Worldlines
Empathica
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Tuesday 27 October 2009
A Cry for Help (Note Post, Vol.1)
New carpet. When you've got new carpet, you can pretend you're a celebrity.
Lay it down and admire your handy work. Draw on yourself with chalk and act like nothing happened.
You're alone with the carpet, but that doesn't mean it has to be about sex.
Sometimes you're the only person to notice the carpet.
Everybody else just walks over it like it isn't there.
You see the carpet - you wish you didn't. It perverses things. The carpet hides the truth.
The truth is in the wooden panelling. Some say the proof is in the pudding, but this is a lie.
The proof is in the panelling
Roll up the carpet. What do you get? Nothing.
Pry up the panelling. What do you get? Everything.
You get the mayor's Sunday vest. You get as much dust as you can eat.
The proof is not in the pudding.
Lay it down and admire your handy work. Draw on yourself with chalk and act like nothing happened.
You're alone with the carpet, but that doesn't mean it has to be about sex.
Sometimes you're the only person to notice the carpet.
Everybody else just walks over it like it isn't there.
You see the carpet - you wish you didn't. It perverses things. The carpet hides the truth.
The truth is in the wooden panelling. Some say the proof is in the pudding, but this is a lie.
The proof is in the panelling
Roll up the carpet. What do you get? Nothing.
Pry up the panelling. What do you get? Everything.
You get the mayor's Sunday vest. You get as much dust as you can eat.
The proof is not in the pudding.
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Balloon Men - Pt.1
I sit patiently at my desk.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Sat with a book in front of me, I wait... wait for it to make its move... wait for it to make a mistake. My eyes drift listlessly to the bottom left corner of their peripheral vision, surveying the dust in the corners, watching detachedly as Hillary Clinton slinks carelessly into the room, making dirty tuba noises before clambering awkwardly into the fish tank and disappearing amongst the reeds.
*Rustle* *Rustle*
My eyes dart back to the book with the hideous immediacy of a hawk with lead feet falling on top of a newborn child. The book has not changed. A formidable opponent. This one will require the darkest depths of my cunning.
Silently, I slip out of the bedroom door, creeping down the stairs and into the kitchen. Reaching into one of the lower cupboards, I pull out six packs of Werther’s Originals and a watering can. I bring them back upstairs and arrange them enticingly at the far end of the desk and survey the book with a look of smug triumph. I know I have its balls in a vice.
All of a sudden, the book turns red and catches fire.
“AHA!” I shout in delirious victory, grabbing the book by the corner and Frisbeeing it out of the window, to avoid scorching the watering can. Almost content enough to dust my hands of the situation, I freeze, mid-hand-dusting, as I hear the book ricochet off of human skin and plop lifelessly into the pond. I crane my head around slowly and see a pink balloon float absently skywards, past the window.
Worry begins to creep coldly through my veins as I start to speculate over the cause of such abrupt balloon presence. Knowingly, I skulk to the other side of the room and rotate the dimmer switch on the wall until the bulb on the ceiling becomes no more than a dull ember. I slowly raise my head over the windowsill, already certain of what I will see.
Balloon Men.
Three of them. Four, if I were to include the one sprawled out on the floor, empty-handed, blood gushing from a book-shaped wound in his scalp. One stood by the pond, another stood near the shed and one stood half-buried in the vegetable patch up to his chest. They all hold a single, coloured balloon, left-handed, staring blankly at my bedroom window. They each wear ragged, formal suits, littered with coffee stains and bread crumbs. The one loitering around the shed turns to the pond-stander and begins to speak in loud trumpet noises, asserting its dominance as it spray-paints “Jumanji” on the fence, marking its territory. My worry is forgotten in a moment of white fury as David Attenborough sneaks out of some nearby long grass and begins to play Twister with a jaguar. The jaguar asks David to put his right foot on blue and it’s more than I can stand. The last straw.
