I Wrote A Line

I wrote a line

A warning of the dangers of Creative Writing from
the man in black (....no not Alex)

Happy New Year everyone

I keep my pencil lead sharp and very fine
I keep my notebook open all the time
One night I sat and stared from six till nine
In all that time, I wrote a line

This bloody writing takes up all my time
The words go spinning round inside my mind
My brain is always searching for a rhyme
Because one time, I wrote a line.

I’ve got a real bad case of writer's block
I feel I'm always up against the clock
If I come up with something I'm in shock
Last night was fine, I wrote a line

Perhaps my brain's gone rusty over time
I tried some WD40 mixed with wine
And tumbling keep the words now just out fine
Many's the time, I wrote a line

Now I just sit here rocking all the time
I wear the straightest jacket they could find
And now my mouth and brain just won't align
They won't align, I wrote a line.

Coffee

From the highlands of Ethiopia,
beans are roasted to total perfection.
As though created in Utopia,
made through the process of fermentation.
Unwind with a cup of Cappuccino.
Arrives frothy, foamy, full of flavour.
Relaxing with an Americano.
Steaming, smooth as silk, a drink to savour.
Ristretto, Expresso, Mocha, Latte,
hand crafted coffee with a unique blend.
From Italy, France or local café,
choose to drink alone or with any friend.

Mellow, intense, rich coffee for me
Though I’d give it all up for a cup of tea.

Winter Song

The time will come for everyone of us to say goodbye to all
We’ll meet again upon that distant shore
Where pain and misery will be
Just memories of what used to be
And happiness will reign for ever more

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we come to the year’s end
With brothers, sisters, foes and friends
Both by our side and scattered round the Earth
The memories that we hold so dear
Of precious ones both far and near
The future starts now with our love’s rebirth

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we gather round the fire
The flames of hope reach ever higher
All come and join beside us in the feast
Holding hands and in the calm
Sharing in this safe and warm
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace

The Turkey

Late one night in late December, just how late I can't remember
Curled up by the glowing embers, watching Bond with Roger Moore.
Thought I heard a kind of glabbling, then again a blobbling, blabbling,
Glubbling, plobbling, blubbling, globbling just outside my kitchen door.
"Carol singers, hmph" I muttered, "glabbling at my kitchen door.
Let's get back to Roger Moore."

As the glabbling grew stronger, I could take this crap no longer,
Dashing from my cosy lounge I hurled aside the kitchen door.
In the gloomy, misty, murky blackness I perceived a turkey
Perched upon a garden gnome and staring at my kitchen door.
"Tell me what on earth they call you Mr. Turkey I implore."
Quoth the Turkey "Neville Moore"

"Thought I heard my uncle Roger, maybe you could use a lodger,
I don't really mean to badger, I could kip down on the floor"
So I answered, "Tell me Neville, Are you really on the level?
Not a prophet from the devil?, just a bird and nothing more?"
Neville answered " I’m a turkey, nothing less and nothing more!
And besides, my feet are sore.”

“'Tis with fear and great alarm, that I have fled the turkey farm
Sensed a great impending harm; couldn’t linger any more.
They’ve bought themselves a cockatoo; We were at risk from Asian ‘flu
So my friend I’ve come to you, glabbling at your kitchen door.”
Thus spake Neville at my door. All the while my mind’s eye saw
Steaming thick brown gravy pour.

Pondering my good fortune, I told him I would find some room,
"I can put you up at least until December twenty four"
I began to contemplate, the means to help him to his fate
Perhaps the axe or strangulation, but it shook me to the core.
Haunted by the thought of Neville dead upon my kitchen floor
All around me blood and gore.

Bizarrely I grew to love him, couldn't shove him in the oven
I chastise him if he glabbles and he wakes me if I snore.
Now we're like birds of a feather, watching Bond movies together,
And you'll find we hardly ever mention Christmas any more.
Now I crave dead meat no longer, I've become a vegan bore.
Me and Nev for ever more.

© Dave Carr (apologies to E. A. Poe)

I May Be Grumpy But I Believe I Have A Point

The problem with Christmas festivities
Is that folk drift into activities
Neglect ‘babe in manger,
Have sex with a stranger!’
And other, still baser proclivities

People, who once had more sense
Spend hundreds of pounds just like pence
Where once there was prudence
There’s insane insouciance
And neglect for the reckoning hence

The respectable, who’d normally cringe
At thought of a boozy binge
Of a sudden indulge
Till their wrecked livers bulge
And their mental state loses its hinge

The thing that really amazes
When you think of Earth’s climatic phases
Little lights are festooned
By reckless baboons
While the planet can go to blazes

But the most obscene thing of all
That makes the festivities pall
Is seeing folk eat
Till they can’t see their feet
While one billion people will go to bed tonight starving

Chateau D'Yquem

I’ve been around, I’ve played the field.
No comfortable monogamy for me;
Variety’s the thing.
I have my favourites of course.
The ones I return to time and again – satisfaction guaranteed.
I’ve learnt the pillow talk,
I know what patter brings them to my table.
The duds I forget, the gems stay with me forever
Like the first magical encounter
With that seductive little number from Lebanon.
As dark as Homer’s sea and rich with silky tannins.
Then there were those New World beauties,
Young, brash, yet gloriously fragrant.
But my old man’s lust would not be sated
Till I had tasted the queen of Sauternes,
Chateau D’Yquem – even the name enchants.
Since I was a young man I have yearned for her,
To explore every intimate nuance of her form and structure.
An exotic golden legend, lovelier with every year that passes;
Rotting fruit conjured into the drink of angels.
A friend claimed he had her once – a chance encounter.
An explosion of flavours, he said,
Layer on layer, intense, lingering on the tongue forever.
But I didn’t believe him, fate couldn’t be that cruel.
And then she smiled on me.
An orgy of coruscating vinous delights.
You should have seen me work the tables;
The time honoured minuet of sniffing and sipping and spitting;
From Rhone to Pommerol to Nappa Valley.
But all the time from the far side of the room she beckoned me
That peerless temptress - a magnum of honeyed gold.
But the teasing and the flirting and had to stop.
That consummation so devoutly wished for, was at hand;
I closed my eyes and prepared to swept away
By that glorious maelstrom of sensual pleasure.
And I waited …and I waited… in vain.
No bells, no whistles, no moving earth.
It was OK. Quite nice really. But that was it.
Embarrassed, I made my excuses and slid out of the door.
Perhaps the chemistry between us simply didn’t work,
Perhaps I was loosing my touch,
Or was it simply that the time for cocoa and monogamy had arrived.

Bridesmaid Video

Pause button on my bridesmaid daughter,
Unfocused blur of frills and curls,
Licking the butter off a roll.

The happy couple hide behind the cake,
Grateful for this parade
And the kindness of a camera,

That will not catch
The twitching glance,
Of approaching disappointment.

Soon the icing yellows and goes hard,
Photos curl and gather dust,
In the bottom drawer of boredom.

Outfits never worth the struggle,
Now the dress up clothes of children,
Desperate to pretend.

My mother's grey grin hovers,
Always on the edge of tears,
While my father's face balloons with food.

Faded curtains form a setting,
To the yellow dress and smile
I never wore again.

Before I nudge fast forward
I stoop to kiss the screen,
My warm lips set the seal,
Upon this frozen frame.

NEXT WORSKSHOP EVENING, Tue 27th

This is to let you know that the next workshop evening we will be having guests, Chorley and District Writers Circle. They will be launching the latest edition of their magazine and we will be launching ours, so we will want to see which can fly the farthest.

Wine and twiglets should be on hand for the victors to celebrate with and to help console the losers.

Please come, and bring a friend. Or even two.

Thank You

This is the true unexpurgated version of Emmy Starkers acceptance speech at the Hammy Awards.

"Oh my god, i don't believe this,
there are others .... more deserving,"

(there they are ,seething, gnashing their teeth,
choking inside their tuxedo's or chewing the straps
of million dollar sequinned tourniquet gowns)

"I wish to thank Hank, my banker,
Tom, my current bonker,
and Harry,Larry and Barry
to whom i used to be married.
Bugs, who supplies my drugs
and Billy who has the biggest willy in the world.
Annie who waxes my fanny and under arm hair.
Marge, who supplies the tantric body massage
and Fanta,who helps me remember my mantra.
Alice, who designed my fake palace,
and Jewel who picks leaves out of my pool.
Kate and her mate, who electrified my frontgate,
and Timmo who shampoos my 90 footlimo.
Tag who was my best shag ever,
and Heather who controls the weather over my house.
Proctor, who flies my helicopter
and Kaff my pet giraffe.

To all you boozers, floozies,users, hustlers,
musclers, tusslers, dick heads, inbreds,
braindeads, lead in their pencils,
bulgingbiceped, nandrelone driven phoney balonies;
tough luck, i'm top of the tree"

(Tired and emotional she exits the stage,
not a dry eye in the place. Thank you and good night.)

Ragged Girl At Liverpool Docks (November 1894)

In a half lit silent twilight world,
I see her form, a tiny girl,
who lost her life in times gone past,
now gently tapping on the glass,

All who ever came that way,
faceless crowds that nameless, swayed,
moved back beyond a distant town,
and dug themselves back in the ground.

“This piece of meat cut as you wish,
a small cube placed inside a dish.”
In corner shops where naked light,
closes shutters for the night.

Across the Adelphi’s shining floor,
stroll elegant ladies, plainly bored,
while bow tied fat contented men,
read false accounting in their den.

Tapping finger on the glass,
reflecting ropes tied onto masts.
Hears seven men tell twenty tales,
about the giant ships that sail.

