Tag Archive: fiction
They sat at the bar. An attractive blonde woman beside them. There was scrabble board in front of them.
Kim placed a tile, an ‘E’ above a lone ‘W’. ‘EW’. Jim began laughing. ‘That’s not a fucking word.’ turning to the blond woman for confirmation.
Falling into contemplation the woman disagreed and began to suddenly metamorphose into a mass of piss, vomit and foetal shit.
The smell reminiscent of a bookshops unpulped self help section.
Also by David Noone: The Girl in the Window
Throwing up has become my only pleasure.
Not talking eating disorder; I envy those fucks. Poor body-image is just a shitty holiday. This is more like snuff on perpetual loop – i’m the principle as well as supporting cast. Perpetrator and victim.
Oh, how I hate being the victim.
It’s not the helplessness, I kinda like that – knowing that you have no choice, that this is fucking happening no matter what.
It’s the mentality, that’s what gets me. It sidles up on you – this “its not my fault!” battle cry that slips between your lips when you begin to blank out on a conversation because this thing inside you knows you ain’t paying attention. It begins to infects the rest of your organs, bleaching your skin its miserable “fuck my life” hue that doesn’t even show up on any colour chart. Before you can blink Nothing is Ever your Fault again. Everybody knows it, will look forever upon you with plastic sad and soap opera pity.
Oh, that sickening pity makes me want to collapse your lungs with a knitting needle.
Human beings will never be able to get me off ever again. That faux-empathy turns my stomach inside out, and not in the good way. Lock myself up in my filthy apartment of things and never leave less I have too. Sleep till my eyes atrophy, cake over with mucus. Imagine this to be the beginning of some grand biological scheme – first tiny steps towards chrysalis, that if I could only sleep long enough the result would be total transformation, not this inbetween lark. I never can though, never can sleep long enough.
Sleep brings not joy – only the purge can do that. That rising burn, delectable spasm. The stinging meat. That bitter stench.
I’m one of those. Those whose skin fails to keep you out, that sucks greedily at your words and inbetweens. Nom nom nom. It’s Not My Fault, it’s you, you and your fucking humanity spilling out like toxic waste. Has to go somewhere and that somewhere is me and my ilk, soak it up to be catalyzed and puked out. Why? Because. Because you changed the game. You forced the genome to adapt. You all stopped feeling but you didn’t stop talking.
Fucking endless disconnected blah blah blah from mouths and fingers and those masses of soiled grey napkins you call brains – gallons upon gallons of gibberish filling up all available space. There’s only so much a biosphere can take, you know. Only so much I can take…
But it’s okay, like I said. Only pleasure I have left.
Keep it up buttercup.
::::die strange children:::they hast rebellious love::::
For long is the season against you,
that is quite set.
I pass afraid and cannot see.
Therefore, it is in thine words for me.
My things have the Will that he erred.
It shall warm me.
Against my enemy’s skin I be clothed.
After around five hours walking in the sun I knew my arms, neck and face were burned. The bigger discomfort was my hands. They were not burned. They were swollen, stiff, and when I touched them, unusually dry.
For an hour I’d known what to do. I walked down the bank to the Mersey and held my hands in the water. I splashed each one in turn. I washed them in the water, although I knew it wasn’t clean. I ran them through the current.
The walk was seven hours. Fallowfield to Chorlton Water Park, along the Mersey to Stockport. Then back again.
: : : : More Water Stories : : : :
She’s sitting a few tables away from me in the taverna where I sometimes come to chat with the owner. The people around her – from their casual clothing I gather they are tourists as well – are nodding vehemently. Yes, yes, they’ve noticed it too! And what about all those stray dogs in the mountains? Quite a nuisance when you want to have a nice, quiet walk through nature.
‘It’s a shame,’ the woman goes on. ‘This morning when I was jogging through the olive grove I passed several houses with chain dogs! Everybody knows it’s not human to keep dogs on chains!’
She’s right of course. It is a shame. It’s not human to keep dogs on chains. And about those stray dogs… Well, I better not tell her about the poison that the municipality itself provides every Spring in order to get the villages ‘clean’ for the tourists. Half starved and neglected animals are not what people want to see when they spend their holiday money on our nice authentic Greek peninsula’s beaches. But in a country where people are dying because there is no money for National Health Care anymore, the welfare and wellbeing of animals is not the most important thing on the Government’s agenda. Destroying stray dogs in the night is the cheapest way. Of course nobody shall admit this cruel thing is being done. But we all know. It’s not something most of the villagers are proud of, but it happens. That’s the way it goes here.
