Fiction

Gorbet Sideburns plays no trumpet

Matt12 Comments

‘e were purple in’t face with wisteria blush
with big ginger tufts at side o’ ‘is face
‘is round belly ‘ung over ‘is trousers
which were always a jot too short
the cuff o’ ‘is socks on display
usually checkered blacks and yella’s
with black braces hitchin’ ’em up
always ‘ad a pocket watch ‘ed tek t’ ‘is ‘and at a quater t’ nine on a friday night
leanin’ on’t lampost
waitin’ fer ‘is lady luck, Mrs Esther Muffet
me gandma would look through’t window and tutt
‘e’s a rum one ‘e is!’
one time I asked ‘er what all she meant
ya know what she said?
‘Well, ‘e looks like a man who’d play’t trumpet, but ‘e don’t! I don’t trust a man who looks as ‘e does yet don’t play a trumpet!’
Well! I thought ‘er a rum one sayin’ things like that!
me grandad came in and asked, ‘What ya think ol’ Gorbet sideburns is waitin’ fer?’
”is trumpet!’ I replied
me gran rolled ‘er eyes, ”es waitin’ on little Miss Muffet! Ya know this be now!’
”ere she goes! finally got up off ‘er tuffet!’ me grandad grinned
‘Don’t ‘e know she’s married?’ Me gran would ask each time
‘don’t she know she’s married?’ would come my grandad’s reply
and we’d spy through’t window, duckin’ when thee so much as glanced our way
and that one time me granddad turned and said with a sly grin
‘Well, at least ‘e’s got the ‘orn now!’
and me gran wacked ‘im o’er the ‘ead!

This is written for W3

The Golden Duck

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‘Thees a golden duck up at Dragons Glimpse!’ I spoke through ragged breaths.
My dad, who was sitting in a crumpled suit, sausage fingers wrapped around the paper, peeped over ‘What ya on about now?’
‘A Golden Duck! Up at’t’ Dragons Glimpse! Up yonder, near Utmost Point!’
‘A Golden Duck? Up yonder? At Utmost point?’ He rolled his eyes, ”Ave ya ‘eard this owd Mary? Thees a Golden Duck Up yonder, up at Dragons Glimpse, near Utmost Point!’ He rustled the newspaper, seeming to fight with it as he closed it and slammed it on the kitchen table.
My mum walked in from the living room, feather duster in her hand, ‘A golden duck, ya say?’
‘Aye,’ I replied.
She looked at me through her big coke-bottle lenses, ‘Is that so?’
‘Aye! A golden duck up at Dragons Glimpse! I sure seen it.’ I buzzed with excitement.
My dad’s eyebrows knitted together, his arms folded over his chest, his lips pursing expletives.
‘Go up with ‘im! See this Golden Duck, Frank!’
My dad’s jaw dropped from its hinges. Uncrossing his arms, he looked up from his seat to the jam-jar bottom lenses that her eyes pierced through. ‘Why can’t you go?’ He groaned.
‘Cause I’m doin’ the cleanin’!’ She said, hitting my dad’s head with the feather duster, ‘And ya jus’ get in me bleedin’ way!’
He sneezed, shoulders shrinking inside his shirt, ‘Ya what? Ya want me t’ go on a wild goose chase with the lad!’ He baulked, ‘It’s all flights o’ fancy!’ He turned to me, ‘It’s all flights o’ fancy, lad.’
‘It was real as I saw it!’ I protested, my fists clenched by my side.
‘Go up with ‘im! See this Golden Duck will ya!’ She threatened him with the feather duster.
My dad pulled a face, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Fine, fine! I’ll go.’
With a sigh and a slumping in his chair and a huffing and a puffing, he upped his butt and fought with his bootstraps. Then, with a sigh that sank him closer to the ground, he said, ‘Come on then.’
So off we went. He trailed behind and kept tutting and shaking his head, ‘Golden duck!’ He kept muttering.

When we reached The Dragons Glimpse, there was no sight of anything. I couldn’t believe it. Not one living creature caused a ripple on that lake.
Dad folded his arms across his chest and sighed again, his sigh swallowing him down into his boots.
I remember thinking to myself that if he sighed anymore, he’d sink so low he’d become a puddle!
‘She were ‘ere!’ I told him, picking up a stick from the ground and poking into the dirt.
‘Right.’ My dad replied.
He squatted down on his haunches and looked across the lake, a sheepish smile drawing on his lips.
I drew shapes in the dirt with the stick while we waited for something to turn up, and eventually, after what felt like an eternity, a few mallards appeared, each landing with a splash.
My dad lifted himself up with a crack of his knees and stretched, ‘I don’t think that golden duck is comin” he yawned.
‘Jus’ wait!’ I scowled, ‘She’ll turn up! She ‘as to now!’ I looked at the ground sadly, ‘She ‘as to!’ I threw the stick into the lake with impatience. ‘I calls ‘er Lucy.’
‘Why’d ya call ‘er Lucy?’
I pointed to the big old house with black gates with gold lettering, ‘That ol’ witch tol’ me she ‘ad leucism.’
My dad rolled his eyes, ‘ya’ve ‘eard ya mum talkin’ ent ya?’
Well, I couldn’t help thinking my mum was right! She was a witch. I wondered what spell she must’ve cast, showing me up in front of my dad!
Then my dad turned, set on leaving, and with his back to the lake, a duck turned up, and it was only the bleeding golden duck!
Thumping the air I turned to my dad, ‘She’s ‘ere again! Look!’ And I turned back, to find my finger pointing at an empty spot on the water. She’d only bleeding well gone!
My dad frowned at me. Irritation lit up his face. ‘Let’s go ‘ome!’
I looked across to the black and gold gate and noticed the net curtains twitching. I scowled at the house as I walked away, and all the way home, I thought about that golden duck and that witch and her magic tricks. I walked on, all fists and ruin. I had a mind to go to that witch’s house and give her a fistful of fives. I didn’t know what that meant, but I’d heard it in a film and it sounded right.

