Basement Archive Room

It's an 8 page ebook.
Well, pdf.
It's a sort of partial archive.

Basement Archive Room

Print it off, pass it along. e-mail it out to your friends.
I'd appreciate it.

There'll be more.

Goodnight.

Penultimate

So this is the beginning of the end.

I've put up a Christmas story at AllTheGhosts.

I have a New Years present planned.

The latest Noah and The Whale album is very good.
And Star Trek socks are even better.

Apocalypse

I have a short story, Apocalypse, up on The Whistling Fire. It went live yesterday.

Apocalypse

“Where will you be?”

“When?”

“At the apocalypse.”

He snorts, and rolls his head back.

She continues to look at him, unmoving; deadpan.

“Oh.”

They dangle their legs over the concrete ledge, close to the lapping canal water. Dead scum floats beneath their feet and it smells faintly of a harbour when the tide rolls out. They watch light dancing against the blank underbelly of the bridge, carrying traffic. Around them the detritus of broken industry lies shattered; a burnt out car, rusted steel drums, puddles made iridescent with a thin veneer of oil. A halo of fast food packaging flutters in the wind. Few boats wander past. Crickets chatter.

He thinks about what it would be like, to see the world end. Would it be quick, or drawn out? Would he even have the chance to make a phone call? He lies back a moment and tries to imagine that the sun is now a searing explosion washing over his body. If it was, then he’d be dead by now. Vaporised: burned into the earth as a permanent shadow.

“With my family then, I guess.”

She sighs.

“I don’t think you understand. It’s not about where you want to be, but where you will be.”

“I never thought about it like that.”

“It’s not such an easy question.” She holds her hands out, palms up as though the concept were an object for him to see. Her naked feet form a Newton’s cradle. The sound of skin kissing bounces off the water and concrete. He feels, for a moment, as he did when he was a child at the local swimming pool, listening to the unreal sounds of water slapping and voices ricocheting. Chlorine burning his nostrils.

He draws his eyes down, shuttering them from the sun.

“I’d be at home then, he says: sleeping and it would all be over by the time I woke up, or rather I would never wake up because I miss important events. Always have,” he adds, quieter.

“I like that.” She pulls a loose hair from his cheek and blows it away. “Permanent sleep. I wonder if you’d carry on dreaming.”

“Probably not.”

She brushes back one side of her hair, tucking it behind an ear. She cranes her head a little. The first audible chug from a pleasure boat rolls in from around a distant meander.

“I think I’ll be in a supermarket,” she says. “And I’ll be the only one smiling. Have you ever noticed that? That people never smile in supermarkets? They all carry expressions of boredom; or else annoyance, or inconvenience. I saw this woman once, in the queue and she was worried, you know? Like something was distressing her. She had the face of a trapped animal.”

“I’ve never looked that closely.”

“Well I have. And that’s where I’ll be, with all those people and I don’t think their expressions will be any different.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Why don’t you?”
“That’s not what I was asking.”

She giggles at him and shakes her head.

“Alright then,” she says. “I think it will be because they won’t realise what’s happening to them, because the idea that they will all die and no-one will be there to remember them, will be too much to handle. They won’t be able to comprehend it, so they’ll carry on as if nothing is wrong.”

“You’re a pessimist.”

“I’m not deluding myself. There’s a difference.”

“But what if they did realise?”

“They’d laugh. Really hard.”

“And then?”

“It’d be too late, the apocalypse will have happened.”

Postcard

I just wrote this in the last five minutes. It's a little rough.

Her name was Mary and she lived in a postcard. Her brother carried her from place to place. He took her to Hawaii and he took her to Paris, before they spent one year in Timbuktu.

Her smile was cut from sunshine; her eyes reflected ocean off the Cote d’Azure.

He liked to remind her of their childhood, when on Sundays they’d go to church and they’d sing in the choir and their mother would wave from the farthest pew.

Her brother was a good man, he’d show her off to anyone who asked.

Six sailors fell in love with her and seven priests prayed for her until the day she died at eighty two.

It was the last day of summer in Warsaw, when the rain came in torrents and he dropped her in a puddle coated with an iridescent sheen.

Her hair turned to ink and her smile faded in a blink and that man cried because his sister was gone for good.

