The Road To Hell

The second hand continued its majestic sweep around the face of the clock. Lucifer had often wondered about the clock. For the most part it looked like every other timepiece on display here above the firmament. It silently indicated seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, and aeons just like the others. The difference was that this clock was designed to only make one complete revolution and so was counting down to zero. Nobody knew what would happen when it finally completed its revolution.

Looking at it here in the waiting room made him nervous. Made him more nervous. Lucifer knew he must have done something wrong because otherwise he wouldn’t have wouldn’t have been summoned. That’s my problem though, he thought, I’m always getting things wrong and messing up.

In contrast to the clock the office door was simpler. Merely frosted glass with a handle made of ebony gaboon wood. Lucifer examined the frosting as it swirled within its glass cage. Sometimes it condensed together and appeared to trying to burst out of the frame, at other times it spread itself evenly throughout the glass and seemed content.

Above the door was a light, which now changed from red to green. This was the symbol that it was time to enter the room so Lucifer stood nervously. He walked over to the door and patted down his loose wing feathers before pushing on the handle and entering the room.

And in the room was God.

Being in the presence of God isn’t a physical process. There is no solid body to focus on just a feeling inside that God is surrounding you. Lucifer sensed God in the blood that ran through him and in the voice that spoke inside his head.

“Lucifer.” said the voice, “Thank you for coming.”
“I came as soon as Metatron informed me.” Lucifer spoke with a nervous edge.
“Do you know why I have asked for this audience with you?”

Can an angel lie to God? Not that Lucifer wanted to lie. The angel’s problem was that he could think of several reasons why God would summon him here and he wanted to see which of his mistakes God was going to pick up on.

“Your silence” said God, “stands as a sign that you do know why I need to talk to you but are unwilling to divulge the information yourself.
“Sorry” mumbled the angel.
“I know you well Lucifer and I understand you are driven by a desire to be helpful. However I increasingly find the manner in which you try to help to be counter-productive.”

Inside Lucifer was a foundry of emotions. Embarrassment mixed in with pride to fill the angel with a burning heat. Surely God could understand that he had never deliberately done anything wrong?

“When first you were Formed it was to stand as the Guardian of Light. Your charge was to prevent darkness from engulfing the universe and you performed this task admirably.”
“Thank you Lord.”
“Then came the creation of Humans and for some reason this new creation started to affect your judgement. Take for example what happened with the tree.”
“I know I let you down.” Lucifer’s wings drooped slightly, “But I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought the reason you’d planted that tree right in the middle of Eden was so that it would be discovered.”
“As I explained at the time, the tree was planted to stand as a lesson to Human’s of the need for responsibility - that just because you can do something that doesn’t mean you should do it. By encouraging Humans to eat of the tree you created a schism between them and Heaven that may never heal.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” Lucifer’s voice was nothing more than a whisper.
“I know Lucifer and that is why I forgave you. However there have been other indiscretions as well. Once Human’s were dependent on the sun for heat. However you gave them the ability to create their own heat and freed them from their dependence.”
“They were so cold Lord. During the nights I could see how much they suffered. As the Guardian of Light I just felt if befell upon me to help ease their suffering.”

Lucifer’s cheeks were red, his voice inaudible to all but the most sensitive of hearing.

“I know your motives were pure. By giving the Humans the ability to produce their own heat and light you have placed them on a path they may not yet be mature enough to take. They will discover ways of producing heat and light that unlocks the energy of the universe. You cannot see how that journey ends and now they have eaten of the tree I am honour bound not to interfere with their destiny.
“I have not called you here to chastise you Lucifer. I merely ask that in the future you consider the full consequences of your actions. No matter how strongly we are motivated by the need to do good it is not always possible to see the final result.”

The air ruffled through Lucifer’s wings. God’s words always found away of chastising the angel without actually handing out a punishment.

“Now Lucifer, I would like you to reflect on what I have said whilst preparing for your next challenge.”
“Lord?”
“I’m giving you the task of watching over a town, two towns really, I want you to guide their development and help the inhabitants in whatever challenges are presented.”

Lucifer’s embarrassment began to subside, leaving the feelings of pride to dominate his thinking. A chance to influence the destiny of a two towns. He could guide them to become the greatest of all cities on Earth. Their citizens would lead the world in advancing the human race.