When we got home, my dad slumped back into his chair at the kitchen table and picked up his newspaper.
Mum stepped in with the duster still in her hand, curious, ‘Well?’
He shook his head, ‘No golden duck.’
‘No golden duck?’ She repeated.
He shook his head.
She turned to face me, ‘Well, that’ll teach ya won’t it!’
I gawped at my mum, red in the face with anger. ‘She can bloody fly!’
She held me in place with a look to kill and snapped back, ‘You watch your language, lad, or I won’t be lettin’ you out in a month o’ sundis!’
I slouched in the chair across from my dad, ‘Sorry.’ I looked down at the table with bleary eyes.
‘Must’ve flew over’t cuckoo’s nest on’t way t’ moon,’ dad grumbled.
I just carried on staring down at the table, running my finger over scratches and gouges formed over the years.
My mum’s face softened under her big, harsh lenses. ‘Say,’ She turned to my dad, ‘I reckon he did see a golden duck, Frank, I mean.’ She gestured towards me with a hand, ‘Look at ‘im.’

I went back to Dragons Glimpse every day for a while after that, always looking for that golden duck.
I saw it fleetingly now and then, sparingly for more extended periods, and I began to doubt my eyesight. The more I went, the more I caught only glimpses for a flash.
One day, I ran back home and begged my mum for some bread to throw to the ducks.
‘Ya know we might jus’ ‘ave some bread in that will do jus’ fine fer that!’ She said, rummaging through the bread bin.
My dad, as usual on a Sunday, was sitting with his braces loose and a newspaper in his hands. He turned to watch my mum root through the bread, shaking his head and tutting, ‘Is ‘e still af’er that golden duck?’
‘I seen it since! I’m gonna lure it close t’ me with this bread.’
‘Lure it? Then what?’
‘I dunno,’ I shrugged, ‘I jus’ wanna look at ‘er.’
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he rustled the newspaper in front of him and hid behind it.
Mum held out the bread for me and I went to grab it, ‘What do ya say?’ She had her stern face on.
‘Thank you for the bread, mum!’
She beamed a smile at me and handed me the bread, ‘Good lad!’ She ruffled my hair, ‘Off ya pop then!’
On the way out I heard my dad say, ‘I dunno why ya encourage ‘im!’
And my mum replied, ‘Even if golden duck ent real, whats ‘arm in ‘im feedin’ ducks? It gi’es ‘im an interest, sommat t’ do! s’ more than you ever do! Jus’ sit and read that bilge all’t’ damn time!’

The ducks loved the bread, and I loved feeding them. But the golden duck didn’t appear.
Still, I kept at it. I don’t know how such perseverance got into my blood, but it did.
After many trips throughout the summer holidays, I continued after school and on weekends, and one fine autumn day, I was rewarded!
The leaves were crisp on the ground. A breeze would give them new life every so often and whip them up in a flurry.
I threw pieces of bread into the water, and with a golden whirl in front of me appeared the golden duck, landing at great speed onto the water, her beak eager as it lapped up bread on the ripples.
All my focus points suddenly became more colourful, limned in the autumnal light. I glimpsed a sense of childish joy, a sense of pride in my patience. I threw more bread onto the lake, and the ducks were in a frenzy over it. Within the chestnut browns and greens, a golden whirlwind splashed amongst them.
And not too distantly, the Crows croaked their carillon calls for halloween up in the trees, trailing on the breeze from Utmost Point.

One day after school, I was back at the lake when the old rich woman came peeping at me through the bars of the black gates.
”s got leucism that ‘as.’ She said, pointing through the bars at the duck.
I nodded.
‘Got leucism,’ she repeated, ‘Jus’ be glad it ent got them red eyes thee sometimes get!’ She pulled a face. Then she tilted her head to get a better look at me, ‘I’ve seen ya comin’ an’ goin’ ‘t this ‘ere lake. Ya like it ‘ere?’
‘Sure,’ I replied.
‘Ya like that duck?’ She said, pointing a wrinkled, gnarled finger.
‘Yea sure I likes ‘er.’
She grabbed hold of the bars, looked at me piercingly and said, ‘Well, she dunt like you!’ She spat those words out like she’d been holding that in for a while.
With that, she spun on her heels and ran back to her house. I’d never seen such an old lady move so fast. It was like, after she’d got out her pent-up hostility, she suddenly feared for her life and ran.
Her words dislimned the moment; the light-hearted features of the day clouded over.

