Reflection

One.
It was five in the morning.

It had felt like five in the morning for far too long.

He was not yet aware of the crack in his living.

Tomas Klaassens had taken to his bed early the previous evening for a precise reason, that he should allow himself the opportunity for a more than reasonable nights sleep. However as he stared up at the plain ceiling he wished that he hadn’t. He lay uncomfortably and thought that he had probably suffered one of the worst nights sleep that he could remember.
It comes to many this most awkward of afflictions. Sleep is the lifeblood of living. His work at the Western street office had been nothing short of hectic recently. Insurance had definitely become more of a cut throat business during the six years he had suffered being part of it. Offices had sprung up all over the place and now there were hundreds of clerks all frantically scrambling for what little scraps there were on offer. He had been under great pressure from the regional head to triple the amount of policies that he logged every month. This had left him working every hour possible just so that he could make the new average and thus save his job, which he felt by now was under constant threat. The worry and stress of such an advance in the average had already done for several of the more established workers at the office. There had been a large cull some weeks ago. Gregor Littenkov, the senior office clerk, had asked for anyone who did not think that they could possibly meet the new targets to hand in their notice while they still had the opportunity to go with dignity, rather than wait till the end of the month and find that their desks had been cleared for them.

It was a sad sight as two of the eldest clerks struggled to their feet. Henk polous and Frank Arnst collected together the little that they had gathered on their desks over the past twenty years, the office was deadly silent. As they left they scuffed their worn shoes into the thin carpet as if this last protest might bring something to their salvation, but it did not.
The two weeks that followed the departure of these two saw policies rise by forty percent and so Gregor Littenkov had regularly paced the main floor of the office looking very pleased with himself.
Tomas felt sure that he had done enough to cope with the enforced increase. Although he did not particularly like the work that he did, he felt it too impersonal, too deceitful, he was actually quite good at it. He had been lucky enough that when he first started at the office another clerk by the name of Jan Giesseman had taken it upon himself to show the ropes and this had more than stood him in good stead. He and Jan had become friendly and a decent friendship had grown between the two. Jan was some four years older, and it was more than possible that he had taken pity on this young fresh faced boy straight out of schooling and dumped into his first job. However over the past six years they had built quite a bond and it was possible to say that the two were as close as they had been to any other. They had also built quite a formidable team between them. They had long since promised to help one another out. They had arranged their desks so that they backed onto each other and this enabled them to work together so that they could maximise their abilities in order to keep ahead of the competition. However this latest rise in their targets had stretched even them. They had been forced to spend great lengths of time trawling the streets. They had even been forced to stop people in the streets and attempt to persuade them that they needed insurance as a matter of greatest need, their lives dependent on it.
This had left Tomas feeling very uneasy. He had never thought that he would be forced to stoop to such a level. The look on the faces of the ordinary people who he accosted as they went about their daily lives sent great pangs of depression through him. He felt that he had lowered himself beyond a level that is acceptable. Jan on the other hand seemed to revel in the experience. He skipped and threw his arms in the air as he darted from one side of the street to the other. If the truth is to be known he pulled Tomas through this last month. His exuberance on the streets had more than covered Tomas’ poor efforts. He however didn’t feel to greatly indebted to his friend because only the previous month he had covered for Jan when he had failed to show for work three days consecutively. He had lied so very commendably when Gregor Littenkov had noticed that he was absent, telling his senior clerk that Jan had been called South to mediate on a highly sensitive policy. Gregor Littenkov at first had seemed not to fully believe what he said, however when it was mentioned that it would most probably pull in several lucrative policies, he soon became happy at Jan’s non appearance. This did however provide him with further problems because it now meant that he had to somehow produce such policies in the coming weeks so as not to cause greater suspicion. However as always when Jan did finally return to work the two of them pulled out all the stops and more than covered themselves.

So these past months had proven to be so very tough and Tomas felt completely drained of his energies.

And the crack seeped ever more.

As he tossed and turned within his small wooden bed he felt that his mind was far to active. It swam with all the noise of his work. He felt as though he was still rushing around the office, copying and sending papers, phoning clients potential and real, scanning through rows and rows of fine print trying to find clauses that might gain further profit. Once again looking over at the clock that sat upon his bedside table he waited for his eyes to focus fully,

Five!

How could it still be five o’clock.
His mouth filled with an awful taste. His lips were dried and ripped at the corners, his heavy tongue poked at them. Resting his head back upon the pillow he once again stared up at the ceiling. His room was still dark, the light had been fading for a few weeks now although he had not noticed it. Autumn was now here, it had been a long summer and he thought to himself that he should be thankful that those torturous days spent in the oven that is his office are over for now at least. He was sure that even circus animals were not subjected to such a hostile atmosphere as he and the other workers were. The small window to the right of his bed was covered by the thick curtains that had hung there ever since he had taken the room. He hadn’t much liked them when he had first seen them but he had little inclination to take them down or change them. They performed a function and although he was not happy with them ascetically he worried not about them since.
The lady who let him the room, Mrs. Alberts had offered to change them and as far as he could remember he had taken her up on that offer, yet she had not done so to this point. The rest of the room was simple and much too his liking. He had taken the room some five years previously before which he had lived with his mother and father in the house which he grew up in. However his father had grown quite ill and after a short spell in which he was bedridden he died, this had an adverse effect on his mother who had take to nursing for him in his final weeks. She struggled on for a week and then suddenly she too died, the doctors saying that her heart simply gave out probably because of the fact that she no longer saw that she had a role or a duty to continue. He had taken the shock of his parents death quite well. He had seemed happy that they both went near enough at the same time and that they would be happy at that notion. He did however decide that it would be right to sell the house and move somewhere smaller and more suitable to his needs.
Once again he rolled over and stared at the clock. The time didn’t seem to have moved on at all. He thought about stretching his arm out from the warmth of his thick covers and shaking the damned clock, thinking now that it might have been broken. Focusing again he saw the impossibly thin seconds hand move. His head felt uncomfortable upon the pillow. It felt as though something static was pricking him. Sitting up he brushed at the worst effected areas and felt sure that he was not going to be able to fall asleep. He once again thought of Henk Polous and Frank Arnst, it would be unlikely that they were suffering from the same torment as him. They were most probably by now enjoying their retirement. Lounging in a warm chair, reading a worn leather bound book about some past war or failed campaign no doubt. It was true to say that he had not known the two men well at all, however on the odd occasion that he had spoken to either of them he got the impression that insurance had taken its toll on them and that they had indeed been ready for the company of retirement long ago.

Henk Polous, a white haired mouse of a man, had once caught him sneaking a look at one of his contact sheets, something which Jan had taught him to be a very potent tool in the insurance business. Tomas froze as the old man stood over him, his hands still continuing to riffle through the papers on his desk. However instead of barracking him for such underhand behaviour he merely took his seat and began to tell of such endeavours when he was a young man. It was out of courtesy for the old man not reporting his acts that Tomas stood a while and listened to what he had to say. Now as he lay back in his bed he thought of the old mans words and how they had made him feel sorry for him. He had been in insurance for thirty five years and he said that it had changed a great deal. That in the beginning it was noble occupation, that people waved to him in the street and asked after his health. Now he had said that it was a bloodthirsty business, in which everyone was out for themselves. That we would sell anyone any policy as long as it brought a reward for ourselves and that we did not care how it effected anyone else. Tomas had often thought that this was a fair assessment of the work that they did in the office. He was under no illusion that their work was at all dignified. The only dignity that it provided was that it fulfilled their role in society. They worked so that they might pay their taxes and contribute adequately to the social machine. He was comfortable with this justification that he had settled on, he could walk the streets and meet anyone’s gaze and feel that if they stopped him and quickly asked him to justify his position he could do without hesitation. He felt that they worked hard for the money that they earned and thought it was by no stretch of the imagination a fortune it did allow him to live comfortably and this comfort was featured by the notions that they were just in their ultimate working actions.

This is why the crack began to appear.

Opening his eyes with a start Tomas felt the heaviness of his head. It thumped as if his heart was about to beat its last. The weekend had not even started for real yet and he was already doubting whether it could be salvaged. The thick weave of his bed sheet rubbed harshly against the tops of his shoulders. How could he enjoy what he had expected to be such a pleasantly relaxing weekend after such a terrible start. There was a tired silence that hung all around the room, his eyes struggled in the poor light. A solitary un-regimented ticking sound shocked him at ever moment when he least expected it. Once again he thought of turning towards the infernal clock. He was again filled with ideas of taking it in his hand and throwing it against the wall. This would be a sweet end to his suffering he believed. Seeing its inner workings broken and bent against the foot of the wall. He allowed a smile momentarily to rise on his lips.
　

Two.Allowing his feet to fall gently onto the rough surface of the wooden floor he tossed aside the remainder of the bed sheet that still clung to his side. As he rose he felt quite strong despite the lack of comfortable sleep. The morning light had only just risen also. He stepped away from the small bed and reached out to the dark curtains that protected him from the outside. A thin layer of dust sprang away as he pulled them apart. Outside the street was empty. He was not surprised, who else would be up at such a time, especially on a Saturday. He stood in front of the window and allowed his eyes to gaze out on their own. The wind had not yet seen fit to join the morning in waking and so everything seemed very still. As he watch the inactivity he held his breath and attempted to listen to any movement that might produce sound within the rest of the house.
He was accustomed to being awoken by the sounds of his landlady Mrs. Alberts early most mornings. She would generally go about her early morning duties with a vigour that belied her advanced age and although he admired her for such an attitude, he did feel that she went about it in such a way as to make it known to all exactly what she did. He listened but no sound was made. Shaking his head he again reiterated to himself that such a poor night he had not suffered before, he was even up before Mrs. Alberts!
Taking hold of the handle he pushed hard and opened the window. He felt little point in listening even further. Water dripped from a tap from the tiny sink that sat in the corner. Moving over towards it he placed his hand on the tap and turned it. The water gushed out after a momentary pause. He allowed the sink to fill until it was nearly full. Plunging his hands into the warm water he threw it over his face. It felt nice as the droplets fell around him. Again he threw the water, this time he let it cover his entire head. Running his fingers through his hair he breathed the damp air and felt his eyes straining to once again open. Removing his night shirt he took a flannel and at first allowing it to float on top of the water he plunged it underneath and then began to run it over his chest, he felt himself awakening as he did so. As he washed he realised that it had been a fair time since he had indulged in such a comfortable act. He was far more accustomed to simply performing such acts as necessity, as part of structure that had to be fulfilled. He again let the flannel sit upon the top of the water, which had now begun to turn dark in colour. Droplets of water hung in front of his eyes from his hair. They were coloured a deep white, he allowed a couple to drop onto his nose, then shaking his head quickly they shoot around in all directions.
Once again taking the flannel he again ran it over his chest and arms. The warmth of the water seemed to draw the tiredness from his body. Looking down he noticed that his bottoms were wet through. Reaching across he took a towel and dried his hair.

