Harvey - Original Writing

Trying out a new voice...
Harvey

He liked working with his hands – honestly he did. He'd done it all his life and there were no nasty surprises. Wood couldn't turn around with a questioning glare and ask 'why exactly are you doing this anyway?' or change its mind last minute so you had to start all over again. It didn't require lots of fiddly words and phrases, public speaking or a smart uniform. No...all in all, wood was safe - safe as houses, like they say. Like Carry On films on Christmas Eve and slippers laid out by the side of the bed – safe like that.

Harvey had tried hard at school – he really had: went to all the afternoon sessions when he'd been ill, did most of his homework and didn't ever chat back. His mother had once even called him her 'little angel' between swigs of brandy – the boy with the porcelain face and manners like from public school. He could have put in a bit more enthusiasm - he supposed - but Shakespeare sounded like of one them foreign languages to him: pretty sounding once you got over the unusualness of it all, but having no meaning without painful – almost surgical – extraction. He didn't have it in him to kill a book like that...or a play...he couldn't remember which one. Heard later that Shakespeare had been a poofter like all those men on telly ...explained a lot, really. He didn't have a mind for dates or sums, either. The History teacher had once told Harvey that he'd been dropped one too many times on his head as a baby – 'all yer brain cells got exploded and yer sense leaked out yer ears, boy'. With a mother like his, it was perfectly possible.

All in all, considering the bad luck he'd been served with, he thought he ought to be congratulated on his choice of profession: he was good at it, and for someone who wasn't good at much, that was all the encouragement he needed.

He tightened up the D-clamp with one hand, holding the dowel steady with the other – like making a sandwich. 'Harvey Samson, ' he said to himself, 'you are a lucky man.' Some people might have laughed at him for that – one of those giggles that rang like bells or coins in your pocket: a rich laugh. But that's one of the up-sides of working with your hands: with a bit of hard work, you could do it alone. Course you'd get visited a couple of times a month by fancy-schmancy set designers, going on about 'symbolic representation, 'lighting choices' , 'conceptual storytelling, daaarling' and other stuff that didn't actually mean anything. But Harvey didn't mind that so much. He'd just flash a few pearly whites and keep checking that all the nuts and bolts were screwed up alright: the trick was to look busy and happy about it.

Today was a visiting day, so he's brushed up a little round the place and even combed his hair back. He was beginning to think he should've used gel as it had gone all fuzzy, like next-door's privet hedge but sandy-blonde. 'Jesus.', he breathed, turning his head from side-to-side in the mirror. He ran his hand through the fluffy cat that had made a home on his scalp. 'What do you think you're doing to me, eh?' His reflection stared back at him blankly and he amused himself by pretending his hair did – at least – look a but less puffed up. He looked himself sternly in the eyes. 'That's better.'

Swordfighting (Original Writing)

Swordfighting

She snaps my sword
(practically in two)
with a parry and a mighty splintering of wood
I go to fetch some masking tape
as she dances in confetti of shrapnel
The camera clicks
and we draw on symbols with eyeliner

We'll do the ears later
- sharpen them to points with a trusty Photoshop brush
that changes us into liquid

I lay my sword to rest
the injuries sustained
no amount of tape can mend
We look solemn for a moment
us liquidised warriors
with drawn on eyebrows and braided hair
Until I brandish a new sword:
freshly picked
and, again, our battle is punctuated
with the sound of parries and photography

The Circle (Original Writing)

The Circle

Stitch the seams
Prick your finger with a needle
(twice)
Wisecrack over a morphy iron
with fingernails of six different colours:
a spectacular array of watery Superdrug testers
The spectrum of
three woman
two generations
and one Primark

The iron leaves a burn
on the circular skirt
We hide it on the inside:
a fingerprint of carefree creation
Flip the inside-out outsides in, and
viola!
Lordy Lumlocks
and giddy Auntie Jane with a million Jack Russells
We've done it!

A circle of friendship
with a waistband made of sisterhood
A handmade symbol that means
shaved legs
high heels
and a lick of paint

Breathe it in...
the sweet taste of success
mixed with lipgloss that tingles
and tastes like Barbie

We giggle and cluck like hens
dancing Flamenco on a rickety attic floor...

Gormenghast Trilogy Tribute (Original Writing)

Without a doubt I would recommend the masterpieces of Mervyn Peake: Titus Groan, Gormenghast and Titus Alone. Peake is a true word-smith and poet that - without fail- manages to perfectly combine whimsy, fantasy and a sense of reality. Here is my tribute to him and his characters:

Gormenghast Trilogy Tribute (Original Writing)

He is the high-shouldered youth
With a kaleidoscope of egos
A veneer of false perfection
that is, to the observer, a figure from a dream
A mask,
A facade,
A guise...

