A Writer's Story

NEW WEBSITE - WWW.CLIVEMARTYN.COM

2011-06-04T00:47:00.003+01:00

Please visit my new website - www.clivemartyn.com - for my latest posts.

"Rose Cottage" by Clive Martyn

2011-05-27T00:00:00.003+01:00

On the wooden gate the deep gouges from the mortician’s trolley had been filled in, smoothed, sanded and repainted. Where the bonfire had been lit on the grass, the furniture burnt, a new lawn had been laid. The front door had been replaced.
The broken doorjam repaired, painted and varnished. The hall carpet had been ripped up and binned. The blood on the tiles beneath had been scrubbed until only a faint trace remained. A new carpet covered those traces. The scratches from ten red nails dug into the plaster, the deep holes punched by the knife through soft flesh into the wall beyond, had been filled. Fresh green paint had been applied twice. Bloody handprints had been washed off the woodwork, the light switch. In the kitchen the buckshot and brains had been dug out of the ceiling, the holes filled and covered with coats of thick white paint. The corner window shattered by a piece of skull had been replaced. Bleach had cleaned the black and white tiles sufficiently. The maggots had been squished under foot and hovered up. Fresh flowers now stood where the note had been found.

The echoes of the argument…

..the screams…

..had faded.

“Oh it has such a lovely feel,” the young woman said, smiling as she walked through the hallway into the kitchen.

Her husband nodded. “I really like it,” he said, sounding surprised with himself, “and it’s on for 250?”

The Agent looked down at the details again, hiding her nerves, her excitement.

“Yes,” she said smiling as confidently as she could, “quite a bargain, don’t you agree?”

“Wow,” the couple said, grinning at each other.

“I think we should make an offer,” the wife whispered.

She was so quiet only the husband…

…and the house…

…heard.

"When You Can’t Say It Yourself" by Clive Martyn

2011-05-20T12:00:00.002+01:00

My mother made me who I am today. I can say that with my hand on my heart and confess it without a shadow of a lie. My mother has been a constant presence in my life, always there when I needed a word of advice, guidance, support and encouragement; every birthday, every Christmas, every anniversary of her death.

I have always wanted to make her proud, live up to her very high expectations. She chose medicine as my career, something she told me on my 15th birthday. She told me she wanted me to go to Cambridge University the following year, and although at the time my grades weren’t great, I studied and studied every day for the next two years.

I struggled and at times thought I could never make it, crying myself to sleep with the stress, but I did it. Mother knew I would too, she believed in me all the way through, and told me so every time I saw her.

I couldn’t remember her alive or being held in her arms as a baby but my love for her was boundless. She was so wise and understanding, so loving.

Every time my father gave me another tape that Mum had recorded in the short weeks before her death, I would cry.

As a child I felt like Charlie, out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, who spent most of the year hungry and close to starvation but once a year would get a chocolate bar all to his own. I was like that, but my chocolate bar was love, more specifically my mother’s love.

I was never close to my father, he wasn’t good with emotions or at verbalising them, he always preferred the written word to actual human contact.

In thirty years I don’t think he had ever said that he loved me directly.

I had a ritual for watching the videos l that I kept to for years. I would pull the curtains so it was pitch black, put a cushion on the floor and sit as close to the TV as possible, so mother’s image would fill my entire view. I would push the tape into the machine and hold my breath until she appeared on the screen.

You couldn’t see the cancer that was eating away at her. You couldn’t see death hanging over her. She just looked like a young, pale, beautiful woman with long dark hair. She would always smile and check her notes before starting. She seemed so confident, so vibrant. She never looked like someone with only days left.

She had made two hundred and twenty tapes for me, some were only a couple of minutes long, some were over half an hour. She had covered a wide range of subjects everything a boy could ever possibly ask his mother and even subjects that I would never dream of asking; about girls, sex and masturbation. She gave me the confidence to walk up to attractive girls. She gave me the confidence to put my hand up in class. She picked me when bullies beat me down; and told me how to stop them next time.

Her voice, her image was embedded into my heart, my soul.

That was why I recognised her when I saw her. Older, heavier, with streaks of grey in her hair but still the beautiful woman who had guided me through the last thirty years of my life.

I had gone with my fiancé, Maggie, to the theatre to see Shakespeare’s “All’s well that Ends Well” and there she was, on stage, as the Countess.

Every move, every time she breathed I recognised something. When she flicked her hair it was liked the video she recorded for me on my 10th birthday. When she raised her voice, shivers ran down my spine. When I could tear my eyes off her I looked through the programme. She was listed as Claudia DeLuise.

I could not speak. Could not think. Panic with an element of pure joy crept into my heart. Was Mum alive?

As soon as the play was over, I sent Maggie back to her home in a taxi, feigning sickness and waited by the back doors of the theatre.

When she appeared, I walked straight up to her.

“I am Jonathan.” I said expecting a response, a flicker of immediate recognition in her eyes.

But there was nothing.

“Please to meet you,” she said smiling slightly, a frown creasing her forehead. She didn’t stop instead she slid sideways past me, grabbing the arm of her colleague, a pretty young actress who had exited at the same time.

“Your son!”

Claudia turned and looked at me, confused. “I don’t have a son.”

Her companion laughed at the thought.

I nodded slowly, stumbling over my words, “You do Mum, and it’s me. It’s okay.”

I could see a look of fear creeping into her eyes. “Sorry, Jonathan, you have confused me with someone else. I don’t have kids.”

Her friend flagged a taxi and whilst I stood there unsure of what I had expected or what to say, they got in and drove off.

But it was her.

I knew it.

As I watched her drive off, doubt overwhelmed me. Had I forgotten what Mother really looked like?

I needed to watch a video but Dad kept them under lock and key; he was still in charge of the rationing out, and he was away visiting his sister, Aunt Susan, in Scotland.

Then I remembered my spare key to his place.

I flagged down another taxi and before I knew it I was disarming Dad’s alarm

Dad kept the tapes in a large metal filing cabinet. I had never been allowed to touch it and I had respected his wishes all these years, for fear of being cut off from the supply of tapes.

There was no key on the key fob he had given me and a bit of searching drew a blank, there was no key anywhere I could see.

It took half an hour to open the cabinet with kitchen implements, half of which I broke in the process. The filing cabinet was full of tapes, the top drawer of which I mostly recognised. Most, I had watched already.

I grabbed the closest and put into the machine.

A young Claudia DeLuise filled the screen.

It was her.

I went to the cabinet, pulling out the next drawer, full of tapes I had not seen – labelled in neat writing “on your wedding“ or “play to your wife”, some read “divorce”, “illness”, others “grandkids”.

I smiled; mum had thought of everything.

I pulled out the bottom drawer.

It was full of dusty photo albums I had never seen. I picked one up; there was Dad with someone I didn’t recognize. Wedding photos. Baby photos with me and this stranger grinning.

My hands shook as I flicked through, pictures of this woman and me as a baby. The woman looking ill. A picture of me being held by her in hospital, tubing up her nose.

I couldn’t stand any more. My legs gave way beneath me.

At the back of the cabinet were more tapes.

Audition tape 1. Audition tape 2…

And scripts…lots of scripts… all hand written in my father’s tidy scrawl.

I Will Be There By Clive Martyn

2011-04-29T00:20:00.002+01:00

The clock on the wall, moved slowly towards 5.45, but Jono, the angry new Head of Global Sales didn’t look like he was going to stop. In fact he looked like he was eyeing up the flipchart and the coloured pens again. It was evident now that he liked to illustrate his simple message with complex visuals and scrawled script. Everyone had got it an hour ago – sell more / the company was in the shit. (As, no doubt, was his prospect of share options and a seat on the board.)

The majority of the sales team were sat back with glazed eyes and arms folded; in fact Danny from Accounts looked like he was drifting in and out of sleep. But rather than be a sign that perhaps this meeting had gone on too long or that perhaps he should try to engage them in discussion, ask their opinion, Jono ploughed on, trying to light a fire under them, to inspire them by shouting, ranting and using words like “syngenies”, “go to market strategy” and “product offer matrix”.

Poor Bob had switched off at the first sign of corporate-speak. His flabby overweight belly pressed intermittently against his shirt as he leaned back and forth in his chair now more interested in the chair’s ability to rock than the meeting; probably imaging himself on his front porch.

Of course, I wasn’t sat back, or drifting off to sleep, or playing with my chair.

I am sure if I could see myself, I would look slightly crazed and wide eyed.

I could sense Jono’s increasing annoyance. His increasing awareness of my clock watching.

When the alarm reminder went off on my phone, I thought he was going to throw it out the window.

My heart was beating fast, stirring with panic. I needed to leave on time to get to Becky’s recital. I had promised I would be there and ever since Jan had died I had kept every one of my promises. I had to try to repair the damage of years of semi-neglect and my work spilling over into every aspect of my life, pushing away everyone and everything else.

I was trying to change; be a better dad.

It was too late to be a better husband.

But Jono wasn’t going to stop. His monologue left no opportunity for me to ask, or plead for an adjournment.

I had to leave.

Becky had been practising for weeks. She had put all her heart into her guitar solo, like she did everything. She was intense and passionate, just like her mother had been.

It was important to her.

I could not miss it.

I half-raised my hand, to get Jono’s attention but he didn’t stop speaking, perhaps fearing I would use logic (in the boardroom of all places) or perhaps highlight his own lack of experience or general incompetency.

It was rude but I couldn’t help speaking over him;

“Sorry Jono, I am going to have to go.”

“Anderson, if you get out of that fucking chair, you can pack your desk up tomorrow.”

The words and the venomous bile knocked me back into my chair.

Prick.

I held my breath for a second, frantically thinking through my next step.

I needed the job.

I really needed the job.

For a second I shrunk into the chair.

Then I realised - I needed Becky more.

Everyone but Jono was looking at me. He just carried on and picked up a pen.

I stood up, smiled and calmly shoved my papers and blackberry into my bag and unbuttoned my tie.

The room was silent for the first time in over an hour.

“Goodbye, gentlemen.” I said and walked out without a backwards glance.

...

I had to run every second from the elevator to the practice hall downtown.

I ruined one shoe, sweated until my shirt and suit were dripping and arrived close to collapse, breathing frantically. But I made it.

I was there - like I promised.

There are some moments in your life, you know you will remember forever.

Having Becky find me, see me sat there in the audience. Having her eyes hold mine - so confident and so beautiful - as she played, seemingly dwarfed by her guitar. It was one of those rare, precious moments.

Every note was perfect.

She was perfect.

Every second of applause filled my heart with pride.

After a lifetime of wrong choices, I knew I had made the right one.

Perhaps there was some hope for me.

Some hope for Becky and me.

I am that Tree - A poem by Clive Martyn

2011-04-26T23:30:00.000+01:00

There is a tree,
Twisted,
Broken,
Burnt,
Naked,
Plundered,
Waiting for a spring - that'll never come.
That is me,
Sat on the hill,
Shrouded in darkness,
Waiting,
Left,
Still strong,
But weakened,
Its heart remaining,
Trapped,
Remembering,
Better times,
You,
Us,
Small, gentle flames of memories,
Coaxed,
Shielded,
From the bitter reality,
The long loveless winter.

Fragments of an Invisible Life by Clive Martyn

2011-03-25T01:43:00.002Z

Wake up. Radio blaring. Switch off. Sigh.
Roll over. Empty pillows. Coffee. Breakfast. TV on.
Clean teeth. Shower. Dress. Blue tie, grey suit.
Leave house. Climb in car.

Conversations - nil.

Drive to work. Park.
See co-workers. Head down. Ignored.
Walk to desk. Empty cubicles.
Sit down. Turn on computer. Work. Numbers.

Conversations - nil.

Lunchtime. Grab bag. Leave desk.
Eat lunch (toilet). Read Dostoevsky.
Hear co-workers. Fingers in ears.
Safe. Wait for 1.30. Return to desk. Work. Numbers.

Conversations - nil.

Nervous. Sickness rising. Watch clock. 3.23.
Brush hair. Straighten tie. Lean back. Casual.
Hand shaking. Hold it. Wait for her.
Holding breath. Calm.

...
"No post today, Jack. See ya."
...
Smile. Say something. Nod.
...

Gone. Walking away. Pushing mailcart.
Inhale perfume. Dream.

Conversations - nil.

Work. Numbers. 5.30. Turn off computer.
Tidy desk. Leave work.
Climb in car. Drive home.
Park. Enter house.

Conversations - nil.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be different.

The Oak Tower - a poem by Clive Martyn

2011-03-22T14:03:00.001Z

Sat with my back to the rising sun,
I watch my kingdom wake up, amid the fields,
Patchworks full of rich golden corn,
Which rustle in the cool morning breeze.

I feel hidden and safe,
Swinging my feet, happy and content for a while
In the Oak Tower,
On its small green oasis of grass.

Jasper,
My faithful hound growls and snores,
Sleeping fitfully amongst the roots,
His claws unsuitable for climbing.

With my catapult, I target,
The dozen, fat crows,
Circling the pecked scarecrow,
Until I spy a lone, brave knight, walking towards me.

Her long auburn hair,
Flowing behind her,
The knight wanders along the King's Highway,
My highway - smiling to herself.

Her barefeet muddy on its unpaven surface,
She drags her stick sword along,
Splashing in last night's rain,
Eating a windfall apple.

Her freckled face,
Looks up towards the Tower,
Squinting against the sun,
Her hand shielding her eyes.

I draw back the catapult,
As far as it will go,
The stone, a small black bullet,
Is slippery in my hand.

"If you let go of that,
We won't be friends,
Jack Wright!"
She screams.

I let go.
She yelps and runs,
Cursing me,
Crying.

No body believes me when I say,
It slipped,
I didn't mean to,
Sorry.

But in time she forgives,
And sits with me in the Oak Tower,
Holding my hand, a Knight no more,
My Queen.

Dark Shadows - a Poem by Clive Martyn

2011-03-21T07:30:00.000Z

Dark shadows flicker,
Through my mind,
Thoughts,
Dreams,
Morbid,
Mad,
Float.

Words difficult to catch,
Fuelled by the smoke,
Powder -
Assail my mind,
Losing control,
Spinning,
Caught in circles,
In darkness.

The balcony railing isn't high,
Would be easy to climb,
A short drop,
Through the night sky,
Away.

Daddy's Present by Clive Martyn

2011-01-28T00:24:00.002Z

Buddy West’s dad died 3 months before Christmas. Within a single day his happy young world turned upside and with his father dying, a large chunk of his childhood died too. Buddy was the man of the house now, a seven year old with responsibilities.

Overnight he changed, becoming more sombre, quieter; for 3 months he helped, listened, did what he was told and held his mum, Becca, whenever he found her crying. Laughter and happiness was something that he slid under his bed along with all his childish toys – things that belonged to a different time.

After 3 months, he could talk about it without crying and could think of his Dad without crying too much too, but it had been so hard.

His mum pinned her hopes on Christmas being a turning point. Christmas had always been an amazing time in the West household, filled with as much love as presents; and Becca was making a special effort to fill the void in the preparations and their lives, by being doubly excited about it and the holidays.

For the first Christmas ever all his grandparents, aunts and uncles were coming to stay and celebrate together at his house. Cookies by the hundred were prepared, presents filled the cupboards and all the secret spaces he knew, decorations covered each inch of wall and ceiling space, even a heavy cold could not stop his mum and with a red raw nose that continually ran, she baked and wrapped until late on Christmas Eve until everyone insisted that she stop, rest and save some energy for the big day.

Christmas day was very strange. Buddy crept into his mum’s bed long before the house woke up and for a little while they cried together and tried to remember happier times.

When the rest of the house stirred they came downstairs. The pile of presents under the tree was massive, a combination of grief/guilt, a renewed sense of everyone’s mortality and the number of extra people in the house, meant there was little space in the front room to move.

One present caught Buddy’s eye, though.

Stood behind the tree, poorly disguised under garish wrapping paper was a bike. A big bike. A proper road bike. Before his father had died, he had been begging for a real grown-up bike; a bike, one without training wheels or kiddy patterns, and his heart fluttered. Could it be? He couldn’t help but grin up at his mum, who smiled back.

It took forever to reach it, having to work through hundreds of others, but when he did he nearly cried with joy.

It was so beautiful with gleaming steel frame and gears - and huge. For a minute he stood staring at it, his mouth open.

“Thank you, mum!” he called out, running over to give her a big hug.

“Your dad bought it for you before… before... He really wanted you to have a big boy’s bike. He was really looking forward to teaching you how to ride it. It has been over at Aunt Lucinda’s house all this time.”

She wiped a tear away and smiled.

Aunt Lucinda leant over and added, “You’ll have to be very careful on it, Buddy. It takes a while to get used to a big bike.”

Grandpa West muttered, “Got to practice and practice somewhere like the park. Somewhere with a soft landing.”

Grandma West nodded, “Took me weeks to get used to riding without stabilisers!”

He nodded. “Can we go out on it later, mum? Please?”

She sniffed into a tissue and stroked his face gently, “We need to sort Christmas lunch out, Buddy, so you might need to be a little patient.”

After lunch, Buddy waited by his bike in the hallway, polishing the already shinning steel with a cloth.

Every time his mum looked in on him or one of his grandparents walked past, he asked again but most were too tired and full to move, the rest had no time, busy rushing around after everyone else.

“You have to be patient, Buddy,” was the answer every time.

The day wore on and Buddy got increasingly frustrated seeing the beautiful bike stood waiting by the front door.

That night he took the manual to bed with him, reading it slowly and not understanding much of the long words. As his mum tucked him into bed, he asked again.

“Please mum? Promise?”

“Soon, Buddy, I promise – okay?”

But the next day the disappointment continued, his mum’s cold turned into flu meaning she couldn’t stand up for long, let alone run alongside a bike and everyone else was too busy getting ready to go home.

When everyone had left and it was just him and his mum again, he tucked her in on the sofa where she was resting and made a decision. Just five minutes, he thought. Five minutes outside on the bike.

***

Becca woke up from a fitful snooze.

“Buddy?” she called out.

The house was eerily silent. Too silent.

“Buddy?” she called again, her voice cracking. She climbed off the sofa and walked out to the hallway.

The bike was gone. Panicking she yanked open the door and ran down the steps to the normally busy road.

It was quiet.

Then she heard the screaming.

Screams of pure happiness.

“Look at me, mum!” Buddy shouted at the top of his voice as he rode his bike down the empty road.

He was sat high on the bike, riding down the hill his blond hair streaming behind him. He laughed and giggled as he circled around perfectly.

He was riding without a single wobble, steady as a rock, even though it was his first time without training wheels.

He rode as if someone was running alongside him holding onto his saddle; an invisible, loving hand keeping him up, guiding him along the road.

He rode as if someone was there, whispering, go on son.

I’m so proud of you.

Dust covered shelf - a poem by Clive Martyn

2011-01-17T00:44:00.000Z

The bookcase is full,
Crammed full of King and Koontz,
Horror lying upon horror,
Vying for attention,
Space,
But there is none,
Except for one shelf,
A single shelf,
In pride of place,
Empty,
Dusty,
Waiting for my books,
My words -
I will fill it one day,
One day.

"The Ground" by Clive Martyn

2011-01-14T23:37:00.003Z

I stared down at my coffee, an escape from the prying eyes, but it reminded me of the ground. The dark black ground. The damp patch in the shadows of the blossoming willow tree. The ground that held a secret. Two secrets if you count the child held forever in a frozen, dead embrace.

I looked up quickly to meet the gaze of the policemen. I had forgotten their question. Panic seized my heart, causing it to flutter dangerously inside me. To hide my confusion I stood, perhaps too quickly; spilling some of my coffee onto the kitchen table.

I walked to the window staring down the long garden to the trees. I could feel their eyes following me. My boots were on the floor in the corner. There was dried clumps of mud on the soles. Similar mud encased her now; smothering a body slowly breaking down, chewed by fat questing worms.

I didn't close her eyes, so whenever I pictured her she was staring up, the look of shock, outrage forever on her face.

I swallowed hard, nerves drying my throat. The policemen were staring at me - waiting.

Should have thought it through, I thought. Should have known her lover would report her missing. The father no doubt - I wonder if he knew about the child. Soon they would be pouring over the garden, digging, they would find the bodies, then he would know. Then he would know.

I smiled at the thought, forgetting for a split second I was being watched.That was when the policemen stood up. They knew too.

"Fresh Start" by Clive Martyn

2010-12-31T00:00:00.000Z

His fat white belly rose and fell slowly with each whining snore. He was covered in hair, sticky, matted with both their sweat. She lay on the bed propped up on one hand, watching him sleep, disgusted, revolted. She knew she had reached an all time low with this one. He was one of the worst. She was desperate to shower, to be clean again but knew if she got out of bed, he would wake up and she would probably be forced to pleasure him again.
She shuddered at the thought.
The taste of him was still in her mouth; stale cigarettes, cheap alcohol and something under that which was far more disturbing.
Some days she really hated her job; not that she had a choice. She glared up at the ceiling.
"Come on," she whispered under her breath.
Slowly beneath his skin, the tangled mess of his soul, slowly appeared. Veins and arteries glowing, interconnected, pulsating. In the dim light of the bedroom the majority shone bright red, with patches of grey, black and faint small areas of green.
Arieleth shook her head. She had never seen a soul in such a terrible state - years of hate, fear, anger had taken the man's soul and mangled it into something monstrous. There was very little to save, but Arieleth was an expert. Confident that he wouldn't now wake, she got off the bed and took her scalpel from her bag. The sharp blade shone in the moonlight as she made the first cut.
A girl in the sixth grade who had mocked his fumbling affections. She picked up the long thin red strip of memory and put it in the bin.
Next she removed the times he had been bullied, and the times he bullied others.
She stripped the fights, the arguments from him. Lies, affairs and broken oaths. Dark patches of true sin, she cut into tiny pieces, and wearing her gloves tipped them into the bin as well.
It took over an hour to remove every inch of negativity, every second of failure from his soul. When she had finished, he was mostly bare, with only a few precious patches of light, moments of self-sacrifice, honesty, love. Carefully she stroked these, urging them to fill the space that had so recently stifled them.
Having done all she could, she walked to the bathroom and showered for as long as she could in water as hot as she could handle. She cleaned her teeth twice and swigged her mouthwash. Feeling half human again, she dressed by the light of the new fresh soul. Confident in her work, she left without looking back.

When the motel reception rang at 8 am, Chris woke up confused where he was, and momentarily who he was.
He felt the bed next to him, disappointed that the attractive blonde had gone. She had been amazing. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, smiling as random thoughts and memories surfaced. A strange happiness filled him and he knew for the first time in a long time, confidently, that it was going to be a good day. It was a bizarre feeling but he felt free, happy. As he left the motel, whistling, he noticed a cold and dirty homeless man stood with a pleading cardboard sign and a cup.
They were both surprised when he slipped a fifty into it.

"Watching" by Clive Martyn

2010-11-19T23:59:00.002Z

The old woman sat in a corner of the empty meal room in her wheelchair, facing the windows that overlooked the beach. The weak winter sunlight and grey skies made her look ghostly. Almost translucent.
"Who's that?" Abigail whispered, straightening down her new uniform which, annoyingly, was riding up already.
"Oh that's Mrs Fry, our oldest resident," Mrs Brown, the matron, said loudly, shaking her large dark chocolate bosoms in time with her head; a sign Abigail had quickly discovered meant disapproval. "She is always sat at the window between lunch and dinner. Watching the waves. We just leave her alone. Most of us know better than to try and persuade the old crotchety fool to join the others in the rec room. She doesn't have much time left anyway."
Abigail expected the old woman to turn or react, but she didn't; she just kept staring out of the window.
"Oh she can't hear us - deaf as a post," Mrs Brown said amused by Abigail's shocked look.
Abigail wondered for the second time in an hour if working here was going to be worth the minimal wage.
"Yep, won't be long now," she muttered, matter of fact, "so we just let her sit there everyday. She's happy enough.”
Mrs Brown smiled sadly and pushed Abigail gently away from the meal room.
"Now let me introduce to Mr Sanders, he plays the piano beautifully and he is quite the old charmer. A lot of life left in him, I can tell you!"
As they left Mrs Fry sighed silently and stared down at her liver spotted hands. She had no tears left in her itchy red eyes, and little things, little hurts didn't bother her any more.
When she looked back up from her hands, he was there - down in the waves, his longboard under his arm, his wet suit half off, looking so young. His dark hair was being ruffled by the sea breeze, making him look like a movie star. A surfing Clarke Gable. So alive. Gorgeous.
It was sometimes quite painful to watch him as he strode along, his muscles taut ready for the waves, not a care in the world, free - a reminder of everything she had lost. Everything old age had taken.
Although it was occasionally painful; it was so enjoyable at the same time.
"I am not going anywhere," she muttered.
Smiling happily she wiped her heavy breath off the glass and carried on watching her young man.

