Saturday, 25 April 2015

S is for Smell

Noah is dead.

I want to fold myself up like a napkin until I can deal with this.

The dove is selfish and hasn't come back. She has thrown all the words into the sea and they have drifted to the bottom. Unlike me they don't have to hold their breath but are now useless and soggy and all the letters have been merged into a squiggle. It's just me and the animals now and I haven't got a clue how to steer this thing. I don't know how it happened. Maybe I left the book closed for too long and he died of starvation or some tropical dream disease. The animals are fine but they know what has happened and are in mourning. They haven't folded themselves up like me. But they didn't love Noah like I did. He was my life.

I think this boat is going to sink. I remember learning about a boat called the Titanic that sunk killing many people. I cannot remember how I learned it. It could have been in helmet or in the watching zone. We learn about lots of things without knowing we are learning them. It's how things work. But I know lots of people died and there weren't enough life boats. I think I am going to need a life boat for me and all the animals. We'll have tom leave Noah behind or I may have to throw him overboard because I can't leave him on board. He will start to smell and I don't want to remember him as a bad smell. maybe when I wake up he will disappear from this book, this dream, whatever it is.

Part of my WIP written for the A to Z challenge

R is for Remembrance

I know now what the crackle gave me. The gift of remembrance. I remember yesterday. Exposure day. And nobody else does.

We talked and we walked and we shared our gifts. I told them about the reapers and Bag told us that she could see everything ten seconds before it happens. I wonder if she saw it coming. Her exit. her disappearance. Being chosen.

Everything was back to normal. Everything except Bag. She was gone and Rosh didn't even know who she was. I don't think anybody knows who she is. She's been erased. All memory of exposure day has been erased. I am beginning to think that there have been other exposure days before the one yesterday and I have forgotten them.

I lay in the big tub and disappeared under the water. It's a circular tub in a circular room. We wash and we spend all day washing. I don't know why they think we have to spend all day in the tub. We wash and we go all wrinkly. The reapers don't like the water. They sit behind us so that they don't get wet. It's the first time I have seen them totally removed and I wonder if they remember yesterday at all or if they even care. They don't seem to care about anything. They are just waiting to perform their duty. I wonder if they know when it will happen and that scares me. The fact that my (unseen) reaper could know exactly when I will die, the day, the hour, the very second of my demise. It's a terrifying thought. And it makes me realise that we all have a death day as well as birthday, we just don't know when it is. Today could be my death day and we I don't know it. Every year my death day comes and goes without my knowledge and so does all of our death days.

I stayed under the water for thirty minutes and nobody even noticed my amazing gift. I could have drowned and they wouldn't have noticed. I lay under the water and thought about Noah and the boat and all the animals living underneath. And how they are exactly like the pages of a book. And just like a book they disappear when you close it or turn the corner of the page. Everybody in the book freezes and waits until you start to read it again. This makes me sad because Noah and all the animals are frozen. They are trapped in my book and I have to go to sleep again to get them moving. They are basically dead.

And I think about Ink and how she is probably walking the colourdors right now instead of being here with all of us. I wonder if she is lost like we were yesterday and I wonder if she even knows about the door. The door that we went through. The door that me and Bag went through but I came back through alone. At least that's how I think it happened.

Part of my WIP written for the A to Z Challenge

Monday, 20 April 2015

Q is for Questions

Her name was Much or her name was Muse. It was one of the two or neither.

We were passing information about like a game of Chinese Whispers. The word on the street was that somebody had found the Helmet Zone and it had been destroyed. While other girls were saying that the Helmet Zone had been taken over by a small group of disgruntled Crackles who were unhappy about the day's events.

I wasn't prepared to believe anything because all I was seeing were walls. Bare walls. Colourless walls. I had lost the others and I only had Bag for company. For some reason she had decided to attach herself to me at the hip.

'So what's mine doing?'

'He's asleep,' I said.

Most of them were asleep. I have come to the conclusion that they spend most of their time sleeping. It's their favourite pastime.

'How is it attached?'

'It isn't really attached by anything,' I said, 'they are just there.'

'What does he look like?'

'Ugly.' I said.

'In what way?'

This is how we went as we continued to search for something. A way out or a door or a tutt. She would ask me a question and I would answer in the best way that I could. I didn't mind. It was kind of reassuring to have somebody to talk to and it was taking my mind off my need to empty my bladder. It was burning now and it felt like my bladder was about to explode.

I tried to manifest a tutt but nothing was happening. I asked bag to try but she didn't have any luck either. At the this rate I would just have to crouch down when nobody was looking but judging by the smells emanating from the colourdors I wouldn't be the first one to do it.

' How do they do it?'


'How do they do it?' she said. 'Do they strangle us?'

To be honest I don't know but I don't think Rhyme or the tall girl had been strangled. I told her that I didn't know. I don't really see how they do it. the tall girl was pinned to the wall and then she died. Much or Muse or whatever her name was.


Bag said that she thought all the rooms had been removed at the same time as the Stammies. And that all we were left with was the colourdors. I told he that she could be right but I hoped not or else we could be stuck here forever. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was. I wanted that more than anything. I didn't want my words anymore. I wanted Bath Day back. I wanted a long soak and a scrub with all the other girls and I wanted to do it with my seven words and nothing else.

I told Bag to walk ahead of me when we came to another turn in the colourdoors. I crouched and hoped that nobody would come walking in the opposite direction.

------    An excerpt from my WIP written for the A to Z Challenge.

Sunday, 19 April 2015

P is for Pasttimes

Life is all about balancing.

