Tag Archives: fiction

ants

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according to Google: the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

it is a warm summer’s day in june. about 23 degrees. and i lie on the grass in my garden. the sun beats down on my back and legs. i have a black t-shirt on and black jeans. not really summer wear but being a folk who has many a mole this is how i tackle summer and avoid skin cancer. it is hot. even the birds have given up.

i soak up the sun like a lizard. feeling it pour into me. warming every part. i am being slowly baked by heat. delicious heat. as i drift between consciousness and a semi-dream state.

i open my eyes and study the grass before me. it’s several shades of green. lime. jade. olive. pickle. brown in patches. recently cut. it sports a neat trim that is not quite maintained when it reaches the flower borders. there are a few tufts springing up there. the places i didn’t quite cut with the mower. it is not the neatest of jobs but i decide to not let it guilt me. better to be lying in the sun.

my eye is caught by a movement in the grass. it is small but i still catch it. the movement of a cut sliver of green. an ant crossing the jungle of the lawn. crawling between each blade as it makes its way somewhere. i wonder how many ants there are there at that precise moment crawling through the grass. all on an errand to somewhere. perhaps they carry an urgent message. the sighting of a delicious sugary treat in someone’s house. just waiting to be exploited by the right colony of ants. the thought of so many ants crawling around me gives me the creeps. i bring my thumb down and squash the ant in front of me.

i always hated ants. the days before i knew better. when i would unwisely sit near a nest playing. then i would find them crawling on me. tickling my skin. making their way over my legs. i would scream. jump up. frantically bat at my body. try to get them off me. i would run. into the house. screaming. throwing my clothes off. my parents would come running. wondering what the matter was. they would find me. in the shower. hot water flowing over me. cleansing me of my hidden enemy.

i would enact my revenge on the ants. not by pouring hot water over the nest. no. that was too quick. too kind. i would get my lego. build upon a green base piece. a maze of walls with chambers. an entrance in. an exit out. add obstacles to overcome. twigs. leaves. sand. lego dots. then i would catch an ant. place it in the centre of the maze. add one or two more.

i would watch fascinated as they tried to make their way round. over the twigs. through the sand. under the lego dots. one would try to climb the walls. i would knock it back down. it soon learnt that way was futile.

the unfortunate ones would enter the torture rooms. the chambers where a splash of water would fall down. or a cascade of dirt or stones. the really unfortunate would enter the chamber where the brick came. crushing. squashing them. complete.

those that made it out of the maze got special treatment. they would be lifted high between my fingers. and placed upon alone lego brick. hot sun burning down through a magnifying glass. cooking and curling their form. a worthy sacrifice to an unseen god on a plastic alter.

the sun beats down. i lie watching the grass before me. there is another movement. two movements. near each other. two ants this time. making their way across the jungle lawn. are they friends? buddies on a little adventure. did they spend time in their colony of an evening discussing how their day had been? stories of the number of sweet foods found? i bring my thumb down. squash them. fucking ants.

the sun beats down. my lips are parched. but i’m too drowsy to move. i’m enjoying my spot on the grass too much. better to lie here. laying in the heat. i don’t want to move. just to enjoy the warmth on my back. the moment. more movement in the grass. four ants this time.

there was a time when i visited a forest with my parents. a sunday country walk. meant to get us kids away from the tv and invigorate the soul. or some shit like that. ahead of the others. i was clambering down a mud bank. dried earth baked in the sun. brown pine needles littering the earth. down on my back i went. slipping and sliding to the bottom. falling on my arse. i sat there a moment. not realising. not realising i was sat on a group of ants. big fuckers. bigger than the ones we got in our back garden. red and black bodies. shiny like berries. and they bit. oh, how they bit. i screamed and panicked. leapt up away from the ground. brushing frantically at my legs. my feet, they bit more. i don’t know how long i was there screaming and scraping away at my legs with my nails. red raw skin. before my parents came running. consoling. they brushed away the pain. i hated forests after that.

the four ants move across the grass. they are heading my way. i bring my thumb down. the executioner. squashing each one by one.

