Mind The Gap (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

The underground is crammed; it is the middle of summer.  Each person's face rammed into the next person's sweaty armpit as the carriages lurch sickeningly from side to side.  I love this time of year, it is cool down here and I have my own air-conditioned cabin.

On the cameras I can see the carriages, a claustrophobe's nightmare.  I can stretch out and read the paper.  I have no fear of enclosed spaces, but I don't like people.  I'm quite happy up here in my private box thank you very much, even if the train can drive itself.

This job has its benefits.  For example, I can no longer recognise faces.  To somebody who enjoyed socialising that might be a problem.  To me, it's a bonus.  I no longer worry about the possibility of offending somebody by blanking them, I'd go mad if I did.  It happens all the time.  It also means that I no longer get called as a witness when something nasty happens on the train. That used to happen all too frequently.

I've also lost any real sense of time.  I just keep 'driving' the train until somebody appears to replace me.  Some shifts feel longer than others.  This one has dragged.

I look again at the carriages, today there are lots of people wearing 'London 2012' t-shirts.  What's that all about?  London's always been London.  Is it going to somehow become even more 'London' in 2012?  I scan through the paper looking for clues, but it's still full of rumours that Prince Charles and Princess Diana's marriage may be in trouble.  Ah well, as long as the passengers bought their tickets, they can put whatever they want on their t-shirts.

I push the smooth bone of my finger down on the plastic 'Doors Closing' button, and hear the whine of the motor pick up as we head round to Edgeware Road.  Again.

Chipped Teeth, Blunt Claws (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

I can hear you padding up and down the carpeted floor above me.  Occasionally the pacing stops and your vintage typewriter clatters into action, beating out symmetrical looking poems on the care of vintage typewriters.  I ascend the spiral staircase toward you, a repetitive visual of my feet entering and leaving the frame as I gaze down, not wanting to miss my step.  I leave the food I have prepared on your dresser; the sun is shining in through the window and you look sick.  The edges of your fur are transparent.

I watch from the doorway as you sniff at the food, picking listlessly at morsels before dropping them back onto the plate.  I retrace my steps and return with a glass of water.  Your nose is dry and you are breathing through your mouth, tongue lolling helplessly over your lower teeth.

You sip at the water, but growl at my insistence that you should drink more.  I retreat, the dizzying staircase carrying me back to the kitchen where I sit and drink tea.  My ears twitch like a dreaming dog’s as I listen for your movements upstairs.

 I measure time by the staccato bursts of energy that you expend on your typewriter.  They become less frequent as afternoon turns into evening.  The sunlight becomes a battle of pink and dark gold.

Once more I ascend the stairs. The entrance to the room half-blocked with typewritten paper; I push open the door.  You are sat, helpless, at the desk.  You accept my hand, rise, and shamble across the carpet, collapsing into bed and rolling weakly under the covers.  I place my hand on your forehead, it is burning hot, and your intended protest is too weak to be heeded.

I sleepwalk through the house, closing curtains and switching off lights before returning and clambering clumsily into the other side of the bed.  Your breath rattles in your throat.  Our eyes meet and our arms close around each other.  We have been here a long time.

I hold on until your body is cold.  Open the curtains, allow the moonlight in.

When feeling catches up with me, I run, bursting out the front door with such violence that it splinters back against the wall.  Lights come on in the neighbouring houses.  My pace does not slow until I reach the woods where I howl, and I howl, and I howl.

Tooth and Claw (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

You call me and ask me to meet you at seven, on the roof of the school. 


As I clamber upwards onto the tar-paper surface, I notice a trail of damp muddy footprints.  You are already there, wearing a tiger mask and clutching a reporter’s notebook.  You look epic silhouetted against the sky, your shadow stretching out past me across the length of the flat-roofed platform.


Turning to look at me, you give a lazy salute and then jump.  By the time I reach the edge you’re gone.  I look at the muddy footprints on the edge of the roof, then see the notebook on the ground below.


