Therapy

Written on 3 February 2019

Krystal started lying to her therapist about three sessions in.

It wasn't because she didn't want to get better, she totally wanted to be okay with herself, but because she really didn't remember much about her life.

So she started talking about how she was disappointed with her life, how she’d had all these grand plans for success, all these hopes of a family by the time she was 30, how she felt like she’d let her Mum down.

She found that the lying came a little too easily to her, and it was far simpler to do it then to actually try and decipher why she was so miserable all the time.

Eventually, she admitted that she thought the sessions were a waste of time, and told her therapist she felt more miserable than ever. She thanked her for her help and left the practice.

She returned a few years later, and promised to herself she would tell the truth. But she ended up doing exactly the same thing, except with a new therapist.

Mr Fuzzychops

Written on 2 February 2019

Mr Fuzzychops was a fat, boss-eyed ginger cat with a shovel face and a gruff demeanour.

And even though it hissed and swiped like a bastard, and showed little to no affection towards his owner save from meowing when he was hungry, Gellert loved his cat more than he loved anyone else.

When he was out with his friends, he wanted to be back home with Mr Fuzzychops. When his family would come round and the cat would swipe and bite his niece and nephew, Gellert would insist he was “just in a bad mood” and was “a bit funny with children”.

Then he met Ursula, and Gellert started to neglect the grumpy old sod. He would stay at hers on consecutive nights, leaving Mr Fuzzychops with the automatic feeder. This was, he insisted to his cat, because she had a bigger place.

But the truth was, she hated that cat. Mr Fuzzychops, to her, represented the shy, repressed Gellert and not the new, fun, outgoing Gellert he was with her.

Eventually, Mr Fuzzychops bit her so hard that she had to get stitches and a tetanus shot. The cat was hastily shipped off to the rescue centre.

And there he remained. He was so aggressive to all his potential new owners that he scared them all off. So he saw out his final days in the shelter, glowering at his captors and secretly wishing he'd been a bit nicer to Gellert and Ursula.

The Endless Greys

Written on 1 February 2019

Stephanie became obsessed with what she called “the endless greys of winter.”

The low hanging cloud mixed with the frosty grass and the concrete roads of the city kept her up at night, and preoccupied her during the day.

The endless greys started to adversely affect her everyday life. Against her partners wishes, she completely redecorated the house so only various shades of grey were present. She only ever bought grey clothes, as she wanted to “blend in.”

And she was cautioned at work for coming in painted head to toe in grey face paint. They should really have realised that she was having a breakdown, but it wasn't a very good company.

Eventually, she was taken for psychological evaluation after trying to colour her ginger cat grey with house paint. She was popped in a padded cell for a couple of weeks, which she actually loved, because it was all grey. Endless grey.

Too Many Meds

Written on 31 January 2019

Jon had taken too many meds.

Having spent most of the week in the foetal position, clutching his stomach, wincing against the dizziness, he got bored of being ill. So he took too many meds.

He thought that the state of delirium he was in might lead to some sort of profound thought, which he could spin into a really creative, imaginative story that would move people. He really wanted his audience to understand what it was he was experiencing, and perhaps tie it to some sort of terminal illness.

But in the end he just went back to lying in the foetal position and wrote this nonsense. And he lay there, and lay there, and continued to feel a bit shitty for another few days, until his symptoms wore off.

Mark And Gordy Get Deep

Written on 30 January 2019

“Do you ever feel like we're repeating ourselves?” Mark was six pints deep. Six pints deep, time to get deep, he thought, which wasn't even a rhyme.

“I mean, we meet up every couple of weeks. We talk about our lives, which don't change much, we talk about sport, which doesn't change much.”

Gordy hated it when Mark got deep. Gordy considered himself a deep thinker, you see, so when Mark made his six-pint-deep attempts to be profound, it annoyed Gordy. And Gordy would inevitably try and one-up his long term pal.

“Nothing changes. Think about it. The world keeps turning. And with those turns comes trends. They change, again and again, but always reliably come back.” This was vague enough to sound smart without committing to too much. Gordy's head was swimming from all the booze, and his usual deep-thinking-ness wasn't working or something.

“that's so true.” Mark agreed with enthusiasm, totally getting it. “Like, beards weren't at all trendy in the 90’s and early noughties. But they were in the 70’s and 80’s, and now they're massive again.” Mark thought this was a clever observation. Gordy needed an example of his own.

“And the Bush family. Father President. Son President. Brother runs for president. Soon daughter or son will run for president. Bushes.”

