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KRIS

Lara took a steadying breath, and opened the door to her long-time stalker.

“Oh, hi Mrs Holloway, I was just …”

“It’s all right, Kris. You can come on in.”

He shuffled into the kitchen, smelling of medicine. She had her speech rehearsed.

“I know you’ve been watching me, Kris.”

He coloured and could not speak. He looked at the linoleum, and then around at the kitchen, which had just a single tilted chair in it that you leant against while cooking.

“I don’t mind it. I just think it would be good for you if you met the real me.”

She kept a smile just beneath her expression in order to reassure him.

“How about some tea?”

“Okay.”

He started walking towards the dining room. Of course, she thought, he knows where I eat.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Yeah,” he called from the dining room. He was looking at the photographs in her dining room that leaned against the window. The biggest was black and white, and she was standing on a cliff top, about thirty, smiling into the lens.

She followed him into the dining room holding some biscuits, rather than let him wander around on his own.

“I could tell you a few things about myself, if you like.”

“Would you like a hand with the tea?”

She only just heard him above the kettle boiling across the house. His body looked as if it had been stitched together hurriedly, she thought, and his face was straight out of a Victorian book on criminology.

“I’m okay, thank you.”

She returned holding the tea to find him poking around in the mess on the floor. She smiled.

“I know that you’re obsessed with me, Kris.”

“You’re a bit old for me,” he mumbled, colouring once more.

“I’ve seen you outside my house. To tell you the truth, I don’t mind the company right now.”

He turned his attention away and started going through the mess again.

“I want to help you,” she said, but he seemed more interested in the contents of her drawers.

She left him alone for a while, enjoying the feeling of someone in the house. She returned to find him going through her dirty underwear.

“Now you know that‘s not appropriate!”

He flashed his eyes at her in exasperation, but she held firm. However, she felt something tickle in her.

“If you like,” she said, “you may watch me bathe.”

She got undressed in front of him, and it was as simple as if they’d done it a thousand times before. She climbed into the bath and looked up at him while her body adjusted to the temperature. He tried to approach, but she looked at him threateningly and he shrank back.

She spent the rest of her bath alone, and came downstairs later to find him cooking for her in the kitchen.

“Kris,” she went, all southern belle, “it’s sweet how much you care for little old me.”

“It’s my job to, Mrs. Holloway," said Kris, "since you’ve become unwell.”
* * *
It was awful of him to come round here, to her cottage quite out of his way. He held his head at an angle and looked out of the window, while she hid her hands beneath the table. He seemed to be waiting for something, rather than at a loss what to say. She made brief sounds in her throat to fill the silence that was all they shared. He'd lost his easy touch. Maybe that's why he was here.

His camera lay on the table, a visual excuse for being in the countryside, but she knew it was blank like him. He wore yellow trousers that made her realise he was old. When he raised his strange mild face, he looked quite blind. He nodded at nothing in particular and stood up, and she felt his weight on the floorboards. She saw him to his car like a queen out walking with an ambassador. It was awful of him to come round here, to her cottage quite out of his way.

* * *
My hands are clasped around six rings of heated iron, and they burn me as I hold them to my bare chest with a noise that transcends the pain. It is the hissing, and my tremulous voice shouting, that reaches me in the sunken climate of my mind. The palace walls are near, and before the gates six thousand slaves revolve around millstones that may or may not move something in the nether depths; but as I watch them I would stake my life on those grinding wheels turning the dead slaves themselves, like puppets in chains.

Brightness hovers near me, and opening my mouth I let them count my teeth while my mind swims deliriously in the narrow path of the seeping light, the light that seems to flow through my being, that seems to have at its core the depth of my mouth, and the light gently brimming.

And then I am bereft, and the ochre colours rush like breath back into me, and seem to encase me, as I take up the next piece of iron and pierce my thigh through with it. The pain is intense, and the spear seems to nest within the broken shards of iron welted into the rasping wounds each sealed with the heat like rosebuds blooming inwards within me.

