life

A Rambling Book Review: Stephen King as Richard Bachman, The Long Walk

MattLeave a comment

A small amount of spoilers for anyone who wishes to read the book or watch the new film. You have been warned.

I have read this before, and it’s one of those books I always remembered, so I decided to reread it. It started with me thinking that maybe I had misremembered how good it was. I wasn’t quite geling with it like I had remembered, but I persevered through the first few chapters, and I was drawn in again. It’s somehow very readable, even as it disturbs somewhat.

The Long Walk seems to be a metaphor for life, how we each fear death to varying degrees, and we hear and see other people have died, yet we have to continue with life regardless. Despite seeing and hearing of those around us who have died through the years, a lot of us spend time with the intellectual knowledge that we will one day die, yet emotionally, we often don’t quite believe it. It’s a weird cognitive dissonance I’ve observed in myself and others. This whole story seems to be an exercise in that fight inside our heads, that fear and panic at the knowledge of our death and how often to defeat that fear and panic, we bumble along and emotionally soothe ourselves.

This was readily observable in 2020 during the height of the pandemic. While people were dying, there were discussions on TV shows and YouTube videos about how the people most at risk were those with ‘underlying health issues. ‘ People would say things like, ‘I’m not too worried about Covid because I’m healthy.’ People said this a lot, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘I guess if they repeat it, they feel better about the uncertainty.’ People spoke of this with an element of pride in their supposed health status, but underneath it, as callous as it appeared, they were soothing themselves, because it could potentially be them, and deep down, I think a lot of them knew it.
Every time the new death count came on the news, people all consoled themselves that they hadn’t caught it yet, or they caught it and it felt like a common cold! Then you have the other people who got on a train from conspiracy station, anything to make their potential death a more controllable outcome. If it’s a conspiracy, then this virus isn’t real; actually, the whole thing was planned. Things are easier if everything is controllable by human hands. Even if controlled by evil humans, at least it was humans, and if evil humans had control, then good humans could regain control. If the virus isn’t real, then those invisible things that can make us feel bad, or cause chronic illness or indeed kill us, aren’t real.

I’ve had conversations before with people, talking about someone who has just died, and the person will say something like, ‘Well, he did have heart issues.’ Yeah, he may well have, but that doesn’t mean death won’t find you, too.

The character Stebbins seemed to be doing just fine, no warnings, not till the end, yet he didn’t win, did he?

Olson continued for a long time, despite appearing like the dead walking; some of the seemingly fittest walkers got their ticket not because of a physical setback, but because they went crazy.

That’s another thing life does to you: it can drive you crazy, and if it doesn’t drive you crazy, you may well have been born crazy so that you wouldn’t know the difference.

Then you had the crowd congealing into one mass face of the monster created by the Frankenstein-esque mediascape that promoted such a bloody dystopian idea, and how they felt joy and cheered on the bloody deaths.

Seems familiar. There is something in the human psyche that, when congealed together as one mass, they become monstrous entities controlled no longer by individuals but by a baser surge of bloodlust.

I enjoyed reading this book; Stephen King is a very hit-or-miss author with me. This is one of the hits.

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!’

…And

Matt2 Comments

outside covered itself in our intentions
or lack thereof
It’s hard to be sure
but death laid itself bare
the truest of all deaths
for life did not stir
Not from last year’s seed
nor the loins of death itself

…..And it was true
there was nothing wild left
but for the action of fucking

To The Drum Of Slain Beasts

MattLeave a comment

the blush of autumn since passed
the world lay naked
since life found its place in death
seeded with that which will spring
redressing all the ruin
when the earth puts on her blooms
and swathes us all in her scent
while we make smoke of the summer
as if burning incense
to the Gods of hell
and what comes rushing
but the blood of slain beasts
as our hearts beat to the drum
of this machine
we’re surely cradled in

All too human

Matt1 Comment

CHAPTER ONE

A prison stood tall and grey above all the scattered little houses and storage units that permeated the old industrial complex. Barbed wire fences glimmered with morning dew.

Sparks shuffled along the pavement carrying a blue and white striped bag.

‘It’s the bag man!’ The boy cried out to his friends.

They looked at him with laughter in their eyes.

The eldest of them, who stood in the shadows of the street, lurched forwards and grabbed the bag from his hand.

‘I wonder what it is!’ He said theatrically.

He threw the bag like a ball at one of the other boys, and the boy caught it, and threw it toward another boy.

Sparks stood in the middle, stretching his arms, trying to grab it back every time they threw it. It was awkward, an embarrassment, given his superior strength.

In their excitement, one of the five boys lost his grip on the bag while trying to catch it; the bag flailed off onto the road.

‘No!’ Sparks cried out in dread reaching down to the ground where his lover’s head had dropped with a plop out from the boy’s hands.

