Broken

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Now you’re broken and you don’t understand…

Emily stopped flicking the CD cases forwards and looked up, inclining her head slightly to listen. She gripped the last album she’d reached in her idle browsing. It was that Fleet Foxes record she’d read about; another folk record about family and death. Like she needed another one of those. The song that was playing over the shop’s PA had just been part of the background noise until its chorus had cut through into her consciousness. She glanced up and down the aisles of the shop, the tips of her fingers whitening as she clenched harder on the CD. That chorus was so direct and she knew that voice. There was an honest simplicity to it, a yearning ache that spoke to her. Who was it ? What was this ?

Something’s mixed up and something’s gone…

She couldn’t catch all of the lyrics but some of the phrases stuck. Some of them were like salt water washing out an open wound. Into the second verse she realised that it must be the new Tift Merritt album, Dad had played the first two so often that her voice was like an old friend. Or a ghost. It wasn’t a voice she’d heard for a couple of years; it had been consigned to a small stack of his vinyl that she hadn’t been able to face yet. Her mum had wanted to clear them out but she’d begged her to keep them and now they gathered dust next to his old record player in the spare bedroom. Sometimes she’d thumbed through them and once she’d pulled one from its sleeve but the warm, rich smell of the wax had brought too many memories flooding back. There was nothing in that pile of records past 2006. Tift was still singing. He definitely would have bought this one.

And it’s these most loved losses are the hardest to carry…

The song was reaching its finish but Emily wouldn’t hear it. She felt a tightness in her chest and was suddenly short of breath. The strip lighting in the store was too bright and the D-E-F section in front of her blurred as she blinked back tears. The shelves and shelves of CDs that had initially welcomed her in now felt cold, all hard edges and smelling of cellophane wrapped plastic. Feeling sick Emily turned for the exit.

She stumbled out into the shopping centre and an alarm sounded behind her, red lights flashing on top of the tagging gates either side of the doors. She was still holding the Fleet Foxes album. Heart racing she ran back into the shop and replaced the CD on the first rack she came to. Her hands were shaking and she managed to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the display, four or five CDs and a piece of moulded plastic proclaiming ‘sale’ clattered to the floor. Emily fled not hearing either the continuing echo of the alarm nor the quietly optimistic final line of the song:

I think I will break but I mend

……

This is story 29 in a series of 42 to raise money and awareness for the mental health charity Mind. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are really welcome: http://www.justgiving.com/42shorts

This picks up Emily’s story (from previous post, Concrete Cowgirl) a bit further down the track. The lyrics are from Tift Merritt’s song “Broken” and no copyright infringement is intended: in the unlikely event that Tift or anyone from Fantasy Records a) reads this and b) objects then I’ll happily alter it. And I’ll double my total fundraising take for Mind. I am a massive fan and only borrowed the words because they help me tell fictional Emily’s story.

Concrete Cowgirl

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Emily lay perfectly still, flat on her back, and stared up. Straight up, unblinking, arms stretched wide, palms pricked by the blades beneath her hands. Soft when she was still, sharp if she moved. At the furthest reaches of her peripheral vision she could see the fuzzy green of the grass that was cushioning her head; otherwise nothing but a widescreen panorama of blue. A plane, too distant to be heard, crossed overhead and Emily watched it: a roughly doodled arrow sketched across the sky. She twisted her head to follow its trajectory but her view was broken by the cow, the sun reflecting back off its glossy, painted surface. It shone in a way that a cow shouldn’t. Emily became aware of the thrum of cars on the dual carriageway again.

“Moo,” she whispered, rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow. The cow stared blankly at her, its mournful face forever frozen in concrete. Emily watched as a fly landed by its ear; there was no twitch of the head, no reflexive swish of its tail. She closed her eyes and heard a gentle buzz that receded to silence as the fly flew away before an angry exchange of car horns from the road broke the quiet. She opened her eyes and sat up, brushing grass from her arm and inspecting the dimpled imprint it had left on her elbow. As she pushed her way up to standing she caught sight of the cow’s feet, cemented into the ground, rooted and anchored in place. “You’re not going anywhere either,” she said.

A long chain of daisies snaked away from Emily’s foot, the result of a patient entwining as she had idled away the afternoon. She picked up the chain and held it draped around the cow’s neck, a cheery white and yellow garland to brighten up her bogus bovine companion. Dead wildflowers to decorate something that had never been alive. She tried to tie the two ends of the chain together but her fingers, usually so nimble, couldn’t work the delicate strands and the chain came apart in her hands. She was left clutching two or three daisies threaded together and a smattering of stray petals, like elongated white tears in her hands.

Emily stuffed the remnants of the daisy chain into her jacket pocket and patted the cow on its head; soaked in the afternoon sun it was warm beneath her hand. “I tried,” she said. Turning away she began to walk across the field, back towards the adjacent road, quickening her step as she saw a bus in the distance. She couldn’t make out the number but they all ended up in the same place. The impassive cow watched as she broke into a run. Had it been able to lift its head it would have seen a fading vapour trail high across the sky, the only sign of the plane that had slipped from view.

