Roses Are Red

After a fairly lengthy enforced break, I'm now back with some more writery stuff. Basically, there was an assessment that I hadn't handed in for my degree, and the uni said that if I didn't give it to them in a month, I was royally screwed. The upshot of this was that I had to research and write three news articles in four weeks: this is trickier than it sounds, especially when you don't have a clue what you're doing. Still, after much blood, sweat, tears and cursing, I managed to get it all done and handed in on Tuesday (and getting to London on the same day as a train drivers' strike was an adventure in itself...), and that nightmare is now out of my hair. Remember, kids: do your work when you're told to do it, not two months after the deadline.

So, to celebrate my new freedom from work, I'm going to give you some poetry. This was something I did for Life Writing back in March, and at the time, under extreme duress. I despise poetry even at the best of times - reverse snobbery, I suppose you could say - but on reflection, this piece isn't so bad. From what I remember, the brief was to write a poem with three verses, four lines per verse and six words per line: we could choose whatever subject we liked, whether true-life or no, and with me having my twisted brain, I can up with this. And in case you're wondering, "Roses Are Red" was my original title, that legendary poetry cliche seeming like a fitting moniker for a poem on the mechanics of poetry: however, because only two other people got the joke, I decided to change it to the more self-explanatory title it now has. To my mind, the original title is still better, but never mind.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy...

On Poetry And The Writing Of It

The pen observes the page, ready
to strike. The words hidden within
wish only to be written. But
this combined assault will never happen.

Bombs in Baghdad streets. Eleusinian mysteries
of love. Even how leaves grow
on spring trees. Pen nor words
will ever form shapes like these.

They wish to form shapes. They
wish it more than we’ll ever
know. But no shape is ever
tough enough for their iron will.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Well, kinda. I've been involved with a lot of fan-fiction over the last few years, sometimes on a more on-off basis, and I thought I'd change tack a little by offering up one of those pieces. For the most part, a lot of fan-fiction out there really is either rubbish or borderline porno, but there's also a great deal of quality to be found: at the risk of hubris, this is one of those quality pieces. I'd say it's one of the best things I've done, fan-fiction or otherwise.

This short story is loosely based on the Warner Brothers/Detective Comics/Cartoon Network animated series Teen Titans. For the uninitiated (and where have you been?! :-P ), this show is about five teenage superheroes who protect the fictional Jump City from its more cruel and unusual threats (aliens, mutants, criminal masterminds, etc). The major arc of season two concerned a new member of the group, Terra, who eventually turned out to be a spy for the arch-criminal Slade: after lots of unpleasantness, Terra eventually redeemed herself through a series of actions that resulted in her being turned into a statue (but of course...). In the very final episode of the series, the Teen Titan known as Beast Boy (who, fittingly, could turn into all kinds of animals) believed he'd seen a newly restored Terra: in the end, we never found out how she returned or even if this was Terra at all, but because the episode was about dealing with past troubles (just to make things extra complicated, Beast Boy and Terra were on the verge of a romance when things went bad in season two), that was kinda the point.

Anyway, this short story picks up the issue a few months later, when all is once again not so well...

Life Story

Outside, the snow is falling. Not a gentle, Christmas-card fall, but a raging, hell-on-earth fall. The kind of fall where you can’t even see your hands in front of your face, where the snow seems to be coming at you from every direction bar straight down. Where the kids would rather lock themselves indoors than march out with sleds and snowballs.

This fall, this storm of snow, it would kill you in the blink of an eye. And at nighttime, like it is now, it might not even need that.

Strange to think, this is California. In these tumultuous times, times of El Nino, global warming, climate chaos, maybe such unpredictable weather is to be expected.

This is a cemetery. That’s all there is to say about it. This is a cemetery, and it looks like a cemetery should. Headstones lined up on short-mown grass, the way Stone Age tribes built sacred monuments for their gods and ancestors. Gravel paths breaking up some of these lines, themselves bordered by tall streetlamps. The orange light from the bulbs seems to spread around them like a globe, as if the falling snow is being set on fire. A few trees are scattered about, some in the middle but most not, their leaves all gone at this bitter cold time of year. The whole place, at least a square mile, a high redbrick wall runs around the edge, topped with curls of barbed wire.

Outside the cemetery, city buildings rise high all around, or at least they would if you could see them through all the snow. But even on a clear day, a gentle summers’ day, the surrounding metropolis doesn’t seem to intrude here, in this serene place. Even if full-scale Armageddon was breaking out beyond the redbrick walls, you wouldn’t notice.

The cemetery protected from the city outside. Like the bodies protected from the dirt and the worms and the rats.

