin in high winds? Tricky stuff, I assure you - she lists like a mother during the fuel transfer.

And you know how my buddies are always on about the parking? Well let me tell you, just because I have a flying house doesn’t mean it’s a picnic. There's always someone out to get you. Maybe they feel inadequate because they're on a scooter and it's raining, or perhaps just that the Zepp is taller than their SUV. I dunno. And London's just a nightmare – the streets are too narrow and you’ve got all these air traffic controllers getting all picky about their airspace. It's not exactly overcrowded in the centre of London, is it? I just want to go to Hamley’s.

This one time, right, I went to get the beers and some snacks for the Christmas party and a gust of wind blew the Zepp over a disabled parking bay. I came out the supermarket and there's this woman in a Spacewagon honking her horn.

“Hey lady, what's up?” I said, politely I thought.

“Someone's left a ladder in the disabled bay. I need to park there - I have the badge on my dashboard, look.” She jabbed a stubby finger at the badge. This woman looked about as disabled as me, just way fatter.

“Sorry, that'll be the Zeppelin. Must've been the wind – I'll move it right now.” I started to walk off, groceries in hand.

“Do you take me for some kind of idiot?” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel ever more tightly. “A Zeppelin? Is this your ladder then?” Please don’t eat me.

“Yeah it's my ladder, but like I said it's attached to a Zeppelin, so...” She lowered her eyebrows and looked like she was about to charge. I changed tack quickly. “Listen, I'm sorry my ladder's in the way. Have a mince pie and I'll move it.”

Reaching into my bag, I tossed her a fresh mince pie. She caught it in her pudgy little hands and stuffed it straight into her mouth, struggling to shovel and breathe at the same time. It wasn't till later that I realised just how small her mouth was in comparison to the rest of her; a tiny cave in the side of a great mountain of flesh.

It looked like most of the mince pie had ended up in her lap. What a waste. But it seemed to do the trick; her rage was sated, if not her appetite.

I left without a word and allowed the Zepp to take off while I was still on the ladder. I always thought I looked quite the hero in this pose, one hand wrapped around a ladder rung, the other holding my plastic shopping bags. As we floated upwards I saw the fat woman's mouth fall open and yet more mince pie tumble out. Had she swallowed any of it?

Still, it was just one mince pie, and it was the season of good will after all.

Suthersage

2009-12-02T14:51:00.007Z

I think some people genuinely thought I would live forever. 93 years old, well over 200 films – Was a man like that truly just a man, or something greater? Yes, in the minds of some, Donald Sutherland was destined to go on and on. But of course I was - am - just a man and after 93 years, 7 months and 12 days my weary body finally succumbed to the demands of time. I died peacefully in my big old house amongst the auburn leaves of Vermont, my dog mourning me at my bedside. I found out later that over 2000 people had attended my funeral in the wind and sideways rain.

Depending on what you believe, you might expect to end up in glory or in damnation, perhaps Nirvana, or even just to rot in the ground. None of these applied to me, it would seem. The next thing I knew I was alive and well - in a way - entombed immortal in a 2 tonne sarcophagus wrought from carbon fibre, Kevlar and steel.

In a flush of youthful enthusiasm I had, some 60 years earlier, turned my future corpse over to the forlorn hope that was cryonics: Be frozen until such a time when I could be successfully reanimated and reintegrated into society. Now, this was all very Messianic and somehow fitting for an arrogant 30-something riding the crest of his 1960's Hollywood stardom. However it did not really figure as I lay in my bed dying of old age, irritable bowel syndrome, and in no small measure a broken heart. I passed peacefully in my sleep on a Tuesday evening and woke up again on a Wednesday morning, 8 days later.

The whole thing was rather surreal at first, I'll admit. No, not being alive – though that was confusing as well. I woke up, opened my eyes and as I looked around in disbelief I simply felt numb. I tried to move my arms but could feel nothing, and the same with my legs. It wasn't like I was tied down or restrained in any way - I just didn't feel anything at all. Nothing. But I did not panic.

“Mr Sutherland,” said a man whose face I didn't recognise, “My name is Dr Hounslow.” He didn't look much like a doctor to me, and this didn't look much like a hospital. More like a warehouse or some kind of loading bay. Bare metal floors, brutal strip lighting, and there was I in the centre of a hasty clearing. The strange new man bustled past me with his feet clanging on the floor and I thought I should be cold, but I wasn't. “Right Mr Sutherland,” said this doctor guy eventually, checking computer screens and printouts arranged about me, “If you'll just bear with me.”

Bear with him?

“Bear with you?” But no sound came out. I asked again, and again, but I couldn't feel my lips and I couldn't hear myself speak.

“Hold on Mr Sutherland, I'll just enable the voice transceivers.”

What?

“WHAT?” I boomed suddenly, my voice reverberating around the room. He looked startled and turned a dial anti-clockwise.

“The voice transceivers – to decode your voice print and thought patterns from Broca's Area – where speech comes from.” And then he paused. “Ah. I think I'd better explain.”

“I think you'd better had.” This time I was very slightly quieter.

And so, Dr Hounslow reminded me of that time in an anonymous office in a downtown clinic that I signed away my death. 1967. Such a long time ago – he wasn't even born. I could of course have opted out again, but to be frank I simply forgot. They were just honouring the last wishes I had expressed regarding the matter. Dr Hounslow then apologised for the somewhat clinical nature of my awakening.