Tossed high among a ten force gale
,spray that sweeps the shore with shale.
Tide marks beached like giant whales,
leaves driftwood sold at jumble sales.

“Let me in, I fear the tide
will sweep me from this place I hide.
Where gutter meets the cobbled stones,
I cannot find my way back home.”

Tapping fainter, fading now,
moonlight gleams on fevered brow.
Moves beyond the pool of light,
closed round by the darkening night.

Clown

I wandered lonely as a clown
With thoughts too sad to mention,
When all at once I came upon
A lonely clowns' convention

Dave Carr

Autumn's Promise

Autumn’s Promise

A watery sun in a grey caped sky, filters through the colander clouds
Mirroring itself, on champagne sparkling cars
Desperate to reflect its weakening rays - to remain alive a little longer

Pavements glisten in remembrance of rain
Iridescent hued oil stained traffic tracks laid
Dazzle the eye on a miserable day - car visors shade ‘gainst low hanging light

House windows shine like stainless steel, hiding their souls from passers by
Roof slates of polished coal redirect rays to their heavenly home
The light is weak, strong, bright and dull - prisms within a dying autumn sun

Small pyramids of leaves huddled in roadside gutters
Seek communed protection from sweeping breezes
Discarded from boughs they crackled and fell – curled, wet, glowing
amber bright in certain death

The relics of summer are all around, trees readying for slumber at last
Season’s flowers though faded promise rebirth
When spring’s delicate fingers caress them again –nature’s cycle to set in motion once more

Margo Ross – November 2007

Salute to Haiku

How to say hi to
An odd kind of foreign verse
I coo Haiku, Hi.

Experiments in Haiku

Listen! I think I…..
“……with a rucksack on my back.”
First Haiku this year.

Roads to revision
Are paved with television
And good intendo

Had to say goodbye
To my tiny mobile phone
With a microwave

We’re caught in a trap,
I can’t walk out; because a
Spider wants his lunch

How hard can it be?
To research my bronchial tree.
Lung dark history.

Younger than today
Never needed older now
Won’t you please help me?

Two chicken drumsticks
Rattle out a chicken roll
Paradiddle doo!

This sheep frightens me
Have I the guts to mount it,
Being a nervous tick?

I have a wetsuit
I wore it last Friday night
I have a lawsuit

Joku

Girl walks into bar
“Barman gimme a double”
So he gave her one

Dave Carr

Season's Greetings

A rant, just in time for the 'Festive Season.'

Autumn is often regarded as the most emotive of seasons. The bright glory of lazy summer days or the high activity of holidays in the resplendent sunshine give way to the fading grandeur of woodland in a gaudy yet decaying plumage. It is with a feeling of being reconciled that the year is coming to an end. Yes, Autumn is a season of resigned calm. This is what autumn does to us writers and poets.

Not so, the season of Winter. Winter is an ugly beast that chillingly wants to suck on the marrow of our bones. But there is a most hideous evil at the heart of Winter! I speak openly of none other than the abomination that is called: "Christmas."

Everyone knows that Christmas is bad for you. Normally sensible people who diligently handle their financial affairs suddenly lose all sense of reason and blow every penny. People binge openly. Habitually-temperate individuals are to be seen as drunk as a lecturer with a pay rise, or a poet with any pay at all. Alcohol intake soars, tobacco, otherwise eschewed, is suddenly fashionable, as cigars light up like bonfires, food is gobbled in vast quantities as diets are cast aside, waistlines bulge, five a day comes to mean "meals," rather than "portions of vegetables." Promiscuity is encouraged, with sinister rituals dragged up from antiquity involving sprigs of plants such as mistletoe. Never mind how many children are conceived outside wedlock during this period, the number who start life outside any kind of enduring relationship must be staggering. All the more frightening is proportion where the act of conception has been captured for posterity on a photocopier at office parties.

And then there’s the lies to the children. How many children are dumb enough to believe a fat interloper in a conspicuous costume but with his hooded face covered can enter umpteen different properties all around the globe simultaneously though an antiquated and indeed often non-existent heating system? And then just give things away for nothing in return, no favours of any kind. The fat guy and the sleigh, all the supernatural creatures and the cloven-footed animals with illuminating body parts, it is revealed as the children get older, were invented, and used as a form of behavioural modification blackmail as the year’s end approached. Trust you parents after that? Why should you? They’ll say rubbing belly-buttons makes babies next!

Then there’s the extended family and the problems Christmastime entails. Families are extended for a reason – the reason is they can’t stand being near each other and want to put as much distance between who they share a blood line with. Blood is thicker than water and it usually ends up spilled on the carpet. Families getting together is the biggest cause of family breakdown in the world today. This is not rocket science – they couldn’t break down if they weren’t brought together in a supercritical mass in the first place, could they. It’s a sociological atom bomb waiting to go off.

While all that’s going on, there are questions about the damage inflicted on commerce and industrial activity. Whole industries close down while others, briefly, like fungus, spring up in their place. Just when they are needed most, in what should be their money-making peak of the year, plumbers and electricians disappear. And not only does God not exist, try finding a doctor or dentist at Christmas. Absenteeism is so rife, some companies can’t even tell whether they are actually still operating any longer or have gone into receivership. From the customers’ point of view, as far as public transport is concerned, it may as well have done so. "How was your journey then?" "How do you bloody think it was? No wonder Joseph and Mary had to stay in a stable – we nearly had to break our trip at a bloody Travelodge!"

Almost the ultimate indignity is yet to come. This is referred to as The Christmas Number One. For music-lovers everywhere, this alone is justification to stick a pencil into each ear and swirl it around until you stop moving. (A similar phenomenon with the eye is to be encountered when you are forced by some niece you have discovered makes you watch a DVD of Dude Where’s My Car? or Weekend at Bernie’s II. While on the TV, just to get you in the Christmas mood, there’s Saving Private Ryan followed by Schindler’s List.)

Christmas is as desperate as a famine inside a war inside a plague. Finally there is the social cost. This is best illustrated by the colossal, soul-crushing feeling of desperation when you find that you are actually left out of the festivities, that you have no cringe-inducing parties to attend, no visitors nor people to visit, no presents, no cards and only the wallpaper for company. As if to rub salt in the wound, the televisions companies have started to pick up on this and just as you are sitting through your umpteenth viewing of North By Northwest they spray across the screen a phone number you can call "if you’d like to talk to someone." How would you start such a conversation? "I’m such a Billy-No-Mates, I was going to slash my wrists but I can’t find the kitchen knife so I thought I would call you, you self-pious, do-gooding little bastard."

Christmas begins to blight us now from the beginning of September along with the anniversary of the start of World War II – a re-enactment of the Somme artillery barrage rumbles on from mid October till advent calendars come into use. Then New Year (why does the Year of Our Lord start seven days after the anniversary of His arrival – did someone forget to post the birth announcement? Had they been sniffing too much myrrh to remember till a week later? "Messiah arrived – must make a note." Then it’s back to work, just preceded by carting car-loads of wrapping paper, greetings cards, the odd dodgy present and possibly the odd clingy relative, to the recycling centre, staggering credit car bills or mind-numbing overdrafts until the final embarrassment of St Valentine’s Day. At last, you can remind yourself, Summer is now not far off, once you’ve got past Easter.

Then you’ve got about six months before the whole ghastly spectacle begins all over again. Let nothing you dismay, you merry gentlemen! God rest ye!

The End (-ish)

The Enormous Turnip

'They pulled and pulled and pulled
Still the enormous turnip did not move'


Rain, Rugby League, Wigan Pies,
My throat chokes on mud and gristle,
I spit out this bungling accent,
Flatten all my vowels.

I pine for a Constable sky,
And Ipswich shopping centre,
The Singing Postman on Anglia TV,
His ghost now bootiful,

Stalks me back to dry hard roots,
The crust of my creation,
Not this slop and sludge,
Of drizzled days,

Morbid as a menopause.
My thoughts still tunnel South,
Knuckles red and raw,
A row of ripened turnips.

Fetish

Wellingtons filled with warm custard
Oozing through toes and squelching like sex
Though it may leave you bothered and flustered
Wellingtons filled with warm custard
Anything else simply won’t cut the mustard
Which explains why my wife is my ex
Wellingtons filled with warm custard
Oozing through toes and squelching like sex

Benni

We all have our own ways of dealing with the stultifying boredom that is an inescapable part of the job of processing tax credit claims.
Greg stares trance-like at his keyboard for hours, lost in mucky thoughts and I wander off to check share prices. Benni, on the other hand, has taken to reading an English dictionary.
It all started when, for reasons that no one could understand, Greg was voted ‘Employee of the Month’. In recognition of this dubious distinction he was given a certificate and a rather fine leather bound English dictionary. Indeed, it was so fine that Benni immediately expressed his wish to become ‘Employee of the Month’ so that he too could be the proud possessor of such a volume. Recognising that Benni’s chances of reaching such dizzying heights of management approval were slim and being of a generous disposition, Greg offered his dictionary to Benni. Accepting with alacrity, Benni opened the precious tome at random and as luck would have it, the first word he came upon was ‘nincompoop’.
From that moment he was hooked. ‘Nin-com-poop’ he said over and over again, savouring the sound of each ludicrous syllable. The spell had taken hold and with each new word he became more and more entranced. He was intoxicated – high on the sights and sounds of strange new words. "Hey", he would shout across the table, "Do any of you lot know what ‘propinquity’ means or ‘jejune’ or ‘skulduggery’?" He would then delight in reading out the definitions to the rest of the office.
After a while his confidence grew and he started to try out these newly acquired words in sentences. On one occasion he leant over the desk and jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You’re taciturn, man’ he said and ‘You’re insouciant’ I replied. His fingers flicked through the pages till he found it: "‘Insouciant’ – unconcerned: heedless". ‘Yes", I said, "laid back, chilled - man". I could tell he was pleased. Perhaps it was the thought that this seductively exotic sounding word described him so perfectly that it might have been invented for the purpose. It was now his word – Benni’s word, to slip into conversation wherever and whenever he chose.
I watched him as he sat back in his chair and resumed his search for more gems from that inexhaustible corpus which constitutes the English language; a picture of contentment and insouciance.