Even on a clear day, you wouldn’t see any more than two or three people pass through the main gates. But tonight, with the snow falling thick as fog and the wind roaring like a monster on some Jurassic plain, not even a bird would be dumb enough to wander through a place as open as this.

Though something clearly is dumb enough. It’s not a bird, but a fox, running across the snow-covered grass. There’s so much snow, it’s almost having to swim through it. Foxxie paddle, if you will.

The snow-darkened night makes everything seem in black-and-white, but you can still tell that this fox has green fur.

The fox makes its way through all the headstones, all the ancestral monuments, somehow looking like it knows exactly where it’s going. Which is because it does. Only a minute or so after it squeezed through the giant cast-iron gate, it reaches its destination.

A headstone. Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just a headstone, one in the middle of many others. Most of the headstones in this cemetery are new, but this one looks especially so. Truth be told, it’s only been here for about three months.

You can barely read it amongst all the snowfall, but the inscription is

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to show you care.

The fox stares up at the headstone for a while. It tries to shake off the snow that’s collected on its back and chest, as if that would make any difference.

Suddenly, there’s a blur, and the fox is gone. Instead, a teenage boy is standing on the snow. This green-skinned, black- and purple-coated boy, the people of this city would know him anywhere. And they wouldn’t expect to see him here, especially not tonight.

Beast Boy, one of the five Teen Titans who protect this city, Jump City, he wraps his thick winter coat tighter around himself. He pulls his hood further down over his head and tightens up his goggles. Even then, he still shivers as if he’s having a seizure. His teeth still rattle so hard they hurt.

Doing what he intends to do tonight, it could very well kill him. Frostbite, hypothermia, pneumonia, any one of a thousand ways you can die sat out in the cold. But he knows that if puts this off, this sacred task, even one more night, death will be a certainty rather than a distinct possibility. It would be mental death rather than physical death, but it would still be death.

Which is worse?

Beast Boy sits down in front of the headstone, legs crossed like he’s in a school assembly. The snow’s piled up so high that his eyes are exactly level with the name of

TARA MARKOV.

Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

looking at each other from across the mortality divide. In these international times, times of mass media, multi-culturalism, globalization, maybe this is the only true divide left.

Beast Boy clears his throat, wraps his arms round his chest. Clears his throat again. He pauses for a second or two.

“Terra.” His voice is a whispery croak, the kind of voice you’d use through a veil of tears. He’s too cold to cry, but his body’s going through the motions anyway.

In this bellowing wind, he has to strain just to hear his own voice. But that doesn’t matter. The girl he’s here to talk to, she’ll either be able to hear him even if he whispers, or she won’t be able to hear him even if he screams.

Which is worse?

“Terra. I never meant to kill you, Terra.”

This much is true. No one ever truly means to kill. Defending themselves. Making money. Getting revenge. Sending a message. Having fun. Whatever the motive, it won’t be killing just for the sake of killing. Even with the most unreasonable of people, there’s always a reason. It might shock and appall us, but that’s not the point.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you so much. I never meant to, but I did. If you’re still out there, Terra, then I can understand if you don’t want to listen. But you’re the only one who can understand me. You always have been, and you always will be. I guess some things don’t change.”

Only a foot away from him,

TARA MARKOV

just stares silently back. As silent and as accusing as a grave. All she has to say is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

As if she would be saying anything else.

“I’ve got no right to talk to you, Terra, I know. But I have to talk to someone, and no one else understands me as well as you do. I have to tell my story, Terra. I have to explain. This mess sitting in my head, I have to explain it. It’ll destroy me if I don’t. You’re the only one I can talk to, Terra, even if you don’t want to listen.”

This is a widely known phenomenon, but only if you’re a policeman. It’s one of their better-kept trade secrets.

Everyone needs to tell their story, to explain their presence in the universe. A killer, the only person they can tell their story to is their victim. The only one who won’t judge them, who will understand what they went through.

Even though you didn’t truly mean to do it, killing is still tough. Even an animal, something you can just step on, it’s still the toughest thing you can do. It still leaves a mark on you, forever.

A story like that, it needs telling more than others.

What the police do is, wherever the body was buried or dumped or dismembered, they’ll stick a hidden microphone or two. They’ll sit and wait until the killer comes back, to tell their story, then they’ll pounce. They’ll wait for years if they have to, because it always works.

Because the thing about us humans, the thing that makes us special, is that we need to tell stories. To explain things. In these individual times, times of alienation, mass apathy, social death, maybe this is the only part of human nature that hasn’t changed since Prehistoric times.

Which is worse?

“Move on, and start a new life. Everyone said it. Even you said it, Terra. You of all people. But why should I?”

Again, this much is true. At first, he’d been willing to accept that the newly-restored Terra would never be the same as the Terra of old. The cheerful, smiling, effortlessly cool earth-mover.

