September 10, 2011
Sergio, and his many whores.

On the eve that Sergio realised he did not love his wife, he was caught in a vicious stalemate with his chess partner. One sick revolving game played out with a king and a queen and another king for hours and hours till fifty useless moves were completed and the game ended. And then he went to her, his whore.

She sat where she always sat by the fountain with the siren statues. With her hair hung over one shoulder and dressed in a polka dot dress. Behind her stood the mansion of chastity, falling apart due to irony, all creepers and ivy and broken statues, and it was only two months and three days old. Sergio sidled across the park, a poppy in his breast pocket and a rose in his right hand, knowing that this was the day he would declare his love.

“I love you,” he said, “completely and utterly, I love you.”

She turned her head away, “I do not believe in love, Sergio, it is very much for fools and I do not believe in it.”

“Well then, neither do I.”

“Then leave,” she went to fanning herself. She never looked at him.

“Do you not care at all for me?”

She spat. “You entertain illusions.”

He disagreed and she disagreed and they disagreed again and again and on and on until dawn came over the back of the mansion, when Sergio had become sober and his wife found him sat by the fountain with his whore and a wilted rose in his right fist.

Sergio had fallen in love with his wife because he was afraid of the dark. One night, when he had had too much to drink and his lantern had gone out, she found him hunched in a ball on the paving slabs of an alleyway. He looked up at her with her lamp. She shook her head at this whimpering man. Through tears, he asked her whether the most beautiful woman he had yet to see would walk him home. After shaking her head and tutting, she took him home by the arm, but not without him taking a longer route and her making sure to stop and adjust her hair to stop the wind from getting at it, and also was that rain because she felt rain and we should stop under this portico, and also was that a dog because he had seen a dog and it looked rabid so we should go this way, and also there is a prettier route but it is longer and it is down by the docks so you should take my coat, and also, perhaps, she should, perhaps, pass her house and pick out her own coat, and also, and also, and also, so that, by the time they arrived at his, she was very much in love with the little man with his black curls and his endearing fears who made violins in the dockyard.

A change seemed to come over Sergio after that day, he worked harder in his violin shop, making purple violins for rich clients and even a beautiful golden one in the shape of a butterfly for the princess, arriving before the sun had risen over the bay of lost ghosts, and working long after it had gone down. And, by the end of the month, he had the money to pay for a wedding.

She’d taken him to bed two year later, only for her to be a constant disappointment, with all the enthusiasm of a plank, all the movement of a sloth and all the passion of a broken heart. And, from then on, he’d needed a whore.

Sergio had never taken a whore, or a girl, or a woman, before he met his wife. Before the first instance of disappointment, he had not even had his passion aroused, he understood it as just another muscle spasm, just a tightening. When his wife had found him naked but limp and ready to go to work with a pair of scissors, a pair of pliers and three rolls of bandage she had asked:

“What are you doing?”

He had told her that he was trying to understand it and she took that as a casual joke. He’d felt so silly that he abandoned his surgical enterprise. Later, she told him she wanted a baby and he went to writing to the stalk, composing avid passages of beauty containing references to his and his wife’s aptitude with children. She shook her head like she had done on that night she found him in the alley and then she’d taken him to the bed.

He began his search the next morning. She found him looking around her sister’s house for some sort of clue when they visited for soap. She found him writing lengthy correspondence to his friends and working on some sort of code and taking his siesta’s in the little Spanish bar where the flies and the banjos were and a fan turned again and again with whump whump whump whump’s. Somewhere, he picked up a clue and then he’d gone to the district with the red lights. Where tramps and beggars sat beneath parasols watching the young men play. He’d visited whores that smelt of butterscotch and honey. Whores that dressed as maidens and one that only wished for his money and his watch. It took three months to find one, a good one, one he liked. He called her his laughing lady.

He’d met her after another night with a whore named Josephine, who liked to drench them both in gallons and gallons of water till her bed was so soggy from the constant downpour that it sagged over the wooden frame and dripped onto the tiles and looked generally miserable. She lay on it like a siren, but she never spoke. He was leaving her one night, crossing the courtyard and going to the bench he always sat on, usually till dawn, wringing out his hat and his shoes after another night with all the energy and excess of a tsunami, when his laughing lady came and sat next to him. She was a large woman, ugly too. Her nose too curved. Her eyes too sharp. She wore a little hat tilted to one side, with flowers all in a dying state of bloom.

“I see you have met Josephine,” she said and laughed. He looked up from his hat wringing.

“Yes, she is different, but she is not the one I want.”

“What do you want darling?”

“Something more enjoyable,” he put the hat back on, “and less wet.”

“Well come right this way.”

She had an odd habit of laughing whilst he lay with her. Laughing as he took off her dress and caressed her neck and took her to the bed in one big heave and dump. She’d laugh as they rolled about like worms, or turtles, or rabbits, she’d even laugh when they pretended to be panthers. And for a while, even when they did it like apes, he was happy.

“What makes you so happy?” he said to her one night, when they lay with the shutters open so they could see the stars and the moon and an owl they named Jesus that sat on the peach tree.

“I have nothing to worry about, not even death,” and she laughed and said it again, “not even death,” and she rolled about kicking her legs and chanting, “not even death,” till he could not shake the images the next time he came to see her and the time after that, and in the end he gave up entirely and wandered about in the district of the red lights miserable. In the end it was luck.

Her house was a small house, tucked away between one big sloppy restaurant with funnels and brass and bronze pipes, and another whore house, one that reeked of stale men and had it’s whores hanging from the balconies wringing out their filthy rags into the cobbled streets. The small house was blue, had wooden cross-hatching with dark green leaves and dark red roses weaving across them. In his misery, Sergio did not, at first, recognise the small house and went to the restaurant and ate rice and then went to the whore house and screwed a woman who looked scared at every third occurrence, and then he realised he’d been passing a house he’d never seen before, and so, he went inside. It had pillars and a shallow pool which was only good for dipping your feet in. Caged birds hung all around the room and he was wandering between these great constructs of gold and wood and sometimes matchsticks, when he saw her for the first time. She was sat in a silk blue dress that fell neatly, and showed very little cleavage. She was dipping her toes into the pool, swirling her big toe in circles. She looked up at him, and the abyss of her dark black curls fell across her right shoulder, her auburn eyes captivated him, he stood looking at her. The birds sang.

“What would you like?” she said at last and Sergio felt sick to his stomach.

“Are you the owner?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not available?”

“I’m the sole whore.”

“The sole whore,” he made sure to taste every word.

“Yes, what would you like?”

“Anything,” he said, “anything.”

And then he was happy. He had found her. He went through days and weeks and months visiting her in the night and then waking up in the morning next to his wife. His wife became amazed when she saw him dancing for the first time in the front room with a gramophone he had bought just for her. They danced for an hour and a half, laughing and twirling in little salsa twists. Flowers sprang up on every available surface, he bought some tulips for her study, some roses for the bedroom, although the roses were frowned upon by his wife’s parents, some bluebells for dining with, some lilies for sitting with. One day he burst through the door carrying a dead chicken and proclaimed, I will cook to night and every other night from now on, and he did. He told his wife she was the only one he loved, and it was true. He told her she was beautiful. She didn’t age. How did she keep so young? And he lived days and weeks and months before his imagination began to grit the wheel of his life and the revolutions began to slow and slow till the wheel barely moved at all and it was then that he realised he was in love with Silvia, his whore.

It was around this time he began to play chess with Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, or as Sergio affectionately called him, Mi y acogedor Santa, My cosy Santa. The oddness of the man was what first struck him, dressed in a Victorian flat collar frock and big boots, adorned with a moustache, curled and waxed, topped with a long tall hat that sat at a jaunty angle and wearing a monocle with gold ringlets that, later, when they began playing chess, he would always remove on the fifth turn. He was poking around in the cages when they first met, using his long cane with a top shaped as a lion’s head, when Sergio crashed into him whilst hastily removing his coat as he always did. Sergio rebounded and landed in a heap on the marble.

“Christ, Christ, I am sorry, good friend. Christ! I am sorry! I was looking into these cages,” Ricardo said.

“No, no it was me. I was rushing.” Sergio said, standing up, brushing himself off, and continuing to remove his coat, he began searching for the hat stand.

“Rushing, haha, yes, rushing, excellent,” Ricardo said, “say, have you looked into these cages, I was entranced, else I would of seen you, well, come to think of it, I wouldn’t have been here at all.”

“It’s fine. I was rushing.” Sergio hung up his jacket.

“As you keep saying, tell me have you ever noticed the birds in these cages?”