‘What the fuck?’ The boy rang out, stepping back.

The other boys laughed.

‘Are you seeing this?’ The elder boy grinned.

Sparks lunged towards his lover’s head, picking it up, ‘No! no! Sark !’ He examined the head for any signs of damage. A slight dint on his chin and dust from the road picked up on the silicone skin but nothing more.

He scrunched up the bag from the road and placed his lovers head back within it.

‘Aww,’ one of the younger boys said mockingly, ‘It’s a puff robot!’

The boys snickered.

‘Are you a puffter robot?’ The eldest shouted, looking towards his younger companions for affirmation.

‘Puffter robot!’ They all chanted, ‘puffter robot!’

He hurriedly walked up through the ginnel, still hearing their mockery behind him.

—

The solar panel shimmered at the side of the house, and bric-a-brac lay in piles. The sun shone white and bright through the clouds.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sparks uttered, smooching Sark ‘s dirty head on the pedestal.

‘Those boys are evil!’ He spat.

Wires hung out from the bottom of Sark ‘s neck.

Sparks turned to his workbench, ‘See, I’m going to fix you!’ He said desperately, picking up a soldering iron and taking a silver battery shaped like a heart with his other hand.

‘If I just connect these up,’ He turned back to Sark .

He took the soldering iron and connected the wires to their relevant connection points; his big hands worked awkwardly yet delicately.

He pulled the hair from Sark ‘s scalp and slid off the silicone skin, which took some effort to get off in one piece.

The silver dome bore scratches and a slight dent. The dent had become shiny with worry from Spark’s fingers.

He turned back to the workbench and picked up his electric screwdriver. Unscrewing the braincase felt like such an intimate moment, even though, logically, he knew android doctors had done this many times.

He kissed the silver dome rhythmically in between each screw he loosened.

When the braincase was off, Sark ‘s circuitry was revealed, with all its many wires going down into the little tank which held a cloned human brain.

There was a switch within all the wires and circuitry; flipping the switch to on, the heart started to beat and vibrate against the pedestal.

He bowed over the pedestal and looked for a reaction in Sark ‘s eyes. There was blinking, and then nothing.

Spark’s fingers traced down his cheek, ‘Sark ?’ he whispered gently in his ear, ‘Sark ? Are you there?’

Sparks stepped around and crouched in front of Sark ‘s face, ‘Please,’ He said.

But Sparks had no tears to cry.

‘Please,’ He sobbed dryly, resting his head against Sark ‘s, ‘I need you, Sark !’ He cried despairingly.

Sark ‘s heart vibrated against his chest, and he rested his head there, stripped bare in grief; he slowly went into sleep mode.

*

Though droids of his model were not supposed to have the ability to dream, dream he did.

Sparks and Sark had the secret droid bar to themselves; the room was awash in a warm red glow.

‘Do you have much sensation in your skin?’ Sark had asked him as they lay together on an L-shaped sofa.

‘I have sensors at various places underneath the skin to know when I’m in water or if something has caught on my skin and torn it.’ As Sparks spoke he felt something light on his hand, ‘What was that?’ He had asked, looking down.

Sark smiled at him sheepishly.

‘What was it?’

Sark  showed him a feather in his hand, ‘can you feel this?’ He brushed the feather on Sparks’s cheek.

‘Yes, only just.’

‘Is it a good feeling?’ Sark  talked with a whisper that held an urgency within his breath.

‘it doesn’t feel bad,’ Sparks replied.

‘I..’ Sark  stopped stroking him with the feather, ‘Does that mean good, or just neutral?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sparks replied, ‘What does it feel like to you?’ Sparks asked curiously.

‘Want to try it on me?’ Sark beamed with a smirk.

‘Why do I get the feeling this… this is…’ Sparks started.

Sark stopped him short and put his lips on his.

They kissed like they had that first time out in the woods, their mouth valves flapping.

While they were kissing, Sark slid the feather into Sparks’s hand. It was only a small feather with blue and black stripes and a slight white tinge. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the feather and stopped kissing abruptly.

‘Try it on me,’ Sark whispered with that urgency Sparks had previously noted. He couldn’t understand how such a tiny feather could call for such urgency! Sparks brushed the feather against Sark ‘s fingers, then down the palm of his hand.

‘It tickles,’ Sark spoke softly.

‘I suppose that was the word I was looking for.’ Sparks replied in his monotone voice.

Sparks was searching through his mind for what to do in these situations but was coming up blank though he had started to get the gist; this was something sexual; there was something he could feel though he didn’t have the words for it.

The more he thought about Sark ‘s hand or moving the feather over his body, the more the sensations were emboldened. Finally, Sark  took the feather from him and moved it over Sparks’s ear like a silent whisper, sending a tingle that transferred itself down his face. 