Crucially, the Terra who was madly in love with him.

At first, he’d been willing to let go. To move on, to start a new life. To leave the new Terra to her own new life, a life of high school, friends and family. A life of peace that a petrified statue or even a Teen Titan could never have.

After all, she deserved it.

“Why should I move on? Why should things change? Why shouldn’t we try to keep hold of things? Accepting change is just rolling over, Terra, letting things sweep by you. It’s accepting defeat.”

A Teen Titan never accepts defeat.

“Terra, you of all people should know that.”

The “at first” stage, the begrudging acceptance stage, it only lasted a few months. Maybe not even that.

“I couldn’t forget about you, Terra. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldn’t do it. Even the times when I managed to keep you out of my thoughts, I still couldn’t keep you out of my dreams. Awake or asleep, you were still on my mind. But I loved you, Terra. How could it be otherwise?”

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy knows he’s doing the right thing. Out there, somewhere, Terra is listening. Not

TARA MARKOV,

but Terra. The real Terra. She might not want to listen, but she is. She knows she has to listen, same as Beast Boy knows he has to talk.

He’s sure of this. After all, how could it be otherwise?

“I just wanted to see, Terra. To see if you were still okay.”

He watched her. When she was at school. When she was at home. When she was with friends. When she was with family. The fly on the wall, always sat there, always watching, always listening. When he wasn’t fighting, when he wasn’t being a Teen Titan, he was by her side. Just being there, where he felt he needed to be.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

Terra, she didn’t mind. Truth be told, she didn’t even know. Sat in the classroom, working on the Math test they hadn’t revised for, who would suspect that the fly dozing on the windowsill was taking notes?

If she was happy. If she was sad. If she was angry. If she was lonely. If she was scared.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

“I loved you, Terra. I still love you. You think we should just forget about those we love?”

Which is worse?

“You were never meant to know. It would’ve only hurt you, Terra.”

At the time, he didn’t really think about this. All he thought was, if Terra found out he was watching her, he was a dead man.

Stalker. Killer. Lunatic.

As it turned out, all three were true.

In these “me first” times, times of greed, self-obsession, self-importance, maybe Beast Boy’s actions aren’t so surprising.

As it turned out, she cottoned on anyway.

It was early July. In a few weeks, school would be over for another term. The long summer holidays would begin. Six weeks of fun and frolics in the warm sun.

It was about this time that Terra got a new boyfriend. No, not Terra, but

TARA MARKOV,

technically speaking. But Beast Boy wasn’t about to stand on technicalities.

Terra, she had a good life. A loving, caring, wide-embracing family. A big house in the rich Salisbury suburb. Half-a-dozen close friends, who would be right by her side for what little remained of her life.

All this, Beast Boy could accept. Be happy about, even. Terra was happy, content, so Beast Boy was happy, content.

A boyfriend, though, Beast Boy couldn’t deal with that. It meant that she was moving on, that she was living a new life. That she wasn’t Terra anymore, she was

TARA MARKOV.

It meant that she’d forgotten him.

Beast Boy, he couldn’t be having with that.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. But you shouldn’t just leave things to one side. Things shouldn’t have to change if you don’t want them to. I just wanted you to see that.”

What the new boyfriend’s name was, what he looked like, where he lived, Beast Boy couldn’t remember. Even after he’d followed the guy to his house and beaten the living shit out of him, he still couldn’t remember.

In these violent times, times of guns, wars, hatred of all things, maybe this is something you’d do. Your own do-it-yourself jealous-ex hobby kit.

On reflection, this was where it all started to go wrong.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy shivers. He’s cold. That one time, not so long ago, when he went to Siberia to fight some monsters, he’s even colder now than he was then.

This cold, it’ll kill him if he stays out here any longer. But he has to finish. He has to say his piece, because he can’t hold it forever.

Which is worse?

“Your boyfriend, Terra, I’m sure he was a nice guy. He probably didn’t deserve what I did to him. But it wasn’t fair on me, you know?”

The boyfriend, he didn’t report his beating. When a guy with green skin turns into a bear and puts you in hospital for three weeks, it’s not so hard to work out the who and why of things. But he didn’t tell anyone, not even the police.

The police, they have a tendency to protect their own.

He didn’t even tell his girlfriend. Then again, Terra was never exactly slow on the uptake.

Beast Boy didn’t have police swarming outside his door. He wasn’t done for GBH or anything like that. Instead, Terra just took him to one side and had a quiet word in his ear.

His dedication to her, it was all very flattering, but it had to stop. She wasn’t the woman he was in love with. She might never have been. He would just have to accept that. Move on, like she had.

