Keith was sleeping in the spare room of his best mate from school Gareth. Twenty years ago, Gareth had represented Keith as his solicitor in court, but couldn't prove the truth; Keith was innocent. The guilt had rattled him for the two decades. "If only I was better in my job," he would tell himself each day. Offering Keith the spare room, food, clothes wasn't enough. Keith could never get a good job, and during the decades that past Gareth had become a partner in the firm. Maybe he could work as a office junior? For Gareth's wife, enough was enough, the boys relationship was invading. "What else can I do?", plead Gareth, "If it wasn't for me, he would have a life!"
In the spare room, the straight and narrow life was getting Keith down. Even though he hadn't committed the crime, he had grown accustomed to the prison system way of life. He kept his head down, managed to dodge trouble, and in turn got free board, television, a gym, set meals, and even a second chance at a state education. All in all, it wasn't that bad. The real world however, that was hard. No routine, no structure, how is a man suppose to know what to do. He curled onto his side, staring at the wall with his back to reality. Everything Gareth had so generously give him just felt like charity, and that's no way of life. "Maybe I could find a way back? Maybe, for the first time in my life, if I was to think like a criminal?"
Keith had got out of jail a little early for good behaviour, but was still being heavily monitored by the police. "Any violation of your parole, and you'll be thrown right back in!", warned the police man on Keith's departure. An idea started to brew in Keith's head. The next afternoon as Keith walked back home through the market place, he caught the eye of the meat vender. Not a nice man; a tall and stocky bloke, who'd rather hit you than look at you twice. Perfect. Without hesitation or any provocation, Keith walked straight up to the man and took a swing. Not even a cut, but more than enough to start the fight.
The police cell was cold, but familiar. An officer pulled aside the door; "This way please," directing Keith to the interrogation room. Keith baited the police, refusing to move. "Best to seal the deal", he thought to himself. "Come on son!" responded the police, before dragging Keith from the cell by force.
The officer threw Keith into the interrogation room. Waiting for him was Gareth. "Don't worry Keith, I won't let you go back to prison! You'll have my whole firm behind you this time! I won't let them take any more time away from you. you're a free man now Gareth, I won't let it happen again." Keith sighed. This plan was going to be a little less straight forward than he first thought.
N.B. lol.... gone ages again without writing a little short like this, been working on the time machine project... as always, this is hot off the press, and hasn't been proofed!! but, feels good to be writting something different again...
on a sad note, this was the last project luke and i discussed before his passing.... but still, no reason for you to not enjoy it :D
--
The obviously quaint, introspective retro with a rustic, nostalgic calm, very local local pub was chosen to host tonight's party. Two sisters, ironically dressed the same, had arrived at 2 o'clock, one flirting with the landlord and flashing their family's money. The other re-interior decorated the pub making sure it still had the authentic look, whilst still being the sort of place one could wear an vintage Armani crushed purple velvet smoking jacket. Tonight's occasion, a ghastly sad affair; a fellow pier of the twenty-something, spoilt rich arts scene's father had come across hard times, was cutting his son off from his monthly allowance, our young lad having to find work, and moving south of the river Thames to live. Yes, a "Goodbye Party" was certainly needed. In public, one might say something like, "That's dreadful. But don't worry, we're always here for you." However, the quiet thoughts, the ones that circulate around the room, hushed when overhearing and offended ears may not pry, the thoughts that each of them had within their heads, sounds more like "Can you even get a bus to the south of London?", or "Won't he be the only white person there?"
It had become the must do event on the social calender that week, and by eight the pub was filled. Locals would turn up, avoiding the wife or needing to suppress a days graft to find that their normal seat now was home to a £300 handbag; having a chair was cool, but sitting or even standing near it wasn't. It was about this time that our friend, the one this party was in aid of, arrived. Most people didn't even know who he was, they had heard through a friend of a friend about the party. But, as one girl turn around, she screamed as trotted in her overly high heels towards him. Then came the fleeting up-roar and cheer on before of our departing friend, then back to the gossip and champagne.