“Thank you Lord. May I ask the names of these twin towns?”
“Sodom. And Gomorrah. I implore you Lucifer to contemplate on the responsibility being given to you. This is both a great honour and a great test for you. I need you to show me what you are capable off.”
“Do not worry Lord.” Lucifer smile beamed, “I will ensure the names of these towns live on throughout history.”

Foo Fighters, 18 June. Old Trafford

When you spend all day at a cricket ground watching live bands whilst the rain cascades down from gloomy clouds you quickly come to the realisation that all day gigs aren't necessarily about the music. They are about the company you are with.

Night gigs are about the music. They are all about getting people into a small, dark, sweaty, hall and making them jump up and down to live music being cranked out by a band within touching distance and a lead singer who brings the crowd into the song and lets them join in on a wave of heightened emotions.

You can't recreate that at 3pm on Sunday afternoon no matter how hard you try., but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself. Which is when being there with people you like comes into it.

It rained a lot on 18th June in Manchester. In fact I'm sure I saw a couple of guys in the cricket ground building an ark during when Eagles Of Death Metal took to the stage. This wasn't a bad way of passing the time but I prefer mine: drinking and chatting and laughing.

Of course we listened to the bands that came on but to be honest they weren't our reason to be there. Our reason was to watch Foo Fighters and spend time together having fun.

I'd been told before hand that Foo Fighters do exactly what it says on the record label: 'They Rock!' That's true, but what I didn't know was how engaging David Grohl was. How relaxed he would be chatting to the crowd, apologising for the weather, and promising their next album would be full of harder rockier songs then 'In Your Honour'.

I feel I'm cheating by having a review that simply says 'The Foo Fighters are a good live act and play rock music' but if I'm being honest this isn't really a review. It's a thank you to friends and to let them know how much I had a good time with them at Old Trafford as the rain poured down and we huddled together in plastic raincoats.

The Panto Cast

Well there's a good chance this blog is going to suffer another bout of irregular updates. I will try and update as often as I can but my other, newer, blog is going to take up quite a bit of time between now and Christmas.

The drama group I belong to (Acting Up) is working on a new production. It's going to be an original, adult, pantomime devised by the group and written by the director Ian. It should be an interesting experiment and I though a video diary of how the production was put together would be a useful insight into how the drama groups.

To this end I've stared up a new blog here that will details the highs and the lows of the production; as well as allowing the group members to share their own opinions and insights. Feel free to look around and I'll post back here soon with my review of Foo Fighters at Old Trafford which I went to see last Sunday.

Notes For 'An Imperfect Evening'

'An Imperfect Evening' was originally written as an entry for a magazine competition. Like a lot of these things they provided the start line and the entrants had to come up with a story to follow it.

In terms of theme I wanted to write something about control in relationships. Often (usually?) in relationships one person is dominant over the other and this begins very early from when the couple first meet. Control can manifest itself in many ways but the clearest method is to control when and where dates take place.

Canceling them at the last minute is the ultimate control in the early stage of a relationship because if the other party continues to give you another chance to meet then it means they are happy to be subservient to your whims.

The story didn't win (the prize was to be published in the magazine) but I still think it has some merit.

An Imperfect Evening

He read the note, folded it, and edged it into the gutter. So that was that. An imperfect evening to end an imperfect relationship. Not that what Craig and Julia had could ever really be called a relationship.

As he walked, alone, back to the taxi rank Craig’s mind reflected on when he had met Julia. A mutual friends wedding, one marvellous night together, a promise the next morning to speak again soon.

That was where it started to go wrong reflected Craig as he stood in line for a taxi behind a young couple linked arm in arm. For the next month every arranged date had been cancelled by Julia for a series of ever more outlandish reasons. Lost car keys, old friend arriving unexpectedly, relatives dying. No excuse was left unused.

A taxi arrived and the couple in front of Craig climbed in. Looking down the street there was no sign of other vehicles. He could be here a while.

After a month Craig has decided enough was enough and he was going to stop contacting Julia. Then two days ago, out of the blue, she sent him an email apologising for the problems of the last month and arranging to meet. Excitement filled him when he read the message but the closer he go to this evening the more concerned he became that Julie would again cancel.

Before leaving tonight he’d checked his mobile phone, landline, and email for further messages but there had been none so Craig had printed off Julia’s original email and come to meet her. That same print-off was now washing into the sewers where it belonged.

