Unreplenished Urges – Dead Deer

Unreplenished Urges

“Pain? We’re all in pain.”

A lifetime of urges, one of top of another, a layer cake of desires dripping with rich maple syrup, soaking and seeping in, a sweet, sticky, liquid that both refreshes and replenishes. This tower of intense, unstoppable, essential and unavoidable needs never diminishes. However much you eat, gorging away, this cake; you still have it.

And then one day, it stops.

The urge doesn’t come back, it hasn’t come back. It is a physical manifestation of a cracked, haunted head. It is the oddest of sensations. What was always is no more, what was a driving force, pushes no longer. It is diminished. Redundant. Exhausted. Maybe if one soul is having too much cake, and eating, the next must have none. A balance.

***

So where to next? Find the best, be as good as it can be, look forward, be calm and take yourself with yourself. Don’t look behind, don’t get stuck, don’t drag down, don’t lose yourself, don’t forget yourself. Simple advice, with unknowable meaning.

But will the urges be replenished then? Will they come back. What  manner of sick joke would that be? Urges, replenished yet unfulfillable. A life yet more hollow. What hope for crumbs now? Not one, just an empty silence, to be broken, just as I am broken.

And the cat laughed.

Today I wrote  between 21:50 and 22:00. I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

Suffocated in Sinopia – Dead Deer

Suffocated in Sinopia

Deep inside the rainbow is joy, an uplifting and life-affirming happiness that trips along through the sky. As the hues change, the feeling is refreshed anew with each new vibrancy. The spectrum holds distinct colours, it is true, and the infinite variety between creates myriad moods of positivity.

I, however, I am stuck. The rainbow, and its cousins across the full palette are but a distant aspiration, a haunting half memory, strong enough to entice, too weak to enrich.

No, not all, it is not fair to say all. I am stuck in a certain area of this rich tapestry of colour, and it would be wholly unfair to describe the browns as any lesser than any other region. Indeed the deep, strong, mellow and gentle shades of brown are, of themselves, a remarkable place to be.

But I, I am stuck. In a single tiny spot. Again it is a delightful spot, if one were to pass through, or even to linger, but to stay? Stay put for all eternity. It is suffocating me. Its natural warmth, a boon to most, begins to pall after a long period of time. And by now I am quite, quite mad. I think. How can I know, when all I see, smell, feel, hear and taste is this one precise colour? You should try it. Help.

203, 65, 11

Today I wrote  between 21:51 and 22:01. I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

Partly Paisley – Dead Deer

Partly Paisley

Jim and Dave often met at the pub. They usually sat at the same table, but it wasn’t important to them. Today, as it happens, they were. Dave had bought this round, but now they were comfortably into their pints, not far but a while until the finished. This was what they came for. A time to sit and sip, a time to relax and chat.

Equally comfortable were their silences. Old, old friends and colleagues they enjoyed each others outlook and insights, but were close enough to just sit.

Right now, however, they were laughing. Jim’s deadpan delivery of the news regarding one of their old, hated, bosses left Dave full of joy. The tears ran down both their faces, as the clutched themselves and gradually regained composure, still punctuated by the odd chuckle.

Simon had finally come a-cropper. His self important arrogance, which when coupled with his incompetence had made him such an awful manager, had at long last been his undoing.

Jim had heard it on the grapevine. How they both longed to have been there to see it with their own eyes.

 

Today I wrote  between 23:43 and 23:53. I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

The Widow’s Web – Dead Deer

The Widow’s Web

Pushing back a tiny plate, displaying no more than a smear of a crumb, she sank herself down in her chair. Delicate, translucent and unmoving, few would even notice that the cavernous armchair held anything more than a bundle of blankets. She breathed, but it could not been seen nor heard.

Preserving all, every drop, of her energy internally not a single speck was wasted on physical movement. Her eyes, even, whilst alert, remained cloudy and motionless. She did not look, nor did she expend a calorie in closing the eyelids. She thought.

