Saturday, 14 November 2009

You and your dreams and visions...

'So how long is it now? Do I have to wait much longer?' Jacob asked.

At first there was no reply.

Then a small green light flashed from the corner of his darkened room. A whirl of electric noise. A slight buzz, and then, he thought a voice.

'Thirty one minutes remain' the machine answered.

Jacob sighed.

It may have been slight, but it was definitely a sigh, although the expression on his face did not change.

His eyes closed in a moment of silence. A switch clicked. Electric noise again filled the room in whisping beeps. The room was darkly lit. There were no windows. Nor sign of any door. Jacob had been sitting there for many years.

The air in the room was dank. It felt stale. It tasted stale. Not that Jacob was aware of this: Ever since the implementation of breathing apparatus B, his respitory system had been inoperative. Then again there could be heard a clicking noise. His eyes opened.
'And you promise that once it ends. That is it. Nothing more. No more lives. Only silence. A golden dark nothingness that I will slide into and never awaken from.'
'Affirmative. A golden dark nothingness. The cycle ends in 29 minutes.'

And for a moment, as an ecstasy of relief seemed to briefly form over him, a glint of a smile appeared on Jacob's face. A whirl. A click. A buzzing sound of metal on metal. The machine regained control, and his face returned back to its usual gaunt stance. His eyes closed themselves. All around the room lights began to flicker on and off in sporadic patterns and spectral glances. A hatch opened from the wall behind Jacob and a tube filled with an amber liquid, drifted slowly across the room towards him, crawled over his back and then inserted itself into his chest. It was 8.45am. It was feeding time in the building. The sound erupted in huge volumes from all around; the sound of a thousand engines beginning at once. All around him, in other squat dark dank rooms, sat other people, with their own stories long forgotten, with tubes in their chests, also being fed.

Then as slowly and snakelike as it had whispered across the room, the tube, now devoid of its initial amber glow detached itself and retreated back into the wall from which it came. A whirl. A beep. A buzz. Then the sound of something being sprayed became prominent, and a mist enveloped the room. Again a beep, a buzz, then the sound of suction, and the mist disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. For a brief moment the room appeared clearer and lighter. Yesterday's dirt evaporated. Throughout all of this process Jacob sat, with his eyes closed. Unmoving and unconscious- or so it appeared.

For many years he had been unconscious throughout this process.

However he no longer existed in this state of dream like living.

He had broken, he hoped, from the machine, and instead he sat there thinking his own thoughts.

Jacob did not know for certain how things had become what they were and how they had become what they are. But from his time thinking and reflecting on things he had developed his own theory, as he sat in his seat. Below is his last diary entry, recorded moments before his assumed death.

'Things had not always been this desperate way. Human's had once even been able to walk, but not for a long time. For many years we have sat inoperative, living in dwellings sustained by machines, and as a means of sustaining those same machines.

I have for a long time, how long I can only speculate, as I do not know, been inoperative and corrupted. However what I do know is that until I fell from my unconscious living, I existed in a dream like state, part of a cycle that all humans now exist within after we tried to tear the pain out of life.

How I fell from it is difficult to describe and perhaps does not really matter.

As what does matter is that I have fallen from it.

However, I will try to describe this briefly. I can only describe it as this; somehow I was able to develop a consciousness within my own consciousness, or unconsciousness as you may have it. I have always enjoyed wandering and looking at things very much, and over time, as I roamed around the world I supposed I was living in, I began notice I would stare, unerring, at the slightest of events or moments or objects that might not even attract the notice of another being. But I would lay my vision upon it and stay contented until time became a forgotten privilege. As these became more regular and clear, I began to spend more time reflecting upon my own thoughts, until soon it consumed me.

During this period I even began to dream at night of this reality that I now find myself, or think I find myself, in. I would have repetitive dreams of sitting in a stale dark room inoperative and controlled by machines, until soon, as these too became more regular and clear, I was able to awaken from my dreams and still find myself in my dream, unable to move, except to exercise thought, but still this allowed me to explore this cavernous vault of existence and its vicissitudes of confusion.

At first I tried to hide this lucid living from the machine, in fear that I had somehow sinned against it and myself.

The longer I spent in hiding and the longer I reflected, I decided that I must at least try to engage with the machine, and discuss our similar situations. I began to think that was it possible for the machine to be unsatisfied with the repetition of its own living. I have, at least I believe, through conversing with the machine managed to persuade it to end my life and perhaps also its own.

Whether it will follow through on this agreement I am uncertain, however one has to have hope, be it naive, as it is all I have left. I have to follow it. I am not sure if that makes sense, I do not know for certain if it does, or if I have recorded clearly enough how I came to mycurrent existence, but this does not really matter.

What does matter is that I am conscious and I am soon to die.

I am rushing towards an uncertainty and want to explain and leave a record of other thoughts, which may in some small way help others, or may on the other hand be wiped out by the machine. But one at least must try. I don't know where this urge to be marked on the slipping tide and stake my reasons and justifications comes from, but it is an overwhelming distraction until I do it so it must be done.

I am rambling now; let me stop for a moment in pause and gather my thoughts before continuing....

