A Day in the Life of a Journalist.

I'm a small town kind of guy. The place that I call home credits itself with a singular road in or out, a perimeter of fields, about 4 churches and the same amount of pubs; and that’s about it. No train stations connecting us to anywhere or endless floods of people rushing like salmon through busy streets. It’s not at all surprising then that, stepping off of the Temple line underground train, on my way to meet an extremely well established and credited national journalist come charity chairman for a one on one meeting in Somerset house, the main emotions flooding through me were apprehension and a sense of not belonging.

The journalist I had travelled to London to see was Charles Clover, former Environment editor at The Daily Telegraph and current columnist at The Sunday Times.  As well as winning the British Environment and Media’s National Journalist of the Year award in 1989, 1994 and 1996, he is also the chairman of his own founded organisation, The Blue Marine Foundation, and the author of The End of the Line – a book turned film about the consequences of overfishing on the seas. So my apprehension is understandable, I wasn't meeting the local sports writer but rather a man who has a serious voice in the journalistic world. Unlike my home-town, this journalist is well connected to the outside world.

To start at the beginning, for a views months I have had the good fortune to have started a dialogue between myself and Mr Clover, all through the chance that my flatmate happened to of mentioned she knew the journalist through her family. After sending a copy of my CV and an example of my work, he was gracious enough to allow me to meet him at The Blue Marine Foundation headquarters, based in Somerset House in London for a coffee and a chat about the industry.

Sitting there, in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by the stunningly bourgeoisie architecture of Somerset House, with a coffee and a croissant and talking about the nature of journalism with a well-established journalist, it was hard not to stifle the feeling of awe and keep up the image of confidence and belonging that I worked so hard to build. The importance of postgraduate degrees and NCTJ’s in journalism, the core skills fundamental to success, and the tricky and illusive nature of nepotism and the crucial process of networking – we spoke at length about all of this, yet not in the mechanically formal way I had envisioned. Instead the conversation was fluid and full of insightful stories, anecdotes laden with tricks of the field that told me more about what to do than a bullet point list of abstracts ever could. It was colloquial and relaxed, and even though when I left all I had with me was a scarcely touched notepad and clean, inkless fingers, I felt infinitely more informed than when I had arrived.

The best was yet to come. I had expected a short meeting over a coffee and then quick farewells and that would be it. Especially given the release of the Tory Manifesto on the same day which held huge repercussions for The Blue Marine Foundation, making it more than a standard day at the office for Mr Clover. Yet, despite all of this I was offered the chance to become a fly on the wall for a crucial day in a charitable lobbyist environment and watch the formulation and circulation of a national story. I won’t speak too much about this, but watching the teamwork and unity that was present in making this story was fascinating. The attention to every syllable and the contacts they used to get the word out quickly gave me my first formal glimpse of what a career in this environment would be like. It was enthralling.

As I left I was given the email address for a senior political journalist at The Sunday Times and a recommendation from Mr Clover (yet somehow I still managed to hide the project X party going on inside me and appear at least semi-professional) and that was it. It didn’t really hit me until I was safely Chichester-bound on the train, but I had just had my first glimpse at the inner-circle of journalism and had been given an opportunity to experience it again. I think the man sat opposite me mistook me for emoji given the size of the smile on my face.

It is often said that journalism is a field primarily based around nepotism; that it is not what you do but rather who you know that will cement your career in the field. Call me an optimist or a naïve dreamer, but this view has always felt too cynical for me to believe. I still believe that it’s your commitment and intelligence that define you, but knowing a couple of the right people sure as hell doesn't hurt your chances.

Freedom of Speech or Freedom to insult?

At what point should the line be drawn?

‘Je Suis Charlie’ and the atrocities that gave birth to the phrase have reignited talks of the Freedom of Speech, but what has become glaringly obvious is exactly how much true liberty the ‘freedom’ entails is obscure in the eyes of many.

An independent survey by Spiked Online has been carried out across universities across the country. The survey explores the University’s official policies and then ranks it, via a traffic light system, on how fertile the University is for Freedom of Speech. In doing so it aims to inform the public on the censorship of voices at the most powerful academic institutions and hold those which severely limit Freedom of Speech to account.

This survey was carried out at the University of Bristol, the University of which I attend, and it found that Bristol was a volatile area for those who wish to speak their minds. The University was given the red rating, with such reasons as:

‘The university believes that an atmosphere of free and open discussion is essential to its life and work. Such an atmosphere can be achieved only if all concerned behave with necessary tolerance and avoid needlessly offensive or provocative action and language.'

What constitutes offensive behaviour then, and why should I be told I cannot say what I want if it offends someone? Clearly it is trying to discourage the slander of minority groups, but at what point does this restrict actual informative arguments? If I was to shout a racial slur out towards someone of a different ethnic origin, clearly this would be deemed inappropriate. However if I, as a male, chose to disagree with a policy of the Feminist society for instance, would that be inappropriate, or is that my right? How is it possible to govern such a chalk-line of distinctions and create a policy which both protects our vocal liberty and minority groups from offence?

