The Bench

The following piece was written as part of a recent university course.  (2011-2012)  The object of the exam was to produce a life-writing (biographical or auto-biographical) piece of work.  I decided to cover a traumatic time from 2009, yet use a sense of humour to balance the structure.

As my preface suggests, I don't do 'bleak'.  
I've not been to Blogger for a little while and everything seems to have changed.  Why this post should be dark font on white background, when all my other posts are the opposite, is well beyond my current technological understanding.  I'm a writer, not an engineer.  If I can find a way to change it back then I surely will.

The photograph is also mine - taken 2012 at the spot where I received the inspiration for this piece of writing, Dursley Cemetery, Gloucestershire.

KJM.

The Bench

PREFACE.

I've never been one for sad stories. As a kid I was always drawn towards movies that opened with the main character(s) in the absolute worst of dire straits, yet culminated with happy, smiling faces, preferably accompanied by cheery songs and a multitude of cheesy dancing. If my parents had consented, corners of my bedroom would have likely held shrines to both Walt Disney and Dick Van Dyke.

    To this end, I'll begin with what is commonly referred to as a low point in life or, to use my own personal phraseology, 'being at the very bottom of the well.'

August 1st, 2009.

    'He's not looking too good, Bob.'

    'You're right, Tom...he  hasn't been the same since that vicious uppercut...'

    I am seated upon a plain, wooden bench in Dursley , surrounded by an abundance of brightly-coloured flowers and the delicious aroma of freshly-cut grass. While my eyes take in luscious, green shades within the rolling hills before me, my head and stomach appear obsessively dedicated towards destructive, alternative agendas. The weather over the small, Gloucestershire town has decided to match my internal mood by adopting a dark and menacing outlook. In the past hour we have also perfected an electric, bristling air. Momentarily, I ponder that if this were a game of emotional poker then the weather and I would be holding very similar cards. For someone who delights in disciplined self-control, this is a time of major concern.

    'In 46 years, I've never seen Milsom quite so ragged, Bob...'

    'Well, with all his experience, I was expecting a lot more 'bob' and 'weave', Tom...his legs have totally gone...'

     I could never be described as a hurtful man. However, it's two weeks since my mother died and I am becoming extremely weary of the well-meant, awkward collection of facial expressions and accompanying phrases aimed in my direction .

    'Well, at least she's out of pain'...

    'She had a good innings'....

    'It's probably a blessing'...

    'You'll feel better after a good cry'...

    Naturally, there are no rule books for observing a treasured soul disintegrate on a daily basis; not a single master class. While watching the constant onset of Mum‘s physical failings, promptly followed by harsh, emotional whiplashes and the ultimate breakdown of her cognitive faculties, my resourceful side had quickly developed a stout defence system.  As usual, when personally confronted with negative life forces, my armour has been skilfully forged from the finest humour . For five hurtful years, myself and currently exhausted family have relied upon a battle-balancing arsenal of surrealism, jokes, puns, limericks and silly impressions; each worthy enough for the entire Monty Python team break out in admiring whistles. I've watched my mother use humour in exactly the same way; even in her most fragile of moments. If it's good enough for her then it'll do me fine.

    Within unfamiliar and uncertain darkness, finding slivers of comedy gold has long been my salvation. However, for the last few months, troop numbers within my 'Comedy Defence Force' have dwindled alarmingly. With Mum‘s passing, all humour has deserted the ranks. A row of outsized, steel toe-capped clown boots lay unoccupied. Military-issue custard pies go stale .

    It's a half-hour drive but this is the one place where no-one can find me. Throughout the bewildering numbness that has clung to me like morning fog for the previous fortnight, I have planned such a healing time as this. To sit in peace. To gather my thoughts. It's exactly what I need. I'm about to discover some alarming errors in my thinking.

    'The referee's looking very concerned, Bob.'

    'Milsom's got to cover up, Tom...where the hell's his defence?'

    A fair question, Tom. Currently, my boxing gloves hang limply by my side. It would make astronomical sense for them to be tight around my ears, but...to be perfectly honest...I'm well past caring. All attempts to 'gather my thoughts' have merely allowed the quick parting of internal doors. Each door, holding specific memories, has been purposely locked, bolted and barred at some stage over the last five years. By myself. For my own protection.