He is calculated, caustic and callous
Dark, decisive and deadly
Sharp, seductive...Steerpike

She is the lusty sister
The flat chested lady of Gormenghast
A virginal skeleton
In dresses that hug her figure like an extra skin
A stick,
A bone,
A cadaver...

She is carnal, crude but chaste
Decorous, deranged and desperate
Pitiful, prudish... Prunesqualler

It is the kingdom of Selpulchrave
The eternal province of spires
And the majesty of tradition
It watches as Steerpike brings the Monarch to his knees
A citadel,
A fortress,
A tomb...

It is eerie, endless and enduring
Crumbling, cobwebbed and corrupt
Glorious, Gothic...Gormenghast.

Illustrations of Fushia and Steerpike

Knowlton (Original Writing)

Knowlton

If the Gods were to squint their eyes at England, the resulting image would look a lot like Knowlton. A mass, not only of green, but also of pale indigo peppered with white and fawn. Knowlton is a place that was made to endure : settled in its routine : stubborn and not prone to flights of fancy. And yet, to lie on the grass by the neolithic ruin is somewhat like being in the presence of something quite fickle. The landscape itself can be be a little tricky. The hills, if so small mounds of packed earth may merit being called hills, seem a gentle sweeping gradient from afar but - up close - are such a peevish mixture of steepness and holes it's a wonder I made it up here at all. Perhaps, you might argue, that - rather unlike my great stone friend (the ruin that is) I am far too fanciful and this description is prone to exaggeration. And you'd be absolutely right.

Where I'd love to describe the grass as a stunning blend of viridian and lapis lazuli, I must admit that it is a colour far less appetising to Thespians and entomologists. However, I'm sure any visitor would agree that Knowlton has a certain charm that is far more potent that all the fabrications of this overzealous storyteller.

The Creature (Original Writing)

The Creature

The creature - whatever it was - lacked definition; all its edges were blurred and seemed to bleed together. Where it ended and the darkness began it was unclear. The eyes - however - were in sharp focus: all points and edges: like a harsh line of charcoal against a watercolour: a  comic artist that had doodled on Millet. 'The eyes should be red', she muttered. But as soon as she had, she realised she was wrong. Red eyes were the stuff of nightmares and hammerhead horror. These eyes - blue and cold like a fire that burns itself icy - were the colour of reality : terror in its most concentrated form.

It turned suddenly and , where the creature had seemed curious and enigmatic, it now gave a strong sense of deformity. From blackness there came a sharp whine that grated on the ears - a pitiful and weak sound that would have inspired sympathy if it had not caused every bone to twist against sinew and the skin - not to crawl - but rather drag its body in the opposite direction. A second whine - on the edge of human perception...louder and more desperate than the first. It was moving closer.

A cloud that continually changed shape; a giant that became a child that folded out into a shadow. A voice came from the heart of the creature, speaking without mouth or lips or tongue. To be shapeless is to be free.

She took a step back.

Don't you want to be free? It crooned, screaming a whisper across the few steps between it and the small red-headed girl.

She blinked (at least three times) before her brain could twist the sounds into words. 'Free?' she replied in a small voice. 'How dare you tell me...?' But what the creature dared tell her she never did say for - at that moment - the girl stopped in the middle of her sentence. Suddenly, she couldn't remember why children were afraid of the dark, why midnight was the witching hour or why monsters lived in the cupboard under the stairs and the space under the bed. She couldn't remember how the creature in front of her could be ugly. On the contrary, it was perfect. Imposing? Yes. Misunderstood? Maybe. But ugly? Never.

And - indeed - the creature seemed to agree, growing ever larger and more terribly beautiful with every step. Splendours shadow within shadow. The girl could smell its breath in front of her : a heavenly scent on the air. She grasped for a word to describe it but - no matter how hard she tried - her mind kept producing images of rotting flesh. 'Blood' she heard herself say. She frowned. 'No...no. That's not it.' This smell was wonderful; fresh and light, like burying your head in silk.

Come closer. The creature said. The girl immediately obliged. How could she disobey such a lovely, harmonious voice?

'Nails on a chalk board...' she heard herself say.

Very slowly, the creature seemed to bend into a low bow until its eyes were level with the soft brown irises of the red-headed girl. Up-close, the thin cat-like slits of pupils were far less horrible. More elegant, really. But - once again- she found her mouth acting of its own accord. 'No..' it mouthed. 'Please no.' She put her hand over her lips, silencing herself. How awful it was to be so cruel to this unique and irresistible animal.