Having changed from his damp bottoms he again turned back to the sink. He ran his finger across the drying bowl, a line of sediment built and he blew it towards the floor. Soaping his face he relaxed as the worn bristles swamped his checks. He cleanly took his razor and attentively shaved. As he washed the last of the foam from his face he turned and checked his reflection from the large full length mirror that sat opposite. This mirror had been his mothers and was the single piece that once belonged to his parents that he now owned. It was ornately decorated, with deep carvings along the wooden edges. It was such a big item that he had taken a full afternoon just simply brining it from the street to his room. He had managed to do so all on his own because he had politely refused any help offered. He had felt that he would feel greater if he could manage to do it himself and so it had proved. To some it might have seemed some what grandiose for his small room. However he liked the connection with his past, but saying that now as his eyes moved across it he began to think that his thoughts towards it were not all that correct. He began to realise that maybe it was not such a practical piece after all. He failed to think of a single time when he had actually used it as it was intended. For sure it had proven an able clothes horse. But he never took the time to stand in front of it and asses the image that he presents. Almost automatically he stepped over to the corner of the room. Lifting the several shirts and pairs of trousers that slopped over the edge of the mirror he dropped them onto the unmade bed behind. The gaining sunlight darted across its face. Around the inner edge of the mirror several rusty brown and orange patches had become embedded. Reaching forward he picked at the wooden surround, he felt immediately disappointed at the role the metal tacks had had on the degeneration of the mirror. Some of the dark rust came away as he touched it. It bedded under his nails.
The notion of his mother’s disappointment filled him. Reaching for the flannel he wiped away at the mirror. As he did he caught his own hanging reflection. Now a reflection is a strange thing. It is so very often that one see his own image and all at once disassociates it with his own self. For example dismissing what is in front as merely portrayed in bad light or perhaps disturbed by ones own angle of viewing. However as the lines of moisture thinned upon the glass he held his gaze. For the first time he felt a sense of great pleasure at viewing his own image. Stepping to the side he moved directly in front of the mirror. His entire room was now framed all around him. The light from the window flashed across the cold glass and for a moment he was completely lost.

We’re jumping through the cracks all the time!

Suddenly he lost his bearings. At first, for a minute or two he simply rejected any thoughts that tried to enter his mind. He believed it to be merely a trick of the light or his imagination highlighting the fact that he was very much still tired. However as much as he tried to move away or dismiss what he saw he very much remained stood in front of the mirror.
But then again. There it was!
He felt his breath catch and beat against his neck. His hands throbbed. His eyes grew wide, far beyond there normal capacity!
Something unexplainable had occurred!
He had at first not noticed any difference between what he had always thought as his own image and that which he saw in the mirror. However as he stood and stared at his reflection he bore witness to something horrific! He felt sweat pour from him.
He felt his stomach boil and contort. The images became quick, they flashed and shone at him for what seemed like a great age. Exactly half of him wanted to turn away and disregard what he saw, the other wished to remain and find the defining points that separated the reflection from his own self in order to exactly prove no link existed. However the more he looked the worse the images grew and as he did the more certain that it was him. That this image was his own reflection. He felt his arms move from his sides, they flailed about attempting to break it all.

The screams that filled the entire house he had not even come to realise were his own, however suddenly he turned to see Mrs. Alberts and one of the other lodgers standing burnt faced just opposite, having barged his door wide open. He felt unable to speak. He could see that they were very distressed, however he had completely lost himself.
Without turning his head back to the mirror he felt for the bed sheet, pulling it from the bed he placed it over the mirror. The words that he offered in his defence he knew were accepted very suspiciously. The face of Mrs. Alberts allowed for very little sympathy. What is the meaning of this?’ these words, barked with false care, rattled from her unkempt face.
‘What in Gods name has got you shouting the entire house down like this at such an hour?’ he spoke in such a tone that it seemed as if she was intent on alerting all and any to the incidents that were occurring.
The torment of what he had seen blew him to pieces. The light from the day seemed to disappear instantly. He again heard Mrs. Alberts loudly chastising him. ‘This is not what I would expect in my house! If my husband was still alive… well I tell you this sort of thing would not be tolerated!’ He felt little need in replying to any of the things that she said. He could see from her failing stance that soon she would accept it as all being to much for her and so return to her room to recover. He also couldn’t find the words inside of him to be able to stand and argue his case. For he was not at all sure how he could explain what had happened. Instead he simply pulled the small wooden chair from under his desk and sat down. He waited silently as they gradually gave up their inquiring and finally left him alone and when he was he returned to his small basin and threw up all that was contained in his stomach.
　

Three.Its gonna knock you round the face, its gonna break your stance!

Its gonna get you! Better recognise it soon!

The warm glowing sun was a grateful companion as he walked slowly along the banks of the river. It had been some three hours since the incident in his room and he had thought of nothing else. Once again he lifted his head out of the neck of his thick woollen coat and breathed in a large amount of the air around him. A thin layer of mist hung low over the water and occasionally he stopped to look out over it. When he had left his room he had done so with the intention of going about his day as he had previously planned. However now that he was out, he could not truly commit to those plans with all that had happened.
He was planning to catch the tram to the lake and spend the day relaxing in the old shack owned by Brendan Ashivsky. This little shack was the perfect place to waste away the hours on a warm Saturday. He had known Brendan Ashivsky for some months now. It had been during a new policy finding trip that Jan and he had stumbled upon this little run down shack. They had been travelling far and wide trying to gain new clients, when tired one evening, they pulled in on the off chance of some rest. At first they had believed the place to be run down and deserted however on closer inspection they came upon Brendan Ashivsky who immediately offered them food and a place to stay, an invitation they took up and stayed for four days. He now saw this shack as the perfect idyll. All of a sudden he was desperate to get out of the city.
Wondering painfully he was drunk on this image. It seemed to him like such a great life, to be so free, spending days fishing on your own boat, living just for your own means. Not chasing and demanding all the time like everyone else. Checking his watch he noticed that it was still very early for a Saturday. He could not possibly turn up at the shack at this time. Although Brendan Ashivsky would most probably be up, he very seldom seemed to sleep, it wouldn’t be appropriate to simply arrive at such an hour unannounced. He already knew that the tram did not leave until half past ten at the earliest. Passing by a newsstand he felt obliged to purchase a paper. He traded pleasantries with the seller, both of them shared a glazed stare momentarily acknowledging the earliness of their encounter. Then tucking the paper under his arm continued on his way. Ahead of him a few birds fought over scraps that had been dropped and to his left some debris struggled along the calm flowing river.

An ease filled the morning air. This time of day held grace. A grace that was all too quickly forgotten the greater the time past and the greater the numbers polluted the streets. Taking a heavy breath, that filled his lungs above their capacity, he walked slowly across the grainy path towards a bench opposite, trying to subdue the coughing as his over filled lungs struggled.
Time passed by with him sat pinned to the far end of this bench. The paper lay next to him, but as yet he still did not want to read it. The day had started to grow into itself. Although still adolescent it was beginning to show signs of maturity. The sun had risen above the large trees that lined the opposite bank of the river. It seemed to herald the awakening of the rest of the city. Soon the roads began to flow with vehicles and the pavements trickled with rushing bodies. Today he felt very unattractive. He pulled hard at his clothes, trying to hide away. Nothing seemed real to him. He had been conscious of this feeling ever since he had stepped out. His gaze watered about ahead of him. Nothing was really filtering into him. The images he had seen still fought for supremacy deep within.

What is living? The crack was becoming to large to hide.

For a second he thought about pulling out the carpet. Reaching down and ripping the pavement from under his feet, just dragging it all down, destroying the river, is it even real!
What’s going on?
Looking up he thought about it all as a game. I could be a puppet, played by strings!

After sometime, he was not sure how long it was, he realised that he was no longer alone on the bench. From the corner of his eye he saw that a young girl had sat down. Instinctively he reached down and moved his paper. He was shocked at himself that he had not done so when she had first sat down. ‘I’m so sorry!’ he offered in the girls direction quickly throwing the paper to the floor. The girl offered a pleasant smile of acknowledgement and rocked the bundle of blankets in her arms. Looking closer he stared into the bundle and saw the gentle round face of a small baby. Once again he smiled but this time to himself.

Leave the carpet alone! He thought, for now.

Leaning back he stretched a little awkwardly against the metal backrest. He was surprised by the age of this girl. She was very young, or at least appeared to be so. He felt a little uneasy. Not merely because she had a baby but more because of the fact that it wasn’t right for a young man to enquire about the health of young mothers and their child, no matter how much he wished to do so. He found himself sitting proudly there with them on the same bench, however. It seemed odd but it made him feel more of a person. More part of the accepted. He thought of what the people who passed by might think. They might think he was a decent young man. Someone who did not mind sharing a bench with a young mother. A very young mother. He straightened his shirt and jacket and picked up the paper. Folding its large pages in two he began to read the headline articles.
He knew now that something was in him. It could be in everyone he tried to reassure, without much success.
His attention however was only half on this. The girl was crying. Hesitating a moment, he glanced at the passers by. ‘Is everything alright?’ he timidly asked, paper semi wavering, under instruction to return to its defensive position if this enquiry turned sour.
‘I’m sorry.’ the girl sniffled pulling at the blankets around the baby’s head. Relived at a growing sense of trust, or at least an air of respect, he half turned his body towards the centre of the bench and offered further ‘Can I help you with anything? Is there someone who I can get for you?’
‘No thank you.’ she replied politely but still the tears rolled steadily down her checks. ‘Everything’s already too late!’ biting her lip hard the words pushed their way rudely onto the seat. Filled with a dreadful sense of pity Tomas edged closer. His real want was too hug the girl. To help her overcome whatever it was that had gotten her so upset. ‘I’m sure whatever it is isn’t really all that bad, if you look at it in the light of day.’ his words ran away as soon as they left his mouth but as they did so wished that he hadn’t. ‘Its probably easy to say that when you have no real troubles of your own!’ the girl strongly rebuked.

He could feel himself sinking.
Pull the carpet up! Prove this all to be nonsense!

‘Look you have a lovely little child, that must offer hope’
He could hear his own words circling around dumbly. He was suddenly aware of his stupidity, he hardly knew anything! The world was not real to him. For sure he could sell policies, he’d proven that, but out here he was stunted! ‘I’m sorry.’ he once again offered. Shuffling uncomfortably he felt out of his depth. He felt capable of offering help but it would seem that various barriers, invisible to his understanding, sat between his reasoning and the general accepted truths.
‘Life’s probably very straight for you. Life’s not so easy for others!’ the girl said between sobs. ‘True indeed’ he agreed ‘I’m sure to many my life is good, but there are always problems, for any of us.’
‘Problems.’ she scoffed. The bench felt like a lonely place, yet it seemed to fit in with the changing in his knowing.
‘Granted one persons problems may seem inconsequential if, say, they were too all be stacked up together.’ he added further.
‘Don’t!’ the girl interrupted, her face now reddened by her agitated state. Pulling at the collar of his shirt he felt a prickling heat spread across his shoulders and over his chest. He knew instinctively without looking that his heat rash would soon be rising up his neck. ‘Ok.’ He offered quietly. He felt now that he should leave. Allow this girl some peace. Perhaps once he had gone she would calm down. Leaning forward he brushed at bottom of his trousers, knocking off the dust that had gathered as he walked earlier.
‘Do you know the time?’ the girl asked through a break in her tears.
Seeing a slight chance of redemption Tomas turned back attentively. ‘Yes, of course.’ he said pulling up the sleeve of his jacket. However in the rush of leaving his room that morning he must have forgotten to wined his watch. Shaking it instinctively he vainly attempted to make it work. ‘It should be over soon.’ she replied touching at her hair. ‘what should?’
‘The funeral.’