    'I'm not sure I can watch, Bob.'

    A gruesome, gut-wrenching collection of twisted imagery, depicting my mother throughout her weakest and most vulnerable states of frightened fragility, viciously pummels my ribs.  However, the one punch which has truly staggered me involves a sudden granite 'uppercut of realisation'; namely, I've spent a large portion of life devoted to - and reliant upon - someone who no longer exists. Not a single atom of space upon this Earth. Not anywhere. The thought sets firmly in my head like concrete, unleashing a further torrent of painful blows.

    'For God's sake...get off the ropes!'

    I tell Tom precisely where to stick his microphone and continue to absorb punches. With ghoulish images pounding away like a demented jack-hammer, somewhere within my crumbling senses I realise that I am beginning to accept the blows as a normal part of life. In time, I'll even grow to like them;  admire and respect them.

    Reaching inside my jacket, my fingers fold around a plain, brown envelope which soon emerges into the dull, grey afternoon. For a few seconds, my eyes simply scan my printed name and address, before retrieving the letter within and reading it for the countless time. From half a decade previous, my mother's agitated voice swims into range.

    'Are you sure you can afford this? Houses aren't cheap these days...'

My confident reply could have emanated from the lips of a method actor at the absolute peak of his technical craft .

    'It'll be fine, Mum. We'll just work together and get through whatever comes up. It's what we always do.' In a classic Dick Van Dyke movie, this would have been the cue for a heart-warming song about overcoming impossible odds and always chasing life's most optimistic rainbows.

    I read through the letter again, before firmly closing my eyes and pondering precisely what goes through the mind of people who can produce printed phrases such as, 'failure to pay', house possession' and 'with immediate effect'. If ever careers were designed purely for emotionless robots, then producing these types of letters must surely rank highly . Of all the words before me, the hardest to accept is 'failure'. Losing my mother and house inside twenty-four hours of each other isn't just careless. It's plain irresponsible. I am aware of my right hand gripping the Dursley bench with a force that threatens to physically separate my knuckles. I've never felt so hollow.

    'Open your eyes.'

    That doesn't sound like Bob. Nor Tom, unless he's taken my explicit instructions regarding his microphone.

    'Open your eyes.'

Obediently, I comply. There, in my immediate line of sight and dark-shaded by regular Cotswold rain, is a wooden knot on the seat of my bench. For a split-second, the knot becomes my entire universe. Memories of former sun-splashed, days burst into my view. Running with childhood friends.  Countless hours engaged in the wonderful art of cloud-watching; laying on lush grass alongside animated friends at Bristol's Brandon Hill, or up at the sprawling Clifton Downs. Whoever made the loudest, laughter-inducing images became the 'King of Cloud Weaving'. In truth, the crown was rarely from my daft head.

    Back in Dursley, to my visually-ravenous brain, the knot immediately reminds me of Chewbacca from 'Star Wars', smoking a cigar. It's very silly...but just enough to form the briefest of smiles upon my lips. All that I require. Images of Chewbacca wandering around the 'Death Star', while smoking a cigar in true, clowning Groucho Marx-style, have already started to infiltrate my imagination.

    'Bob...are you watching this?'

    Somewhere in my mind, a curtain opens before a large screen. Chewbacca, complete with ridiculous spectacles, false eyebrows and moustache, is walking towards Darth Vader with a cheeky grin; cigar waggling in his furry fingers.

    'I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception!' he says, with exquisite 'Groucho' timing.

    I feel myself grinning. That'll do nicely. For the first time in months I duck as a menacing glove whistles over my head.

    'Fight back!'

    I recognise the voice as my own. The mental image replays, this time with more eyebrow wiggling. Hearing my chuckle, I draw in welcome breath.

    'Look him in the eye. Make sure he sees it. There...'

    The punch begins somewhere down by my right ankle as my body twists up into a graceful arch with the astonishing speed of Superman on ice; a purposeful glove connecting squarely with my opponent's  jaw, to send him reeling. As it connects, the empty hollow feeling in my stomach finally begins to subside.

