Tuesday, January 31, 2006

All in Clover

First, it is winter. The cold and the white of the brick seems to hold them as it surrounds them. It is night time, too, in the winter, and they are fighting, slowly, against the cold. If you look closely you can trace the gasp of fight in what is left of their eyes. In what remains of their fingertips.

They were different once to what they are now. They wore yellow blue red ribbons which they tied tight beneath their throats. They grew eyelashes and fingernails and painted them all. In certain lights, by certain stars, they were enough to take some breath. Their knees held them true and kept them away from the push of brick walls. On their feet they carried the true price of love.

They were once of colour and once of life. They were a something fixture around the town. We looked for them there and always found them there. In the mornings they caught the light and took a little for themselves. The darkness crept respectfully around them. As they moved too quickly for it anyway.

Main Street, the town hall, the post office, the laundrette, the grocery store, the enormous shout of the day. The barbershop with a cracked mug for every name. The creak of the signs and the shadows from the signs. The graveyard on the hill. Its presence noted from the windows of the trains. They were caught beneath the threat of machinery, the wires scoring the horizon. They held tight against the shudder of blue overalls at the back of the tearoom. Slow, dim-witted men holding too tight to their teaspoons and talking too high above the rumble of the morning’s headlines.

And these two who were never in eyeglasses. Who wore neither grey stockings that shrank from their thighs. Who avoided the wrap of grey wool, sodden and heavy, with its dousing of fire. Who neither fastened misremembered buttons, nor felt the sad cut of the cheapest cloth. Who found nothing in the tucks of their pockets. Who felt nothing even as they cried through it all.

But they were, for one night only, Easter floral and wee bonnie buttons. Masks. Never mind the cigarette butts against the black of the floor. Or their polished shoes illuminating their faces above. Arm in arm as they stood oblivious to the river crawling slowly behind them. The river that cast its shadows to the edge, boxing them in. Capturing them, for one night only, for once and for all.

Behind them, the stagger of a doorway. As they gazed ahead, smiling even, oblivious to the water, the fag ends, the fall of the brickwork, the stains, the slicks. The empty doorway that they didn’t notice, because there was no reason to notice, no reason to turn around. Empty doorways, locked doors. Who really walks through them?

Maybe it was because. Just because.

But they stand there now, immoveable, fixed. They are a walk from one end of the town to the other. Push them and they would not fall. The shadows hold them tall.

Monday, January 30, 2006

The Youth Racket

The youth racket was a racket alright.

The youth racket was formed, first of all, in the morning. As early as possible for the morning. Like a second past midnight or something. It gave us time to collapse and reform at least twenty-nine times that morning. We were able to make that formed-in-the-morning claim.

By the afternoon, they were on to us.

The youth racket, to begin with, was blessed with all kinds of laudable aims and objectives. We had plans to donate to, and work for, a wide variety of charities. Good charities. People charities. In the end, however, it all came to nothing. We couldn’t, as they say, get our shit together.

By early afternoon our demise was a foregone conclusion.

But salvation of a sort came to us long before the sun sank into the floor. A big fellow. All muscle and tupelo. A man of few words and many crazy hand gestures. From his digits we learned how best to rescue the youth racket. How to make the youth racket work best for us.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

The Powers

How did you get on with your powers? Did they put them on hold?

On hold, yes. They tell me: no flying no more.

Did you protest?

What?

Protest. Did you argue with them?

I said they are bad for not letting me fly. I said that if I don’t fly I will ruin my best costume that has to have the air. It is no good. I have to leave my costume in wind tunnel instead.

Does your costume have powers of its own?

No powers, no. It is my costume. Made from wool.

Wool?

Wool, yes. Stretchy.

Lycra?

Like that, yes.

Why does your costume need air?

To stop stink. Smells.

To stop it from smelling?

Yes. Bad smells. Terrible smells. I wear it sometimes for a long time, without change. And then bad smells. If I fly, the smells go.

You don’t always fly?

Fly? Yes, I fly.

All the time?

No, not all the time. It is too - too exhausting. I get very tired sometimes, when I am too long in the air.

You have to be careful? So you don’t fall?

