Archive for February, 2005


Here is my second fiction. I don’t know what to make of it, I didn’t
really want to post it up here but I don’t have anything to lose so
here it is! Let me know what you think…OH! And any ideas for titles
will be much appreciated…

The moon shone like a polished pearl
as it sat upon the cloudless velvet sky. In the spectrum of her vision,
Elaila saw the sky, black and clear as ink, merge with the earth
encapsulating her in a weightless sphere. The moon illuminated
everything, yet created more darkness in the shadows beneath the trees,
those pools of nothingness which would devour any who strayed from the
moon’s gaze. Better to bathe in the light, Elaila thought as she gazed
upward from where she lay on the cold ground. The woodland was young;
the trees were barely ten years-old, but their distorted figures seemed
so pained and aged. For a moment she imagined that she was surrounded
by crowds of starving people, all reaching their pale, bony arms
towards the heavens in a silent plea for nourishment and salvation. A
blink and they became mercury sculptures, dancing in the moonlight. She
closed her eyes once more and opened them to see the silver birches
suspended in timeless static.
Elaila reached out to the nearest trunk and touched the silvery bark
which looked like silk pulled taught around a pole. It was surprisingly
rough against her sensitive skin, but the way it grazed her finger tips
pleased her. She retracted her hand and hugged herself to savour the
tingling feeling pulsing through her body. Senses heightened, she
became aware of the utter stillness around. No sounds. No movement save
her own. The silence pounded in her ears and became almost unbearable
but she dared not make a sound to break it. Time might be started into
motion again if she did that. She wondered where time went when it had
been expended; what happened to the seconds that had been knocked out
of sync by the driving seconds hand?
Elaila failed to notice the grass around her growing at an abnormal
rate. The blades curved around her body and wove together to form a
basket, cradling her. Time sped up and slowed, dancing amongst the
stars, smiling down upon her; the grass grew fast and then stopped to
hold her.
The pounding silence was making Elaila dizzy and she sank deeper into
the grass cradle, closing her eyes. The pounding eased and as she
relaxed, Elaila heard the silence begin to sing. It was faint at first,
a dull note far off, but it grew louder and louder until the woodland
reverberated with a dissonant melody that penetrated the core of each
atom. Elaila could no longer keep her eyes closed and they shot open to
see the sky, once so serene and clear, full of lights and shifting
constellations. Orion was striding out from behind the moon towards
Pegasus who was flapping her wings and swishing her tail. The seven
sisters danced wildly in circles chanting horoscopes. Far away Galaxies
could be seen expanding and contracting, revealing parallel galaxies on
each expansion. The noise and the visual stimulation of the sky made
Elaila’s body burn with adrenaline, her muscles tensing and relaxing
rapidly. The shadows underneath the surrounding trees were drawing her
towards them by some powerful force. She glanced at them in awe and
fright, and realised that each one was a black hole, willing her
towards their space, wanting to own her, to crush her in their binding
love. Silence’s song now echoes throughout the universe and each note
moved Elaila into a deeper appreciation of the substance of her being.
With each notch up the volume scale, Elaila’s body drew further apart.
The cells were separating, the atoms pulling apart to join the
universal energy and suddenly –

– She’s waking. The morphine is wearing off.
– Do you thing she’ll recognise herself?
– The plastic surgeon did his best.
– The crash was just so awful, and the burns, oh, the burns.


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Cryfield 2

Hey Guys, here’s my first flash fiction. It definately needs
refinement but I’m not sure where to start on that so let me know what
you think 🙂 It also needs a title…

The mountains tower
around my insignificant car, sheltering me from the wind, but taunting
me with treacherous winding roads. The map is useless and so is my
sense of direction. Each house I have passed has been deserted, rotting
from the inside out, pining for its warm past and the homely smell of
soda bread.

The car is jittering now and the petrol gauge is
creeping into the red. It is four in the afternoon and the sun is out
for a change. I have been travelling for hours. My eyes are becoming
weary from scouring each nook and cranny of the mountains, searching
for some sign of life. A village, town, hamlet, cottage, cave: anything
that might mean food and communication.