Our friend sat their quite glum. Of course, he didn't buy a drink all night, what a faux pas that would have been, but nor did he just wanted to be bought a mohito and be left alone. Who were these friends, that after three years at college, and three years since, didn't have a word on condolence or support amongst the lot of them. Truth is, they themselves didn't know what to say either. Not one of them ever hand a real job, or money issues, had to deal with bills and direct debits. The 'working life' was a world apart from them, but like who he felt at the time. No no, much easier for them to turn their back, to chat about the latest gallery opening, or the what-to-see at next week's St. Martin's graduate fashion show. Within a week he was forgotten; not a call on my mobile, or a post on his facebook wall. Occasional he'd slip back into some one's thoughts, but only as a shadow, the memory hazy, then altered to protect the thinker from the harsh reality that they had it easy.
on a sad note, this was the last project luke and i discussed before his passing.... but still, no reason for you to not enjoy it :D
--
The obviously quaint, introspective retro with a rustic, nostalgic calm, very local local pub was chosen to host tonight's party. Two sisters, ironically dressed the same, had arrived at 2 o'clock, one flirting with the landlord and flashing their family's money. The other re-interior decorated the pub making sure it still had the authentic look, whilst still being the sort of place one could wear an vintage Armani crushed purple velvet smoking jacket. Tonight's occasion, a ghastly sad affair; a fellow pier of the twenty-something, spoilt rich arts scene's father had come across hard times, was cutting his son off from his monthly allowance, our young lad having to find work, and moving south of the river Thames to live. Yes, a "Goodbye Party" was certainly needed. In public, one might say something like, "That's dreadful. But don't worry, we're always here for you." However, the quiet thoughts, the ones that circulate around the room, hushed when overhearing and offended ears may not pry, the thoughts that each of them had within their heads, sounds more like "Can you even get a bus to the south of London?", or "Won't he be the only white person there?"
It had become the must do event on the social calender that week, and by eight the pub was filled. Locals would turn up, avoiding the wife or needing to suppress a days graft to find that their normal seat now was home to a £300 handbag; having a chair was cool, but sitting or even standing near it wasn't. It was about this time that our friend, the one this party was in aid of, arrived. Most people didn't even know who he was, they had heard through a friend of a friend about the party. But, as one girl turn around, she screamed as trotted in her overly high heels towards him. Then came the fleeting up-roar and cheer on before of our departing friend, then back to the gossip and champagne.
Our friend sat their quite glum. Of course, he didn't buy a drink all night, what a faux pas that would have been, but nor did he just wanted to be bought a mohito and be left alone. Who were these friends, that after three years at college, and three years since, didn't have a word on condolence or support amongst the lot of them. Truth is, they themselves didn't know what to say either. Not one of them ever hand a real job, or money issues, had to deal with bills and direct debits. The 'working life' was a world apart from them, but like who he felt at the time. No no, much easier for them to turn their back, to chat about the latest gallery opening, or the what-to-see at next week's St. Martin's graduate fashion show. Within a week he was forgotten; not a call on my mobile, or a post on his facebook wall. Occasional he'd slip back into some one's thoughts, but only as a shadow, the memory hazy, then altered to protect the thinker from the harsh reality that they had it easy.
He had always wanted to be his own boss; the news of redundancy came to him as a sigh of relief. His family didn't see it that way, but who cares. Its was his time now, and he had it all planned since that mishap of a family holiday in New Year. Around every corner, don every street where was man wearing a sandwich billboard. Fantastic things! So what if you're selling a trans-fat sandwich as the health option this lunchtime, or a perpetual golf sale, someone will pay you to walk around all day. You're out and about, meeting people, walking, getting exercise. Beats that old, stuffy, office lifestyle.
Out the garden shed, after a morning of DIY shopping, he busied himself with the construction of his very own sandwich board. After a few attempts he got it right; the first one was too heavy, another lopsided. Then for a couple coats of white paint, followed by red spray paint and stencils to spell out the sign "Interested In This Space?... Call 07988 123 456". How proud he was, the humble beginnings of his new empire. What better time than now for a test drive, and if he rushed, just in time to hit the afternoon commute.
