Seasons

Written on 21 June 2019

It's never neat. It's never tidy. Hell, do we want it to be?

The seasons are arbitrary, dictating only a change in temperature, a tilt of the earth, and yet we set so much hope on the changing of the seasons. Autumn is melancholic. Winter is miserable and long. Spring is hope and Summer is joy.

But it's never neat.

And now the sun is out, the warmth is palpable, the nights are long and the birdsong is overwhelmingly beautiful. But the joy remains absent.

But it won't always be.

And just like the seasons, we'll all be swept up in the fervour of joy, the misery of pain and loss, the melancholy of loneliness and isolation and the hope of a better future.

And just like the seasons these feelings are unpredictable. They can last days, weeks months. A blink of an eye. A look. A touch. A word. But we all go through it. And we'll go through it again. And again. And again.

So, no, it's not neat and tidy. But would we want it to be?

The Rain

Written on 12 June 2019

And the rain clatters and burns.

It won't stop.

It won't relent.

And it chips chunks out of me.

And I scrabble on the floor, collecting the chunks, attempting to make them part of me again, but the rain won't stop.

And above anything else, I just want to make sure there is enough of me to exist, but the rain is making it hard.

But I know a break will come.

A parting of the clouds.

A divine intervention.

Whatever the hell you want to call it.

And the rain will relent, and I can haphazardly rebuild myself on a wave of warmth.

Waiting for the rain to come again. Ready to face it.

Hopefully stronger than I was last time.

The Keeper of the Lake

Written on 23 May 2019

The lake twinkles and reflects, still and with that perfect deep blue that only seems to happen in the morning.

And the sun is just breaking over the top of the mountains, bathing the sprinkled snow that dusts the peak in brilliant rays. The sun immediately thaws the thick frost left from the night.

And I'm stood on the dark mahogany decking in front of my wooden cabin. It's been a long time since I shaved, spoke to anyone, left the lakeside. The decking is still slippery, and the morning is cold. My breath hangs in the air as I drink coffee out of the tin mug. My thickest jacket keeps me warm, my boots keep me stable, my hat keeps the cold from escaping into my ears and affecting my brain. The day will only get warmer.

And, for the time being, this is where I exist. The keeper of the lake. Not that it needs keeping. It's doing just fine without humanity interfering, but nevertheless I feel a duty to it. It cleanses me, so I watch over it.

And as I stand there, breathing in the beauty, letting it embalm me, the first one appears. Walking slowly past the cabin towards the lake, coming from the endless heather that spills out over the hills. A faceless, genderless figure, alien, but also unmistakably human. Naked, but unafraid. Head bowed, walking with purpose towards the water. And as it approaches the shore, I shout at it, but I haven't spoken for so long my voice is weak. The figure does not break stride as it enters the water. The water steadily engulfs the figure as it walks deeper and deeper.

And now I'm removing my jacket, my boots, my hat. As the keeper of the lake it is my duty to save the figure, but even as I pull off my sweater, the figure has disappeared beneath the surface, and more figures are arriving.

Hundreds of them.

And one by one they enter the water and disappear.

And I know I can't save them all.

Do they even want to be saved?

They keep coming, a never ending parade of faceless, blameless figures. Disappearing. And there I am, freezing in just a t-shirt and my underwear. Completely powerless.

It goes on for days, and although I want to help, I just can't. There are too many.

So I just watch. Watch them all disappear. And I do nothing.

Pursuer

Written on 16 May 2019

In the clearing, the sun struggling to find the ground through the dense canopy, a chill in the air and rapidly thawing frost beneath my feet, it's here in this clearing that I die.

I can hear the cacophony of gnashing teeth and rabid growls coming from the woodland behind me, but I've been running too long. I can't keep running from something that really is a part of me. I'm accepting my fate.

And the dog walks into the clearing, 40 feet tool, red eyes, matted grey fur, teeth bared and growling as he pads slowly towards me. And I know all I can do is accept him, because otherwise he will continue to chase me, and I'm so tired. My legs are jelly, my brain is muddled. It's either acceptance or this big bastard is going to devour me.

So I sit down on the damp ground facing him. My nemesis. My pursuer. My captor. And the dog stops walking, he stops growling and he stares back at me. He measures me up, and when he's sure I'm not going to start running again, he sits down as well, towering over me.

And I look at him, this grotesque monster, this freak, this abomination. I take in his gigantic teeth, his demon eyes, his big powerful body, his paws the size of row boats, and I decide to not be afraid of him anymore. Dogs are dogs. They're never inherently bad, they are a product of who looks after them, and this one is my responsibility.