He’d sat in the bar she had promised faithfully to be in. He’d endured the paranoia and self-consciousness of drinking alone. Tried to ignore the thought at the back of his mind that every pair of eyes in the room was staring at him and had marked out as the worst kind of loser. The lonely guy drinking alone, starved of company. After two hours Craig could take no more. He’d left the bar, thrown the email into the gutter, and headed for a taxi.

Looking at his watch, Craig realised he’d been waiting for a taxi for fifteen minutes. If he’d walked it he’d have been home by now. This thought was broken by his mobile phone beeping.

It was a text message from Julia
SORRY ABOUT TONITE STUCK AT WORK- MEET SATURDAY?

Saturday was only two days away. He wasn’t busy. Nothing he couldn’t cancel anyway.

Craig held the phone in one hand, the other poised over the keypad. Eventually he typed ‘NO’ and pressed ‘send’. Immediately his shoulders felt lighter, the fog that had enveloped his mind cleared, and with a new freshness in his step Craig began to stroll home.

Notes for 'Back Home'

With the World Cup now started I guess it was time for a bit bandwagon jumping.

In my defence I have to say that the original story goes back a couple of years to an idea of two people stuck in car listening to a football match on the radio even though they supported opposite teams. That story was planned to be a script for a radio competition (which I never entered) which explains why there is a lot of dialogue in 'Back Home'.

In fact 'Back Home' is the longest story I've put up here and in fact could have been even longer if I'd done the full story I planned (lots more delays and lots more people involved originally). I may go back and do the full version one day as, like everything else here, these are just drafts and not the finished article.

Oh, and if anyone cares, the title 'Back Home' refers to the England World Cup Squad song of the same name from the 70's.

Back Home

The computer’s fan spun down and with it the dull monotonous hum left Rob’s ears. At the same time a crackle of electricity signalled his monitor turning itself off. It was four o’clock. Time to leave.

“What time is kick-off?” Her face obscured, Kath’s voice sneaked out from behind her monitor.
“Five Thirty.” Rob stood, “Plenty of time yet.”
“Going straight home?”
“No.” A shake of the head, “First I’ve got to nip to the bank then to the chippy to pick up something to eat so I don’t have to cook, then home. All being well I will be entering my front door at five. Unless there’s a queue in which case ten past. Either way I’m not panicking.” Rob put his coat on, “I would stop to chat but I need to beat the traffic.”
“Bye then.” From above her monitor Kath’s hand rose.
“Bye.”

It was a busy day for calls so luckily everybody was engrossed talking to customers whilst looking up ‘Client History Files’. Nobody else in the call centre had been allowed to leave early for the England match and Rob didn’t want to return to work tomorrow and face a barrage of angry faces and disgruntled colleagues so he kept his gait forceful but not quick enough to draw any attention.
Five yards from the exit his mobile phone rang. A week before the World Cup started he’d changed the ringtone to fifty thousand England fan’s singing ‘Ingerland’ and it was this sound that now spread from his pocket and, seeming, into every corner of the call centre.

Keep moving, he said to himself, that was the key. Don’t make eye contact otherwise someone will as a question. From the desks either side of the walkway heads started to stir and eyes began to focus in his direction. Quickening his walk, and keeping his eyes fixed on the exit, Rob answered the phone.

“Rob. Hi!” It was Dave
“What do you want?”
“Have you left work?”
“I was on my way out when you rang. What do you want I’m in a rush?”
“I need a favour.”

Pause.

“I need a lift home.” Dave’s voice was meek.
“Okay what night?”
“Tonight you idiot. The boss is letting me out at half four but Lisa has the car so I’m stuck on the bus.”
“I haven’t got time. I’ve got to go the bank on the way home.”
“C’mon be a mate. The bus isn’t till five o’clock so I’ll never make kick-off without a lift.”
Pause.
“Okay.” Said Rob, “But be ready to leave on time.”

It would take twenty minutes for Rob to reach where Dave worked so the bank would have to wait till the weekend. As he opened the car door Rob mentally adjusted his timetable.

16:30 Dave’s building
16:50 Dave’s house
17:00 Chippy

Still fine.

