Dissertation

University of Strathclyde
Department of English Studies
Honours Dissertation
Connection Failure
200628522
2010











Connection Failure


















“Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die."
Howards End E.M Forster







Contents

A sheep in wolf’s clothing………………………………………………………………………………5
The Boy who Cried Wolves……………………………………………………………………………10
Insulation………………………………………………………………………………………………………15
Fickle Internet……………………………………………………………………………………………….18
Discomfort Food……………………………………………………………………………………………19
A Phallic Poem………………………………………………………………………………………………22
Eggs………………………………………………………………………………………………………………23
Wearing Thin…………………………………………………………………………………………………26
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man……………………………………………………32
Critical Commentary………………………………………………………………………………………34








A sheep in wolfs clothing

Let me tell you a story.
Once there was a lamb, not born white or black but a deep grey. His wool was short and wirey, and so rough that not even his own mother would nuzzle him, though she painfully endured his scratching and biting at her teat.
While other lambs played and frolicked in the vale, this lamb would venture far and wide, taking pleasure in his solitude.
One day he found a cave, with a flickering sun within. Drawn to it, the lamb ventured closer, savouring the warmth as he came nearer and nearer.
Until he saw the wolf.
There it lay, down in front of the flickering sun. Its ears twitched at the sound of the lambs approach, and slowly it raised its head, wide wild eyes staring.
“Hello little lamb,” it rumbled. “Come closer. Lie with me in front of the fire.”
“Fire?” the lamb asked. It had only heard of such a thing once before, when the old black ram of the herd would recount the tale of the splintered sky and the burning tree. The ram had spoken with fear, but the lamb looked on at the fire with a deep fascination. He slowly moved closer.
“Yes, that’s it” the wolf drawled. “So much braver than the rest of your kind.”
The lamb paused. Then he saw that the wolf was tied down, a thick vine running round its neck to a heavy stone. Had he come any closer, the vine could have reached him. He stopped, and returned the wolf’s hungry gaze impassively.
The wolf gave a low, hoarse laugh. “And smarter too. Not that it matters. The Skin Wearer will have scraps for me. He wants me starved, not dead.” The wolf lowered its head, looking sad and confused. “It has been so long since I have killed anyway, maybe I have forgotten how. The old things keep slipping. Too many of the new in my head.”
“What do you mean by that?” the lamb asked. He was still young after all, and loved new knowledge.
“Sit! Come! Heel!” The wolf spat out each word like a curse. “It makes me other than I am, whilst it wears my brothers fur as its own. Such a beast there never should be. Oh how I hate it!”
The lamb could not help but feel sorry for the wolf. “Then why not fight? Your claws are long and your teeth are sharp. Surely you are more terrible than it?”
The wolf’s eyes went dead and it cringed. “I must not bite the hand that feeds,” it said softly. Those awful nothing eyes met the lambs “You see, this is what it does. It makes you think things you never would, forces its ways onto and into. You slowly change. Already I am forgetting how to hate. Already I begin to love its petting’s and praises and beatings. What am I in the face of such things? A terrible wolf? HA!”
There was a stirring further back in the cave. The wolf cowered. “I have woken him. Quickly little lamb, flee from here, and unless you want to be remade, flee from all such beasts. Surely death is a better fate.”
“What will you do?”
“Having a new friend for dinner, with any luck. Now go!”
The lamb took heed and ran from the cave, but not before hearing the last growl of the wolf turn into a pitiful yelp.
Eight suns later curiosity had driven the lamb back. And there, lying on the ground in front of it was the skin of the wolf.
Slowly he crept up to the cave. Slowly he crept up to the wolf. Slowly he crept into its skin.
It was so lovely and warm. The lamb had never felt so safe. He moved his head to the front, and looked out through where the wolf’s eyes had been. Nothing had ever felt so right.
The lamb wore the skin out of the cave. Stepping clumsily due to its great size, he made its way back to the herd.
As he drew nearer he smelled death in the air. Upon reaching the vale he looked down at what had befallen.
Most of the herd had fled. Those that remained were dead or dying, with a pack of wolves tearing at them. The lamb watched unseen until they had eaten their fill and left. Even this sight fascinated him. Eventually he came down, and tried to find the trail of those sheep that had fled.
He searched five suns for his herd, all the while wearing the wolf’s skin. And the strange thing was that as time went on, it began to fit better and better, as if the lamb was growing into it.
Finally he found them in the one place he didn’t want to search, and the one place he knew they must be - the cave. And sure enough there they were, all penned up in a strange dead tree hedge that went all around them.
The grey lamb approached, and saw his mother.
“I found you!” he cried joyfully.
“Baaa!” said the mother, shying away in fear.
“Why are you like this? Run free with me.”
“Baaaaaaa!” cried another.
“Baaaaaaa.”
“Baaa!”
“But…” By now the whole herd was milling around in a dumb panic. Why were they so afraid?
“Baaaaaaa!”
“Baaaaaaaaa!”
A terrible truth hit the lamb. The sheep’s coats were all cut short. He didn’t need to think who had done this. His herd. His family of dumb beasts. They had all forgotten themselves.
The lamb turned and walked away. Not knowing where else to go he made his way back to the vale. The bodies were still there, as were the wolves. The lamb came down and approached them, waiting to be eaten.
Instead, the wolves greeted him.
“Welcome brother.”
“Come feast with us.”
“The meal is cold, but hasn’t yet spoiled.”
The lamb looked down at the bloody remains of the old black ram who had told him about fire.
“What’s the matter brother,” asked the biggest wolf with a knowing grin. “Stones in your stomach?”
Slowly the lambs lowered the wolf’s jaw down and open, and forced himself to eat.

