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The Faceless

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Don’t fall behind. Don’t stop.

The snow is everywhere, in piles around our feet, stinging our faces in the wind, and seeping through clothes, through skin, through bone. The cold is the only thing we are certain of now, infinite in time and place; we have no memory of not being cold and no sense that there is anywhere it does not reach. Walking in that snow, in that impenetrable cold, is the hardest thing any of us have ever done. Don’t fall behind. Don’t stop.

The rules are simple. Walk and live. Fall behind and die. They pursue. So we don’t stop. Even if our living has become mechanical, functional – left foot, right foot, left foot – it is all we have and so it is all we do. We are not sure if we still feel, soaked in frost and numb to our core, but we maintain the trudge through some unconscious autonomic impulse. The impulse to live. Don’t fall behind. Don’t stop.

The longer we walk the thicker the snow drifts and the more numb we become, the fire in our heart that kept the chill at bay dying to embers. Our steps slow until movement is almost imperceptible; the weight of snow on our boots too heavy to lift. It would be easier to stop, to lay back in the freezing embrace of the white blankets that surround us, close our eyes, and be swallowed. But there is some heat yet in the ashes. Some flicker that we once remembered as hope. Don’t fall behind. Don’t stop.

We are lost now. Our eyes blinking against driving, whirling flurries of sleet and powder, tears long frozen clinging to our cheeks. There is nothing to see beyond white oblivion: we don’t know where we are. We don’t know how we got here or how we might reach somewhere that’s not here, just that we must put one foot down in front of the other and walk. We walk not to find our way out: we walk because to stop signals defeat. They pursue. Don’t fall behind. Don’t stop.

We walk to escape. We don’t stop because they are relentless. The faceless stalk us.

The faceless do not weep for they lack eyes with which to cry. The faceless do not speak for they lack mouths with which to talk. The faceless do not hear for they lack ears with which to listen.

No tears. No voice. No sound. But they know. They know, they mourn, and they pursue. And their mourning will only know peace through their vengeance on us. Us that see and shed tears. Us that shout and laugh. Us that hear so much. So much and yet not enough.

The faceless tread soft, as silent in their coming as the over night frost, as the snow ‘neath our feet. We do not hear them; as they do not hear us. But they do not rely on such things. They know. They mourn. They pursue. And their vengeance will be without mercy.

……

This is the eleventh story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. This one is a slightly abstract attempt to express how depression feels to me. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Anti social media

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He always was predictable. Same password. Same status updates: look at me doing things with the kids, look at me doing things with her. The kids and her. There they all were grinning furiously back out from Facebook, yesterday from the oh-it’s-just-perfect hotel and today from the beach. Spain. Just like we used to. Predictable.

Forty three people like this photo. Forty fucking three. Half of them were supposed to be our friends: Caroline, we don’t want to choose sides and we really want to stay friends with both of you. Well, you chose. You, Emily Richardson, bridesmaid at our wedding: you chose liking their photos. You, Steve Jenkins, oldest friend from college: you chose commenting on their status. Hotel looks fab, have a great time guys. You, Julie Smithson, NCT partner in crime: you chose setting up the girl’s meet and greet coffee morning for all the yummy mummy’s for Year One. Chose it and invited her. Not me. Her. You all chose. You all chose predictable him and little miss I never meant for this to happen but you can’t help who you fall in love with. Fuck you all.

The key was under a plant pot near the front door. That hadn’t changed. Predictable Sam and his predictable safety mechanisms. In case I ever get locked out ! Like Sam had ever been locked out in his life. Sam could barely leave the house without triple checking his wallet and keys. Sam kept spare change in the little compartment in his car – the one specifically for spare change, the one everyone else stuffed with sweets or ignored – for parking emergencies. Sam had never been caught out in his plodding and predictable life. Straight, safe, missionary position, book before bedtime Sam.

Slipping silently inside the house was all familiar. They put so many pictures of it up on Facebook that it was easy to imagine living there. Easy to imagine but not practical in reality: not now that bitch had staked it out as territory. Behind the front door was the porch where they all line up their shoes, four pairs, biggest to smallest. That photo had topped fifty likes. His large, sensible leather work shoes – black, plain, laces – down to Mia’s tiny velcro strapped pink Lelli Kellys. They’d brought coos of delight and admiration in the comments bar under the photo. So cute ! Adorable ! Such great taste – just like her mum ! Just like her mum. Her “mum” who’d lined them up, photographed them, and pasted them out to the world on social media. Not her mum who’d bought them. Her actual mum. Her Monday to Thursday and every other weekend mum.

The hall was replete with a large picture of them all. The new family. Professionally taken, staged against a white background. Happy smiles as the photographer had shouted sausages or bottom or visitation rights or whatever the hell they shouted now. Adjacent to the picture hung a large framed sign spelling out what this new family was all about. This had garnered another fifty likes when it had been recycled onto the world wide web. This family does love. This family respects each other and treats everyone as an individual. We laugh. We cry. We look after each other. On and on with the empty platitudes. This family did deceit and divorce and lawyers and bitterness and rancour. This family does revenge.

Up the stairs it was less familiar. A private space not usually revealed and shared. No sense dwelling on the kid’s bedrooms. Clothes and toys picked out by real mum, displaced and folded away by the imposter. Certificates from school that they insisted on pinning up in their bedroom at home. This home. Not their other, smaller, Monday to Thursday and every other weekend home.

And then their room. Immaculate, of course. All pastels and cushions. Soft furnishings arranged in hard, clinical lines. A kingsize bed and matching bedside cabinets reflected back in the mirrored built in wardrobes that rolled back to reveal dress upon dress upon dress. Size eight. Of course she was a fucking eight. There was that Ted Baker dress (thirty six likes: wow, you go girl, stunning, gorgeous) from Sam’s 40th and the charity shop number that looked like a Vera Wang (forty likes: so stylish, charity chic, you have such a good eye) and the wedding dress. The wedding dress. Who keeps their wedding dress in the wardrobe ? Pulled out and flung on the bed it looked almost exactly the same as it looked on the day. In the photos at least. The ones with the kids – not the bride’s kids – just tucked in behind it, holding the train. The oh-so-fucking-cute one of Mia peeking out from directly under the train (over one hundred likes).