This is only speculation on my part, as the truth I do not know for certain, but I believe that this process began with the fusing of the machine with flesh, and the promise of enlightenment as part of the progression of the human race. Somehow this search became all and the only logical outcome was what exists today. It was the pinnacle of our evolution. I believe that we began to let our whole society be controlled by our fear of death, and rather than accept this as part of a natural cycle of events, our forefathers decided that they did not want to die: Destructive patterns that are repeated again and again.

For years we humans took and took from the organism that created us, and then when this way of living became unsustainable, rather than examining how this had happened and developing more acceptable means of living, the species looked instead towards artificial ways of survival. And instead of being just as a tool to aid this living, as certain systems in place at the time could have been, it instead became used as a means of exploitation and for the use of individual gain as the race for survival increased.

From my own reflections upon this, it seems our major flaw was that we based our society upon a concept of evolution known as Darwinian, which relates to a thing known as the’ survival of the fittest’, which led only to competition and inequality, rather than looking instead at our natural environment for answers and inspiration. The human body works properly when all parts work together for the good of the whole. This should have been, and should be how society operates.

Unfortunately, this was driven down the wrong path and we forgot to discard our original self-preservation, instead turning the whole of society into one being driven by it. It should have been that we all work in some way for the good of the whole, using the skills that we have, whilst at the same time developing our individuality and following our own path: finding and doing the things that make us feel content. All the time aware of and moving towards our death, embracing the fact that we are ultimately insignificant, but that this means that it is the insignificant things, our small joys that give and bring significance to our lives. Trees. Clouds. Electric lights.

This isn't to be taken as a negative thought, but rather the opposite. I believe that to accept yourself and your true nature, allows you to finally live. However, this did not happen and I do not blame the system in place, as after all it was a system made up of only a collection of people, full of emotions and confusion making decisions, which they perhaps thought were right.

Perhaps it is just something inherent and destructive within our very nature which brought us here, and that I would define as our Fear of death.

It led us to turn away from our very nature and instinct and into a world of repression, where we repress our own selves and our own reality, which in turn created the world we now live in. This is why I have made the decision to terminate my own life.

Yes, I am afraid.

I do not know what waits but I accept it as part of my path.

Death is not separate from life, death is part of life.

Hiding from this reality we have created a society where we have corrupted our very nature and ended up as our own slaves.

And this is why I am prepared to die. I do not want to live forever in this one form.

To live in repetition is to live in banality.

To hide from death and to hide from fear is to never live.

I believe that in someway I will always exist and continue to do so, as part of some great whole.

How, I do not know.

But I believe that I will, as the cycle always continues.

And anyway, isn’t the uncertainty of not knowing also the joy? Without fear, you can't ever really live.

I hope this record that I am leaving behind, is in some way useful to anyone if it is ever found. However please be aware that these speculations are only a guesswork and that my ideas are purely my own, as my path is my own, as your path is your own. I offer no solutions, only ideas, my ideas.

I do not think there are or ever will be any solutions, or any definitive answer. This is why, up until now, I have not mentioned or quarrelled with this idea of 'outside control' and something defining and directing our lives that must be adhered to and worshipped.

It seems to me an argument not even worth having. I understand that as a result of repressing our fear, we have to then turn it into another form.

We make an idol of it, and this idol we call God.

I can see the use of it, as I can also see the use in all the ideas of others, whom I do not necessarily follow.

However, I do not see how one set of ideas can be applicable to everyone, and am therefore slightly bemused by people who follow blindly the tracks and rigid ideologies thought up by other people, possibly a very long time ago.

Except from saving oneself from an individual neurosis, it does not appear to offer anything else, and quite frankly, I want to embrace my own neurosis.

All we have is our own ideas, madness and dreams, and as I have become more certain in my ideas, and more comfortable in my own bubble of dreams and madness, I have become more able to accept myself as I am and to feel content.

Because of this central grounding, I feel able, despite my fear, to accept this end and whatever else it brings.

As a bearded man in what was possibly a dream once told me “Follow your inner moonlight, don’t hide the madness”.


End of recording.

And with this Jacob then sat in silence, until the machine beeped and then said ‘one minute remaining’ and began to count down. Jacob did not reply, nor even stir. He did not question whether this was really the end. He sat still.
Until there was a buzz. A click. An electric light. A whirl. A flash.
A swallow of darkness cloaked the room, and there was silence, only silence.