A very disturbing dream I had last night

A shopping mall: clean, open and sterile, built from steel and glass, reflecting the sun in a prism of mirrors; constructed out of light. Dressed in white, I slip through to the exit, where mouths scream and muscles contort. The people are filthy. Violence has erupted from sleeping paranoia and open desperation. A young woman falls across my path – her eyes are shuttered, her hair hangs over pale bloodless cheeks in a death veil. Her family clutch at one another as I cross over the path of her broken body.

A shadow passes.

Silence reigns.

The final calm.

And then the true light arrives, and it blinds them all before they feel the wave of heat. Ghosts are seared into concrete as the atmosphere becomes plasma. I bathe in the warmth of the end.

Donut rings. I picked up the reciever and asked: "Hello?"

I ate a whole seven of the little fuckers. It took three minutes and twelve seconds to lick all of the sugar and jam from my lips, fingers and swollen thumb.

Crack Rabbit

I fed my rabbit crack. Addiction came soon after, and before long a real problem developed. He wouldn’t stop shaking. It was as if he had been transformed from the family pet into a living, furry vibrator. At one point my wife tried to use him as one. It was during one of our post-coital arguments and the only way I could stop her from putting on a sex show in front of the kids was by threatening to ditch her for her mother, Diane.

I can say that because I know that Diane has the hots for me. She flirts with a salacious grin whenever her daughter turns her back and I can name at least three occasions where she has attempted seduction. The Johnson’s New Year’s party, Christmas Eve 2003 and Sunday Dinner one particularly cold February. Not to say that she is outright obvious, there is a certain air of subtlety. No, it’s in her eyes. And the way she slides that secretarial skirt up her thigh to reveal her Marks and Spencers.

Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that it is very irresponsible to feed a helpless creature such as a domesticated rabbit crack. Buster (that was his name) became highly erratic, often rifling through draws in the vain attempt to get hold of more drugs. It was as though he had undergone radical personality transformation surgery. He stopped functioning: washing and eating were forgotten. He lost a dramatic amount of weight, turning into what can only be described as fur pulled loosely over a skeletal frame. Towards the end he even stopped using the kitty litter I put down. There were round balls of shit everywhere. My Dad mistook them for Maltesers and ate one. That was a mistake.

The funny thing is, that wasn’t even the last straw. We did our best to rehabilitate him. Even when stuff about the house started going missing (money, jewellery, ibuprofen). The final straw came when it turned out that this helpless creature was not at all helpless. He mugged an old lady with a kitchen knife (don’t ask me how, you wouldn’t believe the story). We sat down as a family and began crisis talks. They went far into the night. Coffee was consumed, harsh words were said, but eventually we came to a decision.

We kicked him out of the house. It sounds harsh, but there really wasn’t any other option. It had to be done, for the children and our sanity. Less than two weeks later my wife saw him in a butcher’s window, stripped of his fur and skin, hanging from a hook. She bought him, took him home and made a stew. I always suspected she was a bunny boiler.

Dream...

Some time after the accident the three of us returned to our former home; that monument to entropy. Collapsed and distraught, it struggled against a charcoal sky. Beneath its shadow, where only the whistling gate remained, we stood, sentinels at the final outpost of a dead time. I turned to Lucius.

“Should we go in?”

He replied by trampling the last of the grass beneath his boots. He crunched through charred wood and brick. At the top of the steps, from the framed pillars of his funereal palace, he called to Alice and me.

“Well, are you coming in or not?”

I hesitated.

Head held in reverence, Alice floated past. She appeared to me as if underwater; the whispers of her hair shifted in open cross-currents of lost time. Buoyant with melancholy, she passed through what remained. Her smoke rose up in tendrils and became smudged out in the last of the Burgeoning heavens. Ashen trees mourned winter. A far off stack belched black blood. The clouds were going to break.

I followed the others, holding on to what remained of the whistling gate: it broke off in my hand. I thought of dropping it there, on the scorched earth to rust into the ages, and I should have, but I could not. Inside the guts of what was left, I propped it against a rotten wall, creating a moment of order.

Lucius threw me his flask: the insides were warm and choking.

“There is nothing left here, is there?” I asked, one last time.

Silence and musk. Alice feathered my face with hers, wrapping her arms about me. The memory of a heartbeat came back for a moment - it passed. Her chest remained in permanent pause. She pulled away. I wiped white ash from my shoulder. Back in the end days, she liked to do that for me.