And if didn’t leave her alone, she would be calling the police.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to say her piece.

Of course, Beast Boy took no notice.

“You can’t just tell someone to not love you anymore. That’s not how it works, Terra.”

So he continued to watch.

At first, he made sure he was more careful. He didn’t do anything, he didn’t say anything. He just flew around after her, small and ignorable as a little insect. Flies were best, though having the odd newspaper swiped his way was a problem.

Terra, she has less of a clue than last time. She was bright, very bright indeed, but there was no way for her to know.

“If you’re thinking that I blame you for all this, Terra, then you’re wrong. I don’t blame you for anything. It’s my fault, Terra. It’s just me, my own head.”

In these confused times, times of no directions, multiple identities, mass migrations, maybe his own head is more important than he thinks.

Like the first time, it didn’t last. He lost discretion, replaced it with stupidity. Like last time.

Which is worse?

This time, at least he didn’t beat anyone up.

This time, he sent letters, pictures, videos. All the remnants of Terra’s old life, he sealed them in envelopes or parcels, sent them to her door. Anything that reminded him of his lost love, it might just remind her too.

“That’s when I got to thinking. What you had, Terra, it was just amnesia. Plain old amnesia. Something you can reverse, you know? If you could just see, hear, watch the right thing, all your memories would come back. There’d be bad things, sure, things no one should have to remember. But, Terra, you’d remember how much you used to love me. You’d remember the way things should be.”

It didn’t work the first time, but that was no reason to lose hope. In these pessimistic times, times of depression, futility, passive acceptance, maybe hope is the one thing we need the most.

At least, that’s the point Beast Boy was trying to prove.

After the first few times, Terra didn’t even bother opening the parcels. When the police searched the house after her death, they found twenty-seven of them in the trash. She hadn’t even lifted up the corners of the tape.

She didn’t report any of this. She didn’t even have another quiet word. She just ignored it.

The worst thing she could have done.

“I wanted you back, Terra. I wanted you back so much it hurt.”

If Terra still loves him, he’ll never know. From now until the end of time, all she can tell him is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Maybe this is true. Maybe it isn’t.

Which is worse?

Even with all these unopened parcels, Terra didn’t know that Beast Boy was still following her. She suspected it, because how could she not? But she didn’t know.

Though, eventually, she got her proof. Beast Boy got stupid, took to following her in person rather than in fly.

A guy with green skin ain’t exactly hard to spot.

This time, she didn’t have a quiet word. She finally made good on her threat, called the police.

As her boyfriend predicted, the police swept it under the carpet. But Robin still had his own word with his colleague. Needless to say, Robin wasn’t impressed.

“That’s when I finally realized. You know, Terra, I never meant it to come to that. But you gave me no choice.”

No one ever truly means to kill.

It only took a few days of planning, then another few days of following.

Terra went to the cinema with her friends one night. Sure that Beast Boy had been taken care of, she walked home alone. A cry for help lured her into an alleyway, and a gunshot made sure that she only left it two weeks later, in a zipped-up bodybag.

When an ambulance drives without sirens, that’s probably because there’s a dead body in it. Just one of those things.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to see her dead.

A crime like that, the police never thought to pin Beast Boy’s name to it. With her phone and wallet gone, they just filed it away as one of Jump City’s many muggings. A tragic incident, but still a common one.

Thinking about it, perhaps

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG”

says it best.

“Terra, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. But at least you can’t change anymore. Now, you’ll always be the same as you were on that night.”

OCTOBER 5^TH 2006.

At least, that's what the pathologist reckons.

“With the new Terra dead, I can love the old Terra. We’re both at peace now.”

Death, the ultimate way of defying change. When you’re dead, you don’t have to roll over and accept anything.

The body rots away, but the spirit stays eternal.

Which is worse?

Whilst Terra was still officially Missing, in the two weeks before a passing tramp found her rat-eaten body, the police asked for Beast Boy. Considering the charges she’d filed against him, they couldn’t not. But he’d been expecting this.

Yes, he was as concerned for her safety as much as anyone. Yes, he wanted to see her found as much as anyone. Yes, he hated the bastard who’d taken her as much as anyone. No, he wasn’t more likely to hurt her than anyone.

After all, why would we hurt those we love?

Of course, then Terra’s body was found. Then she was just a victim of mugging. Suddenly, Beast Boy wasn’t an issue anymore.

Like everyone else, he could mourn her in peace.

“But this isn’t mourning. This, Terra, this is the opposite of mourning. This is celebration.”

Two lives saved. Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

they’re both saved. Not destroyed, but rescued. Rescued from misery.