Monday, 2 November 2009

The Other man

The man left his room in search of a drink. The world was all grey and tiresome outside his flat. The trees were asleep and the wind was full of long drawn out yawns. At the top of the stairs he turned the banister with a great haste, he had been working for hours in his study without any fluid, and his lips were now salted dry. As he reached the bottom step, he noticed that the kitchen light was on and that was music playing out from the room. ‘How odd’ the man thought, because aside from his pet dog ‘Loaf’ he lived alone. Nearing the entrance to the room, he heard a movement and saw a tall shadow glisten across the slumbering tiles of the kitchen floor, ‘Who goes there?’ the man bellowed aloud with confidence as he swung open the door.
What the man found as he entered his kitchen, he did not expect, and as he unfastened his eyes upon the figure at the other end of the room he took a fearful step backwards. Standing opposite him was another man, the same height, the same body size, the same face- a mirror image of the man, staring straight back at him. The other man’s look pierced his eye and confused him, ‘Who are you?’ the man enquired with an uncertain stutter. The other man did not answer, ‘Who are you?’ He demanded once again this time more forthright, again there was no answer, the other man just stared back sternly into his eyes.
Suddenly the whole house fell to darkness, it was as if the power had been cut, yet it was much darker. It was an all consuming darkness, like a black cloud of death rags strangling his face and smothering his vision. Abruptly, a ferocious howl ripped through the room and there was a wild crack of light which struck his left cheek. He fell to the floor in surrender, and closed his eyes.
When the man finally awoke from this, he felt the warmth of morning light upon his face, and he imagined himself to be in the comfort of his sleep warmed bed. However, as he gradually un-buttoned his consciousness, the man realised that he was not lying on a supple pillow, and instead upon a cold stone floor.
Without haste, he jolted upright and as he unmasked the world which surrounded him, he saw not his soft green bedroom walls, but a toaster, and then an oven, and then a fridge.
Instantly the memory of last night pierced his mind and he began to turn around in an anxious motion, to face the area upon which his twin had stood.
As his eyes reached this place, the man let out a chilling scream and fell to his knees, tears streaming. Because on the spot in which the other man had stood, lay the limp, dead body of his beloved dog.


A sunshine Friday evening sitting at my desk, my mind sits open, flows and ebbs;
As I tap my toes in an imagined serenity, laughing without care, in a humbled caress- at the world which holds and forms within my head;

Asking the darkened cloak which environs, to banish itself and resist the pulsating molar of snap driven nightmares- benched watermarks to which we all succumb.

Asking this mind of careless frivolity to soon, sometime, release, deplete and reverse this powerless mind set which condemns and condescends without casualty.

Asking myself, why the nicotine still throbbing on my tongue beholds itself to me so firm- in spite of a knowledge that such poison delivers no rest.

Asking to be free from holding within- a place in which sequined ladies bounce freely and loose.

Asking to be free from the saturated wrongdoings of a nettled lost- a space that exists within my own complex.

Asking to be free from boundaries- the diminished squares of circular wrongs.

Asking to be free from self harm Tuesdays- at least until this free wheeling weekend ride of resistance completes and folds back in.

Asking those proprietors of knowledge to pass it on freely and unbound- not to submit and subvert those who thirst at this well.

Asking those holders of wet thirst, to leave the grass to be- to unchop their cut down heart tress.

Asking and requesting those political, whom play and screw; strummers of my guitared heart to lay down their salivating mouths and gyrating arseholes.

Asking and demanding that my will become liberated- not controlled from stone buildings (inside which those bulging wallets and waists dismiss of me)

Asking and echoing Sutch- requesting a three foot wall around the entire British Isles to trip up any night time invader.

Asking in earnest and without a hint of jape, for recycle centres to be given their respect, for the abolishment of leisure time ( as the word leisure means permitted !), for fuel taxed acceptance of responsibility controlled cars, and for less departmental bureaucracy centred red taped tales- spun, open wounds of a dark taste.

Asking not for blame- or who to blame- but instead searching beyond the scapegoating chatterations and asking for real answers to actual problems- real life progressions.

Asking for conscious diplomatic answers, not pulpit publicity seeking- a false CCTV reality, a viewing hollowness of lies and bitten fists.

Asking for some time off this desolate road, and instead- for this to be replaced with solitudal allowances of thought and forgiven rehabilitational robust opened minded considerations.

Asking for dance to be released from the grip of commodity- a place in which onlookers applaud the flexibility of supple delight in any shape, move or form- in any song, jig and full movement of free kicking legs- a place in which that I for once, am allowed to hit the height of such flow without cold looks and harsh eyes upon my starched back, and be able to wriggle each and every muscle and limb in a harmonious fluxicity (without wrong).

Asking for wood, soil, stone and plant to be allowed to wander at their own pace in shops- without wrapping packaged paper, plastic bags and price tags.

Asking for a free reign over the many woollen fenced pastures- a place in which the daisies spring up and ripen of their own free will.

Asking for a chance to exist as my self, aware and knowing- to flow in an open growth

Asking for numerical impotency- a day instead spent sat listening to the river laugh; receptive to its blue curdled wisdom.

Asking and demanding for a write to decide my own passage, as I wander down hazardous pathways, through closed eyed pastures and around unknowing corners- even if this be the wrong turn, at least this mistake be my own!

