Tag: Creative writing

Day #18

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Despotism: The power spirit or principles of a despot absolute control over others tyrannical sway tyranny

Flatulently: In a flatulent manner with flatulence

Movie: A motion picture

—–

The cold light of early morning scatters through the blinds, zebra stripes that cast strange, abrupt shadows. Light and dark. The room is small, claustrophobic, and devoid of anything bar a table, a few seats and a tape recorder, which sits in the centre of the table ‘in case of disputes’ – well, that’s according to her lawyer at least.

She’s late – as usual. A typically arrogant move that means you’ll have to sit and enjoy the silent ménage a trois between yourself, your lawyer and her lawyer for a little bit longer yet. You wonder if whistling might lighten the mood, or humming. Instead you start preparing a long-winded and gregarious opening gambit, one that you’ll deliver so flatulently, that the vein in her neck will begin to pulse. You smile at the thought of it burrowing and bursting forth like a movie monster trying to escape. It would certainly solve a few problems.

She’s locked you up tightly in here, the stripes of light like prison cell bars, and you just sit silently obedient, showcasing the manners of an expensively trained dog. She always wanted a dog, but you said no. You argued the toss – who’d clean up the mess? Who’d stay at home to keep it company? This isn’t a fucking Scooby Doo movie, you shouted, it’s our fucking lives. No, you didn’t fancy a dog.

You look at your watch, time moving so slowly that even the imperceptible movement of the second hand feels like the aftershock of some seismic event. Tick, tick, tack… wait, did it just move backwards? You can’t be sure. It’s too early in the morning for this. You stifle a yawn. Her lawyer suddenly perks up, scrutinising this apparent sign of weakness. He looks as if he’s about to say something, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but decides better of it and instead hurriedly scribbles something down.

The lawyer sitting next to you, a thin, balding man with an eagle’s beak of a nose, is engrossed in the documents before him. Sucking up all your dirty little secrets like a sponge. Sure, he’s defending you, looking out for your interests, but what’s stopping him from holding things over your head if it all goes tits up? She always did, why should he be any different? Maybe it was the weight of those expectations that eroded your self will, made you get drunk and want to explore new and exotic avenues. Yeah, you could blame her, you suppose, but you know that her lawyer has exactly the same notes and will shut down that play instantly.

She’s still not here – a classic case of female despotism syndrome. Always has to be centre of attention. Always has to be fashionably late. Always has to spend your money on whatever Vogue suggests. One pair of shoes the same as a deposit on a house. You hope the heels gave her blisters.

You check your watch again, a Pavlovian response to your own nerves, and notice how the black inlaid roman numerals look like the bars of a prison cell.

Day #17

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.

Day #16

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Crenulation: A minute crenation – of a leaf or shell, as being round-toothed or having a scalloped edge

Rounder: One who comes about frequently or regularly

Excursionist: One who goes on an excursion or pleasure trip

—–

Over a scruffy, ripped shirt, red checks bleached pink, a beard hangs like a plume of grey smoke, a pile of ashes in which the veins of burnt leaves have tangled like wire wool. A mouth hides beneath the hairy crenulation, wise words waiting to pounce. Two small eyes watch the world like pebbles dropped in water, the ripples permanently etched on his face, as though at some point he’s been glued back together.

A cardboard sign leans against his crossed legs, the haggard jeans not fit for a scarecrow, yet thick enough to sleep in. They’re covered in a patchwork of colourful stains, comfy Dutch tulip fields. The yellow stain of a dogs urine; the flaky red of McDonald’s ketchup; the crisp maroon of blood. These are stains that imply character – a machine washable anthology of memories, blotchy runes.

On the sign he’s written:

Senseless Lamentations – 50p
Empty Platitudes – 100p

He caters for all types. He calls it ‘offering a service to the day-trippers’, those excursionists who only hit the boardwalk when the sun is out. A styrofoam cup nearby implies that neither offer has been well received today. Must be the weather. Besides, some of the coins have probably in there for weeks now. His only friends. Better than friends. Can’t spend friends on cigarettes.

Slumped in his archway, he acts as a way marker; once a human, now a sign post for those trying to find their way to the beach. A five-fingered constellation, daubed on the pavement like yesterday’s hopscotch. There’s a smell, always the same, that clings to him almost paternally, almost with form. It smells like spilt milk that’s gone bad in the heat. It cloaks him, aggressive as the sickly sweetness of burning rubber. He doesn’t notice it anymore, but it seems to keep the rats away.