“You're so right.” Mark said, suppressing a burp, poorly. “Another pint?”

“Sure.” said Gordy, pulling out his phone to text his wife. “Same again.”

Destroy the Frozen Puddles

Written on 29 January 2019

Frozen puddles were Eva's favourite.

She remembered her au pair, Greta, dressing her in a two-sizes-too-big puffer jacket with mittens attached, bobble hat and wellies, and they would walk around Regents Park. Eva would smash every puddle she could see. She'd occasionally take a tumble, but even as a kid she knew that was the risk she needed to take in order to hear that satisfying crack of the ice.

Not much had changed through the years. Eva had grown up, Greta had moved on, Eva's parents still were emotionally absent, but those frozen puddles would still appear every winter, at least three or four times.

And on her walk to school, or on her walk to work, or on her walk to her AA meeting, she would smash every frozen puddle she came across, revelling in the cracking sound as her size 4, 5, 6’s broke through the ice.

And she thought of Greta. Where she could be. What she was doing. Wondering whether she was escorting another over-excited kid on their mission to destroy the frozen puddles.

Meat Raffle

Written on 28 January 2019

Jemma wasn't sure why she entered the meat raffle. She'd been vegan for seven years, and hadn't really missed eating animal products.

But the sight of all that meat, neatly packed in paper and plastic, stacked up like a window display, made her not want to miss out for some reason.

When her ticket number was called, she sheepishly walked up to collect her bounty, the rest of the pub politely applauding, her friends incredulous. The vegans chastised her for it, the meat eaters proclaimed “What a waste.” And tried to steal the platter from her.

Over the next 2 weeks, Jemma had meat every day. She ate sausages and lamb chops, steaks and ribs, chicken wings and pork loin, offal and bacon, shank and brisket. She braised, she fried, she roasted and grilled. She ate salad and vegetables, potatoes and bread as an accompaniment. And every time she finished with the bones, should throw them in a pot and make stock, which she would turn into soup for lunch.

When the meat was finished, Jemma had had quite enough, and immediately went back to being vegan. But, she had immensely enjoyed her meat raffle win, and vowed to enter again in seven year's time.

Beep. . . Beep. . . Beep. . .

Written on 27 January 2019

A dove sat just above me, out of reach, but obviously meant for me.

What I was supposed to do with the dove once I'd caught it, who knows? But this was a quest. The vista was dry and warm, and the dove merrily pecked away at an apple on a branch.

But I couldn't move, and soon I was being overrun by mice, not real mice, of course, but mice that scuttled and writhed and let out a low hiss. Biting, scratching. Soon, they covered every inch of land and sky, tree and me. I was suffocating as I desperately tried to move, but no doing. The weight of the mice pushed me down down down into the earth, right down to the core.

Silence now, but for the beeping. Always the beeping. Reliably monotonous. Sulphur in my nostrils, naturally. The cave was dark, and the rocks were hot. This couldn't be, could it? Hell? A shadowy figure approached, more mist and smoke then human. Towering, 7, 8, 9 feet and always growing. The figure lurched over me, the smell of sulphur so strong, as the it engulfed my face, obscuring everything. And still the beep.

It's fine though. The raft carries me away, and I can see all the stars. All of them. So bright it could be daylight. The water gently rocking the wooden raft, it's arms wrapping me tightly keeping me safe. The stars get brighter, and I can't see for the beautiful brilliant impossible light. And the beeping stops, replaced by one, shuddering, constant beep. And the light eats me up. And I abscond.

The Church Elders

Written on 26 January 2019

“Well, this is just insanity.” The boy said, looking incredulously around at the church elders. “How can you possibly think it was me?”

“It's God's will for us to know.” Horace, the cantankerous old sop, said, sternly.

“I did not get Mr Cuthbert's daughter pregnant. I swear, I'm a virgin. I've barely said three words to her, and I can't even remember being in a room alone with her.”

“Silence.” Mr Cuthbert bellowed dramatically. “You defiled my daughter. She told me herself.”

“This is bullshit.” There was uproar amongst the elders. Horace shook his wrinkled face. The boy wasn't finished. “This church is full of cretins, anyway. I'm out of here.”

“I'm afraid we can't allow you to do that, boy. It was Keith this time. Smirking. Enjoying watching the boy lose his cool. “Since you've committed the ultimate sin, you will pay the ultimate price. . . Death.”

The boy looked around at the elders, and burst out laughing.

“And who's going to kill me? You old fucks?”

“It is God's will.” Horace said, pulling out a 9mm revolver from beneath his crimson robes.