I never returned to Dragons’ Glimpse after that interaction; that was, at least, until today.
Sitting on a bench bearing that same woman’s name on a plaque, with flowers in a vase screwed onto the back of the bench.
She died at the age of 99, which makes me wonder about the relationship between longevity and grumpiness. The nicer a person was, the shorter their life; the grumpier they were, the longer they lived. It’s probably statistically inaccurate, but it feels that way to me.
The flowers are wilting, and a part of me, a nasty side of me, laughs at it—the idea of wilting flowers on the bench dedicated to the memory of a woman who behaved so viciously.
I wasn’t the only kid she came out to insult; it was local knowledge that she hated children.
But a voice stops me in my tracks.
‘Dad! Dad! Did ya see it?’ She spins towards me.
‘What?’
‘I jus’ saw a golden duck!’
‘A golden duck?’ I ask with genuine surprise, ‘Are you sure?’ I can feel my dad’s face knitting onto my own. I shake him off, ‘Let’s get some peas!’
‘Peas?’ My daughter asks.
‘Aye, t’ feed the ducks! Then maybe,’ I crouch down onto the ground and pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, which always makes her giggle. ‘We’ll find that golden duck again!’

A Bastion Of Bastards

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I’m Walter Gorbet
Thee call me Gorbert Sideburns
I’ve been led down’t garden path
much to my chagrin I’ve found only deserts of nothin’
in a nation of supposed nature lovers!
Suburbia ate the hedges and put in fences
we’re all enclosed like zoo animals
neighbours look out’t windows of their fish tanks
watch me wildin’t’ streets with me webbed feet
Comes to think of it, there is no such thing as zoo animals
as if they’re a kind, a species made for vitrification for us t’ look through
I’m mighty tired o’ this country to be honest with ya
I’ve said before to paint me white with a red cross
bangin’ on about me englishness
but I thought some about it and I’ve come to a conclusion
under’t guardianship of englishmen i’d be killed as a weed
fer wiltin’t’ wrong way!
So what can I say?
We’re a bastion of bastards if ever there were any!

Fox cub huskie terriers

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Me mate strolls in says, ‘They pack thee fannies over’t pond’
he’s ever a husky if ever he were a dog
he whines and howls like one
i’m a fox cub already battle worn
hounded down by men in flatcaps from’t conservative club (me da’s mates)
‘What ya on about now?’ I glare ‘im down
‘Woman on tele asked where ‘er fanny pack was!’
‘Bumbag’ me da said over’t newspaper
‘Bumbag t’ you too!’ me mate replied, candy fresh smile broadened his cheeks
‘Now you little…’ me da started, the newspaper all rustle and bustle in his huge paws
‘Ya git on outta ‘ere ‘fore I gi’e ya mother a reason…’
He needn’t finish that sentence
me mate ran out howling as he meant to prowl
the street wouldn’t ‘old him
ever a terrier in his blood
ran up the ginnel up to the woods
he ‘ad scent on a fox
trailed it to our den under a dense canopy of trees and bushes
he pushed a glacier mint into his maw
and I ran in breathless after ‘im
‘A shouldn’t’ve called ya da a Bumbag.’
”E don’t care. Jus’ wanted us out of ‘is ‘air’
we sat in’t den and scribbled our names in dirt with twigs
when paper mill siren blew it’s horn
we ‘unkered down as if it were’t blitz
mud on us faces
films we’d seen on little screens played in our ‘eads
anyone passing by was soldiers not merely men
we ‘ushed ourselves with sweets and glacier mints
we felt alive, animal, primal
a fox’s den, territorial
we didn’t know war
just the mood of cubs hidin’
wild eyes ablaze
licked clean by mums
a wilderness still alight in us.

The hero we didn’t ask for, Holden Mcgroin writes another letter from Mammaroon.

MattLeave a comment

Dear friends,

I awoke today to a bowl of porridge!

Let me catch you up.

So I was on that desert planet, wherever that was, gathering all the moisture I could onto my desperate, thirsty tongue when at once a troop of the small, boobacious spidery variety came upon me, grabbed me like a group of ants grabbing a grape, a huge grape, mind you. Which brings to mind my piles, but that’s another gripe for another time.

Their strength must be mighty to grab a grown man like me, though admittedly, I am smaller than average. Still, my smallness has always made my appendage appear huge, so there has always been that advantage, forgive me, I digress, where was I?

Oh, right, yes, so they grabbed me as one entity and wove me up into the silk of the skies, and I had a bird’s eye view of the ground below, and I saw the mannequins still lying upon their backs. The phallic-like pillar jutting out of the sand from the male mannequin gave the impression of some Greek ruin.

They then proceeded to caccoon me in layer upon layer of silk and try as I might to fight it, somehow they could keep me subdued. And so, although the fright had my heart beating hard against my chest, I could not respond with anything, not even to shape my countenance with a grimace.

I was wrapped so thoroughly in this silky substance, I panicked, suffocation came to mind, and my heart beat itself into a frenzied dance with which flashed images upon images superimposed behind my retinas. The blood of my ancestors, all time stretched out from the past and the future with me in the middle to the beat of a drum. My heart was the drum and the dancer trapped inside my chest.

I asked myself if I was human or dancer, my heart clapped back that I was surely both, with a frenzied salsa.  

I could feel myself being moved through a throng of spidery legs until I was rolled and bundled into a ball and placed inside something dark. The dark space I inhabited moved with a jolt that matched the spasmic quakes of my heart beating at pace.

‘You are the fly.’ A voice spoke aloud to me.

Shit! I’m a fly! I screamed inside my head. I was a fly with no wings to hum my misfortunes into a buzzing scream!

I started to wonder if I was in the belly of one of those spidery beings, if I had actually been eaten.

I could feel movement and hear hushed sounds akin to the white noise of a hospital back on earth, but with the screams only internal.

