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Right, here goes. I've been failing to write anything apart from song lyrics and angst teenage poetry for the last two months, and I need a push. I will treat this as a opening for the rest of the day, and see if I can keep it up.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.

She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.

She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.

How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?

There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.

Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.

there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.

Germination

The large window at her back lights up the photographs and doodles of tattoos on the wall. The chair is worn and shiny with use, the blue and white of the foam pokes through holes worn by other peoples' skittish hands pulling at the tatty threads. The rain outside bounces off the glass, and the traffic as it trundles past the studio. The whole city goes by, as her hands tap nervously at her phone as she sits. She waits. Her stubby, rough skinned fingers hit the keys as she sends messages to her friends. This tattoo is a birthday present to herself for her 18^th. She wanted something that would last, and what lasts longer than a tattoo, right?

She will turn 18 in 23 days and she hopes that the tattooist cannot tell that she isn't old enough. She is getting more added to the previous one, a rose she'd had done a couple of weeks before. A voice calls from the back and she goes through to the small room. It smells of faintly of antiseptic, like the dentists or a hospital. The walls are painted pink and yellow, an odd colour combination for the tattooist who sits in it, with his black rubber gloves and his heavy rock music shrieking out of the speakers, making the pictures on the walls shudder slightly. The tattoo inks line one side of the room, the bottles smudged with fingerprints. On the opposite wall there is a mirror, resting on the floor with a handprint once belonging to a small child in the centre. She wrinkles her nose. It smells clean, but it looks a bit dirty.

The tattooist adjusts the chair to the right height before she sits down. He stands her back up and applies the purple transfer to her side. She goes over to the mirror to check her new design. Perfect. And her mum won't see it if it's there. Her nerves increase as she goes back and settles back down in the chair. She turns towards him as he questions her about the design she is having extended, a red rose which is still slightly sore. It's only a week old. It's fine though. It looks like it has healed enough although he warns her it might hurt more than last time. She sits twisted in the chair, peering down at the transfer, biting her short nails even shorter. He orders her into an uncomfortable position, and starts up the tattoo gun, its needle dipped in the black ink he has placed on the table besides him. He begins, and the pain is not as bad as she thought it would be. It vibrates up her spine, like an electric shock. The music is drowned out by the angry buzzing of the needle. It sounds like a razor, accompanied by sharp strokes as he draws on the outline of a new flower.

Suddenly, her phone vibrates. It was one of her friends, replying to the message she'd sent before. The tattooist's arm had been resting on her back pocket to steady it. The vibrations added to his already shaking arm and the needle slipped. Where there was supposed to be a leaf, there was now a thick black line. She looks down, and promptly burst into tears. Shit. Don't worry, I can fix this, he says. He grabs a biro off the table, and draws on more lines. As she looks, they turn into tendrils, emerging from behind the leaves. The design, perhaps poorly chosen in the first place, begins to grow. It looks like part of her, emerging from inside her as he erases her skin.

How's that? He asks, and she tells him that it's perfect. The needle starts up again, and she shuts her eyes. She imagines the design growing and growing, until she is covered in its creepers and flowers and tendrils. It covers her in ink. It covers her scars, the ones she had inflicted last year. The ones that she thought looked like maggots on her arms. She remembers having needles in her skin then, as the doctor sewn up the wounds. She'd watched, fascinated, as the gaping bloody wounds had disappeared, leaving behind bright blue knots of thread against the now thin red lines.

Right. Time for a break, he says. He stands up, and stretches his arms above his head, hands clasped. He pulls off the gloves, and throws them in the bin. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes. Want one? She nods, and takes one from his hand. They go through to the front, and he holds open the door to let her outside. The rain has stopped now, and the sun is showing above the buildings. She puts it in her mouth, and lighting it, inhales and exhales deeply. The smoke wreaths before it is blown away to nothing by the wind.

When I were a lad

Back when I were a lad,

It weren't like it is today.

We used to be more friendly, like,

We all knew our neighbours.