Blossom

A garland crowns the garden refuse,
Surviving on its funeral pyre,
A bride's bouquet on her mother's grave,
Fragile beauty difficult to bear.

The other trees stand weeping,
In the aftermath of your hatchet job,
Amputees, sad casualties of war,
Raw and unloved.

Silent, I watch from bedroom windows,
Resigned to this annual clearing.
My twitching white lace curtains
Signify surrender.

At last, decapitated trees fight back,
Green buds appear from splintered sides,
Beads of sweat squeeze through,
Exhausted limbs.

Yet there can be no second coming
For this rootless blossom,
Tissue petals already turning brown
In mournful Easter showers.

Man Flu

MAN FLU
(with apologies to The Clash)

DOCTOR YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME KNOW
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW
PLEASE DON'T SAY THAT I'LL BE FINE
AFTER I'VE WAITED ALL THIS TIME
SO YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME KNOW
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?

IT'S ALWAYS SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE
siempre achu, achu, achu
THIS MAN FLU'S GOT ME ON MY KNEES
manflu me tiene arrodillas
MY THROAT IS RED MY TONGUE IS BLACK
tonsillas throbbo pulsa paino
PAINS IN MY CHEST AND DOWN MY BACK
non sympathio cum ma wayo
WELL COME ON AND LET ME KNOW
me tienes que desir
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
IF I SNIFF I GET IN TROUBLE
AND WHEN I BLOW I'M SEEING DOUBLE
SO COME ON AND LET ME KNOW

THIS INDECISION'S BUGGING ME
esta undecision me molesta
I'M WALLOWING IN MISERY
mi suffro molto fittu droppo
EXACTLY WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
me ruddy nosa com rudolpho
IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE I COULD SEE?
spouso hoho grandio joko
DOC YOU'VE GOTTA LET ME KNOW
doc me tienes que desir
SHOULD I HOLD BACK OR LET IT FLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?
IF I SNIFF I GET IN TROUBLE
si me sniffo big peligro
WHEN I BLOW I'M SEEING DOUBLE
si me snotto video doble
SO YOU'VE GOTTA LET ME KNOW
me tienes que desir
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

Dave Carr

Absolute Broke

Empty
Pockets, down and out
The bones of resolution fractured
Or returned to jelly as
In the womb once they were soft

You can’t
Keep looking up when you’re falling
Below the bottom of the pit
You’re like the loose change
Gathered by a tramp

Who, by cruel fate
Wore holes in his tattered jacket
The bowl of a lifetime
Littered with change
Without change

In fortune
If predestination was doomed
From the start
You’ve finally been caught
Now, my son.

Creative Writing: Radio Play

Sometimes You Just Know…

By David Helm



Characters:

Porter. (Volatile, possibly psychotic, almost definitely hopped up on something).
Ray. (Calm, older than the other two. Tries to work through things rationally).
Noble. (Youngest member. A little unsure of himself).
Cop.



Setting:

In Porter’s car, which is parked outside the bank as the three men prepare to carry out the raid.




























(Sounds of a city. Honking of horns, traffic. We hear a car pull to a halt. Hip-hop music- Ice-T’s “You Played Yourself”- blares for a minute, before it is switched off).

Porter: OK. So we know what we’re gonna do here? We clear?
Ray: Yeah. We enter this bank, we stand in the line, all nice and quiet. Then when we get to the head of the queue, we hand them the note and tell them to empty the drawers. Noble empties the vault while you and me keep everyone quiet. Then we tell them to keep their goddamn heads down and we get the hell out.
Porter: You got it. You got that back there?
Noble: (Sounding a little unsure of himself) Yeah…I got it.
Porter: I said, have you got it? You fuck this up and I’ll kill you myself.
Noble: I got it, man! Will you chill out?
Porter: One thing we gotta remember. No real names. That’s why you know me as Porter. That’s why Ray is Ray, and that’s why you’re Noble. OK? I don’t wanna know your real names, where you’re from, your fucking pet’s name. I don’t wanna know anything about you.
Ray: (A little sarcastically) Got it.
Noble: Yeah, I got it. Where’d you come up with these names, dude? I mean, Noble? What’s up with that?
Ray: It’s gotta be a joke. Noble means “of high moral character”- and we’re about to rob a bank. That’s got to be it, right? Right, Porter?
Porter: Huh?
Ray: Forget it. So when do we go in?
Porter: We go in when I say we fucking go in. I’m running this goddamn thing, and don’t you forget it. We don’t do anything before I say. Nothing happens before I say it happens. OK?
Ray: So, are you gonna say that we go ahead or should I just guess when the time is right, huh?
Porter: You got a prior engagement? Quit badgering me. I’m casing the joint.
Noble: How are you gonna case the place from out here? We’re in a car. You can’t even see the entrance! (Sighs) Did you have to plan this thing for so early? I didn’t get breakfast. I get faint if I don’t eat. Look, there’s a McDonald’s over there- I’m gonna go get something. You guys want anything?
Porter: No.
Noble: Ray?
Ray: (Weighing this up for a couple of seconds) Yeah. Get me an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. One of those big ones. (Pause) And an apple turnover.
Noble: You gonna come and give me a hand, then? Only got two.
Ray: Yeah, OK.
Noble: (To Porter) You sure you don’t want anything?
Porter: Yeah. And don’t take too long.

(Two doors slam as Noble and Ray get out of the car)

Porter: Goddamn fucking amateurs. Gotta stay professional for this- and they go for a fucking McDonald’s.

(He snaps the radio on and twirls the dial. Music- Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America”- fills the car)

Porter: Goddamn. I hate this song!

(A brief snatch of several songs as Porter twirls the dial again. Goes on for several minutes. Finally settles on “Money” by Pink Floyd)

Porter: That’s what I’m talkin’ about. (Starts to sing along as he waits) Goddamn- where are those two idiots? They’d better not take too long or I’m going in there.

(Two doors open and then shut as Ray and Noble get back in)

Porter: Could you have left it a bit longer? It’s not like we’re about to do a fucking robbery here, is it?
Noble: (With his mouth full) Sorry, Porter. But I coulda stayed in there all day. You ever been in there when they take a fresh buncha donuts out the fryer? Smells like heaven.
Porter: Uh huh. You do anything that might screw this up again, I’ll fucking send you there. You got that?
Ray: Come on, man- cut the kid a break. It’s his first time. Kid’s nervous. Just like the first time you do anything. You remember your first job? What were you like?
Porter: My first time? (Sighs) It was…Hey wait a minute! What did I say about knowing nothing about ourselves? You get pinched, you could tell the cops anything. I ain’t telling you nothing.
Ray: Nearly slipped up there, Porter.
Porter: Will you shut the fuck up?
Noble: Yo, check it out. Cop comin’ up on my side.
Porter: That fucking pig so much as looks at me in the wrong way, I’m fucking capping his ass.
Ray: Will you chill out? It’s hot enough in here without more hot air coming outta you. Just talk to the officer.
Porter: You don’t tell me what to do, huh? Remember who’s running this thing, OK?
Ray: Shut up and wind your window down.

(Sounds of the window opening. Sounds of the outside come in through the open window)

Cop: Morning, gentlemen. Enjoying your breakfast there, huh?
Noble: Yes, officer. (Nervously) Nice morning, isn’t it?
Cop: Certainly is. But it just so happens that this area’s no stopping. And you seem to have stopped here. You see the problem?
Ray: Absolutely, officer- but we couldn’t see anywhere else, and we didn’t think that we’d be here too long.
Cop: That so? I’ve been watching you for the last half hour- you don’t show any signs of wanting to move on. Maybe I should do something about that, what do you think?
Ray: Sorry about that, officer- look, we’ve finished our breakfast. We’ll be gone by the time you come back down here, OK? Come on- you don’t have to run us in for that, do you? Come on.
Cop: Well- it has been a slow morning… But you guys seem like a nice, responsible bunch of fellows. You got ten minutes. Then I’m coming back and if you’re still here, I’m booking your asses. You got it?