And then…

Well, that is the weird thing, then nothing much.

I found myself left alone (as far as I could tell), with an opening revealing a harsh white light. My body shook involuntarily, and the silk started to shed away before I peeked out of the little opening, now that my body could move.

Peering out, I could see nothing but a clinical white floor.

‘You’re in a mental hospital.’ A voice said to me, my own voice.

I poked my head further out, sniffed the air, but it didn’t smell like a hospital. I looked around with hesitation, jerking my head left and right with slow jerks of the head. When I spotted someone of human form, I shrieked back into the container and skittered as far into the darkest corners as I could.

Then an eye peeped through the opening, looking at me, ‘Holden!’ A voice said from the eye.

It took me a moment to remember that was my name.

‘Holden! It is I! Spoon!’

The corner held me, cradled me, ‘Spoon.’ I muttered to myself softly, not wanting to be heard but needing to get the word out of my breast.

‘Remember?’ The eye spoke again. ‘Come out, you’re home’ The eye beamed.

‘Home?’ I frowned into the dark corner and muddled through this. ‘Earth?’ I mumbled to myself.

After he attempted to coax me out, he left me for a while, and I eventually scuttled back to the opening, peeping out again, till I saw the top of that same human form above a platoform that my brain soon reemembered was a kitchen worktop. I slithered out of the container and, much to my surprise, when I was fully out of the thing, I realised I’d been inside a huge bag!

‘Holden!’ Spoon beamed, though he remained where he stood.

‘S..Spoon’, I stuttered and looked around me.

The tank was as it had always been, one of the mammarrians (the big boss ones) was standing outside the tank looking in with a queer expression on it’s face which I think may have been an alien expresson of Curiousity. Another one, even bigger than the one with the queer expression ambled by with a rumble and appeared to communicate something with the other before looking in the tank too.

‘You’re a fish out of water!’ Spoon said.

I looked at him blankly, remembering the desert planet, my skin burning.

‘A fish for sore eyes, too!’ Spoon scowled and came over to me, ‘I’ll get some ointment.’

‘Where in the hell have I been?’

Spoon turned to look over his shoulder as he rummaged for the ointment, ‘The tank needed cleaning.’

‘What?’ I looked at him dumbfounded.

‘The tank,’ Spoon said, ‘It needed cleaning.’

I put a hand to my face and grazed the skin with my fingertips, feeling like my face would melt away at my touch.

My skin has since started to heal, though it is scarred. Spoon and I have been living a life of domestic bliss, at least in terms of what bliss can be found while living in a fish tank.

‘Where was that?’ This morning, I asked him over my porridge, ‘Where I went, when they were cleaning the tank?’ I’d only just managed to muster the wherewithal of asking again.

‘The Sands.’ He answered matter-of-factly.

‘The Sands?’

‘Yes. One of the many Deserts of Mammaroon.’  

‘And why, did they put me in the middle of a desert while they cleaned my tank?’

‘Curiosity.’

I spat my orange juice (I called it orange juice because it was the colour orange, not because it tasted like orange), ‘Curiousity? Good god! Jesus Christ! Fuck me sideways and hold my groin!’

‘I would, if I could.’ Spoon replied.

I blinked at him, forgetting my previous words. ‘Are they trying to breed me?’

Now it was Spoon’s turn to blink, ‘What?’

‘Breed. Are they trying to breed from me?’

‘Why’d you ask that?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Spoon sighed. It sounded much too human-like to be real from an android! ‘Your planet…’

I stopped him short with a jutt of my hand, palm up, ‘No. No. I don’t wanna hear it. Never mind.’

Honestly, that’s all I have left of ink. While there is probably much more I should say, I shall end this letter here.

Yours faithfully,

Holden McGroin.

Humour me more of my letters from Mammaroon

MattLeave a comment

Dear, Friends

Another letter in such quick succession! I know! But there is much more to report on, dear friends!

I must be going crazy! There is no other explanation!

I awoke today to find that the mannequins were no longer standing hand in hand. I initially thought they were nowhere to be seen in my sleepy haze! Till I opened my bleary eyes further, looked around me, and realised that they were now lying down, each mostly submerged in the sand but for their knees jutting out. One had its legs spread open, the one I had drunk from the other day; the hole was visible as if trying to entice me. The other one, whom I had never seen the front of, as I never dared go near where they stood, as there was an ominous energy about them, had a phallic-like column jutting out of the sand. Yes, You read that right!

At first, I didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to think anything more about it. Frankly, my skin was itchy and sore, my lips sore and dry, and my stomach aching so I rolled over and started to doze again.

When I came to again, I looked back at the Mannequins, who were still lying in the same position. It was then I noticed some sand had since blown off their torsos, and I could see little beads of sweat on their chests. I crawled and slid across the sand, parched as I was. The journey towards them felt like it had taken forever, and it had taken me a while.
I curled up next the mannequins and went back into a hazy sleep.