The wind got up. It was one of those sudden huge gusts that catches everyone by surprise. To Tomas it was as if the wind was the embodiment of the terror that had shot through him. It had whipped from behind, like a gang of cajoling school boys, bursting with over exuberance not yet knowing the levels of their own growing strength. In a vain attempt he tried to pin down the paper but it was no good the wind dragged it off across the path towards the river. His spring from the bench was hardly instant, in actual fact it was quite slow. As soon as the paper had hit the air he knew where it was headed. His move was powered however by the unease he felt. He did not turn back towards the girl. He really felt that he could not. Gingerly he made his way down the bank to the waters edge. Bending over he saw his reflection in the water. The surface was uneven and it contorted it a little. He saw his tired brow, muddied by the tone of the water. He brushed at his hair and picked at his teeth with his tongue. The remainder of the paper slowly sunk away. Quickly he reached out, but in vain. The cold water froze his fingertips on touch and he recoiled straightaway. This disturbed the top of the water and almost as suddenly as his hand began to warm the rest of his body chilled. The paper was only visible for a few seconds longer then it disappeared. His calves cramped as he stayed crouched, the very toes of his shoes getting wet. He blinked momentarily and then there again it was! His image, but not his image! Him but not him! In the dark water in front of him he once again saw the vicious images that had come to him in his room. This time he felt his body freeze. The first time this morning when he had witnessed it his natural reaction was to rage against it. To try and deny its existence. However this time his body would not move away. It was as if this second sighting confirmed what he wanted to deny before, that what he saw was him! Tears dropped from his nose and spotted into the water. His mind convulsed with every slash and puncture that radiated from what was displayed. Quickly scrambling back up the bank he plunged his hands deep inside his pockets. A fear of their capabilities ran through him. His feet raced along the pavement and he held his head low. He felt as if he would never be able to look anyone in the eye. He felt ashamed.

Some time later he found himself seated in a small café. He had wanted to sit outside, but felt exposed. Instead he took a tiny seat by the back wall. To one side the sunroom was not yet open, it sat cold, yet it still seemed welcoming. The glass wall was dirty, some mould had seeped into the joins.
Keep playing the game! The crack was sore and exposed. Play on!
He had ordered a coffee and sat nursing it, it was still some time before he could catch the tram. He tried to look through the papers but found little to occupy him. During the time he was there several men came and went, they were all drifting to work. They were the sort of men who had to work at weekends. He felt guilty sitting with them. He could feel them gazing unflatteringly towards him. Judging by their thick trousers and heavy boots they were builders and labourers. He thought of their family’s at home, spending hot Saturdays abandoned by their fathers. Why was everything like this, why were certain things set out to deprive some. Here he was alone, free, unburdened, surely he should be working weekends, saving these guys from the torment. At one point one of them actually came and cleared his empty cup, he most probably knew the owner well and often did this sort of thing, however Tomas felt even worse by it. ‘How’s your family?’ he spluttered to break the unease of master and servant he was feeling. The man looked at him oddly for a second, it was obvious he was searching his memory to see if the two knew one another. ‘Fine’ he said moving back towards the counter. ‘It’s ok, we don’t know each other’ Tomas tried to explain. ‘You want another coffee?’ he said leaning to place the cup in the sink. ‘Yes, why not, the weathers fine and I’m off to the lake’ the words trickled from his lips like gold from a kings pocket before he could realise what an insensitive thing it was to say. The workman turned his back to him and told the café owner of his order. He sat huddled in his own shell of stupidity. When the coffee came he drank it quickly and left, leaving an overly large tip.

After leaving the café he walked for a little bit. He couldn’t believe how early it still was. It felt as if he had done so much already. He walked through some of the small back streets. All the shops were opening, the pavements were becoming filled with goods and trinkets. He wanted to get a gift for Brendan Ashivsky, something to show his gratitude but nothing really seemed appropriate. He stood at a few stalls and looked politely, yet felt compelled to hurry along as soon as the owners showed him any attention. Moving from one market area he turned down a long street. Ahead a grouping of people stood half in a building and half in the street. As he got closer he noticed they were all dressed in black. Apart from the crowd a tall man stood smoking a pitiful cigarette. His suit looked worn and over used, which struck him as odd.
‘What‘s going on?’ he asked stopping by him. ‘A funeral obviously!’ the man said between drags. ‘Of course, sorry’ apologising had become his trait today.
‘Another poor young sod hounded to death!’ the man said after some time. ‘Sorry!’ the heat was growing and Tomas thought they must all be feeling tired in their suits. He stood awkwardly on the curb, almost as if he was looking after the man. ‘Sorry indeed!’ the man said from the last cloud of smoke. ‘How many more are to be dragged down by such bloody stupid pointless things!’
A few more people had left the building and were huddled together, they looked as if they didn’t know what to do next. Tomas noticed an order of service sticking out of the man’s pocket. ‘What’s happened to him?’ he said half nodding towards it. ‘The bloody money got him! Like its gonna get all of us!’
‘Money?’ Tomas said hesitantly.
‘Some swine of an insurance company got him paying to the hilt for some half baked policy!’ Tomas felt the heat rash grab hold of his stomach. He wanted to be sick. ‘Insurance?’ he mumbled.
‘I tell you I’d bloody love to get my hands on those bastard’s who killed that boy!’
‘How did he…?’ he stumbled.
‘He jumped in front of a train!’ Looking at the anger in the man’s face he had little explanation. He felt pathetic. Some more people came out and the man left to join them. Turning his back he wanted to get away from them. He didn’t wish to see the coffin. As he did he noticed the waif like figure of the girl. She was stood facing the building, baby in her arms.

He spat at his own timeline.


Four. Brendan Ashivsky’s shack sat on the south side of the lake. The mattresses that lay on the floor seldom offered a decent nights sleep, it was mainly dependent upon the sleeper having consumed enough alcohol previous to induce a near comatose state, to achieve such luxury. Tomas had not given much thought to sleeping. His mind very much felt in a whirl. He hadn’t even given much thought to drinking. His stomach still felt unwell. It oozed with bubbling sounds. The air around the lake was hostile. He had thought that it would prove cooling however it seemed that a storm was on its way and that much of the troubled air was being dragged up from the shores of the lake.
Brendan Ashivsky had as always been happy to see him. The two had gone straight out in his little boat to catch fish for dinner almost as soon as he had arrived. And when they had got back Jan too had come up from the city. The three of them sat on the edge of the decking that ran along the side of the shack and ate. Tomas picking at his and making excuses about the heat and lacking an appetite. The three proved a very solid little group as always. It was however as it grew late and the wind began to twirl small bunches of sand that Tomas felt alone from the others. They drank and laughed, enjoying the simple nature of the evening. Yet his mind was very much still caught upon all that had happened.
He hated it all! The ideas popped and burst inside him. What had he been doing all this time, what was he!

Crack, crack, crack!

The sand around the lake was of a poor quality. It was mixed with stones and debris and everywhere seemed to be covered with green algae. This made laying by the waters edge uncomfortable. Having woken much earlier than the others Tomas walked the edge of the lake. The storm had yet to materialise. You could feel it in the air though. He wished to be free like his two friends. Free to enjoy the weekend, free to accept things as they were. But the knot in his stomach would not allow it. The knot in his head he dare not attempt to challenge openly. Turning back towards the shack he saw slow waves of smoke climbing into the morning sky. Kicking at the sand and pebbles around him he cleared a little space and laid out his shirt. He settled down and laid staring up at the sky. The clouds were certainly gathering. He felt his eyes slip shut. He felt a wave of relaxation. It was true he needed some sleep. He knew this and as the air ran over his bare chest he slipped off, still thinking of his two friends in the shack and the breakfast that they would be cooking. He very quickly began to dream. However he felt trapped within this dream.
Imprisoned! The dream sucked the air from his body. Do you have to be like everybody else. There must be routes of change, identity.

Crack! He slipped under a heavy weight!

Crack! He was pinned to the city, the job, the nothingness!

Crack! Life was cracked!


‘Are you ok?’ floating in the sun before him a beautiful round faced girl stood. ‘Did I scare you?’ her shoulders shimmered in the blue of the sky. The storm must have moved over again, because the sun was shinning brightly. Feeling at his forehead he guest he must have been asleep for some time. The skin felt tight, like it was burnt.
‘I was just sleeping, that’s all’ he said sitting up. He felt the thick sweat deep within his pores.
‘I saw you from over there, I didn’t want to disturb you, its just I didn’t know if you were ok or not!’ she buried her toes coyly into the sand. ‘Silly really!’
‘No not all, thank you’ he said rubbing at his hair ‘that’s very kind of you’
‘Your staying at that shack aren’t you?’ she said as he got to his feet.
‘Yes a friend of mine invited me down’
‘It looks pretty shabby!’
‘Its basic I suppose, but it does us.’
There was a quiet pause, both smitten by the air attraction.
‘Your from the city then?’ her blossoming lips said.
‘Yes, just down for a couple of days.’
‘Horrible place!’
‘Hey?’
‘The city I hate it!’

Crack, crack, crack!