“I just thought you should know all this, Terra. I just thought you should know why. You’ve probably figured it all out already, you’re certainly smart enough, Terra, but I still thought I should tell you myself.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

“I tried to keep it to myself. I tried, Terra, I really tried. Same as I tried to forget about you, all those months ago. But the same as I couldn’t forget, I couldn’t withhold. I had to explain it, and you’re the one who has the right to know.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy yawns. How long he’s been sat here talking, he hasn’t got a clue.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be days.

Which is worse?

Knowing that his tale, his explanation, it’s finally coming to an end, Beast Boy finally takes his eyes away from

TARA MARKOV.

That’s when he sees it. At the base of the headstone, there’s a black speck. A black speck less than a centimeter across, poking out of the snow like a hedgehog on first day of spring.

He’s never seen one of these in person, but he knows what it is.

A microphone. A tiny microphone.

One of the police’s better-kept trade secrets.

Slowly, Beast Boy looks up. The other side of the gate, through the raging snow falling thick as fog, the blue and red flash of police cars can be seen. Their wailing sirens, usually deafening, they can barely be heard over the roaring wind.

Beyond the snow and wind, police officers are piling out of their cars. They’re breaking the bolt on the gate. They’re yelling at Beast Boy to stay where he is, to put his hands in the air.

As the police officers run down the gravel path, crunching only snow beneath their feet, Beast Boy puts his hands up over his head.

He’s not going anywhere. He’s go nowhere he needs to go.

Still hearing the order to stay still, he feels someone roughly pull him to his feet. Both his arms are pulled down behind him, meeting the small of his back. A pair of handcuffs snap on his wrists under his coat, locked tight with a snap. How cold he is now, the cold steel almost feels warm on his body.

For the police, protecting your own only goes so far.

As the police officers start to march him away, Beast Boy looks down at the headstone, at

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

What will happen to Beast Boy now? In these knowledge-hungry times, times of chart rundowns, tight schedules, cash-in franchises, maybe you can be forgiven for wanting to know.

But, in reality, who cares? He’s explained himself, he’s told his story, he’s said his peace. Nothing else matters.

Which is worse?

'Tis The Season To Not Be The Season

And now, because it's summer (well, kinda), I'm going to post up a story about Christmas. Yes, that's the sort of thing I do. You'll learn eventually.

This story is an oldie of mine. I wrote it about three-ish years ago, and whilst you can undoubtedly tell, I still have a little soft spot for it. Mostly because this was where my literary sadistic streak (now my trademark, more or less) first really unleashed itself. What is not so nice in reality is great fun in fiction, so being a maniac in your stories is all to the good. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

So, let's get to it. Ring those sleigh bells, kids...

The Way Things Are Done

Mum had always made sure that I never believed in Santa. It had got me into trouble a few times, notably in Year 3 when I told my classmates that they needn’t worry about trying to get their letter to go up the chimney, because their parents had read it anyway. They went home crying, asking their parents how they could let them live a lie like this, the parents got upset, rang the head teacher, he got upset, I nearly got expelled, et cetera, et cetera. At the time, I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. I thought I was doing them a favour, showing them the light and all that. Of course, now I know better.

A few weeks ago, I finally got round to sorting out all the stuff in mum’s house. It had been there for years, a mausoleum, a collection of dead things for a dead person. Waiting for the spirit to take them to the underworld. Whatever. Anyway, I was combing my way through the house, seeing what stuff I’d like to keep. And what I found, in a box in the loft, under tons and tons of other useless garbage, was a book. A diary that mum kept when she was little, almost eighty years ago now. It was falling to pieces, but one bit was still perfectly legible, a short-ish entry that, after almost fifty years of wondering, finally gave me the reason why she hated the Santa legend with such venom.

* * * * *

Sally, the eight year old girl with the diary, and her six year old sister, Emily, crept downstairs, having to feel their way through the tight space for fear of being discovered by turning on the lights. They slowly, ever so slowly, made their way through the dining room, avoiding the more creaky floorboards like they’d done this a thousand times before. Of course they hadn’t. No one had. No one had ever attempted this before. They opened the living room door literally just enough for them to squeeze through, and, sure enough, there he was. Bending down underneath the Christmas tree was a rather fat old man, with a massive fluffy white beard and a woolly hat/gown/shoes combo that was red like the colour of blood. Santa.

Suddenly, unable to contain their excitement at having found the holy grail of childendom, they screamed. A very girly scream, as it turned out. Santa paused, sighed, stood up slowly, and turned around to face them. Damn. They had been discovered.

Emily spoke first. ‘Seen you!’ she said.

Santa laughed. Not the big ‘ho ho ho’ like you’d expect, but something much more sinister, almost maniacal.

‘Yes, I suppose you have. You know, I’ve been watching you two for several months now.’