 

……

This is story 28 in a series of 42 to raise money and awareness for the mental health charity Mind. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are really welcome: http://www.justgiving.com/42shorts

I acknowledge this one is not quite a story but more a hint at one untold (which I know and will one day try to write) but I saw the old concrete cows in Milton Keynes again recently and dug this out. There is something distinctly odd about them. I wrote this piece a while ago as an exercise in a creative writing course I was taking. The tutor suggested I take the “like elongated white tears” simile out. I am bad at killing my darlings so it remains for now but let me know if it’s surplus to requirements !

Fifty grades of Che

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Rachel’s phone vibrated and the screen lit up announcing a new message. Tell me what you’re wearing so I can imagine relieving you of each item, piece by piece. He was nothing if not persistent. Her fingers tapped back a quick text. Go take a cold shower or something. I’m marking. She turned her attention back to the stack of papers in front of her: the combined efforts of her first year undergraduates’ take on whether Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s status as a genuine revolutionary in thought and deed was undermined by the commodification of his image after his death. Her phone shook again. Come home and mark me… with your long fingernails down my back. Jesus. Just watch some porn or something. Seriously, I’m busy. I’ve got fifty essays on Che Guevara to do before tomorrow. I’m really not in the mood for your sexting bullshit.

After a couple of minutes the phone’s screen faded back to black, powered down, and Rachel figured he’d got the message. Sighing she picked up the next paper. Emily Cunningham. She had attended every lecture this semester wearing the same tee-shirt: a screen print of the famous (infamous) Guevara image, beret, moustache, tousled shoulder length hair, idealistic stare into the middle distance. She also wore blue and white vertically striped tights which met a pair of boots painstakingly painted with a red triangle centred with a star. Inevitably she had a beret too. Her essay started with: whilst I inherently reject the Western Imperialist notion that education can be measured, believing instead that is is an inalienable right for each individual to seek knowledge for its own sake… Rachel sighed, skipped a few pages that waxed lyrical about Che’s travels through South America (so you’ve seen The Motorcycle Diaries, so has every other student on this course), and eventually found a paragraph that seemed to conclude that the West’s appropriation of him could never undermine his revolutionary spirit and zeal. She gave it a D. Realise you will reject my measurement of your inalienable right to learn but suggest you devote more energy to addressing the question next time or you’re heading for an inalienable fail. Nice tights btw. 

If this was the standard it was going to be a long night. Her phone lit up again. Sighing she glanced at the screen. Let me control your means of production. She decided to ignore it. Maybe he would get bored and give up. Half way through reading the next student’s work another message buzzed for attention. From each according to his abilities, for each according to his needs… and I’ve got strong needs tonight. Exasperated she replied. Stop just googling quotes about Marxism. They are not sexy, you weirdo. I am working.

Almost instantly another message arrived. Worker of the world unite. With me. You have nothing to lose but your chains. Actually maybe we could keep the chains ?

Ignore him. Stop replying, it’s just encouraging him. Mark the papers, go home, he will have zonked out on the sofa in front of some highly inappropriate website, you can have a bath and go to bed. Her phone nudged her again. There’s been a popular uprising.

Rachel couldn’t help herself. Now you’re just making stuff up. The other ones weren’t even Guevara and that one’s not anyone. Your “uprising” isn’t popular here. Minutes ticked by. He’s given up. Mark the goddamn papers. She skim read another essay, this one arguing that Che’s eventual adoption of violence as a means of overthrowing oppression was an inevitable consequence of his training as a doctor. Another D. She was just about to pick up the next attempt when she saw her phone shake and shimmer again. Seriously. This is the last one. I’m turning it off. One has to grow hard but without ever losing tenderness. Really ? At least this one was actually Che. Give him credit. At least he’s learning something tonight. She tapped out one last response. 

You can liberate me tomorrow and help me throw off the shackles of the yolk of capitalism. I’ll be your thesis, you be my anti-thesis and we can come together in synthesis. Maybe I’ll even use the shackles. No yolk though. That would just be… messy. Get some sleep. Love you.

Rachel turned off her phone and, sighing, picked up the next paper.

……

This is story 27 in a series of 42 to raise money and awareness for the mental health charity Mind. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are really welcome: http://www.justgiving.com/42shorts

To be honest this slightly ridiculous story came largely from me finding the title quite funny and then trying to concoct something from that. Plus I got to tag a post with “sex” and “Marxism” and it’s not everyday that you get to do that… although I imagine that somewhere on the web there’s a site that caters.

Doubt

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The church sat atop a sea of freshly fallen snow, looming out of the dusk as Sean approached. The previous night’s storm had blanketed the graveyard and had covered the winding path up to the front door. Sean’s footprints followed him in a straight line: the most direct route to God was across the dead.

