The Good and The Bad

The Good and The Bad

There was this girl. She lived in a home where from her window she could see every soul of the world. She didn’t know how it worked. She didn’t even question it. She didn’t possess a mind that questioned just a mind that accepted and thought ‘sure, of course’ without ever needing to expand and find some scientific equation to explain. Why explain when there is nothing to be explained? Can’t things just be?

Anyway, from her window she watched the souls wandering about in their lives. Some always in a hurry, some aimlessly, you know how it goes. She watched them fight and tear themselves apart, rip themselves away from others and live closed off, shut off, within their own shells. She shook her head and tutted. Did they not understand that human beings were not designed to be alone? They craved attention and warmth and love. But the people below grew scared of each other and built up walls as thick as skin. Keeping the bad stuff out and the goodness of their soul in. But with all goodness secluded to themselves, the world grew sick and needed some loving help.

The people could not put the world right again, they couldn’t see how or what was needed to be done, they didn’t have the perspective that she did, so she knew it was up to her. Her heart ached for them, her body convulsing in sympathy with her mind stretched to unfathomable lengths as she wished and hoped for each soul daily.

She could not stand their pain.

But there was one thing that stood in her way.

And it was him.

There was this boy, as there always is where there’s a girl in these things, and he knew what she had to do to make the ache go away. And he would not let her do it. She couldn’t. He loved her and what about him? Didn’t he have the right to be happy? Didn’t she? Why waste it all because of that sea of fools below her window? Why couldn’t they figure it out for themselves?

But she shook her decided head and cupped her hand under his chin. And he knew what she was going to say before she said it. He could see it in that sad smile.

“Because love is not for me.”

It wasn’t so bad at first. When she first started to weave her blanket. But as the days turned to months, turned to years, the boy could see how it drained her. But she continued to sew.

Sew.
Stitch.
Make.
And mend.
Sewing the world back together again.

With every needle droop, sink and fly back up again; the life from her body caught in her throat and upon the world below it did descend.

She had taken to staying in bed, she told him it was because she was tired. But he knew her better. Her physical strength had left her now. All that kept her going was the ache for the injustice inflicted upon those she loved.

So she stitched her blanket, her love coursing through the thread that she knitted it with. The embroidered picture was bloody brilliant, a bright, bleeding red; an image of a rouged world, with all the countries being sewn back together again.

The boy watched her every day. Even though it pained him to see what was being done. He watched her. And as he held her pale hand, when she would lay down her stitching and close her eyes for sleep, he noticed how the red tracks beneath that frail skin ran blue. She was sacrificing not only her love, but her life for the sake of their souls. And it killed him. For she could not see how beautiful she was. And she would not believe him when he told her. She just responded with a sad smile and a shrug and distracted herself with her sewing.

Each and every morning, the moment her tired lids dragged their way back up over her orbs, her hands reached for the next stitch automatically. No rest for the good.

And he would grasp back at the hand that she had taken back from his, and he would tell her “Please, just not today, please.” And she would smile at him like she had done all those years ago, and he would know that there was nothing he could do that would make her stop. She had got it into her head that love was not for her and that the burden of their souls was upon her shoulders.

And so she took up her sewing each day. And as she did, flickers of fanciful good floated down into the cities and the countryside. People noticed that sometimes life wasn’t so bad. In fact sometimes, it was even worth it, and by heck it could be fun! Especially when they found somebody to love.

But the boy was bitter at it all. If love was not for her, then it was not for him either. And to prolong her life whilst she slept, he unpicked the threads she had done that day. But you must not blame him, for he only wanted her to stay. Stay in this life, just a little longer, for all he had ever wanted was to be the one to always hold her. But she knew what he was doing, so she sewed quicker, too many stitches an hour for him to unpick later.

So one fateful day she sewed off the last thread, and it was done, her last breath was taken and the ache that infected her body was done.

The boy, ever watchful, endured watching his love die. Leaning his head against her lifeless face he kissed her and silently cried. Once a day had passed since her last stitch, he went to that window and scowled at the oblivious happiness of those below. He took up her scissors and cut a few threads, and heard the howls of those who mourned below at the bad that had just happened.

He was surprised by the instantaneous reaction. And vowed never to do that again. His love would have died for nothing and he knew that would have been pointless.

But sometimes, just sometimes, when he reflected on how the injustice had refracted its way away from them onto him, he cut just one more thread, letting the love in someone’s life below greet death, just so he himself didn’t feel quite so alone in all of this.

So yes, sometimes good graces your life and then sometimes bad; but what you must realise is just how much love there is in your life and be glad.