The two walked around the lake until they reached the shack. Tomas offered her a drink but she declined. He got the feeling she didn’t trust anything that came out of the place. They stood out the front and stared back at the lake. Brendan came rushing out with a frying pan, it was spitting flames. He dumped in into the dirt and stamped waves of muck onto it until it died down. The three of them laughed, the girl more nervously then them. Brendan announced that they were having a party that evening and invited her along. She said she would think about it, once more peering worryingly at the shack. She left soon after that and Tomas sat out on the decking.
Maybe all life is viewed from within a crack?
This place was less suffocating then the city. The movement of the water and the air so much more natural. A little later on he greedily drank two beers and stretched his neck, craning it out into the open. It was as if he wanted to join the great openness, become free amongst it. The other two clattered about inside. He could hear them cooing at one another, building their hopes for the party later on. The talk was of the girls, it flirted between the vague and the obscene. Through it all he sat and gazed out into the distance. He watched a boat meandering out. How nice it would be to have a boat of his own, he thought. How freeing. The more he sat and the more he saw, the greater his desire to break free from the constraints of his life grew. Growing up always consisted of becoming some form of tool. It had lost its idea of proper growth. Why was it so important to work in a place like he did. He didn’t really enjoy any of the trappings it brought. It was like a fisherman going out day after day even though he hated fish, he doubted that would happen. He tossed the cap from the bottle in the air. It span glinting in the sun.
‘Its just a job!’ Some time after the others joined him. Their attempts to pretty the shack had dragged too much boredom into the growing excitement. The three of them sat drinking in the uncomplicated sun.
‘Can you say that, just a job. I’m still a person, I think, act, move, I can’t hide behind facile statements!’ Tomas had let his thinking become freed by the alcohol.
‘It’s simple, we need money, you have to have it to exist!’ Jan, spitting with the same drunken sunrise sat opposite, his face made blank by alcohol, drifting slowly in his direction.
‘Rubbish!’ Tomas exploded. ‘We don’t need anything, its just layers of rubbish!’
‘Is that true!’ Leaning hard Jan made the trellis that ran around the decking sway back and forth.
‘Yes!’ Tomas said with force.
‘Nonsense!’ Jan spat back, rocking the trellis even more. The argument spat along for some time until the first crate of beer was finished.
Your desperate to be! But afraid to stand for it!
You can’t handle it little boy!
‘What do you know of capabilities?’
Lost between the two sides of the crack.
‘What are we capable of?’ his mind was spinning, the images flowed, they dragged him under, swamping his grip. ‘We’re just a mix of chemicals, all bundled up together after all!’
‘Its hardly all bundled together!’ Brendan sat further along the decking, his body almost completely turned away. ‘You might be doing the human race a disservice!’ His feet rested against the solid hand rail only every now and again entering into the discussion.
‘Well am I?’ Tomas galloped further, swigging his beer. ‘Things are out of our span! Some things must be uncontrollable, don’t you think?’
‘How so?’ Brendan lazily asked, his voice tinged with mischief.
‘I don’t know! But they must be, cos I’ve seen things that don’t relate to my nature! Things must grow, they must move without our knowing, without our willing! Do you not see!’
‘For sure I see!’ Brendan’s laughter bounded on down towards the water.
‘Who knows what we even are!’

Failed! Crack!

Resigned? Crack!

Lost! Crack!


Five.From within the crack the night dragged long into the distance.
Several more crates of beer were found and before long the girls arrived. The previous talk had hurried the night along at a slow pace and the new arrivals were a kind tonic. They all sat around a fire that Brendan had started on a patch of grass between the shack and the sand. Tomas sat opposite the girl he had met earlier. Her name was Stef, she wore a shawl that slipped off one shoulder. He wanted to get closer to her, she held his attention fully, her image dancing in the flames. She talked at length with Jan and the beer made him envious. There were three other girls, Julie, Maz and Tina. It was cosy by the fire, they all laughed and drank. Someone suggested a game of French cricket and they all struggled to their feet. During the game Tomas tried to hit Jan in the head. He wanted to make a fool of him. At this time he really disliked him. The game did give him a chance to get closer to Stef. They laughed in the bushes as they searched for the ball and he felt better. When the game was over he made sure that he was sitting close to her. As they talked he discovered that she drew pictures. He could tell this by the delicate way her hands gripped the glass. He shuffled closer and felt the cold in the air. Her legs stretched out embracing the heat from the fire. She wore slight black leggings that travelled teasingly towards her buttocks. He liked her a lot.
‘They make me draw such awful things!’ she said, her voice broken by a hiccup. ‘it’s really not fair! Posters for paint pots! Bags of raisins!’

She said that she had been through art school but now all the work she could get was drawing adverts for mundane everyday objects. She worked for indecent pay at Reflection the biggest and most powerful advertising agency there was. He could see the pain in her face.
‘I want to do something memorable! Something that will last forever!!
Ahhhh!!! What’s the bloody point!’ she screamed out.
Tomas shook his head and offered no answer. He was in awe of her, it was so rare that he actually met someone who fitted into the perfect little idle he had deep inside him. He couldn’t help developing drawn out fantasy’s about the two of them. He thought about being married, taking long contemplative walks, children!
The world is a long line! Its attached at both ends, we’re sliding one way then the other!
Dodging the cracks! Always so!
After some time the two were huddled together. Her hair half blinding him and with her sweet aroma drifting about he felt drawn to say something. ‘I think its perfect,’ he began ‘a free thinking man and a girl who paints, an artist’
At a point in the line an old man laid flowers on the grave of his lover!

‘Your free thinking are you?’ she said tilting her eyes towards him.
‘Yes. I hope , I try!’
‘Your friend said your in insurance! Hardly free thinking is it!’
He swallowed his drink hard, bastard! He thought.

Cracks everywhere!

Sitting in an old flatbed van that stood out the front, Brendan was in his element. To be truthful Tomas suspected he was so very desperate to get everybody up to his shack because he spent so much time here alone. He zipped about the place, making drinks, pulling faces, cajoling everybody into having a good time. The air was soon filled with fast loud music. Brendan hung out the drivers window hollering and chanting along. He was like a dynamo, desperate, afraid almost for anything to die. He honked the horn and rallied everybody together. They all stood and sang some songs, clinking bottles and hugging.
Along the line the old and the young are all lost!
Tomas was now separate from Stef. He had been blown down by what he saw as her belittling of him. He chatted plainly to Maz and Tina, they were pleasant enough but didn’t really hold his attention. They talked of other parties and holidays they had coming up. After a while he climbed into the van next to Brendan and the two sat watching everyone else through the front screen.
‘Still thinking?’ Brendan asked, his feet resting on the dashboard.
‘Always thinking mate!’
‘It’s good’
‘Is it?’
‘Someone’s gotta do it!’
Ahead the girls and Jan swayed slowly in the dark night.
‘I wish it wasn’t me?’ Tomas said.
‘No you don’t fella and you know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Cos it’s who you are! Without it you wouldn’t exist!’
At any point in the line he did!
Tomas half laughed and picked at the label on his bottle.
‘I envy you, you know’
‘Get off!’
‘I do, you don’t believe me but I do! Look at me, this is all I’ve got, its nothing really, it is what it is but its nothing!’
‘This place is great! What you talking about?’
‘Come on we all know its good old Brendan Ashivsky’s shack, lets all get down there and get loaded!’
Tomas felt uncomfortable. He didn’t trust his drunken mouth to speak coherently enough. ‘No its great!’ was all he offered.
‘You should be proud of what you are!’ reaching below the seat he pulled out another beer and popped the top. ‘You should let your thoughts lead you more often, they’ll see you right in the end!’
‘They’ll see me sacked more probably!’
‘It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, everybody could do with getting the sack, the place would be much better off!’
Everything seemed less chaotic inside the van, his head was spinning and he thought that maybe he had had enough to drink. ‘Been good hasn’t it’ he said covering the fact that he was feeling sick.
‘It Passes the time doesn’t it!’ Brendan took a final swig from his bottle and threw it out the window, it bounced a couple of times and disappeared into the darkness. They both listened far too long for a smashing sound that never came. He detected a sense of sadness. Glancing over he saw the deep lines stretching across Brendan’s face. In the half light he looked old, worn.
Off in the distance Stef and Tina were balancing on one leg pulling strange angular shapes.
‘You gonna nail that one, or what?’ Brendan asked, in that strange tone sometimes used between half friends.
‘Who knows’ he answered, not really wanting to enter into the conversation.
‘She seems a good type!’ Reaching forward he honked the horn several times and flashing the head lights he called out to her, ‘Hey you gonna give out to Tomboy tonight?’ seeing Tomas’ discomfort he grabbed him round the neck and patted his head.
‘Get in there son!’ he shouted.

Soon after Tomas got out the van and went to the toilet.
When he returned Brendan had driven the van straight into the side of the shack.

At a curve he knew the strength it took to survive!

The night descended into lunacy.
Life is lunacy!
Brendan driving the van into the side of the shack was the tipping point.
Knowing your on a thread stretching out eternally is also one!
Nobody was really sure if he had done it on purpose or not. However it seemed to bring about a strange craze in all of them. The far side of the shack was hanging perilously, it looked like it would give in at any second. The roof sloped mournfully sending heaps of moss tumbling to the ground. Brendan sat in the truck shaking his head. He then pulled a metal pole from the back and began to attack the frail shelter. At first they all stood back and watched. Jan was the first one to join in. He picked up a splintered plank of wood and smashed it through the front window. This whipped them all up, suddenly it was demanded that they destroy the shack.
They all started.
The girls threw old flower pots and dragging the mattresses out set them alight. The craze moved amongst them. The truth was freedom. They jumped upon this madness like it was free thought, rejecting all that they usually lived by. Each one of them biting back at something they held responsible for their failure. In a fit of unbridled non-thinking Tomas grabbed some flaming rags and ran over to the bushes. Waving them he caught the branches, soon the light moved far off, dancing he thought, as he stood and watched it. The animal was about them all.

Does an animal have a line? If it can think of one, yes!
It would seem the entire gathering was built for this. They group danced revenge against the world.


SixSay you want something different!
Get on your feet and march!
Crack. Crack. Crackkkkkkkkkkkkk.

The air gulped in the flames. Everything burnt hard against his face. All around him Tomas felt the energy of destruction. The shack was raised to the ground. Its pathetic bones laid trampled by fright. In the golden flames his reflection danced the dreaded dance. Pathetic!
Brendan and the truck were long gone, the sound of screeching tyres still howling long into the coming daylight. There was a huge embarrassment amongst those left. Jan stood about kicking at lifeless bits. His head scanning all around, searching for something else to breakdown. He looked fractured in the early light.
Tomas jumped between the two images. He felt his shoulders hunching, there was great frustration within him.

Crack! Act!

Crack! React!

Crack! Do something!

With all his strength he dragged him into the water. Strength can be found from anywhere. Its all about the will. Plunging him under, he held him tight. The struggle was easy, it had to be done. Time passed and it was over. He stood in the shallows, watching the dark body bobbing about. He thought about pulling him out, no point really. He had to get the others.
The girls were much easier .
Nothing matters on the line! You can always chance it all again.
The sound of the screeching tyres still ran through his veins. One side of his body was cold, the other hot. Without Brendan about he was in charge. Looking back at the smouldering shack he was glad it was gone. Maybe everything should be destroyed the minute it finds its use. Nothing should outlive that initial exuberance of use. The cracks made his vision splintered, through fractured layers he saw all the others dancing amongst flaming bushes. The gold and orange, warm and healthy. He could feel himself dancing too. His was a dance of singularity.
The taste of salt and smoke lay heavy on Step’s lips. Was this a way to choose a partner! Was this living in the wisp of life! The revolution grew, he was back inside his room. The old mirror sat holding him tight to the bed. Which is the point in life when you give in! What is the time when you accept the outside view as yours. What must others think of him, who must they think he is!
Arrogance swims a natural channel.
Why should he be ready to be that ghost! He once again destroyed the shack, this time alone, in the middle of the day.