Pulling open his drawers was predictable. Same M&S underwear. Pairs and pairs of black socks, neatly tucked inside each other. Folded white handkerchiefs. The top drawer by the bed held two packets of condoms, one unopened, the other barely begun. Same brand they’d used. Her drawers though were a surprise. Tiny, flimsy knickers. Bitch has probably got a pelvic floor like a steel trap. Vagina like a vice. Nothing you’d wear after having kids. Nothing you’d wear past 40. It’s all coming for you darling, you don’t know it yet but it’s all coming. Then buried beneath the piles of lacy nothingness, a long, smooth vibrator. Somewhere he’d never find it. Somewhere he’d never go. So we have that in common at least.

The wedding dress cut easily. A pair of nail scissors retrieved from the en suite (our house has four bathrooms… fifty six likes the day after they’d moved in) and its simple, slim lines and discrete, classy detailing was hacked apart in a couple of minutes. Would have taken longer if it was a bit bigger. Size fucking eight. That was the first photo uploaded to his wall. Riches to rags its caption. Change your password you predictable, betraying idiot.

The vibrator took a while to break in half. Smashed again and again and again on the side of her dressing table until it cracked and split. That was photo number two. The fractured remnants atop his unopened packet of condoms and a pair of her flimsiest, laciest underwear. This one also deserved a caption: broken him in yet ?

And finally, two words smeared across her dressing table mirror in the boldest, reddest lipstick she could find rummaging through unfamiliar and expensive brands of make up. Not yours.

As they appeared on his status feed she silently pressed delete on the pictures held on her phone before leaving the way she’d come in: through the front door, replacing the key under the plant pot. Of course they’d know. He was predictable but not stupid. She wanted them to know. But they’d never prove it.

One last check of the phone, the three photographic acts of vengeance staring back out from Facebook. No likes.

……

This is the tenth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. They aren’t usually as nasty as this. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

A Case Of You

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We lay on our backs, on her bed downstairs in her upside down house. Flush. Silent. Smiling. She was resting her head in the crook of her arm, thrown back behind her. Gently she pushed herself up onto her elbow, resting her cheek in her hand to face towards me.

“First lines” she said.

I looked at her and leant over to push a strand of hair back from her face. “I was hoping for a better reaction than that to be honest”.

“Stop fishing” she grinned. “I wouldn’t be asking about first lines if I wasn’t happy about that.” It hung there a moment. “A little longer might have been nice…” She started to laugh and I pulled the pillow from behind her and half heartedly caught her round the head with it. I relented as she protested, through stifled laughter, that she was just teasing.

“First lines” she tried again. “Lyrics. First line of a song and the other person has to guess.”

“Really ?”

“It’s a good way to get to know someone” she said. “If you want this to all happen again then indulge me.”

“Okay, let me think.”

“Come on, come on, don’t think too hard about it.”

“Alright, how about ‘I never thought that it would happen with me and the girl from Clapham’ ?”

“Too easy. You can’t have that. Besides I’m from Brighton and easily jealous.”

I let my head fall back into the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She started to impatiently drum her fingers on the duvet.

“And this I know… his teeth as white as snow.” I said it to the ceiling and then rolled over to face her, smiling. “You must know that.”

She started repeating it, furrowing her brow. “Ah man, I do know that” she said. I watched her struggle to recall it, letting my eyes follow the line of her neck down to an exposed shoulder. There hadn’t been much time to look the night before. She felt my eyes on her and caught my gaze, eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“Are we playing my game or checking each other out ?” she asked, the hint of a smile.

“I thought we were doing both” I replied.

“Ha ! A clever one. Always beware the clever ones” she laughed. I watched her mouth twist and dance as she moved through expressions of curiosity, amusement, and mock outrage before leaning in to kiss her. She responded and then pulled away. “Okay, so not just a clever one. That I also remember from last night.”

We looked at each other for a minute, both lost in our own thoughts, before I broke the silence. I started to sound out the repeating, circular bass line from the song that I’d asked her to guess. Round and round, over and over. “And this I know… his teeth as white as snow…”. She clutched at her head.

“This is infuriating. I know it. I bloody know it.”

“Hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul, let’s have a ball…” I sang quietly.

“The Pixies. It’s The Pixies” she shouted. “Gigantic. Really ?” She raised both eyebrows this time, a kind of bemused admonishment.

“You know what that song’s about, right ?” I asked, grinning.

“Stop leering” she said. “I believe that song’s about a ‘big, big love’. Don’t kid yourself mister.” I started singing the chorus softly – “gigantic, gigantic, a big big love” – only to hear her join in besides me, mockingly singing “average, average, a mid sized love”.

“Alright, alright, stop” I protested. “I have very fragile self esteem.”

“Yeah, of course you do” she said.

“Besides, it’s Pixies. Not The Pixies. Just Pixies.”

“Like I said” she groaned. “A clever one.”

I stared at her again as we lay on our sides, the duvet tracing the rise of her hip and curve of her waist. “You checking me out again ?” she asked softly.

“Maybe” I conceded. “I was wondering what yours would be ?

“Mine ?”

“First line. It’s only fair. I’ve given you two. What’s yours ?”. She looked away and, for the first time, she seemed uncertain. Eventually she looked back at me and replied.

“Here goes then. Mine’s always the same when I play this game. You ready ?” I nodded. “Just before our love got lost you said ‘I am as constant as a northern star’…” She paused.

“Constant in the darkness ? Where’s that at ?” I finished. There was a sharp, surprised intake of breath. People’s jaws don’t really fall open but surprise registered on her face. Surprise and something else; a cautious, tentative delight.

“You know that ?” she said.