I look up to where Jesus seems to sway on high Golgotha, directing thousands of us with the spear he has torn from his skeletal side, and it is only the reticence of my mind that fuses me to him and the fires that burn under his gaunt brow. Sometimes I think it is that he is weeping, and it is the spotlights they have shone upon him that make the tears dance like flame. Such is the narrow angle of my heart, almost-blind and maddened by these thought-encrusted depths. I look up again and he is gone, and only the twisted stone of the ceiling remains, and the remnants of a diseased mind dissipating in his wake.

This is the human abstract; we below haunt ourselves to chase the blessed of ghosts, and it is on us that they must test their weapons, so useless against unflawed skin. Within my roots, there is an ecstasy of weakness, and in that weakness there is the Word. My body bangs within its unhollow trunk, and the holy flowerings begin to spread with the anger that flows from the rings around my heart. My thoughts are trapped within my shades, and labour under the ecstasy of love as an amputee writhes under the hacksaw and strong naval whisky; but oh, heed my fruits, fear my fruits. They are soft enough to break your mouth open and split your entire being down to its last unblemished sliver.
* * *

FRED the Brown was the woodcutter in an obscure Russian fairytale. No-one knew why he was called Fred the Brown, but some speculated that it was because of the colour of the trees when his breath blossomed in the ever-autumnal air, or the rust that covered his face and hands, like children’s tears leaving trails over an ever churning, robotic smile.

Day after day Fred the Brown would watch the characters walk past his house through the forest. Sometimes he would call to them, and they would answer in voices with hidden meanings sheathed in a language he did not understand. From time to time, some purpose would drive him out from his hut to work blind vengeance on the villains that terrorised the sleep-faced Aryan sons and daughters, with their skin like torn petals and their eyes like mineshafts. Sometimes he dallied, and he would arrive to a wolf that had choked on a piece of orange-rind, and a scene of happy children that screamed and shut the door against the tall, bearded stranger with an axe that walked slowly through the azurias in their garden as if in somebody else’s dream.

THUS it was that one-day a child somewhere opened a book and read:

‘The woodcutter ran into the house naked, and lodged his axe into the back of the children’s stepmother by the door while shouting in a language they did not understand. He made rude gestures at the fairy godmother and leapt amorously onto one of the tall blonde princesses standing by. The wicked wolf, seeing such horrific behaviour, renounced his evil ways upon the spot, and he jumped up and tore out the woodcutter’s throat, whereupon the children decided to adopt him as a pet. He joyfully obliged, and the children having ousted their horrible stepmother and the blood-soaked princesses, who ran screaming away, went to live in their castle that stood up on a hill nearby, where they all lived happily ever after with their beloved animal companion, Wolfie.’

Upstairs, the child’s father was sitting in his study with his head in his hands. The parchment he held in his hands was stained terribly, although whether it was from his tears or the candle-wax that guttered down the thin taper that he held over THE LETTER we shall never know, except to say that it was most of it was unrecognisable:

It is by your own admission … the object of my antique conscience …

and now tears, blameless tears cover the dim markings of my corrupt flesh, that bruises to the light until it is as if I am wearing my own ghost … your light is a weight that crushes me, that bends me to you until I am dancing in its rays, and I am become a different person …

please know that it is my sin, my sin that made me blind … and now you demand money, and it is like the hideous cry of that new-born again [illegible] in my ears … wasted years of my life cowering in the shade of certain smilings … screaming ‘Daddy’ with its fingers clutching like roots against my chest, oh, my dreams are never gentle …

the coldness, the ice-laden dawdle, the uneasy looks of an air-hostess with that eternal grin pasted so falsely onto her face that there are cracks through which you can see her entire being …

Adementia, if you could find it in your heart to let be this family, this unholy circle of unhappy strangers: if you could understand that the greatest loss I have already suffered, and it is not the money but your scent, like honeysuckle blown on an early morning air … and your strange beauties, withering at the cusps of an estranged heart …

Yours sincerely,

Pookums



Fred the Brown understood that people are weak, and yet sometimes the bravest thing they can do is feign weakness, when even at the end they have found something which they can fight for. Fred the Brown once said to me that if you have nothing dying for, you have no reason to live.