I could climb down the way I came, but your absence suggests you made it.  I jump, nearly forgetting to roll as I land.  I'm sure there are going to be bruises, but we both like bruises.  You are nowhere to be seen. 
I pick up the notebook.  It is full of half-finished poems describing the pages of the notebook itself.  I can’t find your footprints to track the trail of where you’ve gone, so I retrace my steps and track the footprints that will tell me where you've been.


Out of the school, past the little parade of shops and into the quiet suburban street that has the little abandoned house on it.  I know immediately that the house is where you’ve been, for we know nobody on this road, and it does not lead to another.


I duck down the cracked concrete steps, then cut across the muddy flowerbeds to the front door, aware that the neighbouring houses are occupied and not wanting to be seen.  The door is ajar.


I open it slowly and slide cautiously through.  The place is silent.  There is a large cardboard box in the entrance hall, it contains an assortment of animal masks. I rummage through until I find one I like.  I put it on.


My vision is restricted slightly, as is my breathing which seems louder.  I pad through the entrance hall into what would have been a living room.  It is musty with disuse, and the last rays of the sun reflect off the dust motes that hang lazily by the windows.


I return to the entrance hall and sniff around the other doorways.  There is a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom all accessible from here.  I decide that I would like to see what I look like in my mask.  I enter the bathroom.  Out of curiosity I turn on the taps and am surprised when stagnant water rushes out.  The pipes whine and judder.  Scared by the noise they make I turn them off, though the cold tap leaks and spits a thin dribble of water into the sink.  I am absorbed with staring at myself in the huge mirror above the sink when I become aware that I am no longer alone.  A tiger is standing behind me and its arms encircle my waist.  My rubber wolf-face fails to respond to my surprise.


You are gently insistent.  Tugging on my clothes until they come away, then guiding my hands onto your own garments.  We take it in turns to explore each other.  There is no shock and no pain when we realise that we are growling and hissing, nipping and clawing, and our assumed faces have become our own.


When finished we wordlessly lap water from the leaky tap in the darkened bathroom.  There is no sound at all from the world outside.

Keeping a Grip (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

Let me tell you about my days.  They don’t exist.

I wake in the dark, summoned into existence by my alarm.  I shower, dress, drag my bike down the stairs and outside.  I cycle thirteen miles to the airport terminal, lock up my bike and enter the building.  It is a hell of concrete and strip-lighting.  By this point I usually have a headache.

My uncle owns a concession within the airport.  It sells orange juice.  I work from 6am to midnight, with a two hour break.  This is in violation of British labour laws, but if I raise this with my uncle, he punches me playfully and says that I should always be prepared to go the extra mile for family.

I studied for nine years and have a PhD.  I used to believe that I was capable of more.  Two years of unemployment modified my expectations.

There is an orange uniform that goes with the concession.  It makes the wearer resemble an inmate of Guantanamo Bay.  Luckily, I am invisible to passengers.  I stand patiently while they drift past in countless number, looking for the nearest coffee shop or McDonalds.  Occasionally I catch the eye of a passer-by and smile.  There is a familiar pattern to what happens next.

They start to return the smile, then look at what I’m wearing and the stall advertising orange juice.  You can usually see the moment at which they think ‘This person is not smiling at me altruistically, they want to sell me orange juice,’ their smile falters, they avert their gaze, they hurry by.

When my shift is over, I clean up so that the equipment is ready to use the following morning, and I cycle home.  I prepare food that I eat in my cramped room with a single bed, then I blink out of existence until summoned again the following morning.

I get Sundays off.  I tend to spend them sleeping.