“Joni ? Are you kidding ? Of course I know Joni. We’ve all had our heart broken, right ?” Again she looked away, let her eyes roam the room as if searching for the right reply, as if she’d pinned it up somewhere in preparation for this. Without making eye contact she finally said:

“Too many times.” Again, more quietly. “Too many times.”

I reached over and took her hand, tugged it gently so that she’d turn and face me again, waited until she did. “Maybe not this time, eh ?” I said.

“I barely know you” she said with a sigh. “There have been a few I’ve barely known. But, after, there’s always Joni.”

“Well Joni’s my go to heartbreak record too” I said. “So we’ve got a problem.”

“How’d you figure ?”

“If this doesn’t work we can’t both sit around, separate, listening to the same song. Knowing the other person’s listening to it. That song’s for me when I break up with someone.”

“No, no, no. It’s for me”

“Exactly. You see the dilemma.”

“So why don’t we share her ?” She asked it lightly, passing it off as a throwaway question.

“I’d like that.” I said. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

She leaned over and kissed me before whispering. “A case of you. I really, really love that song. I better still be on my feet mister.”

“You will be” I whispered back.

……

This is the ninth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Thawed

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Amid the uniform ranks of grey and black there was the odd splash of colour; a purple tie, rainbow striped socks, shirts in a palette of pastels. Otherwise the main shade in the room was red: pages and pages of red numbers silently sounding the alarm on a failing business. Sat at the Board table Matt was regretting his choice of tie; it had been part of his resolution to be more assertive this year. Blood red, bold, confident. It mockingly reflected back the sea of negative numbers on the sales sheet in front of him. It drew the eye. Today was not a day to draw the eye.

Tom Jones, Managing Director of Jones Toys, swept into the room. He didn’t find jokes about his name remotely funny and his colleagues (he preferred “staff” but HR had told him that colleagues sounded more like he cared) had long since stopped making them. New starters were often told, by way of some twisted induction, that he found his name hilarious and should reference it to curry favour with him. Matt had fallen foul of this when he’d first been introduced to his new boss: “Tom Jones ? I guess it’s not unusual where you’re from – the green, green grass of home ?” All compounded with a cheery wink. They had enjoyed a frosty relationship ever since. Still, it could have been worse. That guy that had sung “Delilah” as his karaoke song at last year’s Christmas party was never heard from again. Decided to take early retirement said the official memo. He was only 45.

Jones sat down at the head of the table, papers neatly arranged in front of him. On the wall behind him was a large sign bearing the company logo and mission statement: Jones Toys – Having Fun Is A Serious Business. Matt felt bothered, as he did every week, by the lack of apostrophe, the Jones family were many and they owned Jones Toys. The new Marketing Director had decided that apostrophes didn’t fit into their fresh brand fundamentals: “remember to always emphasise the fun in fundamental”. Apostrophes weren’t fun. They were something kids hated to learn and adults had given up on. They had commissioned market research and it was conclusive: grammar was out and fun was in. The research agency had even headed the executive summary slide in their debrief deck “your right: customers dont get apostrophes” as their idea of getting the message across. The Marketing Director had printed it off and had it framed in his office.

Matt snapped out of his punctuation inspired reverie as Jones opened the meeting by bringing both fists hard down on the table in front of him.

“What the fuck is this ?” he demanded gesturing at the paper in front of him. “What have you bunch of moronic shits done to my business ?”

The HR Director, sat at the furthest remove from her incandescent boss, looked slightly askance. The company values were very precise on inappropriate anger and language and they were also explicit on Jones Toys not having a blame culture.

“Which of you fucking idiots is to blame for this ?” continued Jones. He glared around the room daring somebody to meet his gaze. All eyes suddenly became immersed in the detailed sales numbers in front of them; everyone shrinking back into their chairs. As Matt looked down he realised that his tie had managed to drape itself on to the table as he’d sat down: a look-at-me streak of red that ran from his trading figures straight up to his jugular. Reflexively he moved his hands to adjust it. As his brain caught up he reconsidered but, in that moment of indecision, merely succeeded in waving it around slightly before letting it drop back to the table. Jones zeroed in.

“Matt, yes. You can kick us off. Girls’ Toys. Missed forecast by nine hundred and eighty thousand pounds. A million fucking quid. Please explain.”

The other Trading Directors round the table visibly relaxed. Matt looked vainly at them for any sign of support but none was forthcoming. The whole table scented blood now: better it was his than theirs. Doug, the video games director, was looking particularly smug as he had the only set of positive numbers in the room. Matt knew, they all knew, that anyone could have sold video games that Christmas – two new consoles and little Jacks and Jills up and down the land choosing technology over toys – but that wouldn’t cut any ice with Jones. Last year Matt had worn that same expression as Doug. The Furby Christmas they’d called it. The Marketing Director had put one on his desk. Matt had taken a punt on the freakish furry monstrosities and they’d flown off the shelves. He’d been elevated to the pantheon of retail gods, up there with Jim “Pokemon” Donaldson who’d hit pay dirt on a chance supplier visit to Japan a few years ago. This year he had a warehouse full of the hateful creatures and the Marketing Director had given him the one from his desk back.

Frozen. It was all sodding Frozen. Anna and Elsa and that annoying snowman and those men that no one could remember. How could he have missed it ? Everyone else had it. He’d been chasing stock for weeks but Disney were being difficult: “you didn’t want to talk to us in July Matt… we have to prioritise some of our more loyal retailers”. How was he supposed to know that girls were going to go berserk for some emotionally repressed singing Princess with ice powers ? When he had finally secured some stock via a distributor – 10,000 snow globe Elsas, 15,000 Olaf dolls and 25,000 action figure Annas (no one seemed to want Anna) – the container ship that had been bringing them back from China had been hit by a typhoon. 50,000 pieces of Frozen merchandise were bobbing up and down somewhere just outside the Bay of Bengal.

