The balloon was beginning to frustrate him. Its pull grew increasingly larger as the wind picked up. His coat had seen better days as well, drenched by the westerly showers that this particular region was known for. It had often protected him from the brash environment of the underground, not that it ever rained there. If it did, it would have truly been the most miserable place on earth, but luckily for him, British transport had the tendency of being waterproof. The balloon overhead wavered while he remained fixed in his position, eager to prove the naysayers wrong. He could feel the blood slowly start to fall away from his hand, the lack of dexterity pointed out by the marching of ants down one side of his arm. He’d always hated pin and needles, early childhood memories filled with the ongoing fear of sitting still for too long. Clinging onto this great red floating object in the sky had begun to become more than a physical nuisance.
Category Archives: Fiction
The Garden Wall
The garden wall had seen better days. Vines clung to the ageing brickwork, the most obvious sign of its unkempt nature. His father had often enjoyed tidying, not the finished product but the process itself. It “kept him busy”, a way to stop his mind from delving off into the intrepid memories of the war. That was one thing the older generation had never gotten right, at least to his understanding, they could never truly enjoy free time. Leisure time as it was eventually called. Even a friendly meeting of faces over afternoon tea could only idle on for so long before the weather turned bad or even worse, the tea went cold. The English summer was the only time people would see the sun and bask in its warmth. Although people would remember how nice the sun actually felt and flee to the tropics to experience it in all its unfiltered glory. At least that was the case for the ones with cash to spare. The rest would visit their nearest seaside town, much to the distaste of all the locals, all of whom had already dealt with the miserable rain and coastal winds for most of the year. Striped beach towels on ice cream in vast quantities would flood the beaches of England, with remote radios tuned into whatever station could match the mood of the town on that particular day.
His father wasn’t one for sand, he hated the thing. Scarred by the endless feeling of grains stuck in his shoes as a boy, he vowed to steer clear of anything related to the substance. Instead, summers meant the recognisable patch of grass behind your house or the predictable shadow cast by the sycamore tree that meant a trusty break from the sun’s heat. He never understood why people were so keen on change, maybe it was his time in the military that had put him off the idea. His service had given him enough change to last him a lifetime (not that he’d had more than a couple tupence to his name now), years spent not knowing if he’d catch a good night’s sleep had left him eager for structure. The odd day or two spent lying on his own patch of land in the English sun was just about enough change for him. As another June would roll around, a weekend full of pruning and watering the plants was back on the cards. His friend at the farm across the way had been perfecting his cider recipe for the last few years, with each summer causing much anticipation among the pub dwellers in the nearby villages. The garden wall and pub were two places that could consistently provide his father with joy, failsafe options that would keep his already busy mind from over-working. Sometimes he had thought that the flagon of Millerdowns cider was the only thing going, it was certainly enough to put hairs on your chest, that was for sure.
The sun had been circling the local village for some weeks now, warming the cobbles and limestone rooftops that had seldom transformed the silhouette of that quaint English town over the decades. Every time he’d find himself sorting out the pantry or washing up the dishes in the kitchen, he’d catch his gaze wandering over to the end of the garden. His mind was trying to play tricks on him, convincing him that his father was somehow still there, patiently trimming away the collection of vines. Of course, that was not the case, his father having passed away almost 7 years ago meant that the garden wall had remained entirely undisturbed. Nature had run its course since his passing, clawing away at the red brick that formed the barrier between himself and the neighbours. Perhaps it was time. His wife had all but gotten sick of asking and bought him a pair of secateurs for his birthday, disregarding the fact that over the 9 years that they were married, he had not once brought up the subject of gardening. He knew she was doing him a favour but hiding his reaction to the present was not easy for him. Lucky for him, she’d always had a good sense of humour.
It was settled. He knew where the secateurs were and more importantly, where the garden wall was.
Short fiction: PLEAsE KEEP IN LINE
He waited for his train on the platform. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this particular train ride, nor would it be the last. He was familiar with gravel underfoot. The two yellow lines dancing too and froe as they always did. There were lines everywhere. Escaping them wasn’t really a possibility. ‘Don’t cross the line’ his Boss would say. ‘Please wait in line’ the pharmacy sign would order. The Nazca Lines out in Peru was the last time he enjoyed seeing anything associated with that word. They were more large-scale pieces of art, not exactly line-like in the common sense of the term. Fed up, he kicked the ground underneath him. This would do nothing except scuff the bottom of his shoe, another visit to the local cobbler the only outcome of that repeated action. Often, he’d find himself refraining from things that would cost him money in the future. Not that he had much. That was the problem. His mum had always told him that he walked a narrow path, in other words a straight line. Sadly, that wasn’t the straight line to success. If it was, it was way off in the distance, so far he couldn’t see it just yet. Although his vision wasn’t one of perfection either, avoiding the opticians had saved him a few quid but probably cost him more in the long run.