“No, I am always in a rush,” Sergio said and smiled. Ricardo flashed him his own pearly whites in return.

“They are not real birds,” Ricardo said.

“What?”

“They are not real birds. Come have a look,” Sergio walked over and looked at the birds. The little paper birds hung on pieces of string and revolving in half circles, each one painted. Swallows in brown, their feathers chopped into their paper backs. A parrot made of multiple dyed sheets, a line of lead down it’s back keeping it upright.

“But the sound…”

“A very big sea shell that echoes everything it has heard in the past few years,” Ricardo had not stopped looking at the birds, “it is in the pool, there’s the sound of children and a shark eating something, I think it is a turtle. I presume you are here to see Silvia,” It didn’t seem like a question.

“Yes.”

“She is a good whore. The best in the city I would say. Of course I tried that big whore house which is said to be the best, but it is not the best,” and then they talked about whores for a whole five minutes and Sergio discovered Ricardo had also slept with the woman who drenched her partners and herself in gallon after gallon of water. They agreed that Silvia was the best and the reasons were usually the same. And then both at once they said,

“But, of course, I love my wife.” and then they began playing chess every second day for the next year and three months. On these nights Sergio would take the chess board down from between the box of white and black pieces and the small collection of china frogs that his wife had began to collect when she was but three and five months and still collected now she was thirty five and seven months, and included statues that the ministry of sculpture was after, one being a frog dressed in a matador suit and another being the three frogs playing poker in white, rolled up, sleeves and black, sometimes loose, jock straps. He left the box of black and white pieces because once Ricardo had refused to play because of the colour of the pieces:

“We are not either of these colours,” he said, “and I will not entertain the notion we are. We should play with pink and purple pieces,” and so Sergio had carved some pink and purple pieces that replaced a piece from the black and white set one week at a time, and, in the end, he had decided to gift the pink and purple pieces to Ricardo, who lavished him with fancy handkerchiefs from then on. From taking the board down, Sergio would then cross the street and head down one of the many alleys that lead towards the centre of town, he would pass the docklands, where he would always see the sun rushing towards the ocean far far in the distance, he would go through the red light district, passing through the foundations of a place that would soon become known as the mansion of chastity, then he went on to pass the place where a man, know by many as left handed Lopez, was permanently fixing a vehicle he called a motorcar, but everybody else realised was a large seat mounted in a skiff mounted on three bicycle wheels, Sergio always waved and then climbed three sets of steps and met Ricardo on his porch.

This went on for several months, Sergio learning more and more about chess, before he could begin to beat Ricardo and then Ricardo learning more and more about chess before he could begin to beat Sergio again, and on the sixth month, when Sergio sat in his front room, constructing the grandest violin he had ever conceived, piece by piece with his knife and, by now, bloody fingers, his wife came to ask him,

“Does he have a wife?” and the violin then issued a sharp snap and one of the wires slung back and sliced another cut into Sergio’s middle finger.

“Yes, he does,” she sat and kissed him on both cheeks.

“She must be bored.”

“I had not thought about it.”

“Tonight, I will come with you,” and she strung the violin wire that Sergio had been struggling with in one deft twist.

“Who is this for?” she asked, looking over the violin with three strings strung.

“Me.”

“You don’t play.”

“I can learn,” she kissed him again on the cheek.

“Red or white wine?”

“Red, he has something about skin colours.”

And so, Sergio’s wife accompanied him to play chess every other night. Ricardo greeted them the same way, always. He would embrace Sergio’s wife, ask her when she was going to leave Sergio for him, kiss her on both cheeks and then let her leave, he would then embrace Sergio and they would play till night time.

Meanwhile, in the day, Sergio began constructing intricate symphonies which he would then play to Silvia before making love to her. She would laugh when he did so, and he smiled, he told her it transported him away from the guilt, not realising that if that was true he would not be playing the same symphonies in the morning when he made breakfast, before he went to work at the carpenters shop, when he had lunch, to his wife, to Ricardo, to the sun and the moon. When he had to think, he would play. And when he played he only thought of one thing, and he never connected the two until one night, three nights before he had realised he did not love his wife.

On that night, when Ricardo had played a gambit and Sergio had played a Dutch gambit, they looked up from the porch and saw that a new building had been constructed three stories high across the town, and had loomed over them for several months before they’d recognised the c shaped shadow that fell on the porch was coming back night after night.

“What is that?” said Sergio. Ricardo looked over the pieces and shook his head.

“I’ve got nothing. No plan,” he looked up at Sergio, “Oh, oh, I have no idea. Some one told me it was to be the mansion of chastity, a new whorehouse.”

Sergio pottered round the outside on the way home, and went to the newly opened bar to drink a simple beer. It was here, among woman dressed only in sheets that Sergio heard Silvia was to move from her little green blue villa to the mansion. He was horrified and tried something to make her stay, something he rarely did unless he had just finished playing or there was an error in the accounts, he tried to talk to her. The first time he’d try to do it, he’d been in bed on his third visit and she was sat up and putting on her ear rings when he had said:

“How long do you work for?” and she had said,

“You do not have to talk to me afterwards. I am not one of those whores.”

And now, now that she was to move to the mansion of chastity he was worried so he tried to talk to her,

“Why are you moving?”

“I wish to move.”

“But, I like it here.”

“The mansion of chastity is mine, you fool.”

“Yours?”

“Yes, I am the owner. What did you think I was spending my money on?”

So now, after hour upon hour of him wandering the streets of the district of the red lights. He had finally told her. Told her, by the fountain with the sirens, in front of her mansion of chastity, after his game of chess with Ricardo. After days and days. He had finally told her. And now his wife was here.

“What is this Sergio?” his wife said, “Why are you here? Who is this? Did you think you could sleep with a whore with out me knowing? Who do you think you are Sergio? How do you think you could do this and get away with it? How many whores have you slept with?” and they argued all the way home. Sergio saying, you were no good, you were worse than wood. “You didn’t even know what it was, let alone where to put it, you stupid damn fool, you whore ridden damn fool,” And they walked about the house picking up objects and throwing them aside, and they each found gramophone records to break.

“Would you love me if I slept with Ricardo?” his wife said.

“I don’t love you, not any more.”

“Bullshit. Bullshit, Sergio, you do not love me. Do you not? Are you in love with this whore? She does not care, she loves money. Why didn’t you just ask? I can screw like a whore if you wish it.”

“Shut up. Shut up. You were wood.”

“I was wood, was I? I was wood. You were about as faithful as the whore you love so much.”

“Why don’t you become a whore?”

“Oh, I will have to, I will have to. The only way I can keep my husband is to be a whore. You god-damn whore ridden foul. Perhaps, I should become a whore and chuck you out completely and bar the door and sleep with Ricardo and spit on you when you pass? Perhaps I should do that?”

“You would make a terrible whore.”

“Worse, you made a terrible husband.” and then in a fit of anger she went round and blew out all of the candles in the house, and pulled all the curtains. And ,in the morning, the sailors who came to take rich people away from their houses, saw a woman walking in a jaunty gait, due to the two suitcases she carried, away from a house where all the windows and doors were covered by great wooden beams, so not a scrap of light could enter. She told them to take her as far away as possible and stomped across the gangway, and for all the people in the town she was never seen again, only remembered.

Sergio lay in a wreck for the next hour, before he even began to open his eyes. Then he realised he was in the kitchen and he pulled himself onto his feet, bit by bit with trembling hands on the cupboards. He slipped on the tap of the sink. Water gushed, and swore that it was a poltergeist so ran to the front room. He spent the next two days behind a sofa, sure that the lampshade was the carcass of his dead aunt reincarnated and waiting for him. It took him an hour to build up the courage to rush across the room, knock over the lampshade, and hurl himself at the wooden slats that stopped the light coming in. The slats came free and the room flooded with the evening sun. He climbed up and out, still shaking from the shock, and then, in a limping gait, before he thought of food or water, he headed towards the mansion of chastity, but not before he went back to fetch the violin.

8:14am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9L_B50
September 10, 2011
Station

Killing time that was what he was good at. He made the second hand tick along the face. He stirred it. And stirred it again. He tapped his hands on the table and checked his phone and there were no texts in it. Nobody was looking in. He looked down at the coffee again and tasted it, it was bad. There was the sound of shuddering tracks and the train rushed past. He saw himself in the window with hair all grey around the sides and he saw himself jumping between windows and then all gone, left with the arrivals board and the people on the other side of the tracks with all their carrier bags. He looked down at his wallet with the photo of his wife tucked beneath see through stuff. It was the only photo he found and he had folded it along the middle and the white lines always annoyed him but they were necessary and he didn’t look at the other side because he didn’t know the face. He pretended the arm around his wife was his and then went back to stirring his coffee whilst trains rushed past.