But this wasn't New York, nor London, Birmingham or Leeds, this was Bournemouth, a sleepy town on the doorstep of heaven. Regards, with considering the practicality of the endeavour, he got to the centre plaza just in time. Please with himself, he slowly paced the back and for, meeting and greeting the occasional few; no one directly approached him for more information, but he was pretty sure that someone would jot down the number and get back to him anytime now.
Someone did. And that night, as the small hours started to creep by, his mobile start to ring on the night stand the opposite side of the bed to him. Disorientated, and trying his best not to piss of his wife any more that she already was, he answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Are you the guy with the billboard in town?", a male voice asked.
A costumer! Not just any, but the first. What great new, and what a buzz, the rush of success. He creeped out of the bed, and into the en-suite, not to disturb the wife with business talk.
"Yes, that is me."
"The message said to call if you were interested in, um..." he paused, "... This space?"
"That's right, yes, why, are you interested in me"
"Oh, yes"
"Well then, maybe we should meet up sometime soon. say, lunch tomorrow, in the plaza?"
"Oh, yes, that'll be grand by me"
"Its a date then... I'll be the one wearing the sandwich board", he laughed. "Goodnight!"
He hung up the phone, and slipped back into bed. How exciting this new page of his life was. What surprises could tomorrow bring, he wondered.
Out the garden shed, after a morning of DIY shopping, he busied himself with the construction of his very own sandwich board. After a few attempts he got it right; the first one was too heavy, another lopsided. Then for a couple coats of white paint, followed by red spray paint and stencils to spell out the sign "Interested In This Space?... Call 07988 123 456". How proud he was, the humble beginnings of his new empire. What better time than now for a test drive, and if he rushed, just in time to hit the afternoon commute.
But this wasn't New York, nor London, Birmingham or Leeds, this was Bournemouth, a sleepy town on the doorstep of heaven. Regards, with considering the practicality of the endeavour, he got to the centre plaza just in time. Please with himself, he slowly paced the back and for, meeting and greeting the occasional few; no one directly approached him for more information, but he was pretty sure that someone would jot down the number and get back to him anytime now.
Someone did. And that night, as the small hours started to creep by, his mobile start to ring on the night stand the opposite side of the bed to him. Disorientated, and trying his best not to piss of his wife any more that she already was, he answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Are you the guy with the billboard in town?", a male voice asked.
A costumer! Not just any, but the first. What great new, and what a buzz, the rush of success. He creeped out of the bed, and into the en-suite, not to disturb the wife with business talk.
"Yes, that is me."
"The message said to call if you were interested in, um..." he paused, "... This space?"
"That's right, yes, why, are you interested in me"
"Oh, yes"
"Well then, maybe we should meet up sometime soon. say, lunch tomorrow, in the plaza?"
"Oh, yes, that'll be grand by me"
"Its a date then... I'll be the one wearing the sandwich board", he laughed. "Goodnight!"
He hung up the phone, and slipped back into bed. How exciting this new page of his life was. What surprises could tomorrow bring, he wondered.
The city had become, quite simply, grey. In order to give advertising the most impact, the buildings, roads and signs were desaturated. Now the only glimpse of any bight colour to the weary people of the inner city would only come from the billboards, which use this isolated feeling of happiness to sell a better life. Art had been abandoned. If you wanted to laugh, smile or perhaps cry, the only place left to look was the advertising space. For the majority of people, this worked. It had taken many years to accomplish, but graffiti had been deemed as a menace, and modern art as a joke. Two ideals, seemingly of free will on the part of the general public, were nothing more than sinister forces at working, drawing peoples attention from the free expression of mankind, and towards the dedicated space reserved for marketing.