Links to all my #Fridayflash

2010-11-13T18:44:00.002Z

(33) Think Positive (Real life)

(32) Lollipop (Real life)

(31) Mariana's new lover (Real life)

(30) Revenge comes in many forms (Real life)

(29) Forever (Real life/fantasy)

(28) Watching her (Real Life)

(27) I'm still here (Real life)

(26) No More Tears (Real life)

(25) Sacrifice (Dark Fantasy)

(24) Pilgrimage to the Black Madonna (Historical)

(23) Sixty Three Years of Wants (Real life)

(22) The Apprentice (Fantasy)

(21) One More (Sci-Fi)

(20) Jamie (Real life/Horror)

(19) No! (Real life)

(18) Dark Days (Real life)

(17) Dinner (Real life)

(16) Last Few (Sci-Fi/Horror)

(15) In the Shadow of Cherry Blossom Trees (Fantasy/Horror)

(14) Traffic Jams and Tears (Real life)

(13) Forest of Ice and Blood (Fantasy)

(12) The Flesh Merchant of Monoceros (Sci-Fi)

(11) Flicker (Horror)

(10) Please Santa (Contemporary Fantasy)

(9) Love Does Not Stop (Horror)

(8) Red Barn (Horror)

(7) Real Papa (Real Life)

(6) Love at First Sight (Real Life)

(5) Things are going to change (Horror/Real Life)

(4) Snatches of Life in Colour (Experimental/Real Life)

(3) Blink of an Eye (Horror/Real Life)

(2) Love does few boundaries (Real Life/Humour)

(1) Time will heal all (Real Life)

Think Positive by Clive Martyn

2010-11-12T23:59:00.000Z

The start of the end had been a self-help book, “Positivity”. It was written by Dr James, a former psychologist, now a second-rate TV host. She couldn’t remember which page it had been, 87 or 88, but somewhere in the middle of the lightweight tome it talked about “positive reflection”.

“List all the positive things in your life” it had said.

She had thought for an hour, twirling the whispers of grey in her hair, whilst Finn the cat purred on her lap. Slowly her thoughts became more and more desperate, flitting from one negative memory to the next disaster. She relived every mistake, every problem, searching for something, anything; chewing her pen frantically and staring at the blank piece of paper.

She could not name a single thing. Not a goddamn, single positive thing.

Uncomfortable, distraught, she shifted her overweight backside on the broken sofa, put down the pen and paper and stared up at the peeling paint for another hour.

Why was her life so shitty?

The tears came back. Then the anger. She picked up the phone, thinking to phone her sponsor, her lifeline, but Alice was off the wagon and AWOL.

Frustrated, she stupidly threw the handset as hard as she could; aiming at the wall but instead breaking the TV.

As the glass tinkled down onto the lounge floor, she screamed. Loud enough to make the crazy old man next door bang on the wall and Finn run for the bedroom.

She stood up, looking for more things to break. The book. She tore page after page from it, breathing heavily.

There was a picture of Dr James, smiling inanely from the back cover. Hatred filled every vein in her body and her heart pounded in time with a pressure building in her head.

She spat on the picture, then ground it under her foot.

Easy for him to say. Easy for him in his Malibu mansion, with his perfect life, perfect wife no doubt. Easy for him to make a fortune from this crap. Easy for him to be positive.

She screamed again, clawing at her temples. She needed a drink.

Then a quiet, serious voice inside her head said “Or a gun.”

…

Dr James lay in the middle of his garden, on a sun lounger, looking at the empty house. The repo guys had left him a bottle of whiskey, which he was slowly demolishing. He wished his ex-wife had been as generous.

He couldn’t stop crying, sobbing, thinking of everything that had gone wrong, every failure, every mistake he had made.

He was finished. Bankrupt. His new book lay unfinished in the shell of a house and the publishers were ringing everyday for their advance back, whilst the TV producers had stopped ringing all together.

He looked down at the rifle, an unused gift from his hunting mad father-in-law. No doubt the old bastard would smile at the news that his son-in-law blew his head off with it.

“Fuck it,” he whispered and picked up the rifle, nervously putting it close to his lips.

The metal tasted strange, alien.

”Come on,” he thought, trying to get enough courage to pull the trigger.

The screaming started before the first gun shot.

A woman, her fat curves packed into threadbare blue velour jogging bottoms and top was walking quickly towards him across empty flowerbeds, a gun pointed at him. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Anger, insanity was clear in her eyes, even from a distance.

He didn’t have time to think, before the first bullet caught him in the shoulder, spinning him off the lounger.

The second sliced through his left bicep and across his back.

Instinctively he swung the rifle and fired, instantly replacing her face with a mist of red blood that wavered, hung in the air, as she fell backwards into the flowerbeds.

Time slowed, as the woman convulsed violently; long before the sirens neared she was dead.

….

Ellen DeGeneres smiled at the cameras “Alright, after having the biggest book of the summer “Surviving by being positive”, his amazing story of how he survived a violent attack, it was no surprise that our next guest’s new book “More Positive Thoughts” debuted at number 1. He was nominated for an American Book Award tonight - please welcome the lovely Dr James.”

The studio clapped enthusiastically as he walked on and settled on the couch.

He smiled, lapping up the attention.

“Don’t fuck this up, loser,” he thought to himself.

Lollipop by Clive Martyn

2010-11-05T01:27:00.002Z

It was his secret corner; a small little area in the roof, near the eaves, hidden away behind boxes and chests. He had discovered it by chance, one day, whilst running away from an undeserved beating and cruel laughter, a nearly invisible door that opened into a long forgotten empty broom cupboard. He had hidden there breathless as everyone searched in vain, until he emerged for dinner several hours later; excited to have something which was just his - a secret. Over time he converted the space into a snug hidey hole; with salvaged carpet and stolen cushions, sneaked away from the lounge. He punched holes through the roof with a pen to let pinholes of light and whispers of damp air in; he plugged these holes with torn strips of plastic bags whenever he left, or it rained. He kept all his precious treasures in the cupboard, safe under a loose board, safe from prying, jealous fingers looking to steal, tear or taunt. Whenever he could escape the bullies or the staff, he would disappear into the roof and sit there looking through the few photos he had left, trying to remember better times, love, a home, parents, a sister. As the days and months went by it became increasingly hard to remember. He would frequently hold in his pudgy hand the last thing his mother had given him on that morning, a red and blue lollipop, still wrapped in its plastic cover. It was stupid, he knew, but to him it was evidence, proof that his mother had existed, that she had once loved him. Sometimes he cried, his feet against the door blocking out the cruel world. Blocking out memories. Bullies. Drunk drivers who could steal your world in a second. But mostly he read, devouring books, fantasies and sci-fi, escaping into words and worlds away from the pain he carried, pain he couldn’t escape from or hide from, a sadness which could never be shut out.

When the fire started in the kitchen, when the alarms went off and everyone jumped out of bed and ran scared for the stairs, he slipped quietly upstairs to his cupboard, his safe place.

In the darkness, he waited, his box of photos clasped to his chest and his lollipop in his mouth; hoping that his lonely exile was over and that a replacement sweet waited for him in Heaven.

Mariana's New Lover by Clive Martyn

2010-10-22T02:07:00.004+01:00

I had a good view of her as I walked through the car park. I don’t think I have ever wanted someone so badly. She was beautiful; perhaps east European or Russian. Long dark hair framed her sculptured delicate features, high cheekbones and piercing ice-blue eyes. She was dressed casually but what she wore looked expensive. Her clothes clung to a thin, toned, surgically enhanced body. Everything about her said money, success and power.

She looked worried though, scared. She was biting her bottom lip and tightly gripping the steering wheel of her black Mercedes. The engine was running, but she just sat there.

Staring into space.

I had to walk in front of her car to get to mine. As I walked past, I tried to act casual as I looked through her windscreen.

Up close she was breathtaking; fragile.

A tear was running down the side of her face.

Walking through her line of sight, her gaze flicked up to my face, meeting my eyes. I smiled, trying to be unthreatening, cool, although my heart was beating fast. She gave me a brief smile in return before looking away, wiping her tear; for a moment appearing even sadder.

I opened the boot of my car and put in my gym kit. As I closed it, I looked back at her. She was still sat, with the engine running, not going anywhere.

I wavered for a second. She was obviously upset about something; a damsel in distress. I was a romantic at heart and a beautiful woman in tears did something to me. I just had the urge to try and make things better; protect her, shield her from the cruel world.

I walked over to her passenger side window, and knocked gently. Woken again from her thoughts she looked a little surprised, and cautious, as she lowered it.

The smell of her, her perfume momentarily stole my senses, reducing me back to a nervous teenager. I hesitated a split-second as my brain tried to remember what I was doing.

”Are you okay?”

She looked at me, nodding and smiling; a brave lie but her eyes filled with tears and she bit harder into her bottom lip to stop herself from sobbing. Angry at herself for perhaps displaying these emotion to a stranger, she looked to the ceiling of her car and wiped her tears away with the sides of manicured fingers.

She laughed sadly at herself. “Sorry,” she said.

She looked back at me, “I’m a bit of a mess, but I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.

She shook her head, "No" this time, dissolving into tears and looking like a little, lost girl. Burying her head in her hands she sobbed, her shoulders shaking with emotion.

I looked around at the empty car park, feeling slightly embarrassed.

”Hey, it’s okay! You’ll be okay,” I said lamely. I looked again for some help or permission as I opened her car door.

I slid into the leather seat next to her, and hesitantly touched her shoulder.

Gently, I said, “It’ll be okay,” although I knew I had no justification for that statement.

I slid my hand down her back; rubbing in what I hoped would be interpreted as a sympathetic manner.

She was beautiful.

Suddenly and unexpectedly she put her arms around my neck and pulled herself into a tight hug. She sobbed against me, big sobs of anguish, heartbreak.

She felt so warm. Smelt so sexy. My heart pounded and blood flowed to wrong parts of my body.

It was the most amazing experience in my 35 years. In that split-second I knew that I loved her; or at the very least lusted after her more than any woman I had ever met.

I murmured into her hair, “You’ll be alright”, breathing in the shampoo she used; her fragrance burning into my memory.

Slowly she pulled back; wiping her tears, looking embarrassed that she broken down so completely.

”Sorry,” she said, laughing bitterly.

“What is it? What’s wrong,” I asked.

”I don’t even know your name,“ she said.

“Tom. Tom Burdon.”

”Mariana,” she said holding out her hand.

We shook hands.

“Do you go to the gym?” she said pointing out the window to the building behind us.

I nodded.

“I’ve never seen you,” she said, looking intently at my face, trying to place me.

“Just joined. Today.”

She said a silent “oh” before looking out the window again, staring into space. I waited for her to say something.

Slowly, as if confessing for the first time her thoughts, she whispered, “It’s my husband. I want to leave him. I need to leave him. But I’m scared.”

She looked down at her hands, which shook slightly. I noticed for the first time her large diamond engagement ring and golden band.

“I know some good lawyers,” I said.

She chuckled and looked at me as if I was slightly insane, her head tilted to the side.

“Not an option,” she said bitterly.

“Have you heard of Frankie Reeves?” she whispered, biting her lip again with nerves.

I nodded. “The mobster?”

Quietly, as if someone was listening, she whispered shamefully, as if she couldn't quite believe it herself, “I’m Mrs Reeves.”

“Oh.”

I sat there for several minutes, in silence with her, staring into the distance.

I couldn’t suggest any solution to her problem.

Slowly and deliberately she leant across to me again, pulling me close. Her hands gingerly touching both sides of my face.

She kissed me, her tongue briefly parting and bushing my surprised lips.

“That was thank you,” she said, pulling back and smiling with genuine warmth.

“What for?” I said stunned.

“For listening, Tom. The hug. Caring enough to stop and knock on my window.”

She looked at her watch. “Oh shit, I need to get home.”

Regretfully I got out of her car and closed the door.

“I will see you around Tom,” she said, winking. “Thanks.”

She drove off in a hurry, whilst I stood in the car park; smiling.

"Yes, you will." I said to myself.

I climbed into my car and sat there for a moment, calming my nerves. I took a deep breath.

I picked up my mobile and dialled Frankie’s number from the case file on the seat next to me.

He answered within two rings.

”Mr Reeves? Tom Burden from Millar Associates. I am the detective assigned to your case.”

“Tom. Okay. Thanks for calling... Is my wife having an affair?” he said, getting straight down to business.

“No sir,” I said with conviction.

Not yet, I thought.

A rough guide to English Language Japanese Poetry

2010-10-20T00:30:00.004+01:00

Occasionally I get a blank stare when I say I write Haiku, let alone when I add that I also write Senryu, Tanka and too infrequently Haiban.

So I thought I would initiate the curious with a blog post.

A rough guide to English Language Japanese Poetry

Haiku: the most well known and most travelled form of Japanese poetry. In English language haiku, poems consist of 3 lines with (traditionally) a syllable structure of 5 - 7 - 5. I say traditionally hesitantly as countless arguments rage over this; several things are lost in translation from Japanese to English as the Japanese split words into "mona" which is slightly different to our syllables. Purists therefore argue that 5 - 7 - 5 is too long; and in modern haiku the trend is towards shorter structures. Japanese Haiku traditionally included two elements - a "Kigo" and a "Kireji". A "Kigo" is a season word, something that implies one of the four seasons. This does not need to be as blatant as saying "summer" or "autumn" in the haiku but can be something as subtle as a frog, or cool rain. A word that makes the reader think of nature at a certain time. There are several resources online that give you the long list of acceptable words. A "Kireji" is more difficult to explain and translate into English; it is basically a "cutting word", a word which disrupts the thought process, cuts the poem in half or underlines it. These are specific Japanese words that were traditionally placed at the end of a line in Japanese haiku and were used in a way to change the imagery in the verse, cutting from one image to another. In English a number of writers use punctuation a "!" or dash to achieve the same aim.

I like to think of haiku as snapshots - moments in time that are painted with broad strokes. They are meant to be enigmatic, thought provoking, capturing the beauty of the world around us.

In summary - Haiku - a nature focused poem of 5-7-5 (or shorter) syllables i.e.

(Traditional)
the water's edge
silence - upon the still pond
cherry blossom floats

(Modern)
too soon,
green leaves,
fall.

Senryu: are a variant of Haiku following the same structure as above but with a much wider subject matter. Whereas haiku are focused on nature and the seasons, Senryu deal with more humanistic concerns - everything from sex and violence through to if your newspaper has arrived or a lost parking ticket. Senryu can be dark or light and frothy, cynical or humorous. They do not have to include a Kigo or Kireji.

In summary - Senryu - a more human focused haiku with less rules on structure and content. i.e

I sometimes forget
there is beauty in the world
until you walk in

Tanka: Is an earlier form of Japanese poetry (waka) from which the haiku is derived. Consisting of a haiku style 5-7-5 upper phrase followed by two lines of 7-7 lower phrase, it can cover a wide range of subjects chiefly though, human emotions. Like senryu there are less rules over the use of Kigo and cutting words.

In summary - Tanka - a haiku style poem of 5-7-5-7-7 (or shorter) structure. i.e.

silver slivers chase
the rivers to the ocean
over cold worn stones

a single cherry blossom
floats away - like our love

Haibun: Is a combination of haiku/senryu and prose.A short story or image is explained in prose and then a haiku is used to add impact or extra insight. These are traditionally travel related but once again can be on any subject. The prose section is normally less than 300 words and can be just a few lines. It is meant to haiku style,so once again broad strokes in the detail.

In summary - Haibun - a merging of prose and haiku. i.e.

The moon hung low over the forest, brightening shadows before the clouds in the east arrived. The noise of the river competed with the sounds of the animals as they called to each other. Monkeys, birds and crickets. I dipped a hand into the water, fresh from the mountaintop, gripping the moss covered rock.

silver slivers chase
the rivers to the ocean
over cold worn stones

Links to more information:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku
http://www.haikusoc.ndo.co.uk/
http://www.hsa-haiku.org/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Senry%C5%AB
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waka_%28poetry%29
http://www.tankasocietyofamerica.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haibun
http://contemporaryhaibunonline.com/

Self-promoting link to my book of Haiku, Senryu and Tanka:

http://amzn.com/1446150410

The Hollow Tree by Clive Martyn

2010-10-19T01:52:00.000+01:00

In the hollow tree,
My heart lives,
Protected,
Shielded,
By solid oak,
Hidden,
Surrounded,
By yellowing leaves,
Thick branches,
Away from hurt,
Away from pain,
Invisible,
Waiting for the day,
When its cracks,
No longer show,
When the hurt
Has been erased,
Ready for me,
To fetch it,
And give it to someone else,
Someone who will protect it,
Not break it.

"Revenge Comes In Many Forms" - by Clive Martyn

2010-10-15T00:50:00.007+01:00

Two for Samantha Turner. Cold heartless bitch. Whore. CLICK. CLICK.
Two for Alex Drew. Back-stabbing fucker, who cannot be trusted. CLICK CLICK
One for Dominic Ricci. Sanctimonious shit. CLICK
One for Rebecca Ricci. Whore who should keep her mouth shut. CLICK
One for Danni Simms. Interfering gossip spreading witch. CLICK
One for Tim Hills. Yellow ex-friend. CLICK.
Two spare. Just in case. CLICK CLICK.
One for me. Fool and fuck-up. CLICK.

The gun sat on the seat next to him. The matt metal slide seemed to pull in light, absorb it. Like a black hole. Jon touched it excited; nervous.

He emptied the 9mm shells on to the leather before counting them into the clip again.

Looking through the car window, past the traffic, into the diner, he could see them. They were all sat at his… their normal table.

Queen bitch, Samantha, sat in the middle. She was laughing at some joke Alex or Tim had made, flicking her long blonde hair around. Flirting with the whole table like always.

Alex had his arm loosely around her shoulder.

Bitch. Fucker.

Rebecca was sat on the other side of her, looking glum, her black hair and pale skin a complete contrast to Samantha’s cheerleader looks.

How is that fair? She can forgive the whore but cannot forgive me?

He looked in the mirror and adjusted his plain black baseball cap.

Can’t get rid of me, that easy. You are all going to pay. Why should I be the one punished?

He picked up the gun. Breathed in and put his hand on the car door.

“Put the gun down!” someone shouted.

Jon froze.

A cop stood on the sidewalk. His gun was out already, pointed at Jon through the windscreen.

Jon's eyes flicked to the Diner. Everyone was watching. Stood at the window. They could see it was him in the car.

Samantha had her hand over her mouth.

“Put the gun down, kid!” the cop screamed again, sweat appearing on his forehead. “Step out of the car!”

Got spares I could take him. Still get all of them.

He locked eyes with the middle-aged cop.

A wedding ring glinted in the low sun.

Probably has kids too.

“Fuck!” he whispered. Quickly, in one smooth motion, he placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening in the small car. An angry thunder clap.

At least I got one off the list.

Autumnal Love #6 - a collection of poems by Clive Martyn

2010-10-14T00:29:00.003+01:00

The mornings are dark,
The moon appears mid-afternoon,
Dying, drying leaves fill the gutters,
Crisp, dew strewn lawns,
Crunch,
Underfoot.
...
It is colder,
It rains,
I shouldn't love autumn,
But the low sun,
Makes me smile,
Makes your hair glow,
A golden halo around you,
Angelic.
...
Being in love,
And
Being with you,
Makes every season,
Beautiful.

Autumnal Love #5 - a collection of poems by Clive Martyn

2010-10-09T13:41:00.002+01:00

My love for you,
Is a fallen red leaf,
Dancing along,
On the autumn wind,
Caught in circles,
Uncontrollable,
Sometimes flowing fast,
Whipped up into a frenzy,
Sometimes caught,
On obstacles,
Dead for a moment,
Before being caught again,
And flying off carefree,
I don't know where,
Our love is taking us,
But it is beautiful to watch.

"Forever" by Clive Martyn

2010-10-08T01:46:00.003+01:00

The sickening smell of rotting flesh was becoming overpowering, reaching under the door that was now always closed, into the corridor beyond.

The nurse took a deep breath outside before knocking and stepping into the small room.

“Mr Johnson?” she said, resisting the temptation to hold her sleeve against her nose. She attempted a breezy smile, “Mr Johnson, are you awake?”

The rumpled oval of hairless sagging skin that rested on the pillow didn’t move. She paused, wondering if this was the day. Who had Thursday in the sweepstake? But then a thin, dry tongue licked peeling lips and Mr Johnson’s blue watery eyes opened. He tried to focus on her.

She held a cup of water so he could drink and looked longingly at the windows. She wished she could open them and let some fresh air in; but with a man so old a single cold or chill could finish him off.

It would probably be a relief for everyone, she thought.

“What you want?” he croaked, sounding annoyed; dribbling water down grooves and lines, into the sore folds of thin loose skin that engulfed his neck.

“Happy birthday!” she muttered, trying to maintain her smile.

Mr Johnson snorted.

“Another year for the record books, Mr Johnson. You must be so proud.”

He glared at her and attempted to turn, look away, but his neck muscles were too weak.

She opened some sterile packs of gauze and started to dab the angry red sores that covered him. His skin was rotting, peeling off, leaving raw patches and lesions.

The pain must be incredible, she thought, it was a miracle he was still alive. Tough old bastard.

She applied antiseptic cream carefully; worried that she would slice off more with a fingernail. Some areas were so thin now that she swore she saw more bone than skin.

Much longer and you’ll just be a breathing skeleton.

She worked quickly, feeling his eyes upon her. She hated returning his stare; she could see his loneliness and pain.

“Can you stay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, desperate, “Read to me?”

“Oh sorry Mr Johnson, I have other patients to see,” she patted his arm gently, feeling sorry for the old man trapped in his bed, “But there is someone to see you, a journalist. He would like to do a story for the Times, if you are happy to see him?”

“Okay,” he said slowly, his tongue poking out snakelike, to lick his lips again.

“Marvellous,” she said. Her job completed she jumped up, keen to escape the room. She left, making sure she closed the door.

Ten minutes later a young man, dressed in a grey suit, appeared carrying a notebook.

The stench of decay over urine and other smells, made him stagger in the doorway but bravely he stepped in and held out his hand.

“Jack Wright, from the Sunday Times,” he said smiling. It faltered as he watched Mr Johnson try and fail to lift his arm to shake his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said quietly, patting the man’s hand instead.

Touching his parchment dry skin, made him shiver.

He looks so ill, he thought. What is going on with his skin?

“So Mr Johnson, firstly sir, happy birthday,” he said and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

“Fuck off,” the old man whispered angrily.

“Sorry?”Jack said, unsure he had heard him correctly.

“Fuck off.”

“Er... sorry Mr Johnson, the nurse said you were okay to be interviewed.”

Jack watched as the old man closed his eyes for a long time. As the seconds went by, he felt more and more uncomfortable, uncertain whether to leave or wait. The smell in the room was making him feel sick.

“What do you want to know?” Mr Johnson whispered so quietly, Jack had to lean in closer. Closer to the smell.

“Well Mr Johnson, you are the oldest person on the planet. Our readers would like to know... well how you did it? You are 135. That’s seriously impressive.” Jack sat back, opened his notebook and waited.

Mr Johnson’s eyes opened and he stared up at the ceiling.

“What’s your secret, sir?”

Jack watched the man’s thin blue lips move, but didn’t catch the words.

“Sorry Mr Johnson?” he said leaning in again.

“The devil.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

A sad laugh gurgled deep inside his rotting body. A laugh full of years of regret.

“Sold... my soul... I wanted to... live forever,” he whispered, gasping in pain, tears dripping from his eyes.

"Through the Darkness" - NaNoWriMo synopsis

2010-10-04T01:58:00.003+01:00

This is the short synopsis of my next novel which I will start in November for NaNoWriMo - let me know what you think:

After years watching helplessly as his wife, Sarah, slips deeper into early onset alzheimer's, Dave King decides to do something. Something which will get both his wife and his life back. Unfortunately it is a single despicable, desperate act which will change the lives of four people forever.

Would you risk your soul for the one you love?

In the darkness - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-10-03T21:37:00.002+01:00

Stare at the night sky,
The billions of stars - Suns,
Pinpoints of lights,
In the darkness,
The velvet black,
Hiding planets and moons,
Other worlds - life,
That we'll never see,
A universe ignorant,
Of you and me,
Our tiny lives,
Played out,
On this small stage,
Do we despair,
Turn away,
Hide from the truth,
Invent our own,
Gods, spirits, myths,
To give the emptiness,
Meaning,
Or do we carry on,
Hopeful that one day,
One bright day,
We will light the sky,
And one of us,
All of us,
Will change everything.

Autumnal Love #4 - a collection of poems by Clive Martyn

2010-10-02T00:52:00.000+01:00

Beyond the moss covered trees,
Surrounded by a carpet of red leaves,
Lies the house,
Its white clap board sides,
Peeling.
Its windows steamy,
From pumpkin pies,
Turkey roasting,
Silent for a moment.
Until the cars arrive,
Unloading grandchildren,
Great grandchildren,
Sons and daughters,
Giggling laughter,
Shouts and cries,
Which echo around the bare trees,
As children chase,
Cousins and relatives,
Finding smiles everywhere,
On every face.
The screen door opens,
Stooped and old,
The parents greet,
Each and everyone,
With a kiss and a hug,
Cries of hello,
How are you?
Love abounding,
As it always was,
Before ushering them in,
Into the house,
Full of memories,
That every Autumn,
They are all thankful for.

"Watching her" by Clive Martyn

2010-10-01T23:59:00.004+01:00

She was beautiful. He couldn't help but stare at her. He wanted to stare at her all day, every day, but that was impossible, of course; he was limited to Monday to Friday, 9 until 5.

He loved everything about her. The way she looked intently at her screen, or spoke on the phone. The way her mouth would curl up into half a smile, if someone made a joke. Or the way her delicate eyebrow raised if an email annoyed her.

He had positioned everything around his cubicle to make it easier to look at her subtlety without suspicion. His monitor was turned just so, enabling him to look like he was still looking at it, when in fact he was just soaking in every one of her movements, every one of her breaths.

He wanted to ask her out. Say hello. Say something. But she was too beautiful. Way too beautiful.

She had made work amazing - addictive. He raced through the crowds on the Tube on a Monday, hurrying to his desk so he could begin the day, admiring from afar. He hadn't had a sick day in nearly a year.

The only downside was his productivity which was non-existent. He hadn't worked on his reports for weeks and people were starting to notice. He tried to catch up outside of work but without access to the database it was impossible.

