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This story was my first submission towards my literature with creative writing degree! For this portfolio we were asked to write 1500 words on any subject matter and in any style. Of course, this led my mind to wander down some questionable paths.

A smile bled from her lips the moment I pushed her. My little sister. Her nimble limbs collapsed before she hit the floating shore. There was a crack and something of a splutter between the screams and the waves that began to claim her body. The air was thick; I imagined her splitting it in half, like Moses and the red sea, when
she fell through it. Like a curtain call, the roaring sun played a spotlight to the show.

This wasn’t the first time I had seen her covered in blood and grasping for life. Her birth was disgusting. When she came out she was as pink and as raw as undercooked chicken; wailing as though entering this world was a punishment beyond all that Hell could muster. Babies are perceptive like that. I would wail too if my first encounter with world included a television screen playing the Sound of Music, as she did. That day was when I became aware of the human tendency to mask what is undeniably hideous for the sake of politeness; a convention for the civilised. I watched my mother writhe and howl for eleven hours only to be handed the consolation prize of a squirming gory infant. Yet, the audience cooed and cackled over the ‘miracle’ that was wrapped in the parcel of my mother’s own shining guts.
I was not supposed to be there. My father was due to arrive in time for the birth of his second child but he was seven hundred and sixty days late. I knew that because I’d been counting down the days to his return from the moment I knew how time worked. I had never met this man but my mum reminded me to call him dad despite this fact. He was a sergeant in the Vietnam War. He’d often send letters telling of his heroic endeavours. One tale, in particular, still clings to my memory. My father was in the jungle, he wasn’t a descriptive writer but in my head this jungle was like the picture books I was given at Christmas, full of wandering shadows and towers of green, teeming with creatures of a child’s nightmares or effervescent fantasies. He was alone until he heard a scream. A mother carrying an infant, not unlike my baby sister, and running. Her clothes were so ripped her naked flesh beamed through the tears of cotton. My father noted the terror on her face; the helplessness of a mother who couldn’t save her baby. For it was only a second or so later that her body turned into a cloud of
burning ash, an explosion so hot my father said he could feel it hit the ends of his own skin. Strips of red flesh fell from the sky. The particular letter ended there.

My grandmother did not want me at the hospital during the recovery of my mother’s own exploding body. She said little boys did not belong in wards where women’s screams bled into a chorus of an unforgiving pitch. She said to my mother, just loud enough for my child’s ears to hear, that I was in the way. I would be better off elsewhere. Her nose sat above a cup of tea as she spat the demands of my leave. But an old hag bound to a wheelchair had no chance of standing in the way of me meeting my father. And so I waited beside my mother’s bed. Her head rested like the moon, cratered and blotched with unfamiliar shades as she cradled the new-born beneath her breath. A vacant air possessed the sadness on her face. An obnoxiously large clock face was floating on the wall, distorting the silence with its regimented ticking.
We had been in the hospital a total of five days when a faceless nurse handed us the letter. The foreign stamps and half-assed handwriting revealed its sender before my mother tore the envelope. The rattling of the paper unleashed a screaming outcry from my little sister who had yet to learn the art of receiving bad news. My grandmother shooed me out of the room with her plastic bag arms. Her sickly-sweet scent was enough to coax me, but I already knew what the foreboding papered rectangle meant. ‘Daddy won’t be coming home for a little while yet darling, but you know our country needs him more than us…’ My mother was fond of this platitude. My father –her husband- was a hero who did heroic things in a country that needed heroes. He was my hero, this man I’d never met, and for almost three more years I carried on waiting.