(The window is wound back up)

Porter: If that cop comes back, I’m doing him.
Ray: Did you hear what he said? We got ten minutes or he’s booking us. And that would really fuck up your plans, wouldn’t it? You got a record, right?
Porter: Yeah.
Ray: OK- so let’s do this, huh? ‘Cos I got a record too, and if we get pinched, it won’t make a goddamn bit of difference that we don’t know each other’s names. They’d just run our faces through the database and we’d be screwed. OK? So let’s do the damn thing.
Porter: OK, OK.
Ray: OK- shall we do one more run through it, while you get your shit together? We go in the bank. We go up to the counter. We don’t want people panicking and getting in the way, so no pulling of guns as we go up. Hand them the note. Keep an eye on them and the customers while they get the money. When they hand us the money we leave. We only use force if they refuse. Anyone tries to be a hero, take them out- but only then. Gotta be professional- we kill no one unless it’s absolutely necessary. Got that? We’ve got maybe two minutes to do it if they hit the silent alarm under the desk- so we gotta be smooth. Concentrate on what we gotta do. OK?
Porter: Yeah. But if any spic teller refuses to do what I fucking tell them, they die.
Ray: Did you not listen to what I just said to you? No use of force if we can avoid it. We’re on a time limit, goddammit. What the hell’s wrong with you? Gimme the goddamn pen and I’ll write the note. We’re on a schedule here.
Porter: What pen?
Ray: What the fuck do you mean, what pen? The pen to write the goddamn note. I thought you had the pen.
Porter: Nope.
Ray: Noble, you got it?
Noble: No. I thought you had it.
Ray: Are we saying that we haven’t got anything to write the fucking note?
Porter: You blaming me? You blaming me? ‘Cos if you are I’ll fucking cut you. This was my idea. I come up with the idea, you bring the fucking pen!
Noble: Couldn’t we use a pencil?
Ray: Shut up, kid! (Back to Porter) Your idea? You’re so fucking out of it I’m surprised that you can tie your fucking shoelaces. It’s me who’s kept a cool head here. And you were supposed to bring the goddamn pen!
Noble: Guys! We’re on a schedule here. So we haven’t got a pen. We just gotta come up with an alternative!
Porter: Yeah. We go in, we pull our guns and we tell them to open the drawers. Any muthuhfuckuh gets in my way gets fucking dropped. Just like I wanted to do in the first place.
Ray: You fucking psycho, you’re gonna get us killed…. (Resigned) OK- where are the guns?
Porter: In the trunk. Let’s go.

(Doors open and shut as the three get out of the car. Porter pops the trunk).

Porter: There. OK? One for each of us. Take your pick.
Noble: Um, guys? This may not be the best time to mention this, but I’ve always had kind of a problem asserting authority…you know? I mean, I’ve tried talking to somebody, but-
Ray: Are you saying you can’t do this job because you’re shy?
Noble: (Defensively) Hey, I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect to go in with guns drawn, OK? That wasn’t the plan!
Ray: What did you expect? It’s a goddamn bank robbery, not a goddamn Sunday school meeting.
Noble: You know what? Fuck you. Fuck him, and fuck this job. You can both kiss my ass.

(Footsteps as Noble walks away, fading into the general hustle and bustle of the street)

Porter: That goddamn kid. I’m going after him.
Ray: I’ll get him. You get the guns- I’ll be back. (Under his breath as he walks away) As the cops take you in, you dumb son of a bitch. Ten minutes is up…right about now.
Cop: (As he walks back up) OK, pal, I warned you. I told you this is a no stopping zone, and you haven’t moved. I’m booking you… (He spots the mini-arsenal in the back of the car) What the…? Holy shit! Freeze, you sucker! (Draws his gun. Click of the hammer)
Porter: Hey, wait a minute, there were two other guys here…
Cop: Shut the fuck up and get your goddamn hands in the air!
Ray: (Watching from a distance) Man- sometimes you just know when you’re having a bad day, huh?

(We hear Porter’s continued protests and the cop’s shouting orders at him, and police sirens approaching in the distance as we fade out)

THE END.

Creative Writing Week 4: Character Creation


Music was coming from somewhere in the building. It wasn’t quite loud enough for Creasy to recognise what it was, but just loud enough so he couldn’t ignore it. This did not put him in a good mood as he threw off the sheet and sat up yawning. He got up, and ambling over to the bathroom, hawked and spat into the bowl. His mouth tasted like a running back’s sock after he’d played a whole season in it- not surprising considering the amount of beer he’d put away last night. As he looked into the mirror, he was struck by how haggard he actually looked. Pale, with eyes that had so many red lines etched in them that they resembled a map of the major highways of the United States, and his curly black hair matted and plastered to his forehead. He spat again, trying to clear the taste from his mouth, and stepped into the shower.
Ten minutes later he got out feeling slightly refreshed, drying himself off as he moved back into the hotel room. All things considered, it was one of the better ones that he’d stayed in recently. He dressed quickly, thinking as he did so just how much of a cliché he’d become. He was an ex-cop drifter in his late thirties, living in hotel accommodation, drinking too much. I’m not divorced though, he thought. I never had a wife and daughter killed to make me become a borderline alcoholic- I drink because I like to. My partner wasn’t shot dead on the last week before his retirement- he’s living down in Palm Springs. And I never went to ‘Nam. Maybe I’m not so much of a cliché after all.
He picked his bag up from where he’d thrown it when he checked in and opened it, stuffing the previous night’s shirt on top of the pile of dirty clothes already in there. He was going to need to find a Laundromat at some point, but at that moment all he wanted to do was get out of there, so after taking one final item from the bureau by the bed, he put on his leather jacket and turned to leave the room. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The door to the stairs was at the far end, and as he walked toward it he passed the room where the music that had woken him up was coming from. Now he recognised it- Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird”. He scowled and went down the stairs to the lobby. The guy at the desk was asleep, his head lolling. Creasy dropped a couple of $10 bills on the desk in front of him and stepped out of the double doors and into the Texan sunshine. Even at this time- 9 in the morning- the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky. The sun beating down on his head didn’t improve his mood- or his hangover- and neither did the fact that some hump had put a large dent in his bumper, as he discovered when he went to throw his bag onto the back seat. It was the final straw. He leant back against the car and sucked his teeth as he pondered what to do about it. Reaching his decision, he opened his bag, and taking out the item he’d stuffed in there last, he turned and walked back into the hotel, climbing the stairs until he stood outside the door that the music was coming from. He knocked.
“Who is it?” a surly voice said from within.
“Room service,” Creasy answered.
“I didn’t order any goddamn room service…” the voice said, and the door opened. The thickset truck driver stood there, whom Creasy recognised from the bar the previous night, rubbed his eyes blearily as he tried to focus on whoever had knocked on his door.
Creasy pulled the silenced Glock automatic from inside his jacket and shot the truck driver twice in the chest. As the man crumpled back into his room, Creasy quietly shut the door and turned to go back down the hall.
The clerk was still sprawled across the desk when he re-entered the lobby, the bills he’d dropped by the man’s hand still there. Creasy picked up the money, and pressing the tip of the silencer against the receptionist’s temple, shot him though the head. He let the dead man fall back onto the desk- the only difference now being the pool of red spreading out from around his head.
Creasy turned and left the lobby, walking across the forecourt and into the bar and grill adjacent to the hotel. He pushed open the door and walked in. There were only a couple of customers in there- two guys in Stetsons drinking coffee, and the same bartender who’d served him last night. Phil, Creasy remembered.
“Anyone in here dent the bumper of a blue Olds parked out there?” Creasy asked.
One of the guys at the bar turned. “That was me,” he drawled. “You got a problem?”
“That was my car,” Creasy said.
“So sue me,” the jerk replied, and turned back to the bar.
You all just keep making this easier and easier, Creasy thought as he pulled out the Glock. He shot the asshole in the back of the head, and he fell against the bar before crumpling to the floor. The second coffee drinker turned, his mouth open in shock, and Creasy shot him in the left eye. The bartender raised his hands up as if to protect himself, and Creasy put two bullets into his chest, slamming him back into the bottles stacked behind him, which fell and shattered as the bartender slid to the ground.
Creasy put his gun away and walked out of the door. Walking back to his car, he opened the trunk and leaned in.
“Still here?” he asked. The eyes of the man who lay bound and gagged on the floor of the trunk opened wide, and he screamed through his gag, thrashing maniacally as he tried to escape from the space he had been crammed into.
“Good,” Creasy said, smiling, and closing the trunk, he opened the door of his car and got in, pulling out of the motel forecourt and onto the highway, disappearing into the shimmering haze so quickly that “The Drifter”- as the newspapers who had reported his many crimes across America had nicknamed him- might never have been there at all.

The Elective Mute

'We had no choice,
Couldn't stop him talking,
We had to disappear,
For our own survival'.

The nuisance child waited,
In the Respite Home,
On a weekend break,
Which lasted ten years.

He befriended the rocking
Walls of desperation,
Explored each dusty
Corner of confusion,

Before discovering the
Secret of your rage,
The solution to your
Disapproval.

In silence he waited
The return of forgiveness
For all the words
He never should have

Spoken.

Home Is Where I Want To Be

Late Bank Holiday reached its close.
I did not believe he would come for I believed
the lure of a girl in red glasses

was greater than that of a barbecue
in a ho-hum, humdrum back yard.
Everyone had eaten their fill of ribs

grown cold, Chicken ignored had charred
and one miserable mackerel lay on a bed
of chopped fennel and wilted dill. Life was still.

Contemplated packing up but then, I heard
his voice grow louder as he wandered in.
He ate with relish, complimenting cold food.

I loved him for his aplomb, his politesse,
his being here among us on this sultry August night.
Then he played. He sang Johnny B. Goode.

Hey Ya, his repertoire. We clapped and sang.
His little brother played the air guitar.
I thought, ‘this feels like home,’ as we sat
on borrowed chairs and watched a shooting star

The Prisoner

The Prisoner

Can anybody help me please?
I live my life in fear.
I have recurring nightmares of
Being trapped inside IKEA.

I go in for a single bulb,
The sort only they sell,
And claustrophobia soon sets in,
My senses go through hell.

I stand amidst a sea of beds;
I'm spinning as I shout,
"I hate this place! I hate this place!
How do I get out?"

Hordes of frantic shoppers
With yellow shoulder bags;
Men with rimless glasses
Waving Swedish flags.

I dream that I'm surrounded;
Attacked by steel utensils;
Stabbed by shiny kitchen knives
And stubby little pencils.

Flat packs tower around me,
Shelf on shelf on shelf;
A whole lifetime's sentence of
Do it your bloody self.

Just once I made it to the door
And out - "Freedom!" I cried.
But then a giant meatball came
To bring me back inside.