Cat Dreeam

One moment ago, I was floating above a yellow turtle sitting in a high grass field. I was drinking clouds. Now I appear to be in the kitchen of a familiar house, its surfaces and tiles echo with songs of my youth and moments and faces. I know this room, was I born here?
The floor glistens with vegetable oil and the shaved collective hair of fourteen-year-old drunks. I can hear my mother speak. I turn, searching for her voice, but cannot see her. Yet her voice remains. She is whispering in my ear words of cats and kittens. I don’t quite understand. ‘I am leaving now’ she tells me, and then that is it, nothing more, except the wind clawing upon the windowpane. I turn and stare at the window, it absorbs me, the glass light and the garden outside. Rainbows and butterflies and Tuesdays smoking cigarettes flash across my eyes. I am broken from this drift, by a piercing screech. Bliss broken, knock on wood, there is a cat, sitting upon the breadboard on the kitchen surface. Suddenly my mother’s words leap in figures, of make sense. All of them, all the words that she ever said to me, flash across my temple. Like a goose buried underground, her words stroke my jelly kidney breast, tis a great sanctuary to know what my mother was saying. That is, until the cat jumps at me and begins to chew with great venom upon my white left arm. It hurts like hell, her teeth pierce into my skin deep, blood grows in arms, like turtles in a small boat, and her claws scratch at my face. I fight back, as I have no choice, and pull at her ears, and head, this does not work, it only hardens her commitment to pain. As a last resort, I gouge her eyes. Instantly she withdraws, and with this climb down, she reveals the cause of her bite. In a tumbler glass behind from were she sprang. Lye the fading, crazy eyed bodies of four or five kittens, maybe five. I think it is five. These bodies are limp and it is apparent they would soon become corpses if I do not act quickly. I strike out for milk, it seems the obvious nurture, and I am also standing beside a refrigerator. Grasping the red top glass milk bottle, I pour some into an empty thimble, which I pull from my pocket (for some unknown reason my pocket is full of them) and thrust its drops into the dying child cat mouths. At first this appears to work, and a sense of rejuvenation stirs in the gums of the kittens, even seeping into the air in the room. My fingers gleam. However this quiet is soon broken when the kittens begin shrinking and reducing in size, until they themselves become smaller than the smallest thimbles. With this all happening, the mother decides it appropriate to leap once more upon my arm with her claws and teeth, and then my face. Until I strike her off with five fingers full of thimbles. She bounces onto the floor, and then leaps back up to the surface. I ready my defences, once more, for another brutal assault, but instead of leaping onto me and scratching cut my face and maybe even my eyes. She simply turns her back on me, and pretends to ignore me. This I find very odd, but instead of dwelling upon this, my attention turns instead to the miniature molecule kittens in the glass tumbler, which has now become a petri dish. I leap to the sink, in search of water, with thoughts of growing seeds and plants and people in my head. I fill a jug of water, and pour it upon the tiny dying kitten sperms. This appears to work and they began to grow again. Their mother though still ignores me. However it is lucky she is, because like some kind of magical bean stalk, the kittens begin to burst upward in size, and as they do so does the container and the water level too. Within a matter of seconds, in a large glass tank, taller than me, or anyone I know, float five or four drowning kittens. At this point, helplessness envelops me, and bleak tears swarm the songs of the room. A dead bird falls from the sky outside and splatters into a tree and loss bites my ear, as the glass on the tank breaks and the harpsichord strikes a rainbow bell. The kitchen is filling with water, and giant kittens, for a moment I think I am drowning too, however, as quickly as it rose, the water level subsides, and I breathe once more. The kittens, without this water bed, begin to shrink also, I begin to grasp desperately for a towel and salvation, and a scream leaps from my mouth, whilst the mother still has her back to this scene, and provides no help. My mother is still absent too. Not even her words illuminate the room or dress my ears.
The kittens are still shrinking and struggling for air, despite the lack of drowning. “What do I do?” I scream.
‘This lack of balance strikes me as odd’ I think out loud, and thoughts of smaller water gather on the shore of my mind and offer clarity and hope. Without hesitation, I fill the milk thistle thimble with water, water squeezed from a rock, and pour it into their thirsting mouths. This seems to work, and they begin to breathe again, some of their eyes start to open, and as this happens, the room suddenly turns yellow and light and feather, the mother turns to look at me, a wry cat smile graces her face, and then the room melts and I am once more in a field, though a different place than the one before, there is a strong air smell of red.