When I awoke, I painfully crawled closer and started licking at the little beads of mannequin ‘sweat’ with a great thirst.
‘Oh, thank you!’ I found myself saying, ‘I need this!’ I said, every bead tasting like heaven to my tongue. I followed the mannequin’s body with my tongue till I reached under its knees, and then I was between the legs and licking up any moisture I could.
It hadn’t occurred to me, Dear friend, in my thirsty haste what this looked like! I was just so glad of any water! No matter how little the baubles!
But as I reached closer to the hole, a thought startled me!
‘No!’ I shouted or instead tried to shout from my wretched throat, ‘No, I will not!’ I felt my nails dig into the sore skin of my hands as I made fists. ‘Fuck you!’
See, it had occurred to me that this was what they wanted; this was what they were counting on! They were breeding from me! They were trying to get my sperm! I know how crazy that sounds, but is that so crazy after all I’ve told you? Alice and my daughter flashed into my mind, and it all made sense. They’re using me to breed!
Then, another horrifying thought entered my head, does this mean, dear friends, you no longer exist? Are we near extinction? Were trying to conserve us, using me? Am I the last man alive?

No. No. No.

No, I will not have it! If that is so, I shall die here. I shall die out, and I shall not be giving them anything of mine!

Yours faithfully,

Holden Mcgroin.

Author’s note: I think these letters have essentially become my creative outlet for writing practice. They’re hit and miss, but I’m sharing them anyway.

Letters from another planet: The Mammaroon letters

MattLeave a comment

Dear friends,

I doubt these letters get to you; it’s all wishful thinking on my part. Alas, I shall write anyway as Sisyphus would, right?

I have since been taken out of the fish tank-like home again and, this time, placed on a desolate planet. Well, I can only assume it’s a planet. A never-ending ocean of sand surrounds me, and the heat from two suns bears down on me; it’s unbearable.
I have sunburn and blisters galore all over my skin.

The only company I have is two mannequins; they stand hand in hand, ivory coloured, with the suns beaming down on their bald heads. Sometimes, the suns shine from such an angle that it blinds me to look at their heads.

I don’t know if this is a punishment and, if so, what it would be for.

I go in and out of delirium, and I’ve had many a moment where I think up a sordid joke inside my head, and a tumbleweed rolls past as if the world has read my fragmented mind and I’ve become the butt of the planet’s irony.

I have seen no other living thing, though sometimes I could swear the mannequins are watching me. I swear that sometimes they move; I have seen them lift a hand and wave at me!
One day, I awoke to find only one mannequin standing in place, the sand heaping around its feet, and when I turned around, the other one stood inches away from me. Between its legs was a hole, and water started to gush forth from it. I knelt underneath and let that water pour, lappin it up with a ferocious thirst. The mannequin returned to its previous spot next to the other, and again, they stood hand in hand.
‘You’re alive!’ I shouted toward them, ‘Come! I need more water!’ I bellowed. But they stood stock still as if neither had ever moved before.

I don’t know what else to say right now, so I shall leave this here.

Yours faithfully,
Holden Mcgroin.

P.S. I must amend my first observation that no other living thing is here with me because since I first wrote this letter, I have seen those little boobacious spiders falling from the purpled night sky. And, my, what a sight they were! And a sight they’ve left behind!
They glowed as if bioluminescent, something I had never observed in the boobacious species before. The purpled sky lit up turquoise like that plankton you have in the ocean on Earth!
The boobacious spiders fell to the sand and crawled in stop and start jerks, before riding their webs back up into the sky and slowly one by one the turquoise disappeared.
But now, in the sky, a tapestry of silk has been left behind and sometimes baubles of dew sparkle before dropping into the sand.
I don’t know what any of this means. Maybe I’m hallucinating the whole damn thing at this point.

Previous letters from the character Holden Mcgroin

Slaughter house of rage

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There is a haunted house where something innocuous, like a painting or a shoe, is moved every day. And there is the sound of a dripping tap. Drip. Drip. But every time you go to look, the drip is gone, but as soon as you turn your back, Drip Drip it goes.
When the night comes to pass and you’re lying in your bed, the washing machine is spinning and spinning like all the thoughts in your head. And it spins and spins, and the swill in your head rinses the same old lines all over again.
And your skull is beside itself with its smug grin, laughing in your sleep; that’s why you grind your teeth.
And when you go outside, you see that your skeleton is wearing someone else’s fucking skin! And the man laughs, he laughs like your skull in your sleep, and you want to grab hold of that fucker and bleed your wrath all over him!

Put your heart and soul into it: A Drew and Drake story

MattLeave a comment

Drew consoled himself with a packet of wotsits and a cartoon on the TV as the ambulance drove away.
‘Psst.’
Drew looked around but could see no one. He shrugged and continued munching on his wotsits.
‘Pssst!’
Drew drew himself forward on the couch, ‘Hello?’
‘Psst, here!’
Drew looked around the room, eyes darting back and forth uncertainly, ‘Hello?’
‘Here!’ The voice called again.
Drew picked up the remote with cheesy fingers, leaving a grease stain on the mute button. ‘Hello?’ he whispered uncertainly.
The cartoon moved onto adverts; a girl stood open-mouthed in fake awe of a pink plastic toy.
‘Drew! I need you to get my body back!’ The voice had panic in it.
‘Drake?’ Drew looked dumbfounded and sprung off the sofa, ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m in the Dambuster!’ Came Drakes’s voice.
Drew’s face remained blank.
‘The damn Dambuster!’ Drake called out, frustrated.
‘Is that a hoover?’ Drew lurched toward the broken hoover in the corner of the room.
‘No! No!’ Drake’s voice started, and the panic heightened in his voice, ‘Air fix model plane! 1:72 Lancaster Dambuster!’
Drew found the Lancaster Dambuster model on the table next to the sofa. He picked it up delicately and put it to his ear like a phone, ‘Drake?’
‘I’m here! You got me!’ Drake replied with relief, his voice clipped and loud inside Drake’s ear.
‘Bloody hell! Turn the volume down!’
‘Or take me away from your ear!’ Drake would have been shaking his head if he could, ‘Listen, Drew! You need to get to my body!’
‘How did you even get in there? The paramedics took you away!’ Drew held the Dambuster in his right hand and scratched his balls in his shorts.
‘I put my heart and soul into this model!’ 
‘And now look at ya! You’re a damn dambuster!’
Drake sighed.