And I become a much younger version of myself, in my red pyjamas, gangly legs crossed, to show him I'm not afraid.

And he in turn shrinks. He shrinks so quickly it generates a groaning sound, and I follow his face down as it rests at my level. And when he's done he's just a greyhound, a sickly greyhound. With three legs and sad eyes, and he looks coyly up at me, and I reach out my hand, and he approaches, and I stroke him as he shakes.

And the other dog, the healthy black and white one, he joins us from the other side of the clearing. A black and white collie mix with sticky up ears and a proud stance. He's been on my peripherals for a while. Encouraging me. Supporting me. Pushing me forward.

And the three of us hug, the greyhound crying against my neck, the collie mix comforting us both.

And the two of them together slowly turn to smoke, and they drift into me, right inside my chest, and we become one. And I'm me again, all grown up, and though I'm tired, so so tired, it's the first time I haven't been running for a long time. And though the smoke inside me can be a burden, it can be a crux, it's there. And for the first time I've accepted the smoke.

And the journey ahead is going to be long and arduous, I know that, but for once I wont be being chased. I'll continue the journey with my whole self.

Written on 9 May 2019

So I get help.

Written on 8 May 2019

I need help.

Written on 7 May 2019

And I'm scared.

Written on 6 May 2019

Because living in this headspace is torture.

Written on 5 May 2019

And I can’t take it anymore.

Written on 4 May 2019

And then, just like that, I'm completely broken.

Michelle4lyf

Written on 3 May 2019

Hi, I'm Michelle.

Thought I'd give this a try, as I've been single for a little while now, and I'm looking for someone to settle with.

Too much, Meesh. People don't need to know that you've been single for a while, or, indeed, that you are willing to settle.

Hey, Michelle here. Not usually a fan of dating apps, but no one is approaching me at my gym.

Sounds angry. More breezy.

Not usually a fan of dating apps, but my gym hookups have tapered off recently, so thought I'd give it a go.

Nice.

Nice.

I need help with this.

Mikey's Turtle

Written on 2 May 2021

Dearest flatmates

For the sake of argument, let's pretend just for a second that it was me who stole Mikey's turtle.

You have to ask yourself three important questions. When? How? Why?

When? When indeed. Mikey's turtle went missing some time between him leaving for morning lectures and returning for a bowl of super noodles and ketchup at lunch time. I was at Svetlana's studio apartment out by the industrial estate. The many CCTV cameras surrounding her building can likely attest for this, though I hope it hasn't come to that.

After a typically boozy evening I was feeling a little bit horny, so I texted Svetlana, a Russian hairdresser I've occasionally had casual relations with. She agreed that she, too, was horny. I headed straight over. We made 'passion fuck' as Svetlana likes to call it till the early hours. At which point I fell asleep. I awoke at 11.30.

Now, the industrial estate is a 30 minute walk, so it is possible that I stole Mikey's turtle in the 15 minutes between myself returning home and Mikey arriving for his noodle break.

But how? The door was locked, the window shut, and I don't possess any type of tools to remedy either of those issues, and even if I did the idea that someone of my limited capabilities could get in and out, both taking down and putting back up the door, in 15 minutes is laughable. In fact, I went straight for a shower to wash the smell of Russian hairdresser sweat off my person.

And then there's the why. Why would I do this? I have no personal beef with Mikey, in fact we rub along better than most in this house.

Yes, I have been known to worry about that turtle, what with the sheer volume of weed smoked in that room. And I do think Mikey needs to clean out the turtle tank a little more often. But, honestly, I think Mikey loves that thing more than he loves anything, and would do anything to protect it. Why would I want to harm it, or harm mikey?

So, though the evidence I've presented is not conclusive proof I didn't take Mikey's turtle, my hope is that you all look at the facts and realise that it's extremely unlikely that this crime was committed by me.

Yours in faith,

Carl

The Enigma

Written on 1 May 2021

"I wish I could see inside your head."

This was the price of being enigmatic for Pritti. Every person you date wants to know you. Like, really know you, warts and all.

"Isn't it just enough to be with someone?" Pritti asked, taking a sip of bacardi and pineapple. "What do you think you'll get out of seeing inside my head?" Izzy raised her eyebrows.

"You mean, aside from where you work, where you live, who your family is and what your surname is?" Pritti chuckled.