If only he had been born into wealth, he thought. Silk pyjamas, silver wear and grandiose halls would await him as his eyes would creep open. Instead, he woke up to the dim light of the streetlamp, his curtain a weak excuse for fabric. They’d be better off being used as shower curtains, or even if he botched up some Prom dress out of it and sold it to some poor student trying to make one final impression on the boy she’d fancied all these years. She’d make an impression alright, but it would unlikely be the one she’d hoped for. At least that would avoid any evening debauchery. Prom nights had the tendency for taking people off track. One night they’d be a King heading for a prestigious University on a full scholarship, next they’d be a family man working a nine to five at the local construction site, feeding the kid he abruptly brought into his world. Sometimes he wished he’d had that. At least that way he’d have a family to go home to at the end of the night. Someone who’d always smile and wave their hands in the air when he was in the room, that sounded nice. He barely got a glance these days. The old ladies stopped being nice to him too, that was when he really hit a low. When the old start realising, you’re more miserable than them, that’s when you’re really in the shit.
Short Fiction: Reflections
He sat at his desk unable to write. Something he had done for many years with no qualms or disturbances beforehand. This was a most unusual feeling for him. Work was fun to him. The spreadsheets, the maths, all of that was a world he was familiar with. A different kind of language that did not need emotions or a sorry or even a thank you. It had been over fourteen years since he had seen her, left her that late afternoon on the edge of the woods. He hadn’t given it much thought since had he been honest with himself. That was something he became very good at, blocking certain memories out. Yet, for him to even begin putting pen to paper, reliving those memories, would be a whole lot more than necessary. It would be vital. An apology from the heart is what she deserved after all. All those years wondering where he had gone. There had been no phones then in which to track him. One minute they were together and the next they were strangers. The five previous years clearly an indication of nothing. A meaningless flitter of laughs and cries that ultimately fell on deaf ears. Her face. He remembered seeing her face in the wing mirror. That was the one thing that did stay with him and an image he could never shake.
He would see it when on the way to work, the bus’ wing mirror staring back at him whilst waiting to get on. He stopped getting the bus after a while. The train was about the only place void of reflections but even then, early starts meant the windows on the train turned into one long bathroom mirror. In those fourteen years he would have expected to forget what she looked like. He even managed to for a few months. He worked from home and took down the mirror on the bathroom cabinet, brushing his teeth was just about manageable that way.
She had almost disappeared from memory until Christmas rolled around. His parents would not listen to his excuses this time, forcing him to come over for the roast this year. He’d have to put up with the questions and his sister’s fiancé, but that was not what did it. His parents had handed him over a box shaped present which he reluctantly unwrapped. Presents at Christmas had never been his thing, especially seeing as he was trying to avoid any unnecessary attention this year. Pulling down the wrapping paper he saw the picture of a small mirror on a swivel. ‘Bout time you had a shave’, his dad said laughing, the others chuckled with him, ‘go on then, open it up’. Hesitant didn’t begin to describe how he felt, thinking if he got the formality of smiling out the way, his parents would go back to praising his sister. He yanked at the object in the box, and it suddenly came loose. There it was the shaving mirror looking back at him in shock. He had not seen his face this close for months. He had barely recognised himself. His face was a lot hairier and podgier; the evening beers had taken its toll. As he began to touch his face, discovering his aging-self, she appeared behind his shoulder. All those months vanished in that moment as he was back to the way he felt on his morning commute. She had never left. She was stood behind his shoulder all this time, only he could never see her. Without a reflection, she didn’t exist.