Here’s a truth for you to keep
Better to run with wolves than live as sheep














The Boy who Cried Wolves

Once, long ago, there was a boy who told lies. He never did it to be cruel though. Every single lie he spoke was made to make the ears, and those attached to them, happy. This was the sole concern of the boy, for it seemed to him the only way to be, and the fact that making others happy caused him to feel the same held reason enough for this belief.
While walking through the village he did his best to say the things he thought his fellow villagers wanted to hear.
“Hello Farmer Blight, your crops are looking healthy and good this year.
“Why thank you my boy” replied the rake thin man.
“Your cream looks so fresh Miss Curdle, what’s your secret?”
“Sun, and plenty of it” she declared confidently.
“Mrs Wrinkles you get younger each day I see you, surely you don’t need that crutch.”
“What a kind child. You remind me of all the suitors that used to call at my door.”
“And I’m sure they still do.”
“Oh you” she said with a girlish giggle and a toss of her frail, chicken neck.
And so it was that the villagers loved the boy and his lying ways, often showering him with all manner of gifts and praise. Indeed it seemed clear to them all that he would grow up to be a great man one day, perhaps a barrister or even a judge. And if not, then a new mayor would one day be needed, so strongly did they all care for him.
Except for one. She was a bitter old lady, who took comfort in loneliness and delight in pointing out the fault in others. She hated the boy, while he was terrified of her. She appeared to look in him rather than at, and no matter what kind things he said to her she never once smiled. He would have never visited her at all if she hadn’t been his grandmother.
“It’s good to see you again grandmother” the boy would say every time he called, only for her to hit him promptly with her walking stick.
“You’re cottage is looking clean.”
Stick.
“That’s a fine collection of books you have.”
Stick.
“Father sends his love, and wishes he has time to see you. He misses you so much.”
Stick. Stick. Stick.
The boy would go home, covered in cuts and bruises, blinking back tears.
“What on earth happened to you?” his mother would ask.
“I offered to shoe grandmother’s donkey and he kicked out. It was my own fault.” Each time the boy told a different lie, wanting for his parents not to worry about him. For as we know, his lies were told only to make people happy.
His mother would shake her head at how accident prone he was and gently chide him to be more careful. The boy’s father would remain silent.
But this time, when once again the boy called on his grandmother, something very different happened. She had baked him a cake, and beseeched him to take a bite while it was still warm.
“It tastes wonderful grandmother.”
“That’s strange. All that is in it is dirt, hair and ditch water. Now run along boy, go tell your tales.”
The boy did as he was bidden, amazed that he hadn’t been beaten this time. As he walked home he met the woodsman.”
“A fine day is it not?” the boy asked, gesturing up to the overcast skies. His words were slightly mocked by the raindrop he felt pounce upon his face.
The woodsman smiled at this vague pleasantry, but then his expression turned quickly to fear. He pointed at the boy’s face, who confusedly made to brush away the raindrop. He felt a sudden pain in his finger and brought it away to examine. There were tiny droplets of blood welling up on it, shaped very much like teeth marks.
The boy looked up to see the woodsman roughly brush past him, making the sign to ward off evil as he went. Thinking it had been some sort of beetle, the boy went on.
He came across Mrs Wrinkles, who was now wearing heavy make up and no longer walked with her crutch.
“Looking lovely as ever” he said to her pouting face.
An even larger raindrop fell on his eye, and he blinked and rubbed his face to clear his blurry vision. While distracted with this he heard Mrs Wrinkle let out a high pitched scream. When finally able to look he saw her on the ground, weeping and bleeding.
“Get away from me!” she shrieked. “Get away you beast!”
Fearfully the boy ran home, slamming the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, brought forth by all the commotion.
“Nothing mother, don’t worry.”
How could it rain indoors? More water blinded him and the boy felt something leap from his eye. His mother cried out and he heard his father’s heavy steps pound in. There was stamping and snarling and when he could once again see he saw his father standing in front of his mother, deep scratches and bites all down his arms. On the floor lay a broad puddle of water.
“Why is this happening? Why!?”
“Did you cross your grandmother?” his father asked. You must tell me the truth!”
Old habits are hard to be rid of, especially ones we have had our whole lives. “Of course not, I love her.”
The boy felt his eyes being squeezed dry, and desperately he shut tight his lids. But it was no use. Wet snouts forced their way under. Claws grabbed purchase under his lashes and pulled heaving bodies out. He would have wept at the pain if his eyes hadn’t already been swimming. Weeping and wiping, he wished would all stop.
And when it did there they were. Two great and terrible wolves, built from his shining tears.
“Go to her! NOW!” his father shouted, turning to face them.
The boy opened the door and fled, but one of the wolves gave chase. He could hear its wet footfalls splashing off the ground and as it drew closer and closer it gave off a gurgling howl.
He reached his grandmothers cottage and threw open the door, forcing it to close against the wolf’s wet scraping.
And there she sat in her old wicker chair, staring in rather than at.
“Why do this?” he asked. “I was nothing but kind to you.”
“You did nothing but lie to me.”
“But I just wanted to make you happy.”
“Who could be happy with a lie?”
“Please help me. Change back whatever it was you did”
“I can’t. Best weep what you sow.”
“I hate you! I hate you so much!”
There was a loud splashing sound outside. The boy peered cautiously out the window. Where the wolf had been was now a deep, wide puddle. He turned to his grandmother.
“I think you know what you need to do” she said.
He nodded, and made to leave. But before he did, he turned and stared in her rather than at.
“You’re a mean old woman”
She smiled.
“I am” she said.