I turn away, horrified, and slump against the wall beneath the windowsill, my mind bulging with questions. Why are they here? Why me? Who threw my book in the pond? Unhelpful questions all likely to have equally as unhelpful answers. I begin to pace the length of my room, pondering a way to rid myself of these unwanted guests. After what seems to be an eternity of pacing, I stop dead in my tracks, having walked straight into the fish tank, spilling tropical fish and Hillary Clinton all over the new carpet. I casually sweep the unlucky fish and the ex-president’s wife under the rug, when an idea hits me square in the jaw. Dazedly, I pick the idea off of the floor and jam it into my head, massaging my bruised chin. Sudden clarity begins to circulate around my brain. I know what must be done.
Exercising extreme caution, I snatch the watering can from its position as centrepiece in the tantalizing display of garden equipment and chewy, butterscotch toffee treats on my bedroom desk. I grab a side of the watering can in each hand and begin to stretch it – stretch it wide enough to fit a leg in.
Then I stretch it some more.
I stretch it far past the recommended stretching size written on the bottom of the can. The sides of the can stretch to the point of transparency as the warning siren begins to blare from the town centre. Village folk burst from their houses, ugly screams of panic shooting from their mouths and splashing all over the floor. They carry hastily packed bags under their arms, many of them wearing their children as slippers, too lazy to carry or wake them. They’re running for the emergency bunkers, used only in case of nuclear fallout, and the excessive elongation of gardening goods. I let go of the watering can... yet it continues to swell.
The walls of the bedroom begin to buckle and creak as the monstrous, green balloon continues to bulge and distend. The large double windows shatter outwards and spray the Balloon Men in the garden with confused shards of glass. They squawk in their violent brass voices and begin to tear up the Twister mat. David Attenborough shoots a sharp, accusatory look at the Balloon Man in the vegetable patch (the only one unable to seize his beloved Twister mat) and explodes in a hectic shower of snakes. The snakes swarm up the walls of my house, oblivious to the gravity urging them kindly to stay on the ground. They begin to pour in through the open window and pile into the rapidly-growing can like clowns into a tiny car – a tiny car that has been turned into a giant watering can.
What have I done?
The roof of the house bursts, sending scraps of brick and tiles sprawling out into the road and garden. Despite the weight of its new residents, the ex-watering device begins to float upward and out of the room. Instinct seizes me. I was born for this moment. As the big green balloon takes flight, I leap into the open hatch and slump down into the pile of writhing snakes. The can ascends higher into the night sky and I peer over its edge, down at the rapidly shrinking garden. The plan has not gone entirely awry, after all: I’m leaving the Balloon Men behind. A strong sigh of relief escapes me as I slouch back into the slithering carpet that fills my new abode. Where to now? Wherever the can desires...
Monday 24 August 2009
Old College Work!
The series of images that follow make up my English Language AS Creative Writing coursework. The story is a very loose re-write of the classic Fairytale "Snow White". It is written in a vaguely Sci-Fi style in a post-apocalyptic environment.
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Unforseen Consequences
Sat at the computer, trawling through seemingly endless quagmires of dross; reams upon reams of porn. Girl on girl, girl on horse, girl on vintage accordion, girl on antique clock nailed to a cricket bat... I've seen it all before. I'm looking for something new. Something fresh. Something exciting. Something to make me feel alive. Yet in my haste to find something new, I feel as if I may have forgotten something old... something potentially vital.
As if to smugly justify my worries, a low rumbling begins at the bottom of the staircase and starts to wind its way upwards. I hear angry noises coming from the landing – picture frames being knocked from shelves, polar bears smashing pots together and rugs being snagged by the careless motions of unhappy feet. All at once, the rumbling culminates into a furious cadence right outside my bedroom door. The door bursts off its hinges, flying across the room and stapling the cat to the wall. My father stomps into the room, seemingly unphased by the door's sudden murderous impulse to impale the cat. I look into his face and see red-hot fury swimming in his eyes. He grits his teeth and holds out the pumpkin from last October.