I reached the final checkout;
On a trolley there I lay
In a self assembed coffin,
(A choice of white or grey.)

© Dave Carr

Pasta

Pasta

(with apologies to Longfellow)

By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini,
And the plains of Fegatini,
Through the valleys in betweeni,
Where the flowing Canneloni,
Meets the wandering Marscapone.
In amongst the Machiato,
Near the fading Tinto Rosso,
‘Neath the shading of Lambrusco,
South of Castle Osso Buccho.

Here a local pasta maker,
Bought out by a corporate baker;
Reputation keeps it going,
Striving but the tide is flowing.

Now they have a brand new master.
In his office, white walled plaster,
Lined with busts of alabaster;
Wants to make the pasta faster.

On the floor they were aghast-a,
"We have always made our pasta
To our recipes down passed-a
But we cannot work too fast-a!"

"Things are changing," said the master,
From his room of white walled plaster.
"We must make the pasta faster,
So our rivals are outclassed-a"

So the master strolling past-a
Turned the speeds to very fast-a;
Higher throughput, faster pasta.
More cash in the bank amassed-a.

"Faster faster!" screamed the master
From his room of white walled plaster.
"Got to make the pasta faster,
Jump to it you idle basta's!"

As the workers felt his blast-a,
They knew that it could not last-a;
Cogs were whirring far too fast-a,
Flying belts went whizzing past-a.

Soon the place was filled with pasta;
In the office of the master;
Even on the white walled plaster
And the busts of alabaster.

Now that frantic stage has passed-a,
Packed his bags and gone the master.
Now they can return at last-a,
Once more making finest pasta.
By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini.



© Dave Carr

Creative Writing Coursework: Short Story

David Helm

A Night Out

An unnamed city, somewhere…wherever.


The 24-hour digital clock on the bedside table flicked over to 20.00. As if he was somehow connected to the clock, Adam Frost’s eyes snapped open. Yawning, he got up and stretched. Time to get ready. He moved over to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room and pulled open the doors. He reached in and pulled out his black shirt. He held it up to himself as he looked at himself in the mirror. Smooth. He hung the shirt on the wardrobe door and walked into the shower. Ice cold spray at first to wake himself up, and then once he was awake, onto the hot water.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the cubicle. Pulling his dressing gown from its hook behind the door, he fastened the sash around his waist as he stepped out of the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror as he walked out- why bother? He knew he looked good. He got dressed slowly, taking his time as he pondered what the night ahead would bring for him.
The phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”
Paul Vine’s voice came from the other end. “You ready, man?”
“Give me half an hour,” Frost replied. “I’ll see you in Electricity.”
“Cool.” Vine hung up.
Frost pulled on his leather coat- the long one that came down to his boot heels- and walked out of the door.


The chill night air was the first thing that he became aware of as he walked out of his front door. The moon- a pure white disc- was high in the sky, cutting like a beacon through the few thin clouds that scudded across its face. He looked up at it, appreciating its perfection. He’d always felt more comfortable at night- and this was a perfect night to experience.
It was a ten-minute walk to the centre of town, and the bar he said he’d meet Vine and the rest of his friends in. He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth- something to do on the walk. The peppermint flavour had just about disappeared as he approached Electricity, so he dropped it in a bin just before he went up the steps to the doors. The bouncer nodded to him as he pushed them open and entered. There was a bar and seating area on the right of the room, several two seater couches spread out haphazardly in front of it. The dance floor and second bar were on the other side, the DJ at the far end standing behind his deck, bathed in the flashing lights like some kind of satanic overlord. Frost’s eyes roved over the interior of the club until he caught sight of his group of friends, over on the right hand side of the room. Vine caught his eye and waved. Frost walked over to them. There was a group of six, sat on three of the couches that they’d obviously moved closer together to be able to hear each other. Ed Garrett sat on the left of the first couch, lolling against its back, his eyes watching the smoke that rose from the end of his cigarette as it rose in a languid spiral toward the ceiling to where it would be blown into oblivion by the fans. Terry Friar sat next to him, deep in conversation (or something- their heads were quite close together) with his girlfriend who sat across from him. Next to her, draining the bottle of Bud that he had pressed against his lips was Steve Ryan. Vine sat on the third couch, with Dave Morgan sat next to him.
Vine rose to his feet as Frost approached. “You made it!” he exclaimed. The rest of the group waved as Frost sat down. Vine leaned closer. “You sure that you can fit us in to your busy schedule?” he asked. He turned to the others. “Sleep all day, party all night, huh Ad? You never even see daylight, do ya?” That got a big laugh.
Frost smiled. “I’m going to the bar. Anyone else want a drink?”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah.” He got up, leaving a large indentation in the soft leather of the couch, which slowly returned to its original shape as the two men walked to the bar.
“What do you want to drink?” Frost asked as they stood waiting to be served.
“Bud,” Morgan replied. “It’s early yet.”
The barmaid came over to them. Young- looked maybe 25, long dark brown hair down to her shoulders, and green eyes. Her nametag said her name was Kelly. Frost turned to her, ordered two Buds. As she turned to get the beers out of the cooler behind her, both Frost and Morgan cast an appreciative glance over her. They turned back to each other and nodded. Nice. She turned back and handed them two bottles, carelessly brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes as she did so, a little movement that Frost found incredibly sexy. As he and Morgan turned to go back to their seats, Frost spoke. “Fancy a little bet here, Dave?”
Morgan looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll bet you that I pull that barmaid before the end of the night.”
Morgan shook his head. “Ain’t you got tired of this yet, man? Every night we come out you make this bet- and you always strike out. I’m starting to feel guilty about taking all these free drinks off you.”
“One more,” Frost said. “Come on. I’ve got to try and reverse the trend.” He sat back down on the couch.
Morgan looked like he was weighing up the options for a couple of seconds, and then nodded. “You got it. But it’s gonna be a big fucking drink this time.”
Vine leant over. “What are you two girls talking about?” he asked boisterously. “Come on- we’ve got a discussion going here. Best action film ever?”
“No question,” Morgan answered immediately. “Predator, Schwarzenegger, 1987.”
“Hell no!” It was Garrett from the other couch. Everyone else looked shocked- they hadn’t realised he was still conscious. “It’s got to be something with Seagal!” Garrett proclaimed, bringing his hand down on his knee for emphasis. His next words were drowned out as the rest of the group shouted him down.
“Come on!” Garrett said heatedly, struggling against the tide of derision. “Didn’t you see Hard To Kill? Where he put that pool cue through that guy’s neck? And what about Under Siege? “Nah- I’m just a cook.” How can you not give him the prize?”
“Well,” Vine said, shaking his head, “I suppose we’ve got to be grateful you didn’t go for a Van Damme.” He turned to Frost. “What about you, Ad?”
“I’d go for the original action film,” Frost replied. “Die Hard.”
Everyone else nodded at that. “Good call,” Ryan agreed. “Although I’d personally go for the sequel.”
No one spoke for a few minutes after that. Perhaps to break the awkward silence, Friar got to his feet, holding his girlfriend’s hand. “We’re going to dance,” he announced. “Anyone else coming?”
Ryan nodded. “I’ll check out the territory with you, my friend.” He slapped hands with Friar, and the three of them moved off towards the dance floor, Friar’s girl looking less than pleased.
Vine turned to Frost and Morgan. “She doesn’t like us, you know.”
Morgan nodded. “I know.” He looked at Frost for agreement, but Frost wasn’t listening. He was busy looking at the barmaid. Noticing this, Morgan nudged Vine. “Seen this, Paul?”
Vine snickered. “Don’t tell me you made that bet again!”
Frost looked back at him. “What?”
“You say you’re gonna score with the barmaids every time we come out!” Vine said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard about you actually managing to seal the deal. There’s barmaids all over this town that you’ve tried it on with. Although it’s probably better than saying you’re gonna score with the barman!” He pointed to the individual in question, slapped hands with Morgan, and then started laughing uncontrollably.
“Tonight’s the night, you assholes,” Frost said good-naturedly. He got to his feet. Vine looked up. “Good luck there, Ad. Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” He started sniggering again.
Frost approached the bar- quieter now that the greater proportion of customers had gone onto the dance floor. The barmaid saw him and came over. “What can I get you?”
“White Russian,” he replied. “And have one for yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I can’t serve myself on duty.”
“Then maybe I could get you one later?” he asked.
She regarded him for a moment. “Sure. Why not. I get off at 12. Come back here then.”
“Definitely.” He picked up his drink and went back to his seat. Vine and Morgan got to their feet, expressions of insincere commiseration on their faces. Vine extended a hand to pat him on the back. “Never mind, dude,” he said. “Maybe one of these days…”
Morgan smirked. “Like I said, Ad, this is gonna be a big drink. I think I’ll have…”
“Hold on,” Frost answered. “I’m meeting her when she gets off at 12.” With that, he downed his drink in one.
Morgan dropped his bottle, splattering beer over Vine’s trouser legs. “Fuck’s sake!” Vine exclaimed, giving Morgan an evil look. “Well done, Ad.” He extended his hand to Frost. Frost shook it, as Ryan came back to the table, so wet with sweat that he looked like he’d been swimming. Friar and his girlfriend were still out on the floor.
“What’s happening?” Ryan asked, running a hand through his hair, causing the sweat to fly. Most of it landed on Garrett. He didn’t budge. Ryan leant over him. “He’s asleep!” he announced, laughing. “So, what’s up?”
“Ad’s pulled the barmaid.” Morgan said through gritted teeth.
“Well done!” Ryan said. “Shot down there, Dave.”
Morgan said something that the rest of them couldn’t quite catch and sat back down. Vine looked at his watch. “It’s 10.30. Anyone wanna go somewhere else once we’ve finished these drinks?”
“What about Terry?” Ryan asked.
Vine cast a glance in Friar’s direction. “I think he’ll be fine,” he said. “And someone wake him up.” He jerked his head toward Garrett.