From that day the boy told nothing but the truth, and as you might expect no one much cared for it. Farmer Blight would scowl as his harvest was scorned. Miss Curdle would glare as her plans for sun dried cheese were mocked. And Mrs Wrinkles would wince as her fashion sense was deplored. As time passed no one wished to even talk to or see the boy, except his grandmother, who had always secretly liked his visits.



Insulation

In a busy school canteen, near the back sat a boy. He was alone at his table and quietly making his way through a packed lunch. They say we are what we eat, and in his case it was corned beef. And what do we know about corned beef? Well it is a fairly unobtrusive food, usually held in reserve until other stocks have diminished before it is finally and reluctantly brought out. Obviously it is also tinned, surrounded by darkness and a cold metal shell.
That isn’t to say that this boy was socially inept or particularly boring. The contents of your sandwich do not mirror the contents of your soul. What does speak of this boy’s demeanour and sensibilities though, are his actions. The way he kept his eyes downcast. The fact he still wore his jacket, huddling into it. The total focus on the mundane task of eating. Each bite seemed carefully weighed and judged, and the more perceptive of us might note with casual amusement that he ate his bread in perfectly straight lines.
Despite this unobtrusive behaviour, the boy had attracted unwanted attention. Two other youths sat down to the table with him, impish grins on their faces. The boy briefly looked up and was greeted by a flicked pea to his eye.
“10 points if you get it up his nose.”
“50 if you can do that with a carrot.”
“Bet he’d like us to shove it somewhere else.”
“Big gay.”
Dutifully the boy ignored all this. Indeed he seemed oblivious to it, and the only effect the two had on him was that he shielded his face from further assaults. Apathy is a powerful weapon, and soon it drove the two tormentors away. One would perhaps grow up to become a successful business man, the other an unsuccessful council worker. Probably neither would recall this incident if you asked them. Despite what they say, History isn’t written by the winners, but by the writers. For the rest, it is just something that we sometimes remember.
I had been watching all this unfold from my vantage point in the canteen queue. Having now paid with a dinner ticket for my meagre repast I made my decision to join him. I myself had endured my own lonesome meals, and knew that even to have someone else, however noncommittal sit at the table with you made a powerful difference in your own mental standing.
Carefully making my way through the forest of wooden and real legs, both of which would try to trip you, I arrived at my destination and sat down with my new case. It should be noted that I saw myself as a sort of social Rockefeller, charitably dispensing my company and friendship to those that needed it. Perhaps there was a certain amount of selfishness to my actions as well. Kinship is a drug, and unusual hits like the boy in front of me could leave me feeling giddy and glowing. Also I have always been a bit of a collector of things uncommon, and acquaintances are no different. So it was with eager magpie eyes that I swooped down into the seat in front.
The boy’s eyes rose again, and then settled back down to a magazine he had pulled out. Feeling not the least bit bashful I took a long glance at it, perceiving it to be some sort of chess journal.
“Ah, the game of kings” I said.
The boy remained silent.
“And Queens as well” I went on, before realising that this could be contrived as an insult. “And bishops and pawns and horsies.”
“Knights” he replied.
“Eh?”
“They’re not horses, they’re knights. And you’re stupid.” The boy finished the last of his corned beef sandwich, packed up his things and left me sitting there alone. I felt hurt, but not entirely surprised. In my own experience, the meek had a tendency to lash out at those who would seek to help them. The world would be a very unfriendly place if they ever came to inherit it.
I ate my lunch there alone, pondering over what had just transpired and how best to deal with it. It seemed a cold day so I kept on my jacket and put up my hood. Throughout my meal, no one joined me.











Fickle Internet



Connection failure
The host ‘128.196.124.145’ is unreachable
The host may be
down, or there may be a problem
with the network con-
nection.
Sometimes such problems
can also be caused
by a misconfigured firewall.
OK Help