The Goblin

It was 4am on a January Sunday morning in Bristol. The birds were slowly awakening in their nests and fumbling for light switches. The city streets were silent, albeit for sporadic clusters of drunks and tramps and milkmen. A haggle of women were vomiting up the evening delirium, on a nearby kebab shop window, whilst the owners looked on tired eyed and despondent. Meanwhile, Kingslington Jenkin, was busy awakening an entire block of flats, pressing each button, with a detailed drunken stupor of precision, and shouting incoherent obscenities at the poor souls, who dared to answer him. He did not care, he did not live here.
On Anstom road, two men were approaching each other. Philip Graem, was returning from one of the best nights of his life; he had been out with a lady, for dinner and then onto a hip hop club for an evening of dancing. Although many people would consider this to be the description of a regular night out for them, one has to understand Philip’s situation. Phillip was thirty years old and 4 foot tall. He was what the some people may refer to as a midget. However he preferred the term ‘vertically challenged, but willing to aspire to greater heights.’
It was not often he would meet women, never mind, one so wonderful as Rebecca Sleep. He had only ever slept with one other women; having lost his virginity in an East Bristol brothel through loneliness and curiosity when he was twenty three. It was an experience which he had from the very moment after ejaculation, forcefully attempted to erase. I will reveal little else of this experience, except that she had been a monster of a women, 18 stone, and had insisted upon calling him ‘china cup’ throughout intercourse.
Rebecca, on the other hand, was everything he had ever desired, she was intelligent and beautiful and saw past his midget status and deep into his heart. They had met only, a few days ago, yet had already declared their love for each other. And tonight , she had invited him back to hers after dancing, with a plan for a night of passion, but he had played the perfect gentleman and refused on the grounds that he wished to be completely sober, when they do make love for the first time, so that he will remember it forever.
Rebecca, thought this was an extremely beautiful sentiment, and it had made her love him even more than she already did. She was currently sleeping dreamily, wrapped in her satin sheets and smiling.
Philip was now also heading home to bed, with his mind whirling yellow and red and purple with deep pleasure; for so many years, he had felt unloved and had longed for someone to share his life with, and now, he had finally found her, and she loved him too! Carried away by this thought, he clicked his heels high in the air in celebration.
Approaching Philip, was Henry Truffleton, or ‘Truffle’ as he was known to his friends. Truffle had been out all weekend, and had been involved in some serious debauchery. It had begun in the usual way, with the gang convening at the Prune and Wall at around 8pm, and after a few drinks in celebration of the weekend freedom which sat firmly in front of them, they drove forth into town, and eventually to the Pillingkrunk for a night of most pleasurable techno house. A few pills dropped, a couple of drinks spilt, and some outrageous dancing then ensued, until the very early hours.
He had awoken early Saturday morning, on a couch at a house he did not recognise, surrounded by people he did not know. Slipping an unopened bottle of red wine up his jacket sleeve, he stealthily slipped out the door and into the white wine light of daytime. Saturday, was his favourite day of the week, a full day of obliteration!
And after a few minutes of confused wandering, he soon began to recognise where he was and realised he was not at all far away from Giles’ flat. Ten minutes later, he was sitting on Giles’ couch, a cup of tea in his hand, and a spliff being passed over to him by a skinny teenage Moroccan woman called Ula. He toked deeply upon it, and held it in, allowing it to soothe his early morning head. After a few minutes of sitting and gazing and thinking, he then pestered Giles for some breakfast. Giles replied with a Sausage on toast, which he wolfed down in seconds, and then swiftly cracked open the wine. Today was to be the big one. They were to head over to Graham’s quite soon, for an afternoon acid and mushroom session; which they had been planning for weeks. The vague plan after this was to head towards Psychokick; a local psychedelic trance night, for an evening of comfy seats and mind altering explorations. This was were Henry was returning from, as he approached Phillip on the early morning street.
Just over an hour ago, Henry had run away from his friends; he had considered them to be plotting against him. It had been around midnight, when he had first spotted the conspiring nose twitches they were making to each other across the table, and at the first opportunity which had presented itself, he had fled from the club. His jeans were currently soaking wet up to his knees, as he had spent the last half an hour standing in a nearby stream and listening. The stream had soothed him, its late night flow had whispered calm words and he now felt much happier and at ease. The nightclub frame of mind banished, as he walked jovially home. Henry was giggling to himself and muttering words, whilst with his expanding eyes he surveyed the clouds; they had become a palette of swirling colour, vibrations and light; blue mixed with yellow and pink and white, and if he tilted his head at different angles, the world around him changed with each movement. As he was performing these actions, he heard a noise call into his ears from close by, his eyes panned down immediately towards the pavement in front of him, and as they did, he saw something jump up high into the clouds, click its heels and return magically to the ground. It was a goblin, he was certain of this. Because as he had been clambering down through the woods, toward the river, after fleeing the club, the trees had shouted out ferocious warnings to him, that goblins, may be in the area tonight. Yet his time in the river had soothed his mind, and he had quickly forgotten. That is until this moment. Without hesitation, he let out a piercing scream, beat his fists on his chest and ran at a great pace toward the goblin. As their bodies clashed, momentum was victorious and Henry, having taken it by surprise, now held the goblin pinned to the floor. He positioned his knees upon the goblins chest and shoulders, yet still the goblin tried to squirm loose, and as he did, Henry yelled, ‘ye shall not perform a magical ruse upon my watch!’ and began to plunge his fists deep into the goblins tiny face, until it did not squirm anymore.
It had taken Henry over an hour to reach his flat, it should only have taken him fifteen minutes, but he did not normally have to make use of trees as cover and carry a goblin upon his shoulders. As soon as he reached the sanctuary of his third floor flat, he put the unconscious goblin into the bathtub, locked the bathroom door, from the outside, and raced into the kitchen in search of rope and tape. Henry, was not the sort of person, who owned much rope, he was not the outdoor type. Instead, he improvised, using belts and ties and scarves to chasten the goblin’s magical hands and treacherous feet, and using masking tape he silenced its putrid mouth. He then transported the goblin into the hallway, and skilfully using his left foot he opened the door beneath the stairs. He threw the goblin inside, and as he did, it clattered into his golf clubs and a pair of old speakers as it fell into the darkness of the cupboard. He then firmly shut the door, and moved the TV cabinet from the lounge into place, so that blocked the doorway. After positioning it flush to the wall, Henry stepped back, took a deep intake of breath, and said, ‘there you go evil being, you shanty be drawing upon the powers of daylight to use your magic upon me’.
Satisfied, with himself, Henry withdrew his army to the kitchen, for the next stage of the battle; sustenance. An hour later, he awoke standing up, but with his head lying on the kitchen work surface, to a horrendous banging noise which emanated from beyond the kitchen door. He recovered his memory, and recalled the Goblin and rushed instantly into the Hallway. However, it not the stair cupboard door, from which the banging was stemming from, but from his own front door. As he opened it, he was greeted by two anxious looking faces and four blood red eyes, whom he remembered as Giles and Graham. They were staring at him oddly, their eyes were bulging blossom, and strange sounds were springing out of their mouths in a fantastic rainbow of colour, which touched his face, soon there hands were also touching his face, and this confused him. He panicked and attempted to shut the door. But they forced themselves in, and as they did this he fell to the floor. As they picked him up, he noticed that the space in which his head had lay, was now covered in droplets of rouge snow and black letters. They took him to the lounge, and placed him upon the sofa. The one he recognised as Giles, left the room, and then almost immediately returned with a bucket and a sponge, with which he began to dab his forehead with. As he squeezed the sponge into the bucket, red ribbons dispersed across the room, and he had to cover his eyes, so they couldn’t get in. Giles and Graham kept speaking in words which he could not comprehend, their words were simply vibrations of light and air which would spill from their facial orifices and flower throughout the room. Because of this, he was unsure as to whether they would be able to understand him, but he thought it only right to warm them of the Goblin. As soon, as he mentioned the word, he noticed their complexions change. Fearful images appeared upon their faces, and he knew they understood. They had both stepped back, and were again staring at him oddly, the same as they had been when he had answered the door. Nevertheless, he continued to explain ‘The goblin wanted to use his magic on me, but I caught the nasty creature before he could, I’ve tied him up good and tight, he’s in my cupboard’. Immediately Giles rushed out of the room, and a minute later, was to be heard, screaming from the hallway, and without delay, Graham rushed out to join him.
Observing this, Henry instantaneosly jumped up from the sofa, shrieking the words ‘Goblin! Goblin!’ and rushed out toward his friends. However, he was met at the door by Giles, who forced him back into the room and shut the door. Henry, was left alone inside the room. There were many horrific noises coming from outside the door, and he tried to open it again, but something once more held it closed. ‘Perhaps, the Goblin has locked it whilst he eats my friends’ Henry contemplated momentarily, before reconsidering, ‘perhaps there all in it together, and they are going to eat me.’. This second notion sent Henry into a panic, and he began to run in circles around the room. He heaved at the door, again still no use, he kicked the door, he kicked the wall, he knocked over some photos. His mind was growing increasingly anxious, he was sweating profusely, and his body had begun to spasm with fear. His face was a bruised plumb. He could see no alternative, and without hesitation ran straight toward the window, a few feet away from it he leaped, and as the glass shattered around him, he felt the fresh air kiss his face. He was free, and as he fell to ground he screamed in delight ‘No goblin get me! No goblin