Lucius muttered: “I’m off now,” and dropped through the ruined floorboards. I stared in reverie at the space he used to occupy. Alice caressed a smile of midnight at his departure.

After a time, she surgically removed the cigarette from her bloodless lips, and lit another off the embers. She said: “Me too,” and out of reality, her form faded.

She used to be my dream girl.

Corporeal

She crept in under the cover of partial darkness, sneaking with her head scanning from side to side and back arched: a midnight cat stalking prey. The amber glow of suburbia filtered through the slotted gaps of blinds that remained open and cast stripes of light and shadow upon her form. Her form: it stole away out of the covers, creaked open the door and crept silently down to the end of the corridor where she broke into her brother’s room. His former room.

It seemed empty without him; a desolate shell of the life he used to lead. Much of him remained there though and was preserved as museum pieces to his memory. Tokens of the past that nobody wanted or felt brave enough to part from.

A finger ran across the surface of his desk. She lifted it up and rubbed the dust between index and thumb. He never allowed any dust to gather in his room, he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t allow that mess to exist. It was his greatest weakness and fault. Never had he ever tolerated disorder in his life. For him it always had to be just…so.

Out of his drawers she pulled a sweater that was ironed and folded to perfection. The exact size of an A4 sheet. Perfect right angles. No bobbles. In real light, not the fake light of the city at night, it appeared evergreen as she remembered him. Alive and well all year round. His winter had come far too early.

The scent of him remained, however; the slight musk mingled with the fresh smell of conditioner. Clean. He had always smelled clean. She buried her nose deep into the fabric and took him in, absorbed his essence and memory until she could barely breathe or think. Her heart quickened as she pulled away and her stomach tensed. Her chest rose in short sharp bursts. The palpitations rose up into her throat. The blood beat harder. Her vision grew dark. Lights faded. Amber to grey. Shadow to shadow.

Her head flung back, she fell with arms wide open onto the bed and through half closed lids could almost make out his form, almost see him and sense his presence right there, right above her as if he were very nearly corporeal.

Late

A while back I received a call from a friend who, if I’m being honest, I hadn’t spoken to in a few weeks as the last time we had spoken things had been just a little… strained. But she got me worried because there was this earnest tinge to her tone that suggested she wanted to discuss something important. The strange part about it was that she asked me to meet her at a café that was just a few minutes from where I lived. Normally, she would have just hammered on my door (no bell) and be done with it. So, on the basis that something must have been wrong, I agreed to meet up.

I arrived a little late to find her brooding over a mug of something hot and couldn’t help but imagine that she was listening intently to whispers in the steam. I waited in front of her table as a passive attempt to garner some attention but it didn’t seem to work, so I bought an orange juice and a pastry and sat down in the opposite chair. After a few minutes she looked up.

“Oh, hey. You came.”

“Well it sounded important. You okay?”

“Yeah, fine I suppose.” She turned silent and I bided my time for her to strike up a conversation, or at least offer something akin to an explanation. She remained impassive though, simply staring into her mug with a slightly cocked head and furrowed eyebrows. I gave up.

“What’s that?”

“Tea.”

I offered her some Danish.

“English Breakfast actually.”

“No: Danish.”

“Oh. No thank you.”

“Watching your hips?”

“Maybe, you could say that.”

“You seem a bit out of it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She huffed and then looked up, jutting her chin out and widening her eyes so that she looked like a frightened rabbit. “I really want to go for a walk; shall we go for a walk?”

“What for?”

“I just want to take a walk outside.” She sort of smiled manically when she said this, so I decided to appease her.

“Okay, that sounds fine.”

“Thanks.” She got up, gathered her coat and bag and started toward the door. I had to down my juice and wrap the rest of the Danish in a napkin and stuff it into my jacket pocket. By the time I caught up with her she was already halfway up the street, walking with her eyes focused entirely on her feet. We walked in the clear light of a spring afternoon with her leading the way in an awkward, silent meander. It was one of those days where the sun seemed distant and a slight wind meant you had to wrap a scarf around your throat so that you wouldn’t catch a cold.

She led me down to the river where we sat on wooden benches and she stopped to stare at the mundane. And each time, when I had almost figured out what it might be that she was looking at, she would move on and then again I would follow like a puppy dog on an invisible lead.

Eventually, we came to a bridge and she stopped like every time before, but rather than simply zoning off into the middle distance, she asked me a question.