I drove off the
Swansea-Cork ferry six hours ago at eight am with an old map and a
chest-full of excitement. The boat ride was bizarre. I watched pulp
fiction projected onto a wall in the makeshift cinema and I drank a
pint of Guinness in a traditional Irish pub. I browsed the gift shop
and bought my car a present; a Guinness key ring. I then drank more
Guinness and got talking to an old man who asked if i’d like to hear a
true ghost story.

He told me about his family who lived in
Kerry. I mentioned that I would be staying there and he smiled with
misty eyes that were lost in some distant memory. He continued. His
family had lived in a cottage, deep in the Beara Mountains near to the
village of Lauragh. There were twenty of them that lived together, his
immediate family and that of his uncle’s all under one roof. They
survived this way for many years until his father grew old and his
uncle grew greedy. The aged siblings began to dispute over whose family
would own the land upon their death. The disputes got worse and more
violent and one night, when they had driven each other quite mad, the
brothers took their fight outside and drew their knives. The situation
was resolved with the death of his uncle and the family abandoned the
house soon after. The old man paused. I wondered where the ghost of
this ghost story has disappeared to. I waited. “It has been told,” said
the old man eventually in a sad, husky tone, “that my uncle’s ghost can
be seen walking the mountains around the deserted cottage, guarding his
family home and searching for his sheep. I haven’t been back there in

The next morning, as I was passing by the bar to take
the escalator down to my car, I saw the old man again. This time he was
asleep in an armchair with a stain on his shirt and a half-finished
pint by his side. I thought to wake him but didn’t and instead I
wondered to myself if he ever got off the ferry. Maybe he travelled
back and forth perpetually, searching, like his uncle, for what he knew
he would never find.

I feel myself drifting ghost-like
through these craggy passages, lost in my mechanical tragedy like a
sheep that’s strayed from the flock. I am loosing hope and the car
gives its final shudder as I notice a house tucked away in the
mountainside ahead. There is a driveway and I manage to swerve the car
into it just as the engine stalls. Luck or coincidence? I
think to myself as I step down from the car and lock the doors. The
house stands about two hundred metres above me on the slope and there
is a neat footpath amongst the bulrushes and stacks of heather.

building is renovated, painted green, and faces south so that the sun
shines directly upon the garden that is in full bloom. I see potato
plants and tomatoes and marrows tucked beneath broad green leaves.
There must be people living here. My heart rate increases. I knock on
the front door. I knock again. And again. No answer. I walk around the
building peering in windows but there is definitely no one in. I see a
door ajar and decide to explore.

I have stumbled into a
studio. The walls are lined with paintings which are all by the same
artist. They mostly depict colourful buildings and shop fronts typical
to Southern Ireland. There are a few portraits too and a man trekking
across the desert. I notice an easel erect and a fresh white canvas
upon it. The palate of paints is ready too and still wet. They must
have been freshly mixed.

I sit in front of the easel and
stare at the canvas, deciding what to paint. I pick up a large brush
and dip into the green paint. The brush guides my hand to the canvas
and I begin to swirl the brush to and fro, creating grass-like patches.
Next I use blue; the sky and the grass blend seamlessly in front of me.
The cottage should be grey, with flecks of brown, and the thin brush
that I reach for follows my command, but my eyes are finding it hard to
focus on the detail. Exhaling in mild frustration I reach for my
glasses which are balanced on the toolbox to my right. That’s better. I
see a small smudge and get up to retrieve the white sprit from the
cupboard on the back wall, beneath O’Shea’s Supermarket. My large,
speckled hand carried the large bottle with ease.

cottage is done and the sheep I have dotted about the landscape need
little attention. Almost finished, I smile with satisfaction. I lean
back for a moment to absorb the entire painting and reach for my joint
which has been smoking in the glass ashtray that Val brought back from
India. Just one figure left to add before this painting is complete. My
3mm E18A brush slides between my forefinger
and thumb, where it is most comfortable, and with browns, pinks, blues
and black the figure of Michael Molly is fused to the landscape amongst
his sheep. Bless the old man. The really was a crazy old fool, but by
God he tended those sheep well, forever roaming these mountains with
his bad leg and an angry frown that told of a tough life and a hard

“George! Dinner’s ready love!”
I stand up and take the last drag of my joint, stubbing it out in the
ash tray that I pick up to take with me. The painting stands finished,
a sentimental dedication to Old Mike Molly. I chuckle to myself: our
mountain won’t be the same without his hopping all over it with those
funny crutches. I head out calmly, forgetting to shut the door behind
me, and I think of calling Teddy to help tow away that mysterious car.