Six times I have fallen. When I was a younger man. Now I have learned. I take it easy. I fly only when I need to fly.

When you are chasing flying villains?

Sometimes. Or when I am saving people from, you know, burning buildings. Or airships.

You have the strength to carry people when you fly?

Two. Two people. One under each arm. Here and here.

And you fly back for the rest, if there are more?

No. I am too tired then. Two is all.

So you have to choose who to save?

Yes. First the children, if there are children. Then women. It is heartbreaking to choose sometimes, when I have to leave others behind.

I imagine it is, yes.

Sometimes I try to take more. But it is no good. Once I dropped them. Four of them. So it is much better to save two than none at all.

What other powers do you have?

Yes, I have other powers. They say I can use them sometimes. At night only.

And what are they, your other powers?

I see things. In the future and in the past. And I am strong and can fight very well. I can leap very high and also climb up walls. I see in the dark and can throw big fire balls. I am very good at fighting and hurting people.

Who do you fight?

Bad people. Very bad people. Murderers. Gangsters. Those kinds of people.

Not super villains?

Sometimes super villains. But not many now. They are all dead. The Scab. Frankie Fist. The Moon Walker. Killerwatt. Jonesy. Spy Spy. The Tuckler. Misshape. Mr Villainy. The Red Spot. Black Berry. Cap Zap. All dead.

Was it you?

Yes.

I mean, was it you who killed them?

Yes. I got very tired fighting them. They were very bad people.

And you had no qualms about killing them?

Mostly I strangled them so they could not breathe. Except for The Bull. A very big neck. I killed him with my fire balls.

Didn’t they blame The Fast Furnace for that?

Yes. But it was me. He was on fire for a long time. A horrible smell - in my costume, everywhere. And The Red Streak. I also could not strangle him. He was too fast for me to catch.

As I recall, he was decapitated.

Yes. With my wire.

And you have no qualms about any of these killings - these murders?

Qualms?

You don’t feel guilty at all?

Guilty? No. I was not guilty. They were guilty. Like I said, very bad people.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

The Brackenheit Fly

There are, at least, and at last count (not including the oval variety, or the short green cylinders, and discarding the data collated from the Sundial Entomological Bank [with the notable exception of the esteemed Yellow Press data], as well as the information taken from the insect index, excluding the Gotberg Pine appendix) around three hundred and fifty longstrung balls nestling within the lower abdomen of the Brackenheit Fly.

Found within the eastern region of the Gitchlan Valley, just south of the Bolturn Range, the Brackenheit Fly is celebrated for its brightly coloured wings which, at their fullest span, reach to an incredible nine inches, having the effect of making the fly appear considerably bigger than it actually is - an illusion that has earned the insect the epithet ‘Jiglanflune’ (Giant Fly) among the peoples of the Gitchlan Valley.

Named after Rudolf Johann Brackenheit, the Austrian entomologist who first discovered and classified the species in the latter part of the nineteenth century, the Brackenheit Fly stands apart from other, similar, types of flying insects by way of the strange, high-pitched wailing sound it emits while in flight, particularly during descent, in times of distress and during those apparently brief, but frequently recurring moments when the fly feels lonely and unloved.

Perhaps the most unusual characteristic of the Brackenheit Fly, however (and one that has been overlooked by generations of entomologists), is its unerring, unwavering ability to find its way back to its nest, no matter how far or convoluted its travels may have been and regardless of whether it has received the required liquid nourishment one might reasonably expect a flying insect of this type to have taken in.

To the peoples of the Gitchlan Valley, the Brackenheit Fly is something of an icon, its image adorning all manner of religious and secular paraphernalia, the most outstanding occurrence of which is a crudely rendered likeness of the fly above the entrance to the Great Bashlan Church where its enormous wingspan has been used to form what, on first sight, appears to be an approximation of the Christian crucifix.

The Brackenheit Fly is most visible during the summer months on account of its as yet unexplained craving for light, something that is in plentiful supply in and around the Gitchlan Valley between March and August when the brightness of the sun is strong enough to bleach the grass and cause permanent blindness to those who are foolhardy enough to gaze up into the sky without the protection of sunglasses.

