Category: WORDS

I do tend to rattle on…

Neverness by David Zindell – A book review

Chris Theo

Every once in a while you come across a book that surprises you, it takes you by the scruff of your neck and thrusts you into a world so well imagined, deep and complex that you lose yourself in it entirely. Neverness is such a book.

The story follows Mallory Ringess, a young Pilot of the Order that finds himself in deep space on a mission that could have been entirely avoided if he wasn’t such a hot-headed, arrogant and stubborn man-child. Zindell expertly tells this tale in the first person and gives us the insight into Mallory’s personality necessary for us to warm to him. It’s ultimately this decision that allows the novel to succeed so completely. As a reader you find yourself sympathising with the flawed pilot and before long you are cheering for him on his dangerous quest. Each trial leaves Mallory changed and it’s these changes that contribute to one of the main themes of the book, is it possible to transcend our genetic programming and control our destinies? 

Secondary and ancillary characters are handled just as deftly as our protagonist. Mallory’s portly best friend Bardo provides welcome comic relief during some of the most thematically sombre parts of the novel. But he is no mere mouthpiece. There is a depth to Mallory and Bardo’s relationship that really lifts the novel and gives it a great warmth and familiarity. Another character highlight is the Lord Pilot of the Order Soli whose frictional relationship with Mallory is responsible for some of the most gut-wrenching moments I’ve read. The range of emotions that these relationships invoke in the reader adds a complexity that is often missing in a lot of science fiction and adventure novels. As such, every event carries with it a weight that supersedes those in most space operas.

In addition to depth and complexity, the sheer scope of this novel is nothing short of astounding. It’s easy to see why Zindell has been compared with the likes of Olaf Stapledon and even Tolkien. The scale of his adventure juxtaposed against an intimate first person narrative imbues a sense of wonder in the reader. It’s a feat few novels achieve and even fewer manage to sustain this over hundreds of pages. Like a rag doll I was catapulted from the microcosm of Neanderthal life to a tragic war in the in the far reaches of space and back again. And I liked it. A lot.

Combine these elements – an ambitious story, well rounded characters and themes that connect humanity across thirty thousand years of imagined future and you have an the makings of a great, timeless novel. But Zindell doesn’t stop there, because he also writes beautifully. His words are a pleasure to read, his descriptions succinct yet powerful and his prose poetic. There was one moment I remember clearly, where Mallory and Soli were riding their sleds across the snow in freezing conditions and Zindell’s words shot a shiver of cold down my body.

But it was too cold to snow. We depended on the cold, even though the cold knifed through our furs and chilled us to the core. In truth, the cold nearly killed us. It was so cold that the snow was dry and gritty like sand. The air held no moisture, and the sky was deep blue, almost blue-black like an eschatologist’s folded robes. The dry chill air worked at our noses until they began to bleed. We sucked in air hard as icicles, and we felt ice points crystallizing in our nostrils, freezing and cutting our warm, tunnelled flesh.

It would be easy to imagine another writer struggle to explore the kind of themes present in the novel. But Zindell uses the first person narrative to great effect, with Mallory’s personal journey of change and discovery serving as the novel’s main method of thematic exposition.

We are sheep awaiting the butcheries of time; we are clots of brain tissue and bundles of muscle, meat machines that jump to the touch of our most immediate passions; we – I have said this before – we react rather than act; we have thoughts in place of thinking. We are, simply, robots; robots aware that we are robots, but robots nonetheless.

And yet. And yet we are something more. I have seen a dog, Yuri’s beloved Kyoko, a lowly beast whose programs were mostly muzzle and hunger, growls and smell, overcome her fear and flight programs to hurl herself at a great white bear, purely out of love for her master. Even dogs possess a spark of free will. And for humans, within each of us, I believe, burns a flame of free will. In some it is tenuous and dim as an oilstone’s flame; in others it burns hot and bright. But if our will is truly free, why do our robot programs run our bodies and minds? Why do we not run our programs? Why do we not write our own programs? Was it possible that all women and men could free themselves and thus become their own masters?