An hour and a half later, Frost walked back into Electricity. He checked his watch. 12.00 exactly. As he entered the main room, he looked over to the bar, to see if he could spot Kelly. She came out of the back just as he approached, wearing a long dark coat and with a bag slung over her shoulder.
“Hi,” he said, smiling.
“Hi yourself,” she answered. “So, where are you taking me?”
“Well,” Frost said, feeling the hot flush rise to his face, “I hadn’t really thought about that…”
She shook her head. “You really are clueless, aren’t you? Come on, I know a little place we can get a drink- I’ve wanted to go back there for a while, actually.”
“Fine by me,” Frost answered, admiring, in spite of his own embarrassment, the way that she’d just taken charge of this whole thing.


The little place that she knew was down a back street a short distance away from Electricity. Frost read the sign above the door as they approached.
“Harry’s?” he asked. “There are actually places that are called that? I always thought that they only appeared in cheap detective novels.”
She laughed. “They really do exist. Like I said before, I’ve wanted to come back here for a while- it’s so warm and full of life.”
They walked in. Inside, it was snug to say the least. The bar was crammed in a space approximately two inches bigger than itself at the back of the room, facing the doorway. There were perhaps six tables in front of it, three on either side, but only one was occupied, by a couple of middle aged men sat nursing what looked like small whiskies.
The barman looked up as they came in. “What will it be?” he asked. “You’re just in time for last orders.”
“I’ll have a shot of your best Scotch,” Frost answered. “Seeing as it’s late. And the lady will have…” He turned to her.
“A glass of red,” she replied.
The barman nodded. “Coming up,” he said, turning to get the drinks from the back.
“I always like a drink before I go to bed,” Frost said, as they sat down.
“Me too,” she answered, smiling. Frost saw that smile, and smiled inwardly himself. Maybe this would be the night- he just had a feeling that it would.
The barman put the two glasses on the bar. Frost got them and paid, handing Kelly her glass just as the bell went.
“Time, gentlemen, please,” the barman said, and the two customers still there got out of their seats, pulling on their jackets and beginning to move towards the door.
Frost looked at his whisky. “Just as I get this, we have to leave,” he grumbled.
“Then we’d better make this quick,” Kelly answered, and emptied her glass in one. “Like I said, I always like a drink before I go to bed.”
As she said that, she opened her mouth, to reveal the two long shining white fangs that had appeared from her top row of teeth. Frost laughed. This was the night. Then he tossed back his own drink, and got to his feet, his own fangs bared and ready.

Creative Writing.

The Gloves.

By David Helm.

The smell of sweat and liniment was all-pervading. Bouncing nervously from foot to foot as Kenny tied his gloves onto his hands, Mikey Howell sneaked a glance at his opponent, standing on the other side of the ring, listening intently to whatever his trainer was whispering into his ear. Solomon “The Anvil” Irons was huge- not tall, but sheathed in muscle that looked like steel plates had been placed under his skin. Mikey blew out his air in short puffs, nervously detaching and reattaching the gum shield to his teeth.
“Now listen,” Kenny’s voice broke through his thoughts. “This guy knows you’re just a beginner- he’s not gonna go at you like Tyson. Just try and move around, don’t let him hit ya too much, try and sneak a couple in when he ain’t lookin’.”
Mikey nodded. “Yeah...” He took another deep breath. “How the hell did I get into this?”
Kenny shrugged. “Guy likes a challenge. Just ‘cause he’s the champ don’t mean he’s forgot where he came from. He’s givin’ you a chance, kid, sparring with ya.”
Mikey raised his eyes to the ceiling in irritation. “Kid”. Kenny had been born three minutes before Mikey- and he thought that gave him license to act like the grizzled older man. Mikey shook his head. “Thanks, Burgess Meredith. You’re really inspiring confidence in me.”
Kenny took a good-natured swipe at his younger brother’s head. Mikey ducked. “Hey!”
Kenny laughed. “If this guy don’t take you apart, maybe I’ll have to knock some respect to you myself, kid.”
Mikey grinned. “You’d have to grow a set of balls and get in the ring first, old man.”
On the other side of the ring, Solomon’s trainer pulled the ropes up to allow his charge to climb in. “Looks like you’re up, bro,” Kenny said softly. “Good luck.”
Mikey stepped forward. “Let’s do it.”

Faced with Irons in the ring, Mikey’s opponent seemed even larger than he had at a distance. The ref- an older guy named Frankie Silver, a regular at the gym- stood between the two men. He raised his hands above his head to signify the two men shake hands. Irons- who despite his reputation as a killer in the ring, was a genuinely nice guy out of it- stepped forward, fist extended. Mikey blinked the sweat from his eyes and glanced behind him. Kenny gestured toward Irons- go on! Mikey turned back to face his opponent. He swallowed- just because Irons was a good guy out of the ring didn’t mean he wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him- but finally extended his own gloved hand. Irons nodded, and the two men tapped fists. “Ring it!” Frankie Silver croaked, and the bell was rung. It was on.
Fists up in defensive position, Mikey and Irons circled the ring, feeling each other out. Mikey’s heart was going like a jackhammer, but in spite of himself, he threw the first punch- a blow to Iron’s jaw. He regretted that precisely two seconds later- Irons turned his head so the blow glanced along the side of his jaw and hammered Mikey in the ribs. One punch to the right side, then to the left as Mikey gasped for air. Mikey staggered under the blows, but stayed on his feet. Irons looked impressed. For a second. Then he delivered another devastating combo- a left jab to the face, and a huge right hook to the jaw.
It occurred to Mikey, as he fell on all fours, desperately trying to clear his head, that although landing that first punch may have shown guts, staying on his feet after the first two punches was pretty dumb. He’d probably just annoyed the champ. Through the buzzing in his head, he could hear Frankie Silver counting. He was up to six, and out of the corner of his eye, Mikey could see his brother willing him to get up.
He got up. Irons looked mildly shocked, but came in again. His shock seemed like it cost him though- his first punch was wild and mistimed. Mikey slipped the punch and managed to land one to the side of Irons’ head, causing the champ to stagger momentarily. He recovered quickly, landing a solid blow to Mikey’s ear. Mikey stayed on his feet, blocked Irons’ next punch and landed one of his own to the centre of the champ’s chest. That earned him a right to the jaw- out of nowhere- that loosened a couple of teeth. Felt like he’d been hit by a train. He now knew- if he hadn’t already- that he was totally outclassed. But what was he gonna do- pussy out? He cursed Kenny briefly and moved in again, aiming a couple of punches to Irons’ side. Landed two, but had the third one blocked and took another punch to the side of the head.
After that punch, Kenny winced. It might be better if the kid stayed down if he was getting hit like that. He was already staggering. But Mikey refused to go down, coming back for more punishment. At that, even Kenny- standing outside the ring- saw it. A red light briefly flared in the champion’s eyes and he started firing punches- drilling Mikey in the arms and chest, pushing him back until they were tangled in the ropes.
Frankie Silver was in in a second. “Break it up, break it up!” Irons backed off Mikey, breathing hard. Seeing his chance, Kenny gestured to Frankie Silver for a time out. Frankie nodded. Mikey backed into his corner, as did Irons, their eyes never leaving one another. Kenny passed Mikey a bottle of water. Mikey spat out his gum shield and took a long swallow, pouring more over his head. Kenny passed him back his gum shield. “You’re doing well, kid.”
Mikey turned to look at his brother. “He’s killing me!” He spat. “Giving me a chance, huh? A chance to visit the fuckin’ hospital!”
Kenny placed his hands on Mikey’s shoulders. “Ya didn’t stay down when he hit you with that big combo. You got him rattled!”
“I got him mad,” Mikey replied. He got back to his feet. “Time out’s over.”

This time he came out slow, fists up, playing defense. He had no chance of beating Irons in a straight fight- even he could see that- so he figured his best chance was to let the guy wear himself out then try and take advantage. Five seconds after that, he realized how dumb that strategy was when Irons smashed him with a vicious blow to the ribs. He dropped his hands and was immediately hit with another combo- a punch to the heart and then to the left hand side of his body that sent him staggering back into the ropes. Irons was just hitting him where he wanted to now- taking his time and delivering each punch with devastating precision. Through a red haze, Mikey aimed a weak punch at what he guessed was Irons’ face, and was rewarded with a huge left to the jaw. That did it. Mikey went down on all fours again, spittle and blood drooling from his open mouth onto the canvas. His limbs felt like rubber, and he was dimly aware of Frankie Silver counting again. The count was up to eight.
He got up.

The End.

Totally Lost It

Last night threw blue suede shoe out front door.
Pulled rug from under big black bug,
Nailed it flailing to the laminated floor.
Swatted one fat fly with my Freddie Flintoff cricket bat.
After that, set fire to coconut matting in porch,
Went up like a torch
Along with linseed oil, bails and stumps.
Jerked phone off wall, left huge hole,
Plaster in lumps.
Wiped ass on Madras brown drapes,
Pissed all over living room floor
Swam through the lake.
Left fake message for the wife,
Macdonald vouchered my kids for life.
Ran out through rhododendron bushes and hid
Blasted passing motorist through his midriff.
Drove straight over top of nearest cliff.
Lifted by some mysterious cyber force.
Landed in the gorse bush at bottom of rock garden.
Sneaked back inside placed luminous socks inside my money box
Collapsed on leatherette settee, started to snore.
Worm crawled back inside rotting apple core.