Occasionally he would try to focus, put his head down, but then he would hear her laugh or raising her voice to state some fact or belief and he would be lost again.

It wasn't a surprise when he got given his notice.

He didn't care about the job, all he cared about was her. The fear of not being able to see her, not being near her, made his heart pound and filled him with panic.

He came up with the idea whilst watching Star Wars to relax that night.

Buying the supplies was easy, he just googled what he wanted and managed to buy it all online.

After it all arrived, he drove to her house, knocked on the door and pressed a chloroform soaked rag into her face, whispering apologies as he did.

The drive back to his flat flew by in an adrenalin rush. With shaking hands he stripped her pausing frequently as his nervous hands struggled to unclasp unfamiliar undergarments.

Naked in front of him, he could not breath. Every inch of her body was perfect. Just the way he had imagined it would be.

He grabbed a cylinder of liquid nitrogen and sprayed; her skin instantly turning paler, harder.

She would be preserved forever. His forever.

He would be able to stare at her, every minute of every day.

It took twenty small canisters to freeze her, but when he had finished, she still looked beautiful; frozen in time. And she was his.

Unable to contain his erection in his trousers any more, he threw his clothes to the floor.

When the neighbours heard the shrill screams, they thought that a cat was being strangled or tortured; and being cat lovers they called the police.

When the police arrived and broke down the door, they thought they had caught someone in the middle of a weird sex act with a white marble statue. The reality of the man's crimes and his predicament soon dawned on them.

When the surgeons arrived to cut what little frozen flesh of his was left, the press had already heard and were crowding outside. Camera crews followed him to the hospital and later journalists badgered for an interview, the intern whose job it had been to carry the surgically removed, frostbitten, half defrosted penis away in a bag of ice.

When the coroners arrived to take away the body, the disrespectful jokes, laughter had already started, flying through the ether on Twitter and the web; and broadcast every 15 minutes on every news channel.

When the psychiatrists and orderly came to take the most famous half-man away, even the sign of his blackened hands, frost-bitten legs and nappy of bandages could not wipe the smirk off their faces.

As for him...

He just sat and stared.

Back - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-09-27T23:58:00.000+01:00

There is something,
Beautiful,
About the curve of your back,
The way my hands,
Just fit,
Resting on your hips,
Your spine,
Taut skin,
Kissable.

Autumnal Love #3 - a collection of poems by Clive Martyn

2010-09-25T13:30:00.001+01:00

Waiting for you,
Waiting,
Listening,
To the forest song,
Of whispers,
Rustles,
Silent screams,
Seeing,
A thousand colours,
In every tree,
Every shade,
Every tone,
A million yellows,
Browns and reds,
A million small deaths,
Hanging,
Beautiful,
Sad,
Memories,
Of earlier times,
Of summer's heat,
Now past,
Like our love,
Our autumnal love -
Our long, slow,
Goodbye.

Autumnal Love #2 - a collection of Poems by Clive Martyn

2010-09-23T00:28:00.000+01:00

Your auburn hair,

Cascades,

Like twisting ribbons,

Of soft fire,

Caressing my face,

A secret smile,

Lifting the corner of your lips.

The damp dead leaves,
Autumn's bounty, beneath me,
Cannot distract,
As you steal my breath,
So beautiful -
A pale enchantress,
A wood nymph.

The forest whispers,
Preparing,
But picture perfect,
As leaves drift slowly down,
Quietly you watch,
Your heart full,
Like mine.

You linger over,
Pulling back from a kiss,
Your deep green eyes,
Mischievous,
I want to say it,
But it is too soon,
Then the moment is gone.

Autumnal Love #1 - a collection of Poems by Clive Martyn

2010-09-19T08:44:00.001+01:00

A grey Autumn morning
Misty
Wet
Cold
But
Seeing you
Asleep
On your pillow
Carefree
Half-smile
Brightens it
Always

"I’m still here" by Clive Martyn

2010-09-17T13:15:00.006+01:00

This story will be published in Yellow Mama - Feb 2011.

It has been removed until the worldwide electronic rights expire.

What is this place? a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-09-14T13:35:00.000+01:00

What is this place? I asked the Beast,
He did not respond,
But pointed across the grey green river,
Where a boatman waited,
Dressed in rags, filthy,
Covered in sores,
His skeletal legs,
Chained together,
He pushed the raft slowly
Along the water,
Gliding over the moss covered rocks,
When he reached the shore
He waited,
Looking at me,
The Beast placed a cold clawed hand,
On my back,
Pushing me towards the boat,
Looking along the shoreline,
At the desolate landscape,
Split rocks and thorny trees,
I saw nothing to keep me,
So I sat down in the bottom of the boat,
Next to clumps of twisted metal,
What is this place? I asked,
But he didn’t respond.
The Beast stood watching,
From the shore,
The boatman turned us around,
Heading out,
To the middle of the river,
The rocks had eyes,
The moss was hair,
Below the surface,
People watched,
Silently screaming,
Bubbling,
The boatman stopped
In the middle,
He wrapped the metal,
In ribbons around my legs,
And pushed me over the side,
With a splash I sank,
The cold water,
Stealing my breath,
All around,
Others stood,
Pity and sorrow,
In their eyes,
A new soul,
Drowning,
Forever.

"No more tears" by Clive Martyn

2010-09-10T00:00:00.000+01:00

Mum opened the wardrobe doors.
“In you go, babes,” she said, smiling with her broken yellow teeth.
Her breath smelt bad, like old eggs. It always smelt bad when she smoked the plastic pipe. The whole apartment smelt bad. No matter how hard they tried to keep it clean and tidy, mum always managed to get it messy again.
“Do we have to?” whined Tami.
I gave her the shut up stare, quickly, but lucky mum was in a good mood. She had plenty of gear and a customer on the way.
“Won’t be long, sweetheart. Then we can watch some stories on the TV.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Quick!” she said pushing us both in. She closed the door, nearly catching my feet in it.
Tami and I stood in the dark. Her small hand found mine. I didn’t mind holding it. Tami still hated the dark but I had grown used to it and even enjoyed feeling safe locked away from harm. Protected briefly from life.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, we sat down. Neither of us wanted to upset mum, not when she was in a good mood. Hopefully we would have some money left over for some more food. The cupboards were quite bare. As if reading my mind, Tami’s stomach rumbled.
I flicked on my pocket torch.
I whispered “Is there a bear in here?” searching the small space with my flashlight, making her giggle quietly.
I could hear mum talking to a man, muffled through the wood. She sounded angry at something, never a good sign so early on. Sometimes she got angry at the end when they didn’t pay.
I looked at Tami. She was biting her bottom lip like she did when mum went out and left us alone. She was scared too.
“Do you want to listen to some music, Tams?" I asked, bringing out my precious, battered MP3 player.
I put the headphones in her ears and settled her against a couple of rolled up dresses.
Mum had started shouting, “Get out!” Over and over again.
My empty stomach rolled over, scared. She had told me what to do if one of her customers turned violent, or if she got into trouble but so far she had managed by herself. A cold fear grabbed my spine and wouldn’t let go.
I moved further against the thin wooden back of the wardrobe; scared that someone could soon come for me and Tami.
Do I help her? I thought.
Then the horrible thought crossed my mind as it had in the past... would it be better if she was dead?
Tami was oblivious, listening to my music. Her eyes closed.
I closed mine for a minute, praying for the same escape, but I could still hear everything outside. I stroked Tami’s soft blonde curls, wanting to do something with my shaking hands.
Mum threw something heavy, which shattered against the wall. Then something heavy hit the ground. I could hear muffled cries – a man’s yelp, then a squeaking
I put my fingers in my ears, and drew my legs up against me.
My heart pounded. It felt as if the whole wardrobe was pulsing in time.
This wasn’t right. Mum needed my help.
I looked for the knife that mum had hidden in the wardrobe.
I would die before I let anything happened to Tami.
Got to protect Tami, I thought, but I couldn’t find it; the knife must have been put somewhere, used for something.
Suddenly the doors opened. Light flooding in.
A man stood there, silhouetted, all I saw was his hand dripping blood, a bite mark clearly showing.
Grabbing Tami who had sleepily raised her head and covered her eyes as the door opened; I tried to cover her with my body.
Need to protect her. She was only a baby still, I thought. Hopefully the man would take me first and then Tami might be able to run. Get help.
I shook uncontrollably, scared. Waiting for rough hands to grab me.
“Hey, its alright,” the man said, gently, crouching down, “you aren’t in trouble, it’s okay.”
Slowly I looked at him, my eyes adjusting to the bright light.
His coat had a large POLICE written over it.
“You’re not in trouble, okay? We are here to help.”
Relief spilled over and I started to cry, really cry. Seven years worth of tears.
I could see mum, handcuffed, on the floor swearing and shouting. She was trying to bite the feet of anyone who passed.
“This lady,” the policeman said pointing to a pretty, young woman in a grey suit, “is from Child Services, okay? She is going to take you somewhere safe.”
I looked up at the woman, who smiled sweetly, and squeezed Tami’s hand.
All I could say through the tears was “Please.”

Lost - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-09-02T18:48:00.000+01:00

Wandering down a road,
An endless road,
Under a grey, dark sky,
Quiet,
No sound,
Except your breathing,
Walls on either side,
Steep - green and damp,
Impossible to climb,
No map or guide,
And a tunnel ahead,
Coal black,
With no lights to brighten,
The path within,
A hot breeze
Blowing through it,
Do you brave the tunnel,
Hoping for an end,
Or turn back,
Walking the many miles,
Already travelled,
Or wait,
For the Sun or the moon,
To brighten the way,
Enough to see.

"Sacrifice" by Clive Martyn

2010-08-27T11:26:00.002+01:00

Kneeling with his back to the large crowd of villagers, the boy whispered, “I’m scared, father”.
“Shut up,” his father muttered angrily. Although the man’s tone was harsh, I could see his tears through the ceremonial mask.

Everyone was watching me and I was pleased to see both fear and wonder in their eyes even though this was a regular ritual.

I chanted the ancient words and phrases, adding a few of my own invention blessing the various silver blades and tools arranged amongst the large, gnarled roots of the Tree.

Smoke from the small fire rose up lazily, through the dead branches and the little parcels of bones wrapped in skin that hung from them.

The fire had filled the air with a sweet smell of herbs and flowers, overcoming the stench of death that normally lingered.

I stole a glance at the village elders gathered on a small podium next to the boy’s family – they looked suitably impressed.

I stopped my chanting and let the silence hang in the air, building the excitement.

The Chief Elder, a man less than half my age, and one I choose more than anything for his stupidity and bloody disposition, leant forward in anticipation.

“It is time!” I declared loudly, raising my arms into the air.

The boy’s father placed his hands on his son’s shoulder and he got up, visibly shaking,

“Who gives this man-child to Tree Gods?” I asked my voice booming around the silent clearing.

“I do.” The man said quietly, pushing the boy forward gently.

The boy, even with his nose running and tears dripping on the thin white robes, still looked beautiful. His long, ash white hair framed his perfect blue eyes. Those eyes locked onto mine and beneath his terror I could still see his revulsion and hatred for me, just as I had when I had tried to lay with him.

You brought this on yourself, I thought.

“The Tree Gods will accept your sacrifice,” I said nodding to the father, adding quietly, “You are doing a great service to the village – it will be a good harvest. The Tree Gods’ blessings will be upon your family.”

He bowed slightly in thanks at those empty words, and rejoined his wife and daughters, all of whom were red-eyed and weeping.

Two of my assistants grabbed the boy’s arms and led him to the altar carved into the dead wood of the Tree; its surface permanently stained with sacrificial blood.

The herbs I had instructed his mother to give the boy earlier, to make him placid and slow his movement, were still working. He only struggled slightly as we approached the altar.

Up close I could hear him whisper, “But I didn’t tell... I didn’t tell”.

Angry, I picked up a small gourd of herbs I had prepared earlier and lifted it up quickly, in salute to the Tree.

With the help of both assistants, I poured the mixture of thistle and crushed berries from the Acre bush down his throat; holding his mouth and nose until he choked it down.

The boy’s eyes bulged as the mixture burnt into the flesh of his throat and mouth, burning away his power to speak.

His screams would be silent from now; as would his accusations.

We lifted him onto the altar and my assistants held him down.

“BoHa, lord of the Tree Gods!” I shouted as the boy twisted in silent agony, “Accept our sacrifice. Our crops need your protection, protect them from harm. Our people are hungry, make our harvest bountiful. Bring new life to our soil, make our crops strong and fruitful. We beseech you, hear our prayer.”

“Hear our prayer,” the villagers repeated dutifully.

Moving quickly I hammered barbed metal pins into the boy’s flesh pinning him to the Tree. They had been designed to slowly drain him of his blood and the white tunic he wore quickly changed to a rose colour.

His lips blistered and burnt, were wide open in pain and shock.

He didn’t look so beautiful now.

“BoHa, accept this life and the blood of this innocent Virgin,” I shouted.

I smiled down at the boy at the word virgin - you had your chance to avoid this.

Blood poured onto the tree and as a dribble of red reached the earth, a stillness descended on everything, a deep silence.

Slowly the Tree began to move although there was no wind.

It built up in intensity until the Tree’s branches were whipping back and forth, the little packets of bones and skins swinging violently.

I shouted, “BoHa is with us,” as if the villagers needed any more convincing.

The boy’s rapid, ragged breathing, slowed then stopped.

The ground shook slightly as the Tree swayed more and more fiercely until suddenly it was still again and noise returned to the forest.

“The sacrifice has been accepted – our harvest will be bountiful!” I shouted and there was a cheer from the villagers behind me, for the moment drowning out the cries and sobs from the boy’s family.

I sank to my knees and waited with my head bowed.

My assistants covered up the boy with a red cloth and then began to move people off back to the village. This part of the ceremony I had always insisted was private.

Eventually I was left alone with just the Tree and the body, dribbles of blood from the soaked cloth pooled on the ground.

I looked around to check there was no one watching; confident, I removed the cloth and whistled very gently.

I waited and the silence returned to the clearing. The tree shook again but this time very slightly. Roots grew rapidly around the altar; questing like large white worms for the body on the altar.

They entered into the boy’s body wherever they could, pushing through the beautiful blue eyes, into the boy’s ears and mouth, several groping under the sodden tunic. Within seconds, twenty or so roots were feeding on the boy, draining his organs and veins. His skin and face bulged obscenely as the roots moved around inside him, hungrily.

I stood patiently as BoHa fed, feeling nothing.

Eventually just a dry sunken corpse lay on the altar, and the roots retreated into the ground.

I started to pull out the metal pins and BoHa spoke in my mind, “Has it been a year already?”

“It has,” I said quietly.

“Worth the wait – your sacrifices are always so tender and young,” he said. I could sense his amusement.

“I try,” I said, knowing that he was baiting me.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” I lied but instantly my thoughts betrayed me.

I worked quietly and quickly, feeling the presence in the Tree, watching me. I stripped the skin off the boy’s chest, extracted the heart and broke several ribs to make another little parcel to hang from the Tree. There were fifty-five of them now.

Boha lowered a high branch down so I could tie it on.

“Done,” I whispered and the branch moved back.

I waited patiently, trying not to think, to clear my mind and not think of my reward. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of me begging.

“So you think you deserve another drink of essence, do you?” he said taunting me.

“Please, BoHa.”

“Don’t you think you have lived long enough? Eighty long years? Most of your people die before they have counted thirty.”

I was silent; confident that for all his teasing BoHa would reward me. Without me he would never leave the darkness where he lived, or taste another human again. I was the one that had learnt how to summon him, all be it briefly, from the void where the other Outcasts lived. It was me who had managed to turn him into a God, in the eyes of the villagers, through showmanship, storytelling; convincing them of his almighty power, even though it was limited to this single Tree.

Slowly, thick red globules of sap rolled down the trunk of the Tree and I scooped them up, drinking them thirstily.

It tasted disgusting but it would give me another year of perfect health; and had already extended my life past what was natural, many times over. Already I felt it restoring strength to my arms and legs, giving me the energy of a twenty year old again.

I could not help laughing as life filled my veins. BoHa retreated into the darkness again and the normal sounds of the forest returned.

As I started the long walk back to the village through the fields, my only thought was that it was a shame BoHa couldn’t do anything about the crops; it looked like being another terrible harvest.

A Pilgrimage to the Black Madonna by Clive Martyn

2010-08-20T04:16:00.000+01:00

The town’s people stood on their doorsteps, watching the pilgrims as they shuffled and coughed their way through the narrow streets. Some enterprising souls sold bread, cake and water through their windows but most just watched disdainfully, with their handkerchiefs pressed under their noses, praying for the strange procession to end. Much of the road to Santa Maria had been filled with the sick, the hopeful and the weary for over a week since word of the miracles had reached the provinces. The roadside was now cluttered with those unable to continue and those who never would.

Dominic held onto his mother, helping her navigate through the masses and avoid the potholes that threatened to trip the unwary. His mother’s black robes covered the majority of her skin and face; covering the deep lesions her disease had caused, but Dominic was still scared. He knew if she tripped and was uncovered, the other pilgrims would panic and might kill them where they stood. He should have never brought her, but he still loved this shadow of the woman who had brought him into this world. His own lesions were thankfully just on his body at the moment so he could still walk amongst people. Clean people.

He smiled with false calm and confidence, nodding to a priest who stood in the middle of the road, blessing those passing either side. A rock in the middle of a sea of black and white robes.

“You will soon be there, my children,” the priest said, spraying holy water from a bottle, blessing all within reach, “Your journey is nearing an end.”

Dominic looked to the dark, cloudy sky, praying that was true. He knew the horror that awaited him, he saw it every day in his mother’s ravaged face and body. He longed for it to be over; the numbness of his disease, the cold creep that was moving up his arms and legs. But he knew it was a slow death, his mother had been ill for as long as he could remember.

“Dominic?” his mother mumbled through lips swollen with sores and small cuts “are we close?”

The Cathedral dominated the skyline ahead but it was still some distance.

“Not far, mother, not far.” He felt through her robes to her hand, and held it, ignoring the feel of her twisted, misshapen fingers.

“I am tired, Dominic, so tired.”

“I know, mother. But we can rest soon.”

“Do you think the statue could really...” she could not say the rest of the words.

“I pray it will, mother. I truly believe,” he said but he felt the emptiness of his words, his lack of faith.

In silence they walked as the sun set under the veil of clouds, listening to the occasional hymn that the faithful sung. A few of the pilgrims carried candles and lanterns lighting the path as the Cathedral withdrew into the darkness.

Finally they joined the thousands who stood, sat and lay outside the large ornate Cathedral doors; all praying and hoping for a miracle. The noise and chatter after the quiet of the road was unsettling.

A table had been set up where several people dressed in refinery sat, taking donations and allowing a few people at a time through to the brightly lit vestibule behind them. Joining the long queue of people, they slowly made their way through to the table under the watchful eye of the town guard.

When they reached the front, a man asked, “You wish to see the Madonna?” staring up at them both.

Dominic nodded, “Please, sir.”

“Five shillings each,” he said pushing a silver plate towards them.

Dominic counted the last of their money into the plate.

“Hands please,” he said distracted, ticking a piece of parchment twice.

Nervously Dominic held his forward and the man marked it with a red brush.

“Hand please, madam?” the man asked again.

His mother slowly pushed her hand out from under his robe. Even in the half-light of candles it was obvious her leprosy was well advanced.

The man recoiled in disgust, holding his sleeve against his nose. He pointed a shaking, accusing finger at them both, “Lepers!” he shouted.

Within seconds, from being surrounded, crowded by fellow pilgrims - they were alone in the centre of a large circle of terrified people, all staring at them with disgust and fear.

Knowing they had very little time, Dominic grabbed his mother’s sleeve and pulled her into the Cathedral. As if he was Moses, the crowds parted in front of them allowing them quickly through the aisles of the Cathedral to the small black statue of the Madonna that hung in the centre. The beautiful ebony figure was illuminated by a hundred votive candles.

Angry voices came from behind them, around the entrance. The guards were coming. Dominic pulled his mother down to her knees in front of the statue. Steeling his stomach, he lifted her veil and together they prayed for a miracle, holding hands.

“You will have to leave,” a man called from a safe distance.

“We have paid our money,” Dominic replied, “We have the right to ask the Holy Mother for a miracle, like anyone else.”

“You will have to leave,” the man repeated, his voice muffled by his hand as he moved closer.

Dominic repeated his prayer again and again, and waited.
Uncomfortable and pained, his mother sighed and shuffled to her feet.

“Let us go home, Dominic,” she said quietly, “let these people have their church back. We have said our prayer.”

He looked at her, her beauty and hair long lost, her skin grey and pockmarked with sores, and cried.

“I don’t want to die,” he sobbed into his hands.

She put his hand on his shoulder, "Dominic!" she whispered sadly. “We all die, son,” she said looking down at him, “no miracle can stop that."

Dominic looked up at the statue, his arms outstretched.

“Please,” he cried up at the Madonna, “cure us.”

Dominic stared at the beautiful image of the Madonna, his heart beating against his chest.

The Cathedral was silent, still. Nothing happened.

"You will leave now," a guard called his pike held menacingly at them, "this is no place for lepers!"

Feeling nothing but emptiness and disappointment; Dominic climbed to his feet and with his mother walked towards the exit, holding his head as high as he could. They met the hateful stares of the people and guards who whispered behind their coat sleeves and edged out of their way.

Just as he stepped out the Cathedral doors, Dominic turned to take one last look at the Black Madonna. Perhaps a trick of the flickering candle light but her face seemed to have turned towards him; her compassionate eyes fixed upon him. He felt an immense love.

Wonder and a thousand emotions filled the emptiness in his soul, and he smiled as he began the long walk home.

Although there was no miracle cure within the walls of Santa Maria, Dominic and his mother met their fate bravely; and there can be no greater miracle than that.

"Death of a Clown" by Clive Martyn (Entire story - parts 1 to 5)

2010-08-18T10:57:00.002+01:00

The crowd was not happy. Not that it had been much of a crowd to begin with; the majority of the seats had been empty for the third night in a row. Half a dozen more had emptied during the high wire act, after the clumsy Russian, Vladimar, whose strength and skill was fading fast, had missed another catch and Demeter, his wife, had fallen the fifty feet to the safety net below. More were standing up to leave as Duffy screwed up his unicycle routine again on the second attempt. As final night shows went, it was a shambles.
Donnie stood ringside in the shadows, watching the disaster play out. Angry, his cheeks matched the colour of his blood red ringmaster’s jacket.

Christina walked over and stood quietly next to her husband. She stroked her slightly withered left arm with her right hand, a habit she did whenever she was nervous or feeling guilty.

“Hey babes,” he said not looking away from the ring, “can you believe this shit?”
“No,” she said quietly, almost a whisper, “bad night.”

“Did you have to give them their money back?” Donnie muttered distracted, watching Duffy try again to climb onto his cycle, to more booing from the audience.

She nodded, wiping her eyes. She took a deep breath then said, quickly, in a rush of words; “Sorry Donnie, we don’t have enough! I’ve counted it twice.”
Donnie crumpled the rim of his black ringmaster’s hat between his hands and stood rooted to the spot as her words sunk in.
“We are about two thousand short,” she said.
“Shit!” he said, turning to stare into her red rimmed eyes.
“What are we going to do?” she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” he said gently, pulling her into an embrace. She rested her head against his red jacket and hugged him tightly with her good arm.
“Those people, Donnie, you pay or they kill you!” she said.

He could hear the panic in her voice.
“I know, babes, I know. Don’t worry you know I can look after myself but at least tonight is our last night – we’ll be on the train tomorrow and on the move.”
“Donnie – they’ll find us. You can’t bloody miss us!” she said standing back and waving at the big top with a hand.

“I told you not to borrow the money!” she said. A gleam came into her tear-filled eyes and she wiped them excitedly. She pulled Donnie away from the canvas entrance to the ring, deeper into the shadows.
“Let’s just run, you and I?” she whispered, “We’ll go somewhere new – somewhere they’ll never find us. We’ll take the money and go – start new lives.”

Donnie looked at her shocked; “I can’t leave Christina. This Circus,” he sighed, “This Circus is my life. You know that. I can’t leave it.”
He watched as anger slowly replaced her tears, “If we don’t leave, they are going kill us, Donnie! Is that worth it? Is it worth it? Dying for your bloody circus?”

“Chrissy,” he said reaching out for her but she backed away, “We’ll be alright, we’ll find the money... I’ll look after you, you know I will.”

She shook her head, her long dark hair flicking from side to side.

“This Circus is falling apart, Donnie, and everyone can see that - apart from you. You’ve got one, maybe two decent acts the rest are just fuckups. The days of us packing them in are long gone – we are going under!”
“It’ll get better, babes and we’ll sort the money out - okay? Get some new acts... that’s all we need.”
She stared at him as if he was mad.
“You’re an idiot, Donnie! You can’t afford new acts – you can’t afford the ones you’ve got.”

The booing outside gathered in intensity and Duffy half-ran through the entrance pulling his unicycle behind him.
“Sorry Donnie,” he said sheepishly. Donnie could smell the booze on him again – even after he had promised.
“Duffy – you bloody idiot. We are going to talk later.”

He looked back at Christina and tried to smile. “Listen babes - it’ll be okay.”
“No, Donnie, it won’t!” She turned and left without a backward glance or another word.

“Christina?” he called loud enough for the nearest members of the audience to look around but Christina didn’t.
He watched her leave and tried to push all thoughts of the debt collectors and money out of his head.
'Concentrate on the performance' he thought to himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled – ‘calm’ he thought staring at his hands which were rock steady.

