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The Bitch

‘I deserve better things!’She screams down the phone

Hair wet with daggers and snakes

I turned to stone when I met her

Just made me love her more

She deserves nothing

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Posted by on August 14, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Heads Up – A Short Story

A story written for a creative writing lesson (kids, don’t take lessons, they ruin your fun)

Heads Up

As her head hit the basket two things flashed in her mind. One, she had been beheaded for the wrong reason, two they could have used a cleaner basket.

 

The revolution hadn’t quite ventured to the more rural parts of France. Some towns had barely crawled out of the dark ages. Blois had been a prominent hold in the past, a city of note for the future, but for now, forgotten. The Chateaux de Blois dominated over the peasants and their simple lives. Due to the lack of hygiene and drainage it was more revolting than revolut-ing. They had their routines however, and every Sunday at one o’clock the Count would ride out of the Chateaux gates and into the city, with fifteen guards. On horseback nowadays as the memories of having both his silk shoes sucked off by mud still haunted him. This didn’t bode well for his waistline, the buttons of his tailcoat had been threatening to break for freedom for the past month. One more cake and the lowest button would take someone’s eye out. The peasants of the city were ordered to line the paths with their precious linen and aprons, covering over the offending pot holes, mud and poo. They were also ordered to cheer, the best they could do was a mumbled sigh. The count would grace them in full regalia. Painted white face, bouffant wig, and a silk cape skillfully draped over his left shoulder.

 

Alberte, the drunk, had been up since 4am digging a hole. It was a nice hole. Not too wide and not too deep, almost perfect as holes go. No one knew he covered it over with his soiled bedsheet until the Count’s horse took a nosedive into it, followed swiftly by the Count. All the guards horses and all the guard men, spooked from the commotion, cantered off in different directions and the peasants flocked to the hole, surrounded the Count and gasped and coo-d. Marie was so close she could touch him. And she did, repeatedly. His wig powder flying in the air and onto her face, making her sneeze. The Count was cowering and yelping, dirty fingers grabbing and fondling every part of him. Marie found herself reaching for something shiny and gold. A pocket watch. It was covered in diamonds and jewels she had never seen before. She thought it witchcraft and gingerly put the watch back into the Counts pocket as the guards started jabbing and poking everyone out the way. Marie was shoved into the mud, her backside landing on something hard. There was a wary silence as the Count frantically raised himself and spluttered obscenities at the ground, his men, the peasants, the hole and his horse. No one dared move until the Count and guards had all remounted and trotted back to the Chateaux.

 

Marie stayed sat in the mud while everyone dispersed. Alberte had started giggling manically and tore away his now shredded bedcover, pointing at his beautiful hole while glaring at Marie and howling

 

‘Révolution! Révolution! Révolution! Liberté, Egalité, Fraterité!’

 

Shuffling backwards Marie started pulling herself up when suddenly Alberte screamed

 

‘The money, the money, what is this! We have a bourgeoisie hiding among us! She lays money like a hen!’

 

There was a pouch between her legs, blue silk and lace, with coins tumbling into the mud.

 

‘She’s a witch!’ Shouted Albete

 

A crowd started forming once again and Marie was in the same position the Count was moments earlier, although much richer. In the kerfuffle the Count’s purse had fallen from his belt.

 

‘She has the powder of the rich on her!’ shouted one, blowing on her face, the Count’s face powder floating in the air

 

‘Ohhh, look, she has a wart’ shouted another as they poked and pulled Marie

 

Suddenly the ring leader, Alberte started dancing around the crowd screaming

‘Burn her! Burn her! Witch Witch Witch!’

 

‘But she is bourgeois! She must be beheaded, it’s all the rage in Paris. My uncle told me’ said Jacq, one of the more enlightened of the cityfolk.

 

‘Off with her head, off with her head’ they started to chant, lathering themselves up in a mudded frenzy.

 

The crowd lifted Marie to her feet, off her feet and above their heads before she could even burble about the pocket watch.

 

The Chateaux had the only guillotine in the city, typically reserved for tried prisoners and the occasional mistress. The foaming peasants marched Marie to the gates, roaring and cheering over Marie’s innocent hollars. The count, happily lying in his swan neck bath after disrobing from his sodden clothes, heard the commotion outside and leaped up to look out the window, loofah grasped in his right hand, his jewels in the other.

 

‘They want to borrow the guillotine’ his guard shouted. ‘They have a bag of coins and the accused seems to be screaming about a pocket watch’

 

‘They said they’ve got the money to pay for it’

 

‘They’re all mad, all mad’ muttered the Count, peering out the window ‘That’s… that’s my purse! Roll the guillotine out to them and get my money!’

 

As the Count sank himself back into his iron bath he heard the guards shout ‘sir, they don’t know how to use it’

 

‘THWAP’

 

‘Sir, they missed!’

 

‘THLIP’

 

‘Ohhhh there goes her arm!’

 

‘THWAPP THLUP!’

 

The Count sank back into his bath, safe in the knowledge his head would never fall out with his neck. He just needed to work out more devious ways to get his peasant folk to lop off their own.

 

 
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Posted by on June 9, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Bed Toe – A Very Short Story

She’s sitting at the end of the bed and washing her toes with baby wipes, she does it every night just after the 10 o’clock news. I think her toenails are rubbing away. The soles of her feet always seem to be covered in some sort of greenish moss. I get a bit freaked out that it might be some sort of contagious fungus, but I never ask, the vinagary smell of the wipes often get me out of the bed and dressed before I can gather up the courage to. I hid the wipes a few weeks ago while she was in the bathroom, just to try and get her out of the habit, or at least in the shower, but she howled like a banshee for twenty minutes and tore the room apart, knocking over the wardrobe and smashing the built in mirror. I didn’t realise she had it in her, she’s such a small thing. She eventually found the wipes under the cat basket in the corner of the room and glared into my eyes as if she was cursing my soul to hell. I lowered my eyes and started to murmur that she must have been drunk and moved them herself but she grabbed a shard of mirror off the floor, splitting open her thumb, and waved it at my face, slightly piercing my left cheek. I called her a crazy butch lesbian in the most unmanly voice I’ve ever mustered and ran out the door half dressed and trying not to cry. I don’t think she’s forgotten, but here I am again, watching her pull out another vinegary wipe from the packet, gently washing her moss coloured toes and humming some tune I vaguely remember from my childhood.