There was a traffic jam. It snaked from one end of the high street right down to the other. Road works had closed off one lane for about thirty yards so traffic lights had been erected to create a contra-flow. Rob cursed and swore as he sat taping his fingers on the steering wheel. His phone rang again.

“Rob? It’s Dave, where are you?” There was almost a sense of panic in the voice.
“I’m stuck in traffic. Probably for the best if you start walking towards the High Street and I’ll pick you up as I pass by.”

Rob looked in the rear view mirror at the driver sat behind and recognised the look in her eyes. Tension hung in the air. It wasn’t just the roadworks. It wasn’t just the fact people were going to be late getting home from work. It was the fact the roadworks were making people late getting home for the most important game of football in over ten years.

A tap on the passenger side window startled Rob. The large, round, face of Dave peered through the glass. Rob indicated the door was unlocked; Dave nodded and let himself into the car.

“Cheers mate. What time is it?” he said.
“About quarter to five.” Rob mentally struck the trip to the chippy of his list, “Still got time, just.”
“Put the radio on so we can listen to the build-up.”
“I can’t. Someone broke the aerial off and all I can pick up now is Radio Three and I don’t fancy sitting here listening to Beethoven.”
“Excited?”
“Let’s think about it.” Rob turned to look at Dave, “It’s the World Cup. It’s the semi-final. England are playing Germany. Yeah I’d say I’m excited.

Dave turned to look directly out the window. He knew Rob’s sarcastic voice well enough to avoid engaging him further in conversation. For two minutes they sat in silence whilst the queue of traffic moved three yards. Eventually Dave decided to speak again.

“Makes you feel patriotic doesn’t? The football I mean.”
“I guess so. It makes me think of St George slaying the dragon or Winston Churchill giving a victory speech.”
“Or Bobby Moore holding up the trophy.”
“Or Warrington Council holding up the traffic. What were they thinking?”

The car in front began to move. With a minor sense of optimism Rob gently let his car motor forward. Five second later the car in front stopped again and Rob did the same.

“Look,” said Rob, “we aren’t going to make it to your house and my house before kick-off. Do you want to watch the game at mine then get Lisa to pick you up after the game? I’ve got a few cans in the fridge.”
“Yeah that’s fine. I’d rather be watching the game with you than sat in an empty house anyway.”
“Great. That also means we can cut down the street here.”

Rob pointed to his left at the entrance to the side street, which was parallel to the car, then turned left into it. For thirty glorious seconds they were travelling. Their destination no longer seemed so far away. Then they saw the blockage.

It was a concrete slab right in the middle of the street. It could only have fallen off a lorry that was using the street as cut through just as Rob and Dave were. Being charitable Rob thought maybe the driver hadn’t realised it had fallen off. The cynical side to him thought the driver new very well it had fallen off but was in a rush to make the England game so had kept going.

Dave slapped the palm of his hand against the dashboard and released an expletive. Rob just looked at the slab. Willing it to dissolve through the power of his hard stare. When it refused to disappear he too let out an expletive.

It was England. It was Germany. It was the World Cup semi-final and Rob was dammed if he was going to miss it because of a concrete slab.

“Come on.” Rob released his seatbelt.
‘Where are we going?” Dave did the same.
“Were going to shift that bugger.”

The two men stood, one either side of the slab. The each grabbed their end of it, nodded to each other, and lifted. Or rather tried to lift. The slab was too heavy. Rob released another expletive and kicked the concrete.

“Did that hurt?”
“Yes.”
A horn beeped and both Rob and Dave turned to see a minibus has stopped behind their car. The driver was indicating they should move their vehicle. His method of indicating this was to wave his arms wildly. Dave noticed the glimmer in Rob’s eye.

“I’ll talk to them.” he sad to Rob and moved towards the minibus. Upon reaching it he noticed the driver eyes had a similar glimmer to Rob.
“What are playing at?” the driver pushed his head out of the open window, “We’re trying to get home and you just stop in the middle of the road?”
“There’s something blocking us. It’s some kind of concrete slab but it’s too heavy for us to lift.”
“Right. Let’s have a look. Come on lads.”

The back door of the minibus opened and six men got out. Six men wearing luminous worker’s jackets and a variety of protective headgear. Six men who had clearly been working on the road works that blocked traffic this evening.