When my sister became vaguely aware of her own existence, she took a fondness to the park. She gargled at the ducks especially, the curves of her mouth would grow wider as they waddled closer to her outstretched limbs. I did not like the park. It was a breeding ground for pre-digested amusement. It made me wince to watch children greedily run for the swings and bundle down the rusted slides. Some of the boys who did not like the park would protest their boredom in the form of mass slaughter behind the nearby cabin. They would take it in turns to rip worms from the ground and pull at the bright pink ends until they broke in half. Their eyes gleamed like little red sirens watching the worms writhe. Some days it was spiders. They took it in turns to pull out a leg until the winner pulled the leg which finally left the spider unable to walk. But they did not kill the spiders. On her second birthday, after a breakfast of waffles and ice-cream cake, we took my sister to the park. At this point her legs could almost keep her sufficiently balanced to let her play at running around. The sunlight danced between the trees that day. My mother had received a parcel from my father the day before, it was full of little wooden trinkets for my sister, her favourite of which was a little brown duck, and a pack of playing cards for me. My mother still wore the smile that parcel left her as we settled on the park bench. As soon as a chorus of quacks fell from the lake my sister leapt from her diapered behind and hurried towards the birds. On this particular occasion my mother left her to run as she pleased and my little sister chirped like she might too have had a little bird’s beak. The ducks appeared to play with the little girl. They were quite far into the distance when the slaughter boys headed over. Their tall, overshadowing bodies made the ducks scarce. My mother didn’t sense the trouble of these boys and besides, it was too late. The tallest boy plucked one of the frightened ducks from beside my sister and without even a murmur, twisted its neck. Scream.

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There’s a saying ‘Never meet your heroes’, but of course, this almost becomes impossible when that  hero is your own father.

Like most fans of the treasured novel ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, I was ecstatic  from the moment I heard about Harper Lee’s promising ‘sequel’, right up to its arrival  at my doorstep. Although I didn’t  expect that ‘Go Set a Watchman’ would entirely compare to  its universally praised predecessor; after engulfing its 300 pages (mostly in bewildered scepticism) I can’t help but feel somewhat betrayed.

The first offbeat blow from the novel was delivered in the nonchalant reveal  of Jem’s death. But, if Game of Thrones has taught me anything; that is, learning how to cope with sudden and arguably purposeless deaths of beloved characters. What is most dissatisfying about this  death, however, is that Jem’s role in Maycomb, and thereby the book itself,  is seemingly replaced by the unsung character of Henry Clinton. In fact, the novel describes how Atticus even ‘looked around for another young man.’ in order to virtually replace his son as an assistant and heir to his practise. Thus Lee fires the first arrow to Atticus Finch’s renowned integrity as a caring and admirable father figure.

Though he wasn’t present in To Kill a Mockingbird, Go Set A Watchmen retells of Scout and Henry’s childhood adventures and focuses on their current relationship which alludes to an impending marriage between the pair. Yet, there is little to the character of Clinton and his entire purpose seems to be that of persuading Scout to marry him. She doesn’t. Although arguably their relationship is one of romantic cliché, Scout’s ruthless independence is true to her character and certainly one of the few redeeming  aspects of the  story.

Yet it  is the final slap to the reader at the end of the novel which discredits  Go Set a Watchmen as a worthy ‘sequel’.  In a distressing turn of events, it is revealed that  Atticus Finch actually holds a number of racist views;  thereby entirely contradicting the  respectable character that  became  one of To Kill a Mockingbird’s cherished heroes. Scout also finds this reveal unforgivable and almost promises never to see her aged father again. In all it begs the question, why would Harper Lee needlessly defame one of the most treasured  characters in all of literature?

But of course it becomes entirely relevant that Go Set a Watchmen isn’t in fact a ‘sequel’ at all. Rather, it is the rejected first draft of what would become  To Kill a Mockingbird and hence this story has been unknown to the public for 50 years.  I abhor its publishers for branding this novel as ‘new’ and giving it the title of a ‘sequel’ when this is just simply not the case. Was the promising cash-draw of Go Set a Watchmen really worth the price of Literature’s  acclaimed father figure?

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There are lines in my skin,
A wavering  taunt;
But I’ve grown old a thousand times
And I will die a thousand times more

I’ve been married twice,
Had children, not all with names,
Some I don’t even recall.
But I shall marry again, perhaps even twice,
And children; a thousand more.

Sometimes I die,
In a room, in a bed
Or on the floor.
But no need to scream
‘Is she  dead’?
For I will die a thousand
Times more.

This poem is about looking into the future; how we go over events in our heads that haven’t yet happened or may never happen. If we live moments enough in our mind, can they eventual seem real or at least strikingly familiar? I’ve particularly thought of this with regards to getting older and life’s impending death. (You can always trust me for an optimistic spark to your daily reading!)
Also, by thinking and imagining the less fortunate futures, do we tamper with our present?