He put on his top hat, perched it on top of his perfectly combed and greased black hair. He twirled the ends of his old style moustache and stepped confidently into the lights of the ring, flicking the microphone on as he did.

He felt everyone’s eyes on him and smiled broadly.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls – before our next performance I would like to tell you a little bit of history of our circus.... the great Revival Circus,” Donnie said, his voice rising dramatically at the end to cover the boos. From his pocket he produced a joke piece of paper which rolled down to the ground like an unravelling toilet roll.

This was greeted by a bored silence and he knew the audience were on the verge of leaving on mass.

‘Come on, old man’ Donnie thought as he started his speech, feeling intense relief as finally giggles and laughter were teased out of the audience by the appearance at the side of the ring of Choko the Clown. Choko was a rare talent who could bring a smile to the faces of even the most annoyed customer; dressed as a hobo with traditional white-face and wig, he shuffled onto the ring making yawning signs as Donnie droned on, before slipping and sliding his way towards the ringmaster.

Although long past his prime, the skills he had picked up working alongside the famous Emmett Kelly Jr were still evident, which was why he still had top billing on all the Circus posters.

It had taken many years before Donnie could do the act without a glimmer of a smile coming to his face. The first time he had seen Choko was at around the age of 8 in Santa Barbara, sat with his nanny in a huge crowd at the Pickle Family Circus when it was touring its way through California. At the time Choko had been at the height of his fame and abilities and Donnie, a 8 year old lonely boy had laughed until he cried with joy. After that Donnie had become obsessed with two things about the circus but his biggest love would always be for Choko the Clown.

His parents - rich, arrogant and detached - had been quite embarrassed by their only son’s love of clowns and the circus, a pastime and industry they thought was distinctly lower class; well beneath their station. As the years went on, they decided it was an obsession to be stamped out and destroyed. After watching disdainfully for four or so years of collecting and obsessing, they threw out all of Donnie’s circus related toys and the posters he had gathered by persistent writing to famous circuses around the world. His parents spent thousands on therapy but it was a love and obsession that never went away.

On the eve of his final exams at university – the same university his father and grandfather had attended – and which he hated intensely, Donnie had spotted a shabby poster flapping through a courtyard carried by the wind. It was advertising the Revival Circus and in small letters mentioned the famous ‘Choko’ the clown.

Rather than spend the night revising as he needed to, he spent it laughing and giggling like that lonely 8 year old again, in a circus tent that had seen better days. After that he knew that he wanted to never leave. So he didn’t - begging his way into the company. His family disowned him instantly in disgust and shame but he didn’t care and for the next twenty years he lived and worked in the Revival Circus.

He eventually became first the owner, using a surprise inheritance to buy a majority share and then the ringmaster, where his posh voice and bearing finally fitted in.

Choko slowly sneaked up behind Donnie and grabbed his wallet from his backpocket as well as a handful of handkerchiefs which kept coming out until Choko was on the other side of the ring with a hundred multi-coloured pieces. He ran back collecting them up until he had a large ball of them. Choko tried to put these back into Donnie’s trousers which promptly fell down. Donnie pretended to notice what was going on for the first time and shook his fist in pretend anger.
Choko ran off in slow motion, whilst Donnie pulled his trousers back up.
All around the audience, people were smiling and laughing. Choko had that effect on people,

he could lift a whole room within minutes of walking into it.
Donnie started to chase Choko around the ring, the old man still very fast on his feet. ‘Chase’ music played over the PA system.
The other clowns drove into the ring in the clown car to pick up Choko. They threw buckets of confetti at Donnie and the crowd, whilst Choko jumped in.

Choko stood on the back with the other clowns, panting. Donnie once again shook his fist whilst the clowns drove around the ring. Another clown dressed as a policeman drove on in a police car and Donnie jumped in, chasing the other clowns in their car, siren blearing.

Laughter and applause echoed around the tent.

The clown car was meant to be slowly dismantled by the clowns and thrown at the police car until it was just a skeleton but Tommy, one of the Auguste clowns, was talking intently to Choko, who stood holding his arm. Tommy suddenly grabbed him as he nearly fell off the back of the car and shouted something to the others. The clown car stopped, skidding on the loose sawdust of the ring.
The audience thought it was part of the act and carried on laughing, clapping and cheering.

“Shit – what’s going on?” Donnie said and the police car stopped quickly behind the others.

Tommy was now cradling Choko and lowered him to the floor, the other clowns clustering around.
Donnie ran over as the audience slowly realised that something other than the normal performance was going on and stood to see if they could see what was happening.

Choko lay on the ground, his face looked lopsided and Donnie immediately realised he had had a massive stroke. He wasn’t breathing.

“What did he say Tommy?” Joshua, one of the clowns asked.

“He didn’t make any sense – it was just gibberish.”
Donnie felt for a pulse – there wasn’t any. He checked his eyes , unresponsive. He was dead.

Donnie felt his own heart fill with anguish.

“He’s gone,” he said.

“Try CPR, Donnie!” Joshua called out.

“He’s gone.”
“You’ve got to do something, Donnie!”

Donnie just shook his head and got up.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” Tommy called out, seeing Donnie give up.
A man near the back, sat with a bored looking pair of twins, raised his hand and slaunted down as fast as his considerable bulk would allow him, climbing over the small ringside barrier into the ring.

Donnie walked away, as a feeling of complete despair washed over him and tears poured down his cheeks.

Donnie sat on the passenger side seat of the clown policecar, his head in his hands and tried to ignore the doctor working on the body of his old friend
All the performers had rushed out once word had got back to the midway and the caravans, and soon a tight crowd of fellow performers, most still in costume, were stood watching over the clown’s little body. The majority of the audience had drifted away with subtle backward glances– it being obvious that the show was over – although some stayed as to watch this macabre new show.
Donnie looked for Christina but she wasn’t there. Probably refunding more people, he thought.
Eventually the doctor gave up and stood up – unable to find any words of comfort in front of thirty concerned faces. There were tears everywhere. An ambulance crew turned up, rushing over with their equipment but it was quickly obvious there was nothing they could do.
The next few hours passed in a blur – the final stragglers from the audience went home, someone collected the body and took Choko to the hospital for an autopsy, and then there were more tears. Several people got alcohol from their caravans and drinks were raised and toasts made.
Everyone sat down in the Big Top and told stories of the old clown and how much they would miss him.
People kept saying ‘what are we going to do?’ and looking at Donnie but he sat in silence, lost in his memories. He could not think of packing up and making the train. He just wallowed.

In the morning, Donnie woke up with a painful headache, up against the main prop. He couldn’t remember what time he had fallen asleep but an empty bottle of vodka lay next to him. Stumbling and dazed , he wandered back to his caravan.
He made a small pot of coffee and used the toilet before knocking gently on the bedroom door. Opening it he was surprised that Christina was not in bed. He sat down and unlaced his boots and glancing over to her side of the bed, he noticed her cupboard was empty and the knick-knacks from her side of the bed were also missing.
As if an electric current had gone through him, he leapt up and checked the safe. Its door hung open.

“Fuck!” he shouted to the empty caravan.

He sat back down on the bed, a wave of vomit climbing up his throat.
It was over. He couldn’t pay the collectors who would be knocking on the door any minute. He couldn’t pay anyone – couldn’t pay the performers, the debt collectors , couldn’t pay for transport to the next venue. They would have to stay here and carry on performing until they had paid off everything.

There was a knock on the door, at first he thought it would be the debt collectors here first thing to cut him up into little pieces, but he recognised the gentle call of “Donnie?”

“Rebecca?” he called out - “Come in!”

She walked in, her eyes still red rimmed with mascara streaks.

“Dad asked me to fetch you.” She smiled, looking briefly a lot older than her 17 years.

Rebecca was the daughter of Fran and Julian Fettle, all of them trapeze artists. Julian had not spoken to Donnie for about a year after a falling out over billing and caravans. All of his communication had come via other people since then. Donnie would have thrown him and his wife out of the circus along time ago if he was basing his judgement on personalities but their act was actually quite good and with Choko were the probably the top draw for the crowds. He also had a sweet spot for Rebecca, who had grown into a very beautiful young girl.
“What’s going on Rebecca?”

She looked very sheepish and very guilty.

“Don’t know – Dad just asked me to fetch you.”

“Come on – I’m in no mood for his shit” he said leaning back on the bed.

She shuffled from foot to foot. She knew something was up.

“It’s important, Donnie, real important.”

He pushed himself off the bed, with a groan. His eyes gritty and sore.

Rather than walking to the Fettle caravan which he was expecting, Rebbecca lead him back into the ring where everyone had gathered.
Julian was centre stage, stood with his wife, a couple of the clowns, Daisy the plate spinner and juggler and Josh the animal trainer – all his best performers now that Choko had gone. The rest of the crew were in the seating, waiting.

Julian smiled as Donnie approached, an evil smirk.

“Donnie,” he said, “glad you could join us!”

After a year of silence and not speaking directly at him, Donnie couldn’t help his jaw dropping slightly.

“Er... that’s okay Julian.”

“Please take a seat, “ he said.

Donnie found a spot next to Alex the giant and sat down between him and Duffy. Alex patted him on the back with a huge hand.
Julian flashed a smile again and Donnie felt a surge of anger – Choko died just over 12 hours ago and he’s smiling and organising staff meetings. If he mentions taking top billing now Choko is gone, Donnie thought, I’ll kill him.

“Thank you for joining us,” Julian said. He paused and grabbed his wife’s hand. “It is obviously a very sad time but I have some very important news that I... we... were going to announce after the last performance and with Choko gone it is even more pertinent.

“Get on with it,” muttered Demeter, her husband sat next to her with his eyes closed.
Julian paused and avoided Donnie’s eye, “I am sorry to say Fran and I, and the others, have been approached by another circus. They have made us all a very generous offer to join their company. It is an offer we have all accepted.”

There was a sudden explosion of shouting and angry words – this coming after yesterday’s nightmare was too much for many people.

“What?”

Donnie stood up and everyone slowly quietened down. He tried to calm his thoughts, looking briefly at his hands again, still steady even after a night of drink. He sighed, “Over the last two or three years, lots of people have said to me that the Revival cannot continue – not without new acts, new attractions, new equipment. That it was time to change or to close the doors for good. But when I watched the audiences they always used to leave smiling so I knew the magic was still there – Choko’s magic; so I never listened to them – we carried on, struggling on.” He looked around the faces all looking up at him, seeing the guilt and fear written across them.
“But without you guys, I don’t think we can carry on – we’ll be finished. Closed.”

Rebecca, Daisy and Josh had the decency to look very embarrassed and guilty. Julian and Fran just stared at him defiantly.

Donnie closed his eyes, he knew he had to choose the right words to convince them to stay. “Stay and we will get better – I promise you. I will find us those new acts that can bring in the crowds, like we used to. We will replace the Big Top, get new equipment. We’ll pack them in again.”

Julian crossed his arms and shook his head.

“Audiences don’t leave smiling anymore, Donnie. The circus is broke and we all know it. We aren’t going to let you drag us down with you.”

“What about the rest of us,” Duffy shouted out.

“Sorry Duffy, I’ve got my family to think about.” Julian said, and together they started to walk towards the exit.

“Daisy? Josh?” Duffy called out.

“Sorry Duffy. It’s the Big Apple, ya know?” Daisy said and Josh simply nodded his agreement. It was the big time, and everyone knew it.

They left and everyone turned to Donnie, all with questions he didn’t have the answer to.
“Are we broke, Donnie?”

“Donnie,What are we going to do?”

“Can we carry on?”

“Where’s Christina?”

“Are we moving on or staying here for a while? What are we doing?”

Without answering any, he got up and walked out. People shouted his name as he left but he didn’t turn around until he got to the door, when he realised that the company deserved the truth – no matter how devastating that might be.

“Before Choko died last night, Christina ran off with the takings, all the takings from the last month. We are broke – I can’t afford to pay anyone and we can afford transportation to the next venue. I had to borrow money to pay for this pitch... money we can’t afford to pay back. Sorry.”

Dropped jaws and muttered curses met this statement, building into another explosion of questions and shouts.

“It is over,” he said walking out of the tent.

Finally Donnie knew it – the Revival circus was over. He had battled against it for so long. He and Choko had tried their best to keep everyone together, keep the audiences coming – but it was over, without Choko, Donnie knew he couldn’t hold it together anymore.

His feet carried him to Choko’s caravan where he had spent many a night reminiscing with the old man over a glass of whiskey, about the good times and the bad, discussing big plans which never happened.

He opened the door and hovered in the doorway – he couldn’t face it yet. Not now – seeing the empty caravan cluttered with Choko’s clothes and memorabilia would break his heart. His tears were only being held back by the anger that was building up in his head.

He hadn’t felt so angry and full of hate since the days before he joined the circus. He closed the door to Choko’s caravan and walked over to his own, in desperate need of some drugs from his well stocked medicine cabinet.

As he opened the door to his own caravan, he sensed someone behind him and turned, receiving a solid punch to the face.

Donnie stumbled through the door, falling against the kitchen cabinets. Fred Meadows, the man Donnie owed fifteen thousand to, sat at his kitchen table. A large man who could have rivalled Alex the giant, climbed in through the door and shut it.
“Donnie. So pleased to see you.” Fred said, smiling with large veneered teeth.

Donnie pulled himself up and dusted off his clothes.
“You are a day late, Donnie. I know about last night and the Clown – so i’m prepared to let you off being late by one day. Generous aren’t I, Bruiser?”
The large hulk of a man at the door said in a comically deep voice, “Yes boss – too generous.”
“You see, Bruiser here, would like to bury you in the desert. Bury you in the fucking desert," Fred spat as he spoke, his anger showing through, "but I understand your loss so... i’ll just take my money now.”

“I don’t have it Fred.” Donnie said moving further into the corner of the kitchen, away from the door and Alex.

“You little shit, Donnie,” Fred said standing up, his hand going inside his jacket to grab his gun. A little bit of colour came to Fred’s cheeks and he looked at Bruiser, who lurched forward his hands outstretched like claws.

“I shouldn’t have lent good money to a bunch of carnies," Fred snarled.

There was a block of kitchen knives next to the sink. Heavy, solid knives, which although these days were used to chop vegetables and meat, had at one time been the property of Madame Zelda, the knife thrower.
Donnie grabbed a couple, the weight feeling reassuring. In a fluid move flicked one directly at Fred aiming for his head. Bruiser closed in and received a backwards slash across his chest. Bruiser pulled back, shock clear on his face and went for his gun as well. Donnie closed the distance between and sliced him again – this time the sharp knife cut deep into his stomach and guts. Bruiser looked down at the wet slippy mess of his intestines between his hands before falling to his knees, a look of complete surprise on his face. Donnie lifted Bruiser's head and sliced his throat, cutting deep into the sinews and flesh, knowing exactly where to cut for the most damage.
Donnie looked up at Fred. The knife was imbedded three inches into his chest and his head was slumped down, dead.

Donnie stood there, breathing heavily, staring at his blood soaked hands. They were still steady even if his knees felt slightly weak.

Blood began to pool around Donnie’s feet and the caravan was silent.
Donnie knelt down to get a closer look at the bodies before a savage laughter and joy took hold of him. His headache was gone, long forgotten replaced by a kind of elation.

In the distance, he heard a number of engines starting up – the others.

He jumped over the body of Bruiser and opened the door to caravan.

One after the other, several caravans headed off towards the freeway.

Donnie waved and shouted at them to stop but they didn’t.

Within minutes, Donnie was alone with the Big Top and just two caravans.

He went back into his little home and sat down with the two bodies. After a while he started to laugh again. The laughter turned into sobs before, covered in blood, he picked himself up.
He went into his bedroom and pulled out a drawer under the bed, in it were the only items saved from his life before the circus. A big book of circus pictures, he had scavenged from the bins at his parents’ house and a large leather bag, with his initials on it. A bag his father had given him as gift before his exams at university. A bag from a different life.
He took both to the kitchen table and sat there leafing through the pictures, examining each of them carefully and coming up with a plan.

Christina was brushing her hair with her good hand when she saw Donnie, appear behind her, in the mirror. She tried to stand but suddenly he was up close holding a foul smelling cloth against her nose and mouth, and her scream rapidly turned into a chemical induced darkness.

When she awoke, Christina was strapped to a chair in the middle of a new large tent. As her eyes adjusted to the bright lights that hung from various scaffolding poles, she could see Donnie by a small low table. A table covered in different sized tools and knives.
She had the bitter taste of whatever chemical had been in the cloth and she coughed against the gag in her mouth. Hearing this Donnie turned around. He had a very broad grin on his face.

“Hey Christina. How you feeling?” he said as if it had only been yesterday that they had seen each other, rather than the months that had past since she had run off with the takings.

She stared at the scalpel in his hands and struggled against the straps that held her to the chair.

The gag in her mouth made it impossible to speak but Donnie smiled and nodded as if she said something.

“How am I feeling? Why thank you for asking, Chrissy... I’m doing very well. Very well indeed." He smiled in a way which made Christina feel very nervous.

"I’ve got some new acts," he said waving his hands around. "My new Circus is a hit – queues of people lining the streets to see us.”

“Queues! Can you imagine Chrissy?” he laughed excited.
“Some of the acts, Chrissy... some of the acts are so unique, so out of this world, I have seen grown men throw up!”. He sighed, intensely proud and obviously very happy.

Christina stared at him, scared, seeing madness in his eyes. She tried to shout but the gag in her mouth meant she just ended up coughing.

He stroked her withered arm tenderly. “You are going to be perfect, Chrissy. Just like everyone else.” he said gently.
Behind her, Christina heard someone moan.
Donnie smiled, looking past her to whoever had made the noise.

“Where are my manners, Chrissy? Would you like to meet my new stars?”

He laughed and spun her chair around so she could see the collection of cages behind her.
Several large people stood in the darkness and for the first time she could smell them - a stench of faeces and urine. A couple of the shapes moved, rocking backwards and forwards.
“Trickery and magic, some say. Some think it’s makeup or even computer graphics! But they are all real. So very real.”
Donnie turned a light onto the first cage.
Immediately Christina could see it was Julian. He looked very pale, almost as if he was made of plaster of paris. A thin line of drool and vomit dipped out of his mouth onto a dirty white sheet that he was wearing. A larger stain of urine covered his middle.
He shuffled sidewards, turning away from the light.

Christina screamed and closed her eyes.

Where Julian's right arm and right leg should have been, instead stood Fran. The pair were now Siamese twins, carefully stitched together.
“Modelled on the famous Chang and Eng – do you remember that photo I loved?”

Donnie flicked more lights on.

Everyone was there, Duffy, Vladamir, all changed, all different – some with extra limbs stitched on, some with skin grafts over their eyes, some with no limbs at all, but all with the same dim look in their eyes as if they weren’t there any more, most of them just standing in the cages like animals.

Donnie stood staring, a proud smile on his face.

“You see Chrissy - Choko was wrong... all those years... all those arguements we used to have... he kept saying there wasn’t any demand for freaks any more!”

“But there is!”
He snorted, amused.
“At least I’m finally following in the family’s footsteps - I was the first generation since the Civil War not to become a surgeon.”

"Anyway..." he said, "Enough catching up Chrissy," and he picked up an ice-pick from the table.

Several of the people in the cages started to moan and cry, rocking more violently, hitting the cages.

"Did I ever tell you about my grand-father? He worked with this amazing Doctor who perfected a way of rapidly lobotomising people. Together they did over 30,000 procedures all across America... just using one of these,” he said holding the stainless steel pick in front of her, “unbelievable, huh?”

“It’s very quick... so quick there really isn’t any need for pain relief. Just need to get past the eye, through the socket and into the frontal lobe.”

Chrissy whimpered again against her gag.

“Don’t worry," he smiled, patting her arm with his steady hand, "I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Chrissy tried to scream, to run, but couldn't.

"Do you want to know what are you going to become?" Donnie asked, excited.

He turned her around again to face a table with a body on it. An old man’s grey body - carefully preserved.

Donnie smiled. “I think it is time that Choko had top billing again.”

Death of a Clown: Part 5 by Clive Martyn

2010-08-17T23:59:00.004+01:00

Christina was brushing her hair with her good hand when she saw Donnie, appear behind her, in the mirror. She tried to stand but suddenly he was up close holding a foul smelling cloth against her nose and mouth, and her scream rapidly turned into a chemical induced darkness.

When she awoke, Christina was strapped to a chair in the middle of a new large tent. As her eyes adjusted to the bright lights that hung from various scaffolding poles, she could see Donnie by a small low table. A table covered in different sized tools and knives.

She had the bitter taste of whatever chemical had been in the cloth and she coughed against the gag in her mouth. Hearing this Donnie turned around. He had a very broad grin on his face.

“Hey Christina. How you feeling?” he said as if it had only been yesterday that they had seen each other, rather than the months that had past since she had run off with the takings.

She stared at the scalpel in his hands and struggled against the straps that held her to the chair.

The gag in her mouth made it impossible to speak but Donnie smiled and nodded as if she said something.
“How am I feeling? Why thank you for asking, Chrissy... I’m doing very well. Very well indeed." He smiled in a way which made Christina feel very nervous.

"I’ve got some new acts," he said waving his hands around. "My new Circus is a hit – queues of people lining the streets to see us.”

“Queues! Can you imagine Chrissy?” he laughed excited.

“Some of the acts, Chrissy... some of the acts are so unique, so out of this world, I have seen grown men throw up!”. He sighed, intensely proud and obviously very happy.

Christina stared at him, scared, seeing madness in his eyes. She tried to shout but the gag in her mouth meant she just ended up coughing.

He stroked her withered arm tenderly. “You are going to be perfect, Chrissy. Just like everyone else.” he said gently.

Behind her, Christina heard someone moan.

Donnie smiled, looking past her to whoever had made the noise.
“Where are my manners, Chrissy? Would you like to meet my new stars?”

He laughed and spun her chair around so she could see the collection of cages behind her.

Several large people stood in the darkness and for the first time she could smell them - a stench of faeces and urine. A couple of the shapes moved, rocking backwards and forwards.

“Trickery and magic, some say. Some think it’s makeup or even computer graphics! But they are all real. So very real.”

Donnie turned a light onto the first cage.

Immediately Christina could see it was Julian. He looked very pale, almost as if he was made of plaster of paris. A thin line of drool and vomit dipped out of his mouth onto a dirty white sheet that he was wearing. A larger stain of urine covered his middle.

He shuffled sidewards, turning away from the light.

Christina screamed and closed her eyes.

Where Julian's right arm and right leg should have been, instead stood Fran. The pair were now Siamese twins, carefully stitched together.

“Modelled on the famous Chang and Eng – do you remember that photo I loved?”

Donnie flicked more lights on.

Everyone was there, Duffy, Vladamir, all changed, all different – some with extra limbs stitched on, some with skin grafts over their eyes, some with no limbs at all, but all with the same dim look in their eyes as if they weren’t there any more, most of them just standing in the cages like animals.

Donnie stood staring, a proud smile on his face.

“You see Chrissy - Choko was wrong... all those years... all those arguements we used to have... he kept saying there wasn’t any demand for freaks any more!”

“But there is!”

He snorted, amused.

“At least I’m finally following in the family’s footsteps - I was the first generation since the Civil War not to become a surgeon.”

"Anyway..." he said, "Enough catching up Chrissy," and he picked up an ice-pick from the table.

Several of the people in the cages started to moan and cry, rocking more violently, hitting the cages.

“Did I ever tell you about my grand-father? He worked with this amazing Doctor who perfected a way of rapidly lobotomising people. Together they did over 30,000 procedures all across America... just using one of these,” he said holding the stainless steel pick in front of her, “unbelievable, huh?”

“It’s very quick... so quick there really isn’t any need for pain relief. Just need to get past the eye, through the socket and into the frontal lobe.”

Chrissy whimpered again against her gag.

“Don’t worry," he smiled, patting her arm with his steady hand, "I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Chrissy tried to scream, to run, but couldn't.

"Do you want to know what are you going to become?" Donnie asked, excited.

He turned her around again to face a table with a body on it. An old man’s grey body - carefully preserved.

Donnie smiled. “I think it is time that Choko had top billing again.”

Whisper Glade by Clive Martyn

2010-08-13T23:49:00.004+01:00

In the witching hour,
When the shadows,
And deadly shades move,
You will find me,
In Whisper Glade,

I will be there,
Waiting,
Waiting for you.

I will still be hidden,
I will not speak,
You will never catch a glimpse,
Of my withered face.
But I will listen,
My friend,
Hear.

So you make your plea,
Your request,
Speak loud and clear,
Bravely if you can,
Know it has been heard.

The solution to your problem,
Of course
Might not be the one you want.

My actions or deeds might seem,
Excessive,
Cruel,
Unkind,
But your desire will be honoured.
Your secret wish delivered,
As a reward,
For finding me,
There,
In Whisper Glade.

Death of a Clown: Part 4 by Clive Martyn

2010-08-11T00:25:00.002+01:00

Donnie stood up and everyone slowly quietened down. He tried to calm his thoughts, looking briefly at his hands again, still steady even after a night of drink. He sighed, “Over the last two or three years, lots of people have said to me that the Revival cannot continue – not without new acts, new attractions, new equipment. That it was time to change or to close the doors for good. But when I watched the audiences they always used to leave smiling so I knew the magic was still there – Choko’s magic; so I never listened to them – we carried on, struggling on.” He looked around the faces all looking up at him, seeing the guilt and fear written across them.

“But without you guys, I don’t think we can carry on – we’ll be finished. Closed.”

Rebecca, Daisy and Josh had the decency to look very embarrassed and guilty. Julian and Fran just stared at him defiantly.