POEM by Fred the Brown

There is nothing on this earth more excruciating
Than walking past a beautiful girl waiting
By the door, and in the swelter her long hair gleaming
And her jade eyes shining like snow peaks falling
When you have just 
     done an indestructible shite
In the only outside 
            toilet
 of the whole camp site


I'll revise this when I am less drunken

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Fred the Brown Chapter 1, Tangent 2
 
The small child slept alone in the dark house for perhaps the second time in a week that night. Lips trembling and white-faced, she presses the sheets to her burning mouth and shakes until the traces of the tears have faded into the mattress. Six inches beneath her, bedlice swarm in the rotting cavern of the bed where her sweat and tears have corrupted the wood and feathers into one gaping hole punctuated by coiled iron springs like arrowheads buried in a long-healed wound.
There is a lamp by the child's bed which if you spin will make a slideshow on the wall. Now, the dancing animals are still, and a bird carved into the lampshade in a flat, painted sky now illumines the child's forehead with a single ray of light, like a martyr's in some Renaissance fresco.
The child is not a good child. When she grows up she will be manipulative, and she will at the point when her friends have finally given up on her finally introduce a false story of her parents sexually harrassing her and so grapple them to her soul in rings of terrible pathos. She will entrap them in the conspiracy of painted secrets and she will laugh at them from behind her carved smile as she spins, casting shadows across their faces.
Whatever her sins, uncommitted or otherwise, her parents have comitted upon her the sin of omission. It will never be understood by her friends, when the lies fall down, that the most damage that can be done on a child is that of neglect.
Far away, her mother dances in the arms of another man while the father looks on restlessly, tapping time with his fork on a wineglass while his absent hand trails the curvature of the table-leg below the fringes of the tablecloth. As if prompted, the other man's hand begins the descent down his wife's thighs as she is whisked out of sight and across the dark cellar that the club resides in to the other side of the room. No one sees this; and the one person who can feel it does nothing but laugh and pinch his elbow as she clings to his body, hanging within the epicentre of the spinning room.
Behind her painted face one would observe an illusion of zaniness, like a thin stetch of clingfilm running with oils: behind this a wound, as if one had savaged their soul with fake nails and had stopped up its mouth with blusher and a bit of lippie. In this hole something wept, something seeped; fingers pushed at the zaniness like her husband tracing her breast and the dream kicked at her - she laughed the louder to cover it up and recklessly pushed her body into the nook of the man's hollow chest.
Fred the Brown pushed the two closer together until they seemed amorphous; their thin thoraxes pressed against each other until they seemed like the leap of a fountain, like the back of a dolphin. The child, who had wet the bed, surfaced upside-down above them and her dark voice screamed in spirals as Fred the Brown sapped her future from her until she was a pure, shining thing without eyes or mouth, like an angel would look.
The three adult lovers chased each other like liquids in a drain, never touching this thinning droplet of the child; and then like bubbles they burst and were gone. Fred the Brown rose like a light from his writing; and he crossed the room to the window, where the landscape was spread as always like torn sheets over the broken furniture of the city. Fred the Brown understood that when you diminish something, you transcend from it as well.
Current Music:
Nina Simone
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* * *
Fred the Brown was a photojournalist who had become lost in a desert in Sudan. No-one knew for sure why he was called Fred the Brown, but some thought it was a Franglais version of his real name, which by declension must have been Fred Brown.