He stamped his feet clean of powder once he was inside and paused to compose himself. It was as cold in the church as outside but at least he was out of the wind. Flickering candles picked out the altar, rows of silent pews, a font, but gave up little heat. He hadn’t expected to feel the warmth of the Lord’s love but its absence disappointed him nonetheless. Stepping into the confessional he awkwardly made the sign of the cross as he sat down.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was…” He faltered. He couldn’t recall how long it had been since he’d confessed. It was a habit he’d slipped out of after he’d married Aoife and especially after Mary had been born. She’d been a difficult one, arriving early and struggling through her first few months, beset by illness. They’d almost lost her a couple of years ago in the winter of ’33. She was gripped with fever and he, Aoife, Dr O’Halloran and Margaret, his new health visitor, had sat with her in shifts, wrapping her in cool towels. Father Flynn had come down from the church and sat with them, leading the prayers. Twice she’d stopped breathing. Both times Margaret had revived her, forcing breath back into her lungs even as Flynn began his final administering.

“It’s alright Sean. Take your time. You’ve been through a lot.” The priest spoke in a reassuring but firm, low tone.

“My last confession was three years ago, Father. Before the wedding. Before the wedding and now, here we are, after the funeral. Perhaps if I’d come more often ? Been more diligent ?”

“God forgives. He sees the repentant man and he forgives. He didn’t take Aoife from us because your faith was found wanting Sean.” Flynn sighed. He had never had cause to question his own resolute belief and he sometimes wondered if some understanding of doubt would better equip him to bring the waverers in his congregation back into the fold.

 

“I know Father. That’s why I must confess.” There was a long pause as both men sat in silence. One searching for the right words, the other giving him the time to find them. Sean lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “I knew she was messing around. I saw the way he looked at her. James Ryan. Up from Cork originally he was. Always boasting about how he’d be leaving for America one day. It was hard for her, you know ? I was at the school all day and she never really took to motherhood. When we nearly lost Mary something changed in her, it was like she was scared of getting too close to her again. When I found out about the baby… Found out it was his…” Sean broke off, shaking his head. A sudden draught made the candles in the church leap and lean, some of them blew out and the confessional pitched further into darkness.

“What did you do child ?” asked Flynn.

“I took her to that place in Ennis,” he answered softly. “The parlour of Parnell Street, that’s what they call it. No questions asked. Pay your money and your wife’s mistake goes away and you never speak of it again. Except something went wrong. Was that your God, Father ? Was that his punishment for her for adultery ? Or for both of us for killing the baby ? Is that why he took her as well ?”

They both sat silently for a long time before Flynn offered up a prayer and talked of penance. He remained in his seat long after Sean had left. Against all that he’d been taught, against all that he knew, this was the worst sin he’d borne witness to. It was an affront to God. And yet, sitting there in the dark, he felt the first pinch of something new. Doubt.

 

……

This is story 26 in a series of 42 to raise money and awareness for the mental health charity Mind. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are really welcome: http://www.justgiving.com/42shorts

This one, like number 25, also came from an unlikely source. It’s actually part of a longer sequence of stories I’m involved in with my writing group – I’ll add a link when they’re complete. Consequently it’s not typical for me in either style or theme. But I’ll take them where I can find them…

Guinness and chocolate

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He took a long draught on his pint and set the glass back between them. A creamy white moustache burnished his smile. She pointedly dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a tissue and, with seeming reluctance, he wiped his face clean on the back of his sleeve.

“Spoil sport,” he said. “And, by the way, you’ve still got a smudge of chocolate on your cheek.”

“What ? Really ? Why didn’t you tell me earlier ? I ate that ages ago.” She rummaged in her bag for a vanity mirror, gave up, and turned her phone camera on herself. “Where is it then ?”

He grinned. “Just kidding. You look kinda cute when you get cross though so…”. He flinched as a scrunched up tissue flew across the table. It bounced neatly off his nose and landed in his pint. “Hey ! Now the gloves are off. That’s Ireland’s finest 5% stout you’re spoiling now. They’ve not been making this since 1759 so you could pep up its flavour with an old bit of paper.”

“Why’d you do that ?” she said, leaning forwards. “Why’d you have to know everything. It’s all facts. It’s got this percentage of alcohol and it was made in this brewery and this many pints have been drunk since the dawn of time.”

“I like facts,” he replied.

“But they don’t tell me anything interesting about you,” she said. “I think you hide behind all those facts. Tell me how you feel about your beloved Guinness ? How does it make you feel ?”

“Drunk.”

“Very funny.” She smiled despite herself. “It’s too bitter for me.”

“Me or the Guinness, Dr. Freud ?”

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know ? Anyway, as you should know, I prefer a nice slab of chocolate. Just letting it melt in my mouth, closing my eyes and drifting away. All warm and…”

“Steady. Is this going to get all ‘When Harry Met Sally’ ?”

“I’ll have what she’s having ? Ha, don’t worry. Besides you’ve seen me fake it often enough by now my dear…” She gasped theatrically and clapped both hands hard down on the table. The Guinness sodden tissue was returned at speed, catching her on the ear but she was laughing too much to notice. It was his turn to smile despite himself.

“It’s too sweet for me.”

“Me or the choc…”

“Both,” he interrupted.