I blame all the immigrants,

Coming over here, taking our stuff...

 

What stuff?

Why, back when I were a lad

There weren't no bloody immigrants

No, not like today

I knew my neighbours,

Knew 'em all by name, like.

 

Coming over here, taking our jobs, like

They haven't got jobs of their own? Stuff

'em I say. Mrs Jones, my neighbour,

Who I've known since I were a lad,

Says some of 'em swore at her today.

Too many bloody immigrants.

 

I can't stand these bloody immigrants,

Coming over here, and taking our houses, like

They've got a right to 'em. Free stuff.

That's all they are 'ere for... when I were a lad

We didn't have foreign bloody neighbours.

 

I don't want 'em as my neighbours

Have you seen these bloody immigrants,

I saw this one lad,

Rude as you like,

Stealing from the supermarket, putting stuff,

Down his trousers today.

 

These bloody people. Everywhere, today.

They're not prepared to help their neighbours

With things you might need, just normal stuff.

You won't get help off the immigrants.

They don't even talk to you, like.

Not like when I were a lad.

 

Today, the old man spat hate about immigrants.

Neighbours? Who'd want to be yours, like?

Stuff you! Glad I'm not that bitter, thought the lad.

Intihar

The title for this entry means suicide in Turkish, playing around with the notion that people that try to commit suicide are somehow 'chicken'. It is a non-fiction piece.

I tried to kill myself once. I was nearly successful. A weekend of too much drinking and partying, a way of avoiding the caustic truth that once again I had managed to upset the man I loved to the point where he couldn't even be friends with me. Again. All I had done was tell him that my biggest fear was for him to leave me. Silly girl. No one wants to hear that. At least he didn't. He started behaving strangely after that, until eventually communication broke down entirely, and he finished off by telling me he didn't think he could be with me anymore.

 

I remember that evening quite well, considering . It was a Tuesday and I was out, watching a band in the Blues Bar. It was a busy night in there, lots of people dancing and shouting in each other's ears, trying to make themselves heard over the music. I couldn't get into it. I vaguely remember speaking to Matt, his face pale against the dark of the bar as her leant over to make sure I was ok. I think he offered to come crash at my house if I needed some company, not anything sexual, just one friend looking out for another. I said no. I think I had already decided what I was going to do. I remember walking home. It usually only takes 10 minutes, but I was weaving and wobbling along the pavement, crying as I tried to send my lover a text. I finally managed to write what I felt was the perfect thing to say.

 

'This is all your fault.'

 

After all this was over, the thing I regretted most was these five words. What if I had actually managed it? How could I have put the blame for something this awful at someone else's feet?

 

I worked myself up into a frenzy of snot, tears and shaking. I could barely get my keys in the door when I eventually arrived home. I knew that I had a strip of amytriptaline tablets in the cupboard in the kitchen. My flat was a mess, from where I had just dumped coats, bags and shoes over the weekend before heading back towards the madness I was in now. All I knew was that I didn't want to wake up in the morning. I got a glass of water and proceeded to pop out pills onto the worktop. I remember thinking that it was actually quite difficult to swallow loads of pills. You have to do it a few at a time, not all at once. I managed to get down 28 tablets, and went and sat on the sofa. I felt calmer. And then it hit me. What the hell had I done? Shit. I rang my best friend. I had sobered up; I think it must have been the shock of the situation. She eventually answered, and slurring, I told her what I had done. Since that night, I have tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be her. Sure, I'd rung her in the past and needed to go to hospital for self-inflicted cuts and once, a minor overdose, but never anything on this scale. I imagine her waking up, sitting up from the sofa where she'd dozed off watching her favourite show, standing up and hurrying out to the car to come and save me again.

 

By the time she arrived, only 10 minutes later, I had started to feel drowsy. I told her I didn't need to go to hospital, and started to doze off on the sofa, after sweeping all the mess off onto the floor. She jumped on my computer and looked up the side effects of an amytriptaline overdose. She came over to me, and shook me awake. 'Nope. We're off to the hospital.'