In the sand there was a thick dark line. Tomas woke up one side of it. Next to him Stef’s body lay tight to his. The morning had just skimmed across the still water. The light lay resting, pawing out a golden blanket, ever growing towards the land. The threads on her top were still wet. They drooped heavily, matted with sand. Close to her he felt uncomfortable. It was a discomfort built from his own failings. He wrestled a little further away, why was he such a mess.
Why did actions always ride along a troubled thought out line for him. He was stuck!
The worse knowledge is that he was all too aware of it.
Through the cracks he could see the others still floating in the water. He could see them dancing in the flames. They were chatting in the dark. Dancing to the music. Life is all of these things, he thought.
Life is living, life is not living. Its nothing to be tailored to it. There is no perfect form!
Yet why did he struggle so. Why could he not be happy selling insurance policies. Why could he not be happy coming to the lake and living for the moment?
Crack! His own form lay sullen in the sand below him. The lake sat in a growing light. His head a mess of light gay fusion spun and gobbled up the entirety of the view. His own body looked pathetic down there. So inconsequential, did anything really matter!


Crack! I exist

Crack! I don’t exist!

Crack! We’re all just chemicals in the wheel.


Seven.Days and weeks slipped by. The events of the lake dripped into various coloured stories as his breeze addled tan faded.
He had seen a few of them since he got back. Obviously he and Jan still worked in the same office, however they had begun work on separate schemes now and they saw much less of one another. Their contact moved from regular catch up chats in the corridor to brief hello’s and then simple nods of the head.
Brendan was obviously still down at the shack living the life only he could. The invitation had been offered again to go down and stay but Tomas made his excuses.
Oddly he saw the most of Tina, he had not really given her any time at the shack but he had bumped into her a few times and he had grown to appreciate her simple form. She was uncomplicated and honest and he admired this so much. They had been out to dinner, ate normal things like seafood and stew and drank red wine. They laughed together and although the initial attraction was muted he had grown to realise that attraction was not all about image.
She had mentioned a few times that Stef was doing well for herself. They were still friends but had only managed to meet up the odd time since they had got back.
He had actually seen Stef once himself. She was hurriedly ordering a take away coffee, he stood and stared at her as she stood impatiently waiting for her order. She constantly scanned her phone, and plucked at her make-up. She looked so different from the image he still carried of her.
Still everything would be different away from the lake he reasoned, just take his relationship with Tina. Looking down at his old shoes and suit he presumed she wouldn’t think much of him either.
He didn’t go over and say hello, just watched for a few minutes, took in the sight of her rapid movements and then slipped on by. Just as he moved by he turned back to catch sight of her slipping onto a waiting car, with blacked out windows and he thought that Tina must have been right she was doing well for herself now.

Crack! Nothing

Crack! Its just me living!!!

Crack! We’re all just swimming the same stream.

The cracks of living had gone it seemed!
That’s mainly because he had been consumed by the largest one of them all LIFE!
He knew his own faults, the faults of life never surprised him any more, yet he was powerless to do anything about it.
Some days later he was standing at the station on his way to secure some more policies. He was due to spend the weekend with Tina at her place, a small apartment near the high street, so he wanted to get his work done quickly and get back to her. He breathed into the congestion. The warmth was inconsistent and as was his norm he huddled himself up inside his coat, hands buried deep, face tucked inside the collar.
The drab life of the station was only broken by the odd sign or advert. Staring down at his feet he kicked at the odd piece of dust, or swirling air. Yet something stung at his temple. Granted he always felt odd, out of place in open public places. It always made him feel so small and stupid. But this was strong. He felt as though he was being watched. Gradually he scanned around, peering up intermittently.

The poster sat rigid to the brick wall of the station. It was huge, stretching across several normal sized poster boards.
He immediately knew this was the source of his discomfort.
It hung on the opposite platform from him, he knew he would have to get closer to see it fully.
The colours glued themselves to his vision as he moved through the underpass towards the other side.
His pulse ached. Suddenly the coat became a nuisance.
Out onto the other platform he emerged, sweating so much his skin pricked painfully. He pushed through the bodies until he was stood directly in front of it.
And then a weird calm came over him. He felt suddenly stupid, much like a child who had out grown a fear without realising it until they had once more been faced with it, and he laughed.
You see here it was all laid out in front of him.
There it all was, the entire scene. The lake, the burning shack in the background. The bodies, even the bodies!
The lifeless black logs hanging in the glistening water.
And him. Moving closer he ran his fingertips across the perfect sheen finish. Staring back at him was his own image, a manically smiling fool ridden version of himself, but definitely him.
There he was in the sand, feet buried deep, eyes gleaming, tan burning!
He took a few steps back to take it all in.
This couldn’t be surely! But then again why not! He laughed some more.
This was just as if someone had photographed the entire scene. All around the people continued in the whirl of the day. Busy, far too busy, to even connect with the laughing fool.
And at the very top in huge scribed lettering the slogan

The lake, the perfect place to shake off the frustration of you’re 9-5!
And there at the bottom in the far corner was the single word Reflection.

Info - The youth triumphant

This is a long form poem, an experimental piece based upon the singular language grown between two young friends.

It's a insular journey of youth and wonderment.

The youth triumphant

Part 1.

A

The undefined two of the singular peoples gang walked with the power of two hundred, in the swing of capital youth. These the eminent revivalists of the glories role, breathing as the only healthy lung left to live, destroying the path, fanning it all to failed growth.

'We the few, the omnipotent two, open up on the blankest of white pages, we the two, the glories few, go for our style like magnet over plastic, just like the brave always should'.

'Let's create a battalion of hunger, let's stone ourselves in the city plaza, let's be the awkward number!'

'Standing bowed over the shore we've castled more than the ages, we need dreams to scream into the day!'

'Ha bullet the blackboard, deceive the rhythm of consumed understanding and paint it all as out will!'

Charge light, hoist the maligned, were gone for it all, Allez Tres enfants and all that garb!

B

Corners bowed their un-linear selves to the rhythm of toe and heel, it was juvenility, the bastion of this, the svelte nation, the glory to herald it all, along the driven channel.

So they went for their time like the young should, as if none had lived, just none structured abandonment.

'Here we leave the rancid corpse behind, boil the keyhole kettle, round up the saccharine, the boys of lost ascension have grown a cord, the boys of immutable cadence the boys the rumble it all!'

This was the theme, the flag, the charge. Two, embalmed in glorious insignia parading this idyll as norm. Skin and tooth, hereditary unchanged cast it out sway, see youth, the swine of it all, carried their hopes.

Fresh from iconoclastic visions, fresh from the sapling eye, dreaming of being touched and remaining untouched, of causing effect and damning the solid norm.

'Go, Go, Go for the bulldozer.' They scratched into the wind. 'Plainly grasp your evaporating time and smash down the gates of enlightened perdition, become the encapsulation of all that's lost.'

Gadzooks! Ha. Ha. Ha. Gadzooks and all that rubbish!

C

Gregor and Ulrich, the new Gods of illumination, the entity of forward progression, being of the same age and inclination, that of the need to escape and reclaim to rebel and resolve to renage and run forth. Gregor and Ulrich the obvious flag bearers, never the first, but the next to run from the mould the bright young spirits eager to trumpet the sea change.

'Come let us blow the gates from the cradle, sod the tide, sod the happy fight, loneliness screams daily, time is forfeited, its gone to the tame, realise the power of abstraction be all you can be and wear it in the midday sun!'

The pair having grown apart from the regular Straying from the hundred man craze, developing language of cult their own.

'Romance is the gloried perfection, Love, Love, Love, Love, who dare tell me what it is now? Damn any to stand and perched, I'm the bow, the bloody arrow et al!'

Pulling each other up at the boundaries of their new cultural ways, they relied only on the knowledge everything else merely existed for the sport of their game. Everything lived at their wave, ceased at their blink, exhumed at their tongue. These the so very brave few, the drummer boys alone.

'Gone is the support, the following masses, its just the drum on its own, so very much brave to take it all on its own! Hail singular.'

'Hail strength in movement! Hail vastness of two alone! Let's break the back of the habitual, blow them all harder along the conveyor.'

'Hey forget the time to wake, the structure is bastardised, its no structure, break the wrist of the punishing hand, I'm gone, you too?'

D

Companionship the greatest asset alone, it filler every thought, conscious and not, how grand a time to find a tangible reality.

First light had been the dissolution of the staple form, the usual plastic bottle living had turned the stomach, in the eyes of the other they had seen far greater substances than any man had made.

'Be again. Be real!'

It was ignorance of their very own type, it drew the blood as it boiled from its infant state, an ideology beyond the accepted had grown, so strong that by now it was lost to evaporation.

Set rail, adrift from any other, they were gone for it all, they had cast and turning was not for them. Brutal in its meaning, life had switched roles, abandonment was not foreign it was born for them.

So with seasons becoming one and the same, they had embarked on calling it all their own name, it was to be damp, cold, wild no more, winter for sure, but spring eternal for them, winter was forever gone, it was discern spring, and they were its sole inhabitants, one and two alone.

And oh how the taste of the air was so fresh, gone had the stale tone if repeat living, had the crashing of intricate glass upon glass, of energy laden surrender, lonely no more, two had chanced the turnand they bound, wounds open, headlong into the cavity of the woundrous few.

Lookey grandsons lookey, benitch rand hungel!

For Hallum and Ethan

There's a truth boys,
it jaunts about between the gaps in thought,
it settles in the breath of change,
go out and find it.

They'll paint you into backgrounds,
but always,
be all truth, all glory,
believe its there.

There's a truth, you'll see,
we're afraid to go for it,
but my boys fly,
just be giddy in the wheel.

I'm jumping so very, very loud,
my time to some is always wasted,
but truth is there,
I'm searching,
it's mine, it's yours,
its truth and its there.

She'll move as if drawn from your own vein,
her unbound gallery demanding vision,
so be sure to know your sight,
it takes time, but that's just fine.

There is truth my boys, really there is,
we're all screwed a million times,
just learn,behave,
and damn dance the rhythm.

My truth is awkward, its bitten, misrepresented,
it's been benign for far too long,
it binds my hands, denies me movement,
but its still truth, my truth,
and its glorious.

Soon it'll speak for real,
and you'll know that you too can live for truth,
because truth is all we have,
it makes us men, shines our eyes for decades to follow.

There's a truth boys,
please believe there is,
it will stand and smile and be,
and with it love will form,
such glorious form,
love to untie your hands,
to lay the path,
be open and accept it.

There's a truth my boys,
there's a choice, it glides along,
happy to be forgone,
its the path to gloried entanglement,
go my boys and seek your truth.

The undedigned times. Part 2.

Five.