Matt mentally prepared to make his stand. Talk about the margin rate being strong and the excellent stock position on Furby (sure to be in demand again soon). Don’t talk about Frozen. Take the barrage and it would be over. As he looked up from the table he caught sight of the sky outside, darkening in the windows opposite him. It was snowing. He wasn’t the only one that had noticed.

“Hey Matt” smirked Doug. “Do you want to build a snowman ?”. There were a few suppressed laughs. Jones didn’t laugh and, after momentarily glaring at Doug, fixed his baleful stare back on Matt.

“When you explain this million quid shortfall be sure to tell us exactly how much of that was because you failed to react to the biggest children’s movie of the last ten years.” He jabbed an accusatory finger. “Don’t you read the trade press ? Or watch the news ? Don’t you have fucking kids ?”

Matt finally met his gaze. He thought about the twins, both of whom would have been able to sing him every line from every song from Frozen. He thought about missing the three times they’d seen it at the cinema because he’d been late working. He thought about missing their nativity play. Again. He thought about wrapping them up a surplus Furby late on Christmas Eve as he’d been too busy to pick anything else up before that. Fortunately his wife had secured both Elsa and Anna dolls for both of them. Not from Jones Toys. He thought about the riotous joy with which they played with their toys and the contrast to the soul sapping process of buying them for a living. Having fun is a serious business, especially if you’re a kid. It was time, he realised ruefully, to let it go.

Pushing his chair back from the table Matt stood up, nodded his head briefly towards Tom Jones and made for the door. “I can’t explain Tom so I’m going to spend some more time with some people that can. Perhaps we will build that snowman after all.” This he directed at Doug.

Jones looked furious but oddly impotent to Matt in that moment. “If you walk out then don’t fucking come back” he spluttered. Matt nodded. “And you’ve left your suit jacket on the chair. Can’t even walk out on your own job properly.”

“I’ll leave it thanks. The cold never bothered me anyway, right Doug ?” Unable to resist he added finally to Jones “why don’t you take it Tom – just help yourself” before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

……

This is the eighth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. You know it’s what Anna and Elsa would do: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Terroir

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Rose sat outside the farmhouse, resting in the warmth of the afternoon sun, a glass of wine her solitary companion on the small, wooden table in front of her. She usually spent the late afternoon here. It gave her a clear view up the unmade road that led from the front gates up to the side of the house and barn. The storms last winter had broken up the rough gravel track but there were more pressing things to fix around the property. It had been a never ending list since she’d taken on the farm and vineyard. Besides, the state of the road meant visitors had to approach very slowly and she appreciated that.

Rose had arrived, alone, in Lauzertes four years ago, driving down to South West France in her battered Volvo, the remnants of her previous life packed up in the boot and across the back seats. She had a few leads, potential places to live that she’d found online, but had known the first time she saw Tuq Del Bouys that she’d discovered the right home. Remote, peaceful, quiet. A vineyard with room to grow. They’d described it as rustic but ramshackle was closer to the mark. She didn’t care. There was no hurry. It was a place you could get lost from the world.

She took a sip from the glass in front of her. Her first year’s vintage. On the tongue it was pleasant enough but left a slight but distinct aftertaste. Bitter. She’d always been amused by that.

The scrape of the gates to the main road disturbed the quiet and Rose looked up to see a figure getting back in to a Renault – always Renaults – and starting back up their car. As it cautiously picked its way up the gravel track towards her she had time to make out that it was Stephan – Monsieur Gillot to his customers. He owned a shop over near to Moutauban, almost an hour away. He’d been trying to sell her wine for the past few months and had become a persistent, regular visitor. Rose disliked regular visitors.

“Bonjour Monsieur Gillot” she called towards the car, its door opening.

“Please Rose, like I have said before, call me Stephan” he said walking over towards her. “And no need for French.”

“I need the practice Stephan” she laughed. “Je suis encore très mauvais dans votre langue”

“No, no” he smiled back. “Really, you are not”. Rose could scarcely fail to notice the insincerity in his face. In truth she had made very little effort to learn French in her time here, managing by having as little interaction with anyone as possible. “I like to practice my English. Please ?”

“Okay Stephan, you win. At least let me offer you a drink ?”

Stephan took this as his cue to take a seat beside her. Rose briefly excused herself to disappear inside the farmhouse to find another glass. He would want to taste some of her wines again so she pulled out bottles from each of the years she’d been in residence.

“I hope we can perhaps talk about some business ?” called Stephan from outside.

“Just a moment” she shouted. Trying to gather up four bottles, two in each hand, Rose realised she would struggle to take a glass out at the same time. She tried to balance one of the bottles back up on a work surface but managed to let it slip from her fingers; it smashed on the floor, blood red wine seeping across her flagstones, flecked with fragments of glass.

“Everything okay ?” called a concerned sounding Stephan. Rose picked up the biggest piece of the broken glass, the neck still had about half of the bottle attached to it, its jagged edges now dripping with her plum coloured vintage from last year.

“I’m fine” she called back. “Small accident. Just coming Stephan”. She decided to leave the remnants, put the broken neck of the bottle back on the work surface and took everything else out to her expectant guest. Smiling she poured Stephan a glass from a bottle produced in her second year.

“Sante” he proclaimed, tipping his glass towards her.

“Cheers” she smiled back. Stephan drank deeply from his glass, no sniffing, no sipping, a hearty gulp.

“It is good” he declared. “Tell me again Rose. What is this one ?”

“Year two” she said. “I call it ‘Tourneville’, you can see the grapes just over there.” She gestured towards part of the vineyard across from where they were sitting.

“Tourneville ?” said Stephan. “There was a gendarme in the town of that name, wasn’t there ?”

“Yes” said Rose. “Yes there was. Such a loss. This is just my small tribute really.”

Stephan took another swig. “Well, it is certainly good. A big improvement on your first year if I remember rightly.”

Rose laughed. “Yes, a big improvement on Smithson.” She caught his inquisitive look. “My husband’s name, well my married name too. I have, of course, taken to using my maiden name again.”