A noise stirs him – sounds like the rounders are back again. The small coven of Romanian crones wander the boardwalk, squawking with empty hands outstretched, feeding invisible birds with invisible seed. Ignoring the rounder’s unintelligible babbling, he casts an eye over his styrofoam treasure chest, lazily like a sprawled dog eyeballing a chewed up toy.

Looking around, he sees a kid break away from holding his mother’s hand. A glacial calving in the mother-son dynamic. The kid seems embarrassed to have been spotted displaying weakness. The kid tugs his mother’s blouse, thin and splashed with leopard spots, and points at the man. She reprimands her son, rubs his hair, then acquiesces and reaches into her pocket.

He approaches tentatively, and drops two coins into the styrofoam cup. New friends, new cigarettes.

‘Why d’you sleep outside?’ Asks the kid curiously.

He grins – maybe – but the beard makes it hard to tell.

‘It’s way too hot to sleep inside this time of year.’

‘Oh,’ the boy looks confused for a moment, then laughs. Running back to his mother, the boy calls back ‘have a good day!’

‘Could be,’ he says, nodding. ‘Could be.’

Afterwards, he lies down on his cardboard mattress for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually the shadows of evening blossom and the furrows on his face ebb like waves on an ancient shore.

Day #15

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Intervisible: Mutually visible; each in sight of the other

Sister: A female who has the same parents with another person or who has one of them only

Accuser: One who accuses one who brings a charge of crime or fault

—–

‘So I put it to you Goodie Western, that you are a witch. A bride of Lucifer and weaver of sinister spells. The punishment for which, of course, is death.’

The Hunter raises his staff to the judge and takes a seat, thin wooden legs splaying under his weight, then slings an arm lazily onto the table before him. The cuffs of his jacket are an off white, greasy.

‘Yes, thank you Mr. Lancaster, your testimony has been noted.’

The Judge, old, chipped from wood and mossy. Hunched into the uncomfortable high chair behind the dais. It’s the law. He coughs gruffly, some kind of chest cold or some such. He begins speaking in reedy tones,

‘Goodie Western, your accuser stands before you, your contentions are intervisible betwixt you, and it is by the grace of God that I am required to hear your testimony – now in this court of fair and just law.’

The silence is thick, muggy, rife with peasants trying to work out what the word ‘intervisible’ means.

‘She’s a witch!’ calls a voice from the back of the room. The Judge roars to life instantly, a hawk grabbing a fish,

‘Silence! Silence Mr Robertson – Apprentice Tanner,’ he spits the words vilely, ‘remove him now!’

Mr Robertson, apprentice tanner, is removed from the room. A twinkle grins in The Hunter’s eye. It’s almost too easy. As she stands, the woman’s chains remind him of falling coins.

‘You may begin, Goodie Western,’ says The Judge, magnanimous once more, composed and gnarled as bark. The old woman nods, the folds of her skin scrunched up like paper and almost translucent.

‘I see here before me,’ her delivery is loud and crisp, intoxicating in its subliminal ferocity, ‘friends. And good people, but I don’t see no family. And why’s that? Because my sister is dead. And I stand here before you all, accused of her murder through witchcraft. You all knew her condition then. You all know me now. It were my medicines that made her better, you all know that.’ The old woman pauses, casts a bruised eye over the small crowd. ‘Goodie Meadows, who was it what delivered your three chillen?’

Goodie Meadows feels the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her, iron pokers, she shudders in her soul. Without saying a word, she nods. Several more white heads bob up and down of their own volition. Lot of chillen in this town here today because of Goodie Western. Lot of women too, come to think of it.

‘And what do we know about this man here?’ Goodie Western points at The Hunter, the glint in his eye slightly smaller, shrinking. ‘This man, who appears from nowhere last week, days before my sister was murdered, yes murdered! This man who calls himself a hunter of witches and decries me as a sibling killer and a bride of lucifer! Where were you that night Sir? Where were you?’

She spits on the ground, there’s blood in it. It was a rough night.

A single bead of sweat rolls down The Hunter’s temple, the glint in his eye just a flicker. The old woman is good, very good…but he’d come across better.