~Westbury was an old house hiding out in the countryside. Its white outer walls the prime opposite to the varied colours of grass and trees that surrounded it. Antonin had been here for some time now. The house was large, too large, for any real use. Room after room stood empty, only one part was given over to clinical use. At his feet the glass laid scattered. The kitchen area was designed to promote independence, yet he could hear them come running almost as soon as the bottle had slipped from the shelf. Everything seemed to promote something, it was all forced, he felt. What’s the point in taking you away from one thing, dumping you in another only to spend all your time trying to return you to the previous. Two of the nurses came creeping in, their eyes always locked behind bars, always expecting the worst. It was like their brains constantly feed on negativity. ‘What have you never dropped a bottle?’ he said as they stood hesitantly by the door. ‘It’s ok son, there’s no need to be afraid, it was an accident wasn’t it’ Moving towards him her eyes once more sat far back, her question almost an opening prod, like she was defusing a bomb, scared that at any minute he might explode.

~Walking in the gardens of Westbury he felt good. The fresh air was something he always enjoyed, it refreshed him, snapped him back into thinking, which was good. The main doctor, Simmons, was a tall sharp man. His face sat like a plate on top of straw, his nose the dial on a weather vain. He took Antonin for many sessions. The two sat in the consulting room and chatted almost daily, his voice showed little, true, concern. It bubbled beneath shrilled tones always on the verge of self congratulation. He didn’t care much for these sessions, his main preoccupation since his arrival was what he could do now he was here. He was free from a lot of the things that pressed on him previously. He no longer had to find justifications for himself. He had always felt as if everything in the world quarrelled with him, pecked away, always trying to set him up. Here a lot of things were done for him, he enjoyed the simplicity of only having to put his washing down a shoot and then next day it was washed and pressed back in his draws. Meals were at the same time everyday. He had his sessions with Simmons, everything was just so, nicely placed for his understanding. Yet he still had the hunger, that very deep need to show his own existence. A bright poster sat pinned to one of the walls, it was for art classes, he could feel their eyes burning into his shoulder, you were always jumped upon. You couldn’t just look at something without one of them making a note, forcing you harder than you wish.

~A small sack of his post had sat at the foot of his bed for some time. Not long after looking at the art poster he decided to look through it. His room had been rented out. There was a letter from Ruben Vojak, or at least it seemed to be, it was on his headed notepaper, but after greater examination he found it to be from Hermann Vojak, his nephew. He thought this all very strange, why would they be writing to him, as he read on he was even more confused. They had held his room for a few weeks after he had been taken away but with the economy as it was they had no choice but to give it out to someone else. “You won’t be needing it any longer” This line stood out. It bellowed all around his room. It hadn’t really hit him that he wouldn’t be returning to all that he knew before. He placed the letter down carefully and rested back on the bed. It wasn’t all that great anyway, he thought. He had probably meant to leave anyway, he bit the inside of his check by mistake and felt hot. That place wasn’t him, he wasn’t settled there for life, what did they think of him. Did they think he was stuck, resigned to that nothingness! He thought about sleeping but felt too annoyed. Taking the letter once more he read it from the start again. Why would the Vojak’s be concerned in all this, he couldn’t work it out. The entire thing was dripping in regret! Further down it explained that the room was now being taken by Daulston’s Sister. She was a young mother, abandoned by the father. He was hit by a strange feeling, he was sure it was because it was the first time he had thought about Daulston since he did himself in. He did feel happy that the room was going to someone who probably needed it, yet he tried to think all afternoon if he had ever heard mention of a sister before.
'Am I free to leave here?’ once more sitting opposite Simmons, Antonin asked his first question.
‘What do you think?’ the plate and spike replied.
‘I can do anything!’ he began, picking at the tread in his sleeve. ‘I’m free to think and act, I can do anything!’
'Is that so?’
‘Yes!’
‘Is that why you cut your arm off?’ Shaking his head Antonin dismissed the question and instead rattled off a few in his own his head. How long will I live? What will be my greatest day? Has it already been? Does everybody think the same? How do you know anything to be true unless you test it yourself?
‘What would you say if I said your arm was in that box?’ He could hear the doctors voice but tried to ignore it. The consulting room was becoming heavy from the long rain that had begun to fall outside. Will I ever feel contented? Will I find a struggle worthy of taking pain for? His questions flittered on, but still the doctor continued. ‘Go on have a look!’ Most of the sessions ran through the same routine, both battling to feel comfortable. ‘It’s really in there, I tell you!’ The rigid cardboard box sat across from them in a part of the room that he never really took any notice of. It was by the window, the shadow of the rain drops showing on the lid, then disappearing. He watched them almost in a trance. He knew it wasn’t in there. There was no way it could be.
‘Would you take it back, would you have your arm back if you could?’ the doctor prodded.
‘Of course’
'Really?’ Simmons actually seemed interested, he leaned forward in his seat.
‘Its always better to be ‘better’!’ Antonin mumbled.
'Do you wish to be better then?’
‘Its not like that, don’t make this into some illness!’ he could see his twinkling eyes, desperate to file a form, diagnose, breath life into this deflated mess. ‘Having two arms is defiantly better than having one!’
'So why remove one in the first place?’ the pencil flickering in his fingers, he leant even closer, feeding on the immanent breakthrough.
‘Why do anything! Why breath, why not simply see the world in a instant and then turn blue and be gone! Why stop there, give me a thousand arms, a million heads, twenty tongues!’
‘Lets keep it serious now please’
‘Serious! What the bloody hell is serious about any of this! Its all absurd, who knows maybe I’m the one in the right and your wrong!’

Six.

~Johnson was another patient. He stood now with his back hard against the Perspex. Everything seemed very sterile, that was the problem with this place, it wasn’t based on anything tangible. In his hand the razor blade hung dull and low. It was clear he meant to use it, but to what extent it wasn’t clear. Antonin was the only other person present. He stood without thought and watched. Johnson was from the north, his thick accent coughing up from his thickened chest. ‘How did it feel?’ he rambled, his head tingling, eyes darting. ‘How long did it take ya?’ He had been conscious of this adoration for a while now, it seemed his actions were some kind of gloried flag for his fellow patient. His mind was blank. Not completely blank, but like it had been for some time now, blank to events immediately around him. He understood what was happening, but it didn’t really effect him. Everybody was free to act as they wished, why should he intervene.
‘What did you do with it after?’ Johnson, still with the blade poised, bickered on. ‘Where is it now?’

~At night he would often sit alone and roll up his trouser leg. The knife skimmed up and down his shin, dragging dead skin bundled up against his thumb. Actions are so easy, he thought. He could do it, he had done so before, its all about choice. The empty box still sat in the corner of the room, he didn’t want to get rid of it, that would consist of brining it once more to their attention, he really didn’t want to give them the chance to drag him once more into another conversation about it. He hadn’t seen Simmons for a while now and he knew why. During their last conversations he had noticed some blankets bundled on top of the cupboard. It seems the awkward doctor had also become a lodger at the great white house. He had been kicked out of the family home after his wife found out about his affair. There goes life, he thought.

~The art lessons took place in the main room. It had large glass windows that showed out into the grounds. He had little choice but to take part. It was one of his great pleasures to sit and stare out in the countryside. This was living, he felt. He argued with himself, he would sit in an old wicker chair sipping a watered down scotch and debate his success. Maybe his greatest weakness was always questioning, maybe he trapped himself. It was becoming harder to remember his life before, he could hardly think of his room, it seemed to float about unnaturally, always becoming defiled by his room here. He was made art monitor. This was such an insult. He was to manage all the materials, hand them out, collect them in. At fist he felt like they had done it to try and build him up, but he began to realise that they had done it because they believed a man with only one arm was not fit enough to paint, or stick bits of card together. He wished to be back in his chair, the day outside was cool and leant itself perfectly to contemplation. This place was beginning to cave in on him. It was becoming just like before, it was pointless. At the far side of the room he saw Johnson. He was tracing the wood-chipping form the wallpaper with a green crayon. He looked up and smiled. His left eyebrow gouged out. He wanted to find an outlet, yet again it was all turning to muck, how could he drag himself into a gloried role. He clearly saw his old room, just for a second. It was that day, he felt just the same now. In truth that one act was his one true act of instinct. That was going to be his tipping point, his watershed, had it worked, he didn’t know. Maybe they were all correct, maybe he was failing, wasting his go at living.

~They were often taken by coach to Frensham ponds. It sat mysteriously in a deep wooded area forty minutes from Westbury. The sand was dark and unfiltered. The entire place always seemed as if it was fake. Everything was just that little bit out of place. The water was thick with reeds, but only in certain areas. Some were clear and decent for swimming. He enjoyed wading out, the water was cold but welcoming. He could only stand the sludge under feet for so long until it forced him to dive under. Being in the water truly returned him to a basic state. It was like being sheltered. The others splashed about, sending great amounts of white foam scattering everywhere. He always swam as far as he could, he was stronger on one side obviously, and liked to lay on his back and kick his legs. There was another beach, it was sheltered by some heavy bushes and he always tried to swim around to it. On one occasion he swam particularly strongly and made it away from the others quite easily. He crawled onto the beach and settled down. The water dried in the sun, leaving his skin feeling tight. An old lady arrived whilst he was there. She set out an old sun chair and kicking off her shoes settled down. He offered a polite smile in her direction and once more turned his head to the sky. After some time they got chatting. As he moved closer she made a piercing shape with her lips, as if she was imagining the pain of losing and arm. He hesitated, he was used to being rejected, however her face glowed with compassion. Her name was Marian. Her hair was white and swirling, like delicate bundles of clouds. She had a beautiful round face, subtle pink cheeks and glowing eyes. She offered him sweet tea. It was black tea laced with whiskey. They both drank and smiled at the way it made them feel. As he spoke he noticed her habit of raising her shoulders, pinching her head almost, as if to say I don’t really understand all that you are saying. But he didn’t feel annoyed by it, if anything he was sure that she was the most decent, reasonable person he had met. They talked for a long time until the sky drew colder and she had to go on her way. He sat alone on the beach for while and thought that maybe companionship was what he was searching for. But what did he have to offer, what good had he ever created. The swim back to the others was slow and painful. He got cramp several times and the water kept on splashing in his eyes.

~On the way back from the ponds another time the bus broke down. They were all forced to get out and stand by the side of the road.
‘I hate people like you!’ the little boy shouted. A family had stopped, the dad was keen to help out, his head was soon lost under the bonnet, his family stood around uncertain of their roles. The young boy of six or not much older held a very definite curiosity, he circled them, whooping, firing an imaginary machinegun.
‘Your all weirdo’s!’ he cooed. ‘We don’t like your sorts!’
His mother shoed him away and he was belted into the car, but the words still ran about, they were not so easy to rein in. These were the single most painful things Antonin had ever heard. He felt so distant. How can he be so foreign to a mere child. Was he really that far removed from reality!

Seven.