Television did its part too. Sensationalised rolling news coverage focused on the dark and fragile side of humanity, leaving the public with a sense of vulnerability. Relentless bombarding of terrifying pictures conveyed a world of fear, to which even the most intelligent of scholars who wanted to know their place in an ever changing world could say nothing but "Oh dear". No longer did people riot, they were too scared. Instead it was a much better idea just to watch the soaps, filler between commercial breaks.
The government too become corrupt. In preservation of their own welfare, minsters slowly manipulated the rules to give themselves more financial security and profit. No longer did a man enter politics for the benefit of his constituency, but as a pre-planned career path of high profit and no tax. The unions had truly been the voice of the people, but it had been a long time since they were no more. In collaboration with the newspaper's and broadcasters, pre orchestrated events kept the fear alive in the population, defending the institutions from an uprising.
Yes, the market forces had won. In this new world, satisfaction was impossible.
Television did its part too. Sensationalised rolling news coverage focused on the dark and fragile side of humanity, leaving the public with a sense of vulnerability. Relentless bombarding of terrifying pictures conveyed a world of fear, to which even the most intelligent of scholars who wanted to know their place in an ever changing world could say nothing but "Oh dear". No longer did people riot, they were too scared. Instead it was a much better idea just to watch the soaps, filler between commercial breaks.
The government too become corrupt. In preservation of their own welfare, minsters slowly manipulated the rules to give themselves more financial security and profit. No longer did a man enter politics for the benefit of his constituency, but as a pre-planned career path of high profit and no tax. The unions had truly been the voice of the people, but it had been a long time since they were no more. In collaboration with the newspaper's and broadcasters, pre orchestrated events kept the fear alive in the population, defending the institutions from an uprising.
Yes, the market forces had won. In this new world, satisfaction was impossible.
His mother tried to convince him otherwise, but he was having none of it. Never before how he felt some empowered. Last night was Halloween; he had dressed as a skeleton with a large padded head. This is how he's going to dress for ever now he thought to himself, and mum was tired of listening to him wine on all day. As long as it would keep him quiet.
The novelty soon wore of just plodding around the house. Toys aren't easily frightened. But down the road lives an elderly lady that let out such a freight when she saw him approach. Mum was in the back garden. The young boy made his way out.
Its a lot hotter wearing a Halloween costume during the day than the night. Even though its winter, the black frantic adsorbed every last bit of sunlight. He started to become thirsty. Eventually he got to the old lady's house, a couple rattles from his stick against the door, and he waited. The door slowly opened. Can't say trick or treat today, so he'll just have to scream.
Thud. She pretending to be scared to death. The boy was still thirsty. He stepped over the old woman's body and made his way to the kitchen. Not hard to find, the house was laid out the same as his. Trying to find the drinking glasses was a different matter all together. He opened all the low cupboards first, but they were just filled with pots and pans, cleaning up things for the sink, and pasta. He pulled over a chair. Rummaging through the higher cupboards he came across a mostly filled mutlipack of sweets the lady must have bought for trick or treaters, soon followed by the cupboard with the glasses.
Making himself at home, he sat at the breakfast table, mask to his side eatting his sweets. By now his mother had grown worried of him being so quiet in the house, and called the police after she realised he had gone missing.
Throught he kitchen window the boy could see the polic car making its way up the hill. Excited, he filled his pockets full of the remaining sweets and rushed out of the house, kissing the old lady's head on the way out to say thank you.
His mother was so happy to have him home, the police a little annoid that they had wasted there time. It was guy falks by the time anyone found the old lady.
N.B. Not too pleased with his one so no proof reading sorry, just glad to be writing again :(
The novelty soon wore of just plodding around the house. Toys aren't easily frightened. But down the road lives an elderly lady that let out such a freight when she saw him approach. Mum was in the back garden. The young boy made his way out.
Its a lot hotter wearing a Halloween costume during the day than the night. Even though its winter, the black frantic adsorbed every last bit of sunlight. He started to become thirsty. Eventually he got to the old lady's house, a couple rattles from his stick against the door, and he waited. The door slowly opened. Can't say trick or treat today, so he'll just have to scream.