As I came to the end of this marvellous adventure I found myself very reluctant to let Mallory and Neverness go, to the point where I almost flipped the book over and started again at page one. I simply have too many good books to read, not to mention the sequels, but I have no doubt that I will return to this novel sooner rather than later. And while I’m hesitant to say such a thing so soon after finishing it, I can’t deny the impact this book has had on me. It’s one of, if not the best book I’ve read. And I’ve read a lot.

five-starstrans

The Grudge

Chris Theo

This is an old story I wrote back in late 2001. Over a decade ago! Reading it now there are things I’d change. It’s certainly flawed but I still like it. It’s completely and unashamedly inspired by the song of the same name by Tool. “Let go!” screams Maynard (the inimitable front man) towards the end of the song, and that’s how I chose to begin the story. It’s a dark tale of the search for redemption, originally posted on DeviantArt, it won an award for “Most original prose”.

Enjoy.

 

The Grudge

“Let go”, said the voice from his dreams, it was feminine, warm, yet disturbing enough to wake him. Shivering in his own spit and sweat and tears he contemplated his fate, for in his mind there was no return from the path he had chosen. Unable to take the daily rape, the constant sodomy of his regret, he set about mending the past. In the hope it would secure his future.

He pulled the bed sheets away as he muttered the same words repeatedly under his stale morning breath, “Today will be the day”. These words were familiar to him, but as each day passed they became harder to say and even harder to mean. He walked towards the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the Spanish marble. He unscrewed the bottles of pills that were lined regimentally on the work surface, always within reach. When it came to taking the pills he was perhaps a little more regimental than necessary and he placed a few more on his tongue for good measure helping them down with water that tasted stagnant. No doubt it would taste worse tomorrow.

There was a knock on the door that echoed through his mansion. He knew who it was.

“Hello James!” Dr Jonsons usual greeting. As always replied with silence.

James was tired of the daily visits, what was their purpose? To tell him his cancer, the cancer his body is riddled with has advanced a little more? He knew this already, he felt it. Every day he would wake up later and go to bed earlier, take more pills and have more dreams that would penetrate his thoughts. He wanted closure, physically and emotionally, and his greatest fear was that one could not be done without the other.

James began a conversation.

“I was thinking of talking to Harvey”. ‘Was that a question?’ he thought to himself.
“You think thats a good idea? It’s been so long.”
“But I can’t leave it any longer, it’s killing me.”
“Your cancer is what’s killing you.” James was pretty sure the two were inextricably linked.
“Can I have some water?” asked James’ doctor, changing the tone of the conversation.
“Hang on.”

Dr Jonson, or Steve as James knew him was the only ‘friend’ James had left, but James questioned whether his friendship was strictly part of the doctor-patient relationship. With good reason too, James had not been friends to anyone in a long time.

“Here you go Doc”, said James in a light hearted way, handing Steve the glass, coming as close to being friendly as he had been in a good long while. “Sorry if it tastes bad, I think my filter’s broken.”

The doctor took a sip.

“Tastes fine to me.”

The doctor’s visit was quick, it’s main purpose to ensure James had been taking his tablets. When he saw that he’d almost run out Steve gave James a look of disappointment tinged with severity.

“Steve, for God’s sake, I’m dead anyway”, replied James to the question Steve was about to ask. The visit ended quickly and the house returned to it’s empty self soon enough.

Everything in James’ life had become a chore, each task so laborious it would remind him that as the days passed he was one step closer to his grave. The one thing James wanted to know was how many steps were left.

He’d walked this path in his dreams, narrow and never ending, storm clouds shadowing its twisted form. He pictured the end, filled with light, as he walked through some sort of gate or Gothic arch, healing him. But deep inside he knew that the chances of such a place existing outside his mind were remote.

He picked up the phone and dialled Harvey’s number. A woman picked up on the other end. This was not Harvey. “Harvey? Who’s Harvey?” the voice asked, the sound of children in the background. Harvey had moved. James sighed when he realised that this was going to be harder than expected. He decided that his only course of action (well as close as a man with a few weeks to live could come to action) was to get in touch with Dorothy, Harvey’s sister. The likelihood of Dorothy wanting to see James however was non-existent, but it was his only chance of finding Harvey before time ran out. He didn’t want to die knowing that the only person he could once turn to for anything hated him. James hoped that his pale, thin body rotting from the inside would buy him some sympathy from Dorothy, at least enough for an address. James should have known better. Not everyone could be bought.

James walked out of his house, his cold appearance poisoning the sunshine around him like a negative aura, pale blue and constant. He hadn’t been outside in a long time, his clothes confirmed this, hanging just like the skin that once held firm to his flesh. His trousers held up with a belt on its tightest adjustment, the material scrunching up and the edge of the belt irritating his skin. What he wouldn’t do for something with some elastic in it. Despite how uncomfortable he was, James got in his car and drove off.