‘fuck you ants!’ i yell as i kill the last of them. ‘fuck you and all the ants!’

the grass turns to stillness. quiet. tired by the exertion in the sun my eyes droop. close. darkness.

it was the moving sensation that woke me. the sense of bobbing along. like moving on a gentle wave. floating.

i try to open my eyes. but i can’t.

i try to move my hands. but i can’t.

my legs. can’t.

i am bobbing somewhere. moving. being carried by something. i try not to panic. in the blackness. i can feel movement over me. small. tickling. out of reach. it makes me want to scream. but i can’t. my lips are held tight shut.

i try to focus my strength. focus my strength all into my right arm. centre it there. then a sudden movement. a pull. i pull my arm free. claw at my eyes. i can see. i wish i couldn’t.

they don’t fight back. they don’t cover my eyes again. maybe it was a sort of punishment. a way of letting me see the full horror of my situation. my arm is pulled back firmly. i can’t resist.

there are hundreds of them. thousands. thousand upon thousand of small black ants. small black bodies. crawling. moving. on top of me. under me. a thick living blanket of black bodies. constantly on the move. they are all over my mouth. in my ears. around my eyes. i piss myself.

we are in the sun. but are heading somewhere. purposeful. determined. i can’t turn my head to see. all i can see is the sky. crisp white clouds. ocean blue sky of a summer’s day. the ants. then darkness. we have entered somewhere. a tunnel of sorts. it feels as if i’m heading downwards. there is the feint smell of vinegar. we are dipping. along the tunnel. deep. deeper. it seems to be getting warmer the further we go.

i sense movement around me. in the heat. the darkness. and a feint hum. low. on the edges of sound. all around. it is increasing. as we go deeper. like the hum of an old television set when you turn it on. warm. hum. darkness.

then we stop moving. bobbing. downwards. and i feel them turning me. there is light here. i sense a presence. something powerful. i don’t want them to turn me. to see. the hum fills my head. my skull. pressing. my black captors release me. disappear in the dim light. my eyes get accustomed. then i see. and i scream.

the chamber is hot. stuffy. stifling. it stinks of vinegar. strong. overpowering. it stings my eyes. i blink to see. above me. towering over me. in this large chamber. is a huge figure. six limbed. thick as trunks. hairs like thorns. head the size of a small black car. mandibles opening and closing. giant shears that could snap an arm in two. a beast as tall as a house. a giant ant. the god ant. the humming intensifies. painful. and i know it comes from the god ant. it fills my head. i understand it. what it is saying. and it terrifies me.

the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

hemingway

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i first came across hemingway when doing a course on writing at citylit, london. if you don’t know citylit, it’s an adult learning college locate near holborn tube. that big long road that winds it way down pass theatres and hotels to waterloo bridge and the south bank. citylit runs many creative courses and i heard good things about its writing courses and heard they were doable if on a budget. i’m always on a budget.

the courses are often taught by stabilised writers. this one was taught by scott bradfield. we were often set things to read. and he set us the short story ‘hills like white elephants’ to read. i read it. read it again. it was like a revelation to me. here was a writer cutting out loads of description, reams of adjectives and adverbs, to pare back the story to its essence. the writing was like a fresh of air. a chill winter wind that wakes you from a night of over indulgence. it was like hemingway was giving me permission to do something. something i had long thought.

i had studied literature as part of my ba. a diet of hardy, dh lawrence, and george eliot (oh god, george eliot). they loved their long winding descriptions where a hundred words were better than five. long rolling descriptions of the scenery. adjective upon adjective that wound their way across the pages before a character did something. followed by exposition. how they loved exposition.

i followed this by teaching primary and mainly reading children’s literature. children’s literature loved an adverb and adjective. not forgetting a liberal use of simile and as many words for ‘said’ you could think of. so did the national curriculum. this is what they decided good writing consisted of. no hemingway style for them. you had to use lots of adverbs and adjectives to tick the boxes. not forgetting the whole range of punctuation.

it is not surprising then that this is what i thought writing was. had to be. i had been fed a diet of word types. all the word types. used liberally and often. yet i was not satisfied. why did we have to mention all the senses? in every description? surely, you should focus on the important ones for that scene? and did we really need long passages of description to describe a setting whilst the character was left in limbo? doing nothing. waiting for us to finish. my thinking was we should treat the setting as a character. and f important to the plot. then we spent time on it. but if passing through. was there a need? i began to have doubts over the way writing was taught and the way i wrote.