Thud. She pretending to be scared to death. The boy was still thirsty. He stepped over the old woman's body and made his way to the kitchen. Not hard to find, the house was laid out the same as his. Trying to find the drinking glasses was a different matter all together. He opened all the low cupboards first, but they were just filled with pots and pans, cleaning up things for the sink, and pasta. He pulled over a chair. Rummaging through the higher cupboards he came across a mostly filled mutlipack of sweets the lady must have bought for trick or treaters, soon followed by the cupboard with the glasses.
Making himself at home, he sat at the breakfast table, mask to his side eatting his sweets. By now his mother had grown worried of him being so quiet in the house, and called the police after she realised he had gone missing.
Throught he kitchen window the boy could see the polic car making its way up the hill. Excited, he filled his pockets full of the remaining sweets and rushed out of the house, kissing the old lady's head on the way out to say thank you.
His mother was so happy to have him home, the police a little annoid that they had wasted there time. It was guy falks by the time anyone found the old lady.
N.B. Not too pleased with his one so no proof reading sorry, just glad to be writing again :(
He woke up in the middle of the night, a cold sweat running down his forehead. For the first time he could remember, a gripping fear of anxiety filled his body. He sat himself up on the edge of his pull-out bed, and started to control his breathing. Knowing what was happening help, but still didn't solve the root of his irrational fear. Guilt started to overcome him. He rummaged around in the dark of the study in search for his briefcase, trying his best not to wake the wife upstairs. He pulled out his diary for tomorrow. Four clients, three in the morning, one in the afternoon; finish early because it's a Wednesday. Was that it, just a fear of uncertainty? He put the book down on the chair he used as a bedside table and went back to sleep. Not for long.
He had never appreciated his clients behaviours before. This fear, this is what he'd tell them to 'snap out' of. How pointless that advice seemed to him now. He sat back up, this time turning on the desk lamp above his head. He flicked back through his diary. Who had he seen today? These memories shouldn't be so hard to recall if he truly cared about each client he saw. But, after 15 years in the profession, he had heard it all before. Just a matter of ticking off the days until the long weekends. He read over the names, and started to ponder what better advice he could have give each of them. Things seemed so much more apparent now with proper reflection and dissection of their issues. He scrawled down key words and bullet-pointed ideas for each of the day's patiences before looking over tomorrow's with his new found perception.
But still his didn't feel enough, his body felt tense. He had let down vulnerable people who had come to him for help. He had be too preoccupied with the routine of his own life to care. The only way to come clean, to feel at rest was to contact each person and individually apologise. At the back of the diary was an address book where, not always, he would jot down the details of his patience. At a quarter to four in the morning, with phone in hand he started to flick through the numbers until he came across the first client he recognised, shuffling on the edge of the bed in nerves and anticipation. The call was answer by a dreary voice woman. Disorientated, she view the doctor as an authoritative she daren't hang up, trying her best to at least sound awake.
Relief from the fear was instant, but addictive. Night after night, once the wife had gone upstairs to bed, he would make himself comfortable in the study, taking to clients throughout the hours until morning, regardless of their willingness to participate.
He had never appreciated his clients behaviours before. This fear, this is what he'd tell them to 'snap out' of. How pointless that advice seemed to him now. He sat back up, this time turning on the desk lamp above his head. He flicked back through his diary. Who had he seen today? These memories shouldn't be so hard to recall if he truly cared about each client he saw. But, after 15 years in the profession, he had heard it all before. Just a matter of ticking off the days until the long weekends. He read over the names, and started to ponder what better advice he could have give each of them. Things seemed so much more apparent now with proper reflection and dissection of their issues. He scrawled down key words and bullet-pointed ideas for each of the day's patiences before looking over tomorrow's with his new found perception.