8:13am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9L_72B
September 10, 2011
Matador

 They ran past cafés. Over the tiles. Two Spanish children, boy and girl. Boy with that straw hat and girl with that red Spanish dress and curly black hair. Over the tiles their feet went clip clop. Red and white bunting and blue quiet hung. They were heading towards the sound. The cheering and the sorrow. To the bullring they ran. To the house of tragedy they headed.

Amongst the confetti and the flags and all the cheering three men sat drinking. And the three men talked. It was the man with the Spanish moustache and that black black hair, the man who takes off his round glasses to speak, who was talking now, “It’s loud today,” he said, smiling with his lips and his moustache.

“Yes,” said the boy, sitting straight.

“Not since Belmont has it been this loud,” said the father of the father, the one with fingers cracked from arthritis, the one with liver spots and hair that had thinned and lost itself. The one who spoke only of bullfighting.

“Belmont, you hear that son, Belmont,” said the man.

“He had a good wrist,” said the boy, smiling.

“The best wrist,” said the oldest.

“This one has a better wrist,” said the boy.

“He’s English. He is called Matthew Browning and he is English,” said the man, glasses off, contemptuous.

“His heart is Spanish,” said the oldest. “That’s all that matters.”

____

The sheets were creased like broken glass and he never turned the light on. There was a oak stand shaped like atlas. There was a bowl of apricots and a sand timer and Matthew Browning sat staring out of the hotel window at England, he could make it out through the dried tack and the smudge, past the hills, past the days. He whirled the last of the whisky round and round in the glass between his legs.

“Sir,” he looked up, in the darkness he saw a Spanish boy hopping from foot to foot. Flicks of hair peeked out behind his neck. Matthew had forgotten his name, Lopez? How long had Lopez been there? Matthew nodded and knocked back the last of the whiskey he’d been drinking.

“There is, sir, a big bull and, a small bull,” said Lopez

“The small bull first,” said Matthew.

“Sorry, I do not speak English,” Matthew repeated it in Spanish and the boy left him, he poured another glass of whiskey and looked back at England.

____

Latin on the tombstones and Latin on the church doors. Flowers like red tortillas grew and granite gravestones stood. There was a white church pitched on the hillside where orange grass grew. Santiago Del Toro leant on the picket fence, lantern emitting blue light, moths oriented, he batted them away and lit a cigar with a gold lighter, the breeze came and went whilst he smoked.

He had an X drawn across his face by a Lisbon bull, that was his last fight before the Englishman, he was waiting for his boy.

“Is it done?” said the man with the X on his face.

“Yes, it is done,” said the boy with black patches beneath his eyes.

“Good, good,” drawing out the O’s, “We will be rich men.”

____

Matthew twisted the cuff-links, silver things, her name upon them, Maria upon them. He put on his croissantish hat and looked at England. The cuff-links were all he had of Maria. He sighed, and went back to watching the afternoon.

____

There was a smell of blood and sweat as men came and took away the dead bull. It’s horns raked two grooves in the sand and the boy turned to the father.

“I told you he had a good wrist,” he smiled, “He is Spanish in his heart.”

“He makes the Spaniards look like cowards, where were the cowards from?”

“I do not know,” said the old man, shaking his head, “Spain becomes more and more a land of cowards, Santiago Del Toro, he is a coward, he quit because a braver man stole his contracts, he is afraid to go over the horns, no Matador should be afraid to go over the horns, that’s where you can kill the bull quick and fast and no Matador should kill a bull slowly and painfully, the Englishman goes over the horns and he is not even Spanish, he is English and he goes over the horns,” he shook his head more, “I will appreciate the art form but not the artists. Who ever heard of a Spaniard not going over the horns!”

They waited in the noise and a wife and her husband came.

“We have no sitting,” she said, she wore an orange dress. The husband went and stood in front of her.

“Are these our seats?” he showed the ticket to the three and the three nodded and three became five.

____

People were leaving for the cafés, dusk was making the sky red and there was a crescent of orange on the sand. The bull out, lunging, bucking, charging, and the pinks and yellows of the banderillos flashing. The bull stamped it’s hooves and snorted smoke and was then lead this way and that by pink and yellow. It came to a halt, hooves spread and head down the horns pointed towards him.

Matthew Browning bowed to it and then stood as tall as possible.

____

“Why do they do that?” said the husband, the man with the spectacles took them off.

“Why do who, Do what?” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.

“The matadors, why do they bow?” said the husband.

“It is a Spanish thing,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.

“To taunt?”

“Yes, to taunt.”

“But it’s a confused animal.”

“Sir, the bull is calm.”

“And the crowd, they cheer at the mocking, do they not care?”

“Sir, we respect the bulls more than you English.”

“American.”

“Ah, so you would rather it’d be in a burger?”

“It’s cruel.”

“Sir, it is tragedy. The bull is well fed, it knows it’s fate.”

They continued to fight through the fourth bull and the fifth and then on the sixth when Matthew Browning came out and bowed to the big bull, the wife interrupted.

“Who is that man?”

“He is Matthew Browning,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles. She flicked through her dictionary.

“Is he English?” said Maria.

“Yes, like you,” said the man who was always shining his spectacles.

“I am Maria.”

“I think you have misunderstood,” she flicked through the dictionary.

“Yes, yes I am English.”

____

Matthew Browning lead the bull in swift veronicas. He brought the bull close. Arched back and swept the cape away. Lead it round again. Showed it his legs and lead it with the cape again. He flicked the cape at the last and it leapt. He lead it round and round.

Tired and panting it stood. Smoke was rising from the sand then and, like a magician, he emerged and gathered his sword. Floodlights were on beneath the indigo sky, so when the smoke was gone, the bull stood still, four shadowed and kicking dirt.

It charged and he lead it past him with the cape, it’s hooves skidding and then it toppled, he stood and discarded the cape, he aimed down the sword at it’s collar. He charged.

____

“2000?”

“Yes, 2000.”

“2000, pesos?”

“Yes, 2000 pesos.”

“Santiago that’s a lot.”

“What can I say, I’m a gambler.”

“2000 though?”

“Yes, 2000,” Santiago slid the money over the counter.

“You want to place 2000 on Matthew losing to his second bull? It’s 568 to 1.”

“I know the odds.”

“Fair enough,” The cashier took the money. Santiago observed dryly.

“Good, good,” Santiago nodded.

“I think I am 2000 richer.”

Santiago wagged his finger and turned to leave, speaking over his shoulder to the man, “hahaha, we shall see. We shall see.”

____

Pain erupted as his wrist buckled. He shot over the bull and was thrown about between the horns. Rolled over the back and then dumped onto the dirt. He swore. Coughed blood. And crawled. He stumbled and scrambled to his feet, slipping on the sand and then staggering towards his assistant, left hand out held.

His sword stood broken in the sand and the bull stood and snorted and did not charge.

“Sword, give me a damn sword!” he took it in his left and placed it in his right and forced the fingers closed around it, his fingers bulbous. He looked down the sword and charged again. The sword broke and he went over the horns.

He got up on his right hand and fell again. He got up and limped towards the assistant. He held out his hand for a sword and the assistant shook his head, Matthew slapped him and took the sword, he looked at the crowd, all hunched over, and then said a single word.

“Maria?”

____

“What did he say?” said the husband. The man took off his glasses in anger and turned to him.

“I do not know.”

“It looked like Maria, Maria do you know him?”

“Yes,” she said and her eyes glistened, “yes, I do.”

“Well, who,-Oh my god.”

____

Matthew was broken onto the sand and thrashed about by the bull’s horns. He and it were surrounded by smoke. The banderillos came and ushered the bull away and with the help of his sword he pushed himself back onto his feet. It charged then and tossed him over it’s back. He landed in a heap and got up again. He saw the bull’s left ear twitch and stood up straight, it charged and he folded away and placed the blade in it’s throat. It crashed to the floor and then stood again, stood on wobbling legs, it tried to charge but couldn’t and it stood screaming, weak and unable.

Matthew limped away, throwing the sword so it bounced off the sand and clutching his gut with his good hand, he staggered out of the arena. He came out into a street market, placed on a cobbled hill. Fruit stalls stood and no one was about. He limped further and then tottered and leaned against a wall, breathing deep long breathes, he tried to walk again and crashed into a stall of apricots, he lay there whilst fruit rolled away and wobbled in the cobbled cracks. He lay there bloodshod as the sound of running boots echoed.

____

The bull dribbled blood and the husband looked away only to see Maria gone, he left the three sitting there.