‘Mr Lancaster?’ says The Judge.

Tidying his cuffs, The Hunter stands, clears his throat and begins to speak, greasy fingers leaving their marks.

Day #14

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Celluliferous: Bearing or producing little cells

Yerba mate: is a species of the holly family. It is well known as the source of the beverage called mate (Portuguese: chimarrão), which is traditionally consumed in central and southern South America

Amigo: A friend – a Spanish term

—–

The bagualero wheels his horse to one side; its eyes are bulging with adrenaline, jelly quivering above nostrils flaring at the stench of blood. He yanks the bridle hard to stop it from bolting, his companion nearby starts to laugh. He is younger, more cocksure and with skin yet to be wrinkled by the weather, his baseball cap is tugged tightly onto his head.

Hey amigo, shut your mouth, shouts the older bagualero, you gotta stay fucking focused. You know what that thing can do to you? You ever seen a fucking horn sticking out the other fucking side of someone’s fucking leg?

The young bagualero’s smirk disappears. No, I ain’t seen that, he says quietly. He strokes the snout of his horse, soothing it, whispering sweet nothings into its ears. The horse is younger too. The younger bagualero looks off into the trees, nothing moves amongst the trees except the insects, buzzing lazily under the early morning heat, thick as honey.

The older man snorts with derision and wheels his horse left then right, bridle still clenched tightly in his hands whilst the fat, muscular head of the horse writhes like a serpent before him. It slows and paws nervously at the ground. The bagualero is a weather beaten sculpture of a man, might as well be hewn from rock; only his leather jacket, tatty and old, has taken more punishment from the elements than he has.

He slips a small cantina from an inside pocket, unscrews the cap quickly with a single twist; it’s all in the wrist, baby. He swigs the chimarrão, hot and tart to the taste, it keeps his head clear. The yerba mate leaves rustle against the metallic interior, imprisoned, trapped in a corner and desperate to escape. The old bagualero takes a second gulp, swills his mouth with the third and spits it on the ground.

I can hear the dogs, he says, suddenly alert. Listen.

The young bagualero strains forward, his ears drinking in sounds, now he hears it too. He nods.

Within seconds the dogs are there, barking, yapping, howling, all drunk on the adrenaline of the chase, their mouths frothy with spit. They spill into the clearing, like the breaking of a dam; footprints cover the ground, shallow hoofs splitting and expanding so celluliferously.

In the middle of the pack is the beast, a juggernaut intent on causing havoc, its baleful gaze falls squarely on the old man, a glimmer of recognition, defiance. My old friend, says the old bagualero, my old fucking friend.

The bull snorts, feet kicking dogs away like dust, flanks engorged, thick as armour. Its body is flecked by the blood of superfluous bite marks, the dogs too eager, starved for too long.

Ready your lasso, calls the older bagualero, we only got one shot, so don’t fuck it up.

The boy’s rope is in his hand already, spinning. The bull senses something, snaps its head around, the rippling crack of straining muscle fibres. It sees the boy with the rope. The bull is trapped in a corner, desperate to escape.

It charges. The dogs howl in delight.

Day #13

thetomwatts1 Comment

Pandoura: An ancient Greek string instrument from the Mediterranean basin, similar to a lute.

Gastroelytrotomy: The operation of cutting into the upper part of the vagina through the abdomen without opening the peritoneum for the purpose of removing a foetus.

Frothily: In a frothy manner.

—–

I sink into my concrete bed, sticky with sweat; it’s as though Moses parts the red sea beneath me. Dry mouth. Heavy eyes.

‘Are you ok?’

Her voice taut, succinct. Very dry, like a wine rather than a desert. There is a siren somewhere nearby.

‘No….’ I briefly pause, then ‘I had the dream again…’

‘Go on…’ her encouragement, wearing me down, words as abrasive as stone.

A caesura hangs like a neon spider web; we are caught in a momentary tableau, flashing as I contemplate what words to let bubble forth. An explosion of thoughts, crashing, swelling frothily, thick as foam but bursting before they reach the clarity of reason. Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote that the rumble of thunder is to lightning, what an idea is to inspiration. I’m not sure how to begin. But I try.