Old School Blazer

There was certainly a small book of Prayer
“Whatever his path take him safely there.”
To where? God only knows and amen to all that.
Heaven’s icy flow, meanwhile slowed then was shattered.

Matchstick, feather and peppermint drop,
additional flotsam smothered in fluff,
Cough sweet furred.
Watch that never ticked or tocked.
Marble? Maybe a gobstopper,
It all seems a bit of a blur.

A diary with no stuff in it.
No, sorry.(I have never been able to apologise enough)
Entry fixed in time “1st Jan. ’65-
Frog stuck in frozen pond,behind a log,
back of beyond, our pet dog whined.”

Every other line blank
So many other ways of passing the time.
One sprig of luckless heather.

Written, down line from a Beatles song.
Can’t remember exactly which one.
“Mother Natures Son?”
No; White Album still not come and gone.

Creased sheet, lyric of slow school hymn.
“Our honour defeats all sin and fame,
Behave like a bastard and you’ll end up insane."

Copy of receipt from clinic to pay,
35 pounds for her overnight stay.
It’s a terrible thing, such a terrible thing,
to have to keep running from a wild reckless fling.

A letter marked by a confessional tone,
Sat in school toilets, felt so alone.
Some things I care not to mention.
Like those lies, how I cried,
the mess of it all.

So there it is, plain as a day is long,
though now they seem impossibly short.
Rivers of regret continue to swell,
too wide to swim back over

Touch of Creation

(Short story about an instrumental event.)

Steam lifted the nearly-triangular and flat cardboard box out of the back of his SUV and took it up the back stairs to the rehearsal rooms over the studio.

"Let’s see what we’ve got here."

There were plastic securing tapes around the box – not unlike Plasticuffs, Steam thought to himself – perhaps he could find another use for them later – before he took out his penknife and slit them apart. He lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a swathe of bubble wrap and polystyrene balls. The bubble wrap contained an object, like eggs in a spider’s nest. He lifted the bundle out and began to tear away the wrap. The roadies would probably have great fund popping the little air cells later, between duties. Or instead of them. "Show me a conscientious roadie," Steam had been known to say, "and I’ll show you a wannabe groupie who couldn’t even make it as a bank clerk." The wrap protested and he tugged hard, shredding it away. Then, revealed at last, like Tutankhamun’s tomb to Howard Carter, there lay before him a treasure beyond price, the shining lacquered wood, ivory-coloured scratch board and gleaming brass-gold frets of a Fender Stratocaster guitar.

It was not the first time in his life he’d uncovered a Strat to the light of day. But the thrill of that first time, that magical moment when he saw the strings, the humbucker pickups and the fret-board, its pale, flesh-maple perfection under its slick patina of varnish, was always the same. It was like the first time he’d had sex, the first time he had stripped a woman and seen her naked, curved body. The moment when time itself held its breath, and he shivered with delight.

"Wonder how you’ll play," he murmured. He gathered the guitar up into his arms and held her comfortably close, like a familiar lover. Or a child, in need of comfort. Suddenly, he was gentle, cradling her, stroking the long sleek neck in an act of tenderness.

Now he was holding the wooden body up to the light, sighting along the length of the guitar like a marksman, armed with a weapon, checking for flaws. The barrel of the neck was dead straight, her aim would be true, he could go into battle safe in knowing she would not jam, or misfire or let him down at the crucial moment. When the notes would cascade like bullets, or shower like communion wine over the supplicants of the crowd. Tonight, during the show, the baptism.

Steam looked at the strings. They were Fender’s own brand and they were fine strings. But they would have been on the instrument some time at the showroom and would they would need replacing, and he preferred his own choice. This were Ernie Ball Super Slinkies with the 9 top E – he’d tried the Extra Slinkies which were an 8, but this was just too light. 9 was just right. He would put them on later, fresh like dew on grass for tonight’s show. But first he just wanted to check the electrics. He reached down for a TEAC cable – alleged to be so tough they were roadie-proof, connected one end to the angled cable slot rudely on view on the front of the body, next to the control knobs, the other into a small Marshall practice amp, and snapped on the chunky red switch.

The guitar became alive.

He caressed the strings, held down a G major . Amazingly, the instrument was almost in tune. Considering the rough ride it must have had from manufacturer to showroom to him. Steam tried a few more chords – the D was out – a riff, and a couple of runs – everything was fine. He just needed to get the Slinkies on and give them the chance to settle down – new strings always took a while to bed in and would slip for some time on the machine heads. Get the in-transit strings taken off and play in the new strings ready for tonight, when they and their blood-red and sunburst new home would start earning their keep before a live audience.

Hard-egg came in the room. "You got it?"

Steam nodded. "I don’t like changing guitar in the middle of a tour – it’s like changing ladies in the middle of the night. I wanna stay with the old one."

"Romantic bugger," said Hard-egg. "You should have thought of that before you trod on the old one."

Steam looked at his old sunburst Fender standing in the corner of the room. Already battered before the ‘mishap,’ gouges and scrapes in her skin, varnish worn right down to the wood on a fretboard that had had an army of fingers march across it, the scratch plate was cracked and the pickups depressed inwards. Steam felt contrite. "Yeah, well – I dunno, I was really drunk at the time. I didn’t know she’d fallen over. What’s that melon-head technician say about getting her fixed?"

"Solder-iron Boy? He’s out now getting new parts. I don’t think he’ll have her fixed for tonight. It’s almost tea. You’d better get prepped."

Steam picked up the psychedelic pink packet of Super Slinkies. "Already on it," he said.



The concert was a sell-out, the tour indeed was sold out, the album climbing high in the charts. The new Stratocaster had a lot to do and it didn’t let Steam down. When it came to the big solo, screaming and aching to touch a level of meaning that no words could match, it was like the guitar was playing him. His back arched, his fingers bled to please, the feverish desire of every note soared over the heads of the enraptured crowd.

A young man in the audience, at his first ever gig in his life, felt the pleading urgency and spirit of the guitar seeking him, stretching out to him. His skin rose in goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

Just then, as Steam tipped himself back to the peak of the final squealing crescendo, a solitary bright spotlight held him in its aura, the dazzling beam bounced off the diamond-shine of the Stratocaster’s smooth slab body and shot into the fan-mass to the young man, sanctifying him, in a blazing spark of brilliance. It was like God reaching out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The young man now knew what he must do – with himself, with his world, his life.

He must play guitar. A new guitarist was born.

The End

Sucks In The City

(Short story that, for reasons explained elsewhere, has to include the following random word pairs and expression, namely: "axe lips, war stick, city hair, basket vampire, zip book, door vomit, pan party, banana lace, shelf buttock, nest beauty, specially for Carol.")

Karl was late.

Ironic, considering what they about to, and its emphasis on speed. Speed implied promptness. And Karl couldn’t even get here on time. Just to mock him, it seemed were all the stainless steel and glass clocks on posts down the surreal pathway he’d just walked along, like a deleted scene from Alice Through The Looking Glass.

Darren Taylor adjusted his suit and checked he wasn’t getting pits under his arms in the warm summer evening. He had spent his day in shirt-sleeves in the air-conditioned offices of 1 Canada Square and now he would rather be relaxing in front of the TV, his shoes and tie off, with a can of beer and take-away. Instead, he was standing around outside the huge arched glass canopy of Canary Wharf DLR and Tube station, looking along the waters of Heron Quays and wishing he could go home.

Not that it was much of a home now. Not since Carol had left. But he’d sooner skip on the DLR and take the five short stops to the small flat he occupied in Mudchute, rather than carry out the frankly stressful undertaking Karl had suggested. Or insisted on, to be more accurate. "You’ll love it, man," he’d said. "I never miss it." Where the Devil was he?

Darren was within seconds of chucking the whole idea, when he heard Karl’s inimitable and somewhat irritating greeting. "DT! Sorry I’m late, buddy, but just had to clinch a final deal for the week-end. Nothing like making a small fortune to set you up for an evening out. How about yourself – close on anything good today?"

"I may I lost the company millions again – I don’t think I understand any of this business." Darren realised he was talking to himself – Karl was already setting off across the concourse towards their destination for the evening, The Merchant Banker on Grime Street, south of the Quays. That was the official name of the bar, but everyone who worked in Canary Wharf knew it as The Muck and Brass or simply Grimy’s. This was probably after someone had pointed out that "merchant banker" was rhyming slang for something else in the rest of London, especially to the indigenous residents of the East End, where the two city slickers worked.

Darren hurried to keep pace with Karl. "I’d rather have had a shower and changed before coming out," he said, struggling to keep up.

"Nonsense!" said Karl. "You want to catch everyone while there’ll still on a high from doing business."

"I don’t feel on much of a high."

Again Karl wasn’t listening. "Striking fast is the whole point of the battle, buddy. Knock ‘em off their feet before they’ve had time to have second thoughts."

"Battle?"

"Got your war stick ready?"

"What?" Darren was perplexed.

"Your killer chat-up line. Speed-dating is like going to war. You’ve got to make split-second decisions. It’s hard, it’s aggressive and you’ve got strike fast. Your war stick is a killer chat-up line in the dating battle – sticks the prey like a butterfly in a display case for you to enjoy at leisure."

"I thought we were going out to meet some girls, not to kill them."

"Of course not," said Karl. "Take a few prisoners perhaps. That’s why you need a good chat up line. You’ll learn, buddy. Might take you a bit of practice before you hit on one that suits you. Just don’t use the one I tried when I first started."

"What was that?"

"You won’t believe this." Karl suddenly halted and turned to face him, as if confessing to a long-redeemed misdemeanour. "I used to say, ‘Your eyes match my duvet.’ Nearly got me slung out of the place."