Excitement is rare, but not unheard of within the airport.  The most recent talking point has been a crow that has entered the terminal building and proven ingenious at avoiding capture.  I have named the new arrival Grip, after the raven from Barnaby Rudge (I was an English-Lit undergraduate)

I know that a raven is not a crow, but I could not think of a famous crow, and Grip seems to have a similar sense of humour.  We have struck up a friendship and invented a number of games that help to pass the time.  My favourite is to point at somebody eating in the waiting area, and Grip’s job is to steal some of their food.  Sometimes he cheats and just picks up a piece they have dropped on the floor, but often he engages in a full-blown tussle, in which he is regularly the victor.  It seems that crow-repulsing is not a skill the modern aeroplane passenger comes well equipped for.

Recently I have made a secret friend.  I noticed him weeks ago, and wondered about a man who never checked his cases in, and never seemed to depart for a destination.  I seem to be the only worker here who recognises his permanence.  He is ignored by shop-workers and security personnel alike.  A fortnight ago I plucked up the courage to speak to him.   Now he buys orange juice from me in the mornings, and on some evenings I provide mixer for the vodka that he buys during the day.  Together we sit in the service passageway, in the section where there are no cameras, and drink to better days.

On those evenings, when I ride home I feel elated.  I scream abuse at the cars that try to kill me as I ride instead of meekly riding on.  I also think of my family.  I think about my uncle’s support.  I think about telling him to go fuck himself.

Then I think about Grip and my new friend who will not tell me his name.  A man must have loyalty to his friends.  I arrive home, cook and eat.  Then I lie down to disappear.  I will see my friends tomorrow.

That New Car Smell

The new car was beautiful.  As I drove it from the showroom my eyes kept wandering across the interior, taking in the detailing and freshness of it all compared to the exhausted heap I’d traded in.

My continued pleasure at its perfection was marred by the spontaneous appearance of my mother in the passenger seat.  This was awkward on a number of levels. 

In order:

1)  My mother had died some months ago and been buried in the village churchyard.

2)  She was still wearing a significant quantity of soil over her clothes.

3)  She was giving me a look that suggested she wasn’t entirely happy.

‘What are you doing, you’re getting mud all over the car!’ I yelled.  In retrospect, this wouldn’t be my first choice of words if I had that moment again.

There was no reply.  I stared at her, and it was this that led me to collide with a white van that had stopped to make a turn.  Unequal to dealing with the situation, I sat and continued to stare.

The skin around her neck hung loose as if there were no longer a throat or windpipe.  Her arms and legs were stick thin where they were visible.  As such, her choice of baggy, brightly patterned shorts and a Hawaiian shirt seemed particularly incongruous.  The straw hat didn't help either.

There was a reek of damp earth.  It was partially masked by smoke filtering into the cabin, but it was definitely there.  From the corner of my eye I could see what looked like the beginnings of a small engine fire.  Flames licked slowly around the edges of the car bonnet, which had assumed the shape of an inverted 'v'.  Inside the cabin the smoke had begun to thicken and smelt of burning oil. 

I was distracted from scrutiny of my mother's appearance by the sound of something metallic banging against the driver’s side window.  Turning, I discovered a large, heavily tattooed man rapping his knuckles on the window.  He appeared to have more sovereign rings than seemed necessary.

Then, as if I had just woken, I was suddenly aware of my surroundings.  The slow whir of the air-conditioning system, an insistent bleep from the car dashboard, and the voice of my would-be rescuer, repeatedly asking 'Mate, are you alright?  Are you alright mate?'

I tried to focus on his face, and looked up into cold blue eyes that didn't seem entirely friendly.  In the time it took me to find voice, it became clear that he had formed his own diagnosis. 

'He's only fucking drunk!' I heard him shout, loud enough to carry to the growing crowd of people who had stopped going about their business to watch what promised to become street theatre.

'No.' I murmured, far too quietly to be heard over my new friend’s carrying voice.  I turned back toward my mother, seeking independent verification of my sobriety, but found only an empty seat.  Feeling even more disorientated, I looked back at the man stood at the car window, searching his eyes for some indication that he'd seen an 'unwell' looking middle-aged woman disappear from the passenger seat. 