“Ah come on. Admit it, we’re good for each other. Bitter and sweet. Facts and dreams. Pragmatism and idealism. All that stuff. Ying and yang.” She held out her hands across the table, palms up.

“Rough and smooth,” he added sliding his hands into hers.

“Only if I’m smooth,” she said. “I am smooth, right ?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know ?” he smiled. “Listen, I don’t know why we work. There’s no facts to it. But I guess that’s okay. I like your…”

“…wild and romantic flights of fancy ?”

“Your ideas. Your fizz. Your spark,” he finished. “Okay, okay, and, if you must, your wild and romantic flights of fancy.”

“You see ? Guinness and chocolate. Perfect together,” she declared. “Keep telling me the facts though. I like them really. They give those flights of fancy somewhere to take off from.”

“You just come up with that ?”

“It was a bit much, wasn’t it ? Bit cheesy ?”

“A bit. Come on we’ll be late.” They finished up their drinks and hurried out into the cold.

 

……

This is story 25 in a series of 42 to raise money and awareness for the mental health charity Mind. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are really welcome: http://www.justgiving.com/42shorts

This one came from an unlikely source. Challenged with baking something that had a personal story attached to it for a work event I (with quite a lot of help) settled on a Guinness and chocolate cake. And then I took the story part literally as I’m much better at writing stories than baking cakes. Hopefully they will like one of them.

The Ex in Existential

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With a casual air I pulled the book from my bag and held it open in front of my face, pretending to be engrossed as I picked at my lunch.

She usually came in about now.

Peering over the top of the pages I had a perfect view across the canteen; she couldn’t pick up her food without passing my table.

Mentally I rehearsed.

Oh hi… yeah, good thanks… oh this ?… it’s Camus actually… you too ? I know… I feel like he really understands the human condition.

This would definitely work.

I remembered her room at University back when we’d been a thing, she had that artsy French cat poster and the giant Michael Stipe.

Le Chat Noir: that was probably it.

And then she was here, stopping, staring curiously at me, presumably not realising that not only do I speak French now but that I’m also an existentialist; that this kind of cosmopolitan intellectual elan can’t be carried off just by sticking a picture of a scrawny moggy up on your wall and smoking roll ups under the sensitive gaze of REM’s lead singer.

She spoke: “Did you know you’re holding your book upside down ?”

 

……

This is the 24th story in my series of 42 short stories to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. If you liked it and wanted to donate or find out more then please visit my fundraising page here: www.justgiving.com/42shorts

This one was just a bit of fun. An exercise in a recent writing group class to do something in just ten sentences. I may have cheated a bit with the semi-colons, colons and ellipses…

The Betrayal At Burford

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Some of the men looked up at the sound of hooves outside but most, scattered across the pews in the church, kept their heads bowed. Not in prayer but in defeat. It was four days since they’d marched out for Salisbury and three since they’d been surprised in the night, routed by White and a division of horse. They were four hundred strong when they’d rallied to Captain Thompson to find alliance with their Leveller brothers. Now Thompson was gone, fifty men were dead, and the rest were holed up, captive, in the church in Burford.

A key scraped in the lock and the church door was pushed open. A burly figure stood silhouetted in the frame, the early Spring light spilling into the gloom around him. He raised a hand to his face, briefly covering his nose against the fetid stench: three hundred men’s fear, sweat, shit and piss hung in the room. It stank of despair, of death. He lowered his hand and called out into the church.

“Who speaks for you ?”

More heads lifted now. Two of the men closer to the door got to their feet.

“We are free men Major. We all speak for ourselves,” answered one of them.

The Major spat on the floor. “Men ? You’ve barely started using a blade on your face boy. And last I heard you were only as free as Cromwell’s coin gave you leave to be. You all know me. Major White. I answer only to Fairfax and Cromwell. You all answer to me.”

“I will speak for these men,” said a voice from the back of the church. “And as for coin…,” he paused. “Sir, we’ve scarce seen any of that for weeks.” A tall, slim man stood and made his way through the huddles of men. He bore the same red overcoat as the others, his hung open over a once white shirt, now stained with blood and filth. Thick stubble covered his face. For all his unkempt appearance he stood straight and met White’s gaze.

“And who might you be ?” asked White.

“Thompson… James Thompson. My rank was Cornet. Insomuch as anyone commands these men then I do.”

“Was ?”

“We bear no rank now. Know this Major, we will not march further a single step without discussion of our demands and without pay of the monies we are already owed.”

“I knew your brother, Thompson. You have his look. You have his taste for treacherous anarchy as well. At least you had the courage to stay with your men and not flee like he did.”

“Having your kin named coward by a man that attacks infantrymen – his own infantrymen – on horseback and under the cover of night is no insult. Look to your own courage Sir and I fear you’ll find it absent. And what you decry as treachery and anarchy we call simply the just settlement of England’s revolution.”

“We killed the King. Reckon that’s enough revolution for any man,” said White.

“Any gentleman perhaps. For Cromwell perhaps.” Thompson gestured at the soldiers around him. “There’s been no revolution here Major. Naught that changes things for us. Do you expect us to go back to tend fields we don’t own, watch Cromwell be King in all but name, and have no say in how this land ought be governed ?”