I suppose I could tell this woman about all the nice people who are feeding the cats and dogs of the village. I suppose I could tell her about the doggy bags people take home after their meal in a tavern to give to the animals on the streets. And I could also tell her about the chain dogs we set loose in the first years we lived here, although we’ve stopped to do that. They were back on their chain within the hour, because they didn’t know what to do with their freedom.
Or maybe… maybe I should tell her about my neighbours. The three boys who came from Albania to work in this country several years ago. They live in a one room shed on a sand road that’s totally impassable after a rain shower. Three beds have been put in a space of barely ten square metres. The toilet is outside, and they take a daily bath, in the sea. When nobody is looking, of course, because they are really nice and very decent guys. They do all the work nobody else want to do, for wages nobody else want to work for. I suppose I also could point out to her the many other sheds and half collapsed houses where now more and more families are living under circumstances I wouldn’t even allow my dog to live in, but I don’t. I know it’s no use. I just wonder, like I do every summer, why I never hear tourists talking about that. They must be blind.
Or maybe… maybe it’s easier to care only about animals.
I just wrote a review of my short story ‘The Vertigo’ on google books. Does that make me a bad person? In my defense I have had a few whiskys. Or is it whiskeys? I only gave in 3 stars – and that’s an honest review. I can do better.
As a bonus the review also includes a paragraph from the short story i’m working on at the moment.
EDIT: I’ve just been informed that the review isn’t there. Maybe it’ll be there in the future, but for amusement value here it is:
I writ this. It’s alright it is. a bit old, and i’ve moved on to stranger and more interesting places as a writer since but it’s got a cool twist. Actually, after i wrote this i started on a novel which, although I haven’t touched it for a few years, I still think about all the time. This was published last october (2011) and since then I’ve been working on a follow-up (unrelated) in a very lackadaisical fashion. It’s really not a good way of working for someone who wants to make a living from writing someday. Still, i’m totally digging it. Here’s a preview:
” The bus was lit up like a department store display. From the outside it made you feel like you were a scientist watching human specimens behind a two-way mirror. Once you past the threshold and dropped your fare into the waiting slot it was more like being in a kitchen sink remake of a Warhol film. Nothing happening very slowly. The journey took 40 minutes, out of the city to some forgotten corner of suburbia. The factory was hidden from view by a manmade microforest of young Norway Spruces. Like every day was christmas. Mathias was glad he couldn’t see them in the failing light that filtered through his goggles. It was part of the reason he had changed over from the dayshift; seeing that in the sunlight was just a reminder of how devoid of affectation he had become. “
I’ve given ‘The Vertigo’ 3 stars because, well, I wrote it. It’s not that I don’t like it – I think it is well written, quite well structured, it’s just I know I can do better. Still, you could do a lot worse for the price.
it can be found in multiple formats here -> http://jms-books.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/vertigo-by-av-cheshire.html
Be seeing you…
A. V. Cheshire
A gentle, well written and surprising piece of flash fiction. Another from the Pygmy Giant, because I think I might be falling for them, not because I’ve sent them some stuff of mine in the hope they’ll publish me.
The last removal truck winds its way down the drive and peace settles once again over the avenue. The rooks, which have congregated in the elm trees throughout the day, occasionally rising into the air in dark clouds of agitation, begin their evensong.
I see cardboard and wrapping paper drifting idly around the bushes, and the odd toy flung unnoticed in some remote corner of the garden. A cool breeze stirs the raspberry bushes, laden with fruit that will remain unpicked this year, and daisies droop on the overgrown lawn.
They’ve gone, this family who have been the focus of my attention for the last twenty five years, moving on with scarcely a backward glance at me.
For days I look out, wondering if one of them might come back for some forgotten item, or perhaps to say goodbye properly. They never said they were leaving, but then, who am I to figure in their plans? How could they know how central they were to my existence?
Sometimes, if I listen carefully, I think I hear the children at play in the garden, running along the drive with excited squeals and giggles. Dogs bark, stirring the leaves of the rhododendrons as they go in frantic pursuit of imaginary cats or rabbits.
With little else to occupy my time, I admit I’ve deliberately snooped on them, involved myself in the minutiae of their lives. I watched dubiously when the young couple first moved in, but my reservations turned to joy as they brought their first child home from the hospital. The baby cried all night that first week, and they shushed her repeatedly, no doubt worrying about the neighbours, but for me the sound heralded hope for the future, maybe some kind of permanency.
Three more children were to follow over the years, together with a succession of noisy, enthusiastic dogs who dug up everybody’s gardens. It didn’t matter. There was such vitality in this family, you’d forgive them everything.
Everything except leaving.
::::::::::::::: Follow me for the rest :::::::::::::
Sandra Crook’s other work can be found here, where she also takes the opportunity to remove your will to live with her photos and cruising reports from the French waterways.