 

I staggered out to the car. I gave Anna my keys to lock up; I couldn't keep my eyes open. There was no traffic on the road, and she drove too fast. We arrived after only a couple of minutes. All I remember is getting into the hospital, stumbling into A and E, finding a chair to sleep in. the lights were really bright and I just wanted to shut my eyes.

 

I don't remember very much about the next 36 hours; brief glimpses of green and bright lights. No, not THAT bright light... Although I do remember one brief scene when I woke up because someone was touching me intimately. I remember coming round and trying to fight them off, and having to be held down by my family as the nurse put in a catheter.

 

When I came round, I couldn't move. Not an inch. They'd pumped me full of diazepam to try and slow my heart down. It had been going at nearly 200 beats a minute for hours. I'd been in intensive care, which I only found out after a nurse came to see how I was doing and told me. When the ability to move and speak returned, I demanded they took out the catheter. Awful thing. Makes you feel like you're pissing and pissing nonstop. I wanted a cigarette. I looked out of the window, which was high up the wall, and my mind went blank as I stood up to look. These rooftops weren't the rooftops of Harrogate. It turned out I had been moved to Leeds hospital, but I didn't know that. I thought I'd managed to kill myself, and ended up in purgatory. Not that I'm religious, but it turns out you do think some ridiculous things when you've just woken up from a self-induced coma. Not to mention the ridiculous things you thought that got you there in the first place.

 

A woman from the psychiatric ward came down to talk to me. She took me off to a private room, and asked me the usual questions. I had been asked them so many times before. Why did I do it, did I still want to die? Mostly, I just felt stupid. Like I'd let everyone down.

 

Sometimes, I still think about doing it. Just a flash across my mind if something has got to me or if someone upsets me. Sometimes it's just silly things. Not been able to get an essay finished. Saying something dumb. The thought appears, like the glimpse of a fish in a river, a flash of silver and then gone. I won't be trying again though. The pain and hell I put my family through showed on their faces, and while they said the most loving things to me that day, I knew what I'd done to them. Never again.

seeing glass

The streetlamps stutter and die, the barely perceptible humming turns silent, replaced with the sounds of cars. At first, just one or two, but later there will be a concerto of beeps and rattles and growls. For now, there is near silence and Henry wonders what it was that woke him up. Liz always maintained she couldn't hear the streetlamps, that he was making a fuss over nothing. Admittedly it wasn't overly loud, but that was what made it worse; an insistent mosquito humming at the periphery of your hearing. He'd have complained to the council long time ago, but she'd talked him out of it.
The room is still dark, the morning light not strong enough to have made its way past the curtains.

He turns, half asleep still, and reaches his hand over the wrinkled duvet to where she used to sleep. Now, he goes to bed alone after yet another unfulfilling evening, where he watches telly with the sound up just a bit too loud, and dram after dram of whisky. Anything to blot it out. The silence in the house is ear-splitting now that she's gone. He sits up slowly, using his elbows to force him up, fumbles for his glasses which he carelessly threw on the side, and hauls himself out of bed. On with the dressing gown. One of the belt loops has broken, and he struggles to reach around his back to tie it. Bloody hell. If only Liz could see him now, she'd bloody kill him. He left last night's clothes at the end of the bed, in a sad looking heap. She used to go ballistic if he didn't put his clothes in the wash. Said that he was a cliché for leaving his dirty socks on the floor. The room is untidy, and it smells like old man. When had that happened? How the hell had he got so ancient?

Oh yes. That was what woke him. Today was his birthday. Silly how these things slip your mind. It used to be that he would wake up early, excited to get his presents from the family. He remembers John and Will, bouncing in with a tray of breakfast, half the tea spilled everywhere in a rush to get him to open his yearly packets of socks, pants and ties. And Liz, after the excitement had died, would send them away to give him his special birthday present... Hmm. Bet no one has bothered to get him anything this year. John and his family might have sent him a card, the wife reminding him dutifully. Liz used to do that. Ring them up and remind them that it was coming. Not now. Will would have forgotten. The neighbour, Ada, has hinted over the fence that she would expect him to pop over for tea. Interfering old baggage. She was always coming over, trying to look past him when he opened the front door so that she could tell her friends how the house has gone to pot without Liz here to look after it.