He found himself standing at Dorothy’s door unable to ring the bell and certainly not ready to be bombarded with a barrage of insults. James knocked on the door lightly hoping he would not be heard so he would be able to walk off with a clear conscious and later be able to convince himself that he tried. Just as he was about to walk away, he heard the latch of the door unhook and then door open. He stood, his back facing the door, until he could find the courage to look into Dorothy’s eyes.

“Can I help you”, said the woman at the door, the voice sounding strangely familiar. He turned around.
“Hello Dorothy”, was all James managed to get out, his voice re-emphasising the fact that he had given up, as it was tainted with guilt.
“And you are?” James was lost for words. Had his appearance changed so much?
“It’s me. James.”
“James?” she said, trying to place the name. She gasped. “James! Is that really you? You look like shit.” James nodded. “Come in”

James was confused, had his looks changed so radically? Was she merely sympathetic? Or was she waiting to get him inside so she didn’t get the neighbours gossiping about some ‘guy’ Dorothy was shouting at on her own doorstep?

James sat down on one of the sofas, he felt his bones creak with the strain and he accepted Dorothy’s offer for some tea. He could have done with some scotch but his stomach ulcer would have not shared that decision.

James looked around the room, it was old, a little dusty, and the furniture was in need of a shampoo. He thought to himself that he was lucky to have such a nice house in such a nice area but then he realised that Dorothy was the lucky one, she had the home, she had people who cared for her and loved her. He felt envious and hated himself for it.

Very rarely are the wealthy the right people to have a lot of money, it was people like Dorothy who could have money and not be corrupted by it. James couldn’t even remember where he got all of his money, but he knew that most of it was obtained through the exploitation of others, including Harvey. He hoped that the fact that Dorothy was only affected indirectly by his idiocy (he saw it now) would make her a little more receptive to his pleas for forgiveness.

“There you go”, said Dorothy, handing James the tea. The thought came across his mind that she may have poisoned it, but then again she was nothing like him. There was silence for a few moments, as if Dorothy was waiting for James to make the first move.
“Dorothy…? I’m… I’m…” the words were stumbling out of his mouth. Saying sorry in his head was a lot easier than this.
“I know”, replied Dorothy. James gave a sigh of relief and smiled a little. “It’s not me you should be saying sorry to, is it?”
“I need his address.”
“I’ll get it for you.” Jackpot. “Harvey won’t be too pleased when he finds out I gave you this but if you ever sort this out he’ll get over it.” She scribbled something down on a torn piece of paper and put it in his coat pocket. James felt a weight come off his chest but he didn’t let himself get too excited, he knew Harvey was going to be harder to please.

Conversation ensued, uncomfortable at first. Baby steps. They talked about Harvey, the cancer. They talked about the past and the future, but not in any philosophical way, just pleasant conversation. James wanted more but it had been a long time since they were even remotely close and he felt that burdening Dorothy with his problems would not be appropriate. He felt the need to tread lightly, after all, if James was Dorothy he certainly wouldn’t have forgiven himself. Maybe his faults were at a genetic level and couldn’t be helped, or maybe he was just scared. Either way the chances of him getting better, both physically and mentally were diminishing in tandem with each other.

James felt a stabbing pain in his chest he collapsed to the floor. “Are you OK?” said Dorothy.
“I’ll be fine, can you help me up?”
Dorothy grabbed him from under his arms and hauled him to his feet, his frail frame on the verge of snapping.
“I had better go”, said James.

James walked out of Dorothy’s house in a daze, his vision overlapped with a painting by numbers picture animated and swirling, spiralling towards a pool of his own blood.

He lay on the floor, almost foetal in position, a position that seemed to seethe guilt out of every pore on his puny body. He bled, from his mouth and head, his arm outstretched to reach the gate to Dorothy’s house, short by a few inches.

All he was, was a body with an expiration date and a spirit with unfinished business. James knew the consequences of a trapped spirit from his dreams. Every night his body would die for a few hours and his mind would rule, his own thoughts and regrets festering and multiplying within him, defenceless. James had been given a sneak preview to his own personal hell.