“Most people know exactly what they're letting themselves in for and aren't disorientated at all,” he said with a shrug, and that was that. I always thought his bedside manner left something to be desired. He explained that, given my status (and the comparatively small number of willing participants in the program) I had been selected to be experimentally installed in the prototype exoskeleton.

At this point, I had no idea what a 'prototype exoskeleton' was. He directed my gaze to a series of screens displaying the views seen by several cameras trained on me. I had paid them no notice before, as I did not see the relevance of a bunch of monitors focussed on a huge, shiny black ellipse. From ground to tip it – Me, as it turned out – was easily 8 feet high and was made of a sleek and impossibly hard black material. Not really metal but not plastic either - I've never managed to truly understand it.

There was an elegance in the finish, the gentle curves – an aesthete would find me appealing I'm sure, albeit in an “enormous hulking robot” way. Remember that time you first watched 2001 and saw the monoliths? I am an egg monolith.

The whole construction seemed to rest delicately on 4 legs, which I was assured were actually in no way delicate but could kick down a brick wall if I so desired. At that point I couldn't imagine quite why anyone would want to kick down a brick wall, but it was comforting to know it was possible. The whole thing looked faintly ridiculous, as you might imagine, but apparently it – sorry, I - was the cutting edge of technology. I suppose I still am the cutting edge of technology, but I'll get to that in a bit.

“So, I'm inside this thing?”

“Well, your consciousness is – and that's what matters.” He chuckled. I did not chuckle back. My body, of course, had been legitimately buried in front of those 2000 people I told you about, but it was my brain – my thoughts, my personality – that had been saved. Like saving a file to a USB stick, he informed me.

So he was comparing my brain, the summation of everything I had ever experienced, thought, seen or done, the core of my identity, to a file on a computer?

Yes, yes he was.

And that was that really. They encouraged me to try to live a normal life, to interact, to contribute. But what would they know about being 'normal'? Have they ever been encased in a giant black egg with enough lifting power to throw a truck? No, they have not. I can't go for a meal in a restaurant, play the piano, enjoy a scotch; I can't even do any more movies. So explain to me just how I'm supposed to go back to living a 'normal' life?

About a year after this event (It always seems odd to say 'a year after my death') I left Vermont and decided to go New Mexico. I stomped through West Virginia and lingered near Kentucky, before splashing around the Mississippi for a while. In general I dawdled about and took in the sights. Never before had I been able to travel with such freedom and such alacrity. All the relevant authorities knew about me so I was rarely bothered, and in general I stayed out of the limelight and away from the more densely populated areas. It was glorious. Some people were shocked, sure – imagine how you might react to the silhouette of an 8 foot high egg padding through your corn field at dawn. Thankfully my outer shell is completely impervious to shotgun rounds.

Sometimes I would turn to the humans and proudly exclaim “It's OK! I'm the ghost of Donald Sutherland!” They would see my face projected on the front of the chassis and either nod and go inside, or be completely freaked. Ha!

This all happened 900 years ago though. If nothing else, I would say time is certainly on my side.

I haven't seen much of anyone in the last, say, 400 years. In 2517 I stood on a remote outcrop in the Rocky mountains with my vision set to 500x Zoom (Flash Suppressor Enabled) and watched as mankind accidentally and repeatedly nuked itself from orbit. I heard the cries of the innocent and felt the heat and percussive repeats of the explosions; The human race managed to wipe itself out almost entirely in under a day. It was morbidly exhilarating to be buffeted by the nuclear winds and to feel the gentle rain of fallout ash on my carapace, as soft and perversely pure as a snowfall.

When you've been around as long as I have, you'll learn to appreciate the little things.

A few years later I made friends with a fox cub. I happened to be in a forest in Yellowstone when I heard (Or rather, my medium-range sensors alerted me to) a creature barking and screaming, being attacked by a bear or something else huge and grotesque. I tramped over to see what was going on out of macabre curiosity. I arrived in the thicket some ten minutes later but the assailants were gone and the mother was as good as dead. Guts hanging out, blood trickling from her mouth, eyes glazing over – there was nothing to be done. I crushed her head under my foot and she died in an instant.

Only then as I turned to leave did I see her cub hiding in a tree stump. The cub looked up at me with her innocent eyes and I stared back. She did not seem afraid, but simply curious. Dismissively I turned and stomped off, partly because I value my solitude and partly from shame at what I had done. But the cub followed me. I passed through a cutting and began to splash along a small brook, and few minutes later I turned to find this little fox cub still scampering along behind me, skipping from bank to bank, tail raised high in delight. Soon I left the stream and headed up a nearby hill, and still she followed. Eventually I paused at a pleasant vantage point high above the forest; the cub appeared beside me and rested on her haunches. Together we watched the sunset.

And so we stayed together for a time. I helped her hunt when she needed it, and let her use my great hulking form as a shelter from the elements. My hull was not as gleaming nor as elegant as it used to be – a millennium of hard use had left its surface slightly dulled, and if you looked very carefully you might even find the odd scratch. But I generally went where I wanted to, and mostly the cub followed. Sometimes she would disappear for days and then spring herself upon me in surprise, miles away from where we had parted company. She would run around and through my four stumpy metal legs and I could feel her fur brush against my sensors and her tail sweep past my actuators. Hello large machine, she seemed to say, I missed you.

A tired old man like me doesn’t want for much. One evening she curled up into the cleft of my foot and just dozed there for a while. I didn't dare move for fear of waking her. As we basked together in the late summer sun, I almost felt human.