Rob noticed who they were too. He wanted to say something to them about the road works but discrete valour and the overwhelming desire to make kick-off made him suppress it

“Bloody cowboys, dumping this then running off.” the driver pointed at the slab, “We’ll soon have it shifted.”

He nodded at the other six workers and all nine of them gripped a piece of the concrete. On the count of three they all tensed their arms and prepared to lift.

Rob, his arms trembling from the weight, could feel the block rise off the ground. Only by millimetres but even this tiny uplift boosted his hopes that he and Dave would make the start of the game. Then he felt the concrete slip out of his hands and it landed back on the ground.

“This is your bloody fault!” Rob pointed at the workmen, “If you hadn’t been doing those bloody road words none of us would be here right now.”
“Now hang on a minute.” The minibus driver’s shoulders seemed to broaden as he spoke, “You think any of us wanted to be digging up that road? Do you think we wanted to miss the start of the game ourselves? It’s England verses German in the World Cup Semi-Final and if I had my way these lads would have knocked off at lunchtime and we’d all be in a pub by now.”
“I’m sure Rob didn’t mean it.” Said Dave, trying to defuse things, “He’s just letting off steam. It’s a tense moment for all of us.”
“Well he should watch what he says. At this rate I’ll be finding out the result in the papers tomorrow.”
“Look,” said Rob, “I’m sorry. I just want to get home that’s all. I only live two streets away.”
“You’re lucky then. Us lads have got at least an half-hour drive in front of us yet.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from the other workmen.
“Really?” asked Dave, “That’s too bad. Look if we get this shifted you can watch the game at Rob’s with me. That’s alright isn’t it Rob?”

Rob was trapped. He didn’t want six complete strangers in his house. But equally he wanted to get home in the next five minutes.

“Sure.” He replied, “I’ve even got some beers in.”
“Now were talking. Right lads let’s put our backs into this.” The driver bent down to grip the block again, the other workers followed.

“For kick-off!” The driver gripped the block.
“For beer!” The workers gripped the block as one.

Rob and Dave both gripped the block as well. Again it lifted slightly off the ground but as before Rob could feel it slipping from his hands.

“For England!” he shouted
“For England!” Everyone shouted in unison and lifted the block to waist height. As quickly as they dared they shuffled to the pavement and then lowered the block onto the ground again.

The nine of them stood smiling. They had achieved a wonderful thing together and their reward awaited them. By Rob’s watch, the time was twenty-five minutes past the hour. They were going to make it.

Update

I've been rather lax on the writing front for quite a while now. The reason for this is that I joined an amateur acting group at my local arts centre (www.pyramid.org.uk) and since Christmas I've been rehearsing for two plays. Those plays are over now and since the next production isn't till December (it's going to be an adult panto) I've got a bit more free time to devote to writing.

I'm also thinking of putting more 'online diary' style things on here as well so instead of just being a collection of stories it will grow into a proper blog with regular postings and everything. We'll see how I get on.

Elemental

As she walked across the field the blades of grass stroked the angels’ feet, their tips brushing gently against the bottom of her soles. The angel smiled to herself as the sensation rose through her feet and up her legs into her body.

Once in the centre of the field she stopped and delicately lay down; stretching her arms and fingers out as far as she could. Once they were fully extended the angel placed her hands palm first on to the earth.

At once her spirit connected to the land and her fingers slipped into the soil. Deeply they burrowed, like the roots a tree, until she became the earth itself. She could feel every creature that been made by the land. From the smallest worm that tunnelled to the largest dinosaur long since extinct.

All were made of soil and all became part of the angel.

Still deeper she burrowed. Through soil and rock and metal until the earth turned to liquid. Here now was the fire at the very heart of everything. Just as the earth had made all living things here was the heat that had made all things alive. The fire flowed into the veins of the angel giving fresh energy to her tired form.

The angel rode the lava that flowed around her. Allowed it to control her movements through the fire. At first it led her at random, violently changing directions. The angel and the lava rose quickly back through the earth and as she journeyed small pockets of water trapped deep in the ground touched her skin. These small droplets grew into trickles, then into streams, and then into bigger and bigger rivers until the angel became the ocean.

Water quenched the fire inside giving the angel control over its power. She used the control to spread herself over the ocean. Thinning until she was no more than the slightest ripple on the surface.