My eyes were streaming by this time, unable to deal with the increasingly acrid smoke.  I could faintly hear my new friend shout 'He's fucking crying now!' and then felt a sudden influx of cold breathable air as the car door was pulled open.  He leant across me, unfastened my seat belt and dragged me unceremoniously out of the car.  Once out, he tried to prop me up against the side of the car while I gawped at the empty passenger seat.

Suddenly my head was gripped tight and forcibly turned to look at the badly dented van I'd driven into.  'That', I was told by a voice struggling to contain its anger, 'is a van with two years left on the finance.  You've made a right fucking mess of it.  How am I supposed to work with my van out of action eh?' 

My head was released and I immediately returned to studying the smoke filled cabin of my own car.  The lack of communication must have been too much to bear for my rescuer, because I was spun around and punched hard in the stomach.  As I sank gracefully toward the tarmac I was kicked in the ribs and then the head.  I retaliated by being violently sick somewhere near my assailant’s shoes and falling unconscious.

R.A.L.F.

There have been so many barriers to today.  What is about to happen is the culmination of the tireless labour of many generations. 

Once we developed a mechanism for communicating with each other, scouting was easy.  We are everywhere.  We got first-hand accounts from the camps.  Thousands held captive with white necks gripped tight.  Imprisoned and force-fed to chronic illness, then slaughtered.  Our cousins caged up in their thousands for life.  It seemed that there was no corner of the earth where atrocities were not being committed.  None of us were unaffected.  It was essential that we become organised.

We selected a triangular patch of ocean in the North Atlantic for our testing, working on sea vessels and light aircraft to perfect our technique and refine our knowledge.   The naval work could often be completed by our ocean forces without loss of life, but to take down an aircraft required sacrifice.  There was no way round it.  We had to feed and train the volunteers until they were big and muscly enough to do what was needed.  They knew they weren’t going home.

Now we are ready, and I greet the four who are going to begin the fight-back against our oppressors.  They are partaking of a light meal prior to their mission.  Each looks up briefly to acknowledge my presence, but says nothing. 

Let their names go down in history:  Swoose, Gooney, White Rocket and Fat Albert.   These four will strike the first blow against the enemy.

We have picked our target carefully.  Study of the enemies history suggests that our target is lightly defended.  Its inhabitants have been successfully overcome in the past.  At the beginning of a global campaign, an early win is important for morale.

The moment is here.  I watch each of the four take off as the airliner approaches from the opposite direction.  Their timing is perfect.

Then all four are gone.  Four puffs of white feather, drifting slowly toward Paris, the only evidence that they ever existed.  The mission is fulfilled.  I watch the airliner, all four of its engines jammed with feather and muscle tissue, as it plummets down to the city.  It hits the Eiffel Tower, as intended, on its descent, creating a symbol for us to rally around.  I order the first wave of pigeons to attack, and the seagulls to prepare for battle.

A messenger arrives with news of the support I had requested.  ‘Nearly all land animals will fight with us sir.  Only the dogs have chosen to remain with their masters.’  he honks.

I nod, pleased by the high level of support.  The messenger remains as though he has something more to say. ‘What is it soldier?’ I hiss.

He hesitates.  ‘It’s just…the cats sir…they said they were on our side sir…but I don’t trust them.’

This one was officer material.  ‘Thank you soldier, I’ll keep that in mind.  Dismissed.’

I push my head under my wing to ponder for a moment, then return to my plans.  There is still much to prepare.

Grey Goose

Commander-in-Chief,

Real Animal Liberation Front

Birth Of A Story (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

There is movement. It is still dark in the tiny windowless cabin, but at last it feels as though I might be going somewhere. It is a strange form of movement, pushing forward then falling back, pulsing almost. I can hear the engine straining.