Drew raced out the door, the Dambuster in the crook of his arm.
‘Careful!’ Drake drolled, ‘I’m made of plastic!’
‘Aren’t we all these days.’ Drew muttered.
There was silence except for Drew’s heavy, lumbering footsteps until Drake finally broke it. ‘Drew?’
‘Yea?’
‘When did you become so profound?’
‘You’ve not been found yet.’ Drew replied.
The dambuster tutted beneath the crook of Drew’s arm.
‘I’ll be profound when I’ve got you back.’
‘I’m here.’
‘I mean when you’re made of flesh.’ Drew replied.
‘Alright, Drew?’ Billy stepped off the curve of the pavement to step around him, ‘Talkin’ t’ yaself?’
‘No I was talkin’ t’…’ Drew stopped and felt the Airfix model beneath the crook of his arm, ‘I guess maybe I was.’
‘Where is Drake?’ Billy asked, looking around for him before his eyes beamed on the model and with a huge grin and glint in his eyes he asked, ‘I used t’ make them as a kid! Airfix model, is it?’
Drew nodded.
‘Can I have a look?’
Drew squinted in the sun, ‘I dunno about that.’
‘Protective over it are ya?’ Billy smirked and stepped closer to Drew, Bending a little to view the plane. ‘Ya make that yaself?’
‘No, Drake made it.’
‘Wow. He’s really put himself into that!’
Drew gawped, ‘You know?’
Billy looked up from the plane with a frown, ‘What?’
‘Ya said he put himself into it.’
‘Yea. Just look at it.’ Billy snatched it from Drew’s arm, ‘He’s really got an eye for the details. The way he’s painted it to make it look rusted and old. It’s amazing!’ Billy’s eyes popped as he shook his head in amazement, ‘Who’d ‘ave thunk simple old Drake had such in ‘im!’ He grinned from ear to ear, ‘He did put his heart and soul into it didn’t it!’ He beamed, delicately running a finger along the plane’s flank and around the wing’s edges. ‘Hell, I might just be inspired to start up the hobby again myself!’ Billy made as if to return the plane to Drew, ‘You be careful how ya carry ‘er! Can’t have you breaking it!’
Drew held both his hands out to receive the plane.
‘There ya go, now off ya go. Be delicate with her!’
‘It’s a he.’ Drew was shocked, ‘Ya should know that!’
‘Nah a beauty like that is a she! Always a she, Drew.’
Billy turned and continued on his way, turning to look over his shoulder at Drew and the model once or twice before turning the corner to the next street.
‘Well that was gross.’ Intoned the Dambuster in Drake’s voice.
‘Ya tellin’ me ya got a sex change too?’ Drew asked the dambuster, his face screwed up, ‘Ya coulda told me!’
‘What? I haven’t had a bleeding sex change, mate!’
‘But he knew ya were in there. And he said you were a she!’
‘Do ya believe everything Billy tells ya?’
Drew shrugged.
‘Besides, he doesn’t know I’m in here!’
‘He said as much!’ Drew protested.
‘It’s a figure of speech to folk like him. He doesn’t realise it’s real. He says heart and soul as if they are metaphors. He doesn’t actually know I’m in here.’
‘So you haven’t changed your sex?’
The dambuster sighed, ‘That’s your concern right now? If I’ve had a sex change or not? I’m a damn dambuster! Focus, Drew, focus!’