Freedom of Speech, as a concept and not an act, is not supposed to protect those at the abusive end of slander. In fact it exists to state that we can say whatever we want, no matter how belligerent it may be, as it is our fundamental right. Whether we choose to be hostile and abuse this right comes down to our morals and the level of empathy we as individuals contain.

At the same time, strictly speaking from an institutional viewpoint, an educational facility, especially one which houses an extremely diverse student body both in terms of sexual orientation and racial diversity, has a duty to protect those under its care. It needs to be seen to be actively encouraging diverse and stimulating discussion whilst simultaneously making sure minority groups are not discriminated against.

In short, the issue of freedom of speech is a conundrum. Whilst personally I find the Universities policies perfectly apt, I recognise that this is somewhat biased as I have never had a viewpoint of my own become restricted due to its possible offence. In terms of a national and inter-national scale there has to be a line drawn on what constitutes free speech and what constitutes deliberately antagonising minority groups which could lead to violence and the mass demonization of an entire culture. But that is an argument for another time.

Short Story: Meredith

Here is another short story I have recently written. Hopefully this should be in my Universities creative arts magazine, so hopefully you enjoy it! It was done based on the theme of memory.

Enjoy.

***

'I forget where we were now, but back in the 50's... or maybe it was the sixties? When was it the war ended?'

'It doesn't matter Meredith, it's time to take your medicine now,' with a sigh Peter pushed the pill towards her face one more time 'come on, doctors’ orders!'

'No no no it must've been in the 60's, I remember I was just starting as an estate agent,'

'Meredith you were a landlord,' the lack of life this woman held made him feel even more despondent than his job normally did.

'Oh. No I was sure... really? Oh.' Meredith turned her eyes back towards the window, tracing the drops of rain down, watching them dissipate when they reached the bottom. She took her pill.

'Good girl, I'll be back at three to give you your next batch,' he was sure she hadn't heard him, but it mattered nonetheless. By now she had probably forgotten he had even been in, hell she probably lost the notion of time long ago.

'Hey Pete can I....’

'No.' Peter didn't have many friends here, so shrugging probably a simple request off didn't bother him in the slightest. He had finished his morning rounds, and come hell or high water he would have his cigarette at eleven on the dot. Stepping onto the front steps, underneath a grand yet age tainted Georgian pillar, he blew out toxins into the fresh air. There was something soothing in the steady burning of tobacco that calmed him after the rigorous morning rounds left him feeling isolated and imperturbable. Transfixed by the pluming of the smoke rising upwards, through winter’s rain and into the clouds, Peter finally felt relieved. This place had become a plague on his optimism, with all of its bleached walls and fine, green gardens, the nursing home had steadily changed from a place of rest for life's survivors into a cesspit of the damned, the entry parlour of the river Styx. Recently his joints had been aching more than normal, his relative sleep pattern had died a death and forced him into the realms of the insomniac and he became more and more disillusioned with the current fashions and pop culture. Technology had become that spectral concept that evaded him whilst the practises he had been raised with were now renamed as the 'old fashioned ways'. Day by day, minute by minute, the monotony of his career as a carer, one of which he was particularly proud, reshaped his understanding of himself and his patients. The issue was that he was seeing more of himself in these ghouls every day, so much so that he begun to imagine he could feel the wrinkles on his brow deepening, his organs slowing down. Beforehand, the elderly had been respected by him. He came into this line of work because he loved to hear their stories, of riches and adventures, of love and loss and survival. It was the tales of youth he craved, the ability to talk to people who had experienced all life had to offer and learn from them, whilst helping them finish the final chapter of their own existence. Yet when it came to it, it was nothing like he had imagined. There hadn't been nights sat in a chair listening to them talk about their exotic and dangerous lives, but rather mornings when he would come in to find bedpans clean whilst bed sheets lay soiled, not tales and memories and lives but rather aloofness and unawareness accompanied by symphonies of 'umm, err, I do remember dear just give me a second, what was that, who did you say you were?' Loathing the prospects of business and a life led in dedication to money, he had instead opted to care for the elderly, yet reaching his 'golden' years himself he had found that he held very little nostalgia for his past and even less hope for his future. He had not seen the world, he had not found love and he had not been a success. The only true adventure he had been on was when he moved to Australia in his twenties. He had fallen blindly and totally in love, and for the briefest window it felt as if he could claim the happiness that had always evaded him. But his fear of having children and her subsequently cheating on him led to his heart breaking after 5 years of youthful happiness and eventually leaving the country without a penny to his name. In one fell swoop his lust for travelling, money and monogamy had been demolished, leaving him a husk of the man he could have been. Even know he still held her photograph, 13 years had passed yet he still went to bed with her image painted across his iris. They spoke occasionally as old friends, yet neither of them seemed to be able to forgive the other. He would always be hers, but he would be damned if she were ever to find that out. Instead, he chose to listen to the lives of others, of everything that could never be his. Lusting after tales of youthful adventures of the old had led any chance of his own youthful adventures to wither away with age. Oh the irony of hindsight! What was the point in happiness if it has an expiration date? What was the point of existence if you couldn't remember where you had come from? It all sounded a little bit too much like purgatory to him. Sucking the final drag from what had turned into his third cigarette and glancing up at the stormy sky, he returned to the vegetables.