“There was something under it’s skin, some sort of metal plate or something, somebody must have placed it last night,” said the man with his glasses off.

“Yes, the sword didn’t even go in,” said the boy, not smiling, not at all.

“Nothing could break a sword but some sort of metal,” said the man now shining his glasses.

“Someone will be rich tomorrow,” said the old man.

“What?” said the boy and the man both.

“It has to be some betting firm, nobody who loved the art would have done that?”

____

She knelt before him. He was bloody and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. He touched her cheek with his broken hand.

“Death delivers you back to me.”

She shook her head and wept.

“How was I?”

“You were a fool.”

“I saw you before I died.”

“Your not dead yet.” He looked around and picked up an apricot, then he looked back at her.

“Is this not heaven?”

“No, no, not at all.” He nodded and noticed the ring.

“Is he still a good man?”

“Yes, he is a kind man.”

“He forgave you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good, I was foolish to try.”

“I was foolish to let you.” He smiled.

“Mistakes are what makes us.”

She wept into her hands and he reached round and patted her back and at some point the patting stopped.

8:12am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9L_4ef
September 10, 2011
Boy in Africa.

Look, look at the boy. Look at the him sleeping by the lonely Acacia tree. Look at his tanned skin. Look at his pale palms with dark lines across them. Look at the Arsenal top he wears and watch him wake from under the hat. The straw makes his brow itch but he likes the hat. He likes the pool before him and he likes the antelopes that drink from it. He likes their little horns and he likes that when they drink they look as if they are kissing another antelope in another land. He likes the sun and the Acacia tree and the red sand and he likes the adobe hut he lives in. The hut is all on stilts and sat on the water and his Muder, that is how she said it ‘Muder’ ‘Muder and Fuder’, his Muder and Fuder were shouting at the Antelopes and they were laughing at them doing little impressions of them bolting and running. They had lines from the laughter all across their faces and they were old and his father is a fisherman but his father had no luck and even less fish and they all lived together. Lived in the hut which had a roof that is only a corrugated bit of iron and they would huddle under it when the rain made craters in the sand and his father would tell silly stories and his mother would tell him to shut up and they would all laugh together.

8:11am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9Lz_GQ
(Notes: 1)
  
September 10, 2011
The Lake

Nothing but the grind of oar in row lock in the stillness and the mist of the lake. He fishes in the skiff, bent to the prow, white paint peeling to show the bare pine beneath. At midday, he sits on the hill, rifle across his lap, and watches grey birds spiral. The wind wails across patchwork plains. By afternoon, he sits in the cabin, plucking birds and skinning fish, the coal fire burns in the corner. In the dusklight, he reads letters, scribbling outs and ink jots sent from her. She haunts his dreams.

Tomorrow is the same and the day after and the day after. Sitting, rocking on the lake, watching the birds, plucking and skinning, reading by the dusk light. Always, always, the self same urge. Seconds-hours. And months indistinct. That thirst unquenchable.

Autumn leaves of red and gold had fallen whilst she kissed him goodbye and said sorry. Her wedding ring shone new, the buyer stood by the oak tree.

New letters never came. He kills time. Fishing, plucking and reading and reading, just here to breathe, like thousands of others, just part of the cycle, just here to breathe.

He sees another. Winding water from her locks, ripples upon the lake like rings in oak stumps, her body a shadow beneath her white dress, wiry and meek beneath embroided lilies. One day, he sees her crossing the plains beneath the hill, red dress and hair torn about in the wind. One day, he moors the skiff and she stands by the gate.

“You are by my gate.”

“Yes,” she says, “I know.”

“Why are you by my gate?” he looks at the gate as if the answer was there.

“I dunno,” she stands on tip toes and curls hair around her fingertips, she has dimples when she smiles.

He uses her later that night, rolling in the coldness and undisturbed silence of the night. He rolls off and she thanks him and he turns and sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the moon and curses, he sits for too long and she speaks:

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he looks over his shoulder and says, “go to sleep.”

Next comes wandering, nights in cold caves, fires made on damp leaves, harassment by hermits in bear skins, lost in guilt, the torment defiles him, loneliness beseeches him. At some point he returns to the lake. She hangs clothes in a picketed garden and his child, beset with his eyes, roves about with a blue truck, the dry grass imagined jungle. A man, cardigan bound, set like stone, watches from some sullen portico, drinking from a tin cup.

The lake still laps and the grey birds spiral and he knows none still, sat in the cabin reading by the dusklight, reading letters from a face he can no longer remember.

8:10am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9Lzw7b
September 10, 2011
Of the Boy

The waves came up and down the beach, foaming, crashing on that spit of sand. Air saturated with sea salt. After the storm now. No rain or thunder now. After the storm now, hair strewn in the water, jumper damp and heavy. Covered in cockles. Sea weed in his hair. The waves came up and down again, rubbish and planks cresting the waves. Green bottles surfed. The waves came up and up and down again. Stubbled. Sand amongst his hair, hand on beach and hand on seabed. He moaned. His eyes opened, slow, and he heard gulls. The waves came up and down again. Crashed over his head, sprayed spittle. He got up, making hand prints in the damp sand. He Looked to sea, nothing there, nothing there but the wind, howling across the waves, catching sea spray, gulls drifting in it, nothing there but the wind.

Then he looked up at the lighthouse. Stripes of red and stripes of white, ivy coils across it, snaking like fishnets, house of terracotta, soft steaming chimneys, attached by criss crossing wood and nails eroded to rust. It perched upon that blighted isle, cresting out of the waves on some rock of damnation. And by the gate, just built to swing in the sea breeze, stood a man smoking from a pipe. He took it out to speak.

“Are you the only one?” and the man, damp and washed up simply nodded.

Luggage and boxed bottles, crabs perched amongst dark greens, tapping with crustacean curiosity, mussels clung to wrinkled leather in conchin colonies. The pair hauled everything they could, up that slither of path to the terracotta house. Last of all stood a box of red and of iron, shaped as nymphs amongst nettles, buckles wrought from bronze. The lighthouse keeper went to pick it up and the man ushered him away saying, no, no, I will take this one, this one cannot be dropped.

They spoke in the kitchen. The lighthouse keeper had found him dry clothes and they stood drinking soup from mugs.

“You will have to stay.”

“I could call someone, do you have a phone?” The lighthouse keeper shook his head, “no telegraph or anything?” his head continued to shake, he says:

“Only post. A postman comes once a week. You will have to stay till he comes.”

“Where can I stay? Where can I work?”

“You could sleep here, but there is more room in the cellar, the cellar is empty, if you wouldn’t mind it?”

“Excellent. You are kind. I will take the cellar,” he looked over at the boxes and bags, covered in sand, some still dripping, and then back at the man “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Robert. Robert Pike.”

“Thomas Simmons, pleased to meet you,” he held out a hand and smiled, white teeth between pale lips, they shook. Thomas looked around at the shelves of the small kitchen. He frowned, inclining his head.

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“There is no one else?”

“No one.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“No, no. I am past that.”

“I would get lonely, I hate being alone.”

“It is alright.”

“I will endorse you for this,” Robert held up a hand in protest.

“No, please don’t, I have enough money.”

“Not as much as you deserve,” Thomas finished the soup and placed it on the side, he looked at the empty cup, then up at Robert, “Are you sure?” Robert was nodding, Thomas smiled, “Thank you,” he said and took the damp and sand prickled bags to the cellar.

Robert’s day passed as all his days passed, in that destined solitude that only the lovers of the lost suffer. No music played. Empty house wallowing in empty cacophonies, brass and strings silenced forever. Echoes missing. Only the sea, only the sea to hear, only the sea. In the basement bangs and iron outcries. Gone after an hour. He read. Lost in adventures far away, figures of fiction, experiencing façade feelings unfindable. Time dripped away and evening came. He lit the beacon and made dinner, white meat doused in gravy, vegetables of dark green. Him and Thomas sat opposite each other over a small table, candles flickered and the bookcases of ever thumbed volumes danced in shadow.

“Not a chime or a bell in this house, there are no voices, do you always live like this?” Robert looked up from his sawing, across the dancing flames, pirouetting on top of wax podiums. He could see the reclined figure of Thomas, swilling red wine in his wine glass.

“Yes.” Robert went back to his sawing.

“In silence?” Robert stopped again.

“Yes, in silence.”

“You have a piano, do you not play?”

“No, I,” he looked at his plate, glancing up at Thomas once, flashing him a sombre smile. “I used to, I can’t though, she used to to.” Thomas said he was sorry and waited, Robert sawed, knife grating on china now, then Thomas said:

“What do you do?” this time Robert didn’t look up.