Discomfort food

My Dad was different from most. Took me a while to realise this though. Every person thinks their childhood was normal, and every one of them is wrong.
In most ways he was everything a father should be. Kept me fed, clothed, sheltered. Cared for me - probably even loved me, in his way. But all fathers have their failings. They embarrass, scold, hit. Small abuses inflicted with the best of intentions. My father had one failing that set him apart from all others. He made me eat everything I killed.
Wouldn’t have been so bad if we went hunting or fishing, but we never did. And it might have worked ok if home were in the countryside, but it wasn’t. We lived in the city, deep in its crawling heart. Home was a high rise, an ugly grey termite mound of a building with us trapped in its centre. And let me tell you something else. Far as I know, and I know a lot about it, nothing that lives in the city tastes good.
Not that I was much of a killer. Wasn’t one of those children that threw stones at birds or set fire to dogs. But we all end up killing something or other in the course of our lives. Dull, boring kills that weigh on no ones conscience.
Earliest memory I have is being no older than three, playing about home, when this big cockroach comes crawling up. I was bored and it was quick so I made a game of trying to squish it with my new dinosaur shoes.
Jump. Stomp. Crunch! Clean right in the middle so it squooshes out either side. Course just then my dad walks in, sees what I’ve done and quick as you like he picks up the front and back of the bug and pops them in my mouth. The tops of it are smooth against my tongue, tasting like floor and hair, but the bottoms scrape against my mouth’s roof. It jags and scratches and I try and spit the twitching bits out, but my mouth is clamped shut and I’m told to chew and swallow. Feels like I’m going to vomit. It’s either sick or swallow.
I swallow, legs scrabbling all the way down.
“Good boy.”
And a good boy I was.
Heard you’re meant to swallow nine spiders in your sleep through the course of your life. Made it to that by 12, without the sleep. They had plenty flies for company.
Sometimes I could see bits of the bugs I ate in what came out my other end. Once, when I wiped to get rid of a hanging bit that wouldn’t drop I found a whole Bluebottle, smeared onto the white paper. Guess by then it was more of a Brownbottle.
Another time I made the mistake of asking for a pet. I got three - three little fishies. Named them smart too. Dé, jà and vu. Good names for Goldfish. Then one day I get invited to a friend’s house for the weekend, so I fed my fishies up and left them plenty to chow on. Come back and find them, bloated, belly up and floating like round orange poo’s. And my dad’s standing there, waiting for me to chow on them.
I copied the toilet, flushed them down my mouth whole with a large glass of water. Next day I really did flush them down the toilet. My little fishies, deep fried in stomach juice till they went a rich golden yellow. They’re probably still out there, swimming with lots of friends.
After that I had a cat named Schrodinger. And it was the most cared for cat in the world.
That’s the bones of the story. Here’s the meat.
One day I came home from school angrier than usual. The teacher had asked us to talk about our parents and when I told them about my dad everyone laughed and she called me a liar.
“No father could be like that” she’d said.
I open the door and there’s the father that is like that, disappointment on his face and a dead cat in his arms.
“He got into some chocolate” My dad says. “Chocolate is poisonous to cats. I don’t eat chocolate.” Never a man to mince his words, he holds Schrodinger out for me to take.
Instead I turn and run up the stairwell and he follows, still holding the cat. Up four flights I flee. Finally at the top I twist around and face him. I am so angry and sad and all I can see is a limp long stretched out cat being thrust at my face. So I push it away.
I push hard.
Too hard.
My dad, off balance and with his hands full, goes tumbling backwards.
Looking isn’t hard. Listening is. Dry crunches and wet thuds echo in the hall forever, till finally there he lies, crumpled in an impossible position with a double jointed neck. Schrodinger is still clutched in his hands.
I looked for a long time. Nobody from the other apartments came out to see about the noise. Eventually and with great effort he carried the cat home, while I carried him.
Finally I had found something in the city that tasted good.



A Phallic Poem



Sometimes I
feel like our only
connection
Is between
your vagina
and my
erection.