so reading hemingway gave me approval of my ideas. to leave the adverbs behind. use adjectives sparingly. use five words instead of a hundred. cut writing to the bone. to the essential. to what i considered important. gone were adverbs. i went further. reducing articles. conjunctives. pairing back the range of punctuation. the length of a sentence. reducing the sentence to its minimum. to the minimal point at which it could still be understood.

my prose-poetry is a concentrated version of that. my short stories and the novel i’m working on. less so. grammarly would have a system failure reading those. and i continue to experiment. wonder how further i should push it. the results are here on this website. see what you think.

the photo? the significance of the photo? that’s me in a bar in barcelona that hemingway was meant to frequent. it was meant to have changed little since his time. unlike the bar. i think hemingway has changed writing forever.

writing routine

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finding time to write can be problematic. it can affect getting into a routine. and can make the routine or writing habits you follow. many books advocate writing regularly. some say every day. i have never managed that. being busy with family life. and holding down two other jobs to pay the bills can impact on the time you have available. and by time: i’m not just on about physical time. the time to be free from work. i’m also on about the more important mental time. if you have stressful jobs that are mentally taxing and full on then it takes awhile to achieve quietness. the quietness you need to let your imagination play. explore. dance from thought to thought. place to place. if your’e mentally exhausted this takes longer. first you have to recoup. then gain the quietness. then focus on the writing.
so i snatch my quietness. my writing time. it is not regular. or frequent. and due to that. i forget. i forget what i have written before. where i am in my novel. the threads i have set up. i plot but they are brief notes. often single lines for a chapter. a glimpse as to what the chapter may hold. the rest i write on the hoof. by the seat of my pants.
this means i break all the rules of writing. i don’t edit after i’ve written a first draft. despite how many writers recommend this. i write a chapter or section. leave it whilst i turn my attention to family and jobs. return to the writing. read that chapter and edit. write the next chapter. i edit and write as i go.
i tend to find i don’t do a lot of change. maybe it’s because i ponder a lot what the next chapter is going to be. if i can remember it. think about the characters. the situation i left them in. and i’m a slow typist. that helps. i use just two fingers to type. this has the effect of slowing me down. so by the time i write a sentence or word it has been edited in my head several times. the paragraph shaped. that is why some writers advocate writing by hand. to allow time to think.
when i wrote my first novel. it was by hand. and the edits. only at the final stage did i type it up. i still do some writing by pen. my prose-poetry. it is straight from pen to paper then to ipad. a few changes on the way. novels are straight onto ipad.
i use Scrivener. i like the corkboard and how it can be used to easily shift things around or generate an outline. the outline proves very useful writing a synopsis for agents, etc. i write my novels sequentially. i don’t hop to a scene if stuck. some writers do that. but i can’t work that way. i need to solve a problem before i move on. not that i have many problems. due to all the time between chapters and typing it down i usually have them ironed out in my head.
i also make use of a good writing group. it is local to me and offers invaluable insight on what i’ve written. they will point out if something doesn’t quite work or needs fleshing out more. and it provides a good indicator how a reader might react. do they laugh when you intended? were they surprised by an outcome as you wanted? or was it all guessed too earlier in the story, leaving no surprises?
writing groups also give a good incentive to write. you want to make it worthwhile going. to offer something to an audience. to not go empty handed. this keeps you on track.
however you write is up to you. you find your own path. despite what some may think. there is no secret formula to writing a novel or getting a book published. it is all out there. you can read loads of books on the subject for suggestions. but ultimately it is down to you. your words. your effort.