Donnie closed his eyes, he knew he had to choose the right words to convince them to stay. “Stay and we will get better – I promise you. I will find us those new acts that can bring in the crowds, like we used to. We will replace the Big Top, get new equipment. We’ll pack them in again.”

Julian crossed his arms and shook his head.

“Audiences don’t leave smiling anymore, Donnie. The circus is broke and we all know it. We aren’t going to let you drag us down with you.”

“What about the rest of us,” Duffy shouted out.

“Sorry Duffy, I’ve got my family to think about.” Julian said, and together they started to walk towards the exit.

“Daisy? Josh?” Duffy called out.

“Sorry Duffy. It’s the Big Apple, ya know?” Daisy said and Josh simply nodded his agreement. It was the big time, and everyone knew it.

They left and everyone turned to Donnie, all with questions he didn’t have the answer to.

“Are we broke, Donnie?”
“Donnie,What are we going to do?”

“Can we carry on?”

“Where’s Christina?”

“Are we moving on or staying here for a while? What are we doing?”

Without answering any, he got up and walked out. People shouted his name as he left but he didn’t turn around until he got to the door, when he realised that the company deserved the truth – no matter how devastating that might be.

“Before Choko died last night, Christina ran off with the takings, all the takings from the last month. We are broke – I can’t afford to pay anyone and we can afford transportation to the next venue. I had to borrow money to pay for this pitch... money we can’t afford to pay back. Sorry.”

Dropped jaws and muttered curses met this statement, building into another explosion of questions and shouts.

“It is over,” he said walking out of the tent.

Finally Donnie knew it – the Revival circus was over. He had battled against it for so long. He and Choko had tried their best to keep everyone together, keep the audiences coming – but it was over, without Choko, Donnie knew he couldn’t hold it together anymore.

His feet carried him to Choko’s caravan where he had spent many a night reminiscing with the old man over a glass of whiskey, about the good times and the bad, discussing big plans which never happened.

He opened the door and hovered in the doorway – he couldn’t face it yet. Not now – seeing the empty caravan cluttered with Choko’s clothes and memorabilia would break his heart. His tears were only being held back by the anger that was building up in his head.

He hadn’t felt so angry and full of hate since the days before he joined the circus. He closed the door to Choko’s caravan and walked over to his own, in desperate need of some drugs from his well stocked medicine cabinet.

As he opened the door to his own caravan, he sensed someone behind him and turned, receiving a solid punch to the face.

Donnie stumbled through the door, falling against the kitchen cabinets. Fred Meadows, the man Donnie owed fifteen thousand to, sat at his kitchen table. A large man who could have rivalled Alex the giant, climbed in through the door and shut it.

“Donnie. So pleased to see you.” Fred said, smiling with large veneered teeth.

Donnie pulled himself up and dusted off his clothes.

“You are a day late, Donnie. I know about last night and the Clown – so i’m prepared to let you off being late by one day. Generous aren’t I, Bruiser?”

The large hulk of a man at the door said in a comically deep voice, “Yes boss – too generous.”

“You see, Bruiser here, would like to bury you in the desert. Bury you in the fucking desert," Fred spat as he spoke, his anger showing through, "but I understand your loss so... i’ll just take my money now.”

“I don’t have it Fred.” Donnie said moving further into the corner of the kitchen, away from the door and Alex.

“You little shit, Donnie,” Fred said standing up, his hand going inside his jacket to grab his gun. A little bit of colour came to Fred’s cheeks and he looked at Bruiser, who lurched forward his hands outstretched like claws.

“I shouldn’t have lent good money to a bunch of carnies," Fred snarled.

There was a block of kitchen knives next to the sink. Heavy, solid knives, which although these days were used to chop vegetables and meat, had at one time been the property of Madame Zelda, the knife thrower.

Donnie grabbed a couple, the weight feeling reassuring. In a fluid move flicked one directly at Fred aiming for his head. Bruiser closed in and received a backwards slash across his chest. Bruiser pulled back, shock clear on his face and went for his gun as well. Donnie closed the distance between and sliced him again – this time the sharp knife cut deep into his stomach and guts. Bruiser looked down at the wet slippy mess of his intestines between his hands before falling to his knees, a look of complete surprise on his face. Donnie lifted Bruiser's head and sliced his throat, cutting deep into the sinews and flesh, knowing exactly where to cut for the most damage.

Donnie looked up at Fred. The knife was imbedded three inches into his chest and his head was slumped down, dead.

Donnie stood there, breathing heavily, staring at his blood soaked hands. They were still steady even if his knees felt slightly weak.

Blood began to pool around Donnie’s feet and the caravan was silent.

Donnie knelt down to get a closer look at the bodies before a savage laughter and joy took hold of him. His headache was gone, long forgotten replaced by a kind of elation.

In the distance, he heard a number of engines starting up – the others.

He jumped over the body of Bruiser and opened the door to caravan.

One after the other, several caravans headed off towards the freeway.

Donnie waved and shouted at them to stop but they didn’t.

Within minutes, Donnie was alone with the Big Top and just two caravans.

He went back into his little home and sat down with the two bodies. After a while he started to laugh again. The laughter turned into sobs before, covered in blood, he picked himself up.

He went into his bedroom and pulled out a drawer under the bed, in it were the only items saved from his life before the circus. A big book of circus pictures, he had scavenged from the bins at his parents’ house and a large leather bag, with his initials on it. A bag his father had given him as gift before his exams at university. A bag from a different life.

He took both to the kitchen table and sat there leafing through the pictures, examining each of them carefully and coming up with a plan.

"My Heart Beats and Waits" a Poem by Clive Martyn

2010-08-07T18:44:00.001+01:00

Glistening
Within me
Lies my heart
A rough hewn stone
Chipped
Smoothed
Polished to a shine
By every loss
Every mistake
Every hurt
Every shouted word
Beating still
Waiting
Waiting for you

"Sixty-Three Years of Wants" by Clive Martyn

2010-08-06T00:57:00.003+01:00

Rebecca Simpson-Jones

Born 1964 - died 2027

Beloved mother to Sam and Tessa

Devoted wife to Henry

Sixty-three years of wants:

(1) I want milk (2) I want a doll like Jessica's (3) I want a pink pram (4) I want a farm with animals that Jessica can't play with (5) I want to stay at home with you mummy (6) I want my own school uniform not Jessica's old stuff (7) I want Ricky to stop picking on me (8) I want to not be fat (9) I want to go to the school disco with Carl (10) I want to go to the late cinema with Carl (11) I want Carl to drop dead (12) I want to start my period (13) I want to have breasts like Jessica (14) I want to go out with Ricky (15) I want smaller breasts and to lose weight (16) I want to lose my virginity to Ricky/want Ricky to drop dead (17) I want Jessica back home (18) I want to go to University like Jessica not work in the supermarket (19) I want to leave my job (20) I want to leave my job (21) I want a promotion (22) I want a promotion (23) I want to get married (24) I want to get married to Carl (25) I want to start planning the wedding (26) I want Carl to drop dead (27) I want less stress at work (28) I want to kick smoking by the time I am thirty (29) I want my parents to still be alive (30) I want to kick the drugs (31) I want to kick the drugs (32) I want to get my life back on track (33) I want to stay clean (34) I want to marry Jack (35) I want to have Jack's children (36) I want to have Jack's children (37) I want IVF to work (38) I want these babies to be okay (39) I want to get more sleep and have some time for myself (40) I want Jack to want me again (41) I want Jack and his bitch to drop dead (42) I want the divorce to be quick (43) I want the twins to enjoy school (44) I want to get a job (45) I want to get a job (46) I want to find someone again (47) I want my sister to still be alive (48) I want to be able to give my children more (49) I want to beat cancer (50) I want to beat cancer (51) I want to stay clear (52) I want internet dating to work (53) I want Henry to be the one (54) I want to get married (55) I want the twins to stay on at school (56) I want the twins to stay away from drugs (57) I want to send the twins to a better university (58) I want Henry to get better (59) I want Henry's pain to end (60) I want to be happy again (61) I want to enjoy life a bit more while I still can (62) I want to travel (63) I want the cancer to stop spreading.

Life is never quite what you want...

Death of a Clown: Part Three by Clive Martyn

2010-08-03T18:53:00.001+01:00

Donnie sat on the passenger side seat of the clown policecar, his head in his hands and tried to ignore the doctor working on the body of his old friend.

All the performers had rushed out once word had got back to the midway and the caravans, and soon a tight crowd of fellow performers, most still in costume, were stood watching over the clown’s little body. The majority of the audience had drifted away with subtle backward glances– it being obvious that the show was over – although some stayed as to watch this macabre new show.

Donnie looked for Christina but she wasn’t there. Probably refunding more people, he thought.

Eventually the doctor gave up and stood up – unable to find any words of comfort in front of thirty concerned faces. There were tears everywhere. An ambulance crew turned up, rushing over with their equipment but it was quickly obvious there was nothing they could do.

The next few hours passed in a blur – the final stragglers from the audience went home, someone collected the body and took Choko to the hospital for an autopsy, and then there were more tears. Several people got alcohol from their caravans and drinks were raised and toasts made.

Everyone sat down in the Big Top and told stories of the old clown and how much they would miss him.

People kept saying ‘what are we going to do?’ and looking at Donnie but he sat in silence, lost in his memories. He could not think of packing up and making the train. He just wallowed.

#

In the morning, Donnie woke up with a painful headache, up against the main prop. He couldn’t remember what time he had fallen asleep but an empty bottle of vodka lay next to him. Stumbling and dazed , he wandered back to his caravan.

He made a small pot of coffee and used the toilet before knocking gently on the bedroom door. Opening it he was surprised that Christina was not in bed. He sat down and unlaced his boots and glancing over to her side of the bed, he noticed her cupboard was empty and the knick-knacks from her side of the bed were also missing.

As if an electric current had gone through him, he leapt up and checked the safe. Its door hung open.

“Fuck!” he shouted to the empty caravan.

He sat back down on the bed, a wave of vomit climbing up his throat.

It was over. He couldn’t pay the collectors who would be knocking on the door any minute. He couldn’t pay anyone – couldn’t pay the performers, the debt collectors , couldn’t pay for transport to the next venue. They would have to stay here and carry on performing until they had paid off everything.

There was a knock on the door, at first he thought it would be the debt collectors here first thing to cut him up into little pieces, but he recognised the gentle call of “Donnie?”

“Rebecca?” he called out - “Come in!”

She walked in, her eyes still red rimmed with mascara streaks.

“Dad asked me to fetch you.” She smiled, looking briefly a lot older than her 17 years.

Rebecca was the daughter of Fran and Julian Fettle, all of them trapeze artists. Julian had not spoken to Donnie for about a year after a falling out over billing and caravans. All of his communication had come via other people since then. Donnie would have thrown him and his wife out of the circus along time ago if he was basing his judgement on personalities but their act was actually quite good and with Choko were the probably the top draw for the crowds. He also had a sweet spot for Rebecca, who had grown into a very beautiful young girl.

“What’s going on Rebecca?”

She looked very sheepish and very guilty.

“Don’t know – Dad just asked me to fetch you.”

“Come on – I’m in no mood for his shit” he said leaning back on the bed.

She shuffled from foot to foot. She knew something was up.

“It’s important, Donnie, real important.”

He pushed himself off the bed, with a groan. His eyes gritty and sore.

Rather than walking to the Fettle caravan which he was expecting, Rebbecca lead him back into the ring where everyone had gathered.

Julian was centre stage, stood with his wife, a couple of the clowns, Daisy the plate spinner and juggler and Josh the animal trainer – all his best performers now that Choko had gone. The rest of the crew were in the seating, waiting.

Julian smiled as Donnie approached, an evil smirk.

“Donnie,” he said, “glad you could join us!”

After a year of silence and not speaking directly at him, Donnie couldn’t help his jaw dropping slightly.

“Er... that’s okay Julian.”

“Please take a seat, “ he said.

Donnie found a spot next to Alex the giant and sat down between him and Duffy. Alex patted him on the back with a huge hand.

Julian flashed a smile again and Donnie felt a surge of anger – Choko died just over 12 hours ago and he’s smiling and organising staff meetings. If he mentions taking top billing now Choko is gone, Donnie thought, I’ll kill him.

“Thank you for joining us,” Julian said. He paused and grabbed his wife’s hand. “It is obviously a very sad time but I have some very important news that I... we... were going to announce after the last performance and with Choko gone it is even more pertinent. “

“Get on with it,” muttered Demeter, her husband sat next to her with his eyes closed.

Julian paused and avoided Donnie’s eye, “I am sorry to say Fran and I, and the others, have been approached by another circus. They have made us all a very generous offer to join their company. It is an offer we have all accepted.”

There was a sudden explosion of shouting and angry words – this coming after yesterday’s nightmare was too much for many people.

“What?”

Death of a Clown: Part Two by Clive Martyn

2010-07-27T06:00:00.001+01:00

He felt everyone’s eyes on him and smiled broadly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls – before our next performance I would like to tell you a little bit of history of our circus.... the great Revival Circus,” Donnie said, his voice rising dramatically at the end to cover the boos. From his pocket he produced a joke piece of paper which rolled down to the ground like an unravelling toilet roll.
This was greeted by a bored silence and he knew the audience were on the verge of leaving on mass.
‘Come on, old man’ Donnie thought as he started his speech, feeling intense relief as finally giggles and laughter were teased out of the audience by the appearance at the side of the ring of Choko the Clown. Choko was a rare talent who could bring a smile to the faces of even the most annoyed customer; dressed as a hobo with traditional white-face and wig, he shuffled onto the ring making yawning signs as Donnie droned on, before slipping and sliding his way towards the ringmaster.
Although long past his prime, the skills he had picked up working alongside the famous Emmett Kelly Jr were still evident, which was why he still had top billing on all the Circus posters.
It had taken many years before Donnie could do the act without a glimmer of a smile coming to his face. The first time he had seen Choko was at around the age of 8 in Santa Barbara, sat with his nanny in a huge crowd at the Pickle Family Circus when it was touring its way through California. At the time Choko had been at the height of his fame and abilities and Donnie, a 8 year old lonely boy had laughed until he cried with joy. After that Donnie had become obsessed with two things about the circus but his biggest love would always be for Choko the Clown.
His parents - rich, arrogant and detached - had been quite embarrassed by their only son’s love of clowns and the circus, a pastime and industry they thought was distinctly lower class; well beneath their station. As the years went on, they decided it was an obsession to be stamped out and destroyed. After watching disdainfully for four or so years of collecting and obsessing, they threw out all of Donnie’s circus related toys and the posters he had gathered by persistent writing to famous circuses around the world. His parents spent thousands on therapy but it was a love and obsession that never went away.
On the eve of his final exams at university – the same university his father and grandfather had attended – and which he hated intensely, Donnie had spotted a shabby poster flapping through a courtyard carried by the wind. It was advertising the Revival Circus and in small letters mentioned the famous ‘Choko’ the clown.
Rather than spend the night revising as he needed to, he spent it laughing and giggling like that lonely 8 year old again, in a circus tent that had seen better days. After that he knew that he wanted to never leave. So he didn’t - begging his way into the company. His family disowned him instantly in disgust and shame but he didn’t care and for the next twenty years he lived and worked in the Revival Circus.
He eventually became first the owner, using a surprise inheritance to buy a majority share and then the ringmaster, where his posh voice and bearing finally fitted in.
Choko slowly sneaked up behind Donnie and grabbed his wallet from his backpocket as well as a handful of handkerchiefs which kept coming out until Choko was on the other side of the ring with a hundred multi-coloured pieces. He ran back collecting them up until he had a large ball of them. Choko tried to put these back into Donnie’s trousers which promptly fell down. Donnie pretended to notice what was going on for the first time and shook his fist in pretend anger.
Choko ran off in slow motion, whilst Donnie pulled his trousers back up.
All around the audience, people were smiling and laughing. Choko had that effect on people, he could lift a whole room within minutes of walking into it.
Donnie started to chase Choko around the ring, the old man still very fast on his feet. ‘Chase’ music played over the PA system.
The other clowns drove into the ring in the clown car to pick up Choko. They threw buckets of confetti at Donnie and the crowd, whilst Choko jumped in.
Choko stood on the back with the other clowns, panting. Donnie once again shook his fist whilst the clowns drove around the ring. Another clown dressed as a policeman drove on in a police car and Donnie jumped in, chasing the other clowns in their car, siren blearing. Laughter and applause echoed around the tent.
The clown car was meant to be slowly dismantled by the clowns and thrown at the police car until it was just a skeleton but Tommy, one of the Auguste clowns, was talking intently to Choko, who stood holding his arm. Tommy suddenly grabbed him as he nearly fell off the back of the car and shouted something to the others. The clown car stopped, skidding on the loose sawdust of the ring.
The audience thought it was part of the act and carried on laughing, clapping and cheering.
“Shit – what’s going on?” Donnie said and the police car stopped quickly behind the others.
Tommy was now cradling Choko and lowered him to the floor, the other clowns clustering around.
Donnie ran over as the audience slowly realised that something other than the normal performance was going on and stood to see if they could see what was happening.
Choko lay on the ground, his face looked lopsided and Donnie immediately realised he had had a massive stroke. He wasn’t breathing.
“What did he say Tommy?” Joshua, one of the clowns asked.
“He didn’t make any sense – it was just gibberish.”
Donnie felt for a pulse – there wasn’t any. He checked his eyes , unresponsive. He was dead. Donnie felt his own heart fill with anguish.
“He’s gone,” he said.
“Try CPR, Donnie!” Joshua called out.
“He’s gone.”
“You’ve got to do something, Donnie!”
Donnie just shook his head and got up.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Tommy called out, seeing Donnie give up.
A man near the back, sat with a bored looking pair of twins, raised his hand and slaunted down as fast as his considerable bulk would allow him, climbing over the small ringside barrier into the ring.
Donnie walked away, as a feeling of complete despair washed over him and tears poured down his cheeks.

Links to all my previous Fridayflash

2010-07-26T18:00:00.004+01:00

(22) The Apprentice (Fantasy)

(21) One More (Sci-Fi)

(20) Jamie (Real life/Horror)

(19) No! (Real life)

(18) Dark Days (Real life)

(17) Dinner (Real life)

(16) Last Few (Sci-Fi/Horror)

(15) In the Shadow of Cherry Blossom Trees (Fantasy/Horror)

(14) Traffic Jams and Tears (Real life)

(13) Forest of Ice and Blood (Fantasy)

(12) The Flesh Merchant of Monoceros (Sci-Fi)

(11) Flicker (Horror)

(10) Please Santa (Contemporary Fantasy)

(9) Love Does Not Stop (Horror)

(8) Red Barn (Horror)

(7) Real Papa (Real Life)

(6) Love at First Sight (Real Life)

(5) Things are going to change (Horror/Real Life)

(4) Snatches of Life in Colour (Experimental/Real Life)

(3) Blink of an Eye (Horror/Real Life)

(2) Love does few boundaries (Real Life/Humour)

(1) Time will heal all (Real Life)

"With you" a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-26T00:00:00.000+01:00

The darkness holds no fear for me,
In the silvery moonlight,
In the gloom,
Looking down,
I remember you,
As you were,
See your face on the pillow,
Smiling,
Looking into my soul,
My heart,
Seeing what is good,
What belongs,
Telling me it will be okay,
That I will be okay,
When you are gone,
The bridge is silent,
Respectful, hushed,
The river is deep and fast,
And far below,
It will be quick,
I will be okay,
When I am with you again.

Haiku and micropoetry tweet catch-up

2010-07-24T12:16:00.000+01:00

It has been a while since I published a catch-up of all my twitter poetry - so I apologise for the length of this post. I should really do it monthly :)

But anyway here we go - from the summer back to early spring.

-----------

Don't hold back/ life is too short/ live honestly/ love completely/ don't stop believing in you and what you can achieve

Holding my breath / For far too long / Words held back / Love you... / I Love you

Reflect on your life / Think - is it all it could be? / Now what can YOU do?

Tread softly / walk gently / over the sand / leave footprints to lead the way / not to trip those that follow

Who knows who / Will be here / Tomorrow / ... / Dont leave saying / love you / until / Tomorrow

Drifting / Confused / Lost / Only one direction / Towards the end / Make the journey / Worth every second / Smile / Love / Live

Small gifts of kindness / trinkets of affection / love measured in gold and silver / presents instead of commitment / pets instead of kids

The spellbook melted / like wax beneath his hands / then his fingers caught too / the burning white pain / lasted forever

Your excuses are cheating you out of life. Wake up to this before it is too late. Life lived in regret is no life at all

Clock ticking / towards cursed alarm / grey rain / hitting the window / warm bed / is no defence / against time

Dreaming perfect lies / with rose tinted imagination / waking up is hard / but you cannot sleep through life / although many do

Hearing dark whispers / doubts, fears, worries plaguing me / I will not listen

In the darkness of the cell / nothing but memories / pain and regret / the seconds feel like years / death is sweet release

The needle warms / gently in the flame / it pierces the flesh / delivering sweet bliss / death

Whispers / words / lies / the beginning / of the end

Battlebirds circle / Under the Windriders control / Their cries echo / Between the mountains / As the army waits for the attack

Polluted seas / Overweight toddlers / War / Poverty and disease / Modern life is grand

A single look / a sly smile / stops my heart / you are beautiful / but happier without me

I see you every day / return your hesitant smile / laugh at your jokes / nod at your angry words / but you do not see me

In the darkness / I find your hand / holding it tight / knowing I am not alone / that you are with me in this fight

When I die / I will smile / knowing I made a difference / made a small contribution / left the world a better place

The frog sits alone / patiently watching the Mayflies / dance around and play

The frog sits / alone by the pond / patient / watching the Mayflies / dance and play

Denched in candlelight / drinking in the silence / teacher and student / focus on the flickering flame / embracing the stillness

I wish I could grow / another heart / or repair the one / broken / by a goodbye

Why does the world not stop / the laughter cease / the happiness and joy end / darkness descend / now you are gone

The cherry tree blossom / floats in the breeze / freed from its cold embrace / drifting high / twisting in the sun

Lost and confused / unwanted, abused / the dirty children searching / the rubbish dump / for scraps

On my bended knee / I wait - hopeful - heart beating / but you say no... no

The tree's shadow / anxiously points to the east / awaiting the dawn

Do not my actions / scream the words I long to hear / i love you -- be mine

Throughout my long life / I have seen so much beauty / and too much sorrow

Live your life with one simple thought - we can make things better

Love like freedom - should know no barriers or limits, and be experienced by everyone

In the dappled shade of the oak tree, shadows play, chasing the light away

Paradise beckons / not from above - much closer / open your door - look

A thousand jade jewels, whispering in the wind, fearing the autumn but basking in the sun, full of life for the moment

Whispering full leaves / happy in the dawn sunshine / listen to the birds

Basking in the glow of your smile / I am wrapped up tightly / in love / in the moment / I never want to move

In her deep brown eyes / I see a gentle, scared soul / lost until just now

Full of hope he waits/outside the cinema/waiting for her to appear/he cannot help but smile/knowing love for the first time

A hint of summer / carried on a damp, warm breeze / full of fat, soft drops of spring rain

The whispered shouts / the screaming silence / the torn lovers / alone again

Cherish each other / and love every second / too soon it fades

A house full - cluttered / paper, pens, clothes everywhere / but full though - of love

In the dark / the whisper of your breath on my shoulder / your hand on my chest / i smile - happy

I breathe slowly / concentrating on you / your happiness / losing myself in love

The rain plays outside / wet bullets - kissing the ground / splashing - flowing down

Happiness gone now / my heart - closed tight - in darkness / broken without you

Too beautiful, kind / too intelligent and sweet / to be mine - just mine

This bright, last sunset / your tender kiss - your wet cheek / I will remember

We pass on the stairs / I want to stop you - kiss you / but I let you go

Cherry blossom tree / burns brightly - fire petals / twist - pirouetting

The effigy burns / pain, anger fuels the flames / - the world on fire

The moment captured / within your eyes - I see love / reflecting pure love

In a darkened room / with closed eyes - I can find you / with your love, bright soul

When life weighs me down / I do not cry or sigh / I take it / because I know / this is the only life I will know

Walk taller and smile / When the mountain trail steepens / One more step taken / Is one more closer / To the very top

In the darkness, I felt for her hand. I smiled as I held her delicate fingers in mine. I am so glad I kept one part of her

At the tree's heart / a stillness, a quiet - peace / I sit and listen

In the heart of the tree / beats a stillness / an understanding / a quietness / I sit beneath it / and listen

There is no need - now / to leave this world - i found you / and i will keep you safe / in my heart

Alone in the crowds / at peace with himself and world / - walking gently home

In the spring / alone under the cherry tree / I missed the crow

Amid the snow / a frozen crow - still watching / with dead winter eyes

Autumn wind whispers / Through the dying trees - the crow / watches me kick leaves

Emptiness / should not be feared / embrace it

The bamboo forest / silent - the Temple bell fades / peace lingers longer

The universe rings / to the chime of the haiku / - the soul poetry

Through my fingertips / words pour freely like water / reflecting the light

"The Apprentice" by Clive Martyn

2010-07-23T04:59:00.005+01:00

Gaston looked up from the caldron. The Master was snoring gently, his chin pointing up to the ceiling. Gaston smiled and stopped stirring the dark purple liquid, resting his arms which were aching from the constant circles he had been making.

Deep black patches rapidly appeared on the surface, condensing into a thick skin. The potion was ruined but he didn’t care. It should earn him a serious beating from the Master, if his plan failed, but he hoped it wouldn’t matter soon. Soon nothing would matter.

Feeling bold, Gaston lent over the mixture and spat into it, causing it to colour green briefly. “Healing potions!” he muttered angrily in disgust.