Dorothy called an ambulance, as James’ body lay outside, unconscious and dying, his mind still very much alive…

Glimpses of reality pierced his mind intermittently, the ground, the ants (feeding from his blood?), the latch of the gate, light shining through the gate’s twisted metal structure… reassuringly out of reach. But when reality chose to be absent his dreams came back and his mind merged the gap between thoughts and reality.

James stood on the pier of Windmill Lake, a beautiful quiet part of the country where he spent many of his childhood summers with Harvey and Dorothy. Something was different though, everything was smaller, or was he bigger? The windmill, which sat majestic on the north bank of the lake, was no longer red and white; it was grey, brown and black, reminiscent of old oil paintings of the industrial revolution. The once vibrant colours of the flowers that lined the bank, the yellows, reds and purples had now disappeared. All that remained were withered stems, sucked dry of life. The petals floated on the water rotting and limp, their exquisite patterns no longer evident, just like mixed paint, everything had turned brown, charred and linear. Muffled splashes faded into existence and James looked down to see Harvey messing about in the water, he was smiling. James had missed that stupid grin. It was good to see him once again, James thought this image of Harvey had been lost forever and been replaced by that of a sad and lonely man.

James opened his eyes. He was in the hospital, the reassuring ‘beep’ of the heart monitor confirmed this.

“Hello James”, said a voice, James’s neck was too stiff to be able to turn and see who was talking. “It’s Harvey, you’re old buddy.” Harvey’s voice was tainted with anger. “You know, James, I thought I understood you, but it’s clear that I don’t. Can you tell me what the fuck I’m doing here? Did you put Dorothy up to this? You think after all these years you can put this right?”
James opened his mouth to speak. Nothing… He felt like his vocal chords were choosing to ignore the air he was feeding them.
“Don’t you have anything to say… WELL?”
James tried to force the air out. He blacked out again.

The splashes became louder, James was no longer playing. He was drowning.

“HELP ME!” screamed Harvey his screams accompanied by gurgling and choking sounds. Wild uninhibited thrashes in the water, violent kicking under the water, pure rage, screams that were loud enough to rip James’ eardrums all climaxed into a cacophony. Then the splashing stopped. Everything went dead silent. The water rippled into calm. The windmill stopped turning, only Harvey was left moving as he sunk silent into the water, his right arm outstretched to its fullest, eyes hopelessly staring right at James begging for help. James reached out over the edge of the pier, clutched Harvey’s hand tightly and tried to pull him to safety. He looked into Harvey’s eyes and saw that smile again. Euphoria. Forgiveness. “Let go”, said the voice of his dreams, he turned around, it was Dorothy, “LET GO!” she screamed. James quickly turned back to Harvey, the face of purity and forgiveness had turned on him, Harvey’s teeth grit and his soft gaze turned into a haunting stare of revenge. James could no longer see the whites of his eyes, just empty black holes. Harvey pulled James into the murky brown waters with all his might, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him under. James struggled but to no avail.

“FORGIVE ME!” he gurgled, and his eyes opened, Harvey still by his side, “FORGIVE ME!” he said again, choking on his own saliva and on his last breath.
“You wanna die with a clear conscience?” he stopped, pulled up close to his face. “Never.” The words echoed endlessly through James and his last breath was extinguished.

The heart monitor flat-lined.

James continued to walk the narrow, never-ending path of his dreams, of his reality, unprepared to face his misdeeds that were once so close to being forgiven.

He pictured the end, a gate or Gothic arch at the vanishing point. Now just filled with darkness.

“There was nothing you could do”, said the Doctor to Harvey. Harvey nodded unconvincingly, the consequences of his grudge beginning to take shape.

These words would plague him forever.

Schizm

Chris Theo

This is an old poem I wrote in 2002. It was posted on DeviantArt, my old haunt back in the day, and won an award called a “Daily Deviation”. This is what was said about it:

“Schizm is the perfect title for a poem about the division in a person’s self between the person they feel they were and the person they know they are today. Incredibly heartfelt and emotional, this poem hits hard, and is a definite recommendation for anyone that wants to read a truly honest poem.”

 

Schizm

My distorted vision of beauty is realised in you,
The grace that I perceived to be yours
Thundered down upon my gaze,
Gleeful, radiant and elegant
But now,
I choke.

Ill advised was I to ignore your calls,
Bitter and wanton in the cascaded moonbeams.
I still hear them now
Like swelling vibrato in my head.
And I may just cut them out.