apple

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my mother used to warn me as a child: don’t swallow the pips.
 ‘why?’ i would ask.
 ‘because a tree will grow inside you.’
 but i laughed. it was just one of those things mother said. like: your face will get stuck forever if you pull an ugly face when the wind blows. just a warning to tease kids. a bit of fun. no truth to it. so i would eat my apple. usually a cox’s orange pippin. nice and sweet. juicy.
 skin.
 flesh.
 stalk.
 core.
 pips.
 a tree never grew. no matter how many times i did it. my stomach digested it. the acid inside. the fluids. breaking everything down to nutrients. waste. converting to energy. to be used by the the body.
 i grew up. became a school kid. primary. secondary. young adult. then onto college. such tales discarded. forgotten. there were more important things. girls. cigarettes. alcohol. music. clothes.
i left college with a passable teaching degree and a job in the city. the city. the only city. london. a sprawling mess of towns joined by a tube network. i spent term time focused on my work and career. played the weekends hard.
 it was my habit to return for a week to my mother’s house in the summer. to that country town. in the heart of somerset. not because i liked it. i loathed it. the town. the people there. the narrow minds. the slow ways. it was an obligation. an obligation that i reduced down over the years to one week in summer.
we would sit in the large back garden taking in the sun. sat in rusting garden chairs. cool lemonade to hand. talking about things but not talking. this would last three or four days then i would get restless. the walls of the house and garden confining. suffocating. bearing down with their weight. what was to be said had been said. so i would take off. small pack on my back. four cans of beer. sandwiches. pack of crisps.
 i would set off down the road. past the tin topped houses. bridge over the river. take a right. follow the road. through the new estate. along the lane then the woods. the edges of quiet. a few dog walkers and children. further still. to the country road. pick a direction. set off and see what i would see. small villages and houses. arches made from over hanging trees across long winding roads. take a swig from a can as i went. a bite of sandwich. enjoying the company of one. the solitude. the silence. on i would go. until the beer ran out. then i would turn. head home.
 it had been a busy year. ofsted. the sudden departure of the head. stupid bitch shouldn’t have left her password on the computer. my promotion. the reorganisation of the school. the right people in place. my weekends had got wilder to escape the pressure. half-remembered nights followed by waking up in someone’s bed. a bleary-eyed return to my flat. yesterday’s clothes. a shower. a snack. then out to do it all again.
 so the week away in the summer came as a real break. a break to the pace. the self-destruction. a chance to slow. be still. so we sat. mother and i. in the back garden. sipping lemonade during a particularly hot summer. wasps buzzed around. the air hazy. the soil cracked. grass dry. parched. we talked without talking. then nothing. just the heat. the lemonade. the beat of the sun.
 one night the sky cracked.lightning bolts. the pound of rain. i sat up. watched. a blessed relief. the bed had been hot. clingy. this brought coolness. a change. tomorrow. i decided. i would go on a walk.
i got up early. four cans in the pack. cucumber sandwiches. packet of crisps. and i was off. down the road. past the houses. over the river. take a right. estate. lane. through the woods. into the country. follow a road.
 i had eaten the sandwiches and crisps a while back. and was on my third can of beer when i entered the village. it was unfamiliar to me. more a hamlet. consisting of a few houses and a pub. the black sheep. i wondered how it had lasted there so long with so few customers. but the country was like that. there was always something without explanation. that you couldn’t understand as city folk. and i now considered myself city folk.
 like the house at the end of the hamlet. larger than the rest. too large for such a place. with high grey bricked walls surrounding the garden. it made me wonder what it had to hide. to protect. then i saw it. a large apple tree.
 just poking over the height of the wall. full with large red apples. so many. some were hanging down. almost within reach.
 i finished the third can. looked up at the apples. my stomach felt empty despite the drink. i needed something. a memory of apple scrumping with school friends came back to me. it never did any harm. just the one. the tree had so many. who would notice? i glanced along the road. no cars. no people. i reached up. finger tips grabbing the end. twisted and pulled. it came away. the branch sprung back. 
 ‘oi!’ came a cry.
 it was an old man. in green. through a gate.
 ‘give back that apple.’
 but i laughed. feeling eleven again. and ran. the old man trying to catch up. but i was younger. fitter..
 ‘you mustn’t’ came the cry as i left him.
 i glanced behind me. no old man. no hamlet. just the woods ahead. i would drink the last can. then the apple. my treat.
 the trees towered overhead. sun filtered through the leaves onto the forest floor covered in brown pine needles. the occasional stump. not a sound was heard except the odd branch disturbed by the movement of a bird or something else. i threw the empty can away. turned my attention to my ill-gotten gains. one apple. what a fuss over one apple. when there were so many. so so many. stupid old fool. i bit into its red skin. into its juicy flesh. it was sweet. juice dribbled down my chin. i wanted the all of it. every piece. the stalk. the core. the pips. none must be wasted. it was too good.
 my apple consumed. i set off further into the woods. past the trees. towering overhead. the rustle of birds. dappled light searching. there was a stab of pain in my stomach. sharp. piercing. stopped me in my tracks. another. sharper. it bent me double. skin clammy. face wet. pains down my legs. into my feet. sharp. cutting.
 my shoes seemed to press against my feet. shoes too small. tight. my feet hot. burning. i had to get my shoes off. now. i fought the pain in my stomach. untied the laces. shoes off. socks. to see my feet. at first nothing. as i stood bent. just pale pink flesh. toes. nails.
 a flash of heat. then a change to the skin. darkening. browning. thickening. the nails on my large toes split. divided. fell off. a terrible. my remaining nails popped. then thin. brown tendrils. burst through the skin.
 like teeth through grapes. brown tendrils twisting to the ground. into it. a few at first. then more. hot burning pain in my feet as roots burst through my heels. then all sides. into the ground. i scream.
 skin thickening all over. i try to rip my shirt off. but my skin is thickening. tightening. compressing. i find it hard to breathe. i try to gasp for breath. but i can’t breathe. i can’t breathe.
 hell. i can’t move. i’m stuck here. stuck. a hot burning sensation in my head. like someone stabbing with blades. 
 then the burning stops. and silence. just me. alone. in the woods. unable to move. the silence. a bird overhead.
 i can just see. a figure. a figure in green. he’s holding something. an axe. he’s holding an axe.
 ‘they never learn.’
 and. i can’t scream.

