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.

bloody formatting

Stephen woke up with his eyes closed and listened to the silence. He sighed, rose from his bed and did all the things that one should do in the morning. He washed himself, brushed his teeth, did his morning stretches and dressed. He had a healthy breakfast of fresh fruit and cereal without milk, washed down with a bottle of volvic water. It was important to look after your health. Once finished he cleared away the morning mess and tidied up the flat. He did all of this still with his eyes closed.Done, Stephen put on his boots and strode outside and listened very very carefully. He sighed again and opened his eyes. Hmmm, looked like it was going to rain. He went back in and got his jacket. A brief ray of sunshine pierced through the overcast skies and he jogged to the sundial in the garden. 8.30 already. Where did the time go? Normally he would have finished his morning routine by 8.20.He gave himself both a mental and physical shrug and got on with the day. There was so much that probably didn't have to be done but he would do anyway. He cycled into the city for a spot of window shopping and met Sid in Tesco’s“Hey man” said Sid. “Want some free expired shit?”“Always, but nothing that'll make me sick”“Expiry dates are a myth anyway man. Something cooked up by the government so we waste more food and spend more money to fuel their precious economy” Sid went round back and returned with a packet of bread sticks and a jar of gherkins. “Today is phallic day!” he declared, waving the goods in the air “All phallus shaped foods are free!”“Oh well, I guess it gives me more choice than inverted vagina day” Stephen said wearily and took the goods. “By the way, isn’t the plural Phalli?“No. Now fuck off”The rest of the day passed uneventfully for Stephen. He went to the library and read some books. In the music store he practiced piano and played guitar. And in HMV, he got a few films for the night. Sid was there as well, unsurprisingly in the adult movie section.“I thought you were working” Stephen asked as Sid thrust a copy of “The Domin-Matrix” at him. “It was pretty quiet so I left. Anyway, working for a faceless corporation sucks King Kong dong”“I bet that faceless corporation has a tear running down its faceless cheek right now” Stephen looked at the back of the case. It showed a Neo look alike in a long leather jacket, shades and nothing else. He put it back. It wasn't Monday yet.A thought occurred to him. It seemed to be happening more and more lately. “Am I gay for not liking lesbian sex?”“Very. Though I'll be the first to admit a vagina on its own is a bit...bland. And that's why God invented the dildo” Sid continued fondling through the adult films. “Let me know if you see the porno version of high school musical” he added.Stephen continued his own search for a good movie. Lately he had been quite the film buff, and reckoned he had watched most of those films that everyone had to see before they died. Eventually he settled for The Shining. In his opinion it was the only good Stephen king film, and still didn't measure up to the book.“You coming over tonight?” he asked Sid“Do you want me to come over tonight?”“Do you want to come over tonight?”“Well I wouldn't want to go where I'm not wanted”“And I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want to”They both stood there in silence, Sid grinning the whole time. Finally Stephen broke the stalemate. “Come over at eightish...”“HA!” Sid said triumphantly. “You caved first. I win. You suck. And that’s the way it will be forever and ever and ever” He danced his victory dance, which involved much crotch thrusting and some roboting. Stephen, the epitome of patience, waited for him to be done.“Now,” he asked when Sid was through “would you like dinner?”“Would you like to make me dinner?”“Sigh”
Night fell and found the two friends in the flat at the dinner table. Sid Belched and farted so quickly the sounds over lapped each other “Crikey, that was some pucker tucker matey. Better than shrimp on the barbie anytime. And so very phallic...ARR!” Sid had made a hat with corks on strings round it, and had been speaking with an Australian accent since. It was also a pirate hat.“Anyways” he continued through a mouthful of phallus. “What’s tomorrows plan Sheila?”“Tomorrow is Sunday”“Already!? Christ in a chiropractor’s matey you gotta give that wallaby a rest”Stephen shook his head “It’s a promising avenue, and I'm not exactly in a position to be picky”“But you go to all of them! You've picked them all!”“Who's to say who was right in the end?”“Well given your own unique position, I guess you arrrrrr, Skippy”
“Lucky me”

The next day Stephen rose as early as he could and dressed very plainly and sombrely. He cycled down to the church. At the door he left a modest and meaningless donation, and once inside he began to pray. He used to do it out loud but Sid had followed and made fun of him. Anyway, he had felt wrong doing so. Places like this wanted to be quiet and peaceful.After he prayed he flicked through one of the bibles. There were answers there, providing you saw them for yourself. He had read it all before anyway, and with growing conviction realised he would probably end up in hell. Confessions and baptisms weren’t exactly options now. There were good stories though, honest and uncompromising.