Slowly she changed again. Using the energy of the sun the angel became a mist hovering above the water and then, as a breeze took control, she evaporated into the air.

As part of the heavens the angel swirled in the warm winds and rose upwards. Past the birds and the clouds and almost to the stars. Here though she could go no further so she reluctantly allowed herself to flow back to the ground. Travelling as a gentle breeze she passed through the trees and returned to herself lying in the middle of a field.

Where she opened her eyes, stood, and walked away.

Castaway

There it was. The low, soft, white noise that greeted Adrian every morning as he opened his eyes. At one time he’d believed it was something to do with his central heating switching itself on but he'd switched the timer off months ago and the noise still remained.

Wednesday today. A work day. Time to get out of bed. Adrian showered, unsure if the water was hot or cold, he stood with a cascade running down his face. Soap filled his eyes but there was no stinging sensation.

Breakfast was coffee and toast. Two weeks ago Adrian had started adding sugar to his morning drink to give him an extra morning buzz. Now he was up to four sugars and there was still no reaction inside. He finished the drink and dressed quickly but smartly, his shirt tucked in neatly, his tie square and firm. The clock by the bed said 8:15. He was exactly on time.

8:27 Adrian was at the train station. The train was, as always, two minutes late. The platform was full of people, most stood near the edge and either fiddled with their jacket pockets or constantly checked their watches. Were they nervous? Excited? Bored? Adrian couldn’t tell. To him they were as emotive show window mannequins.

Eventually the train lumbered into the station and everyone boarded slowly and politely. Adrian chose a seat near the doors and sat down. Despite being crowded nobody chose the seat the next to him.

Looking around the carriage Adrian tried to assemble a mental image of the people trapped behind the, to him, emotionless faces. Did the two people stood by the doors know each other or was their conversation a way of passing the journey? Was that child stood looking at her shoes the daughter of the blonde haired lady? Was there a family resemblance or not? Did the girl two tables down work in Adrian’s office or was she merely a reminder of someone he used to know?

Adrian couldn’t answer these questions. Other people had stopped registering in his conscience some time ago. How long? He didn’t know. He worked alone in a corner of an office. He lunched in the park, by himself, sitting on a bench. He went home to an empty house. There was nobody to express his emotions to so he’d stopped having them.

The white noise Adrian awoke with every morning returned distracting his thoughts. It was difficult to focus on anything other than the sound inside his head so he didn’t try. It filled his ears and blocked out the noise and conversations around him. Slowly his eyes defocused to blur the others in the carriage. Slowly but surely the world was detaching itself from Adrian.

The Search For Seamus’ Gold

Whenever people go looking for something you can pretty much guarantee that in the end it isn’t what they find that’s important but rather what they learn along the way. Well not this time. This is a search for gold and no new age ‘the journey is its own reward’ type nonsense could be more fulfilling than digging into the ground and pulling up a bright green pot full to the brim with gold coins. And if there’s a four leaf clover resting on top all the better.

Now I know some of you are probably wondering how I can be so sure of finding gold. It’s a scientific fact that leprechauns bury their gold under rainbows and if the pair of you look to your right you’ll see a rainbow whose arch ends just over that hill so all we have to do is climb over the hill and we’ll be quids in. If we’re lucky we might just catch Seamus himself burying the gold - in which case he then us three wishes each as well. Mine are world peace, a Playstation 2, and the new Manchester United strip.

What’s that Tom? Yeah I know I could buy the strip and the Playstation with my share of the booty but if I got those as wishes I could use the gold to buy other things like the new FIFA Soccer game. Another question Tom? No, I don’t know why leprechauns bury gold; they just do. It’s in their blood like squirrels burying nuts or monkeys eating bananas with their feet.

Good question Richard. We’ll divide the gold evenly between us, though I will get an extra share as it’s my idea and I’ve brought the spade. No Tom, you can’t go and get your own spade and even if you did that wouldn’t entitle you to an extra share as well.

Now the digging will be divided equally between us but I’m not expecting to do too much digging as leprechauns only have small hands so need to bury things near the surface. Okay Tom, I agree the leprechaun could use a spade but it would only be a small spade so my point still holds.

I’m glad you asked that Richard. Leprechauns are dangerous so there is the possibility one of us could get hurt. Probably it will be Tom but that’s a chance I’m prepared to take. Now lets get a move on before somebody beats us to it.