But still his didn't feel enough, his body felt tense. He had let down vulnerable people who had come to him for help. He had be too preoccupied with the routine of his own life to care. The only way to come clean, to feel at rest was to contact each person and individually apologise. At the back of the diary was an address book where, not always, he would jot down the details of his patience. At a quarter to four in the morning, with phone in hand he started to flick through the numbers until he came across the first client he recognised, shuffling on the edge of the bed in nerves and anticipation. The call was answer by a dreary voice woman. Disorientated, she view the doctor as an authoritative she daren't hang up, trying her best to at least sound awake.
Relief from the fear was instant, but addictive. Night after night, once the wife had gone upstairs to bed, he would make himself comfortable in the study, taking to clients throughout the hours until morning, regardless of their willingness to participate.
Being a man of his intellect the world was all wrong; everything was too simple, dumbed down, never conveying the right message. As he stared down at the text it bothered him ever so much. How could someone not only make such a statement, but be paid by having it published. He could feel the anger build inside of him. Without thinking, he rummaged around in his satchel for a pen. When he finally pulled one out, it was red, the likes a teacher used to mark his work as a boy. A few quick glances over the shoulders. The librarian is busy at her desk. The others engrossed in their work, or flicking through the Internet. He drew a line under the text that inflamed him so, and wrote in the right hand margin "Bullshit!". For the first time in his life he had made a stand against the establishment, and it was invigorating. This pride for his own art filled his whole afternoon as he sat there looking at what he had done.
On his way home that night he saw so much more that bothered him. Billboards promising a better way of life, newspaper vendors taunting today's tragedy to pay their bills, even the television filled his evening with bad soaps conveying mixed metaphors of how to conduct your life. But for the first time he felt empowered to change these things, for his voice to be heard.
He was awake the next morning, brushed down and dressed before his alarm went off. With purpose in his step he made is way back to the local library. If just the forward of a simple play was wrong, there must be so much more for him to do within more important books on history, science and art. From open to close he sat there, reading book after book in his secluded corner, making alterations and jotting his viewpoint down in the right hand column. With practice came a more defined view, until all media with the library was nothing more than a vessel to perpetuate political viewpoints and myths. A few students who were common visitors soon started to recognise the man, an sat around his table listing to his new viewpoint.
"What do you think of this or that?", they would ask and he would read their coursework books for them, giving the student his material for the next essay.
It wasn't long before the library grew suspicious of the man's new found popularity. Staff try their best to subtly overlook what he was doing, overhear his seminars with students. They paid attention to which book he was reading, and then when he put them back scouted through the pages. The investigation was short, and the man's library membership and right to admittance were revoked.
Enraged in the same way that first line of text made him, the man protested his punishment outside the building, lecturing about the conformist agenda the library held. But the people did not want to hear the rantings of a crazy man. He had lost; the system he initially never intended to fight had one.
On his way home that night he saw so much more that bothered him. Billboards promising a better way of life, newspaper vendors taunting today's tragedy to pay their bills, even the television filled his evening with bad soaps conveying mixed metaphors of how to conduct your life. But for the first time he felt empowered to change these things, for his voice to be heard.
He was awake the next morning, brushed down and dressed before his alarm went off. With purpose in his step he made is way back to the local library. If just the forward of a simple play was wrong, there must be so much more for him to do within more important books on history, science and art. From open to close he sat there, reading book after book in his secluded corner, making alterations and jotting his viewpoint down in the right hand column. With practice came a more defined view, until all media with the library was nothing more than a vessel to perpetuate political viewpoints and myths. A few students who were common visitors soon started to recognise the man, an sat around his table listing to his new viewpoint.
"What do you think of this or that?", they would ask and he would read their coursework books for them, giving the student his material for the next essay.
It wasn't long before the library grew suspicious of the man's new found popularity. Staff try their best to subtly overlook what he was doing, overhear his seminars with students. They paid attention to which book he was reading, and then when he put them back scouted through the pages. The investigation was short, and the man's library membership and right to admittance were revoked.
Enraged in the same way that first line of text made him, the man protested his punishment outside the building, lecturing about the conformist agenda the library held. But the people did not want to hear the rantings of a crazy man. He had lost; the system he initially never intended to fight had one.
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