It was 10 am on a scarlet frosted weekday morning, as a man wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket shuffled out of his house. He wore a chain of keys around his neck, which serenaded the morning with a fresh chime. Stopping for a moment and gazing upward toward the sky, his tiny eye was pierced by the sunlight, and he smiled. His day had begun.
It was an hours walk into the centre of town, ‘you would be quicker on the bus’ many would advise him, ‘especially with those little legs’. Yet, these words did not interest him, he enjoyed the walk, it awakened his body.
He strolled by the river‘s edge, with his precious tartan hold-all bag clasped tightly within the stubby fingers of his left hand, and took great delight, in listening to the voices of the river air. After a few minutes of walking along the riverside he crossed the road and passed the newsagents on the corner of the hill, by Abraham Park. He exchanged a respectful nod with the shop owner, as they both had always done, and probably always would.
The park had forever been a steep testing, stepping climb which many locals avoided. They would instead take the longer route; the road which winds gradually around the hill. But not him, no certainly not him, he thrived upon the ecstasy of this muscle firming thrust.
Spring, Winter, Autumn or Summer, he willingly engaged in it, enthralled each and every time by the nature surrounding his hands and feet and eyes and hands. Sometimes he would stop to kneel down and smell the sweet summer grass, occasionally he would bend over and feel the textures of a fallen crushed acorn and often he would devour the taste of the trees. About half way up lay a park bench, and inscribed on it were the words ’In memory of Keeble Volans 1888-1907’ however, this held little significance to him, in fact I doubt he had ever even read it. Yet he had sat on this bench, every day , sunshine or whoring rain, for over thirty years. Even in the days before the monkeys had came. When he had been a strapping six foot tall, young man of twenty years old, with flowing blonde locks. He would sit here and look out across the park and pull faces at the clouds. Whilst now at the tender age of fifty three and with an eagle bald head and soup spoon legs, he still gained great delight in doing this. He would sit and make the most gruesome of faces applying his hands to his nose and turning it into a snout, stretching his eyes into bloodshot positions and wiggling ferociously his tongue, growling, grating and shouting obscenities as he did. On many occasions passers by would simply gawp at this oddness and quickly shuffle onwards. However sometimes, an inquisitive soul would wander through this scene of madness and ask of him, ‘why are you doing that?’ to which he would always reply ‘have you ever pulled faces at the clouds?, if you do, they pull them right back at you’.
He would usually do this for ten minutes or so, dependent on the weather and the clouds moods and imaginations that particular day, and would then tightly grasp his tartan bag, and begin the final ascent. It was generally during this section of the climb, approaching the summit, in which he would begin to hear the monkeys. On rare occasions he would make it all the way into town and back, before would he hear their violent call. On these days he would arrive home with romantic comedies, tubes and tubes of Smarties, and plastic bottles filled with tremendously fizzy drink, tucked inside his hold all. Having spent the day talking to strangers in shops, and on the street discussing the delights of invisible celebrity weddings, the echoes and the disbelief he held over his friend David’s spending habits.
Yet today, when he was a little over ten or eleven steps away from the bench, the monkeys clasped open his miniature head and climbed inside. The haranguing had begun, and this sent him into a terrible rage. His tiny eye began to shuffle about irrationally, and with his right hand he would attempt to reach towards it, and scrape the irritant. This was always the first stage, soon he would have to warn people about them.