Eggs

I am sitting here with my wife. We are in a hospital in a small room. Fluorescent lights illuminate it and through a thin break in the blinds daylight shines in. My wife is lying down on a hospital bed whilst I am sat in a too small chair. Its padding has been worn away from many others sitting on it before me. There is a young handsome doctor also in the room, tending to my wife and asking her many questions. He asks me questions as well and I put on a smile to answer them.
The young doctor tells my life to pull up her baggy t-shirt. She complies without hesitation. Her stomach is greatly swollen, with stretch marks running down it, and her tiny delicate belly button has been deformed into a curious squiggle of skin. I try to avoid looking at it.
The doctor applies some jelly-like substance to her stomach, squeezing it from a tube as if it were toothpaste. He tells us it is called Doppler gel, and will allow him to monitor the baby’s heartbeat for abnormalities. I say the words “Doppler gel”. They sound foreign and exotic, yet appropriate. Doppler gel for my doppelganger. It looks like it came from a slug, and I wonder briefly if you could milk a slug for its slime.
“It’s cold” says my wife as it touches her skin. I pull my chair forward and take her hand gently. She squeezes it and I apply an equal amount of pressure back. The doctor takes out another object, which he calls a transducer, and slowly caresses her shining belly with it. He looks to the machine that it is connected to and repeats this several times. Stroke. Stare. Stroke. Stare. Finally he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own. The doctor then directs us to a monitor which is also part of the machine. He pushes a button and it lights up, at which point he begins with his transducer again. An unintelligible greyish image appears on the screen. I look at it, become entranced in its swirls and pulses. It is like staring at a bonfire. I look at the life I have made, thinking this is how God must have felt. I look and I remember.
It is sixteen years ago. I am in biology class. The teacher, a thin middle aged man in glasses and a white coat has us all gathered around him, where a series of white trays are laid out on the table. He has an egg box open in front of him, with six speckled eggs in it. Each egg has a different number written on it, starting from 0 and going up in threes so that the last one reads 18.
The teacher talks, but I don’t remember the words so they are heard as a dull murmur, mental static. Then, all at once he cracks an egg open on a tray. It looks like any other egg I have ever seen. Using a pen he points out the different parts. Why is it called the white when it is clearly see through?
He moves along to the next tray, and cracks open the egg with the 3 on it. The yolk seems darker and is no longer perfectly round. He points and talks and we look and listen. We then move on to egg number 6. Its contents are exactly the same as egg 3, but we are told they are not. Some of the boys shuffle and whisper out of boredom.
At egg number 9 things begin to change. The yolk has some proper shape to it, and it looks like a mashed up lizard, even though it is a chicken egg. The boys stop shuffling and start paying attention. One of them reaches towards it with a pencil, but the teacher tells him off. Only he may point and prod at dead things. While the boys edge closer, the girls in the class slowly move away. Perhaps they have a primal knowledge of what this really is.
The contents of number 12 are carefully poured out in front of us. We stare. Dead black eyes stare back at us. There is no white to the egg anymore, only a pinkish red. A few of the girls excuse themselves and sit at the back of the room, even though that’s not where their seats are. The teacher frowns, making his crows feet shuffle, but he doesn’t tell the girls off. Instead he points, and speaks to his silent audience. Normally he struggles to maintain order in class. I think I can see wings and feet if I look close enough.
Number 15 is lifted from its cardboard womb. There is a gravity about it, and you would think it were much heavier than an ordinary egg. The teacher slowly opens it with a knife. What’s inside falls onto the tray, making a small wet sound as it lands. The class gasp. The prettiest girl in the group runs to the bin to be sick, while the ugliest girl begins to cry. That’s how things are; pretty girls are sick, ugly girls cry. Vomit is easier cleaned than tears.
The teacher looks worried. Clearly this wasn’t meant to happen. He picks up the tray and quickly takes it out the room. One of the boys follows him and later tells us all he had gone to the staff toilet, where after a few flushes he emerged with an empty tray. He comes back to class, tells us to sit back down and open our text books.
From then on we always learned from books in that class. The teacher probably wanted us to forget what happened, but we didn’t. The boys talked about how cool it was, the girls how awful it had been. But I never talked about it, about how it moved and slipped in the bloody mess around it, about how it made an almost inaudible noise. Or about how I looked at it, with its heart visibly beating in its thinly formed flesh. It was because of my own father that I could stomach such things.
The doctor points at the monitor in front of me, and tells us that this bit here is a hand, this bit here the toes, and this bit here is the heart. We look, I and my wife, and she begins to smile and cry. Her eyes and cheeks shine, along with her stomach, and a thin trail of mucus slides from her nose. I smile back at her and squeeze her hand again. Then I look to the monitor.
I never told anyone about number 18. The teacher had just left it there in his panic. During class break I had snuck in and took it, hiding it somewhere safe and warm until I could bring it home. Once there I set up a makeshift nest, with straw and light, and waited and waited for it to hatch, whole and perfect like my child will be.


Wearing Thin

It was a terrible tragedy, but the sad fact of the matter was that Jacob Hollandaise was born without a face. Instead his features were composed of a single hole, fulfilling the various functions that were required of it. It could hear, eat, see and speak. It could even whistle, once Jacob had learned to do so.
While proving quite sufficient in the matter of prolonging his existence from birth, this multipurpose orifice made for disconcerting viewing. Feeling this way, his parents decided it would be best for him to be kept out of sight, fearing he would be mocked and ridiculed for his unorthodox appearance.
In his infant years this was adequate enough for young Jacob, but as he grew so to did his curiosity of the world outside the prison of good intentions his parents had imposed. He began asking questions, some of which proved very awkward indeed. Why did he look like this, when neither his mother nor father did? And what manner of creature was the postman? If television was in any way true, then was the world closer to being like a cartoon or a documentary?
It was his father, who was both eminently practical and exceedingly creative, that came up with a solution. They would make him masks to wear, showing various facial expressions. Then it would be simply a matter of Jacob donning the one he felt appropriate for the situation he found himself in. Excited at his own ingenuity, Jacobs’s father worked through the entire day and night with this aim in mind. Come the morning he presented the fruits of his labours to his son
One mask had a smile, while the other displayed its inverse.
So pleased was Jacob that he immediately donned the smiling mask, proud to be able to actually showcase his pleasure.
And so it was that with his parent’s cautious consent, he was allowed to open the front door to the next person who called at the house. With great anticipation, Jacob stood by the door and waited to greet whoever might come. He was soon rewarded for his patience when the milkman arrived.
Alas, losing a large amount of money on the racetracks last night had turned the milkman’s mood sour. Thus when he was greeted by this inane grinning visage he merely scowled in return, and wordlessly handed Jacob the receipt for their order.
Once the surly fellow had sulked away, Jacob slowly swapped his mask for its inverted brother.
His father, who had been watching what had transpired, did the same without such external aid. Sadly he approached Jacob, feeling that the fault had been much his own.
“I guess you’ll need far more masks than these,” he told Jacob, and immediately set to work.
Once again, the next day Jacob was given two more masks. One showed careful neutrality, a straight mouth and non committal eyes. The other, polite confusion with raised brows. Jacob put on the former, and from then on would wear all masks over this one.
A few more weeks and many newly made faces later, Jacob was allowed out into the world, where he would delight in engaging strangers in conversations, following what they said carefully and quickly opening his bag and turning his back so he could be wearing the right face. True there were many mistakes at first, and often he would misread the situation, perhaps assuming an air of incredulity when a more appropriate response would be wonderment. But through trial, error and patience, he soon became quite adept at looking how the speaker felt he should.
Best of all was the girl who worked in the bakery, two streets away from Jacob’s house. He would never have to worry what mask to wear for her, for she was always smiling, and her smile only grew when he wore his. As Jacob’s mother was very fond of the bread from there, he had ample reason to visit, and it wasn’t long before he and Mary (for that was her name) were great friends.
Unfortunately her father, the Baker himself, was a crusty sort of gentleman who never quite warmed to Jacob as Mary did. He had a way of staring right through people that made Jacob feel always the pretender, and nervously would he touch his face in case any slippage might betray what lay beneath. His masks felt like poor shields indeed to those blue piercing eyes, and Jacob endeavoured to avoid the man whenever he could. They made him feel like no expression would ever be good enough to suit, no matter how well intended.
One day, the Baker finally broke his silence and spoke to Jacob.
“Seems my Mary has taken a shine to you,” he said, all curt and crisp.
“I…I like her very much as well,” Jacob replied, his face, as per request to his father, a perfectly sculpted model of respect and politeness.
The Baker grunted and reached into the pantry to take out some dough. With large arms and strong hands he began to knead it. “How’s your father?” he asked as he worked.
“He is well.”
Satisfied with his folding, the Baker cut and shaped the dough and placed it on to a tray. He then turned to the immense oven behind him and, using a thick towel, took out another tray from within, replacing it with the new one. He laid the freshly baked buns out in front of Jacob.
“I thought for a time that he and I would be in the same profession,” the Baker said, his eyes on Jacob. “He was always one for making things. No matter what he tried he would mostly do well at it. Except some times the things he made came out wrong, though they didn’t always look so at first”
Here he picked up one of the buns, put it in a small paper bag, and handed it to Jacob. “A gift for your father,” he said, and then went on. “The town dance is soon. Mary’s looking to go with someone. It won’t be you. Is there an understanding between us?”
Jacob nodded and exited the shop, entirely forgetting the reason that he had come in the first place. To distract himself from thinking about what had just been said, he took out the bun that had been gifted to him. He looked at it, wishing he had his frowning face. For unlike every other that the baker had taken out the oven, this bun was clumpy and malformed.
He went home and gave the treat to his father, explaining its brief history to him. His father took the ugly thing out and looked at it the same way Jacob had wanted to. He stared for a long time until, unnerved by the silence Jacob said guiltily, “I’m sorry it doesn’t look nice.”
His father blinked rapidly and came back to himself. He smiled a strange smile at Jacob and took a bite. “It’s all right. Still tastes good. And I’m happier having it than I’d be if I didn’t.”
He took another bite, and choked slightly on a crumb.