“Another tribute ?”

“More a remembrance” said Rose. “Poor old James wasn’t alive when I made the trip down here.”

“Such a shame” said Stephan. “If you don’t mind me asking Rose, how have you developed the terroir here so well ? Each year, subtle notes and differences in your wine. Our climate has been so good each year but the same. You must be a magician with the soil.”

“I’m sure it’s just luck” smiled Rose. She stared at Stephan intently. Why must they all be so interested in her ? “You mentioned business ?”

“I would love to stock some of your wine in my shop” said Stephan. “I know people were a little suspicious at first – who is this English woman thinking she can make French wine – but it is so good. It will sell.”

Rose sighed. “I’m not sure Stephan. We discussed this before. I like things quiet here.”

“I will not take no for an answer” he declared, folding his arms in mock defiance. Rose stared at him again. So many questions. So many visits. “Okay” she responded, rising from her seat. “Let me fetch you some bottles.”

She was gone for a few minutes. Stephan called out questions about years three and four: ‘Durand’ and ‘Fournier’. Just local names she’d heard and liked she shouted back. An effort to get to know the community. She walked back out of the farmhouse and Stephan looked up at her expectantly.

“So, Rose, how many have you for me ?” he asked.

“Just one Stephan” she responded suddenly bringing the broken bottle up hard and sharp beneath his chin, the glass embedding itself in his throat. Blood flowed from his jugular, neatly funneling back down the bottle and began to pour from the uncorked neck.

Year five. The climate might worsen next year so her grapes might need strength. Persistence. ‘Gillot’ would give the soil persistence.

……

This is the seventh story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Dawn Of The Dead

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They waited in a corridor, sitting on one of five small metal chairs arranged along the wall facing a door. “Working Title” was printed on a piece of paper stuck to the wall next to the door.

Three of the seats were occupied, a young woman and older man with heavily disfigured faces and dressed in rags were sitting together talking at one end of the row whilst another woman perched at the other. Cautiously, curiously, she stole glances towards her fellow auditionees until she couldn’t wait any longer.

“Sorry to interrupt but they didn’t tell me we were supposed to come already made up.”

There was a delicate pause.

“It’s not make up.”

Blushing she turned away and concentrated hard on staring at the door opposite. The other two resumed their conversation.

“I was in Shaun Of The Dead” said the man, simultaneously nodding towards the woman that had interrupted them with disapprovingly raised eyebrows. Or one eyebrow at least. The other was missing along with its eye.

“Really ? What was the part ?” asked his companion.

“Zombie 63. Talk about being typecast. I was in that scene near the end when we all tried to get in the pub.”

“Much work since then ?”

He gave out a sigh, shaking his head. “Bits and pieces. Episode of Casualty when they needed some accident victims. Obviously I still get a bit of live work round Halloween but it’s been tough. I knew times were changing when I worked on Shaun to be honest.”

“How so ?” The woman leaned across more closely in concern.

“Well, a few of the extras were chatting between takes, you know, like you usually do. Turns out guy next to me was Chris Martin.”

“Chris Martin ? Singer with Coldplay Chris Martin ?”

“The very same. He was a nice enough guy – made a few jokes that he wrote “Yellow” about his experiences of zombiefication. Yeah, like he’d know. He was just there because he’s mates with Simon Pegg or something but it wasn’t right. One of us could have had that part. That was when it all changed for me.”

He looked down at the floor before taking a deep breath. “Sorry, where are my manners ? Here I am moaning away and I haven’t even introduced myself properly”. He extended a hand, two fingers bare of flesh. “George, pleased to meet you.”

She shook it – neither gripped hard just in case anything else fell off. “Dawn” she said with a smile. “You missed out on much since then ?”

“God yeah” he nodded. “I was up to do the motion capture for some video game, ‘The Last Of Us’ it was called. Usual post apocalypse, everyone’s turned into zombies sort of thing. They needed someone with a really good slow, shuffling gait. Bit of a stoop. You know the drill.”

“You’d be perfect for that” she encouraged.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you ? Overlooked me for a human.”

“A human with a stooping, shuffling gait ?”

“No, he was six foot, back as straight as an ironing board. It was embarrassing watching him hunch himself over and act it out.”

“What about other work ?”

“Well, the zombie stuff isn’t really what I wanted to do. Just seemed easiest, you know, what with actually being a zombie. After those parts started getting taken by humans I thought maybe I could audition for some human roles.”

“Sure, why not. Don’t blame you if they’re taking the stuff that’s natural for you.”

“That’s what I thought. Before I turned…”

Dawn stopped him. “Out of interest – bitten ?”

“Yeah, bitten. Woman in a club. I’d had a few drinks. Thought she looked a bit rough but didn’t realise she was undead until it was too late. Anyway, before I turned I’d always wanted to do Shakespeare. Marlowe. Serious stuff.”

“Any luck ?”

“The closest I got was Richard The Third.”

“I that am stunted and deformed ?”

“Afraid so. I sort of hated myself for it, felt like I was playing to the stereotype I guess, but it was the obvious way in.”

“What happened ?”

“I think they were ready to offer me it but we tried a dress rehearsal with the full regal get up and the crown and, unfortunately, my ear had disintegrated the previous week and it just wouldn’t stay on my head. Gave it to some bloke off the tele. Think it was that one that was in Doctor Who.”

“David Tennant ?”

“That’s him. His accent was dreadful. I remember thinking that it’s not okay for Richard The Third to have some minor putrefaction around his ear but he can be Scottish.”

“Surely there’s something we can do about this ?” demanded Dawn.

“I can’t see it getting better. Too much prejudice around getting a human role, not to mention everyone getting twitchy about being bitten – as if we’re just going to start taking chunks out of them…”

“Well… it does happen sometimes…” mused Dawn. The other woman, who had sat rigid since her earlier interruption, coughed an excuse and walked rapidly away down the corridor.