“I read, mostly, sometimes I watch the sea.”

“The sea?” Robert placed the knife and fork down on either side of the plate.

“The sea never changes.”

“Do you not want to, well, I don’t know, do you not wish to make an impact, some art, some pock mark on human existence, surely you don’t want to just fade out like this, barely known, just part of the cycle. Do you not want some pock mark you can call yours?”

Robert looked off at the books for a long time.

“No, I see no point to it.”

“No point?”

“Yes, why would I want to create?” He drank from his wine, so long since he’d last drunk, he winced at the bite of it.

“Recognition,” Thomas said.

“Look at how I live, do I live like a man wanting recognition.”

“Still. I’d want something.”

“No, I do not wish to create or change or alter, the world is balanced, the silence is balanced, why risk imbalance?”

“The world may be better for it.”

“What do I care of the world, what do I care of people, my life is lived, I head only towards the grave,” he stood up then, “I am sorry, I will tend to the beacon, I will leave you in peace,” and he left.

He paced about the beacon, the crackling and the heat all about him, waves and waves and waves outstretched before him. He sighed and sat. On the edge, legs dangling, pendulous, he sat till he was calm.

Always the worst, moonlight leaking in through the bedroom window. Blowing out the candles, one by one, as sleep crept, always the worst. Even the gulls silent. He sat on the bed and undressed. He lay. Always the worst. Nothing but him and the stars and her and her and her and the waves coming up and down the beach, up and down the beach, up and down the beach. Beset with petals of red and white, rolling up and down the beach, painting it with petals till the tide line’s red, no fury, as if beset by solemnity, no fury to the waves. White dress clung to her as she slept, waves coming up and down again. Even the gulls silent. Sleep forever more. Only the sound of water, draped over sand. The waves came up and down again, dress clinging like some second skin of cold cold white. Drifted in the waves. Eyes closed, arms crossed. Roses of darkest red and thorns of deepest green roven across her. Hair on the waves. Each strand separate. Damp by the neck, auburn rolled on the waves, the raft rocked, wrist bound, rocked on the waves. And him, always knelt on the sea bed, soaked to the waist, always knelt on the sea bed, still the dampness, not there now, still the waves, the feel of the waves. Not there now.

He awakened. Eyes opened in a passive eruption from that darkness. Loneliness tugged like a knife in his guts. He wiped sleep from his eyes and rolled over. Groping in that space where she used to lay, cold and undisturbed, no crinkles in the bed sheet, no hazy awakening of happiness, no post sleep smile. A seagull, head cocked, watched from the windowsill. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his feet. Purple toes. Always the feel of the waves, nothing else but the waves. He wandered into the kitchen, Thomas was pouring out water.

“Morning,” Thomas said.

“Morning,” Robert said and looked out to sea. The pair stood in silence on chequered kitchen tiles.

“Did you sleep well?” Thomas said. Robert fiddled with the draw. He took his time replying.

“Yes,” Robert said.

“What did you dream about?” auburn rolling on the waves, Robert looked up, he was still waking, he said:

“I never remember my dreams.” beset with petals of red and white.

“I remember mine, of deepest green roven across her, mine was about a circus, there were clowns, and elephants standing one legged, and big tops, three like an alligator, there was pandemonium and a fire and then it changed and that is all I remember.” Robert found a glass and poured water into it.

“Sounds like a good dream,” Robert said.

“It was,” Thomas, smiled, nodded, drank from the water, “do you know there is a psychologist who believes our dreams mean things?”

“Things?”

“They give us an insight into how we feel,” Robert was silent. He held the bridge of his nose in thumb and forefinger, he frowned.

“I am sorry about last night,” Robert said. Thomas comes up to him and pats him on the back.

“It’s fine, mate, it’s fine,” he smiled and left Robert in the kitchen. Placing his cup in the sink as he went he returned to the cellar, his dressing gown is red.

Half two and the rain began. Soft caress at first, ringlets on the still ocean, ever expanding circles. Building to a tempest. Till the ocean danced. Till lightning leapt and thunder sang. Every wave dimpled and riveted. It rose and rose, muttered fury in the billowing of those black clouds. Every window pane streaked with ever flowing waterfalls. The garden was churned to mud, puddles carved into it’s surface, their waters bubbling, leaping in eruptions and geysers aqueous, streams, like tears of the earth eddied and banked to sea. Thomas watched the washing line, caught in forlorn orbit, like some haggard and truncated oak perched on brittle roots subject to the frenzied passion of the storm. He swilled the wine and sat down opposite Robert.

“Will the postman be able to make it in this?” Thomas said. Robert looked up from the carrots and the white meat, looked at the window for an instant and said:

“Yes,” Thomas nodded and smiled. He placed the red wine down on the table.

“I realise, I haven’t told you what I do in your cellar. And I’m sure you have been wondering.”

“I see that it is your business,” Robert finished, taking the last of the white meat, “I respect that what is yours.” Robert spoke whilst chewing.

“You are a humble man, I am however a man of science.” Robert looked up and placed his knife and fork on the plate.

“I am a biologist. I worked in London.”

“Yet, you were on a ship.”

“Yes, I was,” he drank from the wine, Robert’s glass was left empty, left untouched, “I found this in one of the crates,” he said looking into the redness, “Would you like some wine?” he tipped the glass towards Robert as if it would transfer via voluntary osmosis, Robert dismissed it with a hand gesture. Thomas smiled, he continued:

“Yes the boat. The boat was an idea wrought from misfortune and frustration,” he gulped down the last of the wine, half a glass, he began filling it back up again, till the wine crested on the rim and he leant the bottle toward Robert again, “you sure?” Robert nodded. Thomas continued.

“You see I needed to test something, something…” he wound his hand round an invisible loom, winding the word to his lips, “something…different.” he drank and then smiled a boozy smile. Thomas continued.

“You see, I was upon the cusp of success. Something that could change the world. Change the world if the world wasn’t so damn resistant to it,” and he stooped to the glass and lapped up the wine like a cat, “But alas, such is the revolutionist’s plight. You see, I realised I needed money, I needed backing so what do I do, I spend money on parties, I invite woman and men with similar mindsets, with money, governors, dukes, barons and baronesses. Yet still my idea is frowned upon. Advancement is frowned upon. People are hostile to it.” Something like wind played on the walls and thumps echoed.

“Soon, I myself am frowned upon, loathed even, for I can see what they cannot, laws are passed against me, I am run out of London. Run out for a thesis, a movement, a scientific renaissance. Men with sticks and fire come to my house and burn it to the ground. I run. Escape to the sewers, to the countryside.” The thumps continued, louder, louder, on the door frame of the room.

“And now, I gather up materials, I beg, I borrow, I steal. And with what pennies I can procure, with the pittance my bank allows me, me the outlaw, me the thief, me the genius,” louder, louder they called, “I build a ship, ramshackle, built from rust and loose cedar wood. I sail the ocean, for forty days and forty nights. I work. Work upon the ocean, driftwood on the current, nothing but rum and oranges and stale bread to eat. And it works. My plans come to fruition. I am amazed at first at it. I am appalled at it. I am enthralled by it. I take it apart and put it in the box, the box of iron and of red and I prepare for London,” louder louder they sung, “Then this storm, a storm like this one, sent by fate himself to dash me upon these rocks, comes and wrecks me, stealing everything from me, everything I worked for left splintered and wrecked across your shore,” louder, louder, they wailed, “Upon that ship was a single photo, a possession I loved, the only thing I treasured from the land. A frame of sandalwood,” and louder, till the door rattled in it’s hinges, some incessant force trapped behind it, “and it was a picture of my beau, the only woman I have ever loved. All the clichés define her. Hair like black silk and eyes like diamonds. A voice like music, she swallowed her h’s. A laugh like sugar, it twinkled in the breeze. She smiled in the picture. Her smile was clicheless.”

Robert looked at the door, rattling, the knob oscillating, he spoke:

“What’s behind the door?” Thomas turned and looked at the door.

“I think that’s my son,” he said.

Thomas went and unlocked the door. And like clockwork it came.

And like clockwork it came, shambling across the patterns of the carpet, limping over stitched roses purple and embroided nettles blue, arms outstretched and head bound in bandages, like clockwork it came. Dressed in cardigan of grey, shirt of white, tie tied in Windsor knot, socks shown beneath corduroy trousers. Like clockwork it came. Head bound in bandages. Shambling and limping, blood marks on the bandages, blood roses where eyes should be, red tear tracts to the jawline. Like clockwork it came. Head bound in bandages. Thomas took it by the hand, leading it, it’s left arm outstretched, padding along the table legs, finding the chair. It squirmed onto it, legs paddling. It sat. Sat and played with the knifes and the forks.