Reasons Not To Love You

Let’s start with our monthly trip to the cinema. There we are, the second Tuesday of every month, standing outside the Odeon trying to decide what film to watch. After several minutes we come down to two choices. Something involving space-ships or something involving flowers. And I hate space-ships and you hate flowers. So we bicker for a couple more minutes till one of use concedes. That’s why I don’t love you, because you don’t like flowers.

There are other reasons too. Going for a meal is almost as problematic as going to the cinema. Once I looked up the number of restaurants in our town. Fifty-Seven. That’s just in the town centre, taking the town as a whole there are more than one hundred. You would think that with so many we could find one between us we liked but no. I have my favourites and you have yours and now we are forced to travel to new towns in a forlorn attempt to find somewhere we both may agree on.

Two hundred and seventy-one take-aways, I looked that up too, yet a night in for us involves having to go to two different take-aways because I can’t abide the prawn toast from ‘The Oriental’ and you dislike the crispy duck from ‘The Cultural Revolution’. A fifteen mile round journey just to get something to eat. That’s another reason not to love you – our relationship increases global warming.

The dress you bought on holiday last year? I think it’s awful; but every time you wear it I have to say how pretty you look. That’s reason number three - you make me have to lie.

Reason number four involves a confession. That statue I bought your mother for her birthday? I always knew she would hate it but I gave it to her just so it would have to be on display every time we visited The sight of the tearful, glass, clown juggling balls on her mantelpiece looking so miserable and out of place always made me smile inside. There it is then. Reason number four. I hate myself for playing tricks on your mother.

Is there a fifth reason? Of course.

Sometimes you have a bad day and I listen you, and support you, and put my arms around you. I do these things because you do the same for me, because the bond between us is so close only we can do this for each other.

It shouldn’t be like that. You shouldn’t rely on someone as insensitive and uncaring as me. You need to be with someone who likes the same films, the same food, and everything else. Somebody with who you don’t have to compromise. Which leads me onto the fifth reason. I don’t love you because I’m lazy, because I just want to lead a simple life without the heights when you whisper gently in my ear and without the lows when I bring you the crispy duck from ‘The Cultural Revolution’ by mistake.

There are my reasons not to love you. I have another list, a secret list, which details the reason why I should love you. A catalogue that contains ‘we like different things’, ‘you’re nothing like your mother’, and ‘the feeling I get when I help you glide out of your dress’.

Maybe I should keep both lists. Add to them as time goes on. But I can’t continue like this, torn between the numbness of separation and the sharpness of our relationship. I can’t take any more cuts. I don’t want to force you to make more concessions.

The list I’m keeping is the reasons not to love you. In years to come I will check it, remind myself of the decision I made, convince myself it was the right thing to do. I suggest you do the same.

Note For The Ghost In The Machine

This story started from my own childhood memories. When I was small my brother-in-law used to make up stories of how things worked. The one that stuck in my mind was how clouds were made by factories and that was what the steam coming out of towers were. The rest of the story just followed from that.

I am thinking of rewriting the story at some point as a short scene for the stage. I think it would work quite well as the whole thing can be set in the bedroom and a very intimate scene between the two people can be explored. If I ever write it I'll put it on here.

The Ghost In The Machine

Andrew turned the lock and allowed the front to gently swing inwards. He stood there looking though the doorway into the dark hall, the sunlight illuminating dust particles disturbed by the unexpected breeze blowing into the house, and was overcome.

From behind, Andrew felt a hand touch his side and from his left ear came a voice,
“Are we going in?”
“Sure Helen. No point coming all this way and standing on the doorstep.”

Helen’s hand gently nudged Andrew into the hall. She could tell he was nervous and wondered why. This was Andrew’s childhood home after all, the place he talked of with the fondest memories. Maybe it was the length of time he’d been away that filled him with trepidation, maybe it was the circumstances of his return, or maybe it was something else; something deeper.