Once done, he padded out quietly and headed for the synagogue. Sid was there waiting for him. He was wearing a black hat and a fake beard. “Shalom!” He declared. Stephen sighed. Still it was no worst than when Sid had dressed as “Super Pope! (With the powers of 10 ordinary ordained archbishops!)” He would concede the cape made the whole ensemble work.Stephen had been teaching himself Hebrew, and haltingly made his way through one of the 3 prayers he new, the Shacharit. He tried to ignore Sid who was dancing about, singing that song that was always sung at bar mitzvahs on TV. When he was done, his friend approached him with a pained look on his face. “Today isn’t even the Shabbat. And you’re meant to do this everyday. I will not have a wayward black sheep in my flock. So flock off!”“You coming to the Mosque?” Stephen asked.“Nah man, it’s too soon, if you know what I mean”“I think it’s been plenty long enough”The mosque was, conveniently enough just down the road from the synagogue. He felt it right that they should be so close together. People could learn a lot from the things they built. Reflections of themselves that showed none of their own flaws. His own reflections were doing nothing more than stalling him however, and he went inside.Once in, he took of his shoes and hid them in a corner of the entrance. Then he went to the wash room and cleaned his hands and feet. Finally he went into the prayer hall and, with aid of a compass faced east. Beyond that he knew nothing of how a Muslim service was conducted, and so merely repeated his prayer from earlier.Some time later he left. There, that was all the Abrahamic religions out the way. Time for some Hinduism and pūjā. They let you pick your own avatar of god. Sid’s suggestion of Optimus prime had been considered for some time before Stephen had found a more suitable one. He walked to the shrine he had made singing “karma karma karma karma karma chameleon”It was past dark when he was finished and made his way home. There were after all, quite a few religions out there. And the vast majority seemed to suggest that not worshipping them was a sure fire way to end up in fire. On the other hand, they also said something about not worshipping other religions. Stephen had tried to compromise by spending roughly equal amounts of time with each one. And as his Gran had said, don’t put all your eggs in one basket, or she'd suck them.He sat down on the grass outside and looked up at the night sky and the stars. There seemed to be a lot more of them nowadays. Billions of candles on a pitch black cake of nothingness. Would there be anyone around to see them all go out? Would someone blow them out? And if so, would they make a wish?“You’re talking out loud again” Sid said gently from behind. “And talking some amount of shite from what I heard.” He sat down next to Stephen“Comfort in sound. Feeder had it right”“Comfort in conformity” Sid replied. “Look how happy the Nazi’s were, before it hit the fan” He stretched and lay back. “Speaking of which, I’m writing another play”“Called?”“They saved Hitler’s brain!”“Ah, but where did they put it?”“It was so evil it had to be cut into 5 pieces and consumed by the most kindly, good and pure people of the age”.“Such as?” Stephen smiled in spite of his recent dark mood“Ghandi”“He was still alive then?”“Not for long, he was assassinated in 1948. They blamed it on Hindu radicals but in reality it was splinter cell elements of a Nazi plot to resurrect Hitler”“Ah, of course. It sounds intriguing”Sid was all fired up now “That was the first of the Human Hitler seals to be broken. The play is set in present times, where only two seals remain. The Dali Llama, and…me!” He leapt up and struck a pose. “It is up to me, upon inheriting my grandfathers dark legacy, to safe guard his holiness from the sinister machinations of senior Hitler youth members in positions of power"Stephen stood up and went to pat his friend on the back. He stopped halfway though, and let his hand keep rising, where it turned into a yawn. It was getting late. In fact it was so late it was getting early."I'm going to sleep" he told Sid, who had started trying to do handstands on the grass."Plenty of time for that when you’re dead and buried" upside down Sid told him."Depends where you end up, I guess" Stephen began walking home. He thought about what Sid had just said. “Where was Hitler’s body buried?” he called back.“Official reports from The KGB indicated that he was buried in an unmarked grave in Magdeburg. BUT fearing the area to be used as a Neo-Nazi rallying site, a secret operation was conducted and the remains were thrown into Elbe River. Unofficial reports however, reveal a far more SHOCKING truth""Is this all in your play?""Indeed!""Well, if it is half as good as Shakespeare and the Ice pirates...""The musical" Sid added"The musical""On Ice" Sid addedStephen took a deep breath "Well if it is half as good as Shakespeare and the ice pirates on ice the musical" he took another breath "Then I look forward to seeing it. Now good night"

After yesterday’s piety, Monday brought with it some mediocre sinning. Stephen woke up and had a wank to set him up for the rest of the day. A while back he had started keeping his own samples, but decided that this was a little weird, and had burned them all. It was a risky business, he thought, to have too much of your semen kicking about. It could end up in some radioactive waste, and then be consumed by a badger. From there the imagination could take you down all kinds of horrible routes and avenues and vicious cul-de-sacks. He did have a few pints of his bloody kicking about though, that was just common sense.The rest of the day was given up to indulgence. He ate chocolates and drank vodka. He watched loads of porn (Pride and Lady-juice, Little red's riding wood) and made some headway (aha) through the erotic novel he had been reading. Towards the end he inflated Gertrude and went through every position in the karma sutra with her, with Barry White playing in the background. Eventually he had had enough of her love and lay down, heads sore and spinning.Sid knew to respect Stephens’s privacy on a Monday, It was the only time he did. So he wasn't worried about being disturbed during these disturbing scenes. Sometimes Sid jumped in the shower with him, declaring "We're so manly, we wash together naked!"

The end of the day saw Stephen spent. His penis was like a cliché, tired and over used, and his afternoon boozing had left him feeling very sleepy. Still, it was out of his system now, whatever it was that made him restless and angry regardless of how much healthy exercise he did. He had learned a while back that there was no using wrestling with this feeling. He wasn’t strong enough to argue with himself.

In fact a while back things had gotten a bit crazy, and it had taken several crashing come downs from weeks of abuse to convince him to limit such activities to one day a week. It was insane how much booze you could have while on the coke. And so abusive Mondays came about, a day when his super ego hung up its pretentious cape and the iceberg flipped over, Id on top like an overbearing girlfriend.

Christ, the thoughts he had when he was drunk, Stephen thought, inner monologging about himself in the 3rd person. The streams of his consciousness being pissed away from the addled bladder of his brain. Down the drain, no need to flush let the yellow mellow like pus. Wouldn’t it be much better if he was called Gustav? Almost certainly possibly yes and maybe be Spanish to. Not so much to ask and it would be so much better if even zombie Hitler answered with worried buried words. Buried…


Stephen awoke the next day to the sound of Sid singing Bonnie Tyler’s total eclipse of the heart. He kept his eyes closed and saw that he wasn’t that hung over. Then he opened his eyes when Sid jumped on him singing “I fucking need you more than ever!” and realised he was very hung over. Still, it did not do to stay in bed and sulk. It was one of the most endearing memories he had about his father, his stubborn refusal to admit feeling rough in the morning. It summed up the kind of man he was quite nicely.

Forcing himself out of bed Stephen went for a shower, making sure Sid didn’t follow. He turned on the tap, got the temperature right and sat down cross legged in the stall. Those monks were onto something there, he thought. Sitting down and letting the water wash over your head and shoulders, which then foamed up and washed over your head and shoulders. It just felt right, like you were in the womb again or something new agey like that. It certainly was a new age he lived in.

After a good half hour of shower meditating, taking in and depositing fluids (another thing that just felt so right, even though it was quite wrong) Stephen got up. He brushed most the water off and went large. One thing about boozing was that you’d never be constipated. Then again, as he got older, Stephen had an ever growing appreciation for that elusive thing known as a healthy bowl movement. The rushing burning sensation told him that this was not to be one.

He realised something just before he turned to confirm it. Yep, no toilet roll. Only the cardboard tubes he had been saving to make a giant periscope. However, if a man was careful, and peeled away so that thin strips of cardboard came off…

5 minutes later Stephen got back in the shower. It was more hygienic this way, he thought, vigorously applying soap to his hand.