All around her, through the forest and across to the great city, in stark contrast, the action was frenzied. Deals being done, bones being broken, acquisitions being made. Carefully the threads were loosened, untangled, removed. No one would ever consider, perhaps, that all those myriad nefarious dealings had but a single source. And should they, well, tracing it to that source, out here, is impossible. Impossible to achieve, impossible to believe.

To have been that careful, for that long, a whole lifetime, is enough, dear reader, to tell you what a remarkable creature we have encountered here. Not one risk, not one chance, not one mistake, across all those decades. Even as her beloved partner found himself in fatal trouble, trouble that she could have solved with no more than a couple of nods in the right direction, she feared it being the means of her discovery. So, she remained unmoved, unmoving.

Decades of loneliness and misery may indeed have followed, but also decades of further success. Not one thing happened for one hundred miles around that armchair without her say-so, without her cut. Regrets? Not a single one. Even as she thought to herself, all those years ago, there was not a shred of doubt or concern.

“I’ll not lift a single bony finger to help him.”

Today I wrote  between 23:43 and 23:53. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

Squinting through Blue Sky – Dead Deer

Squinting through Blue Sky

So today I nearly touched it. It was there, I could feel, no, see, well, anyway. A sense. A sense of clouds parting and seeing through to the blue skies. What everyone has been talking about. It made sense, it was clear, perhaps. It was so delicate though, like I did not dare look at it in case it disappeared.

It disappeared, of course. The clouds crashed back together, and a heavy storm is raging once again. But I am left with that knowledge that it might be out there after all. It was like gossamer, I could not hold or study it. It is hard to try and see through the clouds again. I worry by looking too close I will see that I was wrong. It is not blue sky. An illusion. There are more and other clouds I have simply missed. I feel, I fear, that this must be the case.

Walking back carrying the rain within my chest, the wind howling inside my head, my feet and legs made of cloying, heavy, sinking sands, I knew. This once more was a mirage, a false dawn, I can leave no cliché unturned.

Once more. Questions, castling through my mind, do I have no answers? Only time will tell, it is said. But I know. I know the answers are held within those clouds, and time will play out as I see it, bleak and unrelenting; it is written in the clouds.

Wolleken.

Today I wrote  between 23:43 and 23:53. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

A Moose on the Loose – Dead Deer

A Moose on the Loose

A great cry of intense distress sang across the wide plains, as the searing pain of an exploded tooth screams across your brain. Something was afoot. From this vast distance it was a mere speck, but one that appeared to be moving with purpose. Striding out in torn and tattered clothes she headed directly toward the sound.

This was the enigmatic ‘S’. Her face covered, more or less, she appeared, she solved, she moved on. No one knew who, how or why. On this occasion there was none to witness her doings, none bar you and I, dear reader. Together we will try and construct the events from what we find, a story of sorts, a version that holds water.

Water. There is very little of that out here. What do we find? No footsteps, no sign, except the silver-white bones half buried. From the skull we may assume a moose, but how? What on earth would a moose be doing here.

To recap: ‘S’ has been; a scream has been heard; a moose’s flesh has been picked away.

She does not come for no reason. She does not leave until a job is done. She speaks not, she never deigns to explain. She does. She sorts. She saves.

But what? Here? What here?

Today I wrote  between 23:39 and 23:49. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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Dimly Lit Distractions – Dead Deer

Dimly Lit Distractions

Jonathan Pixie Nickleby skipped through the forest, he hoped to see his friends. He knocked at Crealy Bealy’s front door, but the rabbit was not at home. On he skipped. He whistled to himself (a cheery tune). He arrived at the house of Alastair Bear, the biggest pig of all.

“What a huge door” Jonathan Pixie Nickleby thought to himself, “What a GIGANTIC house.” He tapped his tiny knuckle on the massive, thick wooden door.

No answer here, either, so he checked next-door to see if Alastair Bear’s best friend, Cedric Anglestone Whoop McGraw was in. He gently tickled the door with just one figure, it was so small he could hardly see it. Sadly, even this light touch was enough to knock it off its miniscule hinges, for Cedric Anglestone Whoop McGraw was the tiniest mouse in all of Figpaddle Wood.