 
 

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It Was The Vodka – A Redundancy Story

She knew she shouldn’t really give a fuck about it, not now, not after so long, but she did, and she was beyond exhausted with her restless brain thinking on and on and on… and on into the early hours denying her any rest. That’s why she drank. It wasn’t a social thing, it was a sanity recoverer, without it she’d end up a zombiefied husk of a human. Her cat liked the new sleeping pattern, or lack of. It meant when he scratched at the bedroom door at 5am she would throw food in his bowl instead of scream profanities in his direction and occasionally open the door brandishing a well heeled shoe. ‘Fuck’ she exclaimed to the wall. ‘Fuck fuck FUCK’ she screamed out the ajar window to a random early morning jogger. She considered that she might just have everything out of proportion as she twisted the lid off the half empty vodka bottle and drank deeply. It was 5.43am on a Tuesday. The headache once again thundered in with the thought of getting her blouse on for work again. It would be the ninth day in a row. She fell on the bed with a heavy thud, drops of vodka leaping out of the bottle and on onto her forehead. She sighed as the cat jumped onto the bed and started licking the running droplets out of her hair. She never stopped him, although after he drank neat vodka from a cup and staggered into the TV stand she was more vigilant with the amount he drank. Cats really shouldn’t drink neat spirits, but then she figured cats shouldn’t be called ‘Shandy’. At least she always had a drinking partner in the small hours. ‘Fuck’ she told him. ‘fuck this shit’ and quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Two minutes later she opened them to find everything a bit greyer. Even the sun couldn’t be fucked to get up to full mast this morning. She felt herself sinking into the mattress. Even the spring in the middle that always tried to force its way into her spine felt comfortable. And she sank further.

It was 1.32pm, she opened her eyes to see Shandy curled up around the now empty vodka bottle, and sixteen voicemail messages on her phone. She dialed and listened, last first, ‘…imcompant for the last time, your…’ She switched off the call, she knew it was over. She stroked Shandy for some form of comfort. He was cold and still.

 

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The Vegan and The Egg

It was then she suddenly realised that the retching smell of rotting egg was coming from under her train seat. Not to be the sort of person to draw attention to herself she pretended to drop her hand knitted glove and bent down to take a look. Every centimeter her head travelled downwards the stench got more and more potent. As she pulled her mousey hair from her eyes she saw it. A mouldy half eaten egg, possibly pickled, that had been expertly wedged between the metal struts of the train seat. It was green, yellow and grey, almost the same colours as the train company logo. She remembered that there was a new fish and chip shop that had just opened next to Wokingham train station, and how she was going to get a big bag of chips smothered in vinegar there after her forced overtime this evening and eat them on the train. The thought made her quickly lurch up while grabbing her glove in the process and looking wide eyed for an exit. As always the 7.42am train was rammed and the fat bearded man wedged in next to her huffed as she tried to levitate off the chair and away from the offending egg. Being vegan she almost shed a tear for the chick that was never born, and felt bad about leaving it, but knew if she used a tissue to remove the egg the smell would probably leak through and stain her fingers all day. She was always mocked at work for her bad breath and she was sure that it was that bitch Lyndsy that left a bloodied steak in her top draw a few months ago. She never reported it though, just took the steak outside and buried it in the flower bed. She could hear their laughs through the office windows and the blood stains never did come out of the desk drawer properly. ‘Murderers’ she mumbled. She didn’t want to make a scene on the train though, so she sat there, taking small sharp breaths and nervously looking round to make sure no one else could smell the egg. She closed her eyes and meditated about being a mother hen and the warmth from her ass through the seat made the egg reincarnate into a Godzilla sized cockerel that destroyed all the meat eating bastards at her office. She may be vegan but she saw human race as slime that should be wiped out by the things they had imprisoned and tortured. Apart from her mum, she may eat meat, but she’s just misguided and will understand one day when the chicken lord would pay her a visit. The conductor broke her trance with the announcement that the train would be delayed for 20 minutes and someone shouted ‘will someone open the fucking window then, someone must have done a shit on the floor!’ from behind her. She shrank further into her seat and tightly closed her eyes and wished she just got the later train with all her other office colleagues instead of actively avoiding them.

 
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Posted by on February 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Wallow

Wallowing in the guilt of wasting time

I think of it as a slow lazating crime

But then I kinda realise I’m doing just fine

Not bothering a soul

Here, in my hole

Hardening like coal

Achieving nothing

 

 
What’s your sin?

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2016 in experimental, poem, Uncategorized

 

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On and on and on 

She knew she shouldn’t really give a fuck about it, not now, not after so long, but she did, and she was beyond bored with her flickering brain thinking on and on and on into the early hours. That’s why she drank. It wasn’t a social thing, it was a sanity thing, without it she’d end up a zombiefied husk from lack of sleep. The cat liked the new pattern, it meant when he scratched at the door at 5am she would feed him instead of scream profanities in his direction and occasionally open the door brandishing a shoe. ‘Fuck’ she exclaimed to the wall ‘fuck fuck fuck’ and considered that she might just have everything out of proportion as she twisted the lid of the half empty vodka bottle and drank deeply.   

 
 

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