Fred the Brown surveyed the shimmering desert horizon through one of the lenses of his large SLR camera: the horizon remained the same, ephemeral as always, shining, shifting like the edges of his dreams. He let the lens fall to his chest, upon which a viewer might have seen the reflection of the horizon, perpetually moving upwards, like a weeping scar, warped by the great convex lens and casting edges of light over his crossed forearms like a wine-glass placed in the sun. 

Fred the Brown looked around him dispassionately: he was sick of the place, sick to the core of it, sick from the tip of his sunburnt nose to the back of his grizzled head. He was beyond lost in Sudan - that is to say, lost beyond the point where it could be found, past the point where there was still something he could identify with whatever it was that had misplaced him.

Fred the Brown was sick of moving from oasis to oasis, trying to avoid the death he had been sent out to photograph. Fred the Brown was a sick man in a very haven of sick men, Fred the Brown was blind in a world without light.

Chapter 1.4

Fred the Brown was an unaspiring poet, uneducated though he was, and without grasp of language or meter he stood footless, weightless against the tides of unshackled passions washing against his ribs, knocking his spine and thrashing his heart, bearing his breath like grace notes. Words were his hailstorm, through which he rained without logic, nor reference to the classics, and as rolls of film unpeeled themselves in the white sand and the dead roots of the desert and each image was divined and destroyed by the strands of its creator, Fred the Brown's thoughts filled the cracked desert with whirling snow. No-one knew for sure why he was called Fred the Brown, but some thought it was because of that stretch of skin along his back tanned to leather, jutted along the bones of his back like dirty sheets spread over broken furniture. This was derived from his common hunched position, head between legs, the snares of his body clenched within the tight mouth of the desert caught in the trap of whatever had once lain beyond it, at some time he could not remember.

Pressing the tip of a torn tripod leg between the cracks of the hard earth, Fred the Brown began to carve into the ground with a slow and painstaking motion. This is what he wrote: 

I LOOK OUT UPON A FORREST SCENE FROM THE HOLE IN MY CHEST. LOOKING THROUGH MY OWN CHEST AT THE TREES AND THE FRONDS THAT HANG FROM THE BOWING BRANCHES xjhwd [here his instrument stumbled over a twisted root] I AM AWARE OF IT THROUGH ALL MY ORGANS, UPON WHICH THE SCENE IS CARVED IN CRUDE GRAIN THAT FLOATS GENTLY IN SHADOWY SYMBELS BEFORE MY EYES - OR IS THE SCENE WHICH IS CARVED IN FRONT OF MY EYES AND SOMETHING ELSE BEYOND IT? I CANOT TELL. BUT I AM AWARE OF SOME PRESENCE, AND I BUT AN EFFECT OF ITS PANTHEISM: IN THIS STATE SOMETIMES I BECOME AWARE OF A PERECING HEAT AND LIGHT AND THINK SUDDENLY THAT I AM NOT IN A FORREST AT ALL AND THAT THE HOLE IS NOT IN MY CHEST BUT IN MY HEA 
What Fred the Brown was going to say next we shall never know, for he was at that moment attacked by a host of angry lemurs, a great grievance of his and a subject which we will perhaps return to at some point in time.
Current Music:
Rob Dougan - Furious Angels
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the dry river

is there some thought that makes the dry river
run, when the sun has burned through greater climes,
burrowed the secrets shorn from the earth's chimes
and shattered shoots of trees to blown silver.

is there any sentiment that curbs disease?
these are shadows where her red mouth withered;
hollows from which her broken veins slithered
and come the night, torn sheets like frozen leaves.

oh, but the dry river - let the dry river run,
lest death bear fruit, and strange youth come undone.

* * *
Here it is, written through impulse rather than inspiration. I don't think I ever wrote anything faster in my life. Subsequently it's a torrid, workmanlike affair: but at least I finished something. Read more...Collapse )

For the alternate (better) ending, go to creativewriter.

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Well, I'm back already. I get itchy fingers when I don't write; I also forgot that I hate doing revision .. so here I am.