‘I’m lying on a hospital gurney, there are sounds all around me and the lights are bright; it’s hard to make out what exactly is going on. There are four shadows above me, wearing masks and goggles. They look like insects, the sort that bury into another insects abdomen and lay their eggs there.’

‘Yes…?’

The recording machine’s siren is still blaring, metronomic, polyphonic, the two tone pluck of a pandoura. A strange reference. I push the insects from my mind.

‘The shadows merge into one and they put my legs in stirrups, I beg them not to put their eggs in me, but they ignore me. I’m sure they do. The pain, it hurts so bad…’

‘I know, but there’s someone coming, so hold on.’

‘The pain of the contractions, they hurt so much. I can’t do it, there’s just no way. The shadow he cuts into me with his words ” “Gastro…roelyt….ro…tomy,” he strings it out, just like that. Hangs it over me like a veil as he pulls the baby from my body, says I can’t have it, that it belongs to someone else. He takes the baby and makes me sign papers. They paid me money and took my baby…it wasn’t a choice…the shadows…’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand?’

My veneer cracking, the darkening within is blooming. This is my rumbling thunder, after all these years, to think it happens now, at a time like this. The only time left.

‘The shadows, they took him away and I never told. The papers said I couldn’t, but I have to tell someone. It has to be you. My son, I tracked him down, you have to warn him about them. His name…his name is…’

‘Is what? His name is what? Hello, can you hear me? There’s been an accident; I’ve hit you with my car. There’s an ambulance on its way, just stay with me, ok?’

She says this with no real conviction in her voice; she says it dry as a desert.

Day #12

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Hadder: Heather, heath

Cerberean: Of or pertaining to or resembling Cerberus

Bazaar: In the East an exchange marketplace or assemblage of shops where goods are exposed for sale

—–

‘You there, stop!’

The soldier cantered forward, his stallion blazing a brilliant white matched only by the sheen of his brass chest plate. Plumes of ceremonial feathers sprung from his tightly fitted helmet, blowing like hadder in the early morning breeze. Slipping from the horse’s back, he gave his sword handle a quick half-tug to make sure it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. A deep breath helped muster a vague air of authority; the soldier approached the front of the caravan.

Immediately, he saw the two men leaning into each other, exchanging quick, secret whispers. Both were of swarthy, middle-eastern appearance, their dark hair thick as gorse, both beards immaculately oiled. They seemed nervous, but after all these were treacherous times.

The war had not long ended and it was uncommon to see men of a darker hue so far from home. Rumors of kidnappings were already rife and to make things worse a high-ranking official’s wife – a spoil of war, beautiful and exotic – had gone missing the night before, meaning patrols had been doubled.

‘Where are you going my friends?’ called the soldier, his voice loud and crisp, a deeply sonorous birdsong.

He had been patrolling the border since daybreak, cerberean in his duty yet encountering no one amongst the trickling, sandy hours. Boredom and youth had dulled the soldier’s sense of duty. He’d stopped the Arabs because it was simply something to pass the time with.

The whispering ceased and the two men peered inquisitively at the soldier, his pale skin and tight crop of blond hair a brutal reminder that they were far from home.

‘Salaam, friend,’ called one of the men, older and with thick, heavyset eyebrows. His companion was younger and had greasy, sweaty skin. The older man continued, his tone sharp, ‘why do you stop us?’

The soldier was taken aback by such directness. ‘What brings you this way, so early in the morning?’

The younger Arab looked quickly at his companion, nervous, eager to move on. A light sheen glistened on his face, as though he were a reflection; the tight curls of his beard, dark and foreboding ripples. The older Arab dismissed his apparent concerns with a hard look of annoyance.

‘My friend, we are simple traders seeking to reach the bazaar at Damascus by nightfall. We are spice merchants. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Damascus? The soldier knew the journey well, having made it many times as a child. There was no way in hell these traders would ever reach Damascus by nightfall on this route. If they were even going to Damascus…

‘You have a long…journey ahead of you – I would hate for your goods to spoil… May I take stock of your wares?’

‘Of course,’ replied the Arab, his voice now perfumed and cloying, intoxicatingly sickly and sprinkled with a hint of knowing malice. ‘Please sink your teeth into our forbidden fruits…’

The solider didn’t like the man’s tone. Something was off. He pulled back the caravan’s curtains to reveal a dark skinned woman, beautiful and exotic, teeth bared, eyes fearful and dagger drawn.