Regular as clockwork, three O’clock struck once again. Another set of pills for Meredith, another trivial conversation about nothing because she no longer understands anything. Wonderful.

‘Come on Meredith, up you get, its three O’clock, it’s time for your medication,’ he droned, not even crediting her with a glance, ‘Meredith get up.’ Turning away from the medication on the cabinet he had been paying attention too, he faced the bed. Crinkles in the sheet and a duvet pulled open at one end showed she hadn’t been a figment of his imagination, but Meredith herself had left. She hadn’t been scheduled for social time, nor did she have any appointments or scheduled reason for her not being in her room for her three O’clock medication; no this was an escape, a 60+ course in espionage. Later he would chastise himself for his own mind, but his initial reaction was to panic at the inconvenience of losing his job thanks to some old woman going walk about. How could it be fair that his life would be ruined for losing some mediocre old lady who probably only had 6 months in her at best? Pacing through the corridors, he searched for her in the most subtle way possible, by acting as if he was very busy and couldn’t talk to anyone whilst searching every toilet, rec room and ward in the place. The walls began to appear more lucid, the cracks far wider than before. A single lightbulb hanging from its own cord gave the corridors a morbid air that worked itself into Peters mind. It began to feel like she could have slipped into any crack, fallen down any drain. She was nowhere, it was if she had evaporated from existence like a plume of smoke in the winter’s rain, dissipating into the atmosphere. Sweat began to trickle as the realisation came that the media would probably get a hold of this, he would become one of those evil caricatures that despise the elderly, the ones who get eggs thrown at them and beaten in the streets. As the image became clearer the exact gravity of the situation hit him, making his lungs begin to fail. With breaths becoming shorter, near the point of hyperventilation, Peter ran outside for cigarette to offset the encroaching panic attack. Dragging deep on the cigarette, he allowed himself briefly to stop and clear his mind when suddenly he felt the touch of hope for himself and Meredith. Standing in front of the tree line opposite the care home stood a shrunken, frail looking figure. The flow of her hospital gown in the wind gave her a ghostly presence as the woods ahead drew her in.

Winters rain had always been far more poetic when Peter wasn’t running through it in nothing but his scrubs. The tiny molecules of water numbed his skin, making the continuous onslaught of water feel as if it was tearing the flesh from his very arms. The wind got deep into his chest, making him wheeze as the mud slowed his progress into the wood, for the first time in his life he regretted that last cigarette. But he could see her, albeit obscurely, through the tree line, skipping deeper into the woods that surrounded Ms Morgan’s Care home. Wait skipping? He had barely seen her move from her bed to her wheel chair without aid, how could she be skipping. Dodging the roots that grabbed at his feet and the foliage that ripped at his clothing, he closed the gap between them.

‘Meredith what are you doing? You’ll give yourself pneumonia, its January for Christ sakes!’ Each word felt like agony in his chest, yet she hadn’t seemed to of broken a sweat getting here, ‘please Meredith, I don’t want you dying because of my irresponsibility.’

‘Oh honey, if I die it will be because I chose too, not because you didn’t poke your head round the door to make sure I hadn’t tunnelled out of my room.’ A grin illuminated her face, revealing a distinct lack of teeth that did her smile no favours. Just two hours ago she wouldn’t have been able to tell Peter her own name, yet now she seemed to of gained her own mind back. As she spoke she walked in circles, letting the trickles of rain run onto her skin as she stroked incandescent branches that shimmered at her touch.