·

Time passed, and the town dance grew ever closer. Jacob had more or less resigned himself to not going when, during one of his wanderings he came across Mary. She lay on the ground in the street, expelling great sobs and shudders. Jacob ran to her and tried to help her up.
“What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” he asked, unable to think of anything better.
Mary tried to speak, but tears choked her words back so instead she simply pointed. Jacob followed her finger towards the bakery. Cautiously he approached it, noting the door had been pushed open so hard it now hung off its hinges. He peered in.
There, lying on the floor, was the Baker. His hand was clutching his chest and his face was contorted in pain. Jacob stared for a long time. Then, without realising he was even doing it, he went into his mask bag and put on the biggest smile he had.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mary had come in behind Jacob without him noticing. Desperately he clawed at his features, thinking that at least his blank underface would be better than this current apparel. But guilt and fear had made him too hasty, and in one wild gesture he tore off both.
Mary stared at the ugly hole, and the ugly hole stared back. Empty silence filled them both. Then the gentle tinkling of the bell above the door rang out and in walked Adam, a boy who Jacob knew as being exactly as old as he was to the day.
This unfroze Mary, who screamed louder than she ever had before, deafening Jacobs’s orifice. Adam stepped in front of her and with a grim expression of fear and hate began advancing on Jacob. Desperately his hole tried to explain the situation, but he was so afraid that he couldn’t speak clearly, and spluttered and drenched them both in mucussy saliva. Adam grabbed a nearby rolling pin and ran at Jacob with it raised. All that was left was to scrape up his face and flee home.
Once Jacob arrived he began searching his bag and then the entire house for a face that would fit. But no face felt like it would ever be enough. No face could possibly show how he felt right now. In an unexpressed rage Jacob smashed all the useless masks and when he was finished he let out a long terrible wail, gurgled through the single giant tear that fell from his hole.

·

The world did its cruel trick of going on for everyone else however, and some years later it was announced that Adam and Mary were to be married. The day came and in a way it was a double celebration, for it also happened to be Adam’s birthday. Nervously he waited alone in his dressing room, trying to think of anything that he may have forgotten or that may have gone wrong. His mother had arrived safely, the caterer and florist had both done a magnificent job and there were plenty of refreshments for now and for later. But something still felt off. He tapped his foot, trying to think and then, mainly due the vibrations it came to him. He needed the toilet. What a foolish thing to lose track of.
Adam rose and strode to the door. He opened it, felt a warm sensation trickling down him and looked with horror to see if he had actually urinated himself. His last thought was one of relief, upon seeing that what trickled from him wasn’t urine, but merely blood.
Jacob walked in and closed the door. Grabbing Adam’s heel he dragged him to the middle of the room. He then took the knife out Adam’s ribs and with delicate yet practised movements drew it towards his face.
Half and hour later Adam and Mary stood facing each other in front of the priest. The words were spoken and echoed.
“I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride.”
And as she did so, Mary wandered why Adams formerly delicate mouth now felt so cavernous to her own delicate lips, and why his thrusting tongue now felt so large and rough.