‘You have?’ Sally and Emily said in unison, in the delighted tone of someone who finally gets to meet their idol, and is told that they, yes they, could be greater.

‘Yes, I have. You two have been some of the nicest kids I’ve ever come across. I don’t think anyone’s done anything but sing your praises this year.’ He sighed, in a very Disney-evil, forced reluctance way. ‘Which is why it makes me very sad to say that I’m going to have to take your presents back.’

‘WHAT???’ the girls screamed, utterly shocked, stunned and outraged.

‘OFFRED regulations. Part 7, Section 9, Sub-section 28, Clause 3, Sub-clause 18, Sub-sub-clause 321. “If any child shall try to catch a glimpse of you, then they shall be deemed Bad, despite whatever they may have done since last Christmas”. I’m sorry, but it seems that you two have been Bad Girls.’

Sally and Emily were utterly stunned. Finally, after about two minutes, Sally dared to speak. ‘You heartless bastard!’ she screamed.

‘No, sadly not. I’m sure that if you met me in normal life then we’d get on quite well. But, as it is, I’m just doing a job.’

Emily looked confused. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked. In the background, Sally pulled the face of someone who knew what was coming.

‘You don’t honestly think that just one guy could deliver presents to nearly six billion people in one night, do you?’

‘You mean there’s more than one Santa?’

‘Of course. More like a million. We’re all just normal guys with normal jobs who trek up to the North Pole each year, get given a heap of presents, lists and addresses, and told to deliver them before the morning. It’s as boring as hell, but it’s more money on the side.’

This was not what the girls wanted to hear.

Noticing that Emily had just burst into tears, Santa perked up a bit. ‘In case you’re worried, this is actually a real beard. Not a piece of wool with two bits of wire in it, not like the sad losers you see in the shopping centres.’

Sally looked up, straight at him, pure hatred blazing in her eyes behind the pearly sheen of the tears, teeth and fists clenched. ‘What are you talking about? You are a sad loser.’

Santa laughed, a genuine human laugh this time. ‘I suppose you’re right. Hell, I only took up this job so I could get into kid’s bedrooms.’ He seemed to realise what he’d just said, and so carried on before the girls got a chance to think. ‘Anyway, I really must be going. So little time, so much to do…’

As he bent under the tree to pick up the presents, a silent agreement passed between Sally and Emily. Simultaneously, without any kind of planning or forethought, they leapt onto Santa’s back, pounding on his head and neck, anywhere they could see skin under the mass of clothing. However, they were not experienced fighters, and Santa was a big guy, and so he was able to stand up with enough force to send them flying into the opposite wall. The whole fight had taken less than ten seconds.

Santa turned and looked at the girls darkly, with a slightly bemused, but overall unimpressed manner. Why the hell hadn’t he seen that coming? People like them would do anything to protect their possessions… Sally looked up at him, her face even more bewildered than before. Her voice took on an uneven pattern as she struggled to get her breath back.

‘Why do you have to take our presents? You’re only doing it because those stupid rules say so.’

‘I’m sorry, but rules are rules. You aren’t the first kids I’ve done this to, you know. If you break one rule, you break them all, that’s what I say. Fibber today, mass murderer tomorrow…best to head them off early. No sense in being like those poor people. No morals, the lot of them. They don’t deserve presents.’

Sally was outraged. ‘How can you say that? You should give to everyone. That’s your damn job! Anyway, what about the Scratchitts? They may be poorer than the poorest, but you can’t fault them.’

Santa smiled demonically. ‘What, the family you helped through the winter? They should at least be grateful for what we give them. At least we acknowledge them!’

‘Well, they aren’t grateful because you don’t give them anything to be fucking grateful about, you tight-fisted wanker!’

Santa put is hand to his mouth in a very theatrical, OTT, Disney-evil fashion. ‘My god! First Golden Girl fights, and now she swears! And you said you care for the innocent? My arse you do. All you care about is your own fucking presents…’

Sally quietly burned with embarrassment, venomous hatred and pure self-loathing, knowing that he was right, knowing that the door had been opened and she had stepped through, right on cue. She should have seen that she was being provoked into showing that, despite all the care, duty and piety she had shown, she really didn’t deserve anything better than a puke-filled stocking. How humiliating.

Santa was by the front door by this point, the blood-red bag of presents in his hand. The next question surprised him. Well, for a start, it came from Emily. Throughout the previous exchange she had been curled up against the wall, crying quietly. Now, it seemed that she had composed herself.

‘Well, can we at least see Rudolf?’