Robbing the Hood

I’m looking for Robin Hood,

Have you seen him?

Coz we could really do with his story

We’re being suppressed, shushed and crushed again by those bloody Tories

Cause they’ve fucked up again

Fucked us over again

Acted like we could be friends

But they lied to us

Stabbed us in the back

And friends... they just don’t do that.

So I’m looking for Robin Hood

Have you seen him?

The class war,

Is getting on its armoury

And it took so long to get a society even close to living in harmony,

But the rich are going to get rich

Whilst the poor get poorer,

It has been spoken

That the right for education has been broken,

It’s only for the privileged didn’t you know

Because of course let’s not educate those below,

That way we can do as we please,

With no one to argue their case coz they don’t have a degree.

So I’m looking for Robin Hood.

Have you seen him?

It looks like it’s down to us again

To pritt stick this country back together

Make do and mend.

Because all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Can’t put this mess under the carpet again,

So looks like we’re going to have to have a voice

And talk over their cowardice noise

Not down with a wolf in sheep’s clothing,

Let’s show them,

And like Red Riding Hood lets have the guts,

To not lay ourselves down to these cuts.

We’ve gotta get our hoods on

Turn our swag on – I think is the phrase used by the young.

And with our

Hoods up

We’ll Stand up

For what we believe

That we should all be treated equally

Because this world is not a eton boy’s playground

Nowhere else in Europe this promotion for the rich is found,

Sat in their second homes

About us they moan

And they laugh and they scoff

But what makes you so much better if you’re a toff?

They don’t seem to understand you don’t need a title

To be entitled

And with each parliament, the injustice is heightened

Coz they’re robbing the hood

So I’m looking for Robin Hood

So please, if you see him,

Tell him, we’re really really going to need him.

The Berry's Revenge

The Robin hopped from foot to foot.

Oooooooooh, he just really, really REALLY wanted some ribena. Hot ribena preferably, but any would do right now.

The problem was he’d given up his addiction for lent.

He looked down at his red plumage and threw out his wings in horror. He was sure his feathers were losing their colour.

Right that’s it, he decided. Either he’d have to give in or he’d lose his right to be a robin. Who’d ever heard of a robin without a red chest?

He hopped erratically closer to the berry bush he’d been perched in front of for the last two days. He shuffled briefly from foot to foot and in a flurry of pent up tension, thrust himself up into the thorny branches. He found the fattest, juiciest berry and took it in his pointed beak. Tossing his little head from side to side he attempted to pluck the berry from its branch.

The berry wasn’t so down with this. So put up a fight for as long as possible. The other soundless berries could only watch in horror as their bestie was stolen away, they struggled in the breeze to reach him, but there was nothing they could do, so were left to watch helplessly as the blood of their brother spilled through his cheeks and the robin was finally granted his wish. They scorned him as he flew away into the late afternoon sky.

The Robin felt triumphant, soaring through the clouds with his treasured prize, the juices already trickling across his tongue down to his aching stomach.

The Berry felt smug. For he was a poison Berry.