Before the boy could react, Horace shot him right between the eyes, killing him instantly.

“Deal with this would you Keith.” he said, handing over the murder weapon. Keith took it and hurried away, confident that his secret affair with Cuthbert's daughter would stay with the boy lying dead in this suburban church basement.

Running For President

Written on 25 January 2019

“I'm thinking of running for president.” Vic admitted to Kaya, as they drank margaritas over lunch.

“Sounds good. What's your platform?” She slurred, reaching over to clumsily stroke his ruddy face.

“Schools.” He said, taking a bite of an onion ring. ”That and war, I guess.” he finished, shrugging.

“Well, you've got my vote.” Kaya said, lightly slapping his face and reaching for an onion ring of her own.

Immigration

Written on 24 January 2019

It was my sister's wedding the following Saturday, and I thought I'd do a spot of sightseeing beforehand.

The ceremony was just outside New York (aka New Jersey) and I'd heard a lot about the New England leaves in autumn, and how they shit on all other leaves around the world whatever the time of year.

After the inevitable delay at Birmingham International, I landed at 2am local time (7am body clock time) and joined the immigration queue.

Now, full disclosure, I was somewhat of a troubled youth. I enjoyed annoying my parents and the local police, which usually ended up with a slap on the wrist. Naturally, I took it a step too far when I set fire to a police car. I did a couple of months at a centre for wayward teens, and cleaned up my act pretty quickly.

Unfortunately it left me with a criminal record. Fast forward to 4am local time, thereabouts, and my tiredness has rendered me incapable of remembering anything about my life.

“What's the purpose of your visit?”

“Leaves and weddings.”

“What do you do for work in Britain?”

“Weddings and leaves.”

“How long are you here for?”

“My sister's getting married to an American called Daryl. He’s nice.”

“Can you go with my colleague please sir.”

I'd also mixed a couple of diazepam with several plastic bottles of wine, so I'm not altogether surprised.

Anyway, they threw me into a waiting room full of people with brown skin. They all looked at me as if to say “this white guy must be really fucked up.” I fell asleep waiting to be called into a room. When I did, I'm so out of it that I needed to use the walls and immigration officers for support.

Long story short, they searched my anal cavity for drugs, swab tested me for their records and informed me that “due to my vague explanations, slurred speech and past criminal record” they were going to have to hold me here till the next flight back to England. The anal cavity search had woken me up somewhat, so I kicked up a fuss.

“But it's my sister's wedding!”

“I know.” the officer said, rolling his eyes and removing his rubber gloves, “she's marrying some leaves, you already told us.”

Battle of the Bands

Written on 23 January 2019

“Jake, mate. You're a phenomenal bassist. You've got the potential to be in the top 10 of all time. If not top 5. But, I swear to god, if you come in late one more time I'll shove Tim's snare drum up your cock!”

Kevin was going all Whiplash again. Jake just shook his head.

“Kev, it's cool. We've got plenty of time to get it right.” Tim said diplomatically.

“Don't even get me started with you, Tim. You're hardly fucking Keith Moon, are you? Your fills are completely arsing out today.” Tim looked hurt.

“You're hardly Pete Townsend yourself mate.” Came Tim's stifled retort. Kevin smirked, the same clawing, smug grin he wore on stage.

“You're right. I'm a better guitarist than him, and a superior singer to Daltry.” He said, playing a three second elaborate solo to prove his point.

“Guys, I don't wish to fight. You're both fantastic musicians. But we HAVE to get this right. Battle of the bands at the shack is only two weeks away. Two weeks to be perfect.” Tim and Jake looked at each other. They were about to be sentenced to solitary confinement with this egomaniac.

“Every day. We'll be in here every day until we're ready.”

And they did. Six hours a day for two weeks. The last two weeks of their summer holidays. Whilst everyone else enjoyed the balmy evenings swimming and fishing and partying, they were locked in Kevin's stuffy garage.

They finished fourth out of seven at Battle of the Bands. Kevin fired his rhythm section shortly afterwards, opting to take his act solo.

I Will Not Be Broken

Written on 22 January 2019

This will not defeat you. This will not defeat you. You are a man of logic. A man of science and reason. This can't be impossible.

It has to have a solution. Yes, you've made six futile attempts to assemble this labyrinth, this enigma, but you will not let it defeat you, I can't stress that enough.

Think of the great heroes of this world. The underdog who triumphs over adversity. The indestructible superhuman who pulls out victory from the jaws of defeat. Yes, you are battered. Yes you are bruised. But you will get back up. You are Rocky. You are Batman. Bain has broken your back, BUT HE HASN’T BROKEN YOUR SPIRIT.