“So, what’s today’s plan?” Sid asked, jumping up and down on the bed. “DVD Box set sex in the city marathon?”
Stephen waved him aside and changed the soiled sheets. When he had made the bed new again, Sid went back to jumping on it.
“A well made bed means your not living” he told Stephen.
“I’m still breathing, so I must be doing something right” Stephen replied.

When he was hung over, Stephen had a routine he would go through to help deal with it. First was the long long shower, followed by the painfully essential shit. Next came the forcing of food he really didn’t want to eat. This was why he used a blender and liquefied it. To make his world famous hangover cure.

The ingredients were relatively simple. First any fruit that happened to be kicking about went in. Then, for the sake of his forsaken bowls he added a good wack of porridge oats. Finally a can of irn bru went in. When the orangey gloopy mix was done Stephen drank it straight out the blender. Taste wasn’t much of a problem given his furry tongue, but holding it down took a bit of concentration.

The next phase of operation hangover was equally simple. He went out for a long walk, savouring the reasonably fresh air this side of town had to offer. As it was a sunny day, he walked to the sundial located six miles away in the woodland heritage sight. He really liked it here, there were several streams running into a river, and the wind made all the leaves rustle and shuffle. It made the place seem alive.

The sundial showed it to be around three o’clock. Stephen sighed. He wished he had cycled. He knew from experience it took about 3 hours to walk here, and that was downhill. His stomach was also reminding him that it was now ready for proper food. But the walk had done its job and he felt a good deal better.

Before he left he sang. With all the background noise he didn’t feel so foolish doing so here.

Theres a lotta hush hush these days
No one makin any noise
Everything is just an echo that fades
Everyone is much the same

Where will you go, when everyone is gone?
What will you do, when everything is done?
Nothing is a pretty scary something say some
At least that’s one thing I’ve been told
At least that’s one thing I know

His voice faded and he walked home.



The next day was a Wednesday. Wednesday was a productive day for Stephen. It was the day when he did creative things. He wrote short stories and poetry, and helped Sid with his play, when he wasn’t being secretive about it. He drew large childlike pictures of elephants with moustaches and sunglasses. There was a giant Lego Death star he had been working on, which was approaching house size. Then there were the big projects. Like the green house, full of tomatoes and oranges. Another memory of his dad, telling him that they were thirsty plants, that pouring Coca-Cola helped them grow and that yellow tomatoes were the best ones.

There was plenty of gardening to be done actually, and a good portion of the day was given up to that. Stephen raked leaves and pruned plants and hoed potatoes. He was beginning to understand why farmers had that deep thoughtful look on their faces all the time. It didn’t take much brainpower to spread (homemade) muck after all, yet at the same time it led to a stern sort of focus. The result was that you diligently concentrated on any problem that might be rattling about your head. As he dug into the ground, his mind began tracing the outlines of a plan. These outlines however, were interrupted when Sid decided to help by pissing on the cauliflowers.

“Thank you” Stephen told him
“I’m just trying to remind you that the water purifiers need topped up again” Sid replied. “Don’t want to be showering in your own urine like you were on Monday”
“I…better do that then” said Stephen, glad he brushed his teeth three times a day.

The thing Stephen was most proud of working on during creative Wednesdays, was the wall. He sometimes worried about the cliché nature of it. And no doubt psychologists would have a lot to say on the matter. But it was tall and thick and well built. And he liked the collage of different rocks that went into it, often trying to arrange them into shapes and patterns. They felt firm and right between his hands. Yep, the wall was a good solid distraction and he was glad to have it, even with Sid wearing a hard hat and sitting atop it, wolf whistling whenever Stephen bent down and speaking in a poor Brooklyn accent.

“Would you get a load of the bazongas on that! Hey larry! Get up here and check this broad out” Sid put on a different hat “Wow, ve-ry nice! Hey sweet cheeks give us a twirl. I gots somethin to show you babe, and I thinks you gonna like it”

It went on like this for another few hours until Stephen tired, showered in fresh water, and went to bed.



The next day was a Thursday, which was given up to doing all the things that Sid wanted to do, dragging a reluctant Stephen with him. And what Sid wanted to do primarily, was smash things. Obviously there were certain things off limit, the flat, the Death star and the wall for instance. But that still left a good deal of targets. Today’s one was the French embassy on the east side of town. It was a rather pretty and scenic building, with a fountain and statues. Sid thought it funny to copy the statues and piss into the fountain. He then took out cans of spray paint and wrote, in surprisingly elegant Edwardian font Go hop back to the pond you surrender monkey Frogs

“It has always been my dream to vandalise every foreign embassy of every country” Sid told Stephen as he stepped back to survey his handiwork.
“And why is that?”
“It’s a statement man! To show that all cuntish countries, great and small, that they are all equal and useless in the face of ME”
Sid took something out of a man bag he had brought with him.
“Now, do you know what this is?” he said, waving it in Stephens face
“It’s a stick, or possibly a very dull dildo”
“More like a boom-stick, cum Dildo!” Sid shouted excitedly “It’s a pipe bomb fool, haven’t you ever played Duke Nukem 3D?” He twisted the top and threw it into an open window
“Take that Fidel Castro!” he shouted and turned to run away. Stephen watched with mild interest. Was his companion smart enough to actually make an explosive device? A few moments and loud wummmpth later it was shown that the answer was yes, he could.
“Viva la revolution” He said, and walked away.


“Now what?” he asked Sid when he finally caught up with him
“I’ll tell you what” Sid said, and remained silent for sometime as he thought of a reply. “The world is our oyster man, so let’s see how much it takes to smash the shell open and let the water in” He jumped on the hood of a nearby car and started stamping on it. The alarm went off, breaking the silence with a deafening cacophony. Sid wailed with it, but not long after it started, the noise petered off into nothing. Stephen supposed that the battery had just used its last bit of juice.