moment 16

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rumble strewn ground. sounds of mortar in the distance. shells stood where homes once were. the carcass of a tank stood in the road surrounded by the fallen. blood patterns on brick and littered bones. he hid behind a wall that once was a building. weren’t they meant to be winning? he remembered the time they had landed. the embrace of the sea. what a sea! he had never seen such blue. the sound of sand beneath boots. the arc of birds across a clear sky. they had marched through green. small villages with friendly locals. an offer of wine and a pat on the back. an easy time. they marched on. over poppy fields, polka dotted landscapes. bees led the way. then the sky darkened. rain began to fall. the sound of distant guns. experience told him they were close. they had entered foolishly. too in the open. he took the route behind rubble, close to the walls. he was no fool. the young fell. first to go was Ajay. three shots to the head and gone. he had liked him. but in war attachments were deadly. better to look after the self. the weapons lay beyond reach. next, was Will running for the tank. he had cried a warning but too late. landmined. a cloud of blood and bone. next Jacob, the leader, taking the high point in a tower with sniper rifle. but they were ready. a trip wire saw to him. so now all alone. crouching behind a wall. bullets hit brick nearby but not there. perhaps it was safe to look. just a second. he got himself ready. moved cautiously and peered around the corner. a crack of a gun. the last thing he saw were the words Squad Killed.

bite

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he lay in the bath. letting the water marinate his skin. bath salts to soak and cleanse. to refresh. revitalise. tomorrow work. but no this. his time. unmeasured time. he sunk under the water. allowing it to cover his head. the whole of him. immersed. the water forming an echo chamber. of nothing. he rose. his head and neck out of the water. water trickling down his face. his shoulders. it was then he felt it. the stab of pain. their irritant on his neck. sharp. hot. he put his fingers to the area of the pain. it felt raised. a bump.

he finished his bath. dried himself off. peered in the mirror at his neck. there was the telltale redness. the raised skin. he had been bitten. by something. an insect probably. the price for walking in the woods. in the heat of the day. a memento. he took some antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet. squeezed a bit on the end of his index finger. rubbed it into the affected area. it stung a bit but nothing he couldn’t live with. he left the bathroom and entered the bedroom. time for bed.

that night he dreamt of the woods. he was walking. enjoying the sun. but then the sky turned dark. the air still. something was coming. coming for him.

he woke sharply. a nightmare. at his age. he rolled over and looked at the clock. an hour before he had to rise. damn. there was no chance of him getting back to sleep now. it would be a wasted effort. an hour of frustration. better to just get up. get dressed.

he looked in the bathroom mirror. ready to shave. his neck ached. the bite red. chili red. more raised. hot to touch. it would calm down. they always did. he shaved avoiding the inflamed area. threw cold water over his face. three times. to wake him to the day. dried himself off. returned to the bedroom.