Image by Jim Unwin www.jimunwin.com

Stefan

2009-09-23T09:33:00.005+01:00

    “Papa?”
    Stefan pressed his back against the rough wall, scrawny legs tucked up to his chest with his fingers locked around them. It was cold and he was tired, and he could not sleep in this dusty carriage. He wanted to be home and be tucked in bed and have Mama reading him a story and stroking his hair. But she wasn't here, and he wasn't at home. Shivering, he hugged his legs tighter still.
    “Papa?” Stefan ventured again. Opening his mouth filled his lungs with the stink of the dead and the dying, and so he didn't speak very much. No-one did.
    “Boy?” came the soft reply. Papa was slumped over in the corner.
    “Papa where are we going?” Stefan asked, for the hundredth time.
    “I don't know. No-one knows. We won't find out until we get there.”
    “Papa?”
    “Yes?”
    “I love you.”
    “I love you, too.”
    The silence hung in the air, and in the dark someone began to cough into their coat.
    “Papa?”
    “Yes?”
    “I'm scared.”
    “I'm scared, too.”
    The train rattled on and Stefan peered at his father. He looked so old, now. His skin fell pale against his cheekbones, draped like bits of old school books, where his proud features used to be. His lips were dry and cracked, his dirty hair fell tangled to his nose. But this stranger was still Papa, still his Papa. His eyes! They sparkled at him fiercely blue whenever they spoke, winking out I Love You in the dimness of the carriage.
    Somewhere beyond, a girl began to sob. Stefan could not see who or where she was and so he imagined that it was Analiese. But he didn't like that very much, and besides he knew it was not her. It could not be Analiese and it could not be Mama.
    “Stop crying,” rasped an invisible voice. She did not stop. “Stop it!”
    “Leave her alone,” breathed Papa.
    “What's it got to do with you old man?” the voice replied sharply.
    “I'm not... old.” Papa began to cough, but tried to hide it in the sleeve of his thin jacket. He pulled himself upright and the coughing subsided and Stefan did not know what to do to help him. A shadow moved slowly across the carriage and suddenly without warning a boot crashed into Papa's chest.
    “Papa!” Stefan cried out, but he did not move. The boot hit Papa in the chest again, and again. He screamed and slumped back against the wall, eyes gazing at the unseen attacker, pleading. Why are you doing this?
    “Please,” Stefan saw Papa's eyes stare through him, “My son.” Why didn't he do anything? But Papa could not move and he could hardly breathe, and the boot smashed into him again. This time something gave way, but it was not Papa. The lowest plank of the carriage wall creaked and groaned and the boot kicked Papa again and the plank cracked and the boot hit him again and the plank broke. Sunlight streamed gloriously through the hole, but Stefan could only look on at his Papa gasping for breath and he had never seen him like this before. His eyes weren't shining like they should but glistened wet. In the warmth of the fresh sun, Papa wept.
    “Stefan?” The boot had stopped kicking now, and the shadow had retired. Now Stefan could move, and he scuttled over to where his Papa was sprawled on the floor. No one else had moved to help, or even seemed to notice. People just like him and Papa sat or lay about, exhausted and weak just the same, but no-one would do anything. “Stefan,” Papa repeated quietly through the tears so quietly, “It's time to go. I'm so sorry.”
    Papa brought his head level to Stefan and looked at him square on.
    “I love you so much.”
    Stefan clung to his Papa and begged for time to go backwards. The older man breathed heavily into the nape of his neck as they hugged each other, but the train carried on clattering and the dust carried on swirling. Then without warning Stefan felt himself shoved towards the hole and he was through and then he was flying through the air, and the sun blazed hot on his skin again. As he rolled into the cool soft grass at the side of the track he turned and saw Papa's face disappear into the darkness, eyes sparkling like before.
    Papa, Stefan mouthed, I love you.

Long Distance Relationship : Part 3

2009-09-15T11:37:00.002+01:00

Four days passed. McLean had been dividing his time between his bunk and the arboretum; The hydrangeas were flourishing. Only occasionally would he venture onto the bridge of the ship to check things were still running smoothly - they were. The computer had everything under control, as usual, and the humans aboard were still just cargo, still just along for the ride. On the fourth day, after an uninspiring breakfast of Oatmeal Foodtube and Orange Juice Drinktube, McLean sat on his bed gazing out of the small circular viewport above his head. He smiled as he remembered for a moment the last real meal he'd eaten, made from ingredients that didn't have to remain edible for the next two years. And then, Foodtubes.

The languid spin of the craft made focussing on anything for longer than half a minute or so tricky, but over the last ten rotations he was sure he had spotted something new. A previously unseen object winked at him weakly from across the depths of the inky black.

McLean dragged his naked feet briefly across the cold metal floor and slid them into his comforting and worn brown slippers he had brought all the way from Earth, all that time ago. They had become his regular footwear soon after departing Mars, after all what was the point of wearing shoes if you never went outside? The soft material reminded him of the soft floors, and soft skin, of home. He sloped towards the Viewing Room, a room containing a single large screen and a quartet of plush velvet chairs.

He flicked the light switch and the room brightened to a comforting half-light. Dark walls illuminated sordidly by yellow uplights; this homage was missing only the slow coil of cigarette smoke. McLean had always imagined that whomever designed this particular room was a frustrated home cinema enthusiast, barely stopping short of providing surround sound and a popcorn dispenser at the back. Flopping down into one of the deep chairs, he lazily manipulated the control column for the external camera array and panned the view to centre roughly on the distant craft. McLean locked the cameras onto it to compensate for the ship's rotation, and stepped through the magnification levels. Five times, ten times, one hundred times - the white blink now resembled a small comet with a fiercely bright nose and a long blue-white tail behind it.