Anyway. Better get to the toilet. His bladder usually has him up a few times in the night. A few times too many, and he was starting to get, not worried, no, but it preyed on his mind sometimes in the middle of the night. He should probably go to the doctors, but he didn't want to make a fuss about something that was more than likely nothing. He shuffles down the hall, and into the bathroom, pulling the stiff cord to turn on the light. The tiles are really cold under his feet. British Gas put the prices up again this year, and he refuses to pay their extortionate rates while he's asleep and warmed under the duvet. He wishes he could find his other slipper. There's one under the bed, but the other one has vanished. Although, he must have come upstairs with them both on. It must be in the bedroom somewhere.

He sits down to relieve himself. His balance is going, and it saves having to clean up if he misses the bowl. The busybodies at the council had come and installed handles next to the toilet for Liz when she had first got ill, and he now used them himself. Bugger. No loo roll. He shakes himself, and pulls himself up, trying to not look at his hands, which have started to look like they are made of crepe paper. Feels like it too. As he does, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. That's not him looking back. The man in the mirror is small and tired, a wispy grey cloud around his head where there should be dark brown locks. He peers in. His glasses are slightly lopsided, and they cover wrinkled and saggy eyes. He has a few days stubble, no, almost a beard and he looks fragile. Like he could fall and break at any moment. He glares at the man in the mirror, and the man there pulls some kind of grimace back at him. Bloody hell. Better get cracking. It is his birthday today, after all, but it's bloody miserable getting old on his own.