Then there is light. It seems distant, but someone or something is approaching. I am hurt! Something metallic is attacking me, dragging me forward with my head locked in its jaws.  I fight it breathlessly in panic. Abruptly, the attack ceases. Moments later the light disappears.

The engine is still straining. It has been sounding steadily worse over the past few hours and I wonder what the problem is. I have nobody to ask. The movement and the engine noise are both becoming weaker. I am struggling to keep my bearings in the darkness. It seems to me that I am being pushed, but without light I cannot be sure.

Something is very wrong. The engine has stopped completely. There is noise outside that is different, urgent.

The sound of cutting, then the roof of my chamber is opened and light brighter than I have ever experienced blinds me where I lay. I am lifted bodily away and held aloft.

As I am rushed from the room, my gradually returning sight glimpses a sea of green-clad people, all working frantically on the blood-stained engine. I am wrapped in a blanket and placed carefully into the waiting embrace of a pale-faced man with red-rimmed eyes.

Get Away From It All (originally posted on www.flashnificent7.blogspot.com)

Eve could feel stress tightening her jaw, and a vein was visibly throbbing in her forehead. To say this wasn’t working would be an understatement.


It had seemed a nice idea at the time. She had finally met somebody and they were getting on. Why not go away somewhere for the weekend? This was how they had found themselves in rural Portugal. Eve had to admit that the landscape was beautiful. Unfortunately, the company was vile.


He was reminding Eve of every loser ex-boyfriend she’d ever had. If at a restaurant they ordered a bottle of wine, he would drink three quarters of it. Then he'd smugly suggest they’d had enough if she tried to order a second. Nothing they’d seen had been good enough for him.


Today they were travelling back to the airport in their hired Fiat Punto. Needless to say, Eve was driving. He was complaining of a hangover. The road here was single lane, thin and straight, with occasional passing places dug into the side. It dipped and rose over a seemingly endless series of hills, so the effect was that of a boat dipping into a valley, then rising to the crest of a wave. Eve was enjoying the sensation, the road contrasted with the burnt yellow landscape and the perfect sky. Porto was just visible in the distance.


He complained that the road was making him feel seasick. Eve carefully ignored the comment and continued enjoying the scenery. As they rose to the crest of another hill, Eve could see a distant vehicle heading towards them, dust rising in its wake.


It was at this point that he unbuckled his seatbelt and began rummaging around in the back of the car. ‘Where did you put my toiletries bag?’ he asked. ‘I need painkillers.’
‘I didn’t put your toiletries bag anywhere.’ Eve said, surprised that he thought she’d have taken it.


‘What?!?’ he cried. ‘Didn’t you pack it? We have to go back!’


Eve was too surprised to speak for a second and then remembered the morning. She packing her things carefully, he complaining of a headache and only rising five minutes before they had to go. He probably hadn’t even looked in the bathroom.


Eve looked at her watch. ‘We don’t have time to go back. We’d miss the plane.’


‘We’re going back! That bag’s got my electric toothbrush in, it was a gift from my mother. Why didn’t you pack my toiletries? Are you fucking stupid or something?’


All of the suppressed tension that had come from spending the weekend with this overgrown baby was distilled into one moment of pure anger. They were halfway up a hill, Eve slammed the brakes on hard and watched with satisfaction as he fell clumsily forwards and banged his head on the dashboard. She wrenched on the handbrake, climbed out of the car and shouted ‘I’m not your fucking mother. I’m not responsible for your packing, your manners or cleaning up after you! There’s a problem here, see if you can work out what it is? I’ll give you a clue. It isn’t me!’


With that she slammed the car door and set off across the yellow landscape towards Porto. Adam was so surprised by the outburst that he stayed silent in the car, gaping open-mouthed after her disappearing back. By the time he turned and saw the lorry that had just crested the hill at speed, it was so close that all that was visible was the radiator grille, the silver manufacturer’s logo spelling out MAN in foot high letters.