I am reminded, as I sit here needing inspiration, of the kids I worked
with on Tuesday when I did my first school workshop with Codpiece. I
must admit that I was pretty nervous. What if they were too shy? What
if they were little rogues who were set on making us feel utterly
stupid? Not that I dislike kids, in fact I enjoy their company a lot as
long as they arent constantly obsessed with who you fancy and whether
you’ve kissed someone before.
It turned out in the end that the kids were fantastic. We could hold
them back from jumping up and acting out scenes or joining in with the
devising activities. It was amazing to see how each child was brimming
with ideas and confidence – even the “shy” ones. We played a game where
everyone sits in a circle with a pen in the middle. The pen can be
anything you want it to be and people can get up at any time to act out
what the pen is to them. When we play this in codpiece there are
sometimes 20/30 second gaps between people getting up to act. The kids,
however, were fighting over the pen. The room was buzzing with energy
and imagination and it struck me how much more creativity and
imagination children have, or rather how it comes to them without
thinking, more naturally. What happens to it? Do the creativity cells
in you descrease during puberty? Does your imagination escape through
your ears? No, its there, but I wish I could have learned from the kids
where it’s kept, why it is that comes to them so much quicker than it
comes to me.

Since my last posts I have migrated to campus and am now a resident
in Cryfield 2 – labelled the scummiest uni accommodation on campus!
woohoo! But it really isn’t that bad at all. I like my little room – I
don’t miss the space at all and I am a maximum of 3 mis walk from any
of my closest friends. Bonus.
Emotionally, I keep dipping in and out of self-identity crisis’ but am
currently feeling good. I have realised my lazy tendency toward caring
about life or people and current events involving both. This has to be
changed and I am trying to do so. I have started reading the paper,
having discussions and forcing myself to be bother talking about random
things with people. Pulp fiction voiced my feeling on chatter perfectly
when I watched it for the first time ever yesterday: the cafe scene
with Travolta and Thurman, she saying why is that people can’t be
comfortable with silence, why do they feel as though they have to chat
bullshit to fill awkward silences? I share her opinion that you know
you’ve found someone special when you can sit and share silence
together. Now, realistically thats not going to happen too often so I
better learn how to fill those awkward silences that happen every now
and then.
My new hall mates are nice people, I get on pretty well with most of
them, not that I’ve met everyone yet, but hey I’m having fun. Its great
cooking for myself even if it does mean that I am living off pasta and
fish fingers. I never thought of myself as the typical student cook but
I am, and worse. Its all fine thought. I don’t have time for all the
Jamie Oliver crap. Eating in necessary and I enjoy it but that doesn’t
mean it has to be corden bleu!
mmm one world week was such a good week. I am slowly loosing my will to
learn french which is bad because I know I really want to! I should
call Clement to get a session sorted and also to keep in touch with the
international crowd. They are a cool bunch. The Rootes lot are great
fun too. The F situation is interesting too. I am less attached but at
the same timie more secure to the idea that it may be going somewhere.
Thats not what I want but I am craving someone to share my bed…we’ll
My first solo went great on thurs and my frist official solo went even
better on friday! what a stress I had but it worked out. The afterparty
was interesting…great fun until it because obvious how drunk everyone
else was and how many times I had already been through the same routine
of house party. The only difference was the great conversation going on
amidst the lesbian kissing, loud singalongs and touchy feely chats.
Thats unfair though, I really like all the people that were there too.
No matter how pissed, they are lovely people. I wonder what it will be
like sharing a house with Andy…and Anna and Tommy for that matter.
Shall be interesting…
The curcible should be scary but good fun! Re-read the play last night
and like the sound of my character – Mary Warren – and I think I will
have fun with the over-emotional hype. In fact, I can’t wait for the
rehearsals to start. I really should read more theatre…
Shame I’ll miss out on choir tour…Patience is going to be smashingly
cheesy…if people stop hassling the production team anyways. And what a
crock of shit about week 10 Figaro.
Ok, enough, do some work, read Yeats!!!

🙂 xxx

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