“I expect you to go to Ireland as you’re ordered.”

“We’ll not go to Ireland. There’s nothing there but more war. We’ve turned this world – this country – upside down and when it’s righted we don’t want to find ourselves back at the bottom.”

“This is your last chance Thompson. This is a direct order from Cromwell. Re-join the Army, nay say your demands, and march for Ireland to help put down the Catholic heretics. Your men will be pardoned and they will be paid.”

Thompson shook his head and said, softly “Not me Major, not me. A Lord’s purse is not reason enough for me to fight anymore.” He then raised his voice, projected across the church to the weary, beaten men that he’d fought alongside. “Do not follow me blindly into death, friends. There is no honour in that and no shame in wanting to live. Our cause, our common cause, does not end here today. Carry it with you in your hearts and tell it to all that will hear, all that would live as free men. Be led no longer by nothing more than the belief that this land belongs to each of us.”

White grimaced, nodded and turned and left the church. The door remained ajar but a phalanx of men, armoured and armed, were visible outside. White addressed them, loud enough for the prisoners to hear.

“Take them up the tower and spread them out on the roof. They’ll be secure enough up there and I want them all to see what happens to traitors. When that’s done bring me Thompson, whoever’s next in command, and two privates. Bring them out here and make ready a firing squad.”

……

“Let me die with my helmet on Major. A simple soldier’s request to another soldier.”

“I can understand that,” said White. He beckoned one of his guards. “Fetch Cornet Thompson his helmet. He fought with us as a soldier and I’ll let him die as a soldier.”

“We were on the same side but fighting for different things,” replied Thompson. He waited, squinting slightly in the early morning sun, until a helmet was found for him. He raised it in salute to the prisoners strewn out across the leaded church roof-top above him before placing it on his head and stepping back to stand against the wall. The sun reflected back and up off the helmet such that those directly above had to look away, shielding their eyes. The first they knew he was dead was when they heard the musket’s discharge. A pair of crows, dislodged from their nest, angrily took flight, squabbling and squawking. The men smelt the cordite on the air and, when they looked down, Thompson was slumped against the wall, knees seeming to have buckled beneath him.

Corporal Perkins was next. Second in command and second to be made example of. He refused the offered blindfold and faced  down the squad as implacably as Thompson before him. He fell amidst a hail of shot, shrapnel lodging in the church wall behind him.

The men on the roof were quiet. Three days without food, sardined together in close quarters, and the loss of their command had sucked the spirit from them. White sensed the rebellion ebbing away. One final blow and it would be quelled.

“Hear me,” he shouted up to the subdued watchers above. “Here stand two of your comrades. Privates like you. Honest men led astray by anarchists and dreamers.” He signalled to his own men who dragged two captive soldiers up to the wall, stood them up next to where Thompson and Perkins had fallen. One of the men was pulled to one side to some pre-arranged design. “This is what happens when good men stray,” called White suddenly pointing at the man left in front of the firing squad.

Shots rang out again and he fell. Private John Church scarcely had time to compose himself, to offer up a prayer, or to make his peace before he was executed. White gestured at the other man, held firm in the grip of his captors.

“And this is what can happen when good men find the right path again.” The man was released. He stood, uncertainly, and waited for White to speak. “You have a full pardon. It is forgotten. You understand the terms ?” The man nodded quickly. White addressed them all again. “I think you all understand the terms. Welcome back to the New Model Army.”

……

This is a true account. Least wise it’s as true as I can give for the events of that day hang heavy in my heart. I’ll tell it as all that hold England dear should know what happened. All that hold dear the idea of what England might be should know what happened and weep.

I am a soldier in the New Model Army. Anthony Sedley. Private. I fought for Cromwell and for Parliament against a King that had strayed from God. We cut the head from the snake but I fear it has just grown anew. We are betrayed. The rebellion is done.

Cornet James Thompson, Corporal Perkins, and Private John Church were executed on this day, 17th May 1649, at the church in Burford. Examples to the rest of us. Like frightened children we set aside our dreams of suffrage and vows to take our rightful stake in this England. We knelt, re-pledged allegiance and now march for Ireland under a Lord’s banner. Be it a Lord or be it a King, it seems the outcome is much the same for us.

I repeat the words that Sir Thomas Rainsborough spoke at Putney:

For really I think that the poorest hee that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest hee; and therefore truly, Sr, I think itt clear, that every Man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own Consent to put himself under that Government; and I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put Himself under

I carry the shame of surrender. Not just to the Army but that we surrendered the idea that our lives were as equal to those that birth has put above us. This is a true account. Let history not forget us. It shall be our judge.

 

……

This is the twenty third story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are appreciated: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

This story is a true one although obviously there’s no way of knowing exactly how the events at Burford that broadly ended England’s brief flirtation with full revolution played out. It’s a story that’s (in my view) shamefully neglected in the teaching of Britain’s history, almost as if we want to brush it under the carpet. What might have been…

Gravity

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I listened to the dial tone until it flat-lined into a single note. Please hang up and try again. The receiver was heavy in my hand. Please hang up and try again. I pressed the red button to reset the phone, vaguely remembering the days when hanging up was more literal. The world was more physical then. We were more physical then.