Although many attempts have been made to breed the Brackenheit Fly outside of its natural habitat (most usually in Europe), none have been successful due to the fact that the insect’s reproductive organs seem to be specifically attuned to the particular and unusual qualities of the heavy air found in the Gitchlan Valley which is notable for its high density of iron, carbohydrates, snow, moltrains, cusk and the scent of passing strangers.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Drive Right Through

Thumpety Tarp, on balance, took the view, in the end, that hanging about outside the school gates was something he really shouldn’t do. Especially not with all those parents and teachers watching.

But sure, gentle Thumpety, who meant no one no harm never, was persuaded by his social worker that his time might be better spent persuading others, of similar tides and fancies, to also stay away from gates and potential danger zones. Not just school gates you see. It was the gates was what it was - not the things they kept inside.

School gates though, and certain old factory gates, you can see them any time you like. Wrought iron arches and extravagant twists of delusion. They reach. The first lurch as they swing but always the drag. Those gates you have to push real hard. Go on now, Spider, give them big old gates a big old push!

Beneath the certainty of those gates, holes. And lost coins.

Thumpety Tarp, the kind of weirdo and spencer you see on the pavements in the daytime, was a Roly dressed in blue. In his inside pockets he carried a notebook and pen, a digital camera, a small tin of vaseline for his dry pink lips, and a butterball notion of red, yellow and blue. It was this last item, turned as it had since its long ago freshness, that provided Thumpety with the singular odour and peculiar hue that marked him out as a distinctive Roly of remarkably large proportions. He liked gates, this Thumpety, and he didn’t much care who knew it. Stay away or I’ll spray yer!

In some instances, when luck refused his side, Thumpety would come across the attentions of various narks, old soldiers and boxers who sentried those gates as foremen, janitors, box sitters, car park types and ruddy commissionaires. Upon sighting our hero, these old villains would rise from their chairs and wave, as instructed by the council, an impressive array of sticks, billy clubs, chains and thwippits. Gitaway there now, git yer!

They would trill.

Thumpety the weirdo, a squash of big flat foot, marched through town centres, cathedrals, shopping malls and railway stations. As he stepped there, the tide of crowds thrown back by the shape and the smell, his quick fat fistfuls would let drop, imperceptibly to the human eye, rolled pieces of finely floured bread to help him find his way home. But never, no matter how many times he did it, did Thumpety heed the lessons of the birdies. Which were:

  1. We see you from up here these rooftops mister. Your blob down there so easy to see. Where you think you’re going then mister that you can hide from us?
  2. We like bread hmm.
  3. We will eat it yes if we see it.
  4. We especially like your finely floured bread which stands apart from the dustballs that pass from the hands and shit mouths of other townspeople and that.
  5. Yum yum your bread.
  6. No disturbance either with your poowee and thing driving everyone away.
  7. Stand by the gates all you like and it won’t make no slightest difference no. We will peck and pull at you all the same.
  8. Where your bread now eh? Ha! Ha! Get home now then frosty!

Thumpety gets home by way of first being discovered in a doorway late at night by those thick-setted evil little fucks who enjoy the company of other men, in their outside shirts, and who also enjoy the spoils of weirdos. Poor Thumpety.

Then, when he’s cried himself to sleep and lit matches for his grandmother, he is woken by the police. Who cart him into the back of something and wrap a large blanket around him. Two large blankets around him.

His social worker, early in the morning, says: Oh Thumpety not again, and takes him back to his weirdo stinky flat. You can’t come in, he mumbles threateningly, you’re not coming in.

When the light breaks above the chimneys of Accleton Bakery, our special Thumpety can always be seen at the front of its gates, taking down its numbers as the sun shines up the brass polish of departments, telephone numbers and other old-fashioned factory exotica. Next, while the day is still in its flight, Thumpety lumbers his way to the St Fantos School where, if he’s just in time, he can avoid the disapproving tuts and swim, instead, in the glory of those curly rising curls of the quicker Catholic gates. And then, before it’s even time for breakfast, it’s a nonchalant hang about down at the old Victorian school where Thumpety himself once thumped its precious playground yards.

Gate One: Infant Boys.

Gate Two: Infant Girls.

Gate Three: Weirdos and birdies.