Sid, who’s wailing had died with the cars, fell into a sitting position and sulked. He looked at Stephens’s calm impassive face angrily.
“Don’t you ever get tired man, of living beneath false skies and defeated horizons?”
Stephen looked up “It looks pretty real to me. And pretty big too”
“Yeah well, that’s all a matter of perspective”
“And what is your perspective. What do you see?”
Sid remained silent for some time before replying “Somewhere I don’t want to be” He got up and stood next to Stephen “And neither do you” he told him.
Stephen shrugged “When God gives you lemons you…”
“FIND A NEW GOD!”
Both friends looked at each other and laughed. It was a wholesome and natural sound, and it felt good to be able to do so.
“Come on man, I still got a bunch of pipe bombs, lets go blow some shit up”

Several embassies and a few spreading fires later the two of them sat atop the highest building in the city, watching the flames grow. They had been careful about how they had arranged the fires and from up here it looked like a giant red exclamation mark. Or, as Sid had told Stephen, if you squinted a bit, like a giant fiery member, the sparks shooting liquid hot semen into an uncompromising abyss. The sun was beginning to set, like an egg ready for fertilization, and it really looked quite pretty. There was always the chance that someone high above would notice and look down with appreciation

“Aww man you should have seen it” Sid said suddenly. “There was this program on about binge drinking and liver abuse. And this hot woman on telly said that the liver was the biggest organ in your body yeah. And I said...”
“I'd like to be the biggest organ in her body?”
“Bingo. Just such a damn shame no one was around to hear it” Sid held out his hand to be high-fived. Stephen obliged but missed.
“You are so lame” Sid told him “It’s a good thing I’m around to increase your cool factor”
“I know, now time for bed. Tomorrows a busy day”



Tomorrow, which convention suggests being Friday and which Stephen thought of as Whyday, was certainly busy. He cycled around the city taking samples of various things; water, air, common household products and carting them back to his flat. There he proceeded to examine them all under a microscope, not knowing what he was looking for, but feeling reasonably certain that he would know if and when he found it.

“Well, I think we can rule out Cheetos” He declared, leaning back from the lens.
“Just as well” Sid said, munching his way through the rest of the packet.
“Its times like this I wish we still had the internet. Wikipedia would know the answer”
“Damn straight, and I bet it would also have a high school musical porno version. With the actual Vanessa Hudgens in it”
It was quite sad really, Stephen thought, that of all the things to miss, something as intangible as the internet would be so high up the list. It seemed the government were quite right in despairing about his generation, obsessing over pop culture and pointless memetic legacies.

After he had finished his uninformed molecular enquiries, Stephen went to check the radio tower at the top of the hill. The generators needed to be checked up on and transmissions had to be reviewed. Also a few weeks ago, on a Thursday of course, Sid had convinced him to change the message to “4,8,15,16,23,42” This was probably a good way to be answered by silence, but Stephen supposed if the signal made it all the way to America then there was a chance of some conspiracy nut replying. The Americans had conspiracies down to a fake moon landing T, and paranoia was a useful survival trait. He should know

Sid followed him to the radio tower, and pleaded for the message not to be changed, threatening to smash it up. Stephen compromised by allowing him to spray paint the words “Dharma initiative” on the front door. He really did have nice handwriting.
“Purgatory man, I’m telling you” Sid declared
“You could well be right” Stephen said. “Certainly something I’ve considered”

Next on the to do list was to check up on any prophecies that seemed to be relevant. It never failed to amaze Stephen how many people would, with absolute certainty, predict the end of the world. Those crazy Mayans damn near had it right. The best ones, he found, were the self fulfilling ones, but then he was a fan of the theatre, and biased in favour of dramatic irony.

Friday also meant facing very important decision of whether to leave or not. As always the inner debate raged, with pros and cons being weighed up against each other. The thing that always always clinched it however, was the memory of what had happened last time he had tried to leave. He did not want a repeat of that. He did walk to the city limits however, and stare out for a long time. Turning his back to go home he found Sid right behind him.

“Boo”
Stephen remained impassive. He knew Sid would be there, just as he knew that Sid knew that he came here every Friday. He had very strong doubts indeed about if Sid would follow him should he leave the city, which was a good reason to come see if he did leave. He kept walking home, feeling eyes on his back. This was one of the few moments in which his friend was deadly silent.



After the hugely and routinely busy week he had had, Stephen was quite relieved for Saturday to come round again, and do normal people things. He decided that tonight’s film would be a heart warming and life affirming one, and tried to think of one that fit the bill. In the mean time he went to Tescos and hung out with Sid.

“And how are we” he asked, while Sid squatted down to a shelf and put condoms on bananas.
“The boss is riding me hard today” Sid replied, gesturing to a cardboard cut out of Lindsay Lohan that was stood behind the till.
Stephen looked at what his friend was up to. “Those are my bananas” he pointed out. “What exactly are you doing with them?”
“We had a missed delivery so I said I could get my hands on some”
“That doesn’t quite explain why you are putting rubbers on them”
“Duh, to keep them fresh for the customers” said Stephen, slipping a ribbed easy-on pleasure max over a particularly girthy banana. “Anyway, we’ll have to talk later. I don’t want to be disciplined again, and let me tell you, she is a firm woman, with a sharp tongue”

Innuendo over, Stephen went down to the music store and practised piano again. Lately he had been actually trying to use the pedals, but his two way co-ordination was atrocious. Maybe he should take up the drums as well. Become a regular multitalented renaissance man. A bit too late for it to matter, but the devil did make work for idle hands. The faint scars snaking up his arm were testament to that.

Eventually he trundled on down to HMV, and surveyed the legions of films at his disposal. It had been a while since he had seen a Kung Foo film. While he was contemplating, Sid came in through the doors.
“Why aren’t you at work?” Stephen asked “Bunk off early again”
“I got fired” Sid said gloomily
“Why”
Sid raised his hand to reveal in its clutch the severed cardboard head of his manager
“Ah” Stephen said “That’ll do it alright. Frowned upon in the retail sector so I hear” He had an idea and went down a different Aisle. “I think however, that it helps decided tonight’s movie extravaganza” he declared, picking up a copy of Mean Girls and waving it in his friends face.

After a nourishing vegetarian meal, the two of them sat on the couch in front of the TV, making idle chit-chat
“You going through with tomorrow again?” Sid asked
“Of course” Stephen replied “I see no reason not to”
“Because it’s better to scurry in the dark, than end up under a magnifying glass on a hot sunny day?”
“Not all of us were troubled children that tortured ants”
“Know what the three early signs of a psycho-neurotic are? Wetting yourself, pyromania, and cruelty to small animals”
“Well, you remember something old every day”
“Which is why” Sid concluded “I spent my childhood pissing on flaming squirrels” he waved the cardboard head of Lindsay about laughing wildly.