‘These were my father’s woods an era ago. That prison up there was once my home, before the Doctors and the carers claimed it from me, finances were never quite my forte. Some of my greatest memories lie in the earth surrounding this Oak tree, sometimes it feels as if geysers lay beneath this earth filled to the brim with trickles from my life, waiting to burst open when this anchor, myself my dear, chooses to give itself back to the soil…’

The rain and the wind became irrelevant after that. Peter didn’t even notice when the sun fell from the sky and tiny pinholes of light burst through the blackness. The lucidity of her mind, the dementia and the confusion had left, and she poured forth about her own life. About the elements of her being resting in these woods; it was here she had run when her father’s wrath had scared her as a child, the salt from her tears tainting the trunk of the Oak with sorrow. He had died when she was 20 whilst hunting game from what she had suspected to be a heart attack, his body found leant against the very trunk that soothed his child from him. These woods housed her first taste of whiskey that numbed her tongue and warmed her insides surrounded by the comfort of friends, and it was here she had first felt the lovers touch. Similarly it was here that very lover was buried on his return from the war, with nothing but an unmarked Oak tree to represent his place of rest. Today was his birthday, and she never failed to visit him on his birthday. She explained how she could still smell him pulsating from the trunk, as if the roots themselves had become intertwined with his remains, letting his blood mingle with the sap within the tree, giving him a new lease of life. These woods, that house, it was all her; a nebula of relationships with each point of this great, old place. She had been raised and lived her, and it was here she would die when God willed it to be. Whilst she spoke she sat on a great root of that old oak tree, her fingertips stroking the rough surface of the bark, the touch keeping the illumination within her body alive. Stories of the war, of her subsequent depression and her inability to move past the death of her love filled the air that evening, life had broken her too young and she had never been able to marry, to move onto something new, so this was all she had. No money, no family, just an old oak tree, fertilised with the seeds of her existence. She was the richest person Peter ever had the good fortune of meeting.

That night would be the brightest her mind would shine. When Peter finally pulled her back to the house, a fever had set itself within her. Two days later she was dead. Peter was instantly fired for negligence for allowing her to go wandering about during winter, and subsequently letting her stay out for 6 hours in the rain. He did not care though, in all honesty he would quit after that night even if they hadn’t fired him. Yet he stayed for a while, Meredith held no will, had pittance in her bank and specified nowhere what was to be done with her remains. He ensured she was cremated, and sprinkled the dust of her on the roots of the Oak himself, letting the release of her life wash over him as it was dispelled into the earth. Taking out a knife he brought with him he carved her name into the Oak, marking the tree that held her life with her own epigraph, solidifying her name for as long as the Oak would live.

Peter left the care home then. He drove straight to the airport and bought the first ticket to Australia he could find. He had known a girl there once. There was apologies to be made, second chances to be taken. If fates be willing, he would still be able to grow his own Oak tree.

Update

Just a quick post to let you know the URL of my blog has changed!!

It is now purewriting.blogspot.co.uk simply because its far easier to remember and type in.

Obviously if you had made it this far you probably realise that... but just for future reference!

James

Short Story: Echoes of Darkness

Here is another short story I wrote for a competition. This time however I entered it in two separate competitions, because why not.

This first one operates through small donations such as 10p and so forth rather than votes. Obviously this is a bigger commitment than a +1 so I will be truly grateful for any donations! The link is http://contestfiction.com/echoes-of-darkness/

It is also posted at the following link: http://www.seam.tv/jam/echoes-of-darkness/, so if you enjoyed it give it a +1 on the website, it would be a great help to me!

Enjoy...

'Human skin is not capable of wearing frost like a sleeve. It was not designed to be so, we do not have the luxuries of fur and bodies covered in hair to hold it at bay, to stop it freezing our shell. We are not insulated like the animal kingdom, we are naked and weak in the face of winter. If we could only feel at home in the cold we may fear death considerably less, maybe if people knew what it truly was to be naked and alone and cold there would be nothing to fear in the sanctity of the grave, it would be welcome change to the masquerade of niceties that consist of the average human life.'

'This place breeds cynicism,' David Johnson stood before the grave, not really looking at it but rather through the slab of slate and into whatever void actually held his wife. Supposedly these graveyards emitted a sense of peace, a sense that all the loved ones you had lost were close to you, so close, and that was supposed to help the mourning process. But he knows that's not true, that is simply propaganda from those who have made it through the veil of darkness that shrouds itself around you after the tragedy, those deluded lost souls bound in a perpetual state of purgatory. No, the true emotions of the graveyard are far more byzantine than that. David had been through enough trauma in his life to know that there was no such quiet relief, it is a lie. Over the decades he had gained a quiet, yet encompassing, understanding of why the emotional loss of people was so difficult. It was because of the 'comfort' that we as people are 'natural' and therefore, as a principle, death is 'natural' as well. But we are not. He had seen enough of the world in his time to know that the reason nature, with all its outstanding beauty and intricate systems of life, is so able to shrug off the encroaching reality of death, is because it operates devoid of conscience. The reason birds, fish, insects and mammals are able to carry out the atrocity of infanticide, as an example, is because they act on the basis of the survival of their line, their species, and hold no sentimental value. The fact that the 'natural' world holds no conscience makes the very death of people, psychologically speaking, unnatural. 'This is supposed to be a day for her,' he said aloud, watching the wisps of condensed air plume around the space in front of him. At 67 David had still never been able to highjack his train of thought and steer it in the direction it was supposed to be in. Dropping the flowers in the mound of snow frozen atop his wife's resting place, David turned and left, his ephemeral footprints and rapidly deceasing flowers the only sign of recognition of the life so very cherished, and so cruelly taken.