The rest of the day is Thumpety’s to do with as he pleases. A walk on the pavements maybe. A bit of staring in his weirdo stinky flat. A stroll through town centres, cathedrals, shopping malls and railway stations. The bread and the birdies. To right back where he started.

The endless cycle of gate shuffling tomfoolery. It goes on.

Monday, January 16, 2006

New Year, New Start

Hello Mr Cheesy

I saw your ad there in the paper and decided it would be best for you if you were to take me on to fill the position of Senior Sales Manager at your company. I have many years in experience and I’m a dedicated worker who has many friends here and there, both on and off the dancefloor, so to speak. In fact, if ever you were to come to my house I could show you all my letters, logged telephone calls and emails from all my friends, colleagues and acquaintances testifying to what a superb individual I am and how I have made their lives so much more the pleasurable.

In my past years I have done every kind of job imaginable. I bet you can’t think of a job I haven’t done. Go on, I challenge you. Turtle Scraper? Yep. Bender of Tubes? Absolutely. Curly of the Tongs? Definitely. Beeswax Bruiser? You can bet your life on it. Cash Cow? That was me too! As you can see then Mr Cheesy, I have much experience in all kinds of varied fields. As I intimated earlier, you’d have to be something of a masher not to take me on.

I was at school from the age of five to fifteen. I didn’t go to college or university or any of those places because I believe that education begins and ends in my own mind. If I want to know something I just think of it. And then I know it. In short, I can have experience and skills in anything you want me to have skills and experience in. Yes.

I know I would be a boon to your company. I mean, let’s face it, compared to some of the rubbish you have working there, I would shine like a sparkling diamond that’s just had a powerful torch pointed straight at it. It would take me no time at all to expose the rest of your staff for the dullards they truly are. Which is to say that if you give me a chance, Mr Cheesy, I will do everything I can to ingratiate myself with you by way of belittling, humiliating and pouring scorn on every other person in the company. I am particularly adept at picking on office juniors, women and older members of staff who are no longer the full ticket. If you have any disabled members of staff – all the better!

I am currently employed by Milquetoast Marketing as a Senior Finger Licker. I have been doing this job now for almost thirteen years and, really, it’s time for me to have a change. But please, don’t get me wrong - I enjoy Finger Licking as much as the next man. It is not a career I would just give up on a whim. No sir. Meaning, of course, that I believe the job you are advertising is of such high calibre and importance that I would be prepared to abandon my true calling as a Finger Licker.

Please Mr Cheesy, Mr Cheesy please. Please give me a chance by agreeing to take me on. You would sure fulfil my dreams if you did!

Love

Diddley Dave

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Coal Eyes

Tease out, the start of the new year and everyone, everywhere you look, is either hiding from windows or gassing down at their own reflections. While others.

While others are winning. With their visibility parkers and stripes of luminous glow.

Last night I took in all the stairs and steps. I stopped by your window and there, lamplit and glow, the spark from the silhouette of your lover in blue. Enflamed, the whole street. Gitaway there Frosty, I heard him say.

At the bottom of your steps though, I stood fast and imagined you in the few seconds you strode from doorway to doorway across the hall. My heart, it went thumpety thump. Your lover there, head to toe in blue.

The next thing I’m hiding keys in the old gas lamp at the top of your street. Fishing for mice and dead birds in those curious cellar holes. Staring out the patterns of mosaic that make paths to the front doors. Gazing the railings, the dots of iron, that pit the low of the half broken walls. Watching the terrace shape as it bends to the top of the street and curves right back down again. Frosty indeed.

Somewhere out the back, over the walls, past the black lay of the back yards, the best of the canal. We used to go there sometimes. Back in time for tea.

Did we yearn while we toyed its perilous water? Did we imagine the high seas as it gave up its shopping trolleys and certain sized boots? Did we sigh askew when we cast our lines over the wrought iron bridge? Did we follow it through glade and valley in search of something new?

From your house here you can almost hear the splash of canal. Or at least guess just where it is. It must, I am sure, keep you awake at night. All those barges and noisy things. A seatbelt by your bed. A lifebelt, I mean.

Frosty? I’ll give him fucking Frosty.