The Rather Messy Breakup

The Rather Messy Breakup

“Let’s just be friends.”
She carefully placed her tea cup back on its saucer. Fanned out her fingers and told herself that her hands weren’t shaking. He looked from her face to her hands to her face again. They were shaking.
“Excuse me?”
“I think it’s best if we are just friends.”
She stared out of the window for some time. He grew a little worried for her sanity, but was in no position to judge or to push her so he kept quiet and kept his thoughts to himself. She watched a girl dance through the street, grabbing the hand of a boy who was chasing after her as she did so, pulled him towards her and kissed him hard and decisively on the lips before dashing off once more. Lucky bitch.
“I don’t agree.”
“You don’t agree?”
“No.”
“Ok.”
Well, that was the oddest response he had got to this usually very successful line.
“Can I ask why?”
“No. Not really.”
“Right...”
Well, this was very awkward.
“You’re really going to have to give me something here.”
“Can I ask you why you think we should just be friends?”
“I... just don’t think we would work.”
“Fine. Well then you can understand why I don’t think us not being together and just being friends will work.”
“Umm, no, actually I don’t understand.”
He wished he had ordered a pint now. He had not had the forethought for this conclusion. He thought it would have been a clean break, barely worth ordering a coffee over. A quick –Hey how’s it going, so I’m just going to, yep there you go, break your heart, here have it back- and Bob’s your Uncle done!
“Let me tell you what I don’t understand then maybe we’ll come to some form of understanding together.”
She laid her hands flat on the table. That was better. She felt more in control.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be with me. It’s just all a bit silly isn’t it, because I can tell you now what everyone is going to say when I go home in tears and down a bottle of vodka: You’re too good for him, he doesn’t know what he’s missing, he can’t see how great you are, you don’t need him, you’re better off without him, he’ll see how great you are and will come running back and then you can reject him, he’s intimidated by how great you are, you’re too beautiful for him... do I need to go on, or do you get the picture?”
He got the picture, but wasn’t quite sure what to say to any of this. Most girls went home and did their crying and questioning behind closed doors. Out of sight. Out of mind. And that was a routine that had served him perfectly fine. He was ok with it. Don’t fix what ain’t broke and all that. Did she not get that?
“But we won’t work together.”
“Why?”
“Because my heart’s not in it.”
“And my heart’s not in us not being together.”
She leant back away from the table and took a leisurely sip of her cup of tea. Yes, this was a lot better, a proper solution finding conversation. None of this statement-bish-bash-bosh-we’re over and done business.
“But you can’t force two people to be together.”
“Then why can you force two people to be apart?”
She had him there. And she knew it.
“Why should you get your way? Why can’t we do it my way?”
“Because it doesn’t work like that.”
“Who says?”
His hands messed up his perfectly crafted hair that he had prepared earlier. If he was going to dump her, he had wanted to look good whilst doing so, it was that extra twist of the knife that those doing the stabbing did, though God knows why. It’s not very kind. Anyway, he wasn’t looking his best anymore. His carefully composed look was looking worn and distraught, his shirt frantically untucking itself from his distressed jeans (not that his jeans shared this emotion, they had just been stressed when dyed), his cheeks flushed and his hair was not looking quite so artistically messy.
“I don’t see how you can only see that we have to do it your way. We do it your way and I’m unhappy but you’re happy. We do it my way and I’m happy but you’re unhappy. It’s an equal balance either way, so each conclusion should be on the cards.”
“But you can’t force me to like you.”
“You can’t force me to not like you.”
“But... but you can’t force me to stay with you.”
“And you can’t force me to leave you. You see where I’m going with this yet?”
He saw where she was going with this.
But what was worse, was that he saw (in some weird, and roundabout way) that what she was saying actually made some form of sense. He desperately didn’t want it to. But it did. Damn.
“Now, let’s say that we’ll date for this first month, then not the second, then will the third... and so on and so forth. I really think we ought to start off as dating seeing as this was my idea, I should get some form of credit for it! And we’ll stop when either you fall for me, or I fall out of love with you. This way we’re equally happy and equally in pain.
Right, pick me up tonight at half seven, and make sure you’re on time, you know how particular I am, and remember to change your online relationship status when you get home. I love you boyfriend.”
She kissed him firmly on the lips. He could not reciprocate, too stunned by what he had got himself into. She cleared her throat and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for an appropriate response.
“I... err, love you too... girlfriend.”

The Tree of Knowledge

How do the owls know so much?
Well, I’ll tell you.
The owls, they sit in the trees and as they do the trees whisper through their leaves the secrets of the world. And the owls spin their heads and hoot “woah!” And then they fluff up their feathers, that are now so full of knowledge, puff out their chests and fly off out into the night, hooting out everything that they’ve found out to be right.

And the trees, they sigh in the breeze, yet another flighty friend has taken off again, they harden their bark, they will not cry over this again. But their leaves descend in showers, everyone can see them track their way down to the ground, but no one says anything. No words of console for those weeping willows. The people and animals rush by in their busy lives, ignoring the pain in that arc that shelters them from the rain.

But the trees, they remind themselves that it’s ok. One day those below will all be gone and they’ll be the last ones standing at the end of the day.

Plenty more fish in the - OH SHUT UP.

"There's plenty more fish in the sea, you'll get over me."
She told him.

She was right.

Now he preys on COD.

The Folly of the Fantastic

The Folly of The Fantastic

No, there’s not much I don’t love about living in the countryside... road kill, there’s a lot more road kill in the country, but I suppose mathematically and logically that makes sense if you take the wildlife-car ratio into consideration, but still that’s one thing I could do without, having to shovel carcasses on my way to and from work every day.
The people play a huge part in what makes the countryside so great, people are just much lovelier in the countryside, no one’s rude or cunning, everyone is honestly nice, and honest come to think of it, they only speak the god’s honest truth, and on the whole are just generally more beautiful beings.
Everything’s so much more beautiful here.
Why hello there Mr Fox.
Like my Fox, my very own fantastic Mr Fox, he’s so much more beautiful than any of those scraggy city foxes.