When the Choosing had occurred he had prayed to all the Gods that he would be picked by a Demon Wizard, one who specialised in the Other ways, the Dark ways. Instead a lowly, travelling Healer had chosen him as his Apprentice. The shame!

He had been forced to wander from town to town, from farm to dirty mud hut, helping the diseased, performing minor cures, dispensing potions to ungrateful filthy peasants. He hated it and spent most of his day disgusted and revolted by what he saw and had to do.

In one village, half the men had caught Pox from sleeping with the same woman and Gaston had been forced to apply magical cream to warts and lesions on their private parts; after that humiliation he had begun to plot his escape.

During his training with the Academy, he had failed at almost everything; even some of the simplest spells were beyond him. He knew he would have been thrown out if it wasn’t for his talent in conjuring lesser demons, imps and lost spirits. The Dark ways came naturally to him but he was never allowed to explore his talent fully, never allowed free rein.

He knew they were scared of him, his power. His tutors had refused to teach him the major conjuring spells, the spells to bind greater demons or open full portals to the Other side – saying he wouldn’t be able to control the results.

He snorted thinking about it. He would show them.

He had seen the books in the Academy, slim volumes written by Demon Wizards. Wizards who had perfected the art of invoking; but those books were always under lock and key and restricted to a select few Wizards.

When he left, he thought his chance of ever reading one was rare; but snooping one day through his Master’s books, he had found one. An ancient tome whose title ‘Summoning and Controlling Major Demons’ had immediately caused his heart to beat fast. Why a healer needed such a book, he didn’t know, but he knew that the book contained all the secrets he desired. He had lusted after that knowledge, ever since first impressing his peers and teachers with the ease he brought and controlled tiny demonic imps from the Other side; making them do his bidding.

Imps, of course, have little power. A Major Demon would be able to grant him wishes; anything he wanted, would be his. Women, riches, power beyond imagination – immortality.

He had tried to read it there and then, but had only managed to see half a spell before the Master discovered him; and beat him to within an inch of his life.

“You must never read this book, Gaston,” the short, fat man had shouted, spraying spit in his anger, taking his staff to his back, bruising him again and again, “Never look at it again!”

From that day, the Master had always carried the book with him, hidden somewhere in his robes. They never spoke of the incident but Gaston wanted the book so badly; it was constantly on his thoughts. He dreamt about it and day-dreamed endlessly.

In the end he came up with a plan. He stole the ingredients for a sleeping potion over a couple of weeks to avoid suspicion, slipping into the Master’s evening drink over an hour ago.

Under the potion’s effect, the Master was powerless and would sleep for at least a day and night.

Gaston walked over to the sleeping Wizard and nudged him gently to see if he would awake.

Nothing.

Emboldened he felt for the book, quickly finding it in an inside pocket.

The leather felt cool and damp to touch.

Gently he took it out and clasped it to his chest, smiling manically. He opened it, touching the page, stroking it as if it was a pet.

He walked closer to the candle to read the tiny, black scrawl inside the book.

Half a step away from the sleeping Wizard, the leather felt warmer.

Then hot.

Then burning.

In alarm Gaston tried to drop it, realising it had been charmed by the Wizard, but it had become sticky. It wouldn’t leave his hands.

“Master?” he shouted, hoping he would awake and help him, but still he snored, deep asleep.

Gaston screamed as the pain grew intense. The pungent scent of burning and singed flesh drifted up to his nose.

He tried submerging the book and his hands into water, but still the pain and burning continued.

In a panic he realised that he might lose his hands and fingers.

"Master! Help me!"

The book was still open at a page with a spell. Scared, he began to read it aloud, hoping that whatever he conjured could save him, not caring that the normal protection spells had not been casted.

The words began to waver on the page and the book melted like wax through his hands, the agony increasing ten-fold. White-hot pain arced through him radiating out from his fingers out; then his hands began to melt too.

Gaston sank to his knees, crying, screaming, holding his hands out as far as possible; as drips and strips of flesh, and book, fell in tiny rivulets onto the floor.

He felt a rush of air next to him. There was a whiff of sulphur and he looked up through his tears and pain, to see a tall, majestic demon, standing in the corner of the room, in front of wavering portal.

“Help me!” Gaston squeaked.

The demon seeing the pain the Apprentice was in, smiled crookedly and shook his head.

“Please!” Gaston screamed, desperate.

The demon walked over, the stench of the Pits filling the room quickly. Carefully he scooped up the gloopy, bloody mess that was on the floor, and dripped it slowly over Gaston’s head.

The burning and agony spread everywhere the mixture touched. Soon his hair, face and shoulders burnt too. As red-hot trickles flowed into his eyes, Gaston screamed in a high pitch squeal, as first one eye, then the next started to pop and melt.

Through the pain, he felt his face sag, peel and begin to drip.

“Kill me!” he pleaded through burnt lips, but the demon laughed, enjoying the Apprentice's pain.

Grabbing Gaston by the foot, the demon dragged him through the portal to the Other side; where there would be no end to the torture, where Death could not touch him, where time slowed.

For a thousand centuries, the mad, blind Apprentice continued to melt, twisting and crashing in agony; amusement for all those trapped there; demons and imps who danced to his screams.

"Love on the Tube at Finchley Road" a Poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-22T12:43:00.001+01:00

She sat opposite me,
Listening to her I-pod,
Tapping her foot to hidden tunes,
Reading a book whose title,
I couldn't see,
She had long dark hair,
Gathered loosely to the side,
Her clothes marked her out,
As a arty type,
With splatters of paint on one sleeve,
She looked french,
Bohemian,
Beautiful,
Out of my league,
I waited patiently,
Casual,
Until she looked up,
I stared into her dark eyes,
Feeling my throat constrict,
With nerves,
Excitement,
I smiled.
...
She raised a eyebrow,
Smiling slightly to herself,
With a shake of her head,
Returning quickly to her book.
I stared at the tube map above her head,
Will she get off at the next stop?
Or carry on?
There was an empty seat next to her,
But I couldn't move.
Paralysed with fear,
Uncertain of what to say,
What to do,
Scared of breaking the ice,
In front of twenty commuters,
All watching,
All bored.
She looked up again,
And I was still smiling,
Like a lovesick idiot,
...
She shuffled nervously,
Uncomfortable.
I had blown it.
I looked everywhere but at her,
And prayed that she got off,
At Baker's Street.

Fabulous Flash Award

2010-07-21T00:08:00.001+01:00

Very short acceptance speech...

Wow. Big thank you to Jon for bestowing on me a Fabulous Flash Award - it is a honour which is very much appreciated. Jon - I don't think you can ever get enough praise for the work you have done growing the Fridayflash community, without you some great fiction wouldn't have seen the light of day, some great friendships would not have been made and a hundred or so writers would not have had such great support, encouragement and constructive criticism. Thank you :)

I am confident that the majority of people reading this blog have already done so, but please check out Jon's blog Mad Utopia, follow him on Twitter @jmstro.

Now it falls to me to select 4 further writers to recieve the Award, without further ado...

I would like to select:

Although she has already recieved it once, I think Maria Protopapadaki-Smith deserves it again. For those who don't know her, Maria posts great fiction on her blog mazzz-in-leeds and tweets as @mazzz_in_Leeds.
I am a great admirer of Maria's style and ability - some of her work is amazing (hence the reason no doubt she will recieve this award a number of times!)

Emma Newman who blogs on her website enewman.co.uk and tweets as @Emapocalyptic
She consistently writes excellent, creative flash which is a delight to read.

And two kindred dark-side spirits who's horror writing I greatly enjoy:

Louise Dragon who writes on her blog What scares you and tweets as WeezelWords.
Carrie Clevenger who writes on her website carrieclevenger.com and tweets as @carrieclevenger

I could only name 4 but of course there are so many others equally deserving.

"The Death of A Clown: Part One" By Clive Martyn

2010-07-20T12:30:00.002+01:00

---

"One more" by Clive Martyn

2010-07-16T04:31:00.000+01:00

As I walked in, the nurse looked up from the tray of instruments. I was relieved, Michelle was one of the most professional and experienced nurses on the maternity ward, but even she looked nervous. Her tone was confident, though, as she touched the patient gently on the shoulder and said “Alison, this is Doctor Mackay.”

Red faced and in obvious pain, Alison nodded briefly as she breathed in the gas and air.

“You can call me, Susan,” I said smiling, in a way, I hoped, looked equally confident.

Alison dropped the mask as the pain passed.

I squeezed her hand, “How are you doing?”

In a quiet voice that wavered on the brink of panic, she said “I am really scared, about the...” she couldn’t say baby. She sobbed as her hands stroked the large bump.

“We are going to do everything we can, Alison, okay? We have waited as long as we can, longer than we ever would normally but we cannot wait any more. We have to deliver your baby or we will put both your lives at risk.”

She cried out as another contraction started. She gripped the bedsheets, twisting them as the pain peaked.

“Stay in, stay in – please God! Please!” she cried out.

“Pant, Alison, small breaths through it,” Michelle said checking the machines. “Well done,” she said patting Alison’s hand as she followed her instructions and her grip on the bed lessened.

“Alison – I am just going to check you, to see how far long you are,” I said moving the sheet that covered her legs back and putting on the sterile gloves that Michelle had laid out for me.

She was fully dilated - it wouldn’t be much longer.

“Alison, it is nearly time.”

She whimpered, “Please, can’t you stop it? Please!”

“Alison, I am just going to speak to my colleagues at John Hopkins to see what the latest advice is, then we are going to deliver this baby. Okay?”

She nodded, a small glimmer of hope in her eyes.

I walked back out through the doors into the corridor, the other rooms all quiet. The ward station was crowded with nurses watching the riots on TV. Di, one of my usual maternity nurses, whispered “They got through! They have set fire to the Capitol Building!”

I was speechless and stood open mouthed, staring at the TV. Seeing the white building ablaze was deeply shocking and a sign of how bad things had gotten.

“Doctor Mackay – I have Doctor Fiorenza on the line for you,” said one of the nurse’s aides, returning me instantly to the ward.

I took the call in one of the empty suites, my back to the images on the TV.

“Greg? Susan here – what’s that latest? How did the Baltimore trial go?” I could feel my heart beating hard against my chest.

Greg cleared his throat and I knew him well enough to know that this was not a good sign. “Sorry Susan... still the same results.”

My heart sank. Feelings and painful images from the last few months rose in my head, and I had to rest my forehead against the cool white wall.

“How is the patient?” Greg asked.

“Scared shitless, Greg.”

“Aren’t we all?” he said quietly.

I hung up. I had a reputation on the ward for being a cold bitch, probably why I was one of the few doctors left, but I couldn’t help but sob a little.

I wiped my eyes. I needed to be strong.

I walked back into Alison’s room. Michelle was getting her ready, lifting her legs into the stirrups.

“HB is getting erratic, doctor.”

“I need to push!” Alison screamed, holding onto her belly with two hands as if she could hold her baby in for a few minutes more.

I put on the apron and mask that Michelle had left out for me.

“Okay Alison, your baby is coming. I will need to make an incision to help the head out. We are going to try and get the baby straight into an isolation chamber, okay?”

Alison nodded, sweat dripping down her face. She stared at the isolation equipment as Michelle moved the clear plastic tubing closer, so it was next to my shoulder. Michelle switched on the oxygen and several monitors.

I pressed the call bell twice and several more staff came in to assist. Michelle stayed near Alison’s head talking to her calmly, reassuring her that everything was going to plan.

The baby’s head began to crown. I made a small incision causing Alison to breathe in sharply.

“Alison, I am going to count to 3. On 3 I want you to push with everything you have got, okay?”

She sobbed and said something to Michelle which I didn’t catch, but I saw her nod.

I quickly positioned the tubing around her, sealing the ends to her skin.

The isolation chamber had built in gloves which I slipped my hands into.

“1, 2, 3 – Push Alison, push.”

The baby’s head, large and covered in dark black hair, slid out, quickly followed by the rest; landing onto the plastic of the chamber.

I snipped the umbilical cord.

“It’s a boy, Alison, a boy!” Michelle said quietly as I worked on him.

His skin was a very pale blue. I quickly turned him on his side to free the fluid from his mouth and lungs.

Alison descended into floods of tears and sobs unable to look, whilst everyone else in the room watched the boy; and prayed.

One of the nurses muttered “Breathe, god damn, breathe.”

A weak, wet and terrified cry echoed out around the room and the little boy’s chest moved rapidly up and down, colour started to return to its skin.

No one celebrated, or said anything. We had all seen too much over the last three months - the same confident starts. The boy made another cry then started to shake.

Jabbing a needle in, I said aloud for the record, “45cc of antiviral 32 administered at birth. 9.03am”.

The boy’s breathing stabilised for a few breaths, but then he started to strain again, as if there was no air in the room. Within a minute, his skin began to go blue again. “Oxygen!” I shouted, stroking gently through the plastic the boy’s ribs; coxing him to cling on.

“No more, please God, no more,” I said, tears coming to my eyes and clouding my vision slightly.

Alison’s screams grew louder but I had heard countless parents grieve over the last few months; I didn’t hear them anymore.

After 2 more minutes I called the time of death.

Of the 11 thousand babies born in US every day for the last three months – not a single one survived more than 5 minutes. Not a single baby in the entire world had been born and lived.

I had seen so much death, too many tiny, heart-breaking packages of limp flesh, that I couldn’t take any more and I walked out throwing my apron on the floor.

You could understand why the government had lost control and the riots spreading, people just wanted solutions – answers; but there were none.

The human race was finished, it was just going to be a slow, long death.

One devoid of children’s laughter.

"Beware the Tumble-down Tree" - A poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-14T19:41:00.003+01:00

Beware the Tumble-down Tree,
My son,
For in its shade,
Sits the mighty Node,
A beast of terrible legend,
Who has stained the book,
Of Forest history,
Bright blood red.

His enormous appetite and colossal anger,
Is known throughout the land.

He ate all the pheasants,
In one afternoon,
Caught all the badgers,
And uses their coats for his bed,
He decorates the tree,
With torn fox tails,
And picks his teeth,
With a horse's hoof.

It annoys the King and vexs him greatly,
That the Node refuses to leave, or behave.

Occasionally a Knight,
Will say "I will rid the land of Node",
But it is easier said than done,
And many a knight's head now,
Rests on a spike,
Warning others,
That this is in fact,
Node's land - not theirs.

So beware the Tumble-down tree,
My son - please stay clear.

"Dark Souls Waiting", a fibonacci poem collection by Clive Martyn

2010-07-13T23:59:00.000+01:00

Dark,
Souls,
Screaming,
Circling,
Waiting for the gate,
To fall open and release hell.

In,
Their,
Torment,
They all dream,
Of painful revenge,
To inflict upon the living,

Blood,
Fear,
Terror,
Agony,
Will flow in rivers,
No one and no place will escape.

Not,
Long,
Very soon,
They all know,
Their time will come - free,
To destroy everything again.

But,
Not,
Today -
They circle,
Wait, watch and listen,
Staring enviously at us.

"Do Not Jump" a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-12T00:43:00.000+01:00

Do not jump,
My friend -
Do not jump.
Listen to me,
Stop and listen to me,
You are not powerless,
You are not helpless,
You can change,
You can get -
Whatever you want from this life,
Things may look shitty,
May look dark,
Impossible.
But never give up -
Never say there is no hope,
There is always hope - a chance,
The cards we are dealt,
Are not the only ones,
You don't have to accept them,
Choose new ones,
Change the game,
We get one life,
One go around,
Don't throw it away,
Don't jump,
Stay - fight,
Believe in yourself,
Believe that you can change,
Change - no matter the odds
Believe that you deserve better,
Understand that, my friend,
And do not jump.
Tomorrow always brings another chance,
Another opportunity,
Another step towards your dream -
If you will take it,
You are stronger than you realise,
You can do anything -
Come off the drugs,
Dump the deadbeat boyfriend,
Get a new job,
Be happy again,
Don't throw it away,
There is love in the world,
Beauty, joy,
Still to discover...
Do not jump,
My friend -
Do not jump.

"Watching the rain" a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-11T17:16:00.001+01:00

Cascades of cold rain,
Falling from the clogged gutters,
Splash onto the tarmac.
Lit by a neon sign,
Broken - blinking,
Daisy's Coffee Shop.
Wind-blown garbage,
Chase rainbows of oil
Across the empty parking lot,
As trucks and cars,
Fill up with gas,
At the garage -
Over the road.
I watch from the window,
Behind sun bleached adverts,
And a dusty wanted sign,
Stood by the ancient cash register,
Seeing the people,
In the distance
Crouching against the rain,
Then running into the shop,
Coming out later,
With cups of steaming coffee,
Held under coats or hands.
They pass without a glance,
Heading for the highway
Away.
No time to stop,
No time to waste,
No time for me and my stories.
With hands shaking slightly,
I help myself to another perfect coffee,
Thick and black, brewed fresh today,
Savouring the taste and warmth,
Sighing - remembering better times,
More profitable times,
When people were happier to enjoy,
Passing time,
Watching the world go by,
Watching the rain.

"He Patiently Waits" a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-07-10T00:14:00.002+01:00

In the darkness of death,
The black abyss,
He patiently waits -
For us.
Watching through the veil,
Laughing -
At our pain, our misery -
Our anger,
Knowing we cannot escape,
Or avoid fate or time.
He will destroy us,
Our lives - our bodies,
With cold, dirty fingers,
To press into our soft flesh,
Teeth to tear and shred.
He stands on a island,
Of stolen parts -
Arms, legs, faces,
Chewed and torn,
Squished - mashed
Beneath his feet,
Building himself a ladder,
Up towards the light,
One soul at a time.

"Jamie" by Clive Martyn

2010-07-09T23:39:00.001+01:00

He stroked the little round trophies, cleaning off the small flecks of dried blood whilst filled with a savage happiness he couldn’t define.

Hearing someone’s footsteps creaking below and upon the stairs, he dropped them back into their place in the middle of his secrets box; and slid it into the darkness under his bed.

“Hey Jamie,” his stepfather said walking in without knocking.

Perhaps seeing a look of guilt flash across Jamie’s face, he stared down at him for a moment. “What you up to?”

“Nothing Colin,” Jamie said trying to keep both the annoyance and hatred out of his voice, whilst sounding as innocent as possible.

Colin stood there for a moment, undecided whether to push it especially after they had spent most of the week arguing. His red, watery eyes flitting nervously between Jamie, the bed and around the room.

“What do you want?” Jamie said, moving away from the bed and sitting down at his desk, deliberately putting his back to Colin. He studied the row of identically sharpened pencils before choosing one and continuing to shade in an almost entirely black picture.

“Er... your mum was wondering if you had seen Huckleberry Finn?”

“The cat?” Jamie said quietly keeping his voice level and his tone disinterested.

“Obviously the cat,” Colin said snorting, laughter which always reminded Jamie of a pig in pain.

“No. Sorry,” Jamie said, continuing to shade his picture.

“Wonder where he’s gone,” Colin muttered.

Jamie didn’t say anything and an uncomfortable silence filled the gap between them.

Just go away, Jamie thought, leave me alone. His heart beat a little faster as he heard Colin sit down on his bed uninvited, the springs straining under the man’s fat body. He imagined the base of the bed touching the top of his secrets box.

Colin didn’t say anything and just sat there. Jamie refused to turn around, instead he focused even more on the point of the pencil as it coloured in the last pieces of white.

“Jamie?” Colin said quietly.

“Hmm?” he said focusing all his attention on the paper and the beautiful dark shades he was creating.

“Jamie – I’m not going away until you look at me!”

The nib of the pencil broke, leaving a small tear in the paper. In his head there was a scream of anger and frustration; Jamie had to close his eyes to control himself.

Ruined, he thought, and in a slow, deliberate move he put the broken pencil down neatly beside the picture and swung his chair around to face Colin.

“What, Colin?” he stressed his name, stretching the syllables in a childish taunt.

“I know you don’t like me, Jamie,” Colin said in a quiet voice, “but it is starting to really upset your mum.”

Jamie shrugged and turned back around to his desk, ripping up the picture in silence.

“Can we try to get on? For your mum’s sake?” he said.

Ignoring him, Jamie made a show of picking up the broken pencil and dropping the nib in the bin.

“Jamie?” Colin said, sounding increasingly frustrated.

The bed springs squeaked as he stood up, sighing as he did. He was leaving.

“We love you, Jamie, you know that don’t you?” he said lingering by the door.

Jamie let the silence hang in the middle of the room again and just concentrated on the paper and pencils, sharpening the broken one with a small penknife.

As the tread of Colin’s heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, he started drawing the picture of the cat again.

The last one had been so close to perfecting that initial look of surprise and pain. As he drew the cat’s tortured and mangled face, he wondered how Colin would look if he stole his eyes too.

Perhaps he would draw him next.

No! by Clive Martyn

2010-07-02T01:36:00.007+01:00

The graveyard wasn’t top of my list of places to go for a third date, but we had nowhere else to go and as Fiona had pointed out, with a grimace, at least it was free to get into.

Our options were always very limited. Her mum and stepfather had made it clear that I wasn’t, and would never be, welcome at her place; and I daren’t take her back to my house as my drunken Dad would just stare at her lovely, large breasts again and make another disgusting comment.

Fiona sometimes joked darkly that we were like Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers whose families did everything to keep them apart; but when you are sixteen and all you want to do is go all the way, it doesn't seem that funny.

The sun was setting behind the small chapel that stood at the top of the graveyard, casting long thin shadows across the overgrown and untended graves. I helped Fiona over the low wall, careful not to touch her anywhere that might annoy her; having learned that quickly on the first date.

I watched her move slowly, hips swaying, through the long grass. She was so close in front of me, I could smell the shampoo she had used, all of which combined to make my blood flow quickly downwards. I could not help but imagine the pale skin and dark places that lay hidden under her jeans and top – places I wanted to explore. I smiled, thinking of my plan to do just that.

We found a dry patch of grass under a large tree, next to an ancient, faded gravestone, and sat down facing each other, smiling timidly. I knew she felt as nervous as I did.

She had remarkable eyes, black as night, like her hair and although she didn't smile very often, when she did she was beautiful.

I had stolen a bottle of vodka from my dad's supply, and with a little bit of careful encouragement she started to share it with me, hopefully not seeing my calculating smile.

We grimaced and laughed in turn, as the cheap liquor burnt our throats, but it broke the ice and we started talking. Slowly Fiona relaxed as we lay side by side under the tree, staring up at the red and orange dusk.

Whispering quietly, we began to tell each other our dark secrets, – the beatings and abuse from my alcoholic dad and her fat stepfather’s late night wandering hands and unwanted affection. We were so alike, so full of pain - so full of hate.

As we spoke, our heads and our hands got closer and closer until we were kissing, tenderly at first.

My hands nervously roamed over her body, excited more and more by the firmness and softness I found.

She started to pull away as she had before but this time seemed different.
Meeting little resistance, fuelled by vodka courage, I slid my hand deep into her pants, feeling the smoothness and wetness within them.

It all happened at once - her scream, kicking me back and the pain that exploded in my neck. I had my eyes closed so didn't see what she stabbed me with but felt the tangled damage she had caused.

Falling to the ground - everything began to spin as I struggled to stop the flow of blood.

Fiona rocked back and forth against a gravestone, shaking her head and muttering a single word again and again. Everything else slowly began to fade to black.

I realised then, near the end, that I was paying for the sins of all men who didn't listen - all those that didn't hear the word "No".

The Dark Days by Clive Martyn

2010-04-09T00:07:00.006+01:00

The girl’s body lay in the middle of the room, surrounded by dried vomit and urine. Death never smelt good but a junkie - they smelt the worst. John, his wife’s nephew, had been the one to find her. Knowing the boy he was probably over the moon at finally being able to do some real police work; rather than sit on traffic watch.

He probably broke the damn door down with that stupid grin on his face.

John was stood in the kitchen, talking to Erin the pretty blonde photographer, who was holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Both had been with the department for less than a year, so Anthony was not surprised they looked less than comfortable with the smell.

Hey I am less than comfortable with the smell, to be honest.

“Hi Chief,” John called too loudly for his liking. He liked a bit of respect around the dead, even those that have inflicted it upon themselves.

He waved a silent greeting as he circled around to look at the poor girl.

John’s initial assessment looked correct; she had died with a needle broken in her arm, surrounded by burnt spoons and other paraphernalia. A bag of brown lay scattered on the floor. If any of her friends had been with her they probably would have stolen the drugs before running, so she had probably died alone.

The girl’s long lank dark hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail, so he could see her face. It was quite pretty, damaged from the drug abuse but still quite pretty.

Anthony stared at her face and her blue eyes, seeing briefly someone else, an old friend. There was something familiar about her, very familiar.

“John?” he whispered.

“Yes, Chief?”

“Did you get a name?”

“There are some bills on the fridge for a Ms T Easton.”

“Tina?” Anthony whispered looking down at the skeleton thin body.

“You okay, Chief?” John said, joining him at his side, “you know her?”

“Shit, I know her folks,” he said sadly, “me and your Aunt used to live next door to them. Pat and Derek, good folks. Tina, I haven’t seen her in years, since she was teenager really. Always remember her climbing trees. She loved to climb trees. “

“I haven’t spoken to them for five years or so, not since we moved.”

They stood for a moment staring down at her.

“Has anyone contacted them yet?”

John shook his head, “We were waiting for you, Chief.”

After the boys had collected the body, Anthony drove over to his old neighbourhood. The Easton’s house was the same as he remembered it, with a huge apple tree in the middle of the front lawn.

From the road he could see tree was covered in faded initials, different boys he guessed, each with a TE inscribed in the same heart.