The doorknob rattled and moved; they both jerked up straight on the couch, turning to the TV. Sark ‘s face flushed red.

The rattling continued, then stopped abruptly.

‘What was that about?’ Sparks asked, walking towards the door. He opened it ajar and peered through.

A bulky security droid was standing outside in the vestibule.

‘Everything okay, Chief?’ Sparks asked.

Chief looked at him blankly, ‘Oh,’ He said, ‘Didn’t know anyone was still in here.’

‘Are you coming in?’

‘Nah,’ Chief replied, eyeing Sparks suspiciously.

‘I’m off to charge,’ Cheif said, pointing toward the door to the other room.

When Sparks closed the door behind him, Sark  burst out laughing, the redness leaving his face.

Sparks lunged toward him and kissed his lips, Sark ‘s urgency having transferred to Sparks. He was no longer in thinking mode; his logic circuits went off as if a switch had been flicked, and he was undressing Sark  desperately.

It wasn’t so much the feelings in his body from touch that mattered; the intentions seemed to matter most to his android brain.

Sark ‘s face started to flush again from excitement rather than embarrassment. Sark  grabbed at Sparks’s clothes to pull them off.

Their hands explored each others android bodes, and then Sark  stopped short at Sparks’s belly button.

‘Do you need any oil?’

Sparks shook his head.

‘I think you need some oil.’ Sark  told him, stepping behind the bar and getting a little bottle.

Then Sparks understood.

Sark  squirted the oil into Sparks’s belly button while his free hand roamed between his legs.

Sparks had no sensors between his legs, but sensors elsewhere in his body lit up, generating feelings.

There were moments when it seemed a bit much, moments when his logic circuits turned back on. But he went with it, hoping the excitement would turn off his logic circuits again.

Neon night

MattLeave a comment

An electric cluster fuck glowing red between lips
lungs become popcorn
in this electronic bliss of vapours
and blueberry smells
and the moon joins the glow
with it’s neon white noise
as the street lamps buzz
that monotonous hum
and the local takeaways spill out orange hues
that seem brighter than the sun
waves of traffic and bokeh lights
fill squinting eyes
we’re burning ourselves into photographs
caught in all these flashes of light
no stars to sight
not tonight, this neon night.

Diary of a superfical cunt

MattLeave a comment

I don’t think I really like nature. It’s too cruel for my soft little half-hearted pitter-patter of a beating fucking heart.

What I’ve really been admiring all this time is the individual animal, the cleaned-up looking images that make the aesthetics of nature look harmonious. That is what I’ve been chasing after, the perfect imagery of all ‘peace’ and ‘green’ and so far removed from the truth of the brutality of it all.

And I suspect that’s also what most others mean when they say they love nature. No, the truth is we only love what we wish nature was like.

People say things like, ‘isn’t the British countryside so beautiful.’ But all I have ever seen in our oh so quaint British countryside is the same greenery turning brown, over and over and over and over…A vast emptiness in which a liminal space hangs between us and the dread we’re so clearly meant to be feeling.

I’m not talking about the brown of autumn as the green slips and slides into reds, browns and yellows. I’m talking about how it looks to me throughout the year. A vast carcass upon which you all stand and talk about how beautiful it is, with the sun glaring in the sky for this one frightful opportunity of light to see a vast nothingness, a desert you don’t see because it’s dressed in shades of green.
Am I really so far removed from the beauty? Is my perception really so out of wack that we can be seeing the same damn fucking thing?

And in my quest for some semblance of life within this rotten kingdom we call united, I have looked to the woodlands (what little there is left) and nature reserves.

And this is what I’ve learnt, there is no real beauty out there that isn’t only surface deep. Underneath it all is the stark truth of an inherently godless world. And if there is such a thing as a God, it’s worse even still because that God made it this way which can only speak to their absurd level of cruelty.

The truth is British people aren’t a nation of nature lovers, we’re a nation of people who think we’re nature lovers. It might behoove us to know the difference.

And many would say this is the rambling of a mind in a current Depressive state, and I’d say I agree, but then I have to ask, am I wrong? Look at the evidence before you.

People will shriek at the idea of insects, worms worming their way underground, death and the maggots that brings with it. Yet that is all part of the natural world, as is disease, parasites and shit.

Don’t get me wrong there are people who genuinely appear to love nature, and I can only look on at them with jealousy because I sure can’t fathom it.
I thought I belonged to that crowd but the more I contemplate it, the more I fight inside my head every time I try to decide if I want to go out into that world out there, the more I’ve come to the conclusion that it truly is superficial for me.

Scratch under the surface a little, I bleed a hatred that I hold inside of me, a resentment toward nature for being so absolutely bloody, cruel and gross.