~’So have you gotten any answers?’
Joseph came to visit, it was completely out of the blue. He sat out in the garden, the dark wooden bench pressed hard lines deep into the grass.
‘I wasn’t looking for any!’ Antonin said as they both ate worn sandwiches. There was definitely something strained between the two of them, it wasn’t like it had been before. The old man stared off into the distance. His lips were frail as they spoke, tripping up several times. As they sat very still he was suddenly reminded of being taken back to his apartment. It was not long after everything that had happened in the park. Accompanied by a policeman he had been escorted to show them where he had placed his arm. It all felt like he was under suspicion of murder, like he was showing them where he had buried a body. He sat on his bed as the old chest was opened, the smell seemed to appal everyone present. Joseph was there, he hung morosely by the door, his body ready to quit the moment things got too gruesome. He had noticed that day a change between them. They were no longer equals, he had fallen down the pecking order, now he was tainted, placed amongst that difficult minority whom nobody really has the stomach to deal with.
'At least its gone to someone who really needs it now’ The sun was floating above the high line of the far off trees. It flickered in-between awkward branches, they both sat staring out towards the wondrous landscape.
‘Hey?’
The conversation was airy at most. They both fiddled with it, neither really wanting to delve to deep.
‘Daulston’s Sister, she moved in to my room, I’m glad for that.’
‘Oh yeah course’ there was a strange pause, he could feel the old man squirming ‘you haven’t heard then?’
‘No?’
‘The baby died, cot death’ The silence grew, nothing could be said.
The sandwiches were finished and soon they both noticed. For the first time since he arrived Joseph looked across. They sat looking at one another, he was crying out inside for it to be like it was before, but he could see in his tired eyes that it was lost forever.
‘It seems that damn room of yours is cursed or something!’

~Rising from the table Antonin took a few steps out into the heart of the lawn. Such a stupid thing to say! He was filled with so much disbelief. He thought so much better of Joseph.
‘You’re a damn waste!’ he heard Joseph’s voice cannoning towards him, he turned to see him banging his fist against his knee. ‘I don’t understand what it is you were trying to prove by doing all this, I really haven’t got a clue why someone would mutilate themselves!’
‘Mutilate!’ the word stuck in Antonin’s teeth. He had never thought of it like that before. ‘you really don’t understand!’ he said.
'No I bloody don’t!’ Joseph called back whilst biting at his finger.
‘Well nor do I to be honest!’ He felt the sweat growing on his forehead. He felt like just being destroyed, totally annihilated. ‘That’s what its all about isn’t it, nobody really understands!’ he shouted.
‘Exactly! But there’s other ways, different ways! You didn’t have to do this!’
‘Didn’t I?’
'Damn no!’ Joseph got to his feet.
‘Well its all relative I suppose. It’s all part of the same curve.’
'Bloody hell, stop it!’ reaching out he grabbed Antonin by the neck ‘Stop all this nonsense, your not stupid, you know what’s right!’
‘It is! That’s all I can say, were all spinning in the wheel, it leaves us dizzy, what else can I say!’
'You bloody idiot! Your just a kid, you don’t know anything! Your just a bloody selfish kid!’

He felt the thick hand strike him across the cheek. It left him dazed for much of the day, long after Joseph had left.

‘In that case Joseph might just be on the greatest upward curve any of us will ever know!’ The vicar walked away, his words settling between the scattered graves. Antonin laughed to himself and that smile sat on his lips for a long time after that.

~He met the girl who was arranging the flowers. She was in a strong family line who all arranged flowers. Her small pale face sat perfectly in his world. They chatted and he asked her to share lunch some time. They soon became very much attached to one anther and when he said he would take care of her always he meant it more than anything he had every said. He wanted someone to take care of, to feel special, to know love and with this sweet, perfect girl he knew it was obtainable. Life was slowly becoming manageable, each day he would push himself to face up to challenges and he was eternally grateful when he came out on the right side of them. Passing by the vicarage one day the window was half open. Inside the vicar was dancing to a Bob Dylan song that played purposely from a radio. Upon the table a small bible sat open, the vicar’s shadow danced all around it, dipping in and out, sometimes pausing, sometimes flashing straight across. Beautiful he thought. We’re all meant to grow, to challenge and be challenged, no one knows the answers, the whole truth. But we’re meant to ride the beast the best we can.

Don’t be afraid he reiterated to himself, be brave, stride the path, we’re all doing the same!

End.

--------------

Poetry published.

Exciting news. The very decent guys at delinquent magazine have chosen a couple of my poems to grace issue 19. Honoured indeed.
Go buy it.

http://www.thedelinquent.co.uk

The undesigned times. Part 1. - a novella

~Taking the knife in his right hand Antonin applied it firmly to the underside of his left arm. Ten minutes later he had cut through completely and a deep thud deadened into the floor. It was a further day before he felt the strength to rise from his bed.Some days later as the sunlight streamed into his small apartment and he sat eating a small plate of white fish, he bound and placed the severed limb into an old wooden chest that stood upright against one of his bare walls and felt that he should not have to think of it again.

~Over the next week as he went about tidying his small room, he imagined the possibilities of living here with another. He had been initially surprised by this train of thought because it was not one which had surfaced within him before. He was only twenty four and this was the first time that desire had been subdued by thoughts of longevity.He looked around the confined space of his apartment, with its one main room encompassing both sleeping and eating quarters, he believed it not fit to accommodate another. It was not in anyway dingy or glum, in actual fact he had often thought of it as being his ideal lodgings. His mind fell back to the first time that he had come across the room. He had been looking for a new place to stay for a while, he remembered being impressed by the grandeur of the building. It's warn marble frontage shone when the sunlight showered onto it, the old crumbling plaster work held a certain dignity in its unravelling state. Although the building was not the largest in the street it did have an unnatural quality of appearing much to big for its own structure. This meant that it seemed to hold a kind of snobbery about itself, as if it felt shamed by the others around it. It could be seen all the way from both ends of the street, that is if you knew it was there. This notion warmed him. He enjoyed the idea that something could be so visible to some and also so invisible to others.

~The main reason that he had taken the room was because it had its own small balcony. This was something that he constantly thought of as being truly wonderful. The balcony overlooked the main street and he regularly sat and watched the street life as it flickered by. He had always thought that a balcony was a real treat, something that a lot of other people didn’t have, he felt almost triumphant at this, that he should have something that others, who thought less of him did not have.

~The small kitchen area although perfectly decent for him would not suffice were he to live with another. The fridge had often caused him problems and the sink no longer worked. He had been forced to wash all his plates and cutlery in the small wash basin by his bed ever since it ceased up. He was sure that this would not be good for another to endure, he was use’t to it, it would be fair.

~So it was as he dried his plate one evening that he gave up, for now at least, on this idea. It was not that he didn’t like the idea because it was one that did appeal. The idea of waking with the same person over and over was pleasant, of sharing and interacting. It was just that since he had resigned from his job his days had began to take on a glowing structure that he was happy to allow to continue. Also it was true to say that as a person he was not yet truly to point where he would feel willing enough to endanger another’s happiness simply on a whim, simply because he fancied some company. He was very conscious of others happiness, of true happiness, of living from the ideal and not simply churning through the minutes and days. He knew that if he was to commit to another he would only be able to do so after he had set a base upon which his own happiness could forever be settled. He finished the plate and placed it unusually in the cupboard.

~He still held that morning when he had woken and decided quite suddenly that he should no longer give himself to work that he did not feel gave him any worth, to be a watershed. One that ranked as a true peak in his life. The air that morning, as he stood in the office of the foreman Ruben Vojak, contained such a wondrous touch of the new that he was sure that he was correct in this decision. The gentle breeze that bathed his face as he left the warehouse for the last time reassured him, it was strange that on this morning he would feel so very free, released. He was so accustomed to the pain of the mornings. Its constant shaking and barking at him as he walked unwillingly towards another eight hours of generic action. That morning however his eyes had not stung. It spurred him on and made him go out into the days air in search of what would make him whole, truly happy as a person.

Two.

~The first few months of this great new passing were spent relaxing into the freedom that he now had. He stumbled through a variety of outlets. Painting had been a easy first step. He had taken great care in choosing colours and materials which he thought would result in him producing great works. However the initial thrill of this soon faded. ~His first attempt was to paint a disused canal a small distance from his apartment. He had taken it upon himself to seek out some places that might lend themselves to his hunger. The spot that he chose was at the point of a very soft bend. The bank in front dropped gently away from the feet of the easel and he enjoyed the wind as it rolled across the tops of the trees opposite. This spot had been on the route that he had taken to work for many years but he had never actually taken the time to stop and engage the view. Now he stood and accepted it, as if the two raw objects were willing each other to grow and become better. The canal had not been in use for a good many years now. The water was dark and fought for supremacy with any number of weeds and vines that flaunted amongst it. He was sure that any life that once survived within it was now more than likely dead. These banks had once supported barges filled with coal but now it was derelict and forgotten. He loved the degradation of the site. The very fact that no one came here any more made it perfect. What else would he do he thought! He saw no point in painting that which everyone painted. He might as well wait until they had finished and simply copy what they had done. What better thing to paint than something which all others have abandoned. He felt that he understood such a place. He didn’t feel sympathy for it. On the contrary he felt a great sense of wonder towards it. He could quite happily sit and stare at it for hours.

~The afternoon that he had spent by the canal had been very satisfying and he had felt, that maybe, he was correct in his judgement that painting could become his outlet. However several days later as he relaxed on his balcony in the midday heat he witnessed something which effected him too such a point that he would reject the idea of painting completely.

~He had woken that morning with not a clue as too what day it was. He thought of it as a Wednesday, this it must be, he reassured himself and after a little more rest he rose from his bed and embarked upon the belly of the day. It had been some time after two in the afternoon when he settled down on the balcony, that he saw a group of middle aged men rushing along the street. Each of them carrying an easel. As they reached the top of the street they stopped and began to set up their equipment. Over the next few hours he watched perplexed as they meticulously went about applying brush stroke after brush stroke to the canvas in front of them. He had already decided that he was not very hungry and so after removing a small bowl of salad from the fridge he made himself comfortable once again on the balcony and picked at it.Soon the heat from the midday sun became to much for him to bare and he retreated inside. After laying on his bed for a while and attempting to ignore his irritation he once again stepped out onto the balcony. He must have in-fact fallen asleep for longer than he realised as he was surprised to be surrounded by the incoming gloom of the evening. Now as he looked out at where the gentlemen had sat all he saw was a small white tent. A thick artificial light hummed from inside it. A small number of people filed in and out and occasionally he caught a glimpse of a member of the group greeting some of them and gesturing extravagantly at its opening. Leaving the balcony he returned inside and washed his face and neck. Moving around his room he felt puzzled that he should be thinking so much about that tent and about what they had painted. He felt annoyed by it all and he knew that his annoyance would only grow. It was a quarter past ten and due to the fact that he had already slept he was not in the slightest bit tired. He decided to take a walk in the cool night air in order to better prepare him for sleeping.