“Okay, sometimes” acknowledged George. “But it’s not like we’re mindless. You know what ? The best chance for work now I reckon is if bits of you start falling off.”

Dawn looked at George quizzically.

“Think about it” said George. “They always need a selection of zombies for the big scenes and they like a bit of variety amongst their undead. Some with distended flesh, some with bandages – the humans can do that with make up.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But they always like a couple with limbs missing so I reckon if I could lose a leg or something then I’d get much more work”.

Dawn looked skeptical. “Seems a bit radical George. Any of your limbs close to coming off ?”

George smirked and rolled up his sleeve. Just below the elbow his flesh had rotted away to the bone and his lower arm had a distinct dangling quality about it. At that moment the audition room door swung open and a head briefly appeared, called out “George Moorer !” and then disappeared again.

“You’re up – good luck” said Dawn. “Which part you after anyway ?”

“Miscellaneous Zombie” said George standing up. “Not sure I’ll get it, loads of humans have been in before you arrived. Some of them will have been after the lead though – some guy that starts hacking up the zombies with a chainsaw or some such nonsense. Anyway, great to meet you.” He extended his arm again. Dawn half got up to shake his hand, grabbing at it a little too enthusiastically.

“Knock ‘em dead” she said. “Or, you know, knock ‘em undead !”. George turned towards the door but Dawn still had hold of his hand. There was a brief tearing noise and she was left standing there clutching his lower, right arm as the rest of him walked towards the door.

“Er… Sorry, George” she called. He turned back and looked down at his misplaced appendage. “I think you left this…” she offered apologetically.

George smiled and gently took back his missing part.

“Chainsaw, remember ?” he winked. “I think I know just the piece to nail this audition.” He coughed, solemnly holding up his severed limb so that the fingers, beginning to mortify, pointed directly at Dawn.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question-

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms – or an arm at least – against a sea of troubles

And by opposing, end them”

With a dramatic flourish he bowed to Dawn, turned on his heel, and swept into the audition room.

 

……

This is the sixth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…) or if you’re a zombie (or if you’re not). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Flotsam Jetsam

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She walked the tide line along the beach, a neat procession of footprints marking her presence until, every ten strides or so, the sea dissolved them back to sand behind her. The tide was coming in and each wave bit a little higher up the beach than the last. She was aware of the water, which had been barely touching her feet before, now washing over them, nipping and tugging at her.

She paused to feel the slap of a wave against her ankle, a nudge to the the shore, and then the rapid undertow, the sea sucking at her feet as if to pull her out. Maybe ten strides in land and she would be above high tide, ten strides the other way, into a cold, salty embrace, and she would be gone.

She stared back down the empty beach, catching her dark hair up in a one handed ponytail to keep it from her eyes. Her footprints were all gone; there was no trace of her passing. Half a mile back up the sand, back where she’d left the car, a single line of prints led down to the sea and then disappeared. That was where she’d kicked off her shoes into the swell before tipping her handbag upside down, emptying its contents into the sea, watching as lipstick and credit cards and keys and cash had bobbed away. Then the bag itself, flung underarm to sit proudly atop a wave before it too was swallowed.

The photo was the only thing she’d kept hold of. She held it now to take one last look, clutched in both hands, letting her hair fall again down her back, strands whipping around her head. It was her face staring back up at her from the picture. Hers and his. Tightly together, fierce grins beneath young, unlined eyes. Her dark hair, as now, wild and tangled, but then from the night before; the warmth of their bed rather the cold of the wind. His hair was a mess too. Bedheads. That’s what he’d always called that photo. Mr and Mrs Bedhead taken the day after they had agreed to share a name. Tears streaked her face now as she stared at his frozen smile and his mess of brown hair. She wanted to fix this memory of him in her head, have it be the one she would carry in her heart instead of the recent ones. The ones after all that untidy mass of tangles fell out. The ones where everything became clinically tidy; smooth scalps, blue gowns, and white hospital walls.

She kissed the picture once, held it up between her thumb and forefinger to watch it fold and catch in the wind. Then it was gone, the two of them tumbling free over and over in the air before landing on the water’s surface. The last voyage of Mr and Mrs Bedhead. Now she was nameless again.

A sudden swell rolled up the beach and splashed against the bottom of her trousers. The tide was still rising. The girl with no name gazed out at the horizon, at the blue grey featureless expanse of the sea, and wiped hair and tears from her eyes. She wondered how far she could swim before her arms and legs became as weary as her heart. As the last wave retreated, pulling at her feet, she felt something wrap around her ankle. As she looked down it peeled itself free and floated away but, for a moment, she saw herself smiling up from the sea. Herself and then him. And then they were both finally gone, disappearing into the depths.

The girl with no name turned and walked back up the beach, a steady line of footprints emerging from the sea, marking her reappearance on land. The wind grabbed at her hair and she let if hang free, blowing and tangling itself into a wild, glorious, and alive mess.

 

……

This is the fifth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Cellar door

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Mark had run to catch up with the others, held back by Hobson over some minor imperfection in his trigonometry workings. He didn’t want to miss his bus and, more importantly, she might be at the stop. He definitely didn’t want to miss that. He slowed to the rest of the group’s walking pace as he came up behind them.

“That’s what she said, I’m not making it up.” It was Cooks – Jason Cooks but just Cooks to his friends – spreading his arms in sincerity.

“Seriously ? It’s that easy ?” said one of the others.

“What ? What are you talking about ?” asked Mark, still slightly out of breath.

“Cooksey’s sister. Apparently they’ve been doing something in English that’s got the ladies of St Benedict’s all excited.” This was Johnson – David to his Mum but Johnson in present company. St Benedict’s was the local girl’s school: a place that was equal parts magical, mysterious, and terrifying for Mark’s friends

“So ? I don’t get it ?”

“Exactly, you don’t and never have. But this just might mean that one day you do.” The others laughed. Mark continued to look confused.