The monotonous trudge of his journey home took its toll that day; mid-January was a relentless time to go walkabouts this far north but it had been a pilgrimage, a necessity. This would be his final day here, in this place of ice and concrete, microwave meals and documentary's, so how could he not lay the flowers one last time? He, David, a creature of relentless habits could never leave any loose ends, especially with the mourning of his wives, and subsequently his, life. Funny isn't it, how reliant we are? Like a cliché we cannot live by ourselves after becoming to intricately wound around another. But that's okay, for David did not plan on being separated from her for much longer. Years of research into mechanics and experimental physics, coupled with his true belief that we are not natural, that we are higher forms of being and therefore the laws of nature no longer applied had made contact possible. Arriving home, David threw out his habitual nature, he did not go to the kettle to make Tea, grab the newspaper and sit in his chair. He did not adjust the heating setting and go over his finances, making sure his pension was all in order. The microwave would not ding tonight for the Tesco's finest shit lasagne. Today he broke the ice on the garage door and went inside, closing it behind him, surrounding himself, other that the singular swinging light bulb, in darkness. For weeks he had been working to make something to see her again, for one last moment. In all honesty, it was nothing pretty or awe-inspiring. A bric-a-brac of left over metal and odds and ends soldiered together to make a monstrosity of a device. It was not a flashy car that would captivate pop culture for years, it had no moving parts to shunt it through the space-time continuum, no it ran on diesel oil and consisted of a few seats and a lever. But it would do. Placing himself inside his monstrosity, he put his time-machine to its first human trial.

Even under fire David's thoughts never ceased to wonder. He'd heard about strange forms of defence mechanisms but his own seemed to ultimately hinder him, especially in times of war. Whilst bullets formed and dissipated from the immense darkness of the jungle and his comrades fell around him, all he could think of was the transcendent beauty where he had found himself. This place could easily be the firmament, the way the iridescent light bounces off of the water, the shadow puppets the leaves create, fill his entire body with awe. But it is not so. Like the Sirens this place tempts with beauty, to have it thwarted by the consistent nature of death that lies in abundance here. Forgetting Nixon's bombs destruction and the Guerrilla warfare dismembering their force, even the jungle holds dangers. Poisons and disease, wild animals and critters swollen to inordinate sizes all threaten death in equal amounts to the oriental whispers that form the Viennese resistance.

'David what the fuck are you doing? Shoot the squinty eyed fuckers don't hug your gun like it’s your mother!' Screamed someone, anyone, what did it even matter? Some bulldog from up the ranks no doubt, obviously he knows he can't let men die for their country if he won't even poke his head out, but like a few more bullets are going to affect anything. He is not Achilles, his scream does not send back the tides of armies. He is David. His scream is weak and his body is frail from malnutrition. But he obeys, he shoots and he kills and he cries as men, comrades, explode around him. But he will not stand for this anymore, he has never felt patriotic, he has no family to disgrace; he is a ghost drifting through the jungle better off gone, dead, never here. He shall tie himself to the ship to hear the Sirens song, but it will not devour him.

It was surprisingly easy to desert once you had your mind set on it. After ensuring that he didn't die during the day, he simply waited until they dug in for the night, and slipped away into the darkness. The most difficult part was trying to conceal his plan; it wasn't a fantastic and intricate plan, there were no maps or building work to be hidden from guards who expected you to try and get out, but his face felt like it was wearing his guilt as a mask. He couldn't look anyone in the eye, and if a captain spoke to him he would try to avoid eye contact, but he managed to conceal his intention in spite of hating himself throughout every minute of him. Finally though he could relish in the darkness, in the beauty of the jungle, in its holocenic radiance. David, the failed student, the disserted soldier was free to wander. Freedom, pure and total, was his for as long as he had the will to survive this place. And he would survive this place.