“Hello,” said Robert to the boy.

“He cannot speak,” Thomas played with the boy’s caramel hair as the boy fiddled with knifes and forks, forks and knifes switched and switched again. “He cannot hear. Cannot do either till he is better.”

“Why, what has happened to him?” the boy found the plate and lead his hands around it till they touched.

“He was injured in the ship wreck,” the boy put the knife and fork on the plate and spun them.

“What’s his name?”

“Joseph, his name is Joseph Simmons,” the boy giggled when the fork struck his fingers.

“You could have told me, I would not have minded.” the boy picked up the knife and fork and made floating actions.

“It did not appear important. I did not want to cause more trouble than I already have.”

“It’s your son.”

“I was distressed,” the boy brought the knife and fork together and they chimed. “I was worried about him. My son, I was worried about my son,” he looked at the boy who was now bringing the knife and fork together over and over. Robert looked at the boy and shook away the troubles with a hand gesture.

“It’s fine, he can go where he wishes.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” over and over, chiming, over and over.

“What?” over and over.

“It’s about the piano,” laughing now, over and over , chiming and laughing, over and over.

“Yes,” over and over.

“I know this is asking a bit much, but, but could you do something for me,” over and over and over.

“Yes,” the chiming and the laughing.

“Joseph, stop that, it’s distracting,” Thomas said and took the knife and fork and dropped them on the floor. He turned to Robert and shifted his hair out of his eye.

“Could you teach him to play? When he can hear. Could you teach him? He is so bored down stairs.”

“Yes, I will teach him.”

“Thank you, your kindness knows no bounds. Now, Thomas and me must go to bed,” And he looked at the boy and ushered silent words upon deaf ears: “Because that’s why your up here, isn’t it?” The head bound in bandages ignored him, Thomas looked at the boy for a long time before he turned to Robert and held up a hand in farewell, “I will see you tomorrow.” And Thomas stood up and took the boy’s hand and lead him, stumbling over the carpet, away.

Night, and dreams whistled in the wind. He heard waves come up and down the beach. Moonlight danced across the sea and dreams of her haunted the starless night. Dreams of flowers and dreams of her. Of waves coming up and down the beach. Of white lilies and red roses. He lay alone, hand in tight fist beside his eyes, as if they could hold the sadness, hold what was left of her. Alone in deeper darkness. Eyes clamped shut in despair, clamped shut till the skin creases. Hopelessness. Alone against the tide of fate, trapped in deeper darkness. White lilies and red roses. Hopeless to change the ebb and flow of fortune, waves came up and down the beach, cold guesswork crashed against him, alone in deeper darkness, chanting questions answer less, eyes clamped shut in deeper darkness, saying, why? why? no answer. Never an answer. Hopelessness. No answer. Memories pure as air, no answer. White lilies and red roses. Eyes clamped shut in despair, alone in deeper darkness. Forlorn, he found photos of her, locked away in the third draw down, key hidden under the floorboards. Still the crash of waves, still the caress of sea breeze. He shuffled through the smiles and the sunlight. White lilies and red roses. Old forests and remembered retreats. Sat in bedsheets, cold passenger of time dragged second by second away, unable to resist, sat and looked, unable to fight, unable to forget, sat and looked at the ocean.

“I dreamed of circuses again,” Robert opened his eyes and looked up from the coffee, bubbles still swirling where it was freshly stirred. That burnt toast smell. That jam smell. That crunch as Thomas ate. The sun so bright in the window it made Robert squint.

“Thank you,” Robert said and drank. “Same dream?”

“Yes, but I was ringmaster. There was pandemonium. But I was ringmaster.”

“What would the psychologist say about it?” Robert sat back and wiped his eyes. Still sleepy. Always sleepy.

“Something about showmanship,” Thomas said. There was toast on the table and Robert took a piece, smeared butter on it, little flicks of black burntness sprung from under the knife. The knife made raking sounds. Robert looked up from his workmanship, he spoke:

“And, are you a showman?” Thomas looked out to sea. There was silence for a long time. The question seemed to register, as if it was filtered through some gluttonous medium. Thomas’ eyes drifted back to Robert.

Thomas said: “The boy is ready.”

Thomas looked down at his right hand, perched on the white shirted shoulder of the boy. The bandages were gone. Only the bob of bowl cut visible above the table. Robert sat up. The bob stopped just before the eyebrows, stains of black above blue eyes, The boy fiddled with the blue and white of his tie, a look of ignorance and innocence on his face as if every new breath was a discovery. He had freckles. They began with three blind mice.

Evening, and the boy’s hands were wrapped in bandage now, thin lines of purple and pink at the wrist, Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair as they ate. The boy stayed silent. Expressionless.

“How did he hurt his hands?” Robert said. Memories of him and her, of music, fingers dancing like light across water, of smiles shared, him and her, simple togetherness, her teeth so white between pink lips, sunlight like fire on her auburn.

“He fell down the stairs.” said Thomas. The boy had stood there just watching as Robert cleared off the dust and the cobwebs, sending grape sized spiders scuttling. He opened the lid and ran his hand over the keys, holding back the memories like a dam. He’d had to pick the boy up and place him on the seat. The boy was nervous at first, not wanting to touch the keys, jumping at every jaunty note. He started slow, copying, then they’d began to play together, Thomas had been watching and when he spoke, just, that sounds good, the boy jolted and stopped.

“They weren’t broken were they?” said Robert. Thomas stood over the piano, leaning on the matt black, sipping from hot tea, the boy missing notes, and Thomas saying, chanting, why does he miss?

“There is nothing broke.” then the first hit had come, knocking the boy from the seat, as if it was the boy’s fault, as if he should know better, Thomas standing there, imperator, cracking his knuckles, the tea sat on the matt black, and the boy, scrambling, feet scuffing the carpet as Thomas advanced, Robert saying, it’s his hands, just his hands, he’ll change, he’ll change, he has thick hands, he’ll change, and Thomas shot a look that spoke of madness, turning and picking up the boy’s collar and the boy torn across the room to the basement.

“It’s just his hands.”

“I know it.”

“He’ll change.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“No.”

“You are ignorant,” and he left Robert alone in the silence.

Robert stood by the beacon, guiding ships away from his blighted isle. Flames lapped and crackled in the wind. Sparks flowed like fire flies from their tips. Smell of burnt wood, smell of billowing black smoke. No gulls called. Only the sound of the waves, draped over sand and shingle. All alone in his overcoat. Nothing but the waves. Alone with the moon, licks of cloud across it. Always the waves. Alone with his thoughts, thoughts of the boy, of the pink and purple at his wrist. Fell down the stairs? He looked down at his garden, grass tickled teal by the moonlight, at the slide and the empty swings, creaking as the wind played. No children. Fell down the stairs? At the washing line, at the white picket fence, a little ring around his little empire. And at the sun decks, memories of holding hands in the sunshine, of smiles, of polo shirts and lemonade, two for just one.

The grass spent all it’s days leaping towards the sun. It Caressed the underside of the decaying swings, drowning the playground in ever shifting strands, red rust and picket fences flooded. Tall enough for the boy to populate with unseen imaginings, wondrous monsters, sickly heroes, Indians and lions and sabre tooth tigers, poisonous frogs and polar bears, dragons with forty teeth and witches with none, all made from nothing, nothing at all. Thomas had been there since the blood red dawn, sapphire clouds sullen, billowing gulls black. Running his hand through the grass, watching the boy whoop and shout. The grass tickled. He had his knees tucked to his chest, grasping them, one-handed – two-handed, as if some unseen force could steal them from him. Robert found him at midday.

Robert sat on the other sun deck. Thomas held his jacket tight against the cold. Thomas didn’t look up when he spoke, just nodded towards the sea, “I think that’s where London is,” and seemed to stare vacantly towards the sea, stretching on and on, waves white tipped. Spittle sprays, carried to them on the wind. Rolling on and on. Sunlight gasped in rays of purest white.

“I want to be back there.”

“How long have you been outside?” Thomas looked at him, his eyes ringed in red and red themselves, tear marks on his cheeks, he pointed at the boy. His hair wild in the wind. His knuckles purple and his hand trembled as he ran it through his hair, he pointed to the boy.

“Since the boy asked to come out. He tugged on my arm till I came,” the boy was running around like a bird, giggling as he made bird noises. Robert watched. Thomas went back to watching the sea, Robert had not the heart to tell him London was behind them.

“The sea never changes,” Thomas said.

“No. It doesn’t,” Robert played idly with a blade of grass. “I like it. It’s constant. I miss constants.”