white shirt. tie. suit trousers. no jacket. the weather was too warm. he had to be smart. presentable. even if not seen by the public. it was company policy. one of its ways. the company was stuck in another time when it cam,e to employees. another reason to leave. to find another job. move on. to better things. 

the commute was its usual intolerance. too many people crammed into a too hot carriage. armpit to face. he was glad when he stepped off. along the streets of london. to the bright white office in the centre of town. soaring high into the sky. a monument to business. he walked through the lobby. nodding to the security on reception. in the lift to the third floor. into the room of row after row of desks and computer terminals. a few had beat him there. heads already down. focused on their screens. tapping at keyboards. screens glowing.

he found his spot. sat down. typed in his password and set to work. a pile of sheets to his left in a tray. a spreadsheet on the screen waiting for figures. for data. it forever thirsted data. a pop up box appeared in the top right of his screen. a view of his manager. already scrutinizing. monitoring. he took the first paper. began to type the relevant data.

it was no good. his neck hurt. the collar of his shirt was rubbing the bite. pressing on it. grinding it. with each movement. each turn. a rub. he winced. that damn bite was going to make his day hell. it was no good. he would have to take an early break. make the time up later. something had to be done. he left the terminal. a frown from the manager.

he passed the desks to the back of the office. to the lunch bar. opened the small fridge and peered in the icebox. he wanted ice. cool ice. to put on the bite. to cool the heat. to bring relief. but there was nothing. just space. he took a cloth. ran it under cold water. squeezed it until damp. placed it on his neck. that was something. not ideal. something. he returned to his desk.

every hour. on the hour. he returned to the lunch bar and put cold water on the cloth. pressed it to his neck. trying to bring the heat down. to ease the constant itch. to fight the desire to scratch. to attack. to rip his flesh from him. he could not wait to be home. free from the shirt. free to deal with the bite. to cool it. to tame it.

back at his screen the manager was not happy. 

‘what the hell are you playing at? your productivity is down thirty percent. you keep leaving your station.’

‘i have a bite on my neck. it’s hurting.’

‘a bite? that’s causing all the fuss? get over it. and there’s something else. there have been complaints.’

‘complaints?’

‘yes. apparently you smell. smell bad. or something. sort yourself out. go home. take a shower. you’ll have to work two extra hours tomorrow to make up time. deal with your little bite. tomorrow back to work as normal. presentable. or you’re gone.’

the manager scowled in the video box. the bite itched. throbbed under his collar.

when he got home he rushed upstairs to the bedroom. tie off. shirt off. to the bathroom. the bite on his neck was noticeably bigger. much bigger. the size of a 5p coin. red and sore. he ran cold water over a flannel and put it on his neck. monetary relief. then the pain bit back. harsher. hotter. stabbing. he took the flannel off. peering at his neck. the bite had a yellow head. the colour of yoke. it seemed to pulse. move. he took the thumb and index finger of his right hand and squeezed. it was excruciating pain but he continued. the head popped. puss shot out. liquid yellow. some hitting the mirror. it smelt. it smelt of pine sap and trees. of damp wooden places. a thick heavy smell. suffocating.

the yellow puss was gone. a clear fluid leaked out. down his neck. down his chest. then something else. something white. it wasn’t puss. it was white. pointed. poking out the skin. pale flesh coloured. it seemed to be moving. wriggling from side to side. a tail. poking out. out of his flesh. out of his neck.

horrified. he ran to the bathroom cupboard. frantically searching for tweezers. he wanted it out. he wanted it out now. he found them. under the bandages. silver. small. peering in the mirror. he took the tweezers and pinched tightly at the end. it wasn’t soft. it was tough like gristle. there was a searing pain down his neck like hot metal. he pulled. pulled hard. the pain in his neck intensified. he gritted his teeth. the white was coming from his neck. pale worm like. twitching. strong smell of sap. forests. he pulled more. it twisted and turned. trying to break free. it was about the size of his little finger. but it would not come. it was fighting to stay. something was clinging on. clinging on inside. refusing to let go. he gritted his teeth tighter. psyching himself up. it had to come out. it couldn’t stay. he had come so far. just the end to come. just the end. one last big, sharp pull. that would sort it. he gritted his teeth more. the gristly worm twisting in the tweezers. he pulled. there was a scream. a white twisting form. a lump of flesh.