“I mean that they get really – really – excited”. Johnson raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Mark shrugged. “Jesus, Marky boy, I mean more excited than when they had that supply teacher who’d done that modeling for Topman.”

“Ah, right…” a kind of comprehension dawned on Mark’s face. “So what’s got them all worked up then ?”

“Phono something” started Johnson. “Phono… what was it again Cooksey ?”

“Phonoaesthetics” declared Cooks, looking pleased that he’d remembered it. “They do it for A level but the 5th formers won’t know about it yet”. On this point he looked particularly pleased.

“Yeah but what is it ?”

“From what she told me it’s something to do with the sound of words” said Cooks. “But the important bit is that some words, apparently, sound so beautiful that they’re almost hypnotic. Especially when you’re, you know…”

“You know what ?” said Mark.

“When you’re chatting to girls” said Cooks. “I’m telling you, like I told the others, it’s what she said. She reckons some of the girls were practically in a trance when they heard them”.

“What words then ?” asked Mark. “The only sound I can hear right now is the sound of bullshit”.

“What do you mean ?” said Cooks defensively.

“What words give you these Jedi powers over girls ?”

“Well not Jedi for a start mate. Don’t start talking about Star Wars. No wonder you never get anywhere.”

“No, no, I know that.” Mark looked away, less sure again. “But come on then, let me in on it. What words ?”

Cooks smirked, his authority restored. “She gave me one phrase that I think sounds pretty good.” He paused until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention. “Cellar door…”. It hung there whilst everyone contemplated it.

“Selador ? What does that even mean ?” asked Johnson.

“Cellar door.” corrected Cooks. “You know, the door to a cellar.”

Everyone stopped and looked at Cooks. His great reveal was met with a mixture of derision and disbelief. “I know, I know” he said, trying to pacify them. “It sounds ridiculous but it’s true. This phonoaesthetics isn’t about what the words mean, just what they sound like.”

“Phono arse pathetic more like” said Johnson.

“Don’t believe it if you don’t want to” protested Cooks. “It works though. I’m definitely going to try it.” He suddenly looked conspiratorially at Mark. “Maybe I’ll use it at my sister’s party at the weekend. She knows that Caroline Jenkins. I bet she’s coming. She’s in the 5th year so she won’t know about it yet.”

“Don’t do that Cooksey” said Mark. “You know I like her.”

“Well do something about it then. I can’t have this secret weapon and not use it now, can I ?”

“I will, I will” said Mark.

“Ask her now or I’m using cellar door on her” said Cooks abruptly. The others were interested now, waiting to see what Mark would do. “I’m giving you first go Mark – you can even use the killer phrase if you want.”

Mark took a deep breath in and rubbed nervously at the back of his head. “Alright” he declared. “Alright. I’ll do it. I’m going now.”

They’d all started walking again and as they approached the bus stop a group of girls, uniforms emblazoned with the crest of St Benedict’s, noticed them and began whispering to each other. One of them turned from her friends and acknowledged the boys.

“Alright little brother.”

Cooks grinned cockily. “Less of the little. Just been telling the boys about that thing you did in English.”

“Oh really ?” his sister smiled back before briefly turning back to her friends who were all struggling to suppress giggles.

“Yeah” said Cooks, slightly less certainly. “In fact Mark’s gone to try it out right now on Caroline Jenkins.” He nodded his head towards a figure that was now marching with grim determination towards a pretty girl stood with her friends at the next bus stop along. “He’s been wanting to ask her out for ages.”

The older girls couldn’t contain it anymore and burst into hysterical peals of laughter. “He’s not going to use cellar door is he ?” asked Cooks’ sister.

“Yeah. Like you said. The most beautiful phrase in the English language. So beautiful it made you all…”

“Made us all quite giddy with excitement” she finished for him. “Practically unable to control ourselves. Ready to do whatever anyone asked”. She span around in delight. “That was it little brother, wasn’t it ?”

“Something like that” muttered Cooks. “What’s so funny ?”. He looked anxiously over at his friend who had now reached the object of his affections and had begun talking. Caroline Jenkins didn’t look like she was in a trance. She looked slightly scared. Cooks didn’t have much experience in this sort of thing but he was pretty sure scared wasn’t a good sign.

“Turns out I had it wrong” said his sister. “Turns out the most beautiful word in the English language is something different.” With a flourish she turned back to her friends. “What was it again girls ?”

“Gullible” they chorused together.

 

……

This is the fourth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share if you liked it. If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Polaris

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There is no fixed point in the universe. That’s what she used to say to me, with that half smile, lips together, eyes dancing, back in those early days when I fell for her. You’re the fixed point is what I’d told her and that’s what had started it. Later she’d told me that it had felt too soon to hear something like that but I still remember catching, just momentarily, the startled look of delight that surfaced on her face as I’d said it. As quickly as she’d revealed herself it was hidden away again and she settled her features back into that half smile. We were walking home from a bar and though the lights of the city dimmed the canopy of stars above us she picked out one, pointing up at it and grabbing my shoulder so that I looked. That’s Polaris she told me. Teased me that it was sometimes known as the guiding star and that perhaps that was what I was looking for. Did you know that it’s brighter now than when mankind first looked on it ? She didn’t tell me this, I looked it up later. She had been teasing but she was right; I was looking for a guiding star and though I never told her I saw some equivalence in the steady brightening of that distant celestial body and our relationship as it blossomed between us. We came back to it, as our little lover’s in joke, again and again. It’s not fixed she would insist. It might as well be I tried to reason with her, all of the other stars in the Northern sky appear to rotate around it. We can take our position in space relative to that point. She used to laugh and assert that everything was inexorably expanding out from the moment things began, that everything was getting further away from everything else. More distant. Nothing was fixed. I would pretend to be sad and playfully detach from her, taking literally her inference that all things pull apart until she’d give in, wrap her arms back around me and whisper that changes in the universe were happening so slowly that we’d never even notice it. The universe won’t pull us apart I would whisper back.