The Things I will do when I am an old man.

When I am an old man I will be cold all the time, as I am cold most times now. I will wear many layers and take an hour to dress myself each morning and fifty nine minutes to undress myself each night, as I will be wearing slippers instead of shoes.
When I am an old man I will walk everywhere, and never be in a hurry. I will use a cane that has an animal carved on the top, maybe an elephant if my memory starts to fail. I may have a dog, as old in its years as I am in mine. It will be smart enough to not need a leash, and will shit in hidden places so I do not have to pick up after it.
When I am an old man, I think I will be a widower. I don’t know why I think this, but it feels like it will be so. I will stare at old pictures and listen to old music and remember being young. I will smoke a pipe, the contents of which are not entirely tobacco and I will try and fail to blow smoke rings.
When I am an old man my family will seldom, if ever visit me as I in turn make so little effort to see them now. Probably the only time they will come is Christmas, with wife’s forcing husbands through guilt to do so. I will cook them bland meals that will taste of nicotine and we will sit in awkward silences until they feel they have stayed long enough to justify leaving.
When I am an old man, I will have more lines and wrinkles and creases and crinkles than a scrunched up paper bag. Every expression I make will transform the surface of my face, making new caverns and valleys. My nose will be huge, my ears even more so, and I will try and wiggle them both at inappropriate times.
When I am an old man, I will sit in the city square and feed the pigeons and myself mouldy bread. I will only throw bread to the ones that have deformed feet, as I do, and my dog will issue slow barks to the cruel faced gulls whom I have never liked. I will watch people go about their days and their nights. Women in suits and men with meticulously styled hair. Mixed race and mixed religion couples. Painted girls with short skirts and loud voices. But not children. I will never look at children.
When I am an old man I will know when my old friends die.
