“Would you get rid of that already?” Stephen said, gesturing to the head.
“Hell no, I got plans for this bad boy” Sid pointed at the TV “Now quit bitching, the Christmas dance scene is about to start”
They watched, and Stephen saw out of the corner of his eye Sid taking a pen and punching a sizeable whole in Miss lohans mouth.
“Do you have a watermelon?” Sid asked
“No”
“Maybe a large tomato? Any soft squishy fruit that isn’t citrus really”
“I have a large pineapple, if that’s any help”
Sid looked at him in anger “What! You do know that pineapple juice melts your fingerprints! Imagine what else it could do”
“I’d rather not”
Sid threw the head to the floor and scowled. This didn’t last long though and he went back to watching the television intently.

When the film had finished and the credits rolled up the screen Sid asked Stephen if he wanted to watch it again “But this time with directors’ commentary!”
Stephen contemplated this for sometime. “Yeah, go on then” He said finally. Time was a wily beast, and he would grasp at any weapon to help kill it.



Despite the predictions of the elders of the remote lagomi tribe, the sun rose on Sunday as it did on every other day, yellow orange as normal rather than the pitch black ball they said it would be. Stephen had long ago stopped worrying about any apocalyptic predictions. If the world ended chances are he wouldn’t know anything about it.

He rose and went to church. And said his prayer

“I know I’m not exactly a saint and I have never done anything great in my life, but I would like some answers. Not knowing the why behind this…punishment? Well whatever it is, it’s slowly killing me. I wake each day feeling a little more hollow and a little less of a real person. Please tell me where everyone went. I don’t want to be alone any more. Everybody’s gone. No bodies here”

“Ahem” said a voice behind him. Stephen turned.
“You were talking out loud again” Sid said quietly.
“Sorry”
Sid smiled brightly. “That’s ok old buddy old friend old pal”
“Old buddy…”
“Old friend old pal”

Stephen grabbed a near by bible and flicked through it. He found what he was looking for and hastily ran his fingers down the paper thin pages. Out loud he read; “We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed— in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed”
“That’s what she said” Sid replied
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!” Stephen said excitedly. “It’s so obvious”
“Care to enlighten the rest of us heathens?”
“The Rapture. Maybe that’s where they all went” he pointed up. Sid followed his gesture, squinting
“I can’t see them” he said, and pulled out a kaleidoscope. He peered through it. “Nope, I got nothing”
Stephen, who hadn’t been listening to a word of this continued. “Maybe God, or whoever, let everybody in. and he couldn’t exactly condemn all the bugs and fish and animals for not worshipping him, so they got in to. So maybe…”
“Maybe Harry Potter really was the second coming?”
“Maybe. Regardless, I need to check up on all of this. Now help me find a shovel”

“Tell me again” Sid asked. “Why we’re digging up the grave of” he broke off to check the name on the tombstone “Jenny Taylor…my, what cruel parents”
“And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. That’s why” said Stephen from the hole he had been digging.
“Well when you put it like that” Sid frowned. “So does that mean that there are zombies about! Scary flying Christian zombies?” He looked over his shoulder worriedly.
“It means” Said Stephen between grunts and shovels “That if the. Rapture happened. Then this grave. Will be empty. I can’t believe. I hadn’t done this. Already”
“Yep, digging up dead folk so damn obvious man. It’s just like in “They saved Hitler’s brain” Only without the Nazis .Anyways, what’s so great about finding out if the veloci-raptures happened yet? If that’s the case then it just confirmation that you’re fucked”
Stephen smiled “But at least I will know why. And terrible knowledge it may be, but it will be easier to bear than simply not knowing” He paused in his digging and looked thoughtful. “It would probably mean” he said, resuming with the shovel “That I actually am stuck in limbo. Or purgatory. In which case. I can research. Ways to get. Unstuck”

The shovel made a dull thud as it hit into wood and became jammed. Stephen pulled it out, abandoning it to dig away the rest of the dirt with his hands. The coffin he revealed was smaller than he had expected. It was so small in fact, that he was able to pry it out the ground and lift it right out onto the grass. Glancing up at the tombstone again he saw that Jenny had died aged only six years old.
“Well that was a stroke of luck” he said.

Sid lifted the box up and started shaking it, listening intently. “There’s certainly something in there” he said, letting go so it fell to the ground with a smack.
“We still need to check though” Stephen lifted the shovel. Sid ran around and put his hands over Stephens face so he couldn’t see “Piñata! Come on lets bust this Kinder Egg open and see what the surprise inside is”

Stephen obliged, and swung the shovel down hard upon the lid. It cracked and splintered, lines running up and across like crooked smiles. He swung again and again until he had punched through. Sid leapt onto it and stuck his head down into the hole.
“Hellooooo?” he cooed. He peered in deeper then pulled his head back, screaming, hands smacked over his face. “Arghghhg it’s got my eyes! My eyes!” he cried, and pulled two black squishy things out which he threw at Stephen.

Stephen caught one, examined it and popped it in his mouth. “Artichoke hearts?” he asked.
“In olive oil” Sid said, settling down after seeing his prank had failed.

Stephen looked in. There was something. But he couldn’t make out what. He put his hands through the hole and grunting with effort, pried the wood apart. And there, lying with her rotting hands neatly folded, was the decomposing remains of Jenny Taylor.

“Huh”
“Sorry man” Sid said “But looks like a no show for the second coming”
“I guess not” He couldn’t take his eyes of her body. It was the first he had seen in a long long time. Her skin was yellow grey and she was dressed in a pretty dark blue dress. Face had mostly wasted away, with the eyes and nose sunk deep into her skull. Her hair was lovely though, and he could tell quite easily that she had been a red head. It was thick and wavy and curly. It looked alive.

He reached down and very lightly brushed it with his finger tips. So soft and so cold. Nothing had felt like that to his touch for as long as he could remember.
“I wonder” Sid said leaning over his shoulder. “If you could be classified as a pedophile via necrophilia. Would you count the years after she died, so technically she would be over the legal age?”

