Better to leave well alone

Better to leave well alone

Do you believe in resurrection? I don’t mean as an article of faith, or in a metaphorical sense, or even in the macabre way you see in horror movies, I mean literally. I have seen the dead walk in broad daylight. It was both a pleasant surprise and deeply unsettling. Let me tell you about it.

I don’t know if anyone ever owns a cat. We have a cat that visits us periodically and allows us to feed her. She also allows us to open doors and condescends to sleep on a chair by the fireside. The neighbours on one side call her “Blackie” and we, showing no imagination at all, simply call her “Cat”.

Cat is plump, sleek and black. She has thick, shiny fur with a white star, or spot on her belly. She lives her own life. She comes in and out at times she chooses and woe betide the servant who does not open the door or bring sustenance when she requires it, because she is complains loudly.

The other day I was returning home from business. As I turned into my drive I noticed a black bundle lying motionless in the road a little beyond my house. As it wasn’t far away, I parked my car and walked back. There, lying motionless in the road was Cat, dead, the victim of a road accident. I prodded her corpse with the toe of my boot. There she lay, not apparently injured but motionless: fur dishevelled and slick with the drizzle, green eyes sightless and dull, beauty broken. Saddened, I turned back to the house wondering what to do.

I’m not particularly sentimental, but it seemed improper to leave her there on the road to be ground into the tarmac like refuse. I went to the garage, put on a fluorescent jerkin and picked up a shovel. Then I returned the 25 yards or so to the body, slid the shovel under it and lifted it up. There isn’t much weight in a cat. I could tell from the way the shovel slid under her body that rigor mortis was setting in.

The question now was: what to do with her? I rested the shovel, with Cat, on the top of a boundary wall while I considered what to do. This wasn’t something I had planned at all. I suppose I had intended to carry the body home and bury her in the garden, but that would have required digging a grave and the ground is stony. Instead, I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed to the other side where a small copse separates the field beyond from the road. Placing Cat on the verge, I reached down into the ditch and scraped a hollow with the shovel. I placed the body into the hole and dragged the autumn leaves across to cover it. It was the shallowest of shallow graves. There were no prayers and no tears but I felt melancholy as I trudged home in the light rain.

Imagine my surprise when, as I walked down the drive, out from behind my car walked Cat! She marched up to me and rubbed herself against my legs, mewing loudly. As the drizzle was turning to rain, I opened the back door and she swept past me while I turned to the garage to put the shovel away. On my return indoors I found Cat in her usual station, on the chair by the fireplace. She watched me as I laid the kindling and lit the fire. All the time she had that look, which said: “Where have you been? Hurry up! It’s cold outside and I need the fire. And by the way – Where’s my tea?”

What had happened? Obviously there had been another cat which looked very similar to our Cat. It was this second, unknown cat which had been killed, and which I had buried. Except of course, there is room for another explanation.

When my wife returned home I told her what had happened. All the time we were being watched by Cat. My wife said: “Don’t you remember? Siobhan (one of my daughters) sprinkled the cat with Lourdes water.” And that was true. There was the tiny bottle of water, sitting on the kitchen table, and there was Cat, sitting on the chair beside the fire, washing herself.

So now there is the tiniest doubt in my mind. It seems just barely possible that I have been witness to a minor miracle and Cat has been granted an additional lease on life. I suppose I could try and put the conflicting explanations to the test, but the rational side of me has no wish to go digging for in a ditch for a corpse, and the part of me that hopes for miracles is reluctant to look, afraid of what I might, or might not, find. Sometimes it is better to leave well alone.

 (20th November 2016 – 825 words)

Awakening

We woke from a dreamless sleep to darkness and silence. Our chamber was lit only by starlight. The clouds of our breath hung in the frozen air.

We are aware of you in the distance. You have no reason to suspect that we exist. You will continue on your present path. You have no reason to deviate from it. Your projected track will cross ours in the near future, at a time which we can estimate and does not even occur to you. You will make no preparations for the encounter, but we will. As you draw closer, we will listen and we will watch. We will be ready, you will not.

We were waiting. We are watching. We are coming!

 (14th November 2016 – 114 words)

An exercise in writing a prologue or beginning for something longer. This is intended to be menacing. It is almost stand-alone. The beginning of the story proper will start fresh and be disconnected.

Conversation – “Turn up at the page”

(Direct speech)

A: “Have you completed writing that piece yet?”

B: “Not quite. I’m putting the finishing touches to it right now.”

A: “You should have done it ages ago. I’ve been so worried, what with that and all the other things you are supposed to be doing for me.”

B: “Just relax and let me get on with it. You know I told you that I wrote something on the first day. It’s in the folder. That would have done at a push. There has never been anything to worry about.”

A: “But you never seem to treat these assignments with the seriousness they deserve, and you’re always putting things off until the last moment.”

B: “You know that’s not true. This isn’t the last moment, and I’m certainly not rushing to complete it. It’s flowing easily from the pen, or at least from the keyboard keys.”

A: “There you go again! You’re dismissing me, not taking things seriously enough. How do you expect to write something good if you don’t agonise over it and spend ages editing it and polishing it?”

B: “But you know that’s the point, don’t you see? I’m good at editing things. I’ve been doing it for years. English grammar (of a kind) comes naturally to me. What I struggle to do is produce something which flows, has a little dynamism, a little ‘punch’. The easiest way for me to produce that is to imagine the characters and listen to them talking, which is what I’m doing right now.”