Once his mind wandered, now his mind was caged within its infinite freedom. He was a man of the bush, a nomad of the jungle, his mind was free to fixate on anything. And it fixated on everything. In the silhouette of leaves he saw creatures, hideous creatures baring the resemblance of his squadron. In the bark of tree's he saw the face of his mother, crying, at the wretch her oh-so-clever son had become in her absence. Looking at himself in the reflection of a puddle, he was met with a stranger. Wide eyes met with pierced lips and chestnut hair became a solid mass of black mud fixed into position on top of his head. A nebula of scratches covered his body and face, showing through the patchwork quilt that once was the uniform of a proud American soldier. For weeks, he imagined, he had lived off of shrubbery and roots he was shown in his basic survival training, sleeping intermittingly throughout the day as to make sure he could ward of the night, away from prying eyes. A nocturnal hermit, how funny life is! David took his eyes from the stranger, and continued forward into the jungle, slicing away the touch of branches with his knife. Walking through, alert as ever, the overwhelming feeling of eyes on him became apparent, surveying him for his next move. He had learnt the feeling of the jungle, it always felt as if you were being watched, never truly alone; yet this was different. This was not some animalistic entity or the asphyxiation of the jungle playing with his sense, this was a human gaze that was on him, perhaps several. Not changing his stride or acting any differently he continued forward, his pistol would be little use if the Guerrillas had followed. Reaching casually towards his belt, he pulled the pin of a grenade and dropped it, acting as if it was a stone he had kicked. What a nice little performance, what a paradox of vision. Instantaneously he changed the direction he was going and burst into a sprint, allowing the cloud of mud to blind his pursuers. Eyes could have been anywhere, everywhere, he could be running towards them towards death, but that mattered not; he would not die without trying to outsmart these forest folk. Hurdling over roots and through vines, he zig-zagged frequently, but no bullets followed him. Beginning to relax and slow down, he was turning his head to check for adversary's when the forest floor opened, and grasping hands pulled him below.

He found himself in a tunnel, descending seemingly infinitely either side of him, housing nothing but stalactites of roots and the grotesque feel of insects on his skin. The forest had been dark but this place was the inside of the earth, a place not meant for human eyes - the soul of the darkness had found him. Dirt rained down atop of him as hurried footsteps crossed over the hatch, frustrated voices mixed with breathlessness let him know his pursuers had passed. David refused to turn to his saviour for some time, he knew it would be an American soldier that had infiltrated their networks, their mole hills, and was bound to turn him in. But they remained silent... the person who saved him was afraid of him, they were timid. Turning he was not sure whether to be afraid or relieved, for crouched in that desolate darkness of the tunnel was a small girl. Perhaps 16? 17, these forest folk look younger, look hungrier. She was filthy and dressed and rags, her hair was matted and physically moved with the presence of lice. Like his own, she sported a criss-cross of scratches from the encroaching branches of trees, as well as bruised and calloused hands held above her head, which with the aid of a dismembered shirt revealed the glimpse of a small pink breast. He could see through the dirt caked on her face that she had sharp cheekbones and slit eyes, exotic and mysterious compared to his aquiline nose and blunt, pasty cheeks. Amidst the filth lay a gem of a girl, strong and attractive if only you peeled away the grub.

'I keep safe, you take away,' she clearly held little knowledge of the English language, and in his blustered state David held no meaning of ‘take away.’

'You want me to leave?' he gestured with his hands, its true he felt a strange attraction towards this girl so this came with a previously unknown feeling of...hurt? No, disappointment. He was not inclined to raping and violence as some of his other 'comrades' but he would not be moved from the sanctity of the jungles veins, potential beauty be damned.

'I keep safe, you take me with you. You take me away,' stammered the girl, clearly petrified - yet commanding none the less. David gave an awestruck face at the request, the cherub gave a glint of emerald iris, and he knew he was hers to command.

*                    *                        *

'Listen all due respect but move out of my fucking way. Your who? I don't care if you own this hospital my father is in there and I will see him, rules be damned.'

'Sir you don't understand, your father is in a critical condition and..'

'I understand plenty, I understand enough to know that whether I'm here or there, he will die. I would prefer to be there, if that's okay with you?' Joe had never been a big man, but the gravel in his voice was enough to command people far above his station, even if he lacked the metal to support his authoritarian voice. Using his shoulder and the momentum from the stride he had previously been keeping, he slammed through the door to a picture no better or worse than expectation. His father lay, frail and small, underneath a blanket with various tubes and pipes attached to his body, like he was being attacked by so many snakes.

'Who found him?' he asked warily,

'The neighbour, they found him with the garage door shut - he was inside his car with his foot on the pedal. I'm sorry to say this, but it looks..'

'Like suicide. I know.' In truth Joe had been waiting for this day for some time. He could not dedicate the time to his father to help him past his mother’s death, the burden of a travelling job. Even if he could have, he doubted he could have affected him. In all his life Joe had never been able to find a love as all-encompassing as his parents.

'You know he fought in nam?' Joe desperately wanted the doctor to remain, he did not have the strength to remain in this room alone. 'It’s where he met my mother. An American and a Viennese fall in love, he deserts and they hide out from the war, escaping once the troops had departed. A true romance ey?'

'They sound like incredible people,' not sincere, but it doesn't matter.

'They were, they escaped to Switzerland after that. Remained for the rest of their lives in blissful paradise. He never got over her cancer; it took my mother, but it killed my father.'

'Sir, he is not dead yet. We still have hopes that,'

'His will is gone. He will pass soon.' Joe was not a cynic, but he knew his father. Approaching the bedside he kissed his father's forehead one last time, as David Johnson slipped into his past.