So your frivolous nature and promiscuity get the better of you,
I see you how I imagine the countless souls you’ve left behind
Wasting and rotting in their own remorse
Tasting regret, like your tongue bleeding in their mouths.
In mine.

My own face has begun to feel like someone else’s
And in the mirror tears I cry.
Feelings that were once absent reappear
And for a brief and stunning moment I think I want to die.
Life however carries on
And tears stream deeper. Further.

A part of me now missing
But I’m better off this way,
For one day there’ll be nothing left
And my indifference will ensure
These tears are never shed again…

 

* Image: creativeoverflow.net/wp-conten… – Smashed Glass by Ryan Cooley | www.cooleystudio.com/ 

Another Star

Chris Theo

Downloads available:

PDFPDF – For desktop reading // epub EPUB – For eBook reading // mobi MOBI – For Kindle reading

 

 

Another Star

Through wind swept plumes of cloud, a burning red sun loomed. Its light shone golden upon the faces of the many that stared at it, some looking through heavy tinted glasses and others through binoculars. On a nearby dune, an electronic telescope connected to a strange instrument took constant readings.

Would today be the day? Fraser didn’t know. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but as he looked to his left and saw his wife, a tear rolling down her cheek, and then to his right, where his daughter knelt playing in the sand, he burned with the most awful anger. Yet before it could give way to unbridled fury, a sadness washed over him and stole with it all his strength. It had to be today.

Still he gazed upon his daughter, transfixed, unwilling to speak even a word for fear that the dams of his heart would burst and with it flow a torrent of truth that would drain the light from her eyes. He turned away, staring once more at the sun, and gripped his wife’s hand a little tighter. Within moments she sank to her knees, his small unrehearsed show of affection enough to crumble her resolve. A single tear gave way to a dozen more and Fraser could do nothing but stoop down and hold her, all the while gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might never speak again. He scrunched his eyes shut and chose to remember simpler times…

Fraser had met his wife Bala only four years earlier, at a house party where the average age was about 6 years younger than either of them had expected. Bala had given up on merriment and was on her way out when Fraser came bursting in through the front door. She’d never seen anyone so drunk before, he swayed wildly and spoke with the strangest lisp.

“Hello beauthiful.”

“Uhm, I was just leavi…” She made a move for the door but he side-stepped in front of her.

“NO! You can’t go, it’s so early. Come on, it will be fun.” His left hand held an open container of drink which he was barely managing to keep from spilling, he moved in to touch Bala on the shoulder and she recoiled.

“You’re so drunk, I don’t even know you”, she said, annoyed. But he was quite attractive, for a blubbering idiot.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not nearly drunk enough, here, look at this!” He pulled the sides of his mouth apart and opened wide, the stability of his drink reliant almost solely on a wet pinky finger.

“Holy fuck!”, Bala exclaimed, both horrified at the sight of this stranger’s mouth, but also a little fascinated. Two gaping holes sewn shut were all that remained of his wisdom teeth.

“See I’m not just some drunk guy, I’m a man in pain.”

“And you handle it so modestly.” Bala nodded at his drink.

“Well, any excuse for a party. My name’s Fraser”, he downed the unknown liquid in less than two seconds, winced at the pain and held out his alcohol-soaked hand in front of Bala in preparation for a formal greeting.

“This is a huge mistake”, she thought to herself, but the words she spoke as her hand met his were quite different, “Hi, my name’s Bala… it looks like you need another drink.”

From that moment on their night was alive with conversation, laughter and dancing, only coming to a close once the light of the rising, angry sun signalled revelry’s end. They parted with a kiss, which failed spectacularly due to the pain Fraser was in, and a promise. To see each other again.

One year (and seven months pregnant) later Bala joked that they had over-delivered on that promise. Fraser chuckled and pressed his hand gently against her belly. They played out their futures together in their minds and sank warmly in the glow of their thoughts. Bala leaned in against Fraser on the sofa as they watched a repeat of their favourite comedy show. Eventually the late hour weighed heavily on their eyelids and they drifted to sleep, only to be awoken in the early hours by a news bulletin that interrupted the scheduled programming.

That night Fraser and Bala, along with the rest of the world, found out what had been successfully suppressed for years. “Five years”, the broadcast had said. Just five years before the wretched heart of their solar system undid the work of a thousand aeons with fervent callousness.