The house was quiet but it wasn’t only this that unnerved Andrew. The place was no longer comfortable, it was filled with emptiness and feeling of loss. It was as if the building knew its owners had gone forever and was in mourning for the dead.
Helen too felt coldness in the air and she needed to cut through the atmosphere. Looking down the hall a photograph hanging on one wall caught her eye
“Hey, is that you and your parents?” she asked
“Yes.” Andrew touched the frame, “I was eight years old and we were on holiday in Blackpool. You can see the Tower in the background.”
“Weather looks nice. You told me it always rained in England.”
“Maybe that was an exaggeration. We did have the odd nice day.” Andrew turned to face Helen, “Did I tell you what my dad said about the weather?”
“No, what?” Actually Helen had heard this story several times however she wanted Andrew to tell it again, to encourage him to focus on his childhood.
“My dad used to say that clouds were made in factories and sunny days were caused when the factories shut down for the day. I believed him totally for about six months.”

Andrew stroked the picture frame then lowered his hand. Helen placed his hand in hers and said,
“Your dad was just trying to make sure you had some magic in your life. All kids need that. Promise to do the same with our children?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Ready to start?”
“If you are. “ Helen went back to the door and picked up one of the large cardboard boxes they had left outside. Andrew did the same.

For the next few hours they toured Andrew’s childhood home. Carefully wrapping his parents’ possessions, cataloguing things as they found them. Moving from the living room, to the dining room, to the kitchen, to the spare room. As they journeyed Andrew relived his past, telling stories, bringing each room to life again.

Eventually it came time to enter his parents’ bedroom. Once inside Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. The energy that has sustained him suddenly drained away. Helen entered the room, sat next to him, and placed her arm around his shoulder.
“Feeling drained?” she asked
“A little. It’s just odd being here. I guess I see this as my parents’ secret room. The one place in the house I needed permission to come into.” Andrew sighed, “I should have visited more often you know.”
“Everyone says that.” Helen patted Andrew’s shoulder, “We all think our parents will live forever. I’m sure they knew how you felt about them. It wasn’t necessary to keep reminding them.”
“You’re right. It’s been a tough couple of weeks and maybe it’s all been a bit much for me. I’m glad you’ve been here though. I couldn’t have got through this if you’d been half way around the world.”
“Let’s start with that wardrobe shall we?”

Helen stood and opened the wardrobe door. Several jackets, male and female, hung inside and at the bottom was a wooden crate. Helen pointed at it,
“Any idea what this is?”
“I think,” Andrew stood, “`I think it’s where I used to keep my toys as a kid. Let’s have a closer look.”
Andrew dragged the box from the wardrobe onto the carpet and opened it up. Inside were various items from his childhood kept by his mum and dad. Their attempt to hold onto precious memories. Andrew looked inside and pulled out a spinning top.
“See this?” he held the top out with his hand, “My dad told me this worked because inside were two very small mice. When it spun they ran round really really fast and the reason it toppled over was because they got dizzy”
“I see it even has pictures of mice on the side.” Helen bent down on her knees and looked into the box herself
“Oh yes. You know I don’t think I ever noticed that before.”
Something in the trunk caught Helen’s eye and she pulled out a small wooden box.
“What’s this?” she asked as she passed it onto Andrew.
“It’s my old music box. You wind it up and when you open it it plays a tune. When I was little I used to play it when falling asleep. I found it stopped me getting scared of the dark.”
“And what was your dad’s story of how it worked?”
“Oh it had a ghost in it. The ghost was somebody who’d been naughty as a boy and his punishment was to play the music whenever the box was opened. It was the standard punishment for not doing what you were told my dad said.”
“Shall we see if it still works?”

Helen took the box back from Andrew and began winding it up. Once it was fully wound she opened it up and the two of them sat on the floor as its music played.


Several years later Andrew was sitting with his daughter on his lap. In his hand he held the music box.
“See this box?”
His daughter nodded.
“Well this is a magic box. Inside is a ghost and when the box is opened the ghost plays a tune to make you snile.”
His daughter tried to hold the box in her small hands.
“Who’s the ghost daddy?”
“It’s the ghost of your granddad, who you never knew, and he’s playing because as long as the music plays then you’ll know that, even though he and your gran can’t be with you, they both love you very much and are looking after you from heaven.”

Notes for 'The Uphill Struggle'

Firstly I'd like to say the title is awful but I can't think of another one.

In any group people take on certain roles and I just wanted to write about three characters and the roles they take. David is the protagonist because he hasn't been happy with his role, Mark has the potential to take on another role within the group but is more concerned with group harmony than his position and Peter just likes being in the group.

If anyone can think of a better title then please let me know.