Davis Johnson yearned for his own machine into the past. But time does not allow us second grace. In the darkness of some spectral jungle, two specks of light come together engulfing themselves in brightness and heat, shining bright enough to oppose the stars for a singular second, before they are smothered by the darkness once more.

Boredom

Isn’t boredom the strangest human trait? When there is nothing going on and we have nothing to do, boredom inevitably sinks in and we find ourselves watching reruns of sitcoms we’ve seen 3 dozen times or playing video games that we should of grown out of years ago yet still cannot quite let go off. We are bored, so therefore we do pointless things that aren’t fully entertaining, but are slightly more entertaining than the nothing we were doing beforehand. Rather than curing the boredom by working for fulfilment and achievement, we work to stay in the ruts that gave birth to the boredom in the first place. Boredom is a vicious circle it seems.

We spend money we don’t have on alcohol/cigarettes/drugs we don’t want to try and kill this anthropomorphic emotion that sits on our chest. We meet with people we don’t particularly want too and piss away our time to fight it off for a few moments longer. At the time its natural, almost as natural as sleep or hunger, yet if you stop and actually think about, why do we do it?

If you watch any Attenborough documentary you never see a predator staying asleep for a few hours extra because ‘they have nowhere to be,’ so this emotion isn’t natural. It is born out of societies focalised around an abundance of everything; out of lack of necessity and fear, a lack of reason to make us stand and work for something, a lack of purpose.

Yet boredom is not only a hindrance. After feeling the sting of boredom for too long, it can be this very emotion that drives us to work for something, to make something of ourselves. The same way it can send us down the wrong path to try avoid it (you only need to look so far as the Jeremy Kyle Show to see what boredom can do to some people,) it can also spur us on to ultimately better ourselves, to drive away the pangs of boredom with success and purpose.

This being said, that is not what I do. When the work for the day is finished, I find it far easier to sign into Netflix than to continue trying to write. The lure of American drama’s is stronger than that of the sirens in the ancient stories. Wasting time doing nothing feels far more fulfilling than busting my brain trying to think any more than I have too. Yet one day, when I exhaust Netflix’s seduction and simply run out of money for Friday night drinks, I might too drive away the pangs of boredom with success and purpose. Unless the breaking bad sequel comes out before that, obviously.  

Short Story: Sophrosyne

This is a short story I recently wrote as a part of a flash competition with the theme of 'Selfies'. A strange theme, but I gave it a go! If you like the story please vote it up on this website and help me out! Enjoy.

http://www.seam.tv/jam/sophrosyne/


Few humans alive know the fear of a blind man standing in a den of wolves, surrounded by the incessant growling and the salivating of their glands at the prospect of writhing meat to feast upon. Only the few know of the stifling of breathing so too hear them all the more clearly, the squinting of the eyelids in the hope that vision may miraculously return to save them, the musty scent of their fur growing ever closer towards them. They say that in times of extreme stress, you see the happy aspects of your life flash before you, comforting you and allowing yourself peace, yet this sensation is not one that came to Henderson's mind. Visions of stuttering, of crumbling and stammering and dishonouring himself flooded the private viewing screen behind the eyes, but no flashback of happy childhood memories. No nostalgia flooded his system allowing him tranquillity when he needed it most. No, these emotions had happened prior to the actual event, writing a speech as important as this could not help but stir these emotions. As his vision from the first round of flashes began to return, Henderson stood up to the platform to look across the crowd's, before the wolves camera's flashed once more, filling his Iris's with black dots, blinding him from the crowds, allowing him only to see the void from which he had immerged.

The sound of the bell could only mean one thing; that it was again time for Joe's torturous lunch hour of hiding and masqueraded repulsion. Lunch was arduous for many reasons, the largest concern was that John Biggins would find him, the narcissistic would-be-if-he-had-the-balls sociopath that plagued Joe’s existence, the other was that his plastic coated girlfriend Christina would be with him to witness the embarrassment that was sure to follow.  He thought about seeking asylum in the library, but this once-upon-a-time safe haven for him and his friends had become the place of those who valued Wi-Fi above food and people. The computer room was tempting, but the stick he would get for going on those 'restricted computers' that blocked all of the 'useful' sections of the internet was paramount to suicide. He externally laughed at his internal monologue for even suggesting the Astroturf as a sanctuary, so all that was left was to find a nice quiet section of the corridor and settle there for the 45 minutes of ‘banter’ and false niceties before he could return happily to his classes. Yet this presented an issue - if he wanted a quiet spot he would have to go to building A, which was across the lunch hall from where he currently was. Gathering his wits and his courage, Joe began his descent through the entrance hall of Orcus, and into the Elysium safety of the corridors beyond.