McLean snorted derisively to himself. Looking closer still, he could make out a tiny sphere at the front of a long cylinder which was presumably the ion whatsit. That sphere can't have provided particularly agreeable living, but then no nuclear missile was ever built for its creature comforts. He sat back in his comfortable chair, allowing the massage function to work its undeniable magic, and said a silent prayer of thanks to the incalculable genius that decided massage chairs were indispensable in the advancement of spaceflight.

He didn't dare magnify the image any further in case it transpired Bryant really was wearing a Stetson.

He flicked on the chair intercom. "Bartlett?"

"Here Commander!" came the bright reply.

"Put me through to the One Child Policy, please." Bartlett acknowledged and in a few seconds she signalled that the channel was ready to transmit. McLean hadn't really thought about what he might say at this juncture - he was almost slightly surprised at himself for seeking out communication with the unwelcome intruders. But Intruder is such a strong word, he thought. After all, space is pretty big. There's plenty of room for both of us. What about Interloper, or even Tourist? But, McLean acknowledged privately, this should have been his big bit of space.

Yes, he was being petulant, and Yes he was being difficult, but he had enjoyed being on the only inhabited ship to experience this area of space - such as it was - first hand. Now suddenly he felt crowded, his private resort overtaken by towel-bearing German tourists.

"Hello One Child Policy," he stated. Not a question.

"Well hello!" came the easy reply. McLean didn't need to ask who he was speaking with, after all who else could it be?

"How's things going over there?" McLean's interest was piqued by pangs of jealousy - had he now been relegated to the B Team?

"Well there's never much room to move around," Bryant answered dismissively, "But we're still accelerating and I think we're on schedule!" He thinks?

McLean paused for a second. Two seconds. Three.

"I've been meaning to ask, actually," he pondered aloud in measured tones, "What exactly is your schedule?" McLean knew his own ship's schedule intimately and was morbidly keen to learn how the two craft stacked up. With three months left to travel to reach the Rally Point, he wondered exactly how B Team was he?

"Well you know, it's not long at all! Here, let me check." How could Bryant not know this? "About 3 weeks."

Bugger. It. All.

McLean flicked off the intercom and sloped off to talk to his hydrangeas.

Long Distance Relationship : Part 2

2009-09-08T21:34:00.006+01:00

A day later the light was blinking noticeably faster, and the screen underneath it ticked over with the results of the sensor's mass spectrometry. A small craft, much smaller than their own, but following a near identical course and at much greater speed. The craft had halved the distance between them. McLean had strewn his lanky frame sideways across the angular pilot's seat, legs flopping over one arm of the chair and his back perched awkwardly against the other. He really was too big to be sitting like this both in size and years, and quite frankly, he thought, it would be more comfortable to just sit up. He did not move, but instead reached across to the old tape player stuck to the edge of the control panel and pressed play. Johnny Cash lilted out of the tinny speaker and McLean shut his eyes. He cared little for this "anomaly" but just wanted to arrive at the Rally Point in peace, and hopefully stay there for a time, in peace. Then he would eventually return home an International Hero, and all would be well.

The faint crackling on the ship's speaker was at first barely audible above The Man In Black's sombre tones. Steadily the signal it grew stronger however and the static became fainter, and as Folsom Prison Blues drew to a close McLean could not deny that they were being hailed.

Laconically he beeped back once - ready and willing to receive a message. Ordinarily, a man sixteen months into a trip with only three others for company would be craving another voice, another companion, or at the very least be desperately curious. McLean was reticent; this would be some kind of unwanted intrusion, invading upon his serenity. Of course it would probably be a Chinese craft, and then the interruption would be short and likely violent. But, accepted McLean, what was to be done about that?

"WSC Long Distance Relationship, Long Distance Relationship, do you read me?" came the faint distorted voice. Not a Chinese voice after all, but a long Texan drawl. McLean's heart actually sank and the gears in his brain started to grind.

"This is she," was the reply. A long pause.

"This is the WSC One Child Policy, approximately two million miles distant," crackled the voice. The ship relayed the encrypted handshake codes and signalled success. The identification checked out.

"I know how far away you are, thank you." Silence. Perhaps they had been expecting someone a little more verbose this far away from home. McLean pondered through the silence, however. What was another Western Space Coalition ship doing out here? These missions didn't just happen without years of planning, billions of dollars. As the silence dragged on and on over the radio waves, McLean furrowed his brow and considered. What the hell were these cowboys doing tearing up space behind him? "Repeat your name and ident please?" he finally muttered, almost to himself.

"Yup this is the WSC One Child Policy and I'm her Commander, Rusty Bryant." Rusty? Figures.

"And Rusty, what exactly are you doing all the way out here, if you don't mind me asking?" queried McLean. There was a brief pause.

"Well I assumed you knew that Commander McLean," came the measured reply. A ripple of doubt swelled through McLean's thoughts.

"Enlighten me."

"Well we're the test flight for the ion reactor!" exclaimed Bryant suddenly and jubilantly, "They set you off way back when, and then a coupla months back they set us off! We're in a big race!" Yeah, except no-one told this crew we were under starter's orders, thought McLean.

"And what of this race?" he shot back. Ion reactor?

"Well, either way the WSC beats the Chinese - either you get there and we don't get there at all, or we get there faster!"