We are all eternal jugglers trying to juggle our careers with our happiness with our need to pay the bills and with our need to enjoy our short lives on this planet.

But some of us have too may balls to juggle and we struggle to keep up. And some of us have odd shaped balls that are difficult to handle and sometimes we drop one on the floor and it shatters. And we are left with fewer balls than we started with when a family members dies or we lose our job or some other tragedy strikes.

But sometimes as jugglers we have balls missing. Or there are balls that we have hidden in a bag and forget to take out. We sometimes toss around our family balls and our job balls and forget all about our happiness balls or our fun balls. I guess it's just a case of making priorities. I think it's important that we don't forget our fun balls. It's okay to concentrate on our jobs so that we can earn enough money to pay the rent or the mortgage or to do a weekly shop. But if we forget about fun then what is the purpose of life?

Do we really want to spend all our lives working?

We don't live in a Utopian world where we can all lay on our backs all day eating grapes. The world doesn't work like that but surely we have to at least try to enjoy it. Or else what is it going to say on our gravestones?

Would you rather it said

Worked hard all his life and was a dearly loved by everyone.


Worked hard all his life and was dearly loved by everyone and loved having fun.

I know which I'd prefer.

So what do you do for fun? Are you a party animal or a mountain climber or a bike rider or a keen gardener?

Pick one. Make sure you have enough balls to juggle because sometimes they fall and break and you may find yourself juggling too many work balls and not enough fun balls. We all have to juggle but I guess it's a case of doing it on our own terms.

O is for Old Fashioned

Call me old fashioned if you like but sometimes I hamper for the way things used to be.

If I had a time machine I'd like to go back to a simpler time. I'd just arrive at a point and time in history where you can open a door the old fashioned way without waiting for a robot to open it for you. I can appreciate that sliding doors are more economical and cost effective but I am quite capable of opening a bloody door. I don't feel like I need an A Level or a Masters Degree in door management.

And I'd like to go back to a simpler time when we had normal shops in our streets. Shops that were necessary. All I want is a butchers and a greengrocers and a pub and a hardware shop. Throw in a barbers and a post office and a bakers shop for good measure. Proper shops that served a useful public service. But these days all we seem get are Indian and Chinese take-aways and nail boutiques and phone shops. I just want some old fashioned normal shops. I don't want to get my toe nails polished or my eyebrows redesigned or my left nipple realigned to match the one on the right. Correct me if I'm wrong but in the old days people didn't have time to get their nostrils flushed or their body spray painted. They were too busy working in the pits or the cotton mills or fighting in the trenches.

These days some women won't leave their house if their make up clashes with the colour of their mobile phone. And where do these people get the money and the time to do all this shit?

I don't want any of it. I wish somebody would knock down the sunbed shop and replace it with a candlestick makers. I want to burn down Fluffy's Nail boutique so that somebody can replace it with a good old fashioned shop.

Give me a green grocers or a butchers shop and shove the E-Cig store up your arse. I want my time machine.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

N is for No Music

So I have heard about so many people that listen to music while they are writing.

Whether it's Mozart (that seems to be the thing at the moment) or Black Sabbath or Siberian Whale Music, listening to music seems to be very popular. But I can't quite get the hang of it.

I did a trial tonight by listening to Mozart on Spotify while I was writing the latest installment of my Camp Nano project but it was just annoying. I don't know it it made my writing any more creative than usual. I guess I will find that out tomorrow when I reread what I've written.

I just found the whole thing annoying. Just like I find it annoying when the whole world seems to walk into our back room whenever I decide to write downstairs for a change. I find it even as annoying as listening the the drone of a hoover. Maybe I am just one of those writers that needs absolute silence?

Otherwise I just can't seem to hear my characters speak. So I am wondering how many silence seekers are out there in the writing world or am I in the majority?

Maybe I just picked the wrong tune. Maybe I need to get my hands on some of that whale music or Chinese water music or whatever the hell it is?

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

M is for More Than We Talked

I've never known the stammies to go out.

Ever since I was born to my birther they have watched over me, There's no escape from them. They are the same now as they were in the beginning. That line has been drummed into us from Day Zero.

So to look up and see a those little blanks screens was impossible to take in, It was too big to comprehend.

'The bastards have gone.'

It was Ink. She had joined me and Rosh in the now colourless colourdoors. Bag was also tagging along. It seemed that Rosh was collecting people but I didn't know what purpose she had in mind. Bag was a tiny blob of black hair. I have never spoken to her but sometimes we share a boothical in helmet when Ink isn't well. She is one of life's tagger-alongers. I don't know who she shares her words with or anything else about her.

All four of us were looking up at the empty stammies, expecting them to flash back to life at any moment. At any moment we would see their faces and we would hear the bells tolling.

'Where did they take her?' said Ink.


'Rhyme. When they die where do they go?'

'Dunno,' I said. I really didn't. Nobody does. None of us know anything, We live in our bubble and we don't ask any questions. Because we have nobody to ask them to and usually don't have enough words anyway.

Other girls were filing past, most of them looking as uncomfortable and dazed as we did. Others were running around like headless porkines. And all the time I was thinking Noah would know what to doNoah would save us.

'Well lets' find out,' said Ink. 'Let's find out where they have taken her.'

We started to walk and we carried on walking and we walked more than we talked because we weren't used to our voices. We didn't want tp break them. But we were all thinking the same thing, I was sure of it. For once I really thought that mindspeak was possible and that all four of us shared a that same thought. I could almost hear it spoken out loud and I think they did too. Even Bag.

The doorsThe doors may be openThe doors that belong to them and not us.


An Excerpt from my WIP for the A to Z Blog Challenge