Perhaps I should have seen it at the time but I always thought I was content in the moment. Now I think I was slow. What was it you used to say ? The appearance of things depends on how quickly you’re moving: that was it. That was typical of you. Making a joke about relativity when I was telling you how much I loved you. Still love you. You were always moving faster than me. I guess love must have looked different to you.

I knew what had prompted it. The reason I was holding the phone. The urge to make contact. On the radio this morning they’d babbled excitedly about gravitational waves, about detecting the ripples from broken stars across the furthest reaches of space. We can even hear it. God’s pulse. The universe’s heartbeat. But I needed to hear you, laughing at my ignorant wonder and explaining it all; rational, precise, sure. God’s pulse ? I could almost see you shaking your head, that mocking half smile. Signals converted to sound waves and frequencies pitched for human ears. You might as well let a child press random notes on a synthesiser. People will still claim they hear God. That’s what you would say, that or something like it. You were never cold though. Just different. I knew you’d hear the beauty in the sound of dying, ancient black holes, even if it was us that had given them artificial voice. You marveled at the ineffable but saw no guiding hand, no designer. Love had been the great unknown for you once. Something you felt but could not explain. The only thing I could ever express better than you.

There was something else I’d heard listening to that gravitational surge, something magical amid the traffic news and weather and stories of strikes and crime and footballers and missiles and award shows. I also heard hope. Or more accurately I remembered hope. I remembered us. To me it was like a distress beacon from the past; my distant collapsing heart, folding in on itself all that time ago, still yearning, still beating, only for its absent twin.

I dialled the number again, each digit echoing down the line and back across the years. You pick up.

 

……
This is the twenty second story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are appreciated: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/
Apologies to any real scientists reading. My knowledge of quantum mechanics is more akin to the narrator’s than that of his absent partner. I guess this is a companion piece to an earlier story in the 42: https://42at42.wordpress.com/2014/09/23/polaris/ 

Connection (epilogue)

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Kate propped herself up one elbow and watched Jack slowly ease the bathroom door shut behind himself. “It’s alright, I’m awake.” Even through the half light of the early dawn she could see him smile. “You weren’t planning on making a quiet exit on me were you ?”

“God, no” replied Jack. “For a start I can’t remember where I left my trousers…”

“I think we were over there when…” Kate stopped and gestured vaguely at the hotel room door. She caught his gaze and then looked away, grinning shyly at the memory. He came back and lay down on top of the bed next to her, matching her head-on-elbow pose.

“Course I wasn’t planning on making a quiet exit.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly, lips brushing hers. As he was about to move away she whispered “good” and kissed him back, more forcefully, before playfully catching his bottom lip between her teeth. She stopped as she tasted the cool mint of fresh toothpaste on his breath, suddenly regretting last night’s coffee. The one they’d had afterwards as they’d joked about neither of them smoking. Stale coffee against that clean tang. She tasted bitter and that wasn’t how she wanted him to think of her; she’d surprised herself in the last few weeks that it wasn’t how she felt.

“You alright ?” asked Jack.

“Yeah, I’m fine” she said, running a finger across his chest. “Just thinking.”

“Always thinking. Thought I’d cured you of that ?”

“Oh, believe me I dissolve to a head spinning mess every time you walk into the room” sighed Kate batting her eyelids in exaggeration.

“Come on, not even a little weak at the knees ?”

“Maybe a slight tremble” acknowledged Kate with a smile. “That first time we kissed, maybe then. You remember that ?”

“A taxi rank in Huntingdon in the rain. Who’d forget that ? You took that cab from me as well…”

“Such a gentleman. Yeah, that kiss. I don’t know Jack, I don’t normally jump off trains with strange men….

“Less of the strange…”

“…with strange men and end up talking into the night before kissing them goodbye long after the last train home’s left.”

Jack leant forwards and pulled at a loose strand of her hair, easing it back behind her ear. “It was quite an unusual day, I’ll give you that. An unusual and wonderful day.”

“Thank you” she mouthed.

“So you had a slight tremble ?”

Kate groaned. “Stop fishing Jack. It was a nice kiss.” She caught the look of mock sadness on his face. “A fantastic kiss. In the Renaissance I’m sure they would have captured it in perpetuity in some grand sculpture or delicate painting.”

“Psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss” said Jack. Kate sat up in bed, laughing.

“How do you know that ?”

“I’ve been secretly researching stuff – art – to try and impress you.”

“I am impressed. I love that piece. I used to allow extra time for it on all of my tours even though most of the visitors were just shuffling their feet wanting to see the Mona Lisa or Venus De Milo”

“The one without the arms ?”

“Goodness you really have been researching.”

“I kinda knew that one anyway” said Jack sheepishly.

“I kinda hoped that you would” said Kate. “But Psyche and Cupid. I’m…” she paused. “I’m touched Jack, really, that you’d find out about that stuff.”