Oh great, a Texan with a death wish. This would explain how they could be going quite so fast, and appear to still be accelerating. McLean wondered exactly what kind of speeds ship with an ion reactor was capable of reaching. It was a technology he knew a very little about - the theory, at least - but he never thought it would come to fruition during his lifetime, let alone during his trip. His trip! He was supposed to be the first one to Jupiter, not this disembodied Stetson.

The theory of the ion reactor was simple - Heat up argon or something similar with some science and make an ion beam (The details had always escaped him), heat the beam up to a million degrees or thereabouts and you have an engine that can accelerate forever. Simple. Simple in theory but apparently devilishly hard to make work in practice. But someone somewhere had done it, in secret, and here we are. An impossible engine capable of unbelievable speeds, and McLean had the honour of being the one to be overtaken by it. The peace of his private pilgrimage rudely cut short by a nuclear bomb with a Texan strapped on the front.

"And what's with the name anyway?" McLean was genuinely curious now but he was greeted with static as his only reply. "Hey! The name?" he inquired as he thumbed the Transmit key back and forth. However, slowly the gain died down and the static resolved to a gentle fuzz. He stared at the communicator for a minute or so, willing it to reply, but it steadfastly refused. Eventually he flicked off the speaker and trudged back to his bunk.

Long Distance Relationship : Part 1

2009-09-03T09:57:00.010+01:00

McLean idly watered the tub of hydrangeas, humming to himself. The arboretum was constantly humid and the climate maintained precisely, so there was no real need for him to be here; but doing things yourself can be so therapeutic. One of the reasons he was all the way up - out - here was to get away from it all, but sometimes even that became too much and he had to get away once more.

Tending to the flowers helped to soothe his busy mind: They can't talk back, and they always seem to thrive on listening. Now however, the chamber was almost silent save for his humming and the hiss of the sprinkler system; the warm glow of the heater lamps made a welcome change from the clinical walkways and gantries of the rest of the ship. Perhaps he should put some peonies in a vase for the Bridge?

Drops of moisture condensed on his face and began dripping off the end of his nose - his damp black hair was plastered to his forehead, and for the last few minutes his attempts to puff it out of his eyes had been in vain. He blustered upwards once more and blew water into his eyes.

"Commander?"

"Yes?" McLean sighed deeply, aware that his reverie had come to an end.

"How are the hydrangeas?" Bartlett had this unsettling habit of trying to put him at ease with an irrelevant opening gambit.

"The hydrangeas are fine, thank you Stephanie. They are blue, as expected," he raised his eyebrows, "and growing uncommonly well for this time of year." He sighed again and examined the dirt-stained fingertips of his gardening gloves. So much for a day of solitude. "How may I help you?" he said, looking up.

"Well Commander," Bartlett answered, hesitantly. Had she sensed she was unwelcome? "One of the proximity alarms is firing. Would you care to take a look?" In truth, no. But he was in charge, and so, Yes. McLean nodded somberly and tossed his gardening gloves to the floor.

"Let's go."

He sloped wearily along the walkway that fed through the centre of Arm B of the spacecraft WSC Long Distance Relationship and Bartlett, a good foot shorter than him, scuttled along beside. Halfway down, McLean paused at one of the viewports and gazed out at the hull still 150 metres away, and beyond into the black. Would he ever get tired of looking into that distant nothing?

"Please Commander, I'm a bit anxious," Bartlett stressed, looking up at him through worried eyes. She was often a bit anxious, so this gave McLean little cause for concern. They walked on.

Commander Anthony McLean and Stephanie Bartlett were two of the four person crew aboard the spacecraft, and it frustrated McLean that even after sixteen months he was yet to persuade Bartlett to call him by his first name. Their mission was purportedly "of historic importance" and "a vital strategic milestone", but he had long since come to terms with the reality - that it was motivated by petty rivalries and long standing jealousy. It was the dubious honour of McLean and his crew to be the first humans destined to inhabit The Jupiter Rally Point, mankind's deepest large scale foray into the Solar System. This space station had been assembled autonomously over the last ten years at near incalculable expense by what had become known as the Western Space Coalition, and even as they were in flight final preparations were being made by the sizeable force of automata in attendance.

The Western Space Coalition was really a worldwide conglomerate of nations, monikered Western merely as a poke in the eye to the Chinese, who still resolutely refused to be part of anything involving the Americans. The ribaldry had continued in earnest, both sides taking cheap shots at the other for no discernible reason or advancement. The West had established the first inhabited base on the moon, the Chinese the first on Mars. The next logical step, in the eyes of the controlling forces of the WSC at least, was an outpost even further out: The Jupiter Rally Point. McLean always felt a sinking feeling inside when he considered this quite frankly ridiculous outcome.

The problems began - if you can really consider this a beginning - when it turned out that the Chinese had planned all along to allow the Rally Point to be built, and then take it over by force. The space station was never designed as a weapons platform (Upon whom would the weapons be trained while orbiting Jupiter?) and so in reality would be all but defenceless. And so the schedule was accelerated, and sixteen months previously the construction of the WSC Long Distance Relationship was completed to a not inconsiderable fanfare.

In truth, she was an odd looking craft, and McLean always wondered where the aesthetic design budget went during its construction. Three arms extended away at irregular angles from the elliptical main hull, which was all engine and fuel and supplies. At the end of one of the arms was the arboretum which until recently was where McLean had been passing the time. Its designed purpose was to serve as a natural air scrubber but he had misappropriated it otherwise. Obviously on the craft's inception the propaganda machine whirled into action and it was hailed as the greatest spacecraft ever created by humankind, but now it felt like a well-worn, well-loved dog toy; dirty and battered by sixteen months of radiation and debris, chewed up and spat out by the harsh climate of deep space.