“Where is everyone today?” wondered Jonathan Pixie Nickleby, out loud.

“THEY ARE AT PING POND.” declared The Voice, that booms around Figpaddle Wood from time to time. Off Jonathan Pixie Nickleby trotted, as fast as his little legs would carry him, off to Ping Pond.

When he arrived, what a sight he saw! All his friends around Ping Pond, staring at a ginormous yacht. There was Crealy Bealy. There was Cedric Anglestone Whoop McGraw. And there was Alastair Bear, eyeing up the boat longingly.

Today I wrote  between 20:42 and 20:52. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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Mar 17th – Douglas O’Malley

March 17th – Douglas O’Malley

09.25-09.35

Douglas O’Malley (1945-2011) was an exceptionally rare creature: a professional sportsman in three North American sports who failed spectacularly at the highest level. His death, at the age of 66, brings to an end the era of the elite level multi-sportsman. We will not see the likes of Douglas O’Malley again.

Born in Toronto to a fairly affluent middle-class parents (His father, Donal, was a civil servant who had been invalided out of the war after seeing action at Dunkirk, his mother Sheila was a schoolteacher), the O’Malleys moved to New York state when Douglas was four, after his father accepted a position with one of the newly-created State Department offices. This was unusual for a Canadian citizen, but it is believed that Donal pulled a few strings among the Irish-American community on the strength of his name alone, having no direct Irish lineage that anyone was aware of.

Douglas quickly became recognised for his sporting prowess. He held several All-State track records, and was the star receiver on his high school team. It was no surprise when he was awarded a scholarship to New York University, where he became the standout receiver for the Collegiate team. It was during this time that he was persuaded to try baseball for the first time, quickly becoming the leading hitter for the NYU team in what was recognised as a lean period for the Violets. His talent was such that he was selected for the draft in both sports, the first NYU athlete to claim this distinction.

Football was his first love, though, and Douglas was drafted in the 17th round of the 1972 draft by the Cincinnati Bengals. Injury delayed his start, and it wasn’t until the start of the 1973-4 season that Douglas O’Malley was to make his first start, coming on in the 2nd period to replace Mike Hoskins.

That game, against the Steelers, was to be Douglas O’Malley’s first and last experience of the NFL. On his first play he fumbled a looping throw from Chuck Woodrow, resulting in a touchdown from the turnover. He managed another four incomplete passes before being withdrawn from the game with a total of zero yards. He never played another game.

Released by the Bengals at the end of the season, Douglas O’Malley was picked up as a free agent by the Oakland A’s, who were having a poor hitting season. Unfortunately for O’Malley, however, his baseball debut was as inauspicious as his football one, and a consecutive streak of strikeouts, along with a change of ownership of the A’s at the end of the week of his debut meant that Douglas O’Malley’s contract was cancelled and he was obliged to seek alternative employment.

Disillusioned with his sporting career, Douglas O’Malley returned to Toronto, and found sporting enjoyment in amateur hockey, where his passion and drive for competitive sports was reignited. An injury crisis at the Toronto Maple Leafs, coupled with O’Malley’s blistering form in the amateur leagues led to him becoming the Leafs oldest debutant at the age of thirty-three.

Two goals in the second period of his debut, against the Edmonton Oilers, made it appear as if the Leafs had unearthed a diamond, but in the third period O’Malley deflected two Oilers’ shots into his own net before a collision with his own netminder resulted in a dislocated knee and the end of another career.

O’Malley was never to play professional sport again. He moved into advertising, and became successful, first as a with Schuster and Lorimer, and then in his own right, founding the O’Malley agency, who, ironically, were responsible for the highly successful Maple Leafs campaign of the late eighties that turned around falling ticket sales and built the platform for the modern success of the club.

Douglas O’Malley is survived by his wife and three children.

 

Inspired by a prompt from here

Creator of Days – Dead Deer

Creator of Days

“What are days? Days are where we live.”