This was the first time that Santa looked genuinely guilty. He always dreaded the day that he’d have to say this, but, as they say, here goes nothing…

‘Er, well, you see, there’s a small problem in that field. You see, he retired a few years ago, on account of getting old and suchlike. And we offered him a retirement package. Er…’

He took a small blue-and-white-striped plastic bag out of his pocket, and put it on the table next to him. If the girl’s hearts could have sunk any lower, they would have done. Without even looking inside, it was obvious what was in the bag.

A string of sausages. Venison sausages.

Almost Resembling Reality

So, now to my second post. Sorry for taking so long over it. We've been doing some work on the house over the last few weeks, and aside from the point where I created this blog, I simply haven't had enough time to do anything as complicated as posting a story. But, bar a few pieces of furniture moving, it all seems to be done, so I'm giving you another literary offering whilst I know I can.

This time, I'm plundering the Life Writing module of my degree. As the name suggests, life writing is the art of turning human existence into stories, with all the problems that result. When I wrote this piece (back in about last November/December, I think), the focus of the module was on drawing literature from our own lives: Untitled, in true me style, is a cautionary tale on why this is a really shit idea.

And yes, this really happened to me. Kinda.

Untitled

He doesn’t think about this at the time, but Brits spend half their lives waiting for buses. Though in his case, he’s already sat in one: he’s just waiting for it to get going. But he finds the wait just as irritating. He’s got places to go, people to meet, things to do.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

Regardless of what happens tonight, he’ll use any and every event as story fuel. It’s not that he can’t help it: it’s something that he wants to do. He doesn’t normally regard nights like this as mere story fuel but a story is very much what he intends to be the lasting impact of tonight.

With luck, this night is going to be a big one. Him, his mates from his floor and some random others are all heading to a local club, and they intend to drink and dance the night away. Though maybe he won’t be drinking that much, because he wants to remember enough of tonight to write about later.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

There’s anything up to fifty students on this bus, but there’s only six that he’ll be partying with. Jon is the student beer monster to end all student beer monsters: he’d seem a bit intimidating if you didn’t know him, but beneath the mouthy exterior beats the heart of a true legend. Kaz is Jon’s semi-girlfriend, and whilst she might be a bit of a slob, this doesn’t stop her from being an all-round nice lass. Sean…well, if you imagine an 18-year-old Ron Weasley from Essex, then you’ve got him down pat.

These are the only ones from his floor: the other three are friends of friends. He hasn’t met Sarah, the glamorous blonde, before tonight, but sadly he’ll remember almost nothing about her afterwards. He’s seen Susan around a few times before: a bird of some class. Very attractive, and very likable. Cherys he’s meeting for only the second time, but he’s already gaining the impression that, beneath the bubbly and buxom blonde exterior, there lurks one of the most fiercely intelligent minds he’s ever had the pleasure to encounter.

This isn’t even a third of the people he knows here, but these are the ones he’s tagging along with.

He’s been wanting to write about a night of this type for a while. Tonight looks like his chance.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

The bus driver is still taking his time about setting off, and Mr Writer here still doesn’t have a clue why. Getting restless, Jon steps outside and has a puss up against the wooden wall opposite. In his great maturity, the driver closes the door behind him. It might not be the cleverest joke, but everyone laughs, Mr Writer here included. Jon gets let back in only a minute or so later. The bus sets off shortly after, which gets a good cheer from all onboard.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

Sadly for him, he now can’t remember nearly all of what happened on that bus journey. The only memory is him overhearing Cherys say something to Sarah.

“All my life, people have been saying I’m stupid.”

Or words to that effect, anyway.

He’d ever expected Cherys to have a backstory like that. She doesn’t look like someone others would dislike. You don’t only get people that interesting in stories…though she’ll probably make good story material all by herself.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

After a few minutes, the bus reaches its destination: the Fez Club, in the centre of Putney in south-west London. Everyone streams out of the bus towards the Fez entrance, a barely noticeable doorway just off the High Street. If it wasn’t for the crowd control ropes and three burly bouncers standing outside at this time of night, you’d have walked past without even giving it a first glance. But with the cream plaster walls, varnished oak door and huge potted palm, the Fez exterior still manages to look quite upmarket.

Remembering what happened the last time he bowled up a club without ID – absolutely nothing, and in the worst possible sense – he’s made sure that he’s toting a passport this time. The bouncers wave him through the door, and he heads down the wood-lined stairs to the room at the bottom. He grudgingly hands over the four quid entrance fee – when you’re a student, money is worth its weight in gold – and goes through another set of doors into the Fez proper.