“Seemed important to you…”

Kate looked at him intently. “You know that story, right ? Cupid waking Psyche from her eternal sleep after she’s been tortured by Worry and Sadness and forced to endure a series of terrible trials.”

“Well that train was delayed for a long time…”

Kate rolled her eyes. “So you’ve cast yourself as Cupid – the god of desire ?”

“Seemed a decent likeness,” smirked Jack.

“I think Canova might have needed a little more stone dear,” said Kate reaching over and patting his stomach gently. “If I’d known you were going to be this cocky once we slept together I’d have kept you waiting a bit longer.”

“How long do you think it might be until next time ?”

“I don’t know,” said Kate arching an eyebrow. “Kiss me again and let’s see.”

 

……
This is the twenty first (half way !) story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. My fundraising page is here and all donations, however small, are appreciated: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/
This, as its title suggests, is a brief epilogue to a story I had published as part of an anthology of short stories called Delayed Reaction. The anthology combines stories from a group of talented writers whom I’m privileged to call friends. It’s available here: http://www.delayedreaction.org.uk – or contact me direct if you’d like to read more.

Ghosts of Hiroshima

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Katsu muttered the words of the poem under his breath as he stared at the reflection in the pooling water beneath the steps. The ghost of a woman, her body overboard laid, in the waters around. It had rained heavily last night and the city now glistened, the sun radiating back from hundreds of puddles that dotted the streets each time it found room between the clouds. He disturbed the surface of the water with his foot, just a light tap to send ripples racing towards the edges, and the reflected figure slipped from focus, breaking apart and reforming, undulating, until finally he could see only black.

He looked up at the steps themselves, at the source of the reflection. He knew that it wasn’t her. It wasn’t anyone anymore. The bomb frozen shadow etched forever into the concrete wasn’t his mother. There were no features to discern in that dark silhouette beyond a leaned-on walking stick but that wasn’t how he knew that it wasn’t her. He had no memories of his mother that weren’t borrowed from photographs but he knew she hadn’t been here because she’d been on the river. Just as she was every day after he’d been taken away.

She’d been on the Motoyasu river right before it boiled.

The ghost of a woman, her body overboard… he murmured again, turning away from the steps, and continuing on towards the bank.

……

Yuri Mori hurried down to the boat, jostling amid the throng of women making their way towards the river. It made no sense, she thought, to live in the city and take this trip every day down to the factories. Why didn’t they just move everybody down there, down towards the harbour ? Nothing made much sense to Yuri anymore.

A woman in front stumbled and fell to her knees as the crowd moved forwards. Other women pulled her to her feet. She looked down at her grey overalls now scuffed from the dust on the ground and raised her hands in mock dismay.

“My monpe. My beautiful monpe. However will I find a husband now ?”

“You are lucky Aiko,” shouted another. “Now you have an excuse to visit Fukuya Store.” There were some weary laughs from those close to the exchange and the steady procession towards the river renewed. Yuri didn’t laugh. A year ago perhaps she would have: defiant and proud bringing her son into the world and naming him for victory. She shook her head, refusing to think of him, and pushed her way towards the boat again. It must be eight o clock by now and she did not want to be punished for being late.

As the boat nosed out into the river Yuri stood at the stern, as she always did, and watched the city start to slip away. Diesel leaking in the boat’s wake refracted the light on the water into a rainbow as it caught the early morning sun.  She closed her eyes and gripped the rail, scarcely noticing as the boat sounded its horn to signal its departure; their world was full of sirens and horns and klaxons. She vaguely remembered the all clear sounding out just an hour ago as it did each morning but it scarcely registered these days; a cacophony of warning for a catastrophe that never came.

That was why they’d sent him away. They said he would be safer in the hills. It’s your duty. Japan must have men for the future and you must work for its present. It is the right thing – the honourable thing – to do. He had been barely a year old when the military police prised him from her arms, tears running freely down her face.

A distant burr pulled her back from her thoughts. She raised her head to locate the sound and picked out a lone plane in the sky. Just a speck in the distance but coming closer. As it approached the women on the boat gazed upwards at their distant visitor.

“Another one ? What do they want with us today ?” said one.

“Don’t worry Miyu. Look how far away it is. Those cowards don’t bomb us from up there anymore”. It was Aiko who spoke, her overalls still dusty at the knees from where she’d slipped over.

“Perhaps they are bringing you your new monpe Aiko” laughed another woman.

“They are taking photographs I expect” said Miyu.

“Yes” said Aiko. “Photographs of us beautiful Japanese women in our fine clothes ! Their American women are too ugly for them !” She looked up at the sky, leaning back to present her dirty monpe, and gave a broad smile. The other women laughed and joined in with Aiko’s clowning, posing for an imagined photographer’s flash.

Yuri looked up the boat, turning her eyes away from the receding city, and briefly allowed herself a smile at her fellow women. Temporary respite from thinking of her lost son, her little Katsu. She clung to the hope that the war would soon end and she could take back her child.

It was her last thought before the world turned white, the boat was thrown from the water, and she and the women were burned to ash.