McLean could taste the difference in the air as they arrived in the cold blue light of the Bridge: Sterile, lifeless, and all too serene for his liking. The light desaturated his skin and gave his face the deathly sheen of a cadaver. He thrived in the chaos of the organic, not this dry, rasping atmosphere and it was at that point that the Commander realised he must have been having some sort of moment when he agreed to do this mission. Still, here he was and he was making the best of it. McLean turned to the long range threat alarm which gazed tirelessly over the surrounding five million miles and delivered its verdict through its slow, measured, blinking screen. Five million miles - not a great deal to be worried about after all, but after a year and a half together McLean had learned Bartlett's foibles well.

He leaned in close to the the screen and its red glowing symbols warmed his face back into the land of the living. "Stephanie, I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," he cast offhandedly, "Probably a rogue asteroid or something." Never much of a People Person, McLean hoped Bartlett understood his foibles too.

"Sure thing," Bartlett muttered, unconvinced. She lingered for a while, to see if anything would change. Nothing did, and she wandered off to her bunk. McLean remained, unmoving, in the Bridge as the Long Distance Relationship powered its way silently and swiftly towards the stars.

Mermahuataur

2009-08-26T21:41:00.002+01:00

Neither man nor beast nor beast, our lost and mournful hero roamed.

Dwarfed by the towering volcanic peaks of the Aegean,
The sea-dwellers shooed it from their home -
I'm sorry they lied, we've enough problems of our own.

Pitiful amongst the bustling Metropolis,
It was derided and ignored in deference to a latte with extra foam -
There's a recession on, don't you know.

"Moo," said the cows, scornfully.

Requiem

2009-08-23T20:20:00.010+01:00

The Alien slouched against the bar, limp cigarette dangling from its front row of teeth. A half drunk rum and cola was its silent partner.

"Come on, come on!" it rasped, "Make the shot already!"

The Predator cocked his head sideways, distracted and aggravated. This was a tense game - their closest yet - and the last thing he needed was this insufferable bounder putting him off with his backchat.

"My dear boy, do be quiet," he mumbled.

The Predator lined up his shot and contemplated. Tricky, yes. Impossible? No. He clicked on his targeting reticule and considered the far cushion; The correct angle would mean sinking the black and winning the frame. You don't let a snooker like this phase you after crossing half a galaxy in search of a worthy opponent. From the corner of his eye he could see his Alien foe lean forward slightly on his bar stool, small bizarre extra head poking out of his mouth in anticipation. What an odd fellow.

He drew back the cue to make the shot, attempting an air of calm to hide the knot of fear in his stomach. At this moment his exoskeleton - his constant companion through battle after battle - felt all too tight. He exhaled to steady himself. Suddenly, a blur of movement. Whipping round he saw the Alien sailing silently through the air, talons first followed by far too many teeth. There was no time to fire or even arm his shoulder cannon - the fiend was upon him! He wheeled the cue around and it connected solidly with his foe's temple. But this did little to slow it and The Predator, caught unawares, struggled to protect his face from the Alien's gaping, gnashing maw.

What kind of conduct was this for a gentleman?

Locked in combat, it was impossible to tell them apart - teeth, spikes and glistening carapaces became one in an orgy of snarling, whirling violence. Suddenly the Predator saw his opening - the cad's chest was exposed! In a moment he had plunged his snooker cue through the Alien's armoured hide and out of its back. A florid bouquet of wood, snooker chalk and blood blossomed across the table. The Alien crumpled to the floor.

Surely that was too easy?

The Predator picked up his battered Fedora and cocked it towards the bar. "Sorry about the mess old chap," he said with a wink. Behind him, acid blood began to mingle with the cigarette ash and dust and eat through the faded polish. just another scar in this lonely pool hall's undistinguished life.

From behind the bar, the bartender quietly cleaned an old pint glass, aghast.

Privateer

2009-08-12T21:38:00.004+01:00

The first person we met properly was an unlikely taxi driver; no, the unhelpful American Airlines employee doesn't count. The driver was definitely a character, only four foot ten with small bright eyes and a missing front tooth. Wrapped in some kind of red taffeta shoulder-padded number, she wouldn't have looked out of place in a deep south church on a Sunday or a Cyndi Lauper music video. Add a battered tricorne, put her on the high seas behind the tiller of a rogue tea clipper and the look would be complete, if a bit unorthodox. This was all somewhat unexpected. Where was the jovial yet jaded taxi driver with the flat cap, foul mouth and Bronx lilt? Still, she would have to do. This peculiar hybrid looked up at us suspiciously, as if asking 'What do you want from me?'

A taxi ride, hopefully. Nothing relating to pillaging, thanks.

'Julia Street?' she mumbled, 'I don't think there are any hotels on Julia Street!' Her drawl and missing tooth made it hard to make out exactly what she was slurring, but the subsequent giggling cackle made it obvious.

Oh good.

After loading our bags she spent an inordinate amount of time thumbing helplessly at the mangled key fob in her hand. While waiting for her to decipher the complex device, I noticed the taxi door held an imposing sign : 'Only Driver May Operate Door'. Initially confusing, it soon became an ominous warning; What would happen if we, and not the driver, attempted to Operate Door? Could we injure ourselves? Could this even be a veiled threat? The matter was quickly resolved as our odd host, her brow furrowed in concentration and a dash of temporary confusion, put her tongue back inside her mouth and looked back up us. She jabbed a button on the fob, eyes ablaze with triumph.