"Why do we need to ruin this with details? We're having a good time aren't we?" Izzy looked like she was going to argue for a moment, but ended up shrugging, apparently convinced.

"Want to come back to mine, then?"

"Sure."

BMX

Written on 30 April 2019

It was Jenny's fondest memory. The morning of April 30th 1989, her seventh birthday.

Her father and mother woke her with a round of Happy Birthday to you, her Dad holding her snoozing little brother, her mum presenting her breakfast. A glass of OJ, and a bowl of imported lucky charms. Jenny had tried some when they visited the States the previous summer and always asked for some. She was giddy. Pure sugar for breakfast.

Then, some bad news. Her parents told Jenny that, unfortunately, her presents hadn't arrived. There was a mix up at the post office, so she'd have to wait for the weekend. Jenny was disappointed, as any seven-year-old would be.

But then she arrived downstairs, and it was there. A brand new Raleigh BMX. Neon blue, with 18 gears and a shiny chrome bell. It was exactly what she wanted down to the colour of the peddles and the dark red leather on the seat.

She was overwhelmed. She fell to her knees right there in the kitchen and cried. It had been so beyond her wildest dreams that her parents would actually splash out for the bike. They had done a truly stellar job of tapering her expectations, and it had broken her in the best possible way.

For the next three years she was virtually glued to her BMX, until she outgrew it physically and mentally. Still, whenever she recalls that morning she smiles. Then she feels a little sad, because honestly she hasn't felt that good again. She peaked at age seven.

Paprika

Written on 29 April 2019

We discovered the morning after he'd moved in that our new flatmate put a generous amount of paprika on his cornflakes, using gravy as a substitute for milk.

A sinister smirk played around his face as he chomped the abomination down.

Unfortunately, we found that to be the least of his problems as the weeks went by.

Icarus

Written on 28 April 2019

"I'm really not sure this is the best idea." 

I was eyeing up Willburt's latest contraption as he struggled to attach the bulk to his body. 

He was ambitious. You couldn't deny that Willburt wasn't ambitious. But I suspect he'd never read or even heard of Icarus, because I could see what was coming a mile off. 

"Look, it's quite simple. I'm flying the fuck out of here and into the big leagues. I promise when all is said and done, and I've sold my millionth unit, I'll move you in to an annex in my gigantic fucking Beverley Hills mansion." 

He fastened what appeared to be the final buckle on his chest and shimmied to the cliff edge.

I should have stopped Willburt. Of course I should have. He didn't know the first thing about aerodynamics, and his contraption must have weighed the better part of half a ton. 

But the tiniest part of me couldn't help thinking; what if he's cracked it?

Dentist

Written on 27 April 2019

Larry kept on putting off his dentist appointment.

He had a crack in a molar, and it was making it difficult to eat without feeling rather a lot of pain.

But every time the day approached, he'd get cold feet the night before, and he'd call the surgery to tell them to postpone it to the following week.

For the receptionist's part, she was initially pretty annoyed. The dentist was a dreary man who didn't like his day to be in any way unpredictable, so the late cancellations caused friction between the two.

But after a couple of months it became apparent that Larry was never coming in for his appointments, so the receptionist just stopped booking them in, cringing at the presumed state of Larry's mouth and promising herself that if Larry ever came in for his long awaited appointment then she would "move things around" for him.

For Larry's part, he was now in more than a spot of bother. His crack had become a gaping hole, exposing the root. Luckily, or unluckily depending on your persuasion, Larry's pal Tone had a hookup at a chemist, so he just took some pretty heavy painkillers to numb the agony.

Years went by. The receptionist informed her successor of Larry, as did that receptionist, and another. Seven in total.

The dentist sold the practice to someone, who was struck off for feeling up his sedated patients, and replaced with another dentist, who had never even heard of Larry. The receptionist of the day opting not to bother telling her. And still Larry would call once a week.

"I'm sorry, this week is no good for me. Do you mind if we do it next week?"

Larry eventually made it in for his appointment 14 years 3 months and 12 days after his initial one was booked in. He'd become addicted to morphine, and only had a handful of crooked, splintered, yellowing stumps for teeth remaining.

"Hi my name is Larry and I'm here for my appointment." The receptionist was aghast for just a moment, but gathered herself.

"Take a seat please. The dentist will be right with you."

Indecent Proposal

Written on 26 April 2019

He was just such a drip. Really nice and everything, but clawing, like he'd take on the tone you'd use on someone who'd just been in a horrific car accident for something minimal like a sneeze.