‘Okay, so we’re here.’ Drew told the Airfix model, looking around furtively as he approached the doors.
‘What’s wrong?’ Drakes disembodied voice asked.
‘This place. It’s spooky!’
‘Spookier than a ghost in an Airfix model giving you instructions?’
Drew shrugged.
‘Time is of the essence!’
‘No. Essence is a perfume.’ Drew replied.
‘It’s also time.’ A flustered Drake replied from the Dambuster, ‘I dunno how long my body can be dead till it can’t take my soul back!’
Drew ran across the road and rattled the doors, ‘I can’t get in!’
‘You’re gonna have to break in!’
‘I can’t break in!’ Drew huffed.
‘Yes you can! You’ve done it before! It’s not your first crime!’
‘But I’ve been on a good streak!’
‘Do you want me to be a damn dambuster for the rest of my fucking life?’
Drew stopped to think about this a moment, the silence engulfing them before a car sped past. Drew tried to look nonchalant, scuffing the pavement with the toe of his shoe, hugging the airfix model close to his body.
‘Fuck sake! It shouldn’t take that long to think about! It’s obvious!’
‘Sorry, it’s just… I mean… You’re still here with me! So…I don’t mind if you’re an airfix plane or whatever else!’
‘Aww,’ Drake snapped, ‘How cute!’ He said sarcastically, ‘Listen, Drew, I need you to pick the lock. You’ve picked a lock before.’
‘No you picked the locks’ Drew protested.
‘Did I?’
‘Yea you picked the locks!’
‘Okay. But you saw me do it!’
Another car drove by, the passenger giving Drew the side eye as he whispered to the airfix model, ‘I wasn’t paying attention to you! I was on the lookout.’
‘Well..’ Drake started…
A car door opened and closed nearby, and then shoes scuffing on the pavement could be heard inching closer, accompanied by a plastic rattle.
A woman broached the corner, a plastic carrier bag in one hand, and a waft of perfume made its way toward them.
‘Time and essence.’ Drew mumbled to himself.
The woman stopped short at the sight of Drew outside the doors, clutching the Dambuster in his grubby hands.
She read his face, a look of anxious desperation.
‘Hello,’ Piercing the moment with her voice, ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ She plopped the carrier bag down on the pavement and twisted her body to root through her handbag, fishing out a selection of keys that rang together as she pulled them out.
‘I need to get in to see Drake.’
‘Drake?’ The woman picked the carrier bag back up and walked towards the doors and unlocked them. ‘Surname?’
‘Whitlock.’
‘And what do you need to see this, erm..’ The keys rattled in her hands, ‘Mr Whitlock’s body for?’
‘Because…’
‘Halt it, Drew. She won’t believe you.’
Drew swallowed audibly, ‘Because I miss him.’
‘Tell her you want to place the dambuster with him.’
Drew held out the plane in her face, ‘I want to put this with him.’
‘Tell her he put his heart and soul into it and he’d have wanted it to be with him.’
‘He would have wanted it to be with him.’ Drew told her.
The woman looked at him suspiciously. ‘No,’ She frowned, ‘That would be a job for the undertakers. You think I can just let any random man in off the streets to come look at some mans body?’ She shook her head again, ‘What about dignity? What about respect? what about…’
As she prattled on, Drake instructed Drew to sneak in through the doors while they had the chance.
‘Hey!’ The woman stormed in through the doors, ‘Young man!’ She shouted after him.

Running into the cold room lined with steel drawers Drew pulled each one out till he found Drake’s lifeless body.
‘Now what do I do?’ Drew asked.
‘I dunno. Place me on my body.’ Drake replied
Drew placed the airfix model of the Dambuster onto Drake’s body.
The lights above buzzed monotonously and a tap dripped somewhere off to the side.
‘Psst, Drew…’
‘Yea?’
‘I…I dunno what to do now. How do I get myself back into my body?’
Drew frowned, ‘Well, how’d you get in the Dambuster?’
‘I told you, I put my heart and soul into it!’
‘Well do the same again but into your body.’
‘But,’ Drew could almost hear the expression Drake would have been pulling on his face if he could, eyebrows drawn together in a frown, ‘It’s not the same thing. I was making it, I put a lot of effort into it.’
‘Put a lot of effort into getting back into your body then.’ Drew shrugged.
The Dambuster started to vibrate with the effort as the woman stormed in.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in here?’ She scowled, her eyes reaching the airfix model widened, ‘What on earth is going on with that?’
She lurched toward Drew, ‘Is this some kind of degenerate sexual thing!’ She looked from Drew to the Dambuster, ‘What is that toy doing! Why is it vibrating like that!’
‘He’s trying to get back into his body!’
Befuddled the woman stepped back, ‘What? Who?’
‘Drake! He’s trying to get back into his body!’
‘What do you mean he’s trying to get back into his body?’ She asked in a shrill voice.
Drew pointed to the Dambuster, ‘ He’s in there, ‘And it’s not a toy. It’s an Airfix model.’
The woman started, ‘It’s not a toy? It’s a….’
The Dambuster started to vibrate even harder, and one of the propellers began to spin, which caused a chain reaction, and they all began to move.
‘What trickery is this?’ The woman asked appaled, ‘This is inappropriate behaviour inside a morgue.’
‘There is no trickery,’ Drake’s voice croaked.
The woman jumped out of her skin, and her body landed limply on the cold tiled floor.
‘Fuck,’ Drake spat as he got up off the metal gurney, ‘I think we’ve killed her!’ He ran over to her and checked for a pulse, ‘Shit. She’s gone.’
‘What happened to her?’ Drew asked.
‘I think I scared her to death.’
‘She jumped out of her skin.’ Drew muttered to himself.
Standing there naked over her, feeling for a pulse Drake smiled, ‘I think you’re onto something there!’
‘What?’ Drew gawped.
‘She jumped out of her skin. Maybe she’ll jump back in, in a minute.’
‘Can we go home now?’
Drake tutted and shook his head, ‘No hug for your old mate? Not even a ‘welcome back mate.”
‘Not while you’re naked like that, no.’ Drew replied.

All too human 2

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Chapter 1 https://silverbackgorillapoetry.com/2024/11/09/all-too-human/

*Note* — means the same place, or area but moved to a different scene in the present.

* Means we’ve gone back to an old memory.

Chapter 2

‘It’s the bag man puffter robot!’ One of the boys hollered as he passed a football to one of his friends.
Sparks preferred it when it was he was just known as the bag man. He scrunched the top of the bag up in his fist.
‘You know,’ the eldest kid started as he kicked the ball back, ‘this ball is getting a little flat,’ He looked toward Sparks, then back at his friends with a gleam of expectation in his eyes.
The ball passed between them quickly when one of the boys said, ‘Hey! We could use that head the puffter robot carries!’
The boys all laughed.
‘How did it work?’ One of the boys said, the football stopped underneath his left foot, ‘I heard you robots are as smooth as a mannequin down there!’
The boys started to howl with laughter, ‘Do you just wet your fingers and stick them into each other’s ears?’ The boys spat with laughter, the ball rolling along the road.
Sparks quickened his pace up through the ginnel.