“YOU LEFT THE PUMPKIN OUT TOO LONG!” spit flies from his mouth in angry tendrils “LOOK!” He removes the top of the Jack-O-lantern and I begin to understand. Beneath the seemingly innocent outer crust of the pumpkin, lies something hideous in its irrelevance.
A miniature carnival winks from inside the pumpkin's head. Dozens of tiny patrons line up to buy tickets for severely under-maintenanced amusement rides whilst others attempt to win shoddy prizes from games that are most likely rigged. My eyes grow wide as dim comprehension envelopes me. I can't begin to apologise enough. How could I have been so foolish? I'd had all the time in the world to dispose of that pumpkin before something like this could've happened... but I was selfish – I'd allowed myself to become distracted by the big blue vase I'd bought last Thursday. If only I'd bought a smaller vase to admire, perhaps I'd have been spared just enough time to beat the shit out of a pumpkin. But alas, no turning back now. I've made my bed on this one, now I must lie in it.
My father slams the pumpkin onto my desk and storms out of the room, playing cards and marbles falling haphazardly from his sleeves and onto my carpet as he flails his arms in snake-like motions.
“Fuck” I mutter under my breath, eyeing the carnival cautiously. I slip from my seat and slide under the desk in a perversely fluid motion. Once sheltered beneath the wooden fortress, I wrap myself in a thin, silk cocoon to hold myself over until April – perhaps the miniature Carnies would move on.
I wait.
Time slips around me like stale water. Boredom festers on my skin like yawn-inducing fungus. I struggle my hand down towards my pocket and turn loose its contents. Three Roman coins and a figurine of the Ready Brek dragon tumble from their denim prison and onto the surrounding silk. Most unhelpful. I lose track of how long I've been under; I decide to resurface.
I tear out of my sodden silk shell and punch a hole in the wall. Peering through my newly-punched peep-hole, I spy on the neighbours as they tear up the carpet and shout at mice. Real sportsmanship. Nobody shouts at mice quite like the Williams'. I manage to tear my gaze from the carpet-ripping mice-screamers in order to focus on less ridiculous matters – the pumpkin carnival. I pivot 180 degrees on the balls of my feet and shit myself in anger. The carnival has swollen – swollen to a ludicrous size. Tiny rollercoasters twist their way around my room, entwining themselves in the bookcase and ensnaring the curtain rails. Thriving masses of tiny guests queue in long, winding lines, as they squeak and chitter in tiny voices. Fury. How dare they maim my beautiful domicile? How dare they cut and hack until it becomes a twisted, orange, vegetable circus from hell? Trousers brimming with anger-induced faeces, I begin to smash my way through the amusements, bringing an end to this preposterous occupation.
The once proud carnival sinks into roaring, judicious flames as my unwelcome guests are extinguished, their stern joy melting to terrified sludge as their world collapses around them, the putrid stench of despair and burning flesh bidding them farewell on their exit from the living world. I hop nimbly over the small charred bodies to fetch the broom. What a mess. I sweep the rotting shambles under the bed and turn my attention to the source – the origin, the conduit, the alpha & omega... the pumpkin.
I seize it firmly in my right hand, staring it in its empty, orange eyes. Without another moment's thought, I turn around and launch the pumpkin out of the window, knocking out the milkman and sending shards of glass soaring around the room, all the while wondering why I didn't pause to open the window first. Dusting my hands off, a small smirk creeps across my face. Now that little problem has been disposed of, we can get back to the matter at hand.
Sat at the computer, trawling through seemingly endless quagmires of dross...
