This is my admin
Missed the brief cos I got chucked out, so this is to say I'm back.
All At Sea
'i was gonna do a fucking masterpiece!'
taking a breather
'Knock, knock. Would you prefer me to leave my drone by the door or can I bring it in?' "If you bring that shite in here, I'll fucking wozzle ya." The thin man invites me inside with a dismissive wave of the hand, and I carefully set down my drone controller. The room is filled with broken electrical items, and i notice the thin man has a cleft lip, which makes his face seem both evil and pitiful. He gestures to a bowl of greasy chicken soup placed on small glass table in the centre of the room, saying, "I'll give you thirty quid if you can down it in one, ya wimp!" "I'll do it for free", I replied, eager to prove my worth. As my stomach filled up, the putrescent stew overwhelmed my senses, triggering my gag reflex with only a couple of gulps lefts. The sun set on another evening in Maidstone.
Sci Fi Boredom
Cadavre Exquis: The hollow Papist lethally blinded the harmless egg
Pop Banger - One Minute Eleven Seconds
(You can't go anywhere these days, particularly not in Birmingham.) The worst thing about heaven is having to tell people how I died. Here it is, one final time: I go to the cinema, like any other Saturday with the missus. We have a look at whatever’s on, and this week happened to be the new Marvel so it was an easy choice. We buy popcorn. A slush puppy each. I pay, my treat. We go up, I take my customary piss break putting the slush by the sink, then wait for her outside the ladies before entering Screen 6 – unguarded as usual (anyone could get in). Trailers come on. I make a note in the iphone (whilst it’s still allowed) of all the upcoming films that look right up my street. There’s a few youths behind and in front, but that’s alright: I’m on good terms with security now and they’ve even given me their personal phone numbers in case of any issues. Anyway right, the film turns out sensational. Special effects are bang on. Acting, fine. Soundtrack, wicked. Popcorn, finished. I stand up while the credits are still fresh, and my keys drop out my baggy pockets. I kneel down, and suddenly the electronic footrest comes down on my head, pinning me to the ground – unbelievable right!? I’m stuck. It’s dreadfully uncomfortable. My wife’s standing there laughing at first, looking down with my arse in the sky wriggling and my head hidden from view. But then things get serious. I can’t get out. I’m really stuck, like actually stuck. Breathing gets tricky. Breathing gets trickier. Things get scary. By this time the missus is pulling at my neck and not doing me or herself any favours, bless ‘er. The absurdity of the situation is getting far too much with me, along with the asphyxiation and that. Is this really how I’m gonna go? As ol’ Switch says from the Matrix: ‘not like this, not like this’, before the whites of her eyes take precedent over pupils and she drops like a stone to the ground. And so do I, but under much less impressive circumstances. Yes, I got suffocated by a footrest. True story bro. Life’s fucked, thank god I’m here.
Can't Go Anywhere These Days
We talked Spanish omelettes in the basement, awkwardly nestling against shelves of new shoes. He hid from the shop floor, recounting special days when he and his friends would cook up a storm, eat the rewards, then sleep it off for the rest of the afternoon. He smiled at the thought. Chorizo, black olives, and wine had filled his imagination. The sun was in his eyes and he was happy, happy to be back home. I thought the whole thing a bit dull. I was the kids shoe shop therapist. taking foreign workers away from their present troubles and goading them on to guiltlessly expound their raison d'être. A Toulousian spoke fondly of her home city, and the law degree she'll make use of one day. London had matched her with an Indian who discouraged her from leaving the house without him. Since he never went out, neither did she. She bore it. To my youthful eyes, her loyalty to a stifling partner made no sense. It was both impressive and pitiful. The Eastern Europeans were also behind the scenes, but unlike my solitary labour, they worked together somewhere else, sorting children's toys at a faraway warehouse and delivering them to the store. At first, Pavel was my mentor. He brought in the same giantsize bag of potato chips every morning for breakfast. He'd burst them open then chuck them on the side, signalling me to help myself. The manager couldnt stand the crumbs, but Pavel was Pavel and his charisma elevated him beyond the rules the rest of us followed. He liked to ask questions like 'what do you think will be the cause of human's extinction? Climate change, asteroids, or aliens?' after getting high the previous night bingeing YouTube videos. Those solitary hours were precious to him, once the day of packing was done and his 5 year old son was fast asleep. His friends told him he could have been an astronaut he said, but he wasn't interested. He likes what he does. My move to the west country makes Brexit seem more extreme, more raw, and that world I knew packed away on the shelf of false nostalgia, now repackaged as the good old days. And yet, if I couldn't appreciate the chaos of the stock room at the time, why not finally bathe in its technicolor richness now? Forget the fact I had no therapist of my own, but a private diary that id write in in my most desperate moments whilst down there, starved of sunlight. Forget that my girlfriend read it, then said we'd better pack it in immediately after. She aspired to be a playwright.
The Stock Room
The view through my window looks out on to a crime scene. All that hard work, years of building a positive reputation for itself, Undone with a single slash to the throat. Business mixed with leisure and repose, Now blood mixes with moose knuckle parkas. I’ll keep the view clear in case I miss anything else.
New Wounds At Old Haunts
Tripping On Guilt
It's All A Struggle
To Turn Back Time
Tools At Your Disposal
Sustain The Good Times