Stepping out of the car, he felt very conspicuous. Curtains twitched as neighbours looked out at the squad car.

Perhaps I should have changed out of uniform, he thought, as he walked up to the door.

The wisteria had really grown over the last five years, filling the air with its scent. Up close he noticed the house was looking a bit neglected, paint was peeling around the doorframe.

He knocked on the door and Pat opened it. She was dressed in a light floral dress too small for her.

“Anthony George! What a surprise!” she said before calling, “Derek!”

“Pat, can I come in?” he said seriously, quietly, not returning her smile.

Pat’s smile froze on her face and she stumbled, struggling to stand as the realisation that he has not there for a social visit hit her.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, a look of panic on her face.

Derek appeared, greyer and older than Anthony had expected.

“Ant? Jeez what you...” but he stopped as he saw Pat, her face totally white, and tears immediately came to his eyes. He struggled to swallow. Derek locked eyes with him, the same blue eyes Anthony had seen that morning but lifeless. He whispered, “Tina?”

Anthony nodded.

He watched, feeling helpless, as their grief, pain and anger exploded. When he could he held them, consoled them. He talked to them about counselling knowing that his words would be lost in the tide of emotions they were feeling but he said the words automatically.

He stayed as long as he could but eventually he had to leave.

Derek showed him to the door and shook his hand.

_________________________

As Derek shut the door on his old friend, he leant against the solid oak for a moment, his tears dropping down onto the mat. He hated himself for feeling a small sense of relief in amongst his pain. A sense of relief that he could not articulate to anyone, least of all Pat.

In his heart he knew the dark days were over now – his beautiful daughter, angry, lost and in such pain, was at peace. He knew that the fear, worry, regret and guilt that had burdened both their hearts for so long, would fade – although a hole - a very deep hole would remain forever.

A Farmer of Hearts - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-03-30T23:49:00.001+01:00

You harvested my heart,
Tore it from the dark ground,
Where it had happily laid - ignorant.
You showed it the light - the warmth,
The world above,
Giving a moment's promise,
A happy temptation,
Of a life in that brightness,
Pleasure - love - joy,
Far from the darkness -
The only thing I had ever known.
But you gripped me in your cold hands,
Ripped me - shredded me - emptied me,
And I fell - a husk - a shell,
Back to the damp ground to sink,
To hide - repair,
As you moved on,
To the next ripe heart.

I wait,
Scared - scarred - but hungry,
For the next harvest -
And a gentler farmer.

"Dinner" by Clive Martyn

2010-03-26T12:30:00.003Z

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, dragging narrow lines of mascara as they slid down. She dabbed them with her napkin, resolutely not looking at the man kneeling next to her. With a shaking hand she took a sip of wine and put the glass back down again, nearly spilling it as she did. She moved the glass slightly, aligning it with her empty plate, in a nervous tic-like gesture.

Everyone was silent. Staring. Waiting.

She shook her head and stared down at the table, her long blonde hair covering her face and tears.

The man stood back up, two patches of red colouring his tanned face. Angrily he smoothed his trousers, adjusted his belt and sat back down, closing the little jewellery box in his hand with an audible snap.

The noise in the restaurant started up again, although all the diners continued to subtlety look over at the couple. Whispers and embarrassed looks were exchanged, replacing the cheers and claps that had only minutes before filled the small restaurant.

The Mariachi band decided it was a good time for a break, shrugging their shoulders as they left.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Cheryl,” the man said, his voice carrying over the scrape of knives and forks and the little conversation that had resumed.

She didn’t say anything, but tears continued to drip down. Eventually she cleared her throat and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Simon, but I don’t love you. I don’t want to marry you.”

Simon opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking stunned at this announcement. He got up, yanking his jacket off his chair, causing it to clatter to the floor. He stood looking at her for a moment but she didn’t look up. Tears welled up in his eyes and without a word he turned and took the steps up to the restaurant door two at a time. He walked stiffly into the night air, turning his coat collar up against the cold.

The restaurant returned to an awkward silence. No one looked at the woman, everyone just stared at their plates or each other. One of the waitresses came over and gently placed a hand on the woman’s back, “You okay?” she whispered.

“I am sorry,” Cheryl said, standing up and addressing the restaurant, but avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“Sorry,” she said a second time, slightly louder. She looked like she was going to say more but paused, before deciding better. She took her coat in her hand and followed her boyfriend out of the door but turned to walk in the opposite direction.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and the noise level returned in an excited, nervous buzz. A few laughs peppered the conversations.

The Mariachi band came back in at the urging of the manager.

Almost all the waiting staff descended on the table, picking up the chair and taking away the empty desert dishes and bottles of wine, as if to scrub the embarrassing scene from everyone’s memories.

Around the corner, Simon and Cheryl kissed in between drunken laughter.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Cheryl said punching Simon lightly on the shoulder.
“Babes, if you want to pay for dinner, be my guest.” He laughed gently, stroking her mascara streaked cheek.
He took her hand in his and slipped her engagement ring back on.

"The Last Few" by Clive Martyn

2010-03-20T10:24:00.002Z

The only sounds in the tube were the squeak of magnetic luggage wheels as they were pulled along, the metallic steps of the twenty or so last passengers across the floating walkway and their heavy breathing in the thin oxygen mix. No one spoke - some were overwhelmed by the view of a trillion stars and bright clouds of vapour visible in all directions, others were too scared by the void and the darkness surrounding them.
Everyone ignored the Earth beneath their feet, the sight of the burning continents and the black smoke pouring from the alien factory ships as they processed the billions that remained.
A patrol of heavily armoured fast ships floated silently past. Several were charred and damaged; only two were manned by human pilots, the rest relying on their AI systems.
A handwritten sign had been hung from a steel support, “You will be safe soon. Stay calm.”
Everyone ignored it knowing that that “safe” was a relative term, for every piece of government propaganda there was a whispered word, a small fact from some crewmember that had actually been there. The truth was the evacuation planet was barely suitable for sustaining life. Causalities amongst the refugees was very high, but as everyone reasoned at the end of the day there was at least a chance of survival.
Ahead the last remaining Starship waited, its massive engines vibrating the docking tube’s bulkheads.
An officer in a full battle suit stood by a large airlock. Overlapping red, angry scars covered the left side of his face.
“Is this it?” he asked, squinting past them with his one good eye to the empty transporter behind them.
The group muttered “yes” or nodded. A few looked back guiltily, knowing they were the lucky ones, the ones with high enough importance or security rating to gain a berth. Angry, desperate crowds had stormed the spaceport as they left; no more transporters would make the journey.
The officer held his hand over the airlock open button but stopped, open mouthed. Alien fighters were suddenly everywhere – the sky was full of metal and weaponry.
A series of flashes lit up the dark side of the Starship. In silence explosions crumbled the hull, ripping large gouges in the metal.
The vibration from the engines increased until the walkway rippled causing everyone, even the officer, to fall over. The Ship tore itself away from the docking tube in a desperate attempt to evade the attack, venting large amounts of gas it jumped immediately into sub-light.
The alien ships followed and as quickly as the attack had happened, peace returned to the space around the tube. Clouds of debris floated past – a single crewman burnt and now frozen spun past, his limbs twisted unnaturally.
Shock turned into screams, sobs and despair.
Minutes, turned into hours, into days.
Below them the smoke from the alien ships covered the planet until the blue planet was grey.
There was no hope anymore.
For those that did not choose to end things quickly in the airlock, death came slowly – rotating above a planet no longer home, hungry, thirsty and gasping for breath.

"Different" - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-03-07T22:46:00.004Z

A single wildflower,

Growing in the meadow,

Seems more beautiful -

Alone amongst the grass.

Every snowflake,

Drifting slowly down,

With no twin in the air -

Cannot be compared to another.

Art in the gallery,

Is highly priced and highly prized,

Just because nothing similar -

Ever existed before.

If these things are loved -

Their uniqueness cherished,

Is it so wrong to be -

Different?

"In The Shadow Of The Cherry Blossom Trees" by Clive Martyn

2010-03-05T00:00:00.005Z

The cherry blossom trees growing alongside the dusty road rustled slightly in the cool winds which came off the distant Mount Fuji. A single, perfect petal floated, twisting through the air before landing on the still water of the lake and slowly sliding into the darkness under the wooden bridge.

Hirotaka grunted as he observed this, “Such is life.”
Takakuni slowed in his final tea preparations, “Master?”
“We are all just carried on a breeze, Takakuni.”
Takakuni hid his confusion by focusing on the tea. A simple farmer’s son he had little understanding of the ways of the Samurai.
Hirotaka returned to his quiet thoughts, his hand resting lightly on his sword, watching the far side of the bridge.
Takakuni returned the tea whisk to its case and adjusted the tea bowl so that it was square on the travel mat.
“Do we still have time, Master?” he asked looking up concerned.
Hirotaka nodded curtly and then carefully folded his aged legs under him. He drank the warm, thin tea in measured calm sips.
In silence they sat, listening to the whisper of the wind and the gentle sounds of the lake.
As the last of the tea was consumed, Hirotaka stood and walked to the carved red wooden posts of the bridge.
For the first time he noticed faded small black characters carefully drawn on them, reading “Peace on he who treads here”.
“This is a good place to die,” he whispered, looking out at the glassy lake which was reflecting heaven’s beauty.
He contemplated the land on the distant shore, the rocks and craggy hills that crowded around it. He was confident his strategy would work. One man could hold them off for a long time – long enough for the slow moving caravan, full of women and children, to make it to the safety of the castle.
One man, he thought. He looked over his shoulder at Takakuni cleaning away the last of the tea utensils into the travel case.
“Takakuni,” he called.
“Master,” he said bowing low.
“Takakuni, go rejoin the caravan. Be with your wife and child.”
He shook his head solemnly. “My place is with you, Master.”
“Go,” Hirotaka said, “You have served me well, these last few years since my wife’s passing but it is time, for you,” he paused, sighing heavily, “to find a new master.”
“Master...” Takakuni said, his voice on the edge of pleading.
“I will fight better without you to slow me down, Takakuni,” Hirotaka said turning his back and squaring it.
They both heard the high-pitched scream before they saw the first one on the other side of the bridge.
“Go Takakuni. Run.” Hirotaka said gently, drawing out his katana in a single smooth motion.
Takakuni bowed deeply to his Master and ran.
Hirotaka walked quickly across the bridge his straw sandals striking the boards - beating out a regular rhythm; he held the polished, etched steel high to his left – poised to strike.
The dead, male villager seeing Hirotaka, ran blindly towards him. His grey and rotting flesh showed the scars, gouges and scratches of previous encounters where at least one of his victims had put up a good fight. Flesh red blood covered his mouth and chin where he had been feeding recently.
The monster’s screams of agony and madness were unlike anything Hirotaka had ever heard.
With a single slice, Hirotaka cut the villager’s head from his shoulders. The head rolled off into the lake, whilst his body bounced into the side of the bridge and slid down onto the wooden slats. A fountain of blood pumped into the air before the undead heart separated from the head, slowed and stopped for a second time.
Hirotaka stood by the body and took up a warrior’s pose, waiting with his sword held aloft.
Barely fifteen seconds had passed from the splash of the first villager’s head, when a second and third scream reached his ears.
A young girl barely into womanhood ran towards him, quickly followed by an older woman who could have been her mother. Both had their hands were outstretched like claws, ready to tear at his flesh and clothes.
Hirotaka had seen the death these man-animals had inflicted on others and the memory meant he felt no remorse as with a slice and stab, he removed a pretty head from a young body and dug his sword through the eye of her elder.
More appeared. Five. Seven. Ten. They crowded onto the bridge but offered no defence against the quick steel of Hirotaka but more came until there was no respite.
Blood, guts and limbs made the wooden slats slippery and Hirotaka felt his sandals grow damper as they soaked up the blood.
The number of bodies on the bridge slowed down the attacking undead, as they tried to climb over the fallen, becoming easy victims themselves. Some had even stopped trying and just feasted on the bodies. Slowly a wall of bleeding bodies built up and blocked the bridge.
Momentarily free from fighting, Hirotaka wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a blood speckled hand.
The bridge began to groan under the weight of zombies on the other side of the temporary wall. A hundred or so screaming, moaning villagers now filled the bridge and waited on the shoreline.
Slowly the wall of bodies began to move, sliding forward, slipping on the blood that oozed from the bodies, pushed by the weight of the undead.
Hirotaka was pushed backwards towards the other side of the lake.
His straw sandals soggy with blood offered little grip on the wood of the bridge and although he tried to slow their progress the wall of bodies was relentlessly pushed inch by inch forward.
When he was within twenty paces of the end of the bridge, Hirotaka ran to get clear killing ground around him.
For the first time he noticed the sun was much lower, he had been fighting longer than he realised with long shadows amongst the trees. The caravan should be close to the castle now.
The wall of bodies fell, some sliding off into the lake, and collapsing around the bridge posts. Free the zombies pushed forward.
Hirotaka killed another twenty, thirty perhaps fifty before he found himself surrounded.
Tired his sword began to slow, grow heavier - the grip wet with blood.
The hands of the undead started to get closer, braver.
He saw through a momentary gap, the lake that a few hours ago had been pristine, clean and pure -it was now full of a hundred or more floating, bloated bodies. At the same time he saw his beloved wife’s tea set smashed and broken, its beauty ignored by the undead who stood upon it.
A sadness crept into Hirotaka’s heart and momentarily distracted his sword was ripped from his grip.
Teeth, hands and fists were upon him immediately, tearing at his komodo and the lacquered light armour he wore.
There were too many to fend off and within seconds, his neck had been bitten and torn.
As he bled and the undead fed noisily upon him, his last thoughts were of Takakuni. He hoped he had given him and his family enough time to make it to the safety of the castle.
Another breeze, stronger than before, captured more cherry blossom from the nearby trees and the pink-white petals floated through the circle of feeding zombies, catching in their bloody faces and hands.
A single blossom floated like a butterfly past Hirotaka’s face, soaring to heaven as he breathed his last breath.

"Blue Line" Up at Pow Fast Fiction

2010-03-02T11:37:00.003Z

My new Sci-fi piece is up at Pow Fast Fiction - take a look and let me know what you think >Click here<

Traffic Jams and Tears by Clive Martyn

2010-02-26T00:00:00.001Z

The wipers squeaked across the windscreen, wiping away a few last stray snowflakes, adding to the already noisy car as the heaters, on full blast, struggled to maintain a warm temperature.
Diane held her hands over the air vents and shuffled the large number of shopping bags at her feet to make herself more comfortable.
“Looks like we are going to be stuck a while,” she said, pouting and pointing a French manicured fingernail at the traffic that had ground to a halt on both sides of the road.
“It is like this every weekend – just can’t cope with the volume of traffic now the shopping centre has opened,” David signed watching Diane as she flicked her long blonde hair over one shoulder and pulled on it to get rid of the last of the moisture from the melted snow.
“Which is why I didn’t want to come into town on a Saturday morning,” he added quietly.
“We had to get a present for Poppy’s friend, didn’t we Pops?” she said looking in the rear-view mirror at her six year old daughter and David’s step-daughter, who was sat looking out the window at the busy pavement.
“What‘s that man doing?” she said, wiping the window clean of condensation.
“Which man, sweetheart?” Diane said, turning to look at all the people walking past.
“The man in the doorway, on the floor.”
Diane noticed the man with matted, long hair and scraggly beard sat in a blue, stained sleeping bag, an empty cup on his lap for coins. He was wearing a thin black coat with a number of rips and holes. He was visibly shivering in the freezing cold weather.
“Oh... er he lives there, sweetheart.”
“What in that doorway?” she said wrinkling her nose in disbelief.
“Probably Poppy or somewhere like it.” David added, leaning forward to look at him as well.
“Why?” she said as if this was the craziest thing she had ever heard.
“He hasn’t got a house, sweetie,” Diane said.
“Hasn’t he got any family, we could stay with?”
“I don’t know darling.”
“Why hasn’t he got a house anyway?”
“Probably lots of reasons darling, some people aren’t very well or very happy and end living on the streets. Or have any money.”
At the mention of the word money she looked across at David and smiled with her perfect, expensive white teeth. “Not everyone is as lucky as us,” she said taking David’s hand.
Poppy sat for a moment, deep in thought.
“Are there lots of people like that?”
“Yep,” Diane nodded, “thousands. Now enough questions Pops.” She gave David an apologetic look, he was still not used to the constant and sometimes strange stream of consciousness her daughter came out with.
“You excited about the party this afternoon?” David asked keen to change the subject.
“Why doesn’t someone help him?” Poppy said ignoring David.
David sighed, frequently finding it difficult to engage with the serious dark-eyed girl. “I am sure lots of people are trying, Poppy. There are places people like him can go, run by the church and other charities. Where he can get food and a bed.”
“No I mean why isn’t someone helping him right now? All these people are walking past. He looks really cold.”
“Well... maybe he doesn’t want to be helped?” David said looking at Diane for support.
Poppy sat watching again for a minute, thinking.
Diane sighed and stretched out in the BMW’s leather seats, “Come on traffic!” she muttered.
David looked down at his young wife’s tight body and smirked a little, all the presents he had bought her today should get him some reward later.
The sound of a car door opening, and seat belt retracting made them both turn around.
“Poppy?” they both shouted simultaneously as the slim girl slipped out the rear passenger door into the cold air.
“What is that crazy girl doing?” David said, twisting around trying to grab her.
“Poppy?” Diane shouted frantically trying to get her belt buckle undone. “Pops! Stop right there! You are in so much trouble, little girl!” she screamed, still trying to free herself.
“Shit – she’s talking to him!” David said, pointing out the window.
David tried his door but the car in the next lane was so close he could not open it wide enough.
“Poppy!” Diane shouted.
Poppy stood next to the tramp, talking to him. The man looked at Poppy with red, weary eyes and then looked past her to the BMW.
“Oh my god! Don’t touch him!” Diane shouted as Poppy shook the man’s hand, still yanking on the seat belt.
The man looked past her again to the car, then looked up at Poppy. His eyes filled up with tears and nodding, he climbed slowly to his feet, unsteadily gathering up his sleeping bag and few possessions.
Poppy held onto his elbow like he was an elderly grandfather and together they walked back over to the car.
“Poppy Harlow – get your bottom into the car, now!” Diane shouted, two bright angry red patches making their way through her fake tan to colour her cheeks.
"Mum, David, this is Kevin,” she said sliding into the car and making room.
Kevin, stuck his scruffy head into the car, “Hi – this is unbelievably kind of you,” he said sitting carefully on the leather seats as if they were breakable and shutting the door. “It is freezing out there!” he said placing his bags on the floor. He wiped a tear away from his eye and smiled with broken and yellow teeth. “Very kind. Very kind. Saints you are.”
The sweet smell of solvents and deeper, darker odours began to fill the car, making Diane immediately put her jumper sleeve to her nose.
“I said to Kevin, as we were stuck here and our car is nice and warm he can just wait with us for a while and get warm.”
“That’s very kind of you Poppy,” Diane muttered through her sleeve.
David just stared at the tramp, open mouthed.
“Do you not have anywhere to live?” Poppy asked.
Kevin shook his head causing small little clumps of dirt, dust or skin to float gently into the air.
“Don’t you have any family?” Poppy said.
“Used to,” the man said sadly, “used to. Have a sister, haven’t spoken to her in years.”
“Why?” Poppy asked.
“Poppy! Stop asking the poor man questions.” Diane said muffled by her jumper sleeve.
“It is okay, mam.” Kevin said. “We fell out.”
“What about?”
“Poppy!” Diane said giving Poppy an angry look.
“Whatever it is I think you should make up. Families should help each other especially when they need help. Everyone should help each other. ” She said quickly before folding her arms and staring out the window at the traffic as if that was the end of it.
“Poppy, it is not as simple as that!” Diane said quietly, turning even redder with embarrassment.
“I am sorry Kevin,” she said, “my daughter does not know when to stop!”.
He coughed slightly, “’s okay, mam”
He wiped a few more tears away.
They all sat in an awkward silence for a while, David and Diane both breathing very shallowly through their mouths to avoid smelling Kevin.
“Does all seem stupid, don’t it? Eh?” Kevin muttered more to himself than to the others.
David who had been glancing in the rear view mirror every second and who had gone a slightly blueish colour, which Poppy recognized as not a good sign, suddenly pointed excitedly at the cars in front.
“We are moving! Moving! Kevin I hope you are warmed up now but we really have to be going.” He said in a relieved, high pitched tone.
“Where does your sister live?” Poppy asked.
“Used to live in Barn Bridge Road over in Fratton, but that was a good two, three years ago. Could be anywhere now.”
“We will take you there, won’t we Mum, David?”
“Oh I couldn’t. I wouldn’t expect you to. Too much. Too much,” Kevin said shaking his head, causing more small avalanches of lice and dirt.
“No Poppy we can’t. Don’t be silly. What about your party, Poppy?” Diane said in a slightly whinny voice.
“Mum – There is a party every other week! I don’t even like Jessica. This is a much more important. David, can we?”
David looked at Kevin but could not meet his eyes, Poppy could almost hear his thought process, Kevin was in the car now, it wasn't going to get any worse than it already is. After a few moments silence and a big sigh, he nodded, “Fratton, you say? It is not that far a detour. I don't see why not.”
“David!” Diane said, her eyes popping out slightly.
Poppy smiled pleased with herself, “Thanks Dad.”
David smiled slightly, and shrugged at his wife as if tramp delivery was a hobby of his.
The drive to Fratton took twenty minutes and thankfully Kevin remembered the way to Barn Bridge Road. Throughout the journey he tried his best to smooth down his wild hair and beard, and tried to make his rag of a coat look more presentable. Poppy kept muttering small reassurances to him as they drove along the tree line streets, “You’ll be fine!” “It doesn’t matter what you look like!”.
They pulled up outside number 8 just as a tall, thin woman wearing a striped suit and long overcoat, stepped out of the door, carrying a newspaper and a coffee.
Kevin swallowed heavily seeing her. Tears were now streaming down his face, leaving cleaner streaks of flesh under his eyes. He nodded his thanks to everyone, unable to speak and opened the car door, stepping out into the road.
The woman looked up with a smirk; bemused at seeing such a dishevelled human step out of a brand new BMW. Almost in slow moment her coffee slid out of her hand and she stumbled slightly on her high heels.
“Kevin?” she said her voice just a loud squeak.
Kevin nodded, still too emotional to speak and the two of them, through clouds of tears, hugged each other.
Both looked like they would never let go ever again.
Poppy sat back in the leather seats of the car and smiled, happy. She didn't know yet what she wanted to be in life but she definitely didn't want to be a passer-by, she wanted to help people.
Suddenly she remembered what her mum had said, there were lots of people like Kevin, thousands - and her smile slipped slightly.
“Let’s drive through town and see who else we can help!” she said excited at the prospect.
She knew she couldn’t help them all but at least she could try.

"Passing Doctor Dolittle" - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-02-25T19:15:00.006Z

Driving down the hill,
Past the muddy fields,
I noticed something strange -
Two horses - staring curiously,
Over their wire fence.
Sniffing the outstretched hand,
Of a white haired man,
Alone except for his,
Two white haired dogs.
I can see him
Deep in heated conversation,
To the horses or
To the two dogs,
I do not know.
But either way - odd,
As I drove away,
I see him nodding,
in the heartiest agreement,
to one or both.
What plan was hatched,
Or argument happily solved,
I will never know,
but how very cool,
I thought - to be...
Passing Doctor Dolittle.

Work in progress blog re-design

2010-02-24T01:07:00.000Z

Please bear with me as I exercise my creative talents on my blog :) I am hopefully heading in the right direction!

"The Journey" - a poem by Clive Martyn

2010-02-22T23:08:00.011Z

We are all born,
Small packages,
Of pink flesh and soft bone,
To parents,
Some ready,
Some - unfortunately,

Not.

Most of us grow -

To become children.

Some,

Do not... or cannot,

Smiles, learning feet and hands,
Some children are sheltered,
Comforted and loved,
Taught by parents,
Teachers and others,
To in turn love, share, be kind.
Some - unfortunately,

Not.

Most of us grow -
To become teenagers.

Some,

Do not... or cannot,

Angry at the world and everyone in it,
Some teenagers are understood,
Hugged and listened to,
Supported,
Even with slamming doors,
To understand their importance -
Their bright future,

Some - unfortunately,

Not.

Most of us grow -
To become adults.

Some,

Do not... or cannot,

Tall backs, wide smiles and handshakes,
Some adults are ready,
Ready for the world -
Work, love and the rest,
Happy to take on the burden,
Of responsibilities and expectations,
Some - unfortunately,

Not.

Most of us choose -
To become parents ourselves.

Some,

Do not... or cannot,

Carrying our own small packages,
Of pink flesh and soft bone,
Understanding with fear,
The journey to come,
And our part in creating it,
Shaping another's future,
Protecting,
Loving completely,

Although, some, unfortunately,

Not.

Most of us grow -
Older.

Some,

Do not... or cannot,

Slow steps and deep breaths,
Time to finally reflect on our journey,
The people we have met,
Or passed along the way,
And always,
The sense of the end,
In the distance,
The unknown door,

And time - ticking.

The journey, unfortunately,

Ends here.

No matter how long it is,
It is too short.

No matter how much kindness,
Or love,
You have shown others along the way,
Or received yourself,
It is not enough.

No matter what is past that final door,
Darkness, light or nothing,
The journey is what we will be,
Remembered for.

Make it a good one...

For everyone.

Fibonacci Poetry - 3 short poems by Clive Martyn

2010-02-21T23:34:00.006Z

Fibonacci Poetry or Fibs for short are six line, twenty syllable poems with a syllable count by line of one, one, two, three, five and eight.