 

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I have learned a great many of things during my year as an Art student, not least of which being how to ‘pull-off’ the splodges of paint that stubbornly stick to locks of my hair and refuse to be washed out. Here is a small collection of work that didn’t fall victim to my follicles.

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We had always stayed rooted in our home town. My wife and I did not rely upon recycled dreams of travelling the world in order to justify our existence. We enjoyed how our trees arched beyond the hills and how our neighbours never changed and how we always knew exactly what to expect. When there is no future there is no time and nothing to pass you by.

It was autumn when the Merriweathers moved in to the cottage next door. Those walls had been empty for a long while and I greatly enjoyed the company of no-one.  I had little care of my own to meet them, though my wife was persistent that we should make a good first impression. That was another flaw with women; they required, almost insatiably, to be liked. When the moving vans and cardboard boxes diluted, we laundered the third best bottle of wine from our pantry and cheerfully arrived at our new neighbour’s new house. As the door opened, so did Mr. Merriweather’s stonking eyes as he observed the beauty of my wife. He was perplexed at our apparent offering of free booze until we unveiled the nature of our arrival. Our adjacent living situation was apparently a cause for celebration. He welcomed us in and we sat a few hours and drank from bubble-wrapped glasses. Of course he was a promising doctor of some sort; his wife was three kids down but not looking too bad on it. Luckily James, Lucy and Michael were spending that afternoon elsewhere but I did not doubt that I would soon be hearing their acquaintance from our unnervingly close radius. My wife could not bear children, but not in the same way that I couldn’t. Hence, my last name has remained, and will remain, my own.
I did not like Martin Merriweather. Nobody, especially that soon after moving into a new house, could present such a fine tray of cakes in the face of unexpected guests. If you have Mr. Kipling on standby, it can only be concluded that you think too highly of yourself or too low and Martin did not have the physique of a man who found comfort in confectioneries.
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I was nine years old when I first saw my wife naked, when both her body and maiden name remained intact. It was summer. The outdoor pools were dense with sweating bodies cradling the water’s cool waves. Middle-aged men bobbed up and down beneath the ripples whilst little wet droplets crept down their brows. She was heedless as I was headless; diving so intently and carelessly her swimsuit unravelled, blossoming a naked, virtuous flame from the communal pool. The splashes instantly curtailed and her beautiful, spotless body –ripened from embarrassment- started to cry unto an audience of sorry parents and mocking children. As a premature young boy I had no intention of staring, although my fascination of the human form begged me to, I grabbed a towel from the side and threw it at her. The towel immediately soaked her shame as she galloped from the pool and retreated. I was nine years old when I first fell in love with my wife.

Within the passing decades she no longer relied on me to cover her up. She used make-up to hide the imperfections that I enjoyed.  Men would frequently leer in their short bouts of lust.  Her cheeks didn’t blush from childish tomfooleries but from pink dusty powders. Her fresh, teary eyes were blackened by heavy-handed mascara. She was a cut-out from a magazine that I had no desire to read. Women try so desperately to conceal the truth. My father did not run out on my mother, for example, he had died in the Second World War but was later discovered- quite alive- in another lady’s bed.

 

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My wife had never looked better than when I saw her lying in that box. Its hard edges appeared to soften her soured milk complexion and gave in to the heavenly emanation of her bottomless sleep. I looked down on her and smiled.
The funeral was damp with artificial light; shadows played ghosts down the church pews. Feeble coughs and quiet mutters shook the silence as I waited for my cue to leave; I was in a hurry. For twenty two years I haven’t missed a single episode of Count Down on channel four and my wife would surely not rest in peace if she knew I had missed it on her behalf.
In my façade I said goodbye to the crinkled, throwaway sweet wrapper that once contained the woman I loved. The church was the finest theatre of all but I never would allow my own body to become a prop for the wicked.
Still, I had played my part in this tragedy.

This is the first draft of a short story I am currently working on. I fear I may be a little out of my depth in certain aspects of its tale but, as my first proper attempt at any fiction, I’m trying to hold down all expectations! 

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