Stephen took his hand away. It felt empty. Of course it was empty, there was nothing in it. It wasn’t something he would normally dwell on. He needed to do something with it, so he picked up the shovel.

“I think we need to do some more digging” he said
“And get to the bottom of this groovy mystery”

Stephen walked to the left and read the tombstone next to little Jenny’s. Here lies John Taylor. Husband, Father and friend. He smiled. It was good and right that they be buried so close to each other. He compared the dates. Probably not so good and right that they had both died so close to each other. Surprisingly John had went before Jenny, which made it less likely that he had committed suicide out of grief for a lost daughter. Maybe an impressionable young child might just take it into her head to see her dad again.

“Watcha thinkin?” Sid asked, seeing Stephens’s furrowed brow.
“I’m thinking that suicide is a sin. One of the big ones. Which may well excuse someone from ascending to heaven. In which case…”
“Family reunion?”
“I’m afraid so” He thrust the shovel into the ground and began digging.
“Nervous about meeting the father?”
“Only if he starts talking”
“Maybe he’ll ask what your intentions towards his daughter are”
“That would be awkward”
“You better comb your hair. First impressions and all that”

Eventually Stephen revealed the casket of the late Jenny’s late father. This took considerably longer as he had apparently been a very large man. The thing was huge, and there was no way Stephen could hall it out. On the plus side, obesity heart attack death wasn’t a sin, or a lot of American evangelists would be turning over in their cramped graves. He smashed the broad coffin open.

Sure enough, inside were the remains of Jenny’s father. The same thick red hair confirmed it. He had wasted away from being incredibly fat to merely plump. Death did wonders for your health. His suit hung loose to his body and his skin hung loose to him. In fact his face resembled that of a blood hound, so wrinkled and sagging was it. It was a tired looking face, haggard and stressed. Not at all peaceful. Stephen hoped the family had opted out of an open casket wake.

“He looks like fat bastard from Austin powers” Sid said.
Stephen sighed. He had been wrong. There had been no rapture and there had been no one listening to him every Sunday. All that there was, was him and the bodies lying before him. And still no answers.

He walked back to the girl and stared at her some more. He didn’t touch her hair. Instead he lifted the casket and out it back in the grave. “Here’s looking at you kid” he said, and began burying her. The dirt spilled onto her from the whole in the lid and soon she was gone.

“You seem down” Sid said
“Oh?”
“There’s rain falling from your eyes. I haven’t seen that happen in a long time”
“I haven’t seen people in a long time”
“Well” said Sid “We are in a graveyard. There’s a whole bunch of potential friends just six feet away. You could be quite the socialite if you wanted”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit shallow. I like my friends to have cartilage”
“You could take up taxidermy and learn plastic surgery. You could even give little Jenny breasts so you look less of a necro-pedo”
“I could do a lot of things. But right now I’m going to have lunch”



“You know, there’s always the chance they got it wrong” Sid said
“Hmm?” Stephens mouth was working away at a large strawberry scented banana. Sid was right; the condoms had kept them fresh.
“Well that was a catholic church”
“Ah, you think it was the Protestants that had it right?”
“As a strict atheist, I think both of them were plotting world domination. But who knows. Hell maybe the Jews had it right. I mean sure they killed Christ and all, but I reckon he’d be a forgive and forget kinda guy”

Stephen swallowed, and unpeeled another banana from its own pulpy coffin “So what you’re saying is, I have to go around and dig up everyone of every religion, to see which of them was worshipping the correct deity?”
“Well yeah. And in fact, to be sure you better dig up a few more in that graveyard. A few more holes is a small price to pay for certainty”
Stephen looked up at the sky. It was past noon.
“Better get to it then” he said

Stephen met many people that day. It was good to see them, all these new faces. Some were old and some were young. There were even a few babies. Seeing them made his eyes rain again. He tried not to touch any and in many cases failed. They were dead but at least they were there. You could see them, and feel them. Their limp lying forms were anchors to reality, and he had been adrift for a while

Halfway through he stopped burying them back in their graves. There were no crows to pick away or worms to burrow in. And a change of scenery was always nice. He laid families next to each other, gently linking lovers’ hands and putting children in mothers’ arms. And his silent audiences watched as he dug up more and more people

Nightfall arrived, and it became too dark to work in. In fact it was only when he stopped that he felt his tiredness, weighing him down like a shroud.
“Seems no one got transferred to first class” Sid said, lying down and holding hands with a particularly pretty corpse.
“Seems so. It’s a very strange thing though”
“To dig up dead folk”
“That the only living things left over are the dead and buried” he yawned, and dropped the worn shovel from his blistering hands. “Something to bear in mind, don’t you think?”



No! He woke up and jumped out of bed. Body was stiff from all the digging and he moved so slowly. But speed was needed. How could he have been so stupid! He rushed out the flat in boxers and trainers, hoping his sudden realization wasn’t true. The nearest bodies were at the catholic church. They had to be! If they were gone then he would never see their faces again. Be able to learn their names and imagine their lives.

Sid appeared, running next to him and covered in yellow fluorescent strips. “What’s the problem man?” he asked.
“If the only bodies are the ones left underground,” panted Stephen. “Then bodies left above ground might disappear”
“Oh no. All your new friends just up and gone. Course that raises the worrying question of who. Who’s gonna go around and take all these corpses away from you man! All your fabulous corpses!”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! I don’t…”

No, there they were in the distance, right where he had left them. Stephen slowed down to a walk and approached them. In the dark they looked like real people. They were real people. Shadows that looked alive and well. It was only when he was standing next to them could he tell that they were still the dead of yesterday.

He stood there with them all, some by happen chance staring back at him. They were waiting for him to do something. Mournful sockets gazing on imploringly. They all looked so lost and alone. He shivered, and remembered he was still in his underwear.

“Well, the fan clubs still here” Sid said. “What an incredible surprise. Time for bed”
“I…I should stay and keep watch” Stephen said. He shivered again
“Well I don’t think we’re quite equipped for a sleep over. And I doubt playing truth or dare will be much fun”
“I’ll run back and get a tent and over night things. You keep an eye on them”
“Sure thing boss” Sid went down on the grass and lay next to a body. “Wanna spoon?” he asked, snuggling up to it.