And Etta Madden was right. The fox that she met with every morning was far more beautiful than any fox she had ever seen. But more to the point, he was far more beautiful than any fox I’d ever seen either, and if I say he is the most beautiful fox in existence then it must be so. To further my case, between us, Etta Madden and I, we’ve seen a fair few foxes in our time, so I feel I am completely justified in saying that our personal fantastic Mr Fox is the most beautiful fox ever. Fact.

On this particular slightly too cold morning she met with him again, sat in her kitchen sink as usual, smoking obliviously on a cigarette and swigging already cooled black coffee whilst succumbing to another hung-over contentness. She winced as each minimal movement made by her origami folded legs caused the bruises on her knees to reawaken, which in turn informed her absent memory that it had been, once again, a sick night. She bit into her peach, watching the fox bathe in the sunlight. He was a character alright, choosing to live in a poison ivy bush that grew on top of her neighbours shed. It had baffled her the first time she saw him, she hadn’t known foxes could climb that high, let alone craft a comfortable and inhabitable home out of such an unstable residence. That was when she had decided he was no ordinary fox, and was indeed fantastic, as fantastic as her childhood stories had painted foxes to be.

Not to mention the beauty of him. He was one fine fox.

She bit into her peach and realised a second later than she should have, that something most definitely was not alright with the substance in her mouth. Coughing and spluttering she spat the remnants of peach onto the kitchen side, adding to the crusty party leftovers. She shuddered and looked down at the mouldy fruit in her hand.

Ok, so there’s one last thing about the countryside I’m not a fan of. Eating your own fruit. Yes it’s hideously middle-class (and therefore of course must be fantastic) to pick your own peaches off your organically grown (of course) little tree, just for the sake of social situations where you can offer a peach and say “These peaches are from my little tree in the back garden”, inflicting a wholesome glow on yourself whilst provoking an envious tinge on your companion, which is of course the main aim of everyone’s life. But this countryside fruit is tricky and manipulative, it looks so juicy and full of goodness from the outside but on the inside it can be flabberghastingly rotten. Give me a chemical pumped excuse for a fruit any day of the week.

Downing the dregs of her coffee, coffee grains and all, she turned back to watching her morning companion. He always looked how she wished she felt. Beautiful. Composed. Radiant.

Bloody smug fox.

And every morning he would clock her through her hatched kitchen window, watching him, and it would begin, as it did this day, their daily staring competition.

Here we go.

She shifted her position in the sink so that the hot tap wasn’t jabbing her purple-pink bruise, and locked onto the symmetrical face. The fox flicked his perfectly bushy tail from side to side, taunting her to be distracted, but they had played this game for far too long for such a simple trick to work.

Don’t you even think of trying to win today Mr Fox. I will beat you. I am determined. Today is the day, I can feel it.

The fox knew better than to take these words seriously though, it had been the same every day, they would stare, neither party giving in, and then Etta would have to leave for work. Always the same. No winners. No losers. Always ending with a nod of recognition and the sentence

Same time, same place tomorrow Mr Fox.

But still Etta was deludedly certain that today was the day, something was different, she could sense it. But then again, maybe she was just attuned to the autumnal change in the air, the electricity flooding the trees’ veins as the leaves started to depart, falling like fading broken hearts as they tore themselves away from the strong, dominant arc of bark; the all-knowing wisdom of the trunk.

I know you want to run today fox. I can feel it. You’re filled with pent up energy, I can see it you’re more nervous today, you want to go, you want to run, it’s ok. Go.

Are you still playing those pointless games with that fox?

Her eyes remained glued to the fox’s sly black pits whilst Harry helped himself to a glass of water from the tap, splashing Etta abundantly in the process.

You don’t understand Harry.

I do understand. I understand that you’re going to be late for work.

What time is it?

Going on half nine.

Shit.

She slowly unfolded her legs and wiped the water droplets off her last-night tights whilst still keeping eye-contact with her crafty companion.

Damn it.
This is not over Mr Fox. You are fantastic.
But I’m bloody fantastic.

You’re crazy, that’s what you are. Talking to a god damn fox.

You wish you had what we had.

I’m actually really ok.
Now, get out of here.

Ok, ok, I’m going.
Don’t you dare think you’ve won.

She pointed a threatening finger at the smug creature.

I’m going to get you one of these days. Just you wait and see.
I’ll see you

She jabbed her finger in his direction again

Later.

Etta Madden reluctantly broke the knowing string that connected the two creatures, jumped down from the work surface and crammed a marmite covered slice into her mouth. The fox too was in a hurry that day, departing as soon as the war was put on hold. Both creatures minds switched from being absorbed with each other into being overtaken with their days tasks and so both were in a careless rush to reach their destination.