"Babe, are you okay? Do you want me to get you an antihistamine?"

And that's okay, obviously, I don't want to suggest that giving that much of a shit is a bad thing, I'm not that cold-hearted. It's just, Jesus, show me something.

My Mum would always say you need to find a partner who 'knocks your socks off.' Well he waits for you to take your own socks off before neatly folding them, placing them in the laundry and asking whether he can get your slippers for you.

Again, not a bad thing. Really not a bad thing. And I might regret this at some point. But it's got to stop. 18 months is long enough, and he's started hinting that we should move in together.

So, my mind's made up. I've taken enough of the poor guys time. I really shouldn't have said I love him, but then maybe I thought I did at the time. Still, I don't anymore and it's time.

Problem is, we're on a rather romantic date. I'm being treated, as always, but he's dressed that little more smartly today, the food is that little more fancy. And he looks nervous. This is bad. This is very bad.

We finish our decadent dessert, all gooey and chocolatey and delicious, and I feel terrible. He tries to order champagne, but I tell him no, I have to work tomorrow, and I don't want to drink anymore. He looks disappointed, but he's apparently undeterred.

"You know, when I first met you, I knew you were the one."

Fuck.

"I feel like we're so perfect together, that we're so comparable. Such a good fit. It just feels right."

Please don't. He's taken my hand.

"I love you."

And then I say the worst thing I've ever said.

"I love you too. . . . Or, do I?"

I say it in a jokey Kojak type manner. I even stroke a fake beard.

Thankfully, that was enough to postpone him popping the question. It was the beginning of the end. He started questioning our whole relationship, and a week later we were done by mutual consent. Admittedly, I wish I'd handled it better, and I hope it doesn't haunt him, but I'm so glad I added the ‘or do I’. Otherwise I'd probably now be married out of social embarrassment.

Tiger Cub

Written on 25 April 2019

During a particularly brisk stroll through the walled gardens at Hever castle, Alfred spotted a tiger cub, around the size of a staffy or a rather large Maine coon, feasting greedily on the carcass of a dead seagull.

He imagined just for a moment taking the tiger home to Gillingham with him. Raising him in his one bed bungalow. Cuddling with him on the sofa. Feeding him fish fingers and marmite sandwiches. Truly loving him. And, once he was fully grown, setting him on his enemies. Taking them out one by one. Like a tiger ninja and his wiley stealthy human compadre.

Then he corrected his dosage of anti-psychosis meds and went back to observing the peonies.

Local Folklore #7 - Skye, Scotland

Written on 24 April 2019

There are so many Scottish tales of wonder that it's nigh on impossible to find one that isn't widely known.

Such natural storytellers, what with their accents and everything, they love waxing lyrical about crooked lairds, enchanted heather and massive lake dwelling monsters.

But this particular tale, harking from the titanically beautiful Isle of Skye, is not as well known, and that's mostly because it's a tale of sadness and isolation.

You see, Skye used to be a haven for hermits and loners. It was sparsely populated up until the bridge from the mainland was built, and though it's hardly Piccadilly Circus now, it's significantly busier than it once was.

There was one particular hermit who lived to the north east of the island in a stone hut. Little is known about the man, but when his dwelling was discovered, the man was lying on his back in the heather, just a skeleton now, with his hands covering his face. Surrounding him. as if they were family members round a loved one's hospital bed, or like murderers leering over a victim depending on who you ask, were several figures made of bundles of sticks, heather, moss and grass.

They were faceless and alarming to those who discovered the man. Anthropomorphic stick men lurking over a scene of death.

There are many legends that have stemmed from the discovery. Some claimed these were the ghosts of a murdered family who were rewarded for finding and killing their murderer with effigies. Others thought this was the forest, nature and the countryside getting their revenge for being disturbed.

But most likely, and therefore least told, this hermit was probably lonely. Cripplingly lonely. It was obviously hard to tell from the long decomposed bodies, but from the brittle bones to the sparse hair, it appeared he died of malnutrition or thirst. Either that, or he was sick, poisoned by a particularly evil berry.

And this was likely deliberate. The hermit built friends, crafted family, but that doesn't substitute for the real thing.

See, not all folklore is whimsical, or magical, or mysterious. Some are just a little upsetting. I often lie in bed thinking of that man, going mad with loneliness, starving himself to death. I think of him and thank my lucky stars I don't only have myself for company. Cos I am a folklore weirdo, and that must be incredibly annoying.