The door slid open.

We climbed aboard and arranged ourselves around her bags of shopping, laundry and an impossibly large half-eaten slice of watermelon. It was itself sitting in a plastic bag, surrounded by pips and with a worn plastic fork sticking straight up out of the pulpy middle. This was her fruit fork, revered amongst all others, to take centre stage at all times; The mast to her noble vessel. The watermelon sat on the arm rest between the two front seats; August upon its throne, the best seat in the house. It was our silent, sentient guardian gazing tirelessly away beyond the horizon. When she swerved or braked hard, her hand shot out to steady the massive piece of fruit, as though she knew her driving had the potential to spill it or bruise it or otherwise cause it offence.

It is not comforting to be valued less than a watermelon.

The journey to the questionably existent hotel was largely uneventful, marred only by her seeming inability to keep a constant speed. Go. Stop. Go. Stopgo. Gogogostop. And so it continued. I pondered quite how to put on my seatbelt quietly and carefully enough so that she wouldn't realise it wasn't a direct result of her erratic driving. Slowly, carefully, I clicked the catch into place and turned to look out of the window, ashamed. When we finally arrived at our destination, our pilot veered sharply across the thankfully empty road and slid into a parking spot, watermelon always secure.

'You're staying here?' she cackled once more. Hobbling out of her seat and opening the boot - I noted with an odd degree of satisfaction that it was not also automatic - she glanced at us, inviting us to remove our bags. We rummaged through further plunder: shopping, clothes and now baby toys and pulled out our things. She gunned the engine and sailed off down the road, leaving us standing in that muggy street that smelled vaguely of sick, a wino asleep on a bench.

Enjoy your watermelon, weird pirate lady.

You Slug

2009-07-28T16:09:00.002+01:00

Hey buddy you gotta be more careful, that was too close.

I'm just walking down the road and then there you are in my face, crossing without looking.

I nearly stepped on you buddy. You're just a greasy tube with stalks for eyes. Yeah, a greasy tube, we all thought it but I said it. You can have that one for free.

You wonder how many of you guys die in a day? A week? A year? Too many to count, that's how many. You'd just be one more in a big long line of dead tubes. You gotta be more careful.

Nah I'm just kidding, best of luck buddy.

A Nice Easy Start

2009-07-28T09:38:00.007+01:00

I'm often the first to rise in the morning. I don't know why, I just don't sleep in. I'm not super keen or anything. I just worry too much. I can't bear to "waste the day" by committing some somnolent atrocity, like sleeping in until 9.

But perhaps that would be no bad thing, I pronounce to no-one in particular.

Right now, everyone is dog tired from four long days at the crag. Even so, I'm up at half past seven, with the birds. Or is it the sheep in the field next to the villa? Their symphony of bells can only descend into cacophony when one is attempting to sleep through the dawn. I pull on a vest and fill up the kettle. In the silence of the morning it sounds like a freight train as it comes to the boil. Cup of rubbish Spanish coffee in hand, I flick through an old copy of Hello! or New! or whatever it is - I can't tell the difference. It's the same one I leafed through yesterday morning in the same manner, and I was similarly disinterested then. The previous tenants of this ropey old villa didn't see fit to take it with them, but rather punish me instead. I am a rabbit in the headlights of its neon typeface.

Idly I allow my brain to lay waste to itself.

Slowly, one by one, the others drag themselves out of bed. Half eight, nine, and the villa begins to come to life once more. The kettle gets up a head of steam again, and again. The frontiersman of the Old West were mistaken when they uprooted their lives in search of black gold; truly it boils here on the kitchen worktop. The muesli is out and swiftly spilled on the table. A half-hearted effort is made to clean it up, but it's ok because I know someone - me - will probably pick at it later. And then it's croissants and toast and bananas and hot chocolate. I watch as this plague of locusts devours every edible item within view, bent on the destruction of that which would stand between them and a full belly.

While waiting for the feeding frenzy to burn itself out, I take a shower. Predictably, the pressure is low and the temperature of the water is tepid, at best. Slowly however it warms to be the perfect midpoint between bearable and scalding. I stand head bowed, and let the rivulets of lukewarm liquid run through my hair, down my spine, over my eyes. It's beautiful really, and for a few moments I'm encased in this shimmering shield. Then the soap gets in my eyes and I hear a knock on the door.

There are other people waiting, you know.

The final preparation ritual begins. We lay out our gear in quiet awe; carabiners and quickdraws, cams, nuts and slings. There really is no need as it is all exactly where it was before, in exactly the same condition. But feeling the weight in your hand, knowing the tangibility; That is as good a reason as any. As swiftly and as silently as they began, the rites draw to a close. Gear is gear, it is all there and in good order, why romance it further? Later in the car, I will find myself thumbing at a carabiner just to listen to its brave snap and click, to hear tell of its heroics and strength, the chill metal a reminder of trust earned.

Belts and harnesses are stuffed unceremoniously into bags as the group becomes restless, almost as one. We pile into the tired hire car and the boot doesn't shut. We pile out again, attempt to rearrange the mountains of equipment and not get frustrated that we still haven't left. At last all the doors shut and our day can begin. Or begin to begin, at least. The air conditioning doesn't work, and I don't know why I expected it to be magically better overnight. On most days we teeter on the edge of being entombed in a furnace but today, thankfully, the air is cooler.