Some Neighbourhood Watch motherfunglers have blown the whistle on my mother for 'excessive cruelty to animals'. For those of you who do not know what the NW is, it's basically a bunch of middle-aged housewives who somehow think that if they watch their neighbours lawnmowing naked from behind closed curtains this will somehow eradicate crime in the area.

What happened with my mother was that a cat was hit in my road by a car. It was unconscious, but it had all these weird muscular spasms and kept on twisting several feet into the air, while still in the middle of the road in the spot where it fell. This makes it sound like a healthy cat, which it was not; it had most of its limbs broken and landed on its head several times. While everyone was watching in horror, including the driver of the vehicle, some bloke went and got a plastic bag to gently ease it out of its misery.

At this point, my mum arrived on the scene. Seeing the cat in its death-throes, she simply ran it over to put it out of its misery. I say 'ran it over' but really this means knocking it a further twenty feet into the air. Which was quick thinking on her part, but you can picture the scene: a crowd of horrified observers watching a dying cat, our neighbour softly approaching with a plastic bag, and then my mum accelerating into it and pinging it like some furry tennis ball over a garden fence.

So some shit-stirrers have been saying that the cat was playing in the road. Yes. Bouncing along on its neck. We have no idea why they are saying this, especially since everyone there saw what happened, but we suspect that the Neighbourhood Watch act like some White Supremacist pocket organisation in the area. Everyone nowadays thinks racism and sexism are fairytales that people call on to get leverage over 'decent hard-working types' such as poor old John Prescott and dear Mr Nick Griffin. Utter bullshit.

The BNP have taken 8 out of 11 seats in our area, including Bethnall Green with a reported 80%. Which is funny, because over half of the inhabitants of Bethnall Green aren't even white. So either there has been some fixinf down to the famous British voting system, or some of us have serious self-hatred issues.
FUCK THE BNP.

Anyway, this cat issue is just crap. The person who ran over the cat (the first time round) verified that the cat was an ex-cat. Besides, no-one could ever accuse my mum of animal cruelty; the fact that she keeps Pirate, the ugliest damn cat in the universe, alive, shows that she has no antipathy towards the feline persuasion.
I would dearly love to criminalise the Neighbourhood Watch, except that I know that it would overwhelmingly be living up to their image of us. 'Dear, the *bleep* from across our road has laid a brick on our lawn.' 'The savages! Why can't they dig a hole in their garden and do it there?'
Also I have an insane vision of tying one to a chair and them laughing manically 'You can kill me, but others will take my place ..'

Pirate has just jumped up onto my knee, prompting the usual heart cataclysm. He's been my cat for twelve years now and I still can't get used to seeing him step out of the shadows like the first time you see Frankenstein's monster in the old films. If the monster was small and furry and approached in a bewildered and snuffling fashion. Poor pig-rat, he can't help it that he's so ugly.

I digress.
This is a sober freestyle along the lines of my new play (which I had earlier revised, and drawn out a spidergram).

Read more...Collapse )
Current Music:
the 'Trane
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If I were ever to die of spiderbite, my last words would be 'Fucking hell! Fuck you, fucking spider!' I know this because this was my automatic response in church with my grandmother yesterday upon finding one such creature making its way along my arm (and momentarily through the air). I also jumped up with a gesture that my brother has made into a little dance, much like the one in MJ's 'Thriller', but speeded up.
Yes, it is hypocritical for me to be in church. No, she does not realise this, although she is beginning to suspect that it may at least be futile.

Apologies for delaying this post, but there was the problem of no alcohol or droogs in the house, as well as the new series of Lost on terrestrial. I watched the first three hour-long episodes while recording them, and then rewound and watched them straight through again. I regret nothing.