Take it apart. Start again. You still have a couple of hours before she wakes up. Take your time. Watch some YouTube videos. Read the instructions thoroughly. The Fairy Princess Dream Castle will be completed before the sun rises.

Opening soon

Written on 21 January 2019

“Nothing says ‘come in and enjoy our fine food’ then the smell of at least 400 people's shit.”

I sheepishly looked down at the manhole cover, as if by staring at it I could make the smell go away. Honestly, in the six months since I first saw the place, through the viewings and the refurbishment and the test services, I'd stopped noticing the smell.

But it was suddenly, overwhelmingly, everything. Our three investors looked unimpressed.

“You can't smell it inside, I promise.” I said, pointing toward the shop front. The unit was built underneath one of those dull, cheap looking new builds in the middle of town. Unfortunately, the waist of everyone in the building flowed underneath our new high-end restaurant.

“Okay, but what about those queuing? We have a visionary chef, one of the finest in the country. I expect people are going to line up down the street. All they're going to smell is shit.” I needed to get them inside. Fill their nostrils with roast duck, and confit potato and veal steaks.

“We'll figure something out.” one of the investors looked sick now. Like the smell was going to overwhelm him. “Look, let's get inside. Try some of the food.” They wordlessly filed inside. I looked again down at the manhole cover. The smell really was vomit-inducing. What was I thinking?

Susannah

Written on 20 January 2019

Susannah had always been undersized, to the point where she had to take growth hormones for close to a year, which made her face puffy and distorted.

That, mixed with her dark skin, made her an obvious and easy target for bullies.

The worst was Sylvia Grieg. She had come into the school ginormous, and had only got more ginormous as the years went by. Susannah would look back and realise Sylvia was acting out so no one made fun of her size, but her tiny 14-year-old self didn't know that.

All she saw was a big fat bully, hurtling across the playground every lunch break to afflict some fresh horror on her. Susannah tried telling her form tutor, Mrs May, but the old trout did nothing but have a brief word with Sylvia. She, in turn, slashed Susannah’s arm with the business end of a compass. The snitch literally got stitches.

Susannah grew tired of it. Instead of leaving school or calling the police, or trying to fight back, she decided to play the long game. She told her Mum about these after school dance classes at the local leisure centre. Her mum was thrilled, and gave her the money for the classes. But instead of donning the ballet pumps, Susannah fell into the world of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

Every week she’d get a little better, learning how to use an opponent's size against them, twisting joints and punching harder and harder. All the while, Sylvia carried on bullying. Shoving her down in the playground, kicking her in class, locking her in the toilet cubicle. Susannah resisted her urge to fight back until the opportune moment.

After four months, just before they broke up for summer term, she decided she was ready.

Sylvia strode towards her that lunchtime. Susannah pretended she hadn't seen her. Tensed up ready to pounce.

“Hey, Sus, can I talk to you?” Was this a trick? Did she know? She has a black eye. Did Susannah do it already?

“I'm really sorry.” She was crying. Why was she crying? “I've made your life hell. I know that, and I know it's no excuse, but I've been bullied too.” What was happening? She pointed to her eye. “My step dad gave me this. He hits me a lot. I'm so sorry, I should never have taken it out on you.”

What should Susannah do? She thought about the years of torture. Of having to explain bruises away, getting stitches, having to tell her Mum that another bag had been stolen. How she'd used to beg for mercy as Sylvia shoved her head down the toilet. Fuck her. Susannah didn't care what she'd been through.

She landed a flying knee right to the side of her gigantic head. She fell down crying ever harder. Sus had fantasized about synching in a chamora lock and breaking the bitches arm. But staring at her, in a heap on the floor, completely broken, she didn't feel like it would give her the satisfaction she deserved. She crouched down, looking Sylvia straight in her blotchy, sobbing face.

“Don't do it again.”

Badger Boy

Written on 19 January 2019

Stav decided he was going to spend the entire month of January pretending to be a badger.

He would snuffle about at night, and eat worms. He even dug himself out a set to sleep in during the day.

Tired of all this, his wife left him and moved in with her sister.

This was, of course, Stav's plan all along.

House Clearance

Written on 18 January 2019

Carl was a proud employee of Smithfield Logistics, Enfield’s number one house clearance service.

But even for Carl this particular house seemed like a tall order.

They'd been hired by the family of a now deceased hoarder. It was brutal. The hall was stacked from floor to ceiling with newspapers, old bikes, ravaged washing machines, crates and crates of empty beer bottles from the 80’s and giant tacky totem poles.