Stephen turned and ran to the flat as quick as he could. There he grabbed a one man tent, a sleeping bag, some clothes and food. He ran back, and found Sid asleep, his hands wrapped around a body, nestled into some former cleavage. He let him be. Tonight had been a long one. He set up his tent and tried to sleep, all the while listening for the sounds of bodies being dragged away.



“Right” Stephen said. “We need to do some serious thinking about the best way to proceed”
“We could go out and get pissed” Sid suggested. He gave a stiff yawn. The day had broke and nothing had happened. But something could happen and it was important to prevent it from happening.
“First of all” said Stephen, ignoring this. “We need to have some sort of register, so we know exactly how many are here and who they are”
“Fair enough” Sid ran around the cemetery, popping up limp arms and shouting “here” with a few “present” thrown in for variety.
“Also, what about all the other cemeteries and mausoleums and dead peoples places?” He paced back and forth musing out loud “Well, I could just bury them all again. That would keep them safe. It seems impractical to bring them all here. Yet it would be right. All cultural divides gone. Separate registers for separate places? This is turning out to be more hassle than it’s worth”

He stopped pacing. “Right, let’s just deal with the problem in front of us” He got ready a large pad of paper and a pen, which he had had the foresight to bring last night. “Where is Jenny?” he said looking around.
“You buried her. Remember?”
“I do remember” Uncertainly edged into his voice. “It will do no harm to check if she is still here of course”

She was still there, of course. Looking alone in her smashed coffin, dirt covering her delicate decayed face. Stephen felt a pang of guilt at this. He took her out again, gently brushing the soil away, and laid her with the rest. Then he did the same with the father.

He took out his pen and began to write;

Jenny Taylor was a pretty young girl that lived with her father and mother on Cheapside Street. Though they didn’t have much they had each other, which should be enough and in this case it was. But fate saw it fit to take Jenny’s father John from her. And what was left was not enough. Her mother tried her best, and put a brave face on it all. She was such a strong woman, and it amazed many people how she could stand to bear the loss. Jenny however, couldn’t bear it, and her mother found her lying still and cold under the kitchen sink with a bottle of bleach next to her. She had always been a bright child, and was smart enough to know what the pictures on the bottle meant, even at that young age. Though she is gone her memory lives on, dimmed by time but not forgotten.

There. It wasn’t nearly enough; a poorly imagined life to give her death meaning. But it was all he could do.

He turned to John Taylor, flipped to a new page and began writing.

Many people thought John Taylor was a comfort eater. This was unfair as in fact he really did have bad metabolism and big bones. And a weak heart.

“Gonna pen a pulp novel for all these dudes?” Sid asked him, seeing what he had written.
“It will be hard to be around these people if I don’t know them. I never was good strangers”
“Well, you best introduce their selves. I, on the other hand, have gotta go”

Stephen looked up from his work in alarm. “Go? Go where?”
“Today is Monday, or had you forgot?”
“But, but you should stay”
“Christ quit being so needy. I need my me time, just as you need yours” Sid turned his back on Stephen and walked away.
“I don’t want to be alone!” Stephen cried
“Look around man. You aren’t. Now go make up some friends” He turned a corner and was gone.

Stephen stared at nothing for a long time. It seemed very quiet now without Sid. He turned to a body and checked its name against its grave.
“Hey Joe, what do you…” He stopped and felt enormously foolish. And angry. And wrestles. The full enormity of the situation hit him, and his head started throbbing painfully.
“No” he said. “I need a drink”

A while back. Oh a hell of a while back, Stephens’s father had quit drinking. And it was good, at the start. He would help Stephen with his homework, and they went out more together, and money was less of an issue than it normally was. In fact you didn’t even need to enter the house to see that there was a marked improvement. The garden, which while it had all sorts of things growing in it, could never have been called tidy or well kept. Now he father uprooted weeds and raked leaves with a passion.

About a month down the line, things started to go not bad exactly, but not good. His Dad seemed on edge, and couldn’t keep still. This wasn’t a problem at weekends, they simply went out for long walked and played in the park. But on weekdays, Stephens’s dad went to work, which involved “sitting in a small office, staring at a small screen and making a small and unimportant contribution to the world” And when he came home from work he seemed angry. So very angry.

Finally his dad simply got up off his chair one Friday evening, went out, and came back with a crate of beer. There had been no final straw, as far as Stephen could see, no secret drama to surface and rear its ugly, half forgotten head. And by Sunday his dad was back to normal, bashfully apologizing for his “Blow out”

But Stephen remembered it anyway. “Son” His father had told him, slurring his words “I’m no alcoholic. But I do think I need this” He took a sip for emphasis. “See we all need our vices, that’s what makes us usssss” Another sip “And I for one, need a bit of poison inside me, if only so other poisons don’t take hold. Don’t try and hid from your vices, whatever they turn out to be. Far better the occasional indulgence than some kind of excessive binge. Don’t want your wax melting now, do you?”

Stephen held his silver spoon over the candle and laughed. With his free hand he waved his fingers over the flame and then poked at the edge, so hot runny wax clung to him. The pain was so far away it didn’t even register. His hand started to shake and he started to sing;

“Hey fizzle wizzle the cat is the shizzle
The cow humped the blind Raccoon
The little boy laughed until he got raped
And my cokes running over my spoon”

He laughed and tapped the contents of the spoon into his base pipe. Light and inhale. And……Exhale. Bye bye spooky white clouds, you better fucking run. Ghost buster! Doo noo noo. Doo noo noo. I aint afraid of no ghosts. Doo noo noo. Doo noo noo. You know bustin’ makes me feeeeel good. A few more hits and a few more brews and and then a few more brews and a few more hits. Gotta pace yourself, everything in this modern nation must be taken in moderation. Taken at face value and taken from behind. Someone’s got to take it

Stephen staggered about and opened the closet and pulled out Gertrude.
“Ok babe” he said. “I’ll go down on you now, but after that its open season on your orifices” He blew in the amusingly positioned air hole (maybe it was meant to simulated the clit) and giggled as the lack of air made him light headed and almost pass out. When he was done he took a few more pills, carefully avoiding the ones with V on them.
“She want you hard, not stiff” he declared, and got to work.