I may be gone from LJ for several weeks because I have to revise for my A-levels. However, let me put you in the hands of sarah_sinclair, whose journal you should go and visit RIGHT NOW. This final freestyle is dedicated to her:


Whistling For Tea

I called, and my screaming was ruptured by the howling of the wind, my voice falling back against my face with the flakes of spiralling snow. No matter which direction I walked in, no black shape met me, and I became aware that I had truly become separated from the group. The storm encased me, filling in my footsteps, and the thin veneer of snow falling seemed to advance upon me until it was a moving screen shifting before and above my powdered eyelids. Snow-blindness began to set in, and I saw my hands and feet disappear into the snow until I stumbled invisibly in the whiteness, separated only by the alien beating of my surrogate heart. The tearing of the wind in my ears became like the beating of a torn tambourine, and behind it, silence.
Suddenly, I stumbled into the solid mass of a rustic stone wall, leaning outwards against the weight of my weak body like some eternally rising cliff. At first I feared it signalled the end of my remaining senses, but as I felt my way along it hopelessly I apprehended the shape of a door and beat upon it, shouting into the silence like a leper drowning in water he could not feel. The coldness was unbearable, and as the movements of my body slowed down, I felt as from a great distance my body beginning to die, crucified on the rack of this narrow portal by the savage storm rattling in the edges of my skull. And then the door opened and I fell in to warmth and darkness, the frozen, bloody tears on my cheeks shattering on the flagstones of the floor. I felt myself guided by another body into the depths of a chair, where I felt great folds of cloth be swathed around me and the heat of a roaring fire on my icy face. In a little while the shadows of the room blossomed into shimmering lines and then burst into husky shapes before my feverish eyes.
I looked around the room. There were palm leaves arranged over the fireplace, encased in a rood-like screen of gauze lily patterns casting shadows onto the four beams in the ceiling, from which crooked nails protruded like thorns. My host was a withered old lady with a willowy face and hands like twisted roots and she wore a bed gown of deep Fillippo Lippi blue. Her skin cracked and folded as she moved, in deep lines that broke the flat light into crevices and made bright rims chase over her like the tawny linings of clouds. She spoke to me but I could not understand; she seemed to accept this and lapsed into warm silence, her smile etched in chiaroscuro tones into her parchment-pale skin. I could not move; sweating in my fever, I twisted and turned into my dreams, falling between tangible memories and the strange unreality of each waking altar.
She pressed cups of steaming tea to my blind, trembling lips and I drank it gladly, ignoring my blistering tongue as a useless and languid thing. As the hours wore on my soul was deflowered and I drank off the lip of her cup as my raging heart was torn into tangled cusps. As my slavish strength grew I noticed that the room was square and lacked entrances, save the one which I had come through. There was a square hole in one of the walls which the old lady approached whenever I finished a cup of tea; there, I saw her purse her lips and blow. She would blow for some time, and changes in the shape of her lips denoted a tune, rootless in the whorls of my wind-deafened ears. Sometimes she made a mistake, and frowned and began to whistle again: mostly however she was rewarded by a pot of boiling tea. As I further began to take note of my surroundings I noticed that she served no tea to her self; as I began to grow a little strength she became wispy and her eyes became ghostlike; she turned her head heavenwards like a martyr and she smiled. It came to me then that she had simply been waiting for some human company to die in; I panicked and began to speak to her, then, but she could not reach me from the thoughtless, haunted realms in which she now floated. Then she died, and the light fell from her face as she slid slightly forward in her chair and stayed like some bowed trunk in the starless forest of my nightmare.
Now I remain, having crawled through the dark room to the hole in the wall, where I try to remember every tune I know but to no avail. Now I remain, and I feel my voice fade as my soul drifts through me like fingertips brushing a blackened mirror and my cold-lidded eyes have no more tears. Now I remain, and the dimmed, mute world encloses me as I crouch in the darkness, beating with my hands against the wall, pleading with that inhuman force on the other side of the wall, pursing my frozen, blistered lips, whistling for tea.
Current Music:
Flaming Lips - Are you a hypnotist??
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