Fraser and Bala sat upright and with their eyes locked on the screen, its bright flickering painting the dark room with a cool blue hue. It stung the back of their eyes as they watched the broadcast, repeated over and over again, unable to move or speak. They awoke hours later in their bed with no recollection of how they got there, their memories engorged with the news in the same way a nightmare lingers intensely into waking thought.

In the weeks that followed it became clear that society would not self destruct. There were no riots, there was no chaos and no perceptible increase in crime. Instead the most bizarre and haunting placidity befell the lives of almost everyone. On the outside nothing really changed, people still went about their business, working, eating, raising families but now it was without zeal. People simply stopped trying to do anything beyond meet the daily requirements for survival. It was the reaction of a world that collectively realised, both suddenly and starkly, that there was no hope. With no foot on the accelerator, society was destined to coast to a complete stop.

It happened so slowly that only Fraser really noticed the life being stolen from Bala over the course of the five years that followed. He wanted to be unwavering for his young family, he couldn’t bear the thought of becoming a burden to his wife. Holly, their shy and unassuming daughter was now an inquisitive four year old but the world’s collective denial had protected her from the truth. Then the news came that they had tried to numb themselves to so completely. “Any day now”, the reports had said. A meagre crawl gave way to the inevitable stop.

There was no longer any point in clinging to vestiges of normality. It was in solemn whispers that they made the decision, they would make their way to the ocean every day without fail, for as long as it took. Little Holly could play in the sand while the sound of the waves and the salty air filled their senses. They would stare down their oppressor in some last, sublimely human defiance at the inevitable.

“We can’t tell her anything, she’s too young to understand.” His wife said one sleepless night, just days after the baleful reports came in.

“I know, Bala, but she’ll surely find out. At the very least she’ll sense it.”

“I can’t bear it, Fray.” Bala stared into the distance, a haunting resolve in her tired eyes, “The thought of this dread swallowing her up, we need to do whatever it takes. I want her last days to…”, at this admission she blinked, cracked and sobbed heavily, burying her head in Fraser’s lap.

“I know”, he said and he stroked her hair. “I know.”

At that moment Holly had bundled in to their bedroom trailing her ragged orange blanket behind her, “Mummy!”, there was concern in her voice but Bala’s sobbing only intensified at the sudden appearance of their daughter. Holly turned, looking up to her father, “Daddy, what’s wrong with mummy?”

“Nothing, baby, daddy upset mummy, but she’ll be OK. I promise.”

Lie number one.

The waves still crashed lightly but Fraser slowly became aware of voices from the other congregations on the beach. With his head in the nape of Bala’s neck and his eyes closed he listened closely and heard a few words scattered from all directions, “I love you”, “I’m sorry I couldn’t save us”, “It will all be over soon, my love”. He heard the quiet sobbing of the hopeless and the manic weeping of those whose anger and sadness had fused so hurtfully. But mostly he heard the ocean and the sound of Holly’s fingers scraping through wet sand.

Fraser opened his eyes and looked around, there were fewer people on the beach than before. Many were turning their backs to the sun and walking away, some with families in tow, others alone. One man walking close by caught Fraser’s eye, the man shook his head and mouthed “Not today”.

The rage gripped Fraser’s chest and he let out a tearing scream through gritted teeth. Somewhere in that moment, as the air escaped his lungs, he decided. He would not carry on. Day in and day out Fraser and Bala stared knowingly into the precipice beyond the vacuum of space, while Holly played in the sand, oblivious. He wouldn’t do it again and he wouldn’t do it to his family. They should all face their end on his terms.

It was at that moment that he came to a realisation – today would be the last time they’d see the ocean.

Bala had been startled by Fraser’s cry and quickly moved in to comfort him, Holly followed suit and hugged him as the last ounce of breath was pushed from his lungs. The sun was at his back, his wife to his right and his daughter to his left and they both clung to him tightly. He breathed the salty air in deeply and focused on the sound of the waves, the water was lapping more gently now. Rising from the sand he turned to Bala, “I’m sorry”. She nodded, her hazel eyes locked on his. He turned to Holly who looked up to him expectantly, “Time to go home Holly.”

“Ok daddy”, she replied deflated. “Will we back tomorrow?”

He shook imperceptibly and his heart thumped wildly in his chest as he spoke the words.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Lie number two hundred and forty eight.