Tanka

In a cold doorway

he huddles in an old mac

his breath visible

like mist in the air

The morning brings grim release

Beautiful lady,

perched on a stool in the bar

she asks for a light

for the cigarette she holds

a ruse to attract clients

skinheads in black boots

hang around outside the shop

waiting for their chance

to make their views know round here

with fists, blunt bats and sharp knives

The needle goes in,

the plunger pulled back slightly

until a bloom of red shows

then down, forcing the drug inside

The first hit was the best though

A waste of a life

The smell from the entrance to the camp was atrocious. The latrines, no more than holes in the ground shielded on three sides by flimsy cardboard walls, were situated away from the main camp, on the way in. There was also the sickly sweet stench of rotting food, the scraps of which were still fought over by the packs of feral dogs that were known to attack people after the sun had set. The camp was made up of rudimentary huts, constructed from scraps of wood, tarpaulin, plastic and anything else that could be salvaged from the buildings that had formally stood in their places. In the distance, there was a large city, all gleaming windows and concrete. In comparison, the encampment was shabby. However, most of the huts had been painted in bright colours, and little touches, like curtains, or awnings had been put up, making each little hut an individual, more homely place. As you walk further into the camp, the smell changed. There was incense in the air, and the aroma of spicy food and chai tea. The sound of chatter, women singing and the hammering and crash of more huts being constructed rang through the air. In the centre of the encampment, there was a square. Young children were playing in the centre. The older children were sat before one of the huts, a woman in a white sari talking and teaching them the principles of camp life. A teenage boy, no more than 15 or 16, raised his hand tentatively. The meagre rations that the people received meant that some children did not reach their full height, and this boy was slight for his age. His dark eyes looked puzzled. The woman smiled.
‘Yes, Anaheim?’
‘Why do we have to live here, when other children get to live in big houses? Why don’t they share like we all do?’
A tiny frown crossed the woman’s face, quickly being replaced with the smile that had been there before.
‘It’s a complicated story. I’ll try and explain it the best I can. One hundred years ago, the world was made up of countries, not corporations. Each country had a different set of beliefs and a different culture. As the population of the world grew, the capacity for producing everything we need stretched to bursting. Oil was a major resource, and even though the governments of these countries knew that the oil was running out, they didn’t invest in green power sources, like the solar, wind and wave power that we use now. Many corporations pushed for the Oil wars to take place, as they needed the oil to run the machines that kept them going. Millions of dollars were spent and made by countries and corporations in the Oil wars. Countries rallied together to steal oil off one another, whilst the corporations made millions mopping up and repair the economic systems and structures in the invaded countries. Governments of these countries were always backed by major corporations financing them, and slowly but surely, countries started to lose their own identities, and merge into one. After the economic crash of 2008, countries lost billions, and corporations took over. Their secret backing of the wars meant that the downfall of the countries was inevitable. After a short time, oil ram out. The corporations had only invested a small amount of money in renewable energy resources, and food productions costs went through the roof. There was a saying in the old days, that we were all only two meals away from madness and this turned out to be true. As the cost of food production soared, people who had little money got left behind. The so called ‘third world’ and developing countries were left to starve, as the first world countries bought up all the remaining food. Millions of people died. The government of the poor countries were bought off by the corporations and the head of state were allowed to join the lower ranks of the workforces within them.’
‘Even within the first world countries people starved. The sea levels rose and many cities and much farmland were washed away. There were riots in the streets and brother stood against brother in battle. Only in the factories of the corporations was there calm. The corporations had reserves and had secretly got alternative power supplies. Their employees were fed, and built the things that they needed. Trade amongst the corporations continued, and countries eventually vanished, lost in battles for the little remaining reserves.’
‘There were people who survived outside this, however. Small towns and villages, a handful of people will a tiny patch of land to grow food on survived. The corporations were like huge battlements. No one was allowed in, and only black market trade could occur. Within the walls of these cities, the empires of these corporations grew. The people inside were taught that there was nothing of worth outside, and only focused on themselves, whilst us outside have been taught that only through sharing, forgiveness and equality can there be true survival, true to the meaning of what it is to be human.’
‘One of the corporations that prospered was a company producing artificial life. You might have seen them on the Barren Lands, looking for area to expand to. They are robots, produced by Botcorp. These creatures don’t have souls. They are made in factories, and serve the people of the corporations...’
‘Sorry, Anaheim, I’ve gone off the point a bit, haven’t I? I guess what I’m trying to say is that in the big houses, the children aren’t allowed to grow up and develop like we are. They are taught to only serve the Corporation. They aren’t allowed to think for themselves, and the ones that do are cast out, or worse. They may live in houses that are beautiful, but what they and you can’t see is that the big houses are really prisons, with bars not in the windows but in the people’s minds.’
The lesson continued. Suddenly, in the background, there was a rumbling. Everyone looked around to where the sound was emanating from. A loudspeaker crackled and a voice started to boom from the other side of the encampment.
‘This is a public announcement. This camp is in violation of the BotCorp code of conduct, section 4a, paragraph 2ii, which states that ‘people who do not work for BotCorp may not live within 5 kilometres of the BotCorp city boundary.’ Remove yourselves from the encampment. Destruction will commence in 1 minute.’
There were screams, and the camp turned into mayhem. People started running away from where the voice had been coming from. A few people dashed into their huts grabbing their few precious belongings. The lady with the sari tried to gather the children from the street and herd them towards the safety of the other side of the camp, but the panic that was running through the crowd had infected them and various kids were crying for their parents.
There was a roar from where the voice had come from, and the sounds of splintering and banging came across the roof tops, moving closer and closer. The huts on the square started trembling. The few glass windows shattered, and 2 of the flimsy hut fell forward. Through the gap, they could see a row of bulldozers, blade to blade, gaining on them, destroying everything in their paths, even people. Even as the fleeing people turned to look, a small boy who had got separated from the group fell, and was lost under the blade of a bulldozer. His mother screamed and fell to the ground. No amount of pulling could make her move, and soon, she too was lost under the bulldozers charge.