As if to smugly justify my worries, a low rumbling begins at the bottom of the staircase and starts to wind its way upwards. I hear angry noises coming from the landing – picture frames being knocked from shelves, polar bears smashing pots together and rugs being snagged by the careless motions of unhappy feet. All at once, the rumbling culminates into a furious cadence right outside my bedroom door. The door bursts off its hinges, flying across the room and stapling the cat to the wall. My father stomps into the room, seemingly unphased by the door's sudden murderous impulse to impale the cat. I look into his face and see red-hot fury swimming in his eyes. He grits his teeth and holds out the pumpkin from last October.
“YOU LEFT THE PUMPKIN OUT TOO LONG!” spit flies from his mouth in angry tendrils “LOOK!” He removes the top of the Jack-O-lantern and I begin to understand. Beneath the seemingly innocent outer crust of the pumpkin, lies something hideous in its irrelevance.
A miniature carnival winks from inside the pumpkin's head. Dozens of tiny patrons line up to buy tickets for severely under-maintenanced amusement rides whilst others attempt to win shoddy prizes from games that are most likely rigged. My eyes grow wide as dim comprehension envelopes me. I can't begin to apologise enough. How could I have been so foolish? I'd had all the time in the world to dispose of that pumpkin before something like this could've happened... but I was selfish – I'd allowed myself to become distracted by the big blue vase I'd bought last Thursday. If only I'd bought a smaller vase to admire, perhaps I'd have been spared just enough time to beat the shit out of a pumpkin. But alas, no turning back now. I've made my bed on this one, now I must lie in it.
My father slams the pumpkin onto my desk and storms out of the room, playing cards and marbles falling haphazardly from his sleeves and onto my carpet as he flails his arms in snake-like motions.
“Fuck” I mutter under my breath, eyeing the carnival cautiously. I slip from my seat and slide under the desk in a perversely fluid motion. Once sheltered beneath the wooden fortress, I wrap myself in a thin, silk cocoon to hold myself over until April – perhaps the miniature Carnies would move on.
I wait.
Time slips around me like stale water. Boredom festers on my skin like yawn-inducing fungus. I struggle my hand down towards my pocket and turn loose its contents. Three Roman coins and a figurine of the Ready Brek dragon tumble from their denim prison and onto the surrounding silk. Most unhelpful. I lose track of how long I've been under; I decide to resurface.
I tear out of my sodden silk shell and punch a hole in the wall. Peering through my newly-punched peep-hole, I spy on the neighbours as they tear up the carpet and shout at mice. Real sportsmanship. Nobody shouts at mice quite like the Williams'. I manage to tear my gaze from the carpet-ripping mice-screamers in order to focus on less ridiculous matters – the pumpkin carnival. I pivot 180 degrees on the balls of my feet and shit myself in anger. The carnival has swollen – swollen to a ludicrous size. Tiny rollercoasters twist their way around my room, entwining themselves in the bookcase and ensnaring the curtain rails. Thriving masses of tiny guests queue in long, winding lines, as they squeak and chitter in tiny voices. Fury. How dare they maim my beautiful domicile? How dare they cut and hack until it becomes a twisted, orange, vegetable circus from hell? Trousers brimming with anger-induced faeces, I begin to smash my way through the amusements, bringing an end to this preposterous occupation.
The once proud carnival sinks into roaring, judicious flames as my unwelcome guests are extinguished, their stern joy melting to terrified sludge as their world collapses around them, the putrid stench of despair and burning flesh bidding them farewell on their exit from the living world. I hop nimbly over the small charred bodies to fetch the broom. What a mess. I sweep the rotting shambles under the bed and turn my attention to the source – the origin, the conduit, the alpha & omega... the pumpkin.
I seize it firmly in my right hand, staring it in its empty, orange eyes. Without another moment's thought, I turn around and launch the pumpkin out of the window, knocking out the milkman and sending shards of glass soaring around the room, all the while wondering why I didn't pause to open the window first. Dusting my hands off, a small smirk creeps across my face. Now that little problem has been disposed of, we can get back to the matter at hand.
Sat at the computer, trawling through seemingly endless quagmires of dross...
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