It only got worse from there. He found 8 boxes of monster munch (best before 9/92) a rotting wooden chicken coup, 193 versions of monopoly and a dustbin full to the brim of dry pasta. It took them four days to clear just the ground floor.

He was into the second week when he found the body. Clearing away old children's sand pits, countless boxes of “books for dummies'' and three full sized mannequins, he saw a green, rotting corpse with tufts of hair missing, maggots in its eyes, a rotting Cardiff City shirt now fused to the body. Carl was about to shout for help when the corpse began talking to him.

“Can't you just let me rest?”

“You can't stay here. It's a house. You need to be buried or burnt or something. Who are you?”

“His wife. Everyone assumed I left him a couple of years ago because he was so disgusting, but really I was crushed by all the stuff you've just removed from me.”

“Jesus Christ, did your husband know?”

“Nah, I'd threatened to leave him so many times he thought I was gone. Nice of him to look for me, though.”

“I'm really sorry, I'm going to have to call the police.”

The body sighed.

“If you must, but I'm telling you it's nothing suspicious.”

Carl left the room, wondering whether what he’d just seen may be something to do with the open ethanol cans everywhere, his fatigue, the mannequins, or whether he really had just found a rotting corpse. He went to grab his boss for a second opinion.

The Puritan

Written on 17 January 2019

The puritan did everything.

He partook in confession every day, he asked for penance every time he got down on his knees and prayed, which was a few too many times, if anything.

He would whip himself when he had an impure thought. Heck, he even did it when he stared a moment too long at a picture of Helen Mirren in the Radio Times.

God did not answer his prayers, though, as January stubbornly continued to exist.

The Goddamn News!

Written on 16 January 2019

“This is not just any news report. Something massive has happened.” Terry exclaimed, like the goddamn heavyweight he is.

“You might want to press record on your VCR's, such is the seismic magnitude of the broadcast you're about to witness.” little out of date, but he's absolutely fucking crushing it.

“Here is a summary of what we know so far. . .

• A man announced something.

• People were either angry or delighted about the announcement.

• Another man called for a vote on the announcement, but was denied.

• The former man is now under so much pressure it's a shock he hasn't turned into a diamond

“We go over to a correspondent to add gravitas to the story. We hope she'll paint a rich tapestry and really hammer home just how bloody important this all is.” That diamond line was unbelievable. He’s such a heavyweight he could probably knock out Mike Tyson with only his words.

“Yes, thank you Terry. Things are going a bit crazy here. As you can see there are lots of people being interviewed by various news outlets, which really shows how important this is. I'm joined by a person who agrees with the statement and someone who disagrees. Person who agrees, why do you agree?”

“Because the people agree.”

“Fascinating, and what do you say, opposed person?”

“I disagree.”

“Explosive. Back to you Terry.” she was so on point. We really have the best team. We could win a Pulitzer for this broadcast.

“Thanks correspondent. This just in, a prominent person who usually agrees with the person who made the statement actually disagrees with them. What does this mean expert?”

“I don't know, as we've only just found out about it. But would you like me to wildly speculate?”

“Please do.”

“Great. Well this prominent person obviously wants to usurp the man who made the original statement. I suspect they haven't got on for months.”

“So do you think the original man will have a job by the end of the day?”

“Who knows.”

“Expert, thanks.” I've got goose bumps. Literal goose bumps. Bring it home Tezza.

“Thank you for joining us for this earth shatteringly important broadcast. Tune in in half an hour, and we'll rehash what we've just done. Goodbye.”

It's days like this I'm proud to be a journalist. Proud.

Space Turtle

Written on 15 January 2019

The men in suits with the posh accents, and don't forget the women in pant suits and posh accents.

That collection. That rabble. You know the type. Well, that ilk, they talked and talked and talked. Yet they never really said anything, and none of them listened to one another.

So the mutant turtle from space, you know the one, it's, like 400 miles long and hovers over England and parts of Wales. It's got a gleaming gold shell, and it breathes fire. You must have seen it? Anyway, that thing just kept on sending fireballs to destroy stuff.

But, blimey, what can be done? A space turtle is unprecedented? People across Britain discussed what should be done. You know British people, they whine a lot and get angry about small things. Well this turtle was a very big thing, and the people were bloody furious. Some said we should try to kill the turtle, others said we should try and befriend. I mean who really knows? It's a blooming space turtle.

It's totally unprecedented. Precedent is completely absent from this space turtle situation. Talk talk talk.