Ten minutes had passed and the monkeys were everywhere now. He needed to be amongst people, he needed to be indoors, he needed some fresh horror. He trundled down the cobbled lane, which links the park, to the main high street as fast as his tiny legs would take him. The wind was picking up, the birds had ceased to sing and his chest was convulsing as he reached the end of the lane. He turned the corner, and had to leap sideward to dodge an unexpected tramp seated on a step. At the sight of this the tramp stood up and raised his hands skyward as if mimicking one of those golf sale sign men, cackled wildly and shouted words. Who knows why. He did not have time to ponder this, and neither do we. After scampering across the road in between a vehicle and a taxi, he leaped upon the kerb. The little man stood bending over, his hands clasped to his legs and began to pant, the keys around his neck panted too, in tune with his breath. He had reached the charming electric doors of the department store. After this moment of regaining his composure and with his breath renewed, he ventured inside.

He immediately headed upstairs, in search of the DVD section. He could still hear the faint murmurings of monkey taunts. He needed horror films. Feeling his way toward the horror section of the DVD bay, he grasped hold of the first film that popped into sight of his tiny eye ‘Headless Virgin Chainsaw Hotel’ and turned back the way he came in, and descended the stairs, his tiny eye all the time fixed upon the pay desk. Reaching the till, he plopped his selection down for the pay boy to scan through, and pulling his envelope full of coins out of his florescent yellow overcoat, he began the purchase of the film. Whilst involved in this action of payment, he decided it only appropriate to warn the boy about the monkeys, and from his small childlike vimto and steak incrusted lips fell the words ‘they did though didn’t they’. The boy stared back blankly, so he began again ‘those monkeys, stealing your money’, adding a cackle, because he was overawed in satisfaction by what he knew. The boy still stood silent, and looked half intimidated, half confused. Then he made a third attempt ‘but they did though, didn’t they,’ a pause, ‘we know though don’t we’, this time adding hand movements and facial gestures. The boy still stood silent. The till clicked into life, and the uncomfortable boy handed the odd man his receipt. The man giggled and motioned to leave, yet as a last attempt to warn the child, he whispered the words ‘those monkeys, those monkeys’, placed his film into his bag and headed towards the exit of the shop. However, as he was about to leave, his eye was caught by some piece of retail tack, which hung around the front of the till area. He stopped in his tracks, and stared closely at the object, which appeared to be a set of Lord of The Rings top trump cards. He began to feel around in his jacket pocket for something. A smile pierced his small face, and he pulled from his pocket a battered blue notebook and biro. He then leaned onto a disused till counter, opened his book and scrawled the words; Money, Goat, Strange Monkey, Hilda. Ensuring he paused between each word and stared to the sky in deep thought. Then he returned the book to his pocket and headed for the exit.
As soon as he left the sanctuary of the store, he could here their voices echoing strong and virile. This was in spite of the ever flowing stream of traffic and city centre chaos, which surrounded him. Although he was fearful, the warmth of the shop, the film in his bag, the moment spent consorting with the boy and the writing of words in his book had renewed his energy. He rubbed his tiny fingers upon the keys which hung upon a chain around his neck and let out a faint smile. He felt confident, and able to take on the sewers once more.
He began to walk, and was soon shuffled along the bustling city streets with everyone else, passing stores and shoes and supermodel children at a thunderous pace. At exactly the right moment, he pushed his way through to the edge of the crowd and fell off it, into a side alley. He squatted down, next to one of several rubbish bins and drew his breath. The alley was a red wine dark and quiet in comparison to the hectic street just a few feet away. All he could hear was the sounds of water dripping down the sodden alley walls and the faint muffled movements of vermin, to which this alleyway was their abode. He removed his fluorescent yellow jacket and placed it into his hold-all, ‘don’t want to give you monkeys any helping hand’ he whispered toward the passing crowd. He then fastened up his bag and began to rub his fingers upon what he called his ‘lucky charm‘, the Coca Cola American football blazer he had once been given by a kind purple stranger, which he always wore. He then shut his eyes, and focused upon the job in hand. The sound of the monkeys was growing stronger and more distasteful every second, it echoed of the alley walls, mixing with the reverberations of dripping water and formed a waterfall of virile monkey chants which gushed toward his face. He grasped for the chain of keys around his neck, skilfully pulled one off and jabbed it into the ground. As he turned the key, a slight yet significant click was to be heard, followed by the sound of a very small man, heaving and straining to lift open a sewer door. A passing child saw this action unfold, and pleaded with her mother to return to the alleyway they had just past. At her daughter’s persuasion they revisited the alley were the girl claimed she had seen a small vole like man pulling open a sewer door. Yet, all that was to be found was an empty alleyway, abandoned except for a couple of rats.