Close your eyes, the creature murmured with a  voice like wind chimes. Suddenly, the little red-head felt strangely sleepy - hot, sticky and so very heavy. She felt her eyelids sweep shut and - like a sudden eclipse - everything disappeared.

She took a step forwards - her final step - and embraced the shadow. It embraced her...and the little red-headed girl was gone forever.

Victoria Milton (Original Writing)

Another bit of fun!

Victoria Milton:

Victoria Milton was not a woman to be trifled with. In fact, it was best not to exercise any action involving sweet pastries whatsoever when Victoria was around. Not that she didn't consider herself sweet; on the contrary, the woman could sing with all the vibrato of Doris Day on Richter scale 7.5 and took pleasure in collecting stuffed animals of varying degrees of fluffiness. No, that wasn't it. The simple fact was that,  despite her efforts, Victoria was not an amicable lady and -whether she could embroider pinkish pillows or not - she had a heart of ice and a tongue sharper that her own darning needles. Some remarked that she spoke with such alarming, almost spiteful, accuracy that any elocution teacher would be stunned upon hearing her. The more observant would note that her forget-me-not-blue eyes never appeared to blink. There was one thing - however- which people would always fail to notice: that Victoria Milton and her husband had not spoken directly to one another for over five years.
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Victoria lies in her four-poster bed and stares at the silken fabric above her head. From this angle, it seems as if the whole ceiling is a deep plumbish red instead of its current sickly puce. Victoria thinks it would be better this way. The maid pushes the door open with one shoulder, a tray of breakfast (bacon and eggs if you must know) in one hand and a pot of Lapshang Souchon in the other. The maid lies the tray across the bed and carefully reaches over her employer to place the china teapot on the bedside table. Victoria stays motionless.

"Emily?" she says with a downward inflection, as if the name was a statement instead of a question.

"Sarah, Ma'am." The maid replies with a soft northern accent.

Victoria continues to stare at the bed's canopy. "Repaint the ceiling."

Sarah takes two steps towards the bed and her employer's eyes slide to the side of her face to stare without moving her head. The maid finds the effect somewhat disturbing and retreats with a bow-legged shuffle. "Right away, Ma'am. Your painters are still downstairs in the ballroom as you asked. Shall I call in some more?"

Victoria stays motionless.
The maid leaves.

The Washing Machine (Original Writing)

This is just a silly moan about the washing machine.Thoroughly enjoyed writing it, though!

The Washing Machine:

The machine glares at me with its single eye or -rather - I should say, the socket where any wholesome creature would have an eye. No, the machine stares at me with its empty cavity like a vulture eying (no pun intended) its prey. The small screen in the upper right hand corner is lit up with a single word. The letters are built out of a series of lines, like matchsticks laid out on a table. With all the advances in technology, you'd have thought scientists would have mastered the curves in letters. But no, the word 'End' flashes at me with all the spikiness of a particularly displeased shitzu. 'End'...'End'...'End'. An apocalyptic warning from a kitchen appliance. 'End'...'End'...'End'.

The Dollhouse (Original Writing)

This is a piece of my own original writing; just a bit of whimsy from the cavernous pit that is my mind!

The Dollhouse:

Half past seven. The sky is blank. Like someone has taken a lid off of the world. The wind has died, finally expired from the heat of the midday sun, or -perhaps- is hiding over the edge of the horizon, tying a garter around the world. Or maybe, seeing the abyss above so empty and expansive, it has merely run away, escaped the atmosphere forever, never to return. I think I might miss the summer breeze - our Earth's most flighty mistress.

Ten-thirty. The Gods, seeing that their dollhouse has lost its roof, have thrown a blanket over the world to disguise its nakedness. We can still feel it, the sucking vacuum above, but it is good to see the familiar peppering of sequins glinting and winking from their lofty thrones.

Half past four in the morning. Somewhere, there seems to be a great yawn as an old oak tree rustles up its feathers for the day. The branches sway a little from side to side and it is with the tumultuous upheaval of the sun that the wind makes her not-so-secret return.

Twelve o'clock. All is well. The horizon has slithered away into some dark forgotten corner. The sky and the sea, forever competitors, now seem to merge into a seamless mass of blue, polka-dotted here and there with cloud or surf. The wind, as if emboldened by her absence, friskily plays amongst the hill tops. And somewhere -far, far above -a child rummages under the bed, brushes away the dust, and puts the lid back on the Universe.