    'Where the FU...'

    I ignore Bob and add a quick, hard jab to make sure he knows I mean business. A bell sounds...I'm tired, but more importantly, I'm back in the game. The canvas looked so soft and inviting.  One simple count of ten and the fight was over.

    Glancing down to the small rectangle of earth, beneath which the physical remains of my mother reside, I say a silent prayer and think about returning home. There's a lot to sort out and my immediate family have no further requirements for a sullen, humourless individual within their ranks.  Truly, tomorrow can be another day.

    In a final move, the Dursley weather raises the stakes as an artillery of heavy thunderclouds release torrents of rain upon the town. Defiantly, I throw in my poker hand and hang up my boxing gloves.  I'm all done with crying.

A215 - Writing Practice 4.

Weekly challenge #4 was to look at the photograph on the left, of a New York park, and to write a poem, prose or piece of fiction which related to the image.

Being in poetic mode for no reason whatsoever, I fiddled and faddled for a while and came up with something. I'd spend longer on it but with a holiday coming up in the next couple of days there is little chance of being online for a week, so best to do it now while the iron is hot...wherever the iron is, and whoever has it this week.

ON A DAY LIKE THIS.

On a day like this,
It really helps that it’s raining.
If the Sun were here; (shining hard down on me),
I‘d not have made it to the park.
At a time like this,
And I’m really not complaining,
But if you were here; (with your loving arms around me),
I wish that…
I feel that…
I know with all my heart that,
My life wouldn’t be so very dark.

On a day like this,
Three years from the very moment,
That you were last here; (before fading from my sight),
As we sat right by this tree.
At a time like this,
Almost to the very moment,
That I held you close (to try to keep you from the light),
I wish that…
I feel that…
I know with all my heart that,
My love is walking next to me.

On a day like this,
I’m castaway upon an island.
And I want you here; (so I could gaze into your eyes),
As we languish by the sea.
In a world like ours,
Where I'd reach out for your hand,
And feel you draw so close, (before my vision fades and dies)
I’d wish that…
I’d feel that…
I’d know with all my heart that,
You will always live in me.

A215 Writing Practice - Fairy Story

This week's task was to recreate a traditional fairy story by giving it a different twist - such as, a change in genre, location or time. After trying a few different genres and discounting several, such as 1940's gangster novel, science fiction and adult literature (which reduced me to a giggling wreck for a good hour and nearly brought on a migraine), I settled for the genre of Crime Fiction - a la Arthur Conan Doyle - and my chosen tale was Snow White & The Seven Dwarves. :) I'd have liked more time on this to tidy it up, but other studying has kinda got in the way this week, so this is a version which I'd probably like to have another two or three edits at, but as it is already a day past the time it was due then I'm putting it out in its current form.

The Case Of The Poisoned Apple.