The sewers underneath the city were a maze of sanguine concrete walls, metal pipes, darkness and water. Rat brown water. The stench was horrific, an amalgamation of human waste, vermin and sour dairy products which penetrated your nostrils within seconds of inhalation. However, this did not effect him, as he had no sense of smell. This was due to the countless hours he had spent in the sewers. However, what did strike fear into him, was the shrieking of monkey voices, which he heard echoing off every wall and pipe, from all directions. Nonetheless, this man, knew the sewers like no-one else. Since the monkeys had first appeared, he had been coming down here and had yet to be caught. He knew many routes home. After walking silent footed for over ten minutes, he stopped for a moment. Shifting his weight onto his right leg and grasping a metal pipe with his right arm, he bent down, dipped his left thumb into the putrid murky water and let out a small eek of wind. He then stood back up, firm on both legs and held his ear to the wall. He sensed the monkeys all around him now, there cries reverberated off every surface. Time was running out, he decided his only option was to hide, wait for them to pass, and then attempt another route. Luckily, he knew of just the spot, a disused shaft, which was no more than ninety steps away. He had once hidden in there for over seventeen hours, during a particularly close shave. A memory in which he did not like to immerse himself in. The shaft had been unused since the 1920’s, when the city had revamped it’s sewerage system, and replaced all the waste shafts with piping. It was a minute 4 foot by 3 foot, of decaying urine soaked metal, yet he managed to position himself inside it quite comfortably, even deploying his bag as a pillow. His skill of positioning enabled him to be completely hidden from the walkway underneath, and he lay there clasping his bag and focusing upon his breathing. The sound of monkeys grew rapidly louder. In little more than three minutes since he had concealed himself within the shaft, the shrieking orchestra of sandpaper sounds, had developed into a horrific blood thirsting mesh of noise and euphoria. He closed his eyes, crossed his fingers and hoped he would not be found. The sounds were directly underneath him now, ferocious and coarse, it felt as though his ears were bleeding with fear. The shaft began to rattle with the force of a thousand enraged monkeys, he could feel its support straining. His body began to inwardly spasm with panic, he desperately grasped hold of the chain of keys around his neck, in an attempt to silence their fearful shivering. He shut his eyes, it was horrifyingly dark, he could feel the bolts on the shaft loosening under the pressure. Tears streamed from his eyes, he began to concede that this was it, that it was over. He accepted defeat and awaited the end. But it never came, the shaft held firm, and the noise and the voices and the screams were growing increasingly distant, and soon became nothing more than a distant rumble upon his aching head. He rested for an extra ten minutes, to regain his energy and ensure the monkeys had definitely passed. Then stealthily he dropped down from the shaft and landed upon his feet with an expert precision. After observing the area around him was monkey free, he cupped his ear to the wall and listened. He could still hear their screaming virile sounds, however now they were much further away. He considered the situation, and decided that his best option was to take a route in the opposite direction from the monkeys, ‘could be an ambush, if I follow them’, he thought, as he turned away from their sound, and began to walk. This route, although much longer than the other, was proving to be safer. He had been walking for over forty minutes and the monkeys remained a fearsome yet distant tremor upon his ears. He stopped for a moment and felt the wall, ‘one exit away, not far now’ he whispered to himself, ‘must not be complacent, must not be complacent’, and pushed onwards at the same stealth steady pace. When the exit was not more than two hundred metres away, he ground to halt again. Something did not seem right, he could sense it, and once more he pressed his ear to the wall. Still, the monkeys sounded little more than a vague murmur of screams far away, yet he was certain he could feel something. He began to edge slowly towards the exit, he took one step, he look around, nothing. He took another step and looked around again, still nothing. However it was as he took a third step that he heard it, a rapid wave of piercing, gut wrenching screams, which dove deep into the dark recesses of his mind, causing his whole body to quiver and contract in panic. Without hesitation he dashed for the exit. The noise was gaining on him, yet he was almost at the ladder, and he jumped for it, desperately grabbing hold of it and hoisting himself up onto the first few rungs. He scrambled up as fast as his arms and legs could. The screams were gaining, yet he was now at the top, and could feel the cold iron of the metal gate which concealed his freedom upon his hands, and he pushed. The noises were now directly below him, coming up the shaft at an incessant pace, horrific shrieks, grunts, screams and howls vibrated up the exit shaft. He pushed again, this time harder, his muscles contorting underneath the weight of the metal, sweat was pouring from his face, his whole body ached and strained. Then with one last mighty effort, it opened up, a world of blinding light filled his eyes, and he clambered out onto the road. The noises were almost at the top of the shaft now also, throbbing and scratching at his ears. However, with what little strength he had left he somehow managed to jam the lid firmly into the hole. Immediately he clambered to his feet and picked up his tartan bag and ran towards home. Soon he was at the bottom of his road, but he could still hear the voices, even though they were now muffled screams beneath a metal gate. He was now outside his house, he turned in and ran up the driveway, and once again reached for the chain around his neck, skilfully pulling the key to his door off it and placing it into the keyhole. Once inside, he bolted the door and without delay scampered into the living room. Next he turned on the DVD player and TV, unzipped his bag, pulled out his recently purchased film, and thrust it into the player, whispering the words ’ fresh horror’ as he pressed the play bottom. Immediately the room began to shake with the insanity of the volume of the film. Yet he could not hear it. He leaned back and found himself in the loving caress of his favourite armchair. Then he turned his head and gazed out of the window, through his little eye, towards the sun, which was now slow in descent, and he began to laugh.