Old

Man

Going

Home - slowly

Alone - heart broken

Empty house - no longer a home

--------------------------------------

Cold

White

Flower

Held tightly

Never letting go

Never dropping into the grave

-------------------------------------

Love
Finds
You - see?
Understand
You can't force it
You have to wait - and to be found

A Forest of Ice and Blood by Clive Martyn

2010-02-19T11:20:00.006Z

Fragments from the Book of Galein the Cursed:

Cold gripped the land in an iron fist,

Heartwood could no longer be cut,

Crops died in the frozen ground -

Over the ice - the fog came

Fingers of grey,

Drifting through the last trees,

Casting white darkness,

Over already blighted lives.

------------------------

The old man stood in the village square, his thin arms outstretched beseeching the Gods above. Two hours ago his voice had echoed strongly around the square but now it was just a whisper.

The cold, grey fog was still thick above the village and the entire valley; and the temperature was unchanged.

The great optimism that had greeted the arrival of the King's Sorcerer had faded, replaced with a growing anger and frustration. The situation had not been helped by the man’s arrogant boasts which were still fresh in every one's memories. Boasts which had momentarily given hope to everyone who had gathered to watch him.

The Sorcerer's bodyguard, a small group of young Knights with bright polished ceremonial armor and furs had started to look less bored and slightly more apprehensive of the hungry villagers that surrounded them.

Frequently the Knights would stare directly at Dane, who fresh from the distant treeline was still carrying his axe. Dane's arms even after the long winter were larger than most people's legs, covered in aged muscle, thick with sinews making him look as strong as the Heartwood he was tasked to cut. The presence of his axe in his hand made Dane bolder than most and over the last hour without saying anything his annoyance had become louder and louder.

The Sorcerer paused in his muttering and threw another small bundle of twigs and herbs, another offering, onto the small fire. Having watched this ritual start in a similar way ten times already, with no effect, conjured an audible, disrespectful groan from the villagers.

Lacon, knowing all eyes were on him as the King's representative in the village, coughed loudly, loud enough to get the attention of the Sorcerer, who turned scowling at the interruption.

Bowing low as a sign of respect, Lacon stepped into the circle and walked towards the Sorcerer.

"Master Sorcerer, the Temple bell has rung twice and still there is no progress. Is the task more difficult than you first imagined?"

The old man sagged slightly, his arms dropping to his sides. He looked around the crowd at the faces all staring at him, some of which were still hopeful that he would be able to bring back the blue sky and the long overdue spring.

He shook his head sadly, "The fog, the ice have been sent by the Gods."

This announcement was greeted by silence before a hundred questions were asked, screamed and shouted.

The Sorcerer held up a hand, "They refuse to help and refuse to provide an answer to why. I have tried my best, but the Gods do not answer. Your village is cursed."

"Why have the Gods forsaken us?" The village priest called out, his dyed hands lifted up to the sky at the horror of the thought.

"Perhaps the Gods do not answer because there are no Gods!" Dane said loud enough for all to hear.

"Heresy!" the priest and Sorcerer shouted at the same time, both pointing accusingly at the Woodsman.

The crowd moved away from Dane silently.

You have gone too far now Dane! Stop this madness of yours," Lacon whispered moving away with the rest of the villagers.

Dane's hands gripped tighter on his axe.

"I know why the ice and fog have drowned us. I know why!"

"It is the Gods!" the Sorcerer said angrily.

"It is the trees! We have cut down too many trees for the damn King’s ships! The hills are bare and the ice and fog have come further and further down from the mountaintops"

This statement was laughed at by many of the more pious, and both the Priest and the Sorcerer.

“Coming from a woodsman? His axe still in his hands? If that is true, Dane, you are the villain,” Lacon laughed, trying to defuse the situation.

"We have been planting, trying to repair the damage but it is too much!" Dane said, his personal anguish clear in his tone.

The Sorcerer who had turned a shade of purple, at the heretical words, shouted, his voice recovering thanks to his rage and echoing again around the square.

"The trees do not have power over the weather and the seasons! You foolish man! That is the domain of the Gods and in particular Laris the Father of the Weather Gods. No wonder this village, this valley is cursed, if such words have been uttered - no wonder the Gods are angry if such thoughts have been thought."

“We must appease Laris.” The Priest said his fat hands again cast skywards.

Nodding the Sorcerer shouted - “Arrest that man.”

The four knights pulled out their short blades and fanned out, warily approaching Dane.

The majority of the villagers fled the square to the safety of doorways and the Inn, leaving Dane, Lacon, the Priest and the Sorcerer.

Dane’s friends from the woodtrail lingered, but with a shake of his head, Dane let them know that this was his fight, alone.

“Put down the Axe, we do not want to hurt you.” One of the Knights said, his hand shaking slightly as he held the knife low in a standard fighting pose.

Dane breathed deeply and lifted his axe high one-handed.

“Put the knife down, Son and you’ll walk from this village alive,” he said.

“The Gods are on your side!” the Sorcerer screamed, “Get him!”

"The fog was always there, high in the mountains - but the trees kept it at bay.” Dane said calmly.

“The Gods control the weather – they control our lives.”

“I control my life,” Dane whispered.

As the knights stepped closer. Dane swung. The axe designed to cut the strongest, densest wood sliced through skin, bone and flesh with ease. Two of the Knights died instantly, their faces exploding in rainbows of blood and gore. The third fell to the ground mortally wounded ,his fingers trying to stop his life pouring from him.

The last Knight lunged forward but was hit squarely on the face by Dane’s left fist, and fell to his knees.

Lacon screamed “Stop Dane!” but was ignored. With a single slice, Dane removed the last Knight’s head from his shoulders.

A rare break in the fog allowed a ray of sunlight to briefly illuminate Dane, as he stood over the four armoured figures on the floor like an ancient Hero.

The terrified Priest and the Sorcerer ran towards the safety of the Temple.

“Others will listen,” Dane whispered as he watched them go.

He wiped his blade clean on the fur of one of the dead knights and walked away from the village without a backward glance.

So began the War of Reason.

Links to all my previous FridayFlash

2010-02-19T10:52:00.004Z

(12) The Flesh Merchant of Monoceros (Sci-Fi)

(11) Flicker (Horror)

(10) Please Santa (Contemporary Fantasy)

(9) Love Does Not Stop (Horror)

(8) Red Barn (Horror)

(7) Real Papa (Real Life)

(6) Love at First Sight (Real Life)

(5) Things are going to change (Horror/Real Life)

(4) Snatches of Life in Colour (Experimental/Real Life)

(3) Blink of an Eye (Horror/Real Life)

(2) Love does few boundaries (Real Life/Humour)

(1) Time will heal all (Real Life)

Haiku, Micropoetry and Very Short Stories - Catch Up

2010-02-16T23:03:00.002Z

It has been a while since I have posted a catch up of my Twitter haiku and poetry so please excuse the length of this posting :) It covers three months of poetic tweets from around Valentine's day through Christmas down to Thanksgiving.

A whisper - a stare / cruelty has countless faces / ignorance abounds

No card is needed / No flowers, chocolates or gift / A single look, a single smile / Is all I want.. all I need #micropoetry

One day I hope - dream / Things will be better - freer / For now I wait - write

In my heart I know / we can change the world - if only / we write the right words

Drifting on the breeze / a single cherry blossom / alone - free to play

I can feel the hate / the evil in their dark eyes / soul eaters - hungry

In the dark - whispers / In the walls - Do you hear them? / They are watching me.

Humans are amazing / we can do anything - believe / i do #micropoetry

beyond the tears - hope / of new beginnings - new starts / tomorrow will be better #micropoetry

Remember you can be the light / life does not have to be so dark / - smile #micropoetry

In the beginning / nothing - nothing but a smile / a hint of cruel humour to come #micropoetry

I can still feel you / your lips upon mine -burning / the last goodbye kiss

The sun sets - ablaze / as we move relentlessly / into the darkness

Drifting on the tide / sorrowful and sad - broken / searching for meaning

The sun still shines, even on the darkest night - you just cannot see it yet. #micropoetry

The water's edge / silence - upon the still pond / cherry blossom floats

I am not afraid / No - I will smile as I die / because I met you

Your happiness shines / like a beacon in this world / what is your secret?

Terror, death and fear / can never win hearts and minds / but words have power

Something has to change / One Earth. One Life. One chance - now / No more excuses

We are ruled by clocks / listening to the tick tock of time / the beat of our hearts #micropoetry

Dirty, broken souls / screaming - tired hands held out / Hell on Earth, again

Floating through my life/ Drifting aimlessly - waiting/ Until this moment /You give me purpose and hope/ a clear path to happiness #tanka

Spring -not far away // breathe deep - smile and smell the air // this sunday morning

Everyday I fear / we see images of hate, / destruction and pain / There is so much love, beauty / in the world, that is unseen #tanka

If I had a day / Only one single day to live / I wouldn't leave your side

Close in the darkness / smiling - your head on my chest / glowing and happy

Humbug you whisper / but I know that secret smile / full of Christmas love

I would love to change / the world ~ make it better ~ with / beautiful haiku

Winter sleeps and dreams / of Summer, cherry blossom / Hungry for warmth

A perfect Christmas? / Everyday is like christmas / Waking up with you

This Christmas, with you / I do not need any presents / you are all I need

the forest is silent / choked by cold white fog / we feel like the only two in the world / the last lovers #micropoetry

I never realised~ I was a complusive gambler~ but the green felt~ its texture~ its feel~ its touch~ was more familiar than my wife #poetwist

Our love has a texture/ I would not say smooth/ It has had a few bumps/ knocks/ but in my hands/ It still feels amazing #poetwist

Words are not enough / How can I describe true love? / and my love for you?

In the crowded room / I found you - luck, karma, fate? / I thanked them all

I run to my dreams / they are a far better place / where love not hate rules

A small confession / I didnt know what was missing / until i met you

Winter's weak light / seems brighter when you are near / please stay until spring

Today is new, fresh / untouched, unmarked yet by you / leave a mark - own it

In the winter darkness~if you can remember the sunshine on your skin~the warmth~the glow~and smile~your summer will last forever #poetry

No more haiku - bed / need to sleep and conjure dreams / of you beside me

The dark sky - the cold / Even though it is winter / you set me ablaze

I was cursed ~ condemned / Sent to hell the day we met / Unrequited love

I can only sleep / wrapped in your arms - listening / to your heart - your soul

The summer lives on / even in darkest winter / hidden in warm hearts

I tried to leave so many times / Tried to run / Escape / But I always came back / To your smile / To your love #poetwist

Many try~ Some fail~ A few win~ But the sad ones~ The ones still living in fear? They didn't even try #poetwist

Many regrets~ Many sorrows~ Many opportunities missed~ Many times I wonder why~ But I am breathing~ I have you~ I am happy #poetwist

Smiling we go out / dancing in the winter rain / kissing - wet but warm

Please do not listen to the haters, the spoilers ~ those who dwell in negativity. We can do amazing things. We can do anything.

With pillow whispers / muttered prose and poetry / you can steal a heart

My dreams are simple / a world full of love, kindness / freedom, peace ~ simple

Woke up this morning / empty - then you smiled at me / and I remembered

Simple words written / with careful thought, heartfelt love / will last forever

I believe in you / with all my heart, my love / you can never fail

You are all I need / no more water, food or air / Love is all I'll breathe

I sometimes forget / there is beauty in the world / until you walk in

She sits alone - quiet / life has not been kind or fair / but she is happy

The simple answer? / Live and love with no regrets / Give freely and smile

Reality never brought him what he wanted so he retreated into imaginary worlds where the characters he wrote danced just for him #vss

Free yourself - you have / nothing to fear from the world / step out of that cage

A horrid image / tabletop turkey movement / begins vomiting

It may feel uphill / at times a struggle ~ but worth / the view from the top

The road can be rough~ you can wonder why you are on it~ but this is the only path~ and I for one am going to enjoy it #micropoetry

my dreams are calling / from bedroom - they are waiting / on my pillows

Never give up on / yourself or your dreams - believe / if you do - we will

With every breath / new, fresh opportunities / possibilities

You are in control / today, start afresh - clean slate / wake up with a smile

Life is easier / with someone behind you / whispering go on

Turkey ~ family / american tradition / the world needs to learn

I always whisper / a quiet thank you to Fate / bringing you to me

A single moment / with you in my arms is worth / a lifetime searching

A single moment / with you in my arms is worth / a lifetime alone

Alone in the dark / I wait for you, my lover / in my hungry dreams

Love is just a word / but when I look at you - then / I know its meaning

Whisper of perfume / in the air - quickening pulse / she is beautiful

Now - listen to me / look in my eyes - see the truth / You are beautiful

Shut and lock the door / undress - you have the only key / to unlock my heart

For her pleasure, smile / we perform like haiku dogs / wagging happily

Walking home in Fall / floating along - carrying / my secret longing.

Beware the Haiku / they are addictive – take care / you will be pulled in

Haiku will solve all / in the hands of a master / - giving clarity

After spending the afternoon digging in the garden,he was annoyed when the in-laws turned up for dinner. Damn, more graves he thought #vss

He did not sparkle / in the sun or love humans / this Edward killed - drank

If love was a colour / say a warm yellow? / your heart would be the Sun / brightening our lives and warming the world #micropoetry

I show you, my soul / in each word written on the page / Read with care, my friend

A poet, writer / with a beautiful, kind soul / she brightens the world

He is the "one" but / you really mean to say is / he's the "next one"

Try your best in life / but remember - trying is / the key to success

The touch of a hand / the giggled whisper, popcorn / a kiss - back row love

Dont waste energy / on worry and fear - save it / for things that matter. #micropoetry

In the darkness / you call out a name - not mine / and I wonder why

Spilling into words // all the beauty in the world // my heart cannot hold

Can you imagine / if we gave as much thought to / love as we do war?

Poet sees beauty / everywhere - in everything/ even sadness - death

A life lived with regret, reviewing missed opportunities, is a life wasted. That is my philosophy today ~ Looking forward

Close in the darkness / smiling - your head on my chest / glowing and happy

Tree - torn and twisted / life has tried to break you / but you stand tall

An Earthly angel / Her passion, love, mends broken men / but breaks their beds

I watch you at the bar/looking glamorous, confident and wild/Scared I dont approach you/Unaware of the lonely girl waiting inside #poetry

I watch the rose bleed/A trickle of my blood from a thorn/The door opens/She smiles/It was more than worth that little pain #poetry

the sun spills in through/ the window - disturbing dreams / of long held wishes

Beneath shady trees / on a scented bed of pine / we made love slowly

A quiet soul lies / behind those pale blue eyes - that / I long to make shout.

because Haiku means / more to me than poetry / is my soul in words

Life without haiku / unimaginable - no? / don't even jest

In Basho's shadow / we stand reverent - in awe / Painting with his words

Her fugitive heart / was on the run - I wanted it / but it was long gone.

Women flocked around / the man with the large tattoo / which read fugitive

She didnt need another filling but staring down at her on the chair,the light illuminating her golden hair,he sighed drilling besotted. #vss

I packed up my bags and left. I knew I would be with you again someday but I had to get away for a while. A fool, I thought you'd wait. #vss

The Flesh Merchant of Monoceros by Clive Martyn

2010-02-12T13:47:00.003Z

“Jolo. Can I help you sir?” I said bowing to touch my head against the red cushioned floor.
“Jolo. Where is the Flesh merchant?” said the fat captain, idly scratching the burn scars that ran down one side of his face from his patchy hair to his second chin. I hated the term flesh merchant but was so used to humans that I managed to control my colour.
“I am he.” I said, sitting back on my ankles.
“A Mofopul?” He laughed his belly wobbling beneath his tight space suit. “A Mofopul flesh merchant? Now I have seen everything – thought you were all either warriors or priests? What of your precious Mofopul honour?”. He sneered as he said the word honour, as if it was dirty.
“We have diversified since the ascension of your race to the Multiworld system, sir”
He nodded, seeming proud. “Progress, eh?” he smiled.
I said nothing, fearing my words would reveal my hatred for his kind. Letting the primitive, brutish and savage race exist was one thing but opening up the gates to their ships; to let them spread their culture to the ends of the galaxy had been a disaster. The Council had made a huge mistake; humans were a cancer that was fast spreading throughout the universe.
“Now what I want,” he said stroking the lower fold of his stomach “is a REALLY dirty whore!”
As he spoke flecks of spit flew in all directions and covered his chins. Uninvited he sat in a chair.
I smiled, nodding. “You have come to the right place, Sir. We have some of the finest escorts here, handpicked from throughout the galaxy. We even have a...”
He waved a hand and interrupted; “I read your adverts in the dockyard, Fleshie! Now show me some whores!”
“Of course, sir. Are you looking just for now or are you looking for secondment to your ship?”
“Oh we want a ship whore,” he said his eyes lighting up and leaning forward, “One happy to be used by the whole crew.”
He laughed again; the stale smell of alcohol on his breath assaulting my senses.
I tapped the details into the computer.
“Short-haul or Long haul, sir?”
“Short - the Diamond mines in Ophiuchi.”
“Species and sex?”
He smiled slyly, “Gliesian. Female.”
“Of course, sir.”
It was an obvious choice by the fat human - the Gliesian were particularly prized for a number of unfathomable reasons; their musky, disgusting scent seemed to have the opposite effect on humans – they loved it.
“Excellent - we have some fantastic specimens for short-haul contracts, sir.” I clapped my hands loudly and three Gliesians strutted out from the back room.
Sexually they were compatible with the humans but there were a number of differences – Gliesians were taller, hairless, with a pair of extra arms and their skin was a deep golden colour. They were notorious pleasure seekers with three times as many nerve endings as any other creature in the known galaxy. These three had been genetically modified to fit their purpose, their faces and curvy feminine bodies were extremely beautiful by classic Earth standards.
The sight of their naked bodies turned my stomachs but the human loved it, almost running to the stage to examine them. The air began to fill with their scent and subtly I switched the environmental controls onto full extraction.
The captain waddled around the females, squeezing and groping parts of their anatomy as if they were meat.
I could not watch and instead looked out the window to the traffic that was walking past.
Most of the species in the Spaceport did not look at the store at all, ignoring it or rushing past. It was only the humans that paid any attention. Mofopuls would avoid the street just to avoid the flesh merchants that lined this part of port, but humans were pulled in as if it was a Gravity well.
“I’ll have this one,” the captain finally said, visibly salivating as he stroked the breasts of the middle Gliesian, who was shivering with delight. The scene caused a thin volume of vomit to struggle up my throat but I managed to swallow it down.
“Excellent choice, Sir.”
“How much is she?”
“40 thousand, Sir.”
He nodded and didn’t complain; it was an extremely reasonable price. Before he could question her legitimacy for such a low price I said, “All her paperwork is in order and she has been verified. Shall I charge her to your ship?”
He nodded, “It’s the Orswar, berth 41.”
I tapped in the details and he waved his card at the machine.
“I will send her over tonight, Sir.”
“Ha, the crew are going to have so much fun,” he laughed, stroking his scars again, “If I don’t wear her out first!”
He spat on the floor and leered at his purchase.
“Thank you for your custom, Sir. Cholo,” I said, smiling broadly.
He left without a word, adjusting his trousers.
We all waited in silence until the door was shut and he was far away. I could finally let my skin colour and with a relief it turned from the cool blue it had been to the bright red of anger.
Mofopuls were all still warriors and priests but that did not mean we were not very quick to learn; we had studied the human arts of deception and their concept of lying closely.
I turned to the Gliesian, “Have you taken your pills?”
She nodded, a look of grim determination in her eyes.
The Gliesian had been dosing herself for weeks with Pleamin, a horrible and most virulent sexual disease which attacked the brain stem. It had no effect on Gliesians but any human who laid with her would be dead within two days.
She would pilot the ship back here once they were all dead, and we would start again with the next stupid human until the galaxy was clean again.
One day the Council would thank us.

Flicker by Clive Martyn

2010-01-08T00:00:00.002Z

Mike shivered nervously in the cold of the bathroom as his heart pounded in his chest.

He looked at Shelly's sleepy, tousled reflection briefly before concentrating again on the corner of the mirror where he last saw it.

"Do you see it? Do you?"

"Baby, come back to bed! I can't see anything."

There was another flash. A black flicker. Another shape in the mirror.

"There! Did you see it?"

She shook her head and lifted her hair up high whilst stretching. She yawned loudly.

"Maybe you hit your eye or something? Maybe you're just tired," she said sounding unconcerned and slightly annoyed at being dragged out of bed.

She pulled Mike's head around gently, away from the mirror, down to face her. Her small hands felt very warm on his skin. She looked into his eyes and gently smoothed his eye-lids with her delicate fingers.

She stared at him for a few seconds, squinting as she tried to adjust to the bright lights.

"Can't see anything, honey," she patted his cheek as if he was a five year old scared of the dark.

"Come to bed."

"Shelly - I can see something. Something in the mirror." He pointed at the mirror angrily.

"You need to get some sleep, babes, you have been working too hard." She walked back down the hallway and he could not help but watch her walk away. The T-shirt she was wearing hardly covering the top of her long shapely legs.

He rubbed his eyes for the tenth or twentieth time. Perhaps he did need to sleep, he thought.

Mike turned back to the mirror and waited for the flicker out the corner of his eye. As the seconds wore on, his heart slowed and he eventually smiled wryly at himself. Just my imagination, he thought, there is nothing there.

He turned on the cold tap and ran the cool water through his hands before lifting them up to his face. As he stood up, he saw it again in the mirror. Watching.

***

The day before the funeral, the last thing Shelly wanted to do was return to the flat. She definitely did not want to go back into the bathroom, where she had found Mike's body, lifeless on the floor, but there were several things she needed to pick up. Mike's family were too busy with the funeral arrangements to help her out - besides she did not like to impose.

Walking quickly she grabbed her best suit out of the wardrobe and lingered on the threshold of the bathroom, staring at the spot she had found him. Shaking her head to dismiss the horrible image, she grabbed some toiletries, shoved them in a bag and was just turning to leave when she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

Two brief flickers in the mirror.

"Please Santa" by Clive Martyn

2009-12-18T20:13:00.008Z

Father Christmas looked up at his office door, his large heart skipping a beat. The constant sound of hammers, sawing and happy singing, the sound of the workshop in full swing, was missing. The Elves were quiet.

The naughty-nice list sheets floated to the floor from his lap as he struggled out of his chair as quickly as he could. He poked his head through the doorway.

All the Elves had gathered around Epifanio, his head mail sorter.

Several Elves looked up at him, tears in their eyes.

He stepped out into the workshop and walked over, the crowd of Elves parting to give him space.
“What do you have there, Epifanio?” he said, his deep, rich voice echoing around the silent workshop.

“A letter, sir,” he said meekly, his cheeks wet with tears. The small Elf passed the slightly damp white sheet of paper up to him.

Father Christmas adjusted his gold spectacles and looked down at the neat, hand written letter.

Dear Santa

Thank you for my presents last year. I loved the XBOX game. I still play it.

Mummy doesn’t know I am writing to you – please don’t tell her! Please, please, please Santa can you help?

My friend James says you can do anything, that you are magical and can get anything.

This year please DO NOT send me anything I have LOADS already. But can you send my mummy a new baby?

I have been thinking for a long time. I have something called cancer and am very ill. I have gone all yellow and am very tired. Mummy cries ALOT, she tries to hide it but I can tell.

When I am gone I think Mummy would like a new baby to make her smile again. But can this one not have any genetics or wrong stuff? Can it be perfect?

Thank you Santa.

Love

Peter Beck

Father Christmas felt as if his heart had moved up to the base of his throat, and his eyes misted up. He coughed and folded the letter neatly in two.

“Thank you Epifanio for bringing this to my attention.” He said, his voice thick with emotion.

He looked around at all the Elves who were all looking at him expectantly and coughed again to clear his throat.

“Back to work, my friends, not long until Christmas!”

He walked back to his office and sat back in his chair lost in thought. Several times he read and re-read the letter, unsure of what to do. For a while he used his magic snow globe to watch Peter and his mother as they prepared as best they could for Christmas.

Eventually he began design a new machine for the workshop, sketching down the components and parts. When Agathe, who led the Elf engineering team arrived answering Father Christmas’ call, he found the big man surrounded by piles of crumbled paper and empty pens.

Father Christmas passed over the designs and sat back in his chair, his back aching from leaning over his desk.

“Can we build it Agathe? Build it in time for Christmas?”

“Well... er.... what is it, Sir?”

He smiled, “Build it, Agathe, and I’ll show you. ”

***

On Christmas Day Peter woke, slowly, groggily, to find his mum on his bed. She was wiping tears out of her eyes.

“Mummy, don’t cry, I feel good today!” he said sadly.

“These are happy tears, Peter, very happy tears!” She leant forward and cuddled him.

With a sly smile, he asked, full of wonder and amazement, “Do you have a baby in your tummy?”

His mother laughed, “Silly goose – no! What a funny thing to say! No!"

With a wide grin she said "You remember we talked about Dr Freeman and trying to find you a new liver? Well the Doctor called this morning first thing – they have one! He said it was a miracle! An identical match, which he said was like one in a twenty billion.”

Peter just looked up his mother’s smiling face, tears coming to his eyes as well. “Am I going to get better?” he said quietly.

She nodded, hopeful for the first time in a very long time.

“This is the best Christmas present ever!” She said and they just lay in Peter’s bed, crying with joy.

***

Father Christmas checked on Peter several times over the next few decades.

The Liver machine had been very difficult to fabricate and it had been touch and go whether it would work at all. Making a baby would have been a lot easier but Father Christmas knew that Peter Beck’s mother would not want a perfect baby boy for Christmas – she already had one of those.