Short Fiction: London to Peru
He had parked his car on the edge of the street outside of the bakery. This was not his local bakery; in fact, he had never been to that particular one before. The cakes all danced in the shop window, each trying to sell themselves through their array of colour and sugar content. He had never been one for the sweeter things in life. Rather the thought of strong wooden chair, visible in grain and all it’s modest joinery would have truly made him feel content. That and large Cigar. Putting his keys away in his large pockets he proceeded to make his way to this appointment. Pausing for a moment, he turned his head slowly in order to look back at the fine motor parked outside of Pemberton’s Bakery. The afternoon sun glistening off its dark green chassis, a wonderful display of British engineering. His Uncle was a kind man but even he had outdone himself with this kind gift. Although he had earnt it, all those years tucked away in Peru had made him a slightly hostile man. It had only been two months since his return to the concrete streets of London but he could not have been happier to be back. A Tweed suit was fastened round his body. Long had it been since the weather had permitted him to don a suit without it sticking to every part of his body. It was not the fact that he was away from home for all that time that had made him upset but instead the little things that made him feel at home that were absent. The Amazon, had no room for error let alone the small markings of comfortability. The tall rubber trees were not your like your friendly Oak tree in Holland Park. In fact, nothing in the entire Amazonia was comparable to a stroll through Holland Park. Not even the sighting of a frightful looking dog could come close to the general looming danger that followed everywhere you trapesed. Realising once again he was in the safe streets of South Kensington, he walked towards his meeting with Dr. Shaw. Impressed by the natural looking finish on the door of 22 Debbing Street, he knocked on. It wasn’t but a moment later that large square panel of wood creaked open and the sight of a rotund gentleman greeted his view. Dr Shaw was everything you would want and expect from a professor. A gold pocket watch hid in the breast pocket of his well-tailored suit, a suit that did well to provide some elegance to his large frame. Round spectacles clung onto his nose, an aid to his expansive yet Eurocentric mind. It was no doubt that he was a highly intelligent man but tainted by his own awareness of that thing deemed him an equally ignorant man. “Well do come in Mr. Drift” said the Doctor. “Gladly” replied Arnold. “I don’t suppose the underground was too busy at this time of day” “I drove actually” “Is that so? Well a fine day for it at that” “Truly. The weather has been kind to me since my return” “London has truly missed your presence in that case. Either that or you have brought the Peruvian climate back with you.” “I’d rather it stay where it were if I’m honest.” “I can imagine. A Savage climate over there” Dr Shaw said, shaking his head as if he had remembered the weather from personal experience. Yet he had only known of such information through pages of writing and the cosy confinements of his study. “If you’d like to follow me.” He slowly walked back to his leather chair. A cane in his left hand supported the slight waddle he had obtained from his hip injury years ago. Dr Shaw had previously been a huge Polo player, having traversed the professional scene in London almost twenty years ago. Once a sporting man, the lack of movement had allowed his body to decline, yet his mind was all the more active for it. The large oak desk not only did well in breaking the room up of its empty space, but also excellently exaggerated the importance of Dr Shaw’s intellectual findings. Upon browsing, Mr. Drift glanced over a whole host of artifacts sitting amongst the different book shelves which made up the outer portions of the study. Focusing now on what he knew to be an Amazonian Spear leaning over in the corner, his mind was instantly fogged by the many daunting memories he had experienced during his time in Peru. “Isn’t that right Mr. Drift… Mr Drift?” asked Dr Shaw. “Sorry, yes of course” he replied not entirely knowing what was being asked in the first place. “I thought as much. A three week trip back must have been exactly what you’d hoped for after being in South America all that time” chuckled the Doctor. His sense of humour had quite often surrounded the misfortunes of others. That and the comic strips in the News Paper, a fascination of his that had been passed down through his father at the breakfast table. “One would have hoped for a more forgiving journey back. Nevertheless, I am back in one piece and that’s all I could ask for” said Mr. Drift, not knowing himself whether or not what he just said was true. “I suppose you’re an adventurer now then aye?” questioned the Doctor with a child like smile on his face. “I do not think I am cut from that cloth. It was merely reconnaissance for a client of mine.” Drift replied with a deadpan voice. “Modest too. Lucky the client has such a hard-working researcher such as yourself in that case.” Shaw said trying to provoke some information from him. “That I will take credit for.” Hard work had been instilled in Arnold from a young age. Growing up as the youngest in a heavy male dominated family meant he had to grow up fast. The small village of Keswick had meant learning to love the Countryside of the wonderful Lake District.
London Underground Fiction: “Please, mind the gap”
The doors slammed shut. He had only just made it onto the Circle line. He liked cutting things fine, it added to the excitement. Up till now, his life had seemed like a race. Everyone always banged on about ‘life’s a marathon this’ and ‘life is about finding your pace that’, but not from his experience. Since he’d left Primary school, he always felt like he was running against something. It wasn’t like he was competing with anyone, not anyone he knew at least. When you’re in first place however, you cannot see the people behind you. That’s how he looked at it. So even if he was racing against someone, he would never have known about it.