A half-hearted flock of clouds dawdle across the sky.

For some reason the radio stations play only 1980s hits and flamenco. Have the Spanish really only just discovered Soft Cell? More importantly, am I allowed to enjoy the Abba? Motorways become normal roads, and the normal road becomes a track. This plucky Ford Fiesta was never meant to go off road, I can tell you that from bitter experience. To say that it struggles would be an understatement, and even to suggest that it soars like some elegant bird of prey would be an outright lie.

But finally, after too many bone shaking minutes, the crag hoves into view and it begins to rain. Perfect timing Spain, thank you. Optimistically we unpack our gear and set about finding a good first pitch to begin the day. Perhaps there is one which is a bit steep and will remain dry. Initial enthusiasm wanes swiftly as we fail to find a suitable candidate. The drizzle matures and the engorged clouds continue to unleash their payload with aplomb, the epitome of timely restraint and release.

We return to the car without a word, turn on the flamenco and eat more croissants.

The Woodcutter

2009-07-27T12:38:00.004+01:00

He wakes before dawn. As the birds begin to stir and yawn their pre-dawn song, he makes a cup of coffee. Strong, black. Maybe fresh if he's feeling generous to himself, but more often than not he'll reheat some left over from the day before. As the sun steadily makes itself known over the distant treeline, he drags his aching body to the bathroom. At least he should shave, he thinks. Make himself look respectable. But for who? The trees? The stained porcelain of the basin stairs back at him as he splashes cold water on his weatherworn face. So many years, so many lines. But they are not laughter lines, they are lines carved into his features through toil and slog, lines summoned into existence by two decades of existing over living.

The rusty razor rasps across his skin, but its dullness does not awaken his senses any more than the coffee. Routine.

Returning to his bedroom, the solitary sunbeam casts its weak ray across his messy bed. An old quilt, once made for a child and used far beyond its years lies strewn across the stained sheets. Nothing sinister mind, but the stains of time, of sweat in the too hot summer nights, faded through one hundred too many washes.

Dust motes navigate through the sunbeam. Conjured into existence by the dawn and its piercing light, they have but a few seconds' life before they leave the shaft of light and perish in the dimness beyond.

His jeans, too, are faded. The marks of use and love, of trees, beer and of spaghetti sauce. This pair of jeans are his near constant companion.

"Why throw them away?", he always says, "They've never done me wrong."

He pulls on his overcoat and his splinter infested boots, and steps out into the cool morning air. The sun is visible now, its orange glow struggling to warm the air. The stillness is broken by the sound of an approaching truck; as inevitable as the dawn itself his old buddy arrives to take him the 14 miles up the track to where the sentencing is to be carried out.

"Mornin'" he mumbles, his breath fresh against the cold.

"Mornin'" comes the reply, barely audible above the rattling complaints of the old truck. Men can bond over these things, these trivialities and nonsenses that some overlook. It may well be a simple ritual but a ritual it is, the transference from dark to light, from solitude to fraternity. The journey passes as usual, in silence. At one point a squirrel darts in front of the vehicle, itself too asleep, it would seem, to have common sense.

As usual, they arrive on time, and the day begins. Gloves are donned, chainsaws are revved and visors are lowered. This forest has committed no crime, done no wrong, but its mere existence has become its own assurance of destruction.

The logging goes well that day. No-one is hurt. No machines break down, and no cables snap. No equipment is lost. Trees get cut down, and loaded onto lorries; their full purpose on this world is yet to be realised. The woodcutter doesn't care where they end up, what they are used for. The time has long since passed when he felt inquisitive as to their destination. Trees are trees, he was told. What happens to them is not your concern.

After work, the group of tired men retire to The Happy Logger, as usual. What conversation can be had when all experiences are already shared?

"Hey, did you see Donny nearly eat it under the choker?"

"Reminds me of the time I got hit in the head with an axe."

Old Manny, everything reminds him of the time he got hit in the head with an axe. It is as though that very event knocked every other memory out of him. Still, the younger loggers never tire of the tales of his heroics, imbuing them with the potential to do the same, to rise up as more than mere mortals. These incidental events become defining moments in lives, and these lives suddenly revolve around fleeting moments of the past.

The joviality is false and shortlived - soon it is time for everyone to return home, wherever that may be. One by one, the men slope off to continue their existence privately and savour those brief moments of respite when a man is greater than the sum of his days. He too soon finds it time to leave and sinks the last few drops of his increasingly lukewarm beer. His feet struggle to find the floor from his vantage point on the stool, but find it they do and with a creak he is on his way toward the door and the once again cool air.

He returns to his apartment after dark and fumbles the key in the rusty lock. Living itself became mechanical long ago, the once bright promise of what the day might bring blunted by its repeated inability to deliver. He flicks the radio on and hears the same songs, the same playlist. Why does nothing ever change?

Kicking off his boots, he sinks into his aged couch. It embraces him as though a loved one, warming him and easing his pains. He gazes into his large palms, and revisits each scar, each callous which can never fade. His left index finger is nothing more than a stump, dragged into the whirling, snarling machinery all those years ago. The dirt under his remaining fingernails seems to never wash out, however hard he tries. He can never leave that forest behind, it stays with him, clings to him, haunts him. Looking at his hands now is not only a reminder of the day that has passed, but of the identical day that will follow.

The bed is calling but the couch is too inviting, too hospitable.