There’s a corridor going off to the left, packed with people, with two wide archways at the far end. The one on the left leads to the bar, the one on the right leads to the dancefloor. It’s at this point that all the wood surfaces, tropical plants and rough plaster walls explain themselves: the Fez’s bizarre attempt at theming. Take a Disney-fied Kasbah, stick underground and sprinkle in more than a touch of ‘70’s disco, and you’d be about there. The cigarette smoke hanging heavy like fog is at extreme odds with the badly kitsch, multi-coloured glowing dancefloor. The whole place makes no sense, but that’s not what it’s about.

Now he just needs to wait for his six companions to do stuff worth writing about.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

Of course, this is where it all starts to go wrong.

The moment the septet sets foot in the dancefloor room, Mr Writer here is attacked by a crippling wave of paranoia. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he’s suddenly feeling more nervous than he’s ever felt in his life. Whether it’s the dancefloor packed tighter than sardines, the vanilla “bump ‘n’ grind” R‘n’B the DJ’s spinning or something else altogether, he suddenly couldn’t feel any more out of place if he tried. If he puts even so much as one toe on that dancefloor, he’ll look even more like a tit than anyone else ever could. Even dad-dancing is above him, and that’s just when he’s in an outgoing mood.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

Whilst everyone gets down ‘n’ dirty on the dancefloor, he just sits tight at the side of the room, feeling like a moron. He hasn’t just come here to get story material: he’s also come here to have fun. This is his first time in the Fez, and he’d been thinking it’d be a good laugh. Famous last words, really. If anything, it’s this sudden and inexplicable change of attitude that annoys him the most.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

After a few minutes of this, he follows Jon and Sean over to the bar. He doesn’t buy anything, but he stays with them whilst they down their own drinks. With luck, it’ll take his mind off things.

Jon points on the general direction of the dancefloor. “By the end of the night, we’re gonna get you a shag.”

“Good luck, mate.”

Jon was evidently just providing a drunken gesture, because he doesn’t pursue the matter further. He and Sean go back to the dancefloor, whilst Mr Writer here goes back to the wall.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

It’s another few minutes before Cherys comes up and tries to drag him onto the dancefloor. He very adamantly refuses: a trifle foolish, under the circumstances, but this paranoia won’t let him do anything else.

Cherys cottons on quick. “Who cares what other people think?” she asks him. Later, he learns that she’s pissed out of her skull by this point: come to think of it, he was the only one who was still sober when they all got on the damn bus.

“I care!” Loud music notwithstanding, he practically screams the words. He doesn’t want to get angry with her – she’s too nice for that – but he can still feel the blood rising.

“You think any of them will care?” Cherys gestures over to the revellers on the dancefloor. “They won’t care what you look like!”

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t find the words. Regardless of what Cherys seems to think, they will care. They won’t say it, but they’ll care. He’s never enjoyed having people think he’s an idiot.

But right here and now, he doesn’t know how to say this. “Face it, it’s not going to happen.” is what he stupidly settles for instead.

Cherys knows that he’s right. “Fine. Be boring, then.”

“Can do.”

Cherys goes back to the dancefloor. He doesn’t go anywhere. He just continues to stand there and watch.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

He just wants to leave, but he can’t. He still needs his story.

He’s utterly appalled with himself the moment this thought leaves his brain. But this doesn’t stop it from being true. He hasn’t just come here to have fun: he’s also come here to get story material. At the moment, he’s without either.

Well, he’s got some story material, but not the kind he wants. His big plan for tonight, he wanted a story about family and togetherness and all that balls. What he’s finding instead is a story about alienation. That’s not the kind of thing he wants to write.

He’s a writer. That’s what he does.

Eventually, he decides to check his watch. It’s not long after midnight, which means he’s been here about three quarters of an hour. That went faster than he thought. If he leaves now, at least it won’t be so bad.

And he might as well face facts: he’s not getting the story he wants anyway. Not now.

He heads over to Jon, who’s happily slow-dancing away with Kaz. He taps Jon on the shoulder and says he’s leaving. Jon nods. At least someone knows where he is.

As heads out of the Fez and into the cold night air, he doesn’t feel relieved. He just feels angry. Angrier than he’s been all night. He didn’t need to do this. He didn’t need to run away, to accept that he can’t do it, that he couldn’t relax even if his life depended on it.

He can walk back to the uni from here. He’s done it before: it’ll take him about half an hour, and he knows the way. He’s too angry with himself to care about how stupid this is, walking through Greater London on his own in the middle of the night.

So he sets off on the walk home. Though he won’t realize the full extent of it until later, the obvious truth is just starting to occur to him. That if he hadn’t been so keen on chronicling events, maybe he’d have been able to be a part of them. Or maybe he just wouldn’t have cared so much about not being part of them. It’s too late now, either way. He’s still made himself look like an anti-social headcase.

He’s a wri- ah, fuck it. It’s not like you don’t know the drill by now.