……

“What’s your name child ?” asked the tall man in the long coat. He didn’t look like the others. He was American, Katsu was sure of that, but he didn’t wear a uniform like the ones he’d seen on the streets coming into the city or the ones in charge of the boat they’d taken him on.

“He can’t understand you. We only took him in today.”

“Another from the hills ?” said the tall man.

“Yes. Far as we can tell he’s been there for six or seven years. The farmer didn’t want to give him up – he told us we were taking a good worker.”

“You think he was mistreated ?”

“Perhaps. Life in the hills is hard Mr Cousins. Life in Japan is hard but we can support him here and educate him. When you go back you should tell them about Katsu – tell your friends about him and the ones like him. That is what we use the money for.”

Cousins bent down to look more closely at the boy. His face was dirty and he carried scratches and bruises; perhaps the kind of scratches and bruises any eight year old boy might wear. Perhaps. He gently pulled the boy’s face up, lifting his chin so that the Director of the orphanage might also see. He raised his eyebrows.

“The man who had him was no worse than many in the hills. Don’t judge him too harshly, he took him in, kept him even after the city was destroyed. It is difficult for outsiders to understand how it has been since the war. For some here the sense of shame in defeat has been too hard to bear and they take it out where they can.”

“Hiba…ku.. ?” started Cousins.

“Hibakusha” corrected the Director. “It means people affected by the explosion but that’s perhaps too literal. It has come to mean more than that here since the bomb. There were so many stories about radiation, so much fear. I’m afraid that survivors have faced terrible discrimination.”

“But the boy was outside of the city. Wasn’t he beyond the reach of the bomb ? Beyond the area affected by fallout ?”

“Yes but he is an orphan with no history. Or no known history at least. People are suspicious. I doubt that we will find a home for him here.”

“He has no family at all ?” asked Cousins.

“None that we can trace. The farmer says he was taken from his mother when he was very young. He was given him by the police. It happened a lot, to keep the children safe.”

“The mother ?”

“She was in the city” said the Director. “We don’t know where but she must be dead. What was it the farmer called her ?” He paused, thinking. “Yurei. Yes, that was it. Yurei.”

“Her name ?”

“No, Mr Cousins. Yurei. It is not exact but in your language it means ghost.”

……

Katsu Mori leaned on the railings and stared down into the depths of the Motoyasu, the first time he’d seen it since leaving Japan thirty years ago. What had he expected to find ? There were no answers here. He wasn’t even sure he knew what he was looking for anymore. He had spent his life dislocated since that bright August day that ended the war. Raised first in the hills surrounding the city, working farmland as soon as he was old enough to be of use, before being handed in to the orphanage on Ninoshima. It was supposed to be a temporary refuge but he’d stayed for three years, no family in his homeland willing to make him a part of them. Eventually Cousins had found him a place in America. In time his anger had faded and he’d come to be grateful. In time he’d built a new life out of the wreckage of his old one; pieced together a second family in the country that had torn his first one apart.

Light danced on the water rippling against the wall of the jetty as the sun broke cover. The river was choppy here, continually broken by passing boats. Katsu shielded his eyes, raising his hand to his forehead, as if to try to see past the shimmering surface. A cloud overhead rolled across the sun dimming the twinkling lights on the water. Katsu gazed down, his own reflection now visible, staring back at him. He thought it looked like a ghost. There was a black and white photograph of his mother in the inside pocket of his suit jacket but he didn’t need to get it out to imagine her face swimming in and out of focus on the surface of the waves. Yuri. Yurei. Ghosts were the souls of the dead that were unable to find peace. She would be glad that he lived, even as he lived with the nagging, restless displacement of those orphaned by the bomb.

A woman’s face appeared in the water next to his own, smiling up at him; a quizzical, worried smile.

“What do you see Katsu ?”

Katsu looked up from the water and turned to his wife.

“I guess I see my home Asuka. I see home.”

“We can come back. Like I’ve always said, if you want to come back here for good then that’s what we’ll do.”

Katsu smiled at his wife and shook his head. “You know how children grow up and, when it is time, when they are ready, they leave home ? I see my home here Asuka but I am ready to leave it now,” said Katsu before whispering “the ghost of a woman, her body overboard laid, in the waters around…”

“What’s that ?” asked Asuka, tilting her head to look at her husband, concern in her eyes.

“Just a poem they made me learn in school,” answered Katsu. “It always stayed with me. I wanted to see where she finally laid.” He looked out over the Motoyasu and tried to imagine his mother’s last moments. A woman he didn’t know, had never really known. Just one victim in thousands. Silently he vowed to take back what little he knew of her story, of all their stories, and keep them alive in the years to come. The ghosts should haunt us all, he thought.

Asuka placed a hand on his shoulder and, together, they looked back down at the river, back down at their own reflected, ghostly faces. A plane taking off from Hiroshima airport climbed above them and they watched its silhouette in the water before the sun reemerged and it disappeared in a dazzle of lights on the waves.

……

This is the twentieth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. This one was also specifically written to mark the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/