"It isn’t very subtle," said Darren.

Karl still appeared not to hear him. "No use at all," he nudged shoulders with Darren. "It’s speed-dating. You’ve got to be much more direct than that! Here we are." Karl took another step, then halted again, just outside the entrance of Grimy’s. "One last thing – door vomit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you’ve got any emotional baggage in your guts, buddy, chuck it up now and leave it at door."

"So best not to think about Carol."

"This is specially for Carol. After all, DT, she walked out on you. This is where you get your own back. You go in there with ‘rebound’ written all over your face like that, the lassies will spot it a mile away and never come near. Come on."

They plunged into the bar of gleaming glass and chrome, and vicious Budweiser neon. Darren sometimes wondered if the architects of Canary Wharf had simply forgotten the existence of dark timber and its calming grandeur. Perhaps he wasn’t a city slicker at all. Maybe he should be a labourer on a farm or something. Before he could speak, Karl had thrust a bottle American beer in his hand when he’d far rather had had a pint of bitter. "I’ve already paid for our tickets. We’ve got about 15 minutes before the off, let the latecomers straggle in. Gives you time to loosen up and absorb the atmosphere."

"What atmosphere?"

"Just take a few deep breaths," said Karl – all too literal and missing the point. "Just about to meet someone – several someones in fact – that could be that special person – "

" – or persons – "

" or persons," Karl agreed, "in the rest of your life. Which is about to start now. Prepare to get cooking!"

"Cooking?"

"Cooking in Life’s Take-Away. The wok of human relationships – it’s stir-fry time in the pan party of pulling. Time to get sizzling. And, if you feel yourself losing your bottle – well, just buy another bottle, one for you and one for her, some tart-fuel or one of those huge great goblets of wine the size of a bucket. Of course, you may end up with a six-pinter at the end of the evening if you can’t see straight, but that’s all part of the game.

"You’re such a romantic."

"That’s my man. It’s a good idea to have some kind of game-plan – think of the sort of woman you want to go for. Don’t waste your time with anyone who’s not your sort."

"How do you tell which is which?"

"I’ll give you a run-down of the different species and how to spot them. City hair means a Power Girl working in the Square Mile or Canary Wharf – probably worth a few quid but she will expect you to be the same. Basket vampire – looks cute as a kitten but get her home and she’ll expect you as her new S.O. – that’s Significant Other – to be a meal ticket on the gravy train for life. When they’ve got something frilly and colourful showing above their business suit, that’s a spot of banana lace – one bit of female decoration on androgynous City clothing to suggest ‘I am a girlie, really.’ Though for goodness’ sake, don’t call her that or she’ll freeze your assets off in a flash. Beware axe lips also. Not to be confused with ‘wax lips.’ They look DDG – "

"Drop dead gorgeous?"

"You’re getting the hang of it – and as kissable as they come, but you disappoint one of them…

"And they’ll chop you down with a sentence."

"With a word, buddy, with a word. Lastly, look out for the nest beauty. Pretty as a picture, but all they want to do is set up home somewhere – have you picking out fabrics and deciding on colour schemes before you can say ‘Where’s my slippers?’ Unless that’s your type, of course…" Karl let the statement hang in the air like a question. However, Darren refused to speak. "Sometimes wondered if that’s what you thought Carol might become."

"Really?" Darren was surprised.

"Never would have happened with Carol, though, DT."

"Why not?"

"She was a Power Girl, if I’m any judge. If you thought she was the settling-down-and-having-a-quiet-life-type then you were pretty much mistake."

"I never really thought about…" Darren trailed off. Maybe he had got Carol wrong. After all, she had left him, for some reason. But, on the other hand, if Karl was right, maybe he would have one day wanted to leave her. The high life didn’t really seem to be his thing.

"Ready for the off?" said Karl.

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

"OK, here’s the rules. Here’s your ticket. This let’s you into the Enterprise Lounge. When the hooter goes, you’ve got five minutes. Go and talk to the nearest available female and see how you go. It’s alright to take notes, because by the end of the evening, the faces may have become a bit of a blur. She’ll be doing the same, probably, or putting you in her zip book – that’s her PDA –"

"Personal Digital Assistant?"

"That’s right. Probably a Blackberry or something similar. Replaces the old ‘little black book.’ You want to get your mobile number and email address in there as fast as you can. Likewise, you want to get her contact details – assuming you’re interested – and mark how attractive she is as you go."

"Why don’t I just give her marks out of ten?" Darren remarked, dryly.

"Excellent! That’s what I do. Then at the end of five minutes, the hooter goes and you move on to the next filly, and so on. By the end of the evening, you see how many you’ve got, rank them in order and start giving ‘em calls over the week-end."

"Wonderful."

"If we cross paths as we circulate, we can have a quick check on numbers." Karl nudged Darren’s shoulder. "Just hope we don’t go for the same ones, eh?" At that moment the hooter sounded. "Here we go! Catch you on the other side."

Darren had to tackle his demons. The demons of shyness, self-doubt and simply not knowing what he was doing. What was the killer line he was supposed to come out with? A lady with city hair approached him. Therefore he had to speak.

"Hello."

"Hello"

(Going well.)

"Your eyes match…" He broke off. This was not going well.

"Of course they match, you rude little sod! How dare you!"

The blonde goose-stepped off. No wonder they called it speed-dating. From his first seeing her to her disappearing forever had taken eleven seconds. He needed another drink. At the bar, a raven-headed woman was ordering "a JD straight up, large."

"I’ll have the same," he called over her shoulder. She turned to see who had attached himself to her order, with a slight pout. "I see you like a stiff one," he said. Her expression withered to disgust. Four seconds.

Darren stood, pulling on his drink, feeling like a spare groom at a wedding, trying to spot any other female singleton he could approach, while waiting for the hooter that would toss the ingredients of the people-wok into the air again. Karl cantered past, pursing some brunette who, to Darren, appeared to be trying to put as much distance between herself and Karl as possible. "Isn’t this great fun, DT?" he yapped. "I’ve got two numbers already!"

"Bully for you," thought Darren.

By the half-hour mark, he had interlaced eight meetings with eight drinks orders. Things had only got worse as he tried to remember Karl’s patois of the dating scene. At one point, Karl hove into view, and Darren would have asked him for a little more advice. Instead, he got an idiot grin from Karl as he held up his outstretched hand to indicate the number, five, as he scuttled off in pursuit of some other lady. Darren had tried opening with compliments, which had been OK if a little predictable at first, but as the alcohol took its effect, he had started to come out with comments such as "you have banana lips," "I like your hair nest," had invited one to an axe party, called another girl a zip vampire and described yet another to herself as a war beauty with a face like a pan.

"I’m no good at this, am I?" He slurred wearily to a rather shapeless female, one of the few still left, and for whom the choice of a jacket in houndstooth check had not been well-considered.

"Talking or standing?" she remarked. "You seem to be having trouble with both."

"What’s the secret of chatting someone up?"

"If I told you, one of us would have to die." This was her valedictory remark.

At last, the final hooter-blast of the evening sounded, a voice over the PA announced the speed-date session was ended, and invited to people to relax. To help with relaxation, I Predict A Riot started blasting out from speakers in every corner. Darren screamed an order of another JD from the barman and slumped disconsolately on a bench. He had just about completed feeling totally sorry for himself when Karl showed up, Budweiser in one hand, and pen and notepad in the other. "What great a evening, eh?" he bellowed, so close to the side of Darren’s head that his voice made Darren’s ears ring. It was necessary as Karl was in competition with Hard Fi wailing out Cash Machine. "You stay sat on the sidelines much longer you’re going to suffer from shelf buttock!"

"So you got lots of dates," Darren yelled.

"Loads!" Karl yelled back. "A great evening!"

"So you keep saying."

"What?!"

"I said, I’m very pleased for you. I didn’t get any!"

Karl took this in. "What, none at all?"

"None at all."

Karl abruptly slumped in an echo of Darren’s posture. "I’ve got a confession to make."

"Yes?" Darren wasn’t really interested.

"I’ve had a rotten night."

"What?"

"Rotten. I got none, too. Not a one."

"None at all?"

"None. Nix. Niente, nada, null points. Zero, zilch, the leather medal, the wooden spoon – "

"I understood you at ‘none.’"

"This was supposed to be a brilliant evening for both of us. A brilliant end to a brilliant week. Do you want to know something else? I didn’t close a big deal this afternoon. I haven’t closed a brilliant deal all week. In fact, not for a number of weeks…"

Darren hated to see a grown man cry. Even if it was Karl. And he was just about a grown man. "Never mind, Karl," he said. "I’ve got a great idea where we can go and have a good evening."



They slumped down in front of Darren’s TV to watch a Cheers marathon on UK Gold, battered cod, chips and curry sauce steaming in their laps. Darren yawned and rubbed his face with both his hands trying to clear away the images of the evening. "That was the worst best time I ever had."

"I can’t argue with that, buddy."

"You know," said Darren, surprised that Karl had heard him through his fingers, "I think I’ve decided. I’m going to pack in my job, first thing Monday, sell this place and move to the country. Maybe live on a farm in south Wales. Property’s cheap there."

"Now that is speedy decision-making," said Karl. Darren waited for Karl to give some half-wit reason why he couldn’t leave the city and become a country boy. But he didn’t. "Darren?…" Karl said slowly.

"Yes, Karl?"

Karl propped his head up on one hand, unwittingly plonking his elbow in his curry sauce.

"Do you think I could come too?"

(This story originally appeared at http://cadwc.blogspot.com/, before also being at http://nickyjpoolewritings.blogspot.com/)

The End.