“No,” the boy was a lion now, stomping in the mud, “I hate it,” Thomas said, “I feel so lonely.” He looked at Robert his eyes so bloodshot, so red and so bloodshot. “So isolated, the sea makes me feel like a speck, no one listens to me, no one cares, I just wanted to be adored.”

“You have a son.” Robert said. Thomas shook his head, a tear plunged into the grassy depths.

“He cannot speak, I want to be adored and I cannot make him speak.”

“You have yourself.”

“He’s terrible company.” The pair sat in silence.

Thomas ran his hand through the grass again, “How do you do it? How do you sit here in all your solitude and not feel meaningless?” Robert didn’t answer.

“How long till I can go home?” Thomas said, “I need to show the world what I have done.” Robert looked at the boy, seeming to dig and uncover something. He looked at Thomas.

“Tomorrow, you go tomorrow.” The boy came, holding a kite of orange. His hands so white and so crisp against the canvas, no freckles any more, the tail trailing across the sea of grass, no freckles any more, serpentine in the wind. Thomas got up and took the kite and Robert watched the boy’s hands, no freckles any more. He sat waiting till the pair played by the picket fence.

Echoes of the world changing, whisperings of rocks shifting over one another, as Robert made his way into the bowels of the Earth. Dripping stalagmites and creaking book shelves. He pawed about for a candle and found none. Trapped in deeper darkness. Beset with white lilies and red roses. He could feel the paving slabs, the cold and the damp seeping through his socks. The Earth ground around him. He pried free a candle, jammed in a brazen holder. He lit it.

The room erupted into light and shadow, puddles reflected him, the shadows danced. He looked around, saw the unmade bed, saw the makeshift bed for the boy. The earth seemed to whisper as he plunged into deeper darkness. Beset with lilies and red roses. Deeper now, bookshelves now. They towered, volumes of leather cracked and creased, smell of damp pages, smell of the Earth, of water on rocks, bookshelves of oak and pine, adorned with Iron candle holders shaped like lions and cold candles frozen mid melt, statuesque, so long since last lit. She was here last. Beset with white lilies and red roses. He moved onwards, creeping past memories in the cracks and the corners. Expeditions of knowledge. Inquisition making them delve into the depths. Arguments solved and agreements met. He stumbled upon Thomas’ workbench and stood indecisive.

It stood like Cereberus. Made of iron and of red, carved nymphs danced across it’s surface. Bronze clasps held its secrets. Knifes and other instruments sat around, all coated with the same substance, bloodied fingerprints on their handles. The desk stained with blood. He listened. Nothing, nothing but the sound of drips dropping and the ever grinding Earth. He clawed in another breath and unlocked the thing.

They sat like broken puzzle pieces, all atop one another, torn up and laid about, young parts, sullen skin, a head with eyes missing, fingers with fingernails missing, arms with hands missing, all bloodied and all taken apart, organs, intestines strewn. All the faces so shocked. Bits tailored to whatever need. Pale skin, shrunken, tight across the bones. Packed in like travelling goods. Everything rotten, decayed or bloated. All the faces so shocked. Skin so pale. He closed the lid, iron upon iron echoed, he sat. His hands trembled. Upon the desk sat a pair of hands covered in freckles, hack marks at the wrist.

Mist cloaked the water. Sound of gulls. The waves crashed and ebbed, black and orginless, bubbling over the leather of Robert’s boots. White sands, washed up bottles. By himself, skimming pebbles into the fog. Purple and brown orbs bounded over that black medium. The surface is broken into ring columns. Columns of four, five this time, three the next. Was it right? Was what he was about to do right? Four rings, opening, crested upon one another. Was it right? Six, pebble popped out of sight, droplets in it’s place. The pieces belong elsewhere, it had no right to be. He picked another pebble, smooth, cold in the misty air. Yet it was. It had no right to be. He threw and managed seven.

“It’s okay.” Robert said. “Hush now, quiet now.” he said. “It’s okay. Quiet now. Quiet now. Hush now.” Man and boy collapsed by the cupboards. By the under sink. Boot squeaks and stifled screams. The boy’s legs kicked, catching on the chequered tiles of the kitchen. Black scuff marks. The boy beat with his fist, slamming the back of his head against the man. Hand across his youthful mouth, stifled screams, thick arm held his throat in place. Robert reached for the razor on the side, pawing on the marble worktop, he grasped it and the boys black pupils watched as the man prepared to cut. Turning the boy’s head till the pale neck shows. The boy pawed at the blade. Cuts opened. His hands are smeared with blood. He pulled his head away, struggling. Pushed the blade away, another cut in the pale palm, pushed the blade away again. Tears now. Moaning now. He bit into the hand clamped at his mouth, Robert drew the blade. Dripping blood smile. He dug in deeper, opening up whatever he can. Still pawing, still pushing. White neck carved. Blood came with every heart beat. Blood squirted and poured. Gushed over his hand. Covered the checkers, fountaining over his hand. The boy gasped now, thrashing with his fists, hands grasped at the blood smile on his neck. Tears on white cheeks. Tears with the blood. Brow furrowed. White neck carved. His feet kicked. His fists pound. They died out, losing power with every heartbeat, he beat at the man till he can no longer. Eyes, red rimmed from tears, roll away, white replaces black pupil, spittle and froth come to his lips, his cheeks are covered in the droplets as he trembled. Robert let the boy slide from him and got up, trying to wipe the blood from him. Too much. The boy lay there trembling. Robert slipped and scrambled to the sinks. The razor slipped and rattled around the basin where cups with spots sat. He can hear the boy trembling, moaning as the last few pints flow from him. Robert looked over his shoulder to see the boy in the blood. Hand in tight fist slowly uncoiled, blooming like a lotus flower. Little lines of claret ran in the rivets between the tiles. He picked up the knife from the sink and washed it, dark deluge, dilute blood orange like blood, seeping away. He turned and steped over the boy, still moaning, still shuddering. He took the stairs two at at time. Only half the deed done. He needed to change, needed to summon the will. Only half the deed done.

A crash and then a drumbeat of feet on stairs, Robert brought the door to, and locked it, jamming a chair under the knob, hands and fists pound against the frame, making it shake, the door knob rattling, Robert pushed his chest of draws against the door and then sat holding it their with his weight.

“What have you done?” Thomas said, “You do not know what you have done. Why the boy? What have you done, my work, what have you done? Open up. Open this door.” The pounding stopped and then a rush of steps echoed and the door shook. “Why? Why? I worked so hard. I worked so hard, I worked so hard, how dare you take this from me? Take that opus, that life work, what gives you the right? What gives anyone the right? Why do you judge me? Why do you judge me?” The sounds of tears and sadness as the fists stopped. One last thud and then silence, sobs of why? why?

“We humans crave each other so much. So afraid to be alone, to be rejected. We cannot face the notion of hate, of despisement, we push and force ourselves on each other. We are interconnected yet so alone. And then you, you take from me, my boy, my child. I hate you. My one chance to be loved and you take it from me. Humans hate me, do you hear me? Humans hate me.”

Fists and hands flew at the door again. He stopped and sobbed.

“I am the one to make the first move, I grow so tired of this. I wait and I wait. No one wishes to speak to me. No one cares. I am repulsive. I hide nothing and I am repulsive. I try to please you, I try so hard. There is no evil behind this smile. No one returns the favour, no one is there for me, no one wants me there. I beg. No one wants me there. Ever wondered what I think? What I want? What I need? How my day went? Why don’t you care? Why does she find it so hard to care? Why am I having to pour out these emotions? I can’t be the only one like this? I can’t believe your all fine? I can’t believe your all okay? Why aren’t you like this? Why aren’t you worried your the only one? Why are you all tottering away nicely? Why can’t I totter away? Why aren’t you worried that I’m not tottering away? Why aren’t you inviting me to totter along with you? Why? Why? Why? Why do I exist? Why do you exist? Why do any of us exist if we’re so purposeless? I can’t sleep at night. Can she sleep at night? Does she wonder why I can’t sleep at night? I can’t sleep because I wonder whether she’s asleep at night. Does anybody miss me? Does anybody care? I can’t remember the last time someone wanted a conversation with me? I can’t remember the last time anyone cared? I can’t remember the last time someone said my name? I hide this, hide this because else it will drive you all away, hide the demons and the devil within me. She still doesn’t talk to me. Should I just give up? Your still not talking to me. How long have I been here pounded this door. Why can’t I function? Why does no one care? Why does no one say, oh Thomas you look a bit down today? Is something the matter? All I want is someone to wonder whether something is the matter. Why does no one care? You still haven’t talked to me, do I repulse you. Do I make you sick? Is that it? I make you and her and everyone else sick? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Is no one else like this? Is no one like this? Why don’t you speak up? Why are you all such idiots? Why does no one care? I hate you all. Do you not know of solitude. What am I? What is the point? She is still here, does she not care, I am here, I’m obviously here for her. I hate you. You know I hate you. Was I ever truly happy. When was I happy last? Why can’t I feel better? Why? Tears now, what’s this, tears now. Tears now, a dislike of myself. Why tears now? Why does no one care? Oh she likes me, your an idiot, she never liked you. I hate you. Open up this door. Open up this door. I hate you.”