Philip Larkin – Days

This is morning. It crawls in, in a fog that clears as awareness overcomes, in stages, perhaps. Who makes my days now? Not I, I think, although the uncontrolled hyper-activity within my skull must take some blame. Yet, it is morning, during this process of emerging into our conscious state, that it is calmed, mostly, at least for a few seconds. First comes light.

Or is the light first? I am here, just, fumbling for who I am, where I am. The primal and modern human interact as this basic state has a need imposed upon it. Time. What is the time? A host of modern devices provide this information – the sun, or lack of, is just broad strokes – and by the time it has all registered the horror of day ahead is rebounding around and around my head.

Recently the day has been so hard to face, removing oneself from bed has been almost too great a hurdle. Staying in bed, also unthinkably grim. A no-man’s land briefly, safe in here. Not safe, but the day’s failures do not commence until the first foot hits the floor. Unless … unless this takes too long, then the failure starts prostrate.

Who is the creator of these days? Not I. One far away who is never far from my thoughts. He has created this monster that I am failing to live with. He, whose days are full of weightless structure, of contentedness punctuated with sparks of happiness. A scale, a direct correlation.

My days are misery, unstructured and full of sparks of desolation, sparks that sting, and form my days. Created of cruelty.

Today I wrote  between 20:18 and 20:28. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

Mar 16th – Invincible endeavours

Not what I was going to write, but I’m giving a speech in Luxembourg today for a Brexit rally, and I wrote this in 10 minutes, and it kind of fits. So I’m cheating a bit. 

08.30-08.40

Brexit speech

Place de la Constitution, Luxembourg

24th March 2019

I shouldn’t be here.

Not because I should be directing some kids in a drama rehearsal right now, because I should, but because there shouldn’t be any need for me to stand here. There shouldn’t be any need for me to add my voice to the voices of the million that marched in London yesterday, or the 4 and a half million that have, in the last week, caused the UK government petitions website to crash under unprecedented demand. I shouldn’t be here because I should have no need to stand here to add my voice to the clamour of those calling on the UK government to sort itself out, and to listen to reason rather than bang spoons against the saucepan it has stuck on its head.

I am English. I am British. But I am also European.

I am proud to carry a passport with the words ‘European Union’ stamped on the cover. Because I believe in the power of a union, the strength of a union, and the strength that comes in standing together, and belonging together.

We don’t all have to agree. No-one wants us all to agree. Decisions borne out of compromise and negotiation are at the heart of the European idea, decisions taken that have ensured employment protection, clean drinking water, medical care and human rights across the European Union. And to see my country turn its back on this hurts. It hurts.

David Cameron lined up the dominoes in June 2016, then he pushed the first one, and walked away as they fell. And the dominoes fell. They cascaded with the weight of lies on the back of a bus behind them, with populism pushed to the front and right-wing bandwagon-jumpers pedalled unicycles made of clichés alongside them, whipping up a storm. And that hurts.

I am a teacher. I have been lucky enough to work in four European countries, taking advantage of the freedom of movement that European Union membership has given me. To see this right to move, to work, to live in any of the member states, to move between them freely and without restrictions, on the edge of being pushed off the ever-growing cliff that is Brexit is a massive hurt. I try to teach the students in my classes to be accepting, to be independent, to think for themselves and to question what they are being fed by the media, social and traditional, and to challenge injustice. Thousands of young people here in Luxembourg marched on the climate strike this month. All of these people, under 18 years of age, rose up and demanded change, demanded a say in determining the future of the planet. All of those under 18 had no say in the Brexit vote, yet these are the ones who have the most to lose.

I worry about my children. I worry about the country that I grew up in looking inwards instead of outwards. I worry about a vote that rejects inclusion and co-operation over ‘taking our country back’ and mushrooming ignorance.  There has to be a solution that avoids screwing up the future. There has to be another way. A million people on the streets of London seem to think so. We have to hope that the politicians take their heads out of the sand for long enough to listen.

Ech sinn Englesch. Ech sinn och Europaer.

Merci.