Colds 'n Tales

A definite negative of working in an open plan office is that you are exposed to every viral, infectious bug currently terrorising the human body. And to my despair I've been infected! I don't know exactly when the infection happened or who is the carrier but I think it's when I let the IT man touch my keyboard as my computer claimed it had a virus too. I don't know if the computer and I share the same virus but if we do then it can be no other than that greasy haired monkey who fumbled with my mouse and probably wouldn't mind fumbling me.

So now I'm quarantined within the quarters of my room watching re-runs of Family Guy and listening to the exchange of leadership of the country I live in. In fact the coverage was so in depth and constant that it made me think that this is actually an important moment. I lay in my bed thinking, do I miss Blair? What did Blair do? And what has happened to me since the time Tony became Prime Minister to when he handed over the keys to number 10 to Gordon. Maybe I'll write on this a bit later as I do think it's quite significant to me.

Anyway, Coldbrain has requested I carry on and being bed bound means I've been able to rattle out some more of my progressive prose. What say you CB?

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A memory floats by and lands on the forefront of his thoughts and this time finds a spot to nestle down. He’s a young boy cycling along the path, trying to stay balanced and not topple over to one side. The rain patters against his face causing a slight stinging against his cheeks as the lashings of nature intensifies and the drops pour into his eyes skewering his vision. His left eye is shut as his right leg sticks out to maintain his balance, he rolls down the hill, he swerves past the dog shit and temporarily wobbles his front wheel which instinctively causes his left eye to open and let in the rain to complicate his vision further. The wheel wobbles more as Yannish blinks incessantly to get the water out of his eye. He can’t be late for dinner. No way. He promised he’d be back in time for dinner, and even though Mother Nature laid out an assault course of the elements he was still determined to get home on time. It wasn’t tardiness behaviour that was fuelling his mission, it wasn’t the fact he’d be grounded if he was late. No, it was because by being grounded would mean he wouldn’t be able to go to the park on Thursday evening where he’d agreed to meet Clara.

He retracts his right leg to get some stability and turns the peddle once to build up more speed. In front of him through the vision of his right eye he can only see the swirls of rain obscuring the pathway ahead, trees and bushes seem out of proportion and even though he knows he’s going down hill the path looks as if he is going up. He raises his left hand to wipe away the watery swirls and but as he does this nature introduces a new element to the assault course. A gust of wind crashes against his side rifling through the spokes of his wheels, causing them to twist sharply to the left and then to the right. Yannish’s clasped fingers unravel with the sudden movement and he finds his body launching in to the air like the birthday bump joke gone wrong. Legs and arms flap as he tries to fly or at least glide to the ground but no of these things happen as he lands on to the grass. A still silence erupts in his head as the rain carries on falling and the sound of his bike chain whirring to the right of him. He can smell the faeces around him, and on his finger tips as he touches his hair. A few blades of grass tickle his chin which breaks the silence in his head and takes his attention away from the stench emanating from his clothes and hair. He remembers his deadline and lifts himself up. The bike chain still whirs but the front wheel no longer turns, even after the hard desperate kicks at it Yannish makes. He wraps it next to a tree with his lock and begins to run towards his home. The leaves and grass fall off his jacket and trousers as he breaks into a pace but the mud and excrement remains all sloppy but still clinging to his clothes. The rain still continues to fall against him but there is no sign of the wind that toppled him over.

He turns the corner to his street and pulls his arm out to look at his watch. Before his eyes have time to focus on the time rain drops scatter on his watch’s face and he sort of makes out that its five to seven, leaving him with five minutes to get back. Yannish scampers down the road towards his house, his breathing intensifying as he forces his legs to hit the ground faster with each gallop. The thought of thieving a quick kiss with Clara increases his speed and the pain starts to filter through his body, but he doesn’t care, he wants to get back. He sees his house and his running starts to become ragged as he reaches the door, he sucks in huge gasps of air thinking this will give him more speed but instead only enables him to suck in vast quantities of rain water. He fuddles with the keys as he tries to insert the right one in the hole, his hand shaking like his dad coming back from a night out drinking. The fatigue catches up with him, as he loses the strength to breath and finds his limbs not responding and going soft. As he falls to the floor he flops his head against the front door causing a dull thudding sound and then he hits the ground. Before he closes his eye lids he looks up to see his mother staring with her mouth aghast at her son covered in mud and dog shit.

A smile erupts around Yannish’s face as he wipes his chin of the sweat.The memory now slowly fades away.

New Styles

I guess I haven't posted much for a while. This is down mainly to having things stolen, computers breaking and going to another continent. However, I always intended to write on here again as Coldbrain kept pestering me about it and to be honest I enjoy writing. The predicament I found myself in was that I'm not that bothered about writing about my life as it's pretty mundane, sprinkled with elements of disaster and comedy. I took pleasure about scribbling about certain subjects I used to think of but they were very insular and not very organic. Basically they don't continuing growing once I'd written them which frustrated me. So after a cup of tea and a glass of wine I've decided to write some open ended prose for people to check out. As Coldbrain is the only one who reads this, I'll leave it up to him as to whether I carry on with it. He can only be vetoed by my laziness which is always festering in the background. Anyway, here it is. What say you?

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Yannish feels himself clutching hard on the object, his breath heavy and laden with the gargling sound of phlegm as he exhales exposing his tobacco ingesting past time. Inside his body tiny blood vessels are delivering thousands of messages to his brain as each second ticks by causing him to get agitated and confused as each one clashes and contradicts the next. He strives for clarity but instead finds his mind awash with flickers of images of his past experiences intertwined with feelings of possible occurrences of the coming present. Images of dates with girls when he was 15, his driving test, his first pay packet from his first job spliced with trepidation, fear, success and relief. This cocktail swirling around his head makes his concentration slushy so lets his eyes help relive him. His eyes gaze straight ahead staring at the fag stained wall, noticing a spider’s web dangling from the top right hand corner, swaying with the rhythmic sounds of the air conditioning. The spider, hanging on the end battling against the wafts of air coming from above, desperately trying to climb up to the more intricate and stable parts of the web but each time progress is made it’s pushed back down with the current of the air con. Yannish notices the spider’s two front legs resiliently resisting the air to gain just millimetres while it’s other six mercifully flap around like streamers on a windy day. A smile spreads across his face as he begins to consider the spider a comrade of persistence. One of the entities that never give up, or so he thinks of himself and of the little money spider. Both of them are fighting against the things far more powerful than them but similarly they are fighting things above them, although the little spider is literally doing this while Yannish’s battle is far more complex, layered and only figuratively looking down at him. He begins to look beyond the wall, straight through it, squinting his eyes as he searches for something further afield. The images come rolling out of his head like slides from a projector. He looks down to see his legs apart but remain solid to the ground, he raises his right hand and touches his cheek. Feeling the perspiration slowly trickling down and hanging from his chin where one by one they fall down and seep deep into the fabric of his clothes...