She hissed just four words, ‘I’m not going back…’

Day #11

thetomwatts1 Comment

Panade: A dagger

Pericardium: The double baglike fold of serous membrane that encloses the heart

Cerebrifugal: The nerve fibers that go from the brain to the spinal cord and so transfer cerebral impulses; centrifugal impressions outwards

—–

You are a spasm on the face of the night; silently lithe, an oil slick seeping amongst rocks, ready to smother the wings of any birds you may encounter.

The guard’s cigarette burns brilliantly, a satirical star. You imagine the smoke curling in his lungs like old receipts in the bottom of a paper bag. A slow death. The light recedes, migrating, burning down until his lips are dully illuminated. You make sure the blood that spills from his lips extinguishes the nub. A gurgle of claret, a gushing waterfall, thick, sticky iron-rich plasma oozing like ketchup. You are the vampire bat; you are metal of fang.

Quick feet, a cat’s paws, every step a gracefully uncoiling spring. You ignore the paintings that hang from the walls, faces from history flashing past. You wonder if they approve of your task. They can’t judge you now. You melt into the shadows as two sets of footsteps stomp past. Right on time.

You know the floor plan; you know the number of steps on any given staircase; you know precisely where to stand in his room so that the silvery crescent of moonlight that slips between his curtains won’t fall on so much as a little toe.

Steady breaths, one staircase, then another, twisting, turning. You are Theseus pursuing the Minotaur, unspooling a reel of memorized directions.

Beneath the thin woolen mask that covers your face, beads of sweat start to form. You’re getting hot. You’re getting closer. You run over the plan once again…

Slip past the guards, removing their lives if necessary (you wonder whether any life is necessary, you chalk it up to collateral damage, you chalk it up to fun). Infiltrate his room, approach his bed then unsheathe your metal fang; the thin sliver of the panade, beautiful and deadly, a lone truth amongst the encroaching dark. You will slip the blade quickly into his pericardium – splitting the muscle in two. Then you will hold your hand over his mouth until the very last cerebrifugal pulse has faded from the spinal cord…

You’re standing outside his door, thick and wooden, a gloriously textured oak. The varnish stings your nostrils and your eyes spill a sudden film of tears that you quickly blink away.

You slip inside, an undetectable insect. Heavy breaths roll in like fog. You imagine the heady thud of your heartbeat acts like a bat’s squeals, your target caught amongst a net of sounds bouncing in the night.

Sleeping flags hang limply, the verdant reds, whites and blacks now a muted slurry of burgundy and grey, their iconography familiar, repellant.

You stand over his bed, his lumpy form already silent as a corpse, stiller than you expected. You unsheathe the panade and stab, stab, stab, stab, stab – all decorum consumed by a sudden intoxicating miasma. He doesn’t bleed at all…

And then, it is done.

Panting, you wipe a fleck of spittle from your lips, ‘Auf Wiedersehen Mein Fuhrer…’

You feel the cold, hard cigarette butt of a gun press into your back. You realize that, of course, he would have bled. Everyone bleeds. Even you. The gun dully illuminates and you melt into the shadows.

Day #10

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Dotard: One whose mind is impaired by age

Overprize: To prize excessively to overvalue

Dugway: A way or road dug through a hill or sunk below the surface of the land

—

Let me tell you about my strangest memory.

I keep it hidden away under lock and key somewhere in the back of my mind. Sometimes I close my eyes and watch it play on the curtain of my eyelids, hazy and noir, flickering like an old fashioned movie. I’ve only ever shared it with a handful of people…and now you.

***

The playground of my childhood school was a tarmac savannah, wrinkly like skin that’s been in the bath for too long and scribbled with the sun-bleached Nazca lines that denoted symbolic football pitches. Down the far end, under a large tree whose awning provided respite from the sun, were the badlands – a small scrubby patch of grass and dirt bordered by a wooden fence. Etched into this boundary was a permanently locked gate that led to our sports fields, but as we were a small, poor school, these fields were just public parks that we invaded once a year for sports day, tiny legs pumping whilst carrying eggs on spoons. A humpty-dumpy dystopia.