She felt stranger to his fingers than normal, and he realized that this was because he still had the dried wax on his hand. Funny how fake skin caressed a fake nipple. Maybe he should cover his whole body in wax. Then they’d be a matching couple. He flipped her around and laughed.

“Why do you always do me from behind” she asked him in a pathetic whiney voice. “Don’t you find me attractive?”
“Maybe if you wore some nice clothes I could stand to look at you, bitch”
“You never take me out either”
“But the places I do take you…I know you love” he started going harder and she in turn started moaning. Her head swiveled around 180 degrees so she was face to face with him. “Don’t you love me?” she asked
“No. Now stop staring at me”
She looked hurt and surprised, as she always did. Stephen glared at her.
“I said stop staring! Now let’s put that big mouth of yours to good use” He pulled out and thrust her face into his crotch. Up and down it bobbed. Harder and faster he pushed her head and pulled her hair, until finally he was done.

“That was good” he said, stroking her face tenderly. “Did you enjoy yourself? I even lit a candle to get the mood right”
She was silent. Pearl tears ran down her cheeks.
“Well, if that’s how you feel” Stephen picker her up and carried to the table where the candle was. “Then deep throat this fucker” He lowered her face down to the flame and watched in silent fascination as she melted. Bubbling black fumes bellowed from her mouth and her lips dribbled cum and oil. Stephen felt his grip lesson and his vision darken. The smoke was making him dizzy and queasy. He dropped Gertrude to the floor, who withered as the air escaped from her, and doubled over. Later he had realized how lucky he was that his vomit had put out any flames that lingered, but right now he didn’t hold such appreciations. He collapsed on the ground, naked, covered in sick and lying next to his ruined blow up doll.






“Hate to say so kiddo, but this is a slightly embarrassing way to find you this fair morning” Sid said, standing over Stephen and looking down in faint disapproval.
Stephen tried to speak, coughed up some more vomit instead, and tried again. “Has anything happened to the bodies?” he asked.
“How would I know?” Sid replied, looking a little guilty.
“I need a shower”
“Yes, you really do” Sid held out his hand to help Stephen up. Stephen almost took it, but then resorted to pushing himself off the ground. He collapsed down again and gave a cry of pain. He wiggled and crawled his way to the bathroom, leaving a snail’s trail of colors and textures behind him.

After having lain in a small pitiable heap in the shower for a few hours, Stephen emerged and got dressed. He met Sid in the kitchen and prepared Breakfast.
“And the beast becomes a man” Sid said “I take it things didn’t quite work out between you and Gertrude then” He gestured back to the bedroom, where Gertrude’s face had been melted stuck to the floor.
“I’m afraid not
“Always sad when couples fight. Ah well, better to have loved and lost”
“Than?”
“Than…I dunno, Cancer?”

“No argument there”

Stephen turned on the blender, and winced at the angry noise it made. Too much oats probably, but he wanted the mix thicker than usual. His stomach felt like it could do with an extra lining, like some kind of super tanker. Don’t want the seals to get killed by black gold. He turned it off and took a deep draught. Then he ran to the bathroom again
“Breakfast of champions” Sid called above the retching.

“Right” Said Stephen, after he had finally gotten some breakfast to stay in him. “Let’s try this again” He went outside and was blinded by the gloom. It looked like it was going to rain, and heavily too.
“Man, that’s some pretty major cloudage for mid July” Said Sid, looking up. “I guess there’s something to all this global warming malarkey”
“It does seem ominous”
“You ever finish building that Ark of yours?”
“You know as well as I do that it was abandoned in favor of the wall”
Stephen held out a hand experimentally and a big fat rain drop fell onto it, like a cold kiss. Then another, and another. Soon he was being ravaged by the rain, which ran down him with cold caresses.
“Better get your butt to the cemetery before your new cliques clits get washed away with the rest of them” said Sid



Stephen splashed about in the increasingly muddle grass. The only thing he could think to do was to drag the bodies into the church. He grabbed a pair thin twiggy legs and pulled.
“The animals went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah,” Sang Sid. Stephen looked behind and saw that he had accidently grabbed two separate legs, with the happy couple being towed behind. Oh well, it saved time.

He walked them down the isle and jilted them at the alter, then stumbled back outside. The rain was so heavy that the ground seemed to shimmer and dance. Billions of little landmines going off, tearing limbs of grass and heads of flowers. There was no time to dwell on it though, and he marched forward blindly.

So thick was the curtain of rain that he didn’t see the grave until he fell in it.
“Oooph”
“Damn that’s one big puddle” Sid said “Good thing that fat dude broke your fall”
Stephen looked down at his bloated float and saw tufts of grey read hair. How had John Taylor got down here? He pulled himself up and tried to drag John with him. It turned out though, that fat dead wet men were surprisingly slippery. After several failed attempts he hauled John up besides him and dragged him inside.
“You better hurry up and grab Jenny” Sid cooed from the doorway. “She’s being washed awayyy”

Stephen ran and Sid joined in exaggerated slow motion. They splashed into the rapidly deepening water and Stephen searched frantically for Jenny, eyes roving the sea of corpses. “It’s a bit like trying to find a pube on a wookie” Sid commented “Where do you start!”
“At the beginning” said Sid, looking around methodically in a gird pattern. The key thing was to keep your head. And there was hers, sticking up out of the water like a buoy with a girls face. Stephen went over to it and scooped her up. Fortunately the rest of her was still attached to it. He dragged her in and reunited her with her father in a forced embrace.

For hours it rained and for hours Stephen toiled and tired. His hands grew numb and dead from the wet cold and unfeeling flesh pulled unfeeling flesh towards the church. Soon the water was knee high then soon it was waist high and Stephen was playing deathguard and having to swim. Sid was floating about using a coffin as a raft and paddling about with someone’s foot. Stephen heard him sing.

“Fly low ye carrion crow”
“seize my body for the sins I sow”
“drop me high into the depths below”
“for the things I've seen no one else should know”

Diving under, Stephen tried to remember the rest of the lyrics

It’s just you and me and my rib-caged brain
we polish the brass and we dust the panes
and we lay down fallow like slaveless chains
and they call us sick as though they're all so sane

He surfaced with a deep breath and a torso in his arms. Kicking back to wet land he deposited it at the base of the church