Harry handed her a bag and scarf and hurried her out the door, mumbling things she wasn’t really taking in.

When you get back we need to sort out the water bill, and Agnes wants to go for a drink tonight at The Flowing Well, and I borrowed the spade out of the boot of your car so I can do the vegetable patch today, and dear God Etta look in your car mirror before getting out, you have mascara everywhere, you look like you’re on cocaine.

Yeah, yeah.

She clamboured into her car. Her vision blacking out at the sudden movement of sitting down and her head banging in response to the car door slamming.

God, I really should not be driving in this state.

Have you listened to a single word I’ve said?

Yeah, yeah, pub, bill, shovel, cocaine. Light my cigarette would you?

I don’t think smoking whilst driving is really going to help your road safety this morning.

I’ll be fine.

Ok, if you’re sure.

Harry leaned in through the window and lit her tobacco stick. He slapped the top of the car, causing Etta to scrunch up her face once more as she wished he really wouldn’t make such unnecessary loud noises, and left her with the departing words:

You’re good to go.

She pulled out, after putting the car into the wrong gear three times in a row, and drove off down the tricky country lanes. Her windscreen was instantly flooded with freckles of gold as autumnal leaves descended onto the troublesome country lanes in flurried, hurried waves. She took each corner far too fast and she proved speed bumps to be completely redundant.

One last thing, driving in the countryside is bloody difficult, give me a dual-carriageway any day.

But Etta Madden liked to think driving like a madman was her speciality, so she didn’t slow her speed, even when for a second her distracted attention became wholesome as she watched the peculiar motion of black birds swirling and transforming in an ominous cloud through the indecisive sky. And that’s all it takes. Just one second. One minute little second; to change the way you live your life forever.

She leant on her open car door, inspecting what she had committed, letting out a huff of air like a steam engine that has finished its screeching halt and is dispelling its last gust of air as the chase it had been embarking on reaches its end.

Bloody Fantastic.

Chocolate Button Fights

He was a vegetarian (oh I’m sorry let me make that a pescetarian) and she didn’t like vegetables, so her friends could always see that it wasn’t going to work out. Not that they told her that though. It’s not your place to have an opinion in these matters. But it had finally got to the time for her to reluctantly sample some spinach, she was bored of laying the blame for it all on his rock and roll image, the bells were deafening in their ringing for him to make his mind up, whether it was meant to be, for he was the only one in that relationship with the power to write their ending . The master of balls, it was time for him to be coronated. He had to man up. Or make it a “MAN OVERBOARD!” type situation.

He patted her head. He wrote them off. Relieved, he was set free, to go join the rest of those slippery creatures inhabiting the sea.

And with a startled “Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake, I thought we were in love?”
She found herself unwillingly departing, on the journey to the broken hearted.

But let’s skip a station or two. It’s no fun to listen to them go on and on. On and on about how much it hurts, how they would do anything, be anything, anyone, as long as it made them their someone.
Come on baby we can make it work, what do you say?
Because we all know what it feels like, and we all know that no one else ever hurts as much as we do over it, because no one truly truly understands, although we give friends small smiles and hand squeezes to show that their relating nonsense is helping.

So we fast forward to the time when there is someone who always holds her, someone who does everything in their failing, imperfect, mortal power to make her feel bolder. That someone she had been so sure had been him for so long back then, but now realises that was just her imagination’s whim.

They read books on the beach and paddle in the sea, and he pretends to push her in and she gets angry but she smiles anyway, it’s infuriating and a little nauseating. And for supper they eat out of newspapers, watching the sun giving them some alone time at last, and the only other voice is the wind, but they don’t listen to him, he’s just a load of hot air.

In the dark they feel safe and so talk through life plans and lives past, every grievance that has gathered at their head stones; and somehow he manages to take the chip off her shoulder “I promise to always hold her” he’ll say on that best day of their life, reminiscent of the words he whispered now when she had emptied her bucket of baggage onto the sand. And whilst she had shared he had wondered how any of that had ever come to be, because he’d do anything for her, build her a castle and make her queen of his bed, the ruling voice of reason in his head.

Sometimes that will annoy him, and he’ll want to cut her loose. And sometimes she’ll want to make him jealous, so that he can see just how great she is again. But it’s all just chocolate button fights, like who has the right to read the arts section first each Sunday “BUT YOU READ IT FIRST LAST WEEK” “THAT’S BECAUSE I ACTUALLY GET OUT OF BED AND GO BUY THE BLIMMING THING”
None of it means a damn thing.
Empty but strangely entertaining, it’s just a soap opera daily drama for the ears.
And after everything they will still be having scrambled egg mornings together in seventy years.

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