Anyway, somewhere between the ages of seven and ten my friends and I became fascinated with digging. Not just digging for the sake of slinging dirt, but real open cast excavations – our hands carving out deep holes and dugways amongst the tiny patch of dirt tacked onto our playground. Myself, Will, Tom and probably others who I can’t quite remember now, presided over our feats of engineering like Pharaohs watching the assembly of pyramids.

Looking back, perhaps we overprized our accomplishments. One time the council came and filled in a crater we had carved under some public stairs, as though it were a crème egg with a concrete center. We wore this like a badge of honor. But I digress…

Eventually, we decided to move on and excavate a new area, somewhere different in the myriad of playgrounds we had at our disposal. To test ourselves we chose a hedgerow in the middle playground. The thick, tangled roots seemed a suitable challenge for experienced diggers such as ourselves, finger nails crusty with dirt, rocks scraping as though we had discovered the very first tools.

One afternoon however something strange happened. Among the roots we unearthed a small black box. Then another. And another. And so on, until we had a stack of these small black boxes, each the shape and size of something a necklace may be displayed in. We couldn’t open them. Then our teacher appeared and she was angry with us. Then the men dressed in black came and took all our boxes away.

***

The memory fades toward the end, tapering off like a stuttering candle. I’ve managed to cling to the key points, to treasure them, as I know what happened to us was very significant, but I don’t know why. All I know is, we never dug another hole again.

Like I said, I’ve only ever told this to a handful of people…and I’m too scared to ask whether those involved remember or not, for fear of what it means for me if they don’t. I’m scared that I will begin to question my memories, fearing that I’m just another adult dotard, imagining things just to seem more interesting.

So, I think I’ll just keep it under lock and key for now.

Day #9

thetomwattsLeave a comment

Platting: Plaited strips of bark, cane, straw etc. used for making hats or the like

Water soldier: A submerged aquatic plant with serrated, brittle leaves that break easily when handled.

Geophagist: One who eats earth as dirt clay chalk, etc.

—-

Her slight, nimble fingers danced over the wicker canes, threading the silvery strips of birch bark under and over, under and over. The action reminded Ahn-weh of the way she used to braid her daughter’s hair, under and over, under and over, then tied in a knot – perfection. It would not be long until she saw her again, at least this was what Ahn-weh hoped.

But could you really trust the words that slithered from the lips of man who had killed untold thousands and forced a young girl into marriage against her will?

Genghis. The word pounded like a metronome as Ahn-weh wove the pale grey platting, under and over, under and over, circling round in loop after loop. She was slowly nearing the end of her task now. Genghis. Under and over. Genghis. Under and over.

The warlord, the self-proclaimed God-King, had offered this token task to Ahn-weh at the behest of her daughter; a vain attempt by the young girl to have her mother spared.

He had grinned, stringing words to his tongue like arrows to a bow, ‘they say you are an artist Mother, then let us see how great you are. Craft me a crown fit for a God-King and I shall let you and your daughter live.’

Ahn-weh could still smell his fetid breath, sticky and thick with spilt blood, musky like oxen that spent all day chewing rotting cud.

So Ahn-weh worked. Genghis. She stripped the bark from birch trees until her nails were bloody and raw. Genghis. She tempered the thin bands of silver in the midday heat. Genghis. She wove the circlets under and over until the crown began to gain form. Genghis. A shimmering star fallen from Heaven to Earth. Genghis. The crown of a God-King.

But Ahn-weh knew it was a futile task. She knew that her daily rations were poisoned; of course He wouldn’t play fair. He had no intention of letting her live, or of finishing the crown, which would result in the death of her daughter too. A cruel God-King.

This was why, at the break of every dawn, Ahn-weh slipped past her snoring guard, slumped awkwardly in a drunken stupor. She crept down to the river, alert like a deer and aware of every single glinting red reflection rippling and flashing as fish plucked early morning insects from the water’s surface.

Pushing aside the water soldiers, their brittle leaves flaking away at the slightest touch, Ahn-weh dug deep amongst their roots, burying her hands in the dirt, under and over. The thick, wet clay that she cupped in her palms tasted peaty when she drank it.

It was unpleasant and thick, clogging her throat and making her gag, but it would slow the poison in her body, she knew this; Ahn-weh the geophagist knew this. And she clung to this as she wove the silver birch bark into a crown for a God-King, fingers nimbly working under and over, over and over.