He chanted ‘i hate you’ till he grew tired and silence swept like a tide over that blighted isle. Robert sat looking at himself in the mirror, still covered in blood, hands still trembling. Was it right? Only half the deed was done. The first stone came, bouncing off the window. Then another, then another. He crossed the room and looked out. Thomas was standing in the garden, a bloody trail left across the stalks of grass, waving red serpent in the wind. The boy’s hand, pale white, tight within his. The corpse covered in mud, one hand in his, blackened, bruised purple. He was calling to Robert. Robert shut the curtains and sat on the bed.

Night came like a retort, and Robert lay wide eyed on the bed. Wind whistled and the waves came up and down the beach. Boy trembled on the kitchen tiles. Every patch of darkness a home for that echoed memory, every shadow a memento of guilt. He didn’t sleep. Dawn came, sun rising lazily from the ocean.

He listened to the door for some whispering of movement. None comes and he unlocks it. The stairs creak as he entered the room they ate in. The garden door lay open and stalks of green grass pawed at the white frame. Distant gulls called from across the ocean. The table cloth billowed in the breeze, a chair is overturned, another stood alone in the centre of the room, and two books lay open by the blood trail. It lead to the basement. The house is silent, nothing but the faint crash of waves.

The door is unlocked and swayed open at the mere suggestion of his hand. He descended, all the candles are lit, the blood trail snaked across paving slabs, running deeper into the darkness. He descended by fluttering candlelight.

He found the man and the boy bathed in blood. The pine of the workbench painted red. Throat stitched closed and, by books on animals, a heart lays discarded, it beats no more, grey now, boy sized. Thomas lay, hand on paving slab and hand on workbench. Not an organ in place, intestines and guts slewed about. Heart self detached, clinging on by venous chords, torn from it’s cage. Dried tears on his cheeks. Scalpel in his hand.

Robert built a raft from chipped driftwood at noon. Man, boy and bundle of bits all bound by worn string, tawny and frayed. All lay there rotten. The man still clung to boy, to it. Choppy wind and gentle rain as he prayed for the man, prayed to the howling wind and the pounding rain. He knelt, trousers damp as waves came up and down the beach. Red roses and white lillies. Just a raft of sin, a collage of life, just food for carrion.

8:09am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9LztlH
September 10, 2011
The Fall of Damien Rants.

Rain. Running upon conservatory window panes, droplets from broken guttering. Inside only typewriter. Words streamed. Images of blackcurrants and winter time and half made oak fires and hatred. Purest of all. Hatred. Of loneliness. Of lovelessness. Writing to get away. He was trapped here, the ring on his finger, worn to brass where he typed, hanging like some stench over everything, everything he did. She was upstairs, upstairs writing or painting or whatever she was doing today. Staring at the paper. She’d never write like he did, never. Trying to write like he did. Trying to write. Trying to write anything at all. One day, one day. She couldn’t. Just staring at the paper. Day- dreaming. Putting it off. Another task, re make the bed, anything but put another word down. Look out of the window for another five. River dimpled in the rain. Reeds and kingfishers. Still nothing. She pours another glass of water, steps out onto the terraced balcony and stands beneath pink and white parasols, rain drops like curtains of diamond all around her. She finds another book and sits. April rain, humid air. Satisfaction. No need to improve. All is reached. No need to do. All is done. Just the want and the need to be. To be with this and it. She’d be Sitting on the balcony She’d be blocked, she’d be unable. Another book to read. Ha, to be static, to be held in check ‘I pity the fool who’s satisfied, I pity the man who cannot advance.’ To be with just her. To act like nothing is wrong, nothing at all, as if you were meant, built, constructed, suited, that way. Pieces in a puzzle. She catalysed his anger, she forced pen to paper. Strawberries at sunset and blackberries on the beach. Soft laughter, easy smiles. Lying by the water side,watching people go by. Time fleeing. As if anything mattered but that, as if travelling, or thought, or money mattered more. The cold touch of his hand in wintertime. The sting of stubble. His smile, his voice. As if anything mattered but that. She watched kingfishers pick their way through the reeds. Days in cafés. Days dragged out in cafés. Wasting the time, chipping it off by second, by minute, by hour, like sculptors aimless. Always the same café. Always the same place with it’s green paint peeling. They’d always go there, to the café where they shared their first kiss. Always hot chocolate, two sugars and just water for Damien.

8:09am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9LzqkL
September 10, 2011
La niña con la flor roja: or, The little girl with the red flower.

Mexico city station is big and almost all red. It’s platform pillars are painted by red brush strokes, so big the tips of the red crenelations shine in the sun. There is a ticket booth and almost three restaurants. And Pablo Caesar worked in the rail yard. He was the man who checked the coupling on the freight trains and his hands were black from it. His back hurt, but he went about his work whistling and, one day, whilst whistling, he found a dead girl.

Her white dress billowed westward, and, with it’s embroidery and it’s black blotches made from the soot, it looked like the wing of some dalmatian bird. Strapped to her back were paper mache wings, cracked and broken to pieces now. One of her feet was twisted upwards and a bone stuck out of her right arm. A little red flower flapped and leapt from her hand, spiralling away in the wind. Pablo didn’t know what to do, so he did what any Mexican man would do and called a priest.

The priest came tottering across the stones blackened by day after day of passing freight cars. His robes and necklaces flung themselves about his person. He smiled when he saw Pablo, standing by one of the freight cars and wringing his little rail worker hat in his black Mexican hands. Pablo lead the bearded priest round the freight car and when the priest saw the girl his hand shot to his mouth. He said something about angels and went behind the freight car again.

Pablo found the priest with his hands on his knees and white spittle hanging from his lips. The priest said something else about angels and put one hand on the freight car. The priest shook his head and then stood up. He straightened his robes. He knew what to do.

The constable was a portly man who’d been working behind a desk for three years and knew exactly what to do as well. It had been raining and he’d donned his cape at twelve and now it had little droplets on it. When he came across the tracks with his two sub-ordinates and saw the drenched Pablo, he said, “What is the matter?” and Pablo pointed to the girl. The constable nodded and smiled and said, “It is alright to be afraid.” and then gave Pablo a cup of watery coffee.

The constable came up to the girl, and after doing some measurements and checking the girl’s pockets, he told his usual joke, “Well! She’s dead alright!” and his two sub-ordinates laughed.

After three more cups of coffee in a Mexican café, where the windows were almost opaque from dust and grime and the waitress was too big to fit between the tables, the constable decided that it was time to identify the girl.

The word went round and the mother came down to the tracks. She was sick and she still wore her hospital gown and every so often a tiny Mexican man with a hospital uniform tried to stop her from her march. She came up to Pablo and said, “Well, where is she? Is it my Maria?” and Pablo, who’d yet to drink his coffee, simply pointed. She screamed and dashed the tiny Mexican aside and screamed some more.

“Maria! Maria!” she said and collapsed by the tracks, with her hair in her hands and hard shaking tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. “Why has no one moved her? Why is she still here? Why is she so dirty? Why has no one moved her?”

The constable came out of the café then. With his cape billowing in the wind and a pocket watch in his hand, he said: “Madame. Is this your daughter?”

“Yes! Yes! It is my daughter. Why has no one moved her! Oh Maria! Maria!” and she lay down in her hospital gown and held the white dress in her hand and wept into it like a rag and she shook all over and the dress shook in her hand as she dragged it from her eyes to her lips and back again. The constable said: “Madame. Could you answer some questions?”

She said something to Maria.

“What did she last say to you?”

“Maria. What did she last say? What did she last say!” she shook her wet face. “She came to see me. She’d already made the wings. She told me how she was to become an angel and save me.” Then the mother sat up and looked at Maria. She shook her head and then wept into her hands.

“I am sure she is with the angels now,” the constable said.

The mother spat then.

“Thank you constable, thank you for telling me I shall live on due to my dead daughter. Oh thank you, constable. Thank you for that. Thank you!” and she spat at his boot and lay there for a long time.

8:02am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZhNwQx9LzOAr