~As he stepped out into the evening he felt his hunger to act, to take action overpower any other thoughts he may have. His walk had only lasted ten minutes when he suddenly found himself standing outside the white tent. He had stood listening to the declining sounds within it. The last few inhabitants had trailed away and now he waited as the opening was sealed and everything was quiet. It was only as the waxy outer ripped under the pressure of the knife that he fully committed to entering the tent. Suddenly he was inside. The light was fading but still allowed enough illumination to see. The ten large paintings sat around in a large circle. He scanned them all individually, he was interested too see anything in them. They were all of a decent standard, all portraying exactly what they had seen. A faint anger coloured his checks. They had neglected the small church at the far end, the changing light, everything that was open to see. What a complete waste he thought. They had even dared to house them in this tent as if they had created something new, something to be celebrated. Suddenly he looked closer he began to move from one painting to another, his eyes focused on one particular point it was his building. Leaning closer he clearly made out his balcony. Without thinking the knife jagged across the canvas. Moving to the next one again he sort out the balcony dropping his head again the knife tore through the painting. Again and again he moved in front of a painting and the knife slashed hard through the layers of paint, canvas and board. Finally one painting remained and still he focused upon the balcony where he had been sitting. The balcony that sat outside his room, from where he had witnessed the group painting. Again he lifted the knife, the balcony from where each one of them had neglected to paint him and again the knife sunk into the painting.

Three.

~Three or four days later as he was washing some of his clothing in the small sink he decided to throw out all of the painting equipment. The white tent at the end of the street had finally been removed. He felt little sympathy for the members of the group who had gathered to see the extent of the damage. He knew that their emotions were not of any real purpose. He once again sat on his balcony and sipped a hot cup of tea. His bare feet bathed in the morning sun. He was glad for the realisation that this episode had brought around but he felt no need to recognise the fact that it had deprived him of any actual time, or too dwell any longer on the actions that he had taken. He was sure of one thing, that his journey of expression should continue. Reaching for a pad of paper he took the pencil from behind his ear and began to write a few lines. Writing, poetry to be more precise, had for a couple of days been his latest attempt at creativity. Although at first it had not been an easy option for him he had began to enjoy it. To help him out he had taken to copying verses from an old book he had laying about. He found this a completely fulfilling process. He enjoyed not only reading and writing out each page exactly but also rearranging them and playing with the structure of what was written. He found that he could spend hours simply doing this and he felt it a very good use of his time.

~He was now pleased that the street below had returned to its previous state. As usual the locals flittered up and down. Occasionally he peered up from his pad and glanced at them. He thought that maybe he should write a little about this. Tearing a clean sheet he paused and then placed the pencil upon the paper, the pencil hovered, pinching in the blank space between point and paper. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at his door. At first he tried to ignore it as he felt the kindling of an idea, however the knocking continued and he was forced to rise from the balcony
‘Alright!’ he cried. ‘Honestly what do you want!’As he reached the door he stopped and peered through the small metal peep hole. He saw the bulbous face of Rowan Frieberg. Taking a deep breath he took the door handle and pulled the door open. ‘Antonin! Thank the skies that you are home, thank the very blueness of the skies!’ The short hands of his neighbour groped at the door frame as he struggled to catch his breath. Suddenly Antonin became aware of his situation. He pulled the door towards him and covered his left side. He was only wearing a short sleeved shirt.‘Is everything alright Rowan?’ he reluctantly asked, only his head visible to corridor. ‘Alright! No it truly is not my boy! Daulston! Daulston he’s done himself, down there in his room!’At that point his legs gave out on him and he slumped to the floor of the hallway unconscious. It was a while before Antonin moved from behind the door. The day was too hot for a jacket! He also wanted to make sure that Rowan Frieberg would not wake suddenly as he made his way across the landing. He held his head against the frame of the door and sighed. Why was it his door that had been knocked upon. Surely such responsibility should be placed upon those of much older years. Surely it was his role as the youngest member of the house to be free of these things. Thinking back to his writing he did however concede that he was not overly busy. Once more watching Rowan Frieberg closely he accepted that he was definitely out for some time and that it was reluctantly the correct thing to go and check on Daulston.

~A few minutes later he hoisted down Jacques Daulston's limp body from its crude noose. A doctor arrived some minutes later and pronounced the middle aged man dead. Antonin stood politely by in the shadows as he did so, making sure that he held his left side close to the wall. He answered the few simple questions with one word answers and pointed him in the direction of Rowan Frieberg for any further information. It was as he was once again sitting on his balcony that he saw them take the body away. He had not known Daulston very well however it was obvious from the sate of his room that he had not been living very well. There was greats amounts of dirt and dust, the windows were closed and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He had also noticed several letters and bills and it was clear that he had fallen into some kind of money troubles. Thinking back he had noticed that Daulston had not been riding his bicycle lately. Instead over the last few weeks he had always seen him walking, something which he did very ungraciously and obviously begrudgingly. Now maybe he thought that he had to sell it to try to pay off what ever he owed. He thought later that maybe he should go back to Daulston’s room and search out some names that should be notified, those who would be saddened by such news. Perhaps he could find the addresses of those who he owed money too and tell them that they no longer need barrack poor Daulston but the closest he got was the top of the landing where he heard the gathered sounds of several other people already busily undertaking those tasks.

~The death made a small impact in the newspaper the next day. As he sat and read the few lines he reflected that soon all would be forgotten, soon Daulston’s room would be cleaned out and someone else would be offered it. Soon the gossip and strange feelings would subside. Soon Daulston would be forgotten. He remembered back to a few months ago when he had read an article about another person who had hung themselves. A gentleman of fifty had also fallen under the strain of debt. He had been found hanging by his two young children, who spent two hours trying to pull him down. He again remembered how he had felt upon reading this, it had always struck him odd that anything could come to such a head. For surely such things as debt can always been alleviated, what the man had done made everything permanent. Think now of the debt that his children had too live with having found their father like that! And now Daulston had done the same, so maybe he was not found by his young children but all the same he did fall on the sword needlessly. Also he was angry because he had made him be couscous of his own movements. Made him be weary of being seen by Rowan Frieberg and the doctor. For the first time since he had done it he felt disturb by how someone else had made him feel about it. He folded the paper and placed it in the bin. He was suddenly disappointed with Daulston. There are plenty of other ways to survive. Plenty of ways too keep your head above the waterline. Look at himself for example he had chosen a line to start from, to change and grow. He had not taken the simple route. Ok so he did not have people hounding him for debts but its all the same life in the end, the same streets, the same building for Christ sake. Living, he once again mused was all about affecting, about having courage to break away from what displeases you, from what causes you pain and building your own pathways to joy and freedom.

~Once again he took the pad of paper and flicked back through the pages that he had copied, suddenly he thought that it had been very much just something to pass the time. Tearing them from the binder he threw them in the bin. Moving over to the small desk he placed the pad in a draw and locked it cursing Daulston as he did and he went back to sitting on his balcony in the medium sun.

Four.

~Walking through the back streets of the hustled town centre Antonin was reminded that to be alone is not something that should be avoided. Escaping the growing crowds of the early afternoon, the narrow cobbled route offered a freshness of thought that he always struggled to find when surrounded by the over-active millings of crowds. The heavy coat that he wore kept him comfortable from the annoyance of the often brisk wind. Its smooth prickly woollen mix cushioned against his neck as he moved. He had spent some time before he had left his apartment successfully tucking the left sleeve into the pocket. He had already taken to pining it to the lower breast, so that it would not flap about as he walked. He had also padded it a little so as not to draw any attention.

~As he approached the corner he saw the pub and thought immediately of Joseph. Joseph, although an old man was a welcome companion. A like, free mind and between the two of them a strong connection had built. Entering the quiet pub he unbutton his jacket just a little and allowed the room to further encourage his patronage.

~‘Hello boy’ Joseph’s warm voice crackled about the thick walls. Joseph always seemed to bring with him an air of knowledge. He was already in conversation with the landlord who was fast in agreement with what was said. The light from the afternoon sun laid coloured between them as they sat at a small table. These moments were ones that he enjoyed above all others. He sat with extreme comfort as Joseph talked. As always his soft clear voice resonated agreeably within him. He talked of frail social standards and glorious sudden change, all of which were done so with great conviction and not too little humour.

~‘You know boy’ he began.‘It’s getting close to silly hour out there, I nearly didn’t make it through!’ Placing his mug onto the table Joseph searched about in his pockets and finally pulled out a large bundle of sandwiches.‘Good, thought for a moment there that I had gone and left these behind!’Removing the paper that surrounded them he offered them over. The contents of the sandwiches fell about the table and the two of them laughed. They coyly peered over to the bar. A large sign clearly stated that no food was to be brought onto and consumed on the preemies, however the owner shook his head in resignation and continued with his duties. The sight of two decent affable types was so welcome that they were always offered certain leniencies and they were thankful. The rest of the afternoon was given up by the pair of them as they happily sat and talked.

~Antonin felt comfortable enough to mention Daulston’s suicide.
‘It’s a funny thing suicide.’ Joseph said after a moments pause. ‘You know I’ve never really believed in it! There was a guy when I lived on the base who shot himself in the head all because some girl he had been seeing had been married off to some local. Gruesome it was!’ ‘What you saw it?’ Antonin said after a moment.‘Yeah I was on guard duty, I was passing by the armoury and heard the shot… what a bloody mess that was!’ ‘God that must have been awful!’ 'it was but you kind of got use’t to that kind of sight!’‘Yeah well I suppose I was lucky with Daulston!’ ‘So you found him did you?’ ‘Well sort of, it was too late, there was nothing that could be done!’ ‘Still quite a shock I bet.’ ‘Not really a dead person’s quite a still, un-frightening thing. I didn’t really get too close and there wasn’t any mess or such.’ ‘Yep there was far to much of that sort of thing back years ago in the service, but then the naivety of youth always gives leave for the mind to run away!’

~Their gasps shattered the beautiful day. They seemed to cut short thewonderful weather and immediately summon up a chilled wind. This wind brought with it an intense stinging sound that buzzed through Antonin’s ears. He found himself very much detached from all that was happening. As the minutes elapsed more people joined the crowd around him. He felt so abnormal, so attacked that all he could do was to look at Joseph for help. However he offered little. He heard his voice painfully calling at him. ‘My dear boy! What could have possibly possessed you to do such a thing! Fetch a doctor, someone get this boy some help!’It was at this point that great pain shot through his body. He felt the blood seeping from his left side. The women also began shouting. The children ran over as only children can do when alerted to something that their as yet undeveloped brains cannot fully comprehend. One of the women bulked their progress so very determined not to let them any closer then they had already got.‘What on earth can be wrong with you?’ she bellowed in an explosion of over protection. Gripping the children hard by their arms she dragged them away to the other side of the park.‘What’s wrong with him? Something must have made him do it?’Using his remaining arm he attempted to once again button up his jacket. A hush seemed to fall as he did so. As if they were watching some form of freak show. They whispered and nudged one another. Suddenly he felt weak. His mind filled with desperate thoughts of escape. He tried to deny all that was happening but he could not. Soon the police arrived. Then they were followed by a doctor and a solicitor from a office just across the park. They all helped him into the back of the car and he was driven away. On the road to the clinic he heard their words of dismay and their damnation of the young