This was true of much of his life apart from where he was now. Since moving to London he had felt inner peace like never before. This was strange as most people had warned him about the soulless plights and people of the city. How everyone lived so close to one another, yet each person inhabited there own world. He’d often try and bump into people walking the streets to see if he could shake them from out their trance, an almost plea for some form of emotional response. He’d found that the more formal they were dressed, the less likely they were to react. Why was this he wondered. Was it the self confidence or emotional control that these people owned? Maybe it was the clothes that gave them this sense of control. No, it was neither of those things. It was that they were so far entrenched by the game, the chase of the city, the pecking order, that they dare not break free the from the course. To do so would show their weakness, to do so would reveal that they weren’t cut out for the top. The suit and tie would only provide so much of a disguise for the city that watched overhead. Once he figured out who would crack and who wouldn’t, the game got boring to him, so he stopped playing.
He tried other ways to understand the people of this bustling place. Eventually he discovered the dynamics of the city’s underworld. He wasn’t referring to the any form of illegal happenings, the gangsters or the elite circles that would often delve into the underbelly of morality in the city’s dark corners. No, he knew nothing of that world and wanted to keep it that way. The world’s wrongs were clear enough in the daytime. The underworld to him was the cities transport system. The underground, a place, a system, a symbol that you would have heard of before ever stepping foot in London. Everyone talked down on it. How expensive it was or how no one was allowed to talk to anyone whilst on it. He’d always thought that strange. Perhaps everyone was paying their respects to the world below. Seeing as we buried our dead underground, we felt the need to acknowledge their silence with our own. Mouths shut but our eyes wide open, the only difference between us and those who lay dormant below.
He was not a fan of this silence, although most of the lines were poorly built and screeched as the tube scuttled across the tracks. He often wondered if this was done on purpose, to include this harrowing noise so that people would not attempt to talk over it. Either way, he enjoyed the glimpses of silence which allowed him to observe the various people in his carriage. There were those who read their newspapers, wearing suits from a bygone era, often adorned with a flamboyant pocket handkerchief. You would see these people few and far between which made them all the more enjoyable to observe. London was in their blood at this point. Not the London that most people knew, yet the one that they read about in books or had seen in films. They existed at the upper echelons of the city, the champagne socialists, the old money folk that would carry their old archaic way of thinking around with them like the newspaper they’d just unfurled from underneath their arm. Then you would have the finance crowd. You could tell which one was wealthier by the ratio between their grey hair and how youthful they looked. The ones who were the most successful often had more of a glow to them. This would have been a tell-tale sign of the good food they ate and the quality of wine that they drank. Were the sundried tomatoes they consumed coming from a small town in Italy or were they shipped over from an industrial farm in Morocco. These things mattered to them, and it showed.
There was one point where it was easier to distinguish between the people on board the tube down to the type of phones they were using. The old money folk would not bother with one whilst the businessman would walk around with a Bluetooth earpiece. Not anymore, today’s world everyone carried the same phone, everyone’s pockets were equal but that was about it when it came to a level playing field.
Some of the most intelligent people had been on the tube. Some of the best writers. Some of the best mathematicians. It was after all the quickest way of traversing the city. People would come down from all sorts of levels to get on the tube. No matter if you were working on the shop floor or a corner office on the eleventh floor, ultimately you were sardined next to one another during rush hour. This was more than a form of transport, this was a reminder from a higher power, a way of humbling the people of the city who would get carried away by their office view, their lunchtime expenses or their companies share buying schemes. One minute you would be closing a multi-million-pound deal and the next you’d be smelling the armpit of a PT who had just finished training their last client for the day. It was beautiful. It was human.
One day he could have sworn that he had seen a ghost on the tube. The glass reflections could often play tricks on your mind or even on those days where he was less observant of his peripherals. However, this person wasn’t just ordinary. He knew this because he could see the gentleman carrying his large beefeater hat on his lap. He’d never seen a Royal guard out in the ordinary world. They only appeared in spaces deemed important by the powers that be. They were signifiers of a pre-colonial world, where buildings made from expensive stone were regarded as worthy of protection. Who were they protecting them from? And if the buildings were recognised as such by the public, then surely there would be no need for their protection. It was almost an ironic reminder he had thought. Or he could have been completely wrong and that they were simply there for the visiting tourists. A photo opportunity? a map guide perhaps? an expensive one at that, not to mention useless seeing as though they weren’t allowed to speak. I suppose it all made sense, if they did speak then the whole mystery of the old world would shatter.