I remember this each year, particularly as the season turns to Autumn. The sun always hangs lower in the sky and it more directly catches my attention. I find myself staring at it, the most prominent star that we can see, marking out our days in constant motion.

There is no fixed point in the universe. Not anymore.

……

This is the third story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share if you liked it. If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

Fission

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“His wife’s dead lieutenant.”

“General ?”

“She’s dead. The British know she’s been dead since ’41 but they’ve been keeping it from him so he stays… stays motivated shall we say”. General Groves sat back in his chair behind his impeccably tidy desk and motioned to his subordinate to stand at ease. There was no trace of doubt or regret in his voice.

“He’s asking for news again sir.”

“My hands are tied lieutenant, this is for the British. Rotblat’s with Chadwick and I don’t think they want that group disrupted. If Oppenheimer needs Chadwick and Chadwick needs Rotblat then our job is to make sure nothing gets in the way of that.”

“Then what do we tell him sir ?”

“Use your initiative lieutenant. Find out what the British are telling him and tell him the same. The Soviets are going to take Poland, it’s a mess. No one knows what’s going on in there. Tell him we’re doing everything we can to establish contact with her.”

The lieutenant fell silent and lowered his eyes to the floor. There was a short intake of breath as if he was about to speak but then thought better of it. Groves noted the reaction implacably.

“Do you know the story lieutenant ?” he asked suddenly.

“Sir ?”

“Rotblat’s story. How he got here.”

“No. No sir, I don’t. He doesn’t talk about it to us.” By “us” Groves assumed the lieutenant meant the military personnel on the project. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

“He’s a brilliant man. All of them, of course, are brilliant men lieutenant. We won’t build this thing without that. They need to be able to see this..” he thumped the desk abruptly “…and this…” he rolled a piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger “…in a way we can’t comprehend.” He stood and spread his arms to take in the room. “All of this lieutenant, this desk, this room, you and I, they need to understand all this as matter, as constituent particles, as the building blocks of the universe.”

“I don’t think I understand sir”

Groves laughed.

“I don’t need you to lieutenant. I need you to make sure that nothing distracts them from their task. Rotblat’s mind should be on atoms and nuclei and reactions, not on flesh and blood. They are scientists lieutenant – I need them to deliver the most extraordinary science project man has ever devised not ponder on the nature of humanity.”

“But he keeps asking after his wife sir.”

“Rotblat left Poland two days before Hitler invaded.” Groves paused. He was a practical man and war had hardened his pragmatism but he was not entirely without heart. “She was supposed to come back to England with him lieutenant but she was unwell. He was needed back with Chadwick and left her behind. Way I’ve heard it she was supposed to follow as soon as she was well enough. She never left Poland and our intelligence suggests she died, maybe in Majdaenk, maybe in the Warsaw ghetto.”

Groves sat down again behind his desk and lowered his voice, almost as if voicing his private thoughts aloud, softly.

“He writes to her. He still has hope. He writes to her every week, mailing the letters to his old address even though he’s heard nothing for almost three years. He knows about the camps and he knows what’s happening in his country but he still writes. Hell, somewhere in that head of his he must know we intercept every piece of mail that leaves this base. What does he think ? That we’d allow correspondence from the most important project in the war to a country occupied by the enemy ?” Groves shook his head. “He doesn’t think that. He knows those letters don’t go anyplace. I think he just writes to remember. I think he writes because it’s the only way he can talk to her.”

“So when he asks… ?” started the lieutenant.

“When he asks…” snapped Groves, his precise military tones returned, fixing his stare directly on his subordinate. “…you tell him what the British are telling him and keep his mind on the work.”

……

My dearest Tola,

Forgive my habits but I trust that you understand them well enough by now. I must write to you each week, the thought of you reading my words sustains me through the project and I fear that I need that sustenance now more than ever.

I am a foolish man writing letters that may never be read but I carry their words in my heart and will tell them all to you when we are reunited. It is my intention to return home soon to do whatever I must to find you; the Soviets loosen the Nazi grip on our home daily and surely the war’s end must be near ?

Our work here is close to being done Tola but the nearer we get to completion the more my concerns grow. Chadwick is committed and I owe him so much that it pains me to even contemplate what I am coming to realise I must do. The work itself is exceptional. You would not believe what we have achieved ! It is truly a miracle of scientific co-operation. We have come so far in understanding the power in the tiniest fragments of matter in such a short time. It is overwhelming and impossible not to be caught up in the thrill of such an endeavour.

And yet, at the same time, my doubts grow. They brought us here to contribute to the fight against the Nazis, to unleash an energy never before unleashed in the world. I understood the urgency; we all understood the consequences if the Germans built a fission weapon first but I don’t know that I believe that they can anymore. They still have Diebner and Schumann but everyone else of any standing is here, the sum total of our knowledge of atomic power is here. When I see what we have achieved I can’t believe they could have done so much. How could they without Oppenheimer ? Without Chadwick ? Without Fermi ? Even without Groves. I’ve never seen a man so driven, so certain of an outcome.

Only now I don’t know what outcome Groves seeks. What is he being asked to do ? We dined at the Chadwick’s last week and, quite off-the-cuff, I heard him remark that the project was really designed to subdue the Soviets. He laughed it off but I took something of truth there in what he said. Are we building a bomb to end this war or to start the next one ?

My love I will be with you soon. My mind is almost made up. The price of us being split apart was perhaps worth paying to end Hitler’s menace and free our home but my conscience will not allow for that price to be the end of all things. Patience, sweet Tola. Wait for me a little longer. I will be with you soon.

Always yours,

Jozef

……

Joseph Rotblat was an extraordinary man: winner of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1995 and the only person to leave the Manhattan Project on grounds of conscience before its completion. Most of the bare facts in this story are – I hope – true although the devices by which the story is told are all fictitious. I have no idea if Rotblat wrote to his wife but I like to believe that perhaps he did.

This is the second story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. Please share if you liked it. If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page: https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/