My history with dogs

Chris Theo

[soundcloud id=’120448711′]

 

I’m going to tell a little tale
About my history with dogs.
I’ll start way back when,
I can’t remember my age,
Older than seven, less than 10.

Frost crunch footsteps on grass,
Hitting golf balls in my local park.
My dad’s by my side, nine-iron in hand
And he’s swinging that thing like “isn’t life grand”.

All of a sudden out of nowhere two snarling German Shepherds
Bundled towards me with their eyes transfixed.
They cut their own hot billowed breath like a razors
And out of silence I hear my dad shout, “Chris!!”

I snapped out from my stupor and ran with all my strength.
Now, I’d love to say I was a natural sprinter
With my athletic build and supple long legs.
But sadly I am not, and it looked and felt like certain death.

So it was lucky for me my dad intervened,
He timed it right and took his nine,
Cracked the canines on their noses
And I collapsed, cheeks flushed like roses.

Everything stopped and was quiet,
The dogs stood at attention and let out little whimpers.
Their master huffed and puffed down the winding path, waving his hand in the air as if to say
“I’m here now!”, but the fat fuck was still miles away…

German Shepherds, the chosen dog of the Nazi’s!
They’re a dog of oppression, of fascism and hate!
I wonder at the outcome of the war had the Nazi’s replaced
The German Shepherd with the dachshund.
The world would be a better place.

Then year after year after year after year
I was convinced dogs could smell my fear.
They barked as I walked by them on the street.
They eyed me up and down and growled
And while I lay in bed at night they howled.

I kept my distance and for years it stayed that way.
That is until I was given no say.
See my sister bought a puppy
A little runt, a bitch, a Staffy.
And I had a go, “what about when you go away”
“what do you know about dogs anyway ”
“plus don’t you know that staffys bite”
“and you’ll wade knee deep in piss and shite”
But it was no good, she was here to stay
And so I learned to love that bitch anyway.

They called her Paris, Paris Taylor

Yes she had a second name.
My sister explained,
If you get a chavvy dog you go all the way.

Fair enough, I thought to myself,
But you’d just graduated from a theatre degree,
So you could have probably found a better way
To make scathing social commentary.

Eight years have now passed,
And in that time my love for canines grew
Mastifs, Ridgebacks, short haired pointers
And maybe even poodles too.

All except chihuahuas, I can’t fucking stand chihuahuas.

It’s weird, I can’t walk past a dog in a park anymore without giving them a stroke
Its owner looking at me strangely like “who the fuck’s this bloke?”
To me it doesn’t matter, boy, if your owner is a girl
Who’s buxom assets carry favour with men across world.
I’m really only in it for the endless games of fetch
And not the lustful daydream of my face amongst her breasts.

But there’s one strange thing about my growing affection
Beyond calling out to them in cutesy inflections.
Because I still don’t have a dog of my own.
And I can’t in all good conscience bring one home.
Cos I live in a small, north London, poxy first floor flat
That being said, I’ll never ever ever ever get a fucking cat…

 

* Artwork from DogArtists.co.uk

Jetfuel

Chris Theo

Charles took his seat in the cylindrical cabin of the low cost airline’s flight back to blighty. Knees thrust into the seat in front accompanied muttered prayers, that the seats on either side of his allocated 22B would remain empty. He opened his legs as far as he could comfortably, in the region of 45 degrees to reduce the force being exerted on his patellas. To the other passengers he looked as if he was burdened with tennis ball sized testicles, the poor, poor fellow. Around him passengers shuffled and squeezed into their seats either thrusting their carry-ons down by their feet or forcibly ramming small suitcases at the bleeding edge of regulation dimensions into the overhead compartments.

A young couple approached and slowed by row 22, his row, looking left and right at the legends above the seats. “Keep walking, keep walking”, Charles mouthed to himself. The male half of the couple made eye contact with Charles and spoke, “Think we’re here”, while his finger pointed and oscillated between the seats either side of him. Charles narrowed his legs to a cool 25 degrees and began to extricate himself from the middle seat and into the aisle. “Do you want to sit together?”, “Thanks!” the baggy shirted male replied surprised, before turning his attention to the open overhead compartment. He began wrestling his bag into Charles’ as if re-enacting some kind of mating ritual, a pair of one ton bison were slamming themselves together for the good of their species. Charles winced at the imagery he’d conjured up just as a crunching sound emanating from his bag gave entry to the bison’s mediaeval courting. The young female companion followed the baggy shirted man to their seats. Charles piled in closely behind and carefully lowered himself on to his seat, making an effort not to free his knee-caps from their fleshy housing against the hinges of his tray table.