Critical commentary

This collection of short, short stories was build around the idea of how people often fail to connect with each other and find themselves both alienated and isolated. Both the title and the E.M Forster quote help to signal this, though the quote is used ironically, because none of the stories protagonists actually do connect, whether it be though chance, choice, or circumstances.
Many of the stories draw influence and are written to resemble classic fairy tales, which I studied as part of my children’s literature course. I really liked the other-worldly tone some of these tales had, and they aren’t bound by the constraints of realist short stories. Sometimes I feel that the realist short story has peaked and there is nowhere new ground left for it to cover. As a result, some of the stories written here are aimed to fall into some soft of gap between realism and surrealism, maintaining that their occurrences are normal even when they clearly aren’t
The first story A sheep in Wolves clothing (an obvious pun on the phrase wolf in sheep’s clothing) is heavily influenced by Angela Carter and her bloody chamber collection, which I studied in 3rd year. Silence of the Lambs as well contributed, in particular the scene at the woman skin suit the killer wears. I saw that movie when I was very young and the image has always stuck in my mind.
I feel the main strength of it is its ending, in which the young lamb eats the rotting remains of another sheep. Throughout there is the suggestion that the lamb is already quite wolf-like and only grows more so as it progresses. There is also the implication that wearing something makes you like it, as is the case with the lamb in the wolf’s skin, or how the other sheep suddenly become dumb and blank when their coats are sheared.
The idea for the rhyming couplet came from older versions of Red Riding Hood, which end similarly, with a moral lesson imposed on the reader. That is also why one of the wolves taunts the lamb by asking if he has stones in his stomach, which is how red riding hood kills the wolf in one of the versions.
The Boy who Cried Wolves is very similar to the previous story again with its title being another fairy tale reference. Here the story is reversed so that the villagers all love the boy’s lies, and begin to hate him as he tells the truth. It is this truth that leads to him being as lonely as his grandmother, and it is implied by the ending that the reason she is doing it is because she herself was secretly lonely.
There is a lot of visual imagery and references to sight, in keeping with the stories premise. In addition whenever the boy lies his tears (or the rain as he initially thinks) either “leaps” or “springs” from him, as I feel they are appropriate words for the wolf tears he sheds. I also have fun with character names, such as Farmer Blight and Miss Curdle. The ending can be seen as a kind of anti-moral, as the boys change to truth telling has no positive outcome.
The next story Insulation takes place in a school canteen from the viewpoint of a student there, though we are not immediately aware of this. The main idea of it is that the student is narrating in a very formal tone, juxtaposed by how the others speak. This is to emphasise his separation from the rest of them, and also how he uses it as a way to insulate himself from others, looking down from his intellectual vantage point. An example of this is where he remarks about the “forest of wooden and real legs” trying to trip him.
It was important that Chess was the game chosen, first of all for the line about it being the game of “horsies,” but also for the fact that it is a game for two players, yet the two boys in the story don’t play.
In addition to this the story is cyclical in nature, replacing one cold lonely person with another and so going back to this idea of wearing jackets to insulate yourself from loneliness. I think its strongest point is in the comparison of corned beef to the other child, and the way the metaphor expands itself. The story is largely based upon my own school experience and is something I think many people can relate to.
This lead to the ersatz poem fickle internet, which is simply taken from the connection failure message a computer gives when it is unable to connect online. Rather than just a gimmick, some of its lines lend themselves thematically, for example the part about a misconfigured firewall could represent the defensiveness of the child with the chess book in Insulate Yourself from Loneliness, while “the host is unable to connect” is essentially true of all the stories. In addition very few people actually click on the “help” button in such a scenario, just as very few people ask for help.
Discomfort food is probably the most intensively redrafted story. I keep finding problems and inconsistencies with the narrative tone, where it would slip into exposition or become to informal. Those problems are mainly solved now however, although I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% happy with it. Things that I think work well for it are its basic premise, and the names the narrator gives to his pets. dé jà and vu are named because of Goldfishes apparent short memory span, and so presumably would be in state of constant vague remembrance, while Schrödinger refers to the famous thought experiment about how a cat trapped in a box may or may not be alive. In this instance the answer is dead, and as such the naming acts as foreshadowing.
The protagonist also has a preoccupation with his own excrement, used to emphasise his youth, and again to give the reader a sense of disgust.
While the ending is somewhat predictable-with several friends having guessed it from a quick plot synopsis, it seems the only logical place for the story to go. The scenes about eating are also purposely written to make the reader as uncomfortable as possible, again reflecting the title of the story.
A phallic poem is intended to be both humorous and sad. The quick and unexpected rhyming makes for a smile but a second reading shows that the speaker of the poem may actually be quite depressed about this situation. While the lines have been in my head for some while (they simply came to me one day and stuck) I was dubious about how anybody could see they had literary merit. Then I read some Ogden Nash, who has many similar poems and this gave me the confidence to put it in my dissertation. As you might have guessed from the title, it is an example of emblematic verse in a fairly crude manner.
Eggs is one of those stories that more or less came fully formed, and asides from redrafts was written in one sitting. The story draws a parallel between a class experiment about the development of fertilised chicken eggs and the narrators’ wife’s obstetric examination. It is written in first person and attempts to display the narrator’s feelings of detachment from what should be an important moment of his life. In keeping with this theme, I tried to do this in an understated way, such as when the narrator says “he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own” or when his wife squeezes his hand for reassurance and he applies “an equal amount of pressure back”
The idea from the story came from two places; the part about eggs is mainly lifted from when a lecturer told us about a similar experiment he had to do in school, while the detachment from the world was inspired by seeing Watchmen at the cinema and its effective portrayal of Dr Manhattan.
Something else that interested me when investigating things about obstetrics was the Doppler machine-the device used to measure the baby’s heartbeat. The name (found by some basic internet research) immediately made me think of “Doppelganger” and how someone’s child can in some sense be like their own doppelganger, ready to replace them as the centre of attention.
I also wanted there to be a subtle association between the wife and a slug, further emphasising her desexualisation in the eyes of her husband. That is why she has a swollen shining belly, and why trails of mucus run down her face when she cries.
Wearing Thin is the longest piece in the collection as well as my favourite, and spans the growth of adulthood of a child. It is a somewhat bizarre story, as its premise would dictate. Yet its origins are simple enough, coming from the idea that we all wear masks to cover our true faces in certain situations. Because of its unlikely nature, I tried to present it in a fairy tale manner similar to a Sheep in wolfs clothing, with the characters taking its unusual events in their stride.
It is written in 3rd person, utilised to give it some objectivity and distance for the reader, with points of focalization on Jacob himself and at the end Adam.
There are a few humorous descriptions of the characters that might be missed on a first reading. The milkman is described as being turned “sour” be losing a bet, while the baker is known as a crusty person.
What stands out for me is the scene with the Baker, who displays knowledge of Jacob’s condition. There is a play on the bun in the oven concept going on there, with the baker giving his malformed product to Jacob. The great irony is that while Jacobs’s father tries to explain that it is better having an ugly bun than none, his reasoning is greatly hampered when he chokes on a crumb from it.
All the biblical names in the story are purposefully chosen, though for the most part they only take importance at the end. Adam being stabbed in the ribs is obviously echoing the genesis story. The bibles Jacob is known as the heel grabber, as that’s how he came out the womb-clutching his brothers foot. He also steals his brother’s birth right, in a manner similar to how Jacob steals Adams face and wife.
There is an implied continuity between Discomfort food, Eggs and Faces, suggesting that the son in the first grows up to be the husband in the second, and in turn gives birth to a new son in the third. Obviously that is why they are in that particular order. This is done by throwaway phrases in Eggs like “It was because of my own father I could stomach such things” and at its end, with “Healthy and perfect like my child will be” This is obviously intended to be ironic given the Jacob in the next story is anything but this.
I wanted to avoid explicating stating this however; as I feel each piece can stand alone well enough on its own, and didn’t want to get bogged down in inserting various scenes, objects, characters and other “linkers” between them all.
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man again takes some of its inspiration from Ogden Nash, in particular his poem Old Men. It is probably the most autobiographical story in the collection (It be pretty worrying if this distinction went to Discomfort foods) and is based upon my own reluctance to visit any except my immediate family. Each line begins the same, like a mantra and the ending is essentially the equivalent as that of Old Men.
In terms of editing all the pieces (excepting the poetry due to its short length) have gone through vigorous cutting and rewritings. Indeed I usually edit a story every time I open it, to the point where I rarely consider anything truly finished. I think it’s also important to sometimes leave pieces a while, rather than continually assessing them, and then come back with fresh perspective.