A: “I’m so cross! You know you are just using me! You’re taking advantage of me!”

B: “Yes. I suppose I am, in a way. Look, I’m grateful for your contribution. You provide the drive and the editorial input. There it is – finished! You can edit to your hearts content now. Satisfied?”

A/B: Silence…

 (24th October 2016 - 307 words)

Johnnie (with adjectives)

(Description with adjectives- Past Tense, Third Person. This is stream of consciousness, from the Morning Pages.)

Johnnie Campbell walked like a duck! You wouldn’t dare say it to his face, but he did. He thrust his chest forward and stuck out his arse. I remember him (or maybe it was someone else) telling me that he had broken one or both his ankles at some time. Maybe that was the explanation.

At work he wore a long brown warehouseman’s coat and a white hard-hat which was set at a jaunty angle. He always wore a blue shirt to work. I’m not sure if it was always the same shirt, maybe he had several. At the neck was a dirty brown knitted tie. That was always the same. There could hardly have been two like it! It was dirty and its colour shifted from one end to the other. Nobody else wore a tie at Someplace.

When Johnnie was washed and ready to go home he looked smart. Still the same shirt and tie, but his face was polished and his grey hair combed and he wore an old, but smart, tweed jacket.

They were all characters at Someplace. They all seemed to dress distinctively. There was Arthur Fothergill, the Manager. I’m sure I remember him having a grey raincoat which he wore with a belt tied round the waist. Maybe it wasn’t a belt at all, but a length of rope, like a tramp. He was a lean man. That is all I remember.

When Someplace closed, along with everything else at Somewhere, he went down to Redcar. That must have been a hello a way to lead up to retirement.

Davie Foster (the called him “Doctor Foster”, or “The Black Doctor”) wore a grey warehouse coat. I seem to remember that he was the only other person who wasn’t clean shaven. How times change!

 (23rd October 2016 – 321 words)

Johnnie (without adjectives)

Johnnie

(Description without adjectives- Past Tense, First Person)

I remember Johnnie, or maybe it was someone else, telling me that he had broken one or both his ankles in the past. Maybe that was the reason he walked the way he did. He thrust his chest forward, stuck out his arse and swung his legs as he strode along. It made him waddle like a duck! But nobody would dare say that to his face.

All the foremen and management at Someplace were characters. The production workers wore uniform overalls, but each of the supervisors dressed as an individual.

When Johnnie was at work he balanced a hard-hat at an angle on his head. He wore a blue shirt, beneath a dust-coat, and round his neck was a brown knitted tie which changed colour with grime from one end to the other. Nobody else wore a neck-tie at Someplace, but Johnnie did. Before he left for home at the end of each shift he washed and polished himself and put on a tweed jacket, but he retained the blue shirt and brown tie which rather spoiled the effect. I hope he changed them when he got home.

Many years before Johnnie had done his National Service in the Airforce. It still showed in his bearing. He was Scotsman and he said that he disliked the base in the east of England because the country had no hills. Goodness only knows what had made him come to Somewhere, probably work, like the rest of us. He said that when he left the Airforce and first came to Someplace his hands had blistered when he first shovelled coal. That had been a lifetime ago.

 (23rd October 2016 – 291 words)

The Argument (Second Person!)

The Argument (Second Person!)

(Second Person – Future Tense – This is unsettling!)

You will change trains at Darlington. You will hurry along the platform to the waiting diesel train. When you climb aboard, you throw your bag into the overhead rack and throw yourself into a seat. You will notice that the carriage was almost empty and that it smells like a damp dog. You will notice the rivulets of condensation as they run down the inside of the window, as you settle to watch the rain outside.

When people start to join the train a couple will take the pair of seats opposite you, on the other side of the chipped Formica-topped table. He will be was wearing a stained khaki jacket, and holding a bundle wrapped in a black bin-liner, which he will stuff into the luggage rack. She will be smartly dressed in tight jeans and a tailored black jacket. You will assume that they are together, because they will keep exchanging glances.

Outside, the guard will blow his whistle. The steady rattle of the diesel will rise to a roar, and, with a jerk, the train will lurch forward and pull out of the station.

The man in the khaki jacket will lean towards the young woman and say something which you do not catch over the roar of the diesel. She will shrug her shoulders and look away, out of the window, at the passing buildings.

 (16th October 2016 – 245 words)

This is rather unsettling, both to write and to read. I imagine it feels strange to listen to as well.

The Argument (Third Person)

The Argument (Third Person)

(Third Person – Past Tense)

Tom changed trains at Darlington. He hurried along the platform to the waiting diesel train, climbed aboard, threw his bag into the overhead rack and threw himself into a seat. The carriage was almost empty and smelled like a damp dog. Rivulets of condensation ran down the inside of the window, as he settled to watch the rain outside.

People started to join the train and a couple took the pair of seats opposite him, on the other side of the chipped Formica-topped table. The man was wearing a stained khaki jacket, and holding a bundle wrapped in a black bin-liner, which he stuffed into the luggage rack. She was smartly dressed in tight jeans and a tailored black jacket. They were obviously together, because they kept exchanging glances.

Outside, the guard blew his whistle. The steady rattle of the diesel rose to a roar, and, with a jerk, the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station.

The man in the khaki jacket leaned towards the young woman and said something which Tom did not catch over the roar of the diesel. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, out of the window, at the passing buildings.

 (16th October 2016 – 210 words)