The agency of Buckingham Palace lay in the fact that it was untouchable, observant from the outside but never to be step foot in. It was like a grandparent that you could wave at from their drive, they would occasionally smile back, but that was the extent of your relationship. They didn’t hand you a tin of biscuits after a day at school, they never tucked you into bed at night or read you a book till you fell asleep, yet you still loved them regardless. It never made sense to him.
Had a giant Garden Gnome replaced Buckingham Palace, as long as all the pageantry and the ceremony of the Royal Guards carried on, people would still flock from all corners of the world just for a glimpse. It would also mean the red hat that sat on the Gnomes head was simply that, a hat. Not a collection of stolen symbols.
“[T]he heraldry of youth, long grown old” – Fiona Mozley
A Walk Along the Thames
He had been walking along the embankment for the past forty minutes. The Thames looked passive, its’ green murky water merely existing as it had done for millions of years. Growing tired, he decided to stop by a small, wooden bench. Slugging off his backpack, he slumped down on it with a heavy sigh. It was not the first time the piece of timber had bore the weight of a lacking human. The Sky was an impressive blue, clouds no where to be seen. His previous visits to London had consisted of bad weather and busy bodies, one of which was absent today. There’s a certain level of preparedness which one must obtain before walking the streets of London. Luckily, he had come equipped with more than his backpack. He was in no rush either: this helped. People walked past, each in their own realm of conversation, or for those who weren’t speaking aloud, an internal monologue rang clear; or so he had hoped. Had he been in the same spot 100 years earlier the only difference he would have witnessed was the cloth that shrouded their fragile bodies. The same problems would have still reverberated off the stone floor, that of love and purpose. Perhaps a larger portion of minds would have been present, worrying about what they would have to eat next rather than trivial issues born from a false reality. Half hoping someone would strike up a conversation with him, he sat there for quite some time. Two street cleaners came about with their large wheelie bin and even larger smiles. They spoke to each other in languages not from this neck of the woods. Both with a sense of purpose, they belonged to this still, heavily colonial landscape. The HMS Belfast in the backdrop, a ship that once roared across the World’s Seas now lay passive in the heart of London, a sleeping Jaguar hidden amongst the branches of a tree. Embankment was beautiful with its architectural design and large display of power. People from all walks of life would stroll by these buildings in admiration, forgetting what they once meant. Perhaps that is why they are so beautiful. An area once inaccessible by the agency of history, now yielded by the progress of modern thought. A group of three women he had never seen before, deemed familiar by previous childhood experiences. The family trips to Peru enabled him to recognise these women, a mother and her two daughters. To others they would have been another trio of strangers hidden amongst the crowd of tourists. Yet to him, they almost shared a familiar history. He wanted to talk to these three, to establish some form of repour, yet his anxious mind halted him from doing as such. Sometimes there are stories waiting to be told, ones that simply pass by you every day. A moment of courage allows two worlds to collide.
The Red Linen Dress
She sat there, perched on the windowsill like a cat. Her Grandma’s linen dress hugging her body closely. The last few years had really seen her figure change, a constant self-analysis hosted by the mirror on the back of the door. Secondary school had consisted of numerous memories of torment. Girls could be cruel and so could the teachers for that matter. Coming into her own at an early age had brought a lot of attention. So, from what seemed like the start of her teen years, Rachel had always been on the chopping block. It was no surprise then that she had obtained the habit of a lengthy getting ready process. Today she had finally decided to take out her grandmother’s red linen dress. The summer had well and truly arrived in the small coastal town of Weddington, the leaves shimmering under the warm sun. That Tuesday morning had seen a particularly confident Rachel wake up. So much so that she decided she could don the red linen dress that had been hanging in her wardrobe for the past 6 years. Waiting for her figure to represent the woman she was, the last few years had consisted of her dreaming of the day she was finally ready to wear the red dress. All the women in her family had been blessed with graceful curves. Even her Great Grandmother could not shroud her figure under the enormous crinoline she had to drag about on a day-to-day basis. Stories of Great Granny had been frequently heralded within the house, especially before bedtime. Rachel knew this dress was not merely a large piece of cloth, but a rite of passage, a symbol of her womanhood that had cemented her amongst the lineage of other Flimby’s that had existed before her. As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she could not help but smile. Gone was the anxiousness and nerves that had plagued her previous mornings before university, greeting the aura of confidence that embalmed the red linen dress.
wear shoes, write poems 