The plane was still relatively empty with the whole row behind him unburdened by posterior action. They had Charles’ name on them, and as soon as they were in the air he would maneuver into position and strike, glutes-first on to his target, 23A,B & C. Soon he’d be asleep and he’d be home, it was as close to luxury as he could hope for on this flight.

Quiet, followed by some kind of kerfuffle towards the front of the plane caught his attention. A man bounded down the otherwise empty aisle towards him, his rotund belly moved unpredictably beneath a tight red & white “prison stripe” t-shirt, his naval peeking out occasionally as if gasping for air. A pair of Ray Ban sunglasses, with the lenses swapped out for those accommodating short-sightedness, rested upon his now flustered cheeks. His grey hair flip-flopped with every clumsy step in his salmon coloured Toms and his record bag rapped the seats to his right, like a playing card in bicycle spokes. Charles imagined this is what hipsters would look like if you introduced them to a lifetime’s supply of organic vegan (and gluten-free) pies and gave them a solid 10 years to “tuck in”. Behind him followed a visibly stressed woman in a floral ankle length dress, her torso strapped to a baby that squirmed, teary-eyed in it’s rucksack-style carrier.

They zeroed in on the seats behind Charles with no regard for anyone but themselves. The mother all the while giving her child, who couldn’t have been more than a year old, a running commentary of what was happening. In the form of questions with child-talk inflections.

“Is daddy putting our bags in the overhead compartment?…
“Are we on a plane, teacup?…
“Has daddy remembered to pack your nappies?…”

“Yes, of course I bloody did”, the pie man snapped.

Charles closed his eyes and put his headphones in his ears, turning up the volume until the middle-aged woman’s nattering was drowned out. A deep breath followed by another and another finally resulted in some semblance of calm. Slowly a wave of tiredness swept over him and his head dropped to his chest. “Yes!”, he thought, “Let me sleep through this turgid journey and it will all be over soon.”

Then a gentle tap on my shoulder threatened to disrupt his peace, but he refused to let it. “I’m asleep. Yep, keep those eyes closed and whoever is tapping will bugger off.”

The tapping stopped!

It was only as a thick fog of fecal particles invaded his nostrils that he realised no sleep was to be had, no peace to be found. Charles was in no doubt that the baby had soiled itself thoroughly.

The tapping resumed, more forcefully this time and he could ignore it no longer. Charles ripped the headphones from his ears, which were immediately flooded with the sounds of shitty baby, and turned to face his tapper. It was a steward and Charles knew there and then what was coming as he had heard it many times, “Sir, please turn off all electronic devices as we prepare to take off.”

It was going to be a long flight.

The 7pm Crowd

Chris Theo

The 7pm crowd are haggard and tired,
Caffeine stained lips of the twitchy and wired.
Dragging their withered shells home to stare
Into another crowded bundle of coloured light.

You did a good job today,
You did yourself proud,
You showed them how it’s done,
It’s all yours to be won.

It’s there for the taking,
You’ve just got to want it more than the rest
And you might just make it
‘Cos you’re no jobsworth, you’re obsessed!

Time for the sack, mind racing,
Running on fumes but the chase ain’t over,
Best set the alarm a half hour early
To be seen, to be heard, to come stumbling out
Of your bosses bosses tongue.

You show em how it’s done
It’s all yours to be won.

The City

Chris Theo

A swarm centres in on the city,
Its beady eyes as one approaching.
Vast, misguided and ripe for plucking, sifting and crushing
With the most delicate and rewarding touch.

Set upon this chosen course
By those giddy with your promise on their breath.
Just another sip of your sweetness and so the city swells out,
This belly once more pregnant and slowly turning sour.

Beckoned by the bright lights,
Powered by those who came before,
Who’s eyes arched skywards just like yours.
Teased in by the wolf
Who’s monstrous intake of breath
took with it all the little piggies.

And so the swarms grow thinner
As they follow tales of ascension,
Spouted by the screens that hold their attention,
Dragged by some endless need to be
Better than they need to be
Because of stories woven by the swarms that soured.

Soon the city will be ready to burst
Showering it’s empty promise to the soil
Where it might just anchor, take hold and spark
In silence.