—


       The late afternoon sun shone through the windows, dust motes gliding visibly in the rays. The Holo TV spat out a news presenter in 3D into the living room. Sparks sat in an old tattered armchair with the palms of his hands flat on his thighs.
     ‘You been to the scraps today?’ Mary asked, sitting in the other armchair to the side and in front of him.
    Sparks nodded.
     The newswoman spoke of local news about a family that was looking for their missing cat.
    Mary groaned, ‘Can’t stand cats,’ She remarked; it’s probably gone to be alone to die.’ Her fingers trailed through a woolen ball, ‘I prefer dogs myself.’ Then, she turned to Sparks, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever cared much for either.’
   Sparks didn’t reply, going deep inside his head in memory.

*

Sparks sat outside Lockwood HQ when a stray dog ran past him. The dog was skeletal looking, and his fur was full of mange.
Sparks had called out to the dog, clicking his mouth valves to try and attract his attention.
The dog’s ears twitched at the sounds, but he ran when he saw Sparks’s tall figure.
A stone was thrown behind Sparks, landing on the pavement with a clack.
‘Psst!’ Came a voice.
Sparks turned at the sound coming from the cobbled sidestreet.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sparks asked, looking over at one of the guard droids in front of HQ.
‘It was how you left, it was…’ Sark  tried to find the words, ‘You worried me.’
‘Nothing makes sense anymore,’ Sparks told him. ‘I’m an android; I’m not supposed to have emotions.’
‘What are you feeling?’
Sparks shrugged, ‘I don’t know. I just know I’m not supposed to feel the way I do.’
Sark  grabbed Sparks by the arm and dragged him up the cobbled road.
‘I need to find that poor dog!’ Sparks protested.
‘We’ll find him tomorrow,’ Sark  said.
‘But who knows how far he might get!’
Sark  shook his head in the dark, ‘It’s okay, I’ve seen it about before. I promise we’ll try to find him tomorrow.’ Sark  gestured with open palms, ‘Besides, it won’t be too easy to find him right now.’
Sparks looked over his shoulder at the flashing street lights, then up at the sky.
‘You put yourself at risk coming here!’ Sparks whispered.
‘Yea,’ Sark  grabbed Sparks’s hand, ‘I risked it…’ He stopped in his tracks with a frown, looking down at their holding hands, ‘What happened to your hand?’

The next day Sark  stuck to his promise and helped sparks find the stray dog. After searching all morning they eventually found the dog hidden in some bushes in a little wooded area near the church where Sark  and Sparks first met.

The dog would not budge; the only thing visible was a bit of his fur and the mange through gaps of foliage. ‘We’ll leave some food,’ Sparks said, ‘I don’t think he’s gonna come out for us.’

On the second night of going to the woods to leave out water and food for the dog, they had their first kiss.
Sark  had gotten down to his knees to place the bowl, and when he turned, Sparks, for reasons he couldn’t explain, placed a hand behind Sark ‘s head and pushed his face inbetween his legs.
As soon as he’d done it he pulled back, ‘Sorry,’ he started, ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
Sark  got up and kissed Sparks desperately, their mouth valves flapping over each other.


—

The HoloTV spat out a different presenter. He smiled at the audience watching in all the boroughs; a picture of Malborough Plaza HQ was framed behind him.
‘Malborough Plaza HQ is rebuilding itself from the inside, hoping to prevent such tragic events as happened at Lockwood and Princeton HQ. Now we’ll go to our correspondent Neil.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Neil responded with the massive HQ building towering over him. ‘To prevent more of the same,’ the lights changed for a flash with images of a destroyed Lockwood HQ building and then another one of Princeton HQ before swiftly returning to the reporter. ‘Malborough HQ says they’re working on finding any and all faulty androids working within it’s walls and dismantling those that are malfunctioning…’

‘Turn it off!’ Sparks spat, his fingers curling on his thighs. But his monotone voice did not translate the urgency and irritation in which he meant it.

Mary scoffed, ‘How else will I keep up with what’s happening in the world?’
*
Sark  and Sparks eventually got the dog close enough

to grab him on a lead after a week and a half of returning to the same spot each day.
‘What are you going to call him?’ Sark  asked him as they gently pulled the hesitating dog along.
Sparks shrugged down and looked at the dog, ‘I don’t know yet,’ He placed a hand in front of the dogs nose which smelt of dog food. The dog sniffed his fingers anxiously, licked his fingertips delicately, then pulled away with a whine.
‘It’s alright,’ Sparks spoke to the dog, ‘You’re safe with me, little friend.’

  • —

                        Sparks shot up from his chair, ‘I’m going back into the garage!’
Mary turned and nodded to acknowledge she’d heard.

—

He placed Sark ‘s head on the little wooden pedestal he had made, the silver heart hanging down like a pendant on a necklace.
‘No one understands me as you do.’ Sparks whispered.

The house was silent but for the creaks on the floorboard upstairs as Mary got ready for bed. In the bathroom, she stood before the mirror, brushing her teeth, then picked up some dentures from a glass of water and brushed them delicately with some toothpaste. ‘We need to keep your smiled spick and span, don’t we, Walter?’ She smiled back at the teeth and kissed the front teeth as she stepped across in her fluffy slippers toward the bedroom.