Laying in the centre of the room, before the wide, stone fireplace, the glass coffin became the main focus for the small audience. The only sound aside from the crackling logs came in the form of hushed whispers and the occasional sneeze; all eyes following the tall man as he walked to the fireplace, stooped low and took a long, thoughtful while to light his pipe.
“Come now, Mr Holmes,” said the only one of the assembled group to wear spectacles, “why exactly have you gathered us here? Some of us have work to get to, you know.”
Several grunts and nodding of several small heads accompanied the words, although the detective appeared lost in thought and temporarily oblivious to any form of complaint. For the umpteenth time that morning Holmes walked to the coffin and peered through the glass to the unmoving form beneath the lid.
“Mr Holmes!”
Finally, the detective blinked and looked in the direction of the rather grumpy owner of the voice.
“Mr Holmes, it’s quite clear who the culprit is here. I don’t see why we have to stand here like statues, while the evil Queen gets away. Why aren’t you arresting her instead of picking on us working folk?”
A low rumble of agreement rose up from the group.
“I…I do hope that this is not a case of height-ism, Mr Holmes” stuttered a red-faced bashful fellow, “I would really hate to complain to Scotland Yard. I w...would indeed.”
Further grumblings filled the room and once more all eyes were on Holmes as he relit his pipe from the fire, before turning to face the room.
“Gentlemen, I am of course most utterly grateful for the giving of your time to assemble here and I promise that I won’t detain you a moment more than absolutely necessary.”
Holmes’s words and kindly facial expression did little to appease the small crowd, but before the grumpy gentleman could begin a new verbal tirade, the detective raised his hands in a commanding manner as if conducting an orchestra. As one, the dwarves fell silent.
“I will concur,” said Holmes, “that initially it appears that there can be only one assailant in this crime. All fingers point to the Queen…perhaps, if I may suggest, a little too conveniently for my liking.”
Indignant gasps met Holmes’s ears, but his hands dipped quickly into his coat pocket, producing approximately one half of an apple, which he held aloft.
“According to your testimony, the victim was visited by an old woman who proceeded to persuade this poor, naïve, young lady to bite upon this very apple, thus rendering her unconscious and in a temporary medical state of comatose immobility.”
Holmes watched the slightly confused expressions with interest, smiling faintly to himself as he noted the one tiny face who was the exception.
“Before my arrival here, gentlemen, I took the liberty of analysing the available evidence. The Queen keeps only one type of poison, namely rat poison within the bounds of her castle. However, the poison contained within this apple is an extremely rare combination, formed from specific crystalline compounds…or as one trained in chemistry might label it, arsenic.”
The silence in the room was broken only by a loud sneeze and a faint hum of snoring.
“Naturally, the properties of arsenic would be unknown to most people…but then you’re not most people, are you, ‘Doc‘? Or should I say, Professor Heinrich Morgan from the University of Vienna and reported leader of the infamous ‘Little Red Handed’ gang…”
The face of the bespectacled dwarf turned bright red and began a faltering, stammered reply, before quickly falling into silence.
“…Wanted by Interpol for jewel thieving in Milan…kitten rustling in Sardinia…small-arms smuggling in Barcelona and now apparently contract-killing in the Enchanted Forest.”
The front door to the compact and bijou home suddenly burst open, revealing a large group of police officers, with Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson bringing up the rear.
“At last, Watson!” beamed Holmes, “I thought you’d never get here. Officers! If you would be so kind as to remove these gentlemen into the safety of Her Majesty’s custody.”
Holmes jabbed an accusing finger at each culprit, as each one was led away; small heads bowed in shame.
”Smiling Boy” Smith…”Grumpy Jack” McClane…Bob “Sleepy Byes” Brown…“Shy Stan” Sinclair…Hank “Handkerchief-Howling” Harris…and of course, last but not least, the notorious brains of the outfit, “Dopey Dan” Denton.”
Watson peered at the tiny, cross-eyed face and viewed the tongue peeking from the side of the mouth with disdain.
“Brains of the outfit? Are you sure, Holmes? The fellow seems positively doo-lalley to me.”
Holmes nodded and relit his pipe from the hearth.
“Absolutely sure, my dear Watson, Denton might play the absolute fool to perfection, but then the seven times winner of the ‘North Yorkshire Gurning Competition’ would naturally fool even the most ardent of observers.”
Denton’s face fell and relaxed back into a definite scowl.
“Damn you, copper! This would have been our last job before retirement. We’d bought a little place on the French Riviera…”
He sighed loudly as a burly officer escorted him from the room, leaving only Watson and Lestrade with a clearly gloating Holmes, who paced the hearth rug in triumphant style.
“Well…” said Lestrade, “another victory, Mr Holmes. Of all your recent cases this one dwarfs all the others by comparison.”
“Indeed,” nodded Watson, “No small feat at all, Lestrade. Will they get short sentences?”
“Perhaps, Doctor Watson, after all they were 'miner' offences.”
Ever the perfect professional, Holmes ignored the childish laughter, for his eyes had fallen on the front of a newspaper which lay upon a tiny coffee table; his lips moving as he read the main headline from ‘The Hunter‘s Bugle‘.
“’Opportunist Girl Snares Gullible Prince In Glass Slipper Plot‘….hmmm, come Watson, with all haste! There is no time to waste!”