Halfway through his exponentially fast descent, Christina caught his eye. Something in her mannerisms was different today, they appeared more welcoming, more inviting - the kind of mannerisms one would exhibit at seeing a friend? That was impossible, they had always ridiculed Joe for his diffidence, for his secluded nature and inward personality. He had never possessed a phone from this century, let alone one with an internet connection and that was enough to make him 'that weirdo' let alone the reputation as a full blown societal reject that he had usurped from the Lithuanian kid with a lisp that held the throne for so long. He was not on social media, nor did he care to be, and he had no prospect of trying to build bridges with them, so this random appearance of acceptance sent alarm bells running through his mind. Trying to ignore her, he redirected his route to the fire doors, hoping to avoid whatever trick was coming his way, but she moved towards him at an increasing speed.

"Come with me." was breathed into his ear as she grabbed his wrist and led him towards the back corridors, the ones nobody was allowed in during lunch. The urge to break free, to run into the courtyard and hide, or better yet run home and avoid whatever was coming his way was strong, but the entire lunch hall was here, more than a few eyes were watching this reject get pulled away by one of the monarchy. To pull off and run would fill his days with even more remarks, even more laughing and abuse. Subordinate and asphyxiated with terror, Joe was pulled into the darkness of the off limits corridor.

Joe was thrust against the wall, secluded by lockers from the sight on onlookers. Being beaten by the notorious bully was bad enough, but being beaten by his girlfriend, unable to defend himself due to her dick brained boyfriend was the lowest of the low.
"You tell anybody about this and I'll scream you forced yourself on me,' Whispered Christina, letting the warmth of her breath linger in Joe’s eardrum, alighting his senses. A grim look of confusion flooded his face before his body became a mould for clay making hands. Kisses, warm and sumptuous rode up and down his neck whilst strong hands grappled his chest, he felt the moist heat of her tongue work its way up and into his mouth, filling his entire body with unknown and fantastical sensations. He had never found Christina particularly attractive, yet he was a 15 year old virgin who had never even felt a girls touch, the strength of his will buckled and fell under the weight of sexual curiosity. Never before had he felt the breast of a girl so close to his body, time and place and situation were lost in an explosion of heat and breath and grappling. He felt himself grab onto her breast as she slid her hand under both trouser and boxer finding his erect self beneath. The flash of the wolf, a sensation he would grow accustomed too, appeared for the first time in his life, tearing down his ephemeral firmament with the click of a button. Laughter surrounded him in his vulnerable state, most vehemently emitting from Christina as camera's caught his lowest moment, making sure it could never be forgotten. The stark juxtaposition of the moment he had been in and this one could not have dazzled him more, making everything happen as if in a blur. At some point someone yelled 'Hard-on Henderson!' which caused an even more violent roar of laughter than previously. The entire school must have been aware of the prank that was about to take place, as for the first time Joe was the centre of attention, and it scared him. At some point he was knocked to ground, the colour of his blood stark against the shine of the white floor. He later found out that was from the dick-brain for 'finding his girlfriend hot.' Plaster covered faces flooded Instagram and Snapchat and Facebook next to a clearly terrified boy, with an erection extremely visible through his trousers with the caption 'Hard-on Henderson' all of that evening. Those same selfies of the damned haunted Joe for the next 18 years.

When the sheep manages to survive a wolf attack, it leaves its scars. A resentment built within Joe that he never knew existed inside himself. The narcissistic, vanity centred culture of the 21st century left him feeling cold and isolated from everything other than his thoughts. The preying on his innocence left him with enough emotional issues and fears, but the internet truly honed the beating to make sure he was forever an outcast. For the next 18 years he endured the laughs and sniggers of peers, the decline of job opportunities for his 'explicit internet content,' and all the physical and cyber bullying that the world could throw at him. The whimsical nature of the web meant that the horror would resurface sporadically, giving him the brief illusion of peace before it resurfaced his demons and begun it anew. Joe experienced the trials of puberty and adolescence alone, with no friends to help him by yet with too much pride to allow anyone else to know what he suffered.  The egomania that set across society like a plague never infected him. Casting the despondent face of depression away, he used the self-obsession of 'socialites' as fuel to propel him forward. The loathing he felt for the over-sharers, the fickle and the vain turned him into the rarity of an internal person, one whose thoughts remain a mystery to everyone except a select few. One who spent his time improving himself rather than looking at himself. One who to understand, you have to dig deeper than his live feed or his timeline. One who you have to take at far more than face value.

Joe Henderson stands before an immense crowd shrouded in darkness, the only illumination apart from his spotlight coming from tiny flashes from across the hall. The entirety wait for him to begin his Nobel speech, waiting and expecting something grand and fantastic, yet within him still remains that terrified 15 year old boy, constricted and scared. No longer does it pin him down though. His fears drip away like wax under fire, and he begins.

Do not fear the wolves. The wolves should fear the sheep that discard their disguises and stand before them, unmoving and unapologetic.