“You ever feel like you’ve sailed too far down the river?”

“Sorry, what?”

“You ever feel like you’ve made one little mistake and now you can’t turn back? That you have to just accept it and get on with life?”

I tried mulling over her words but drew a blank.

“I don’t get what you’re saying.”

She sighed deeply and looked at her watch.

“I’m late.”

“Late for what?”

She didn’t reply and began to zone off again.

“What are you talking about?” I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and start shaking her until she made sense.

“Doesn’t matter.” She dug her hands deep into her coat. Then she looked up at me and smiled gently. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“As long as it isn’t some kind of… cryptic metaphor.” I don’t do well with metaphors.

“We’ll always be friends, right, no matter what?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” And then she brightened up. All of a sudden, there she was; the friend I knew, just back to normal as though the past hour had never occurred.

“Let’s get some food; we’re feeling pretty hungry.” She gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek and carried on back the way we came, with her head held a little higher and her arms wrapped around her stomach, keeping it warm.

Upside Down

We slept quietly, occasionally waking when the tips of our feet brushed against one another’s through the thick quilt in the dead of hushed night. Our bodies remained silent, but not motionless, and my heart jumped with excited fervour each time until one of us shifted on the hard, old, lump ridden mattress. And then it sank once again, with the guilt of runaway fantasies and melancholic realisation of futures that could never possibly unravel. And between those moments we both slept, and perhaps you slept through all of them, but I think I heard you take a short, quick breath once or twice. Perhaps it was with sudden ecstasy, or perhaps with shock. Either way, the night was soon over and I was left only with memories.

So when I woke I opened the curtains to reveal a pure winter morning: clear skies and cold sunlight that reflected off the fresh, bleached snow to dazzle my sleep worn eyes. I rubbed away a hard nugget of sleep dust with a thin finger and took a long gaze at the serenity before me with clear sight. And then, finally, I noticed that a bird had disturbed it; leaving a three-toed trail through the pristine flakes that disappeared off into a far-off vanishing point beyond the extent of sight. And I felt like I was staring at the whole scene upside down, as though my brain had forgotten to revert the image so that I could comprehend it; true to life.

Paper Bag

Lucinda, an ex-girlfriend of mine, always insisted upon wearing a paper bag over her head. She seemed to believe that her face was malformed and wretched, but I thought it was the most beautiful I had ever seen.

Many months were spent trying to convince her otherwise, but to no avail. Eventually noticing that her usual brown bag was becoming torn and rough at the edges, I resolved to find her a new one. I spent weeks trawling the high streets of the country, testing every paper bag I could find in order to find the one that she would love the most. But also to demonstrate that no matter what life she chose, I would always be there to support and love her.

A few weeks after I presented it to her she left me for another man, saying as she walked out the door: “You don’t love me for who I am anymore; you have become too obsessed with aesthetics.”

Something Suitable for Skimming

Early winter and the sun hides its face behind a mask of brooding cloud. We trudge up the empty beach in single file, a meandering column of two with you at the head and me at the tail. A slight pitter-patter of rain crosses our vision like a thousand ghosts of shooting stars that leave the stones beneath our feet wet and glistening and make our impractical shoes slip against them. Our progress is slow, but it doesn’t matter because we have so much time to squander on this day, to spend as we please.

The tops of silent seaside shacks are just visible above the bank of shingle; their occupants safe inland for the length of the British winter. I wonder if they are worth the expense, only useful for such a short period that is our supposed summer. Do you remember how it used to last so much longer? When, as children, we spent so long adventuring in the woods and paddling in the sea; building sandcastles that were there one day and gone the next, ready to be resurrected. Now each year the sun shrinks farther away and becomes more blanched. Our autumn comes on in overcast waves.

The waves: they crash on the shore like heavy thunder; throwing up spray that kisses our faces and tickles the insides of our noses. Even though it is bitter and cold and a wind cuts through to my skin, I still feel cheerful walking by the sea, awed even. A scientist friend of mine once said that the reason the sea makes everyone happy is because the salt water releases free oxygen into the air which makes you, in a literal sense, high. A chemical reaction is all. A biological process that we take to mean so much more.

I ask if we can stop to rest and you nod, your face softening to give me a smile and reverting back to a more intent look as you begin to scan across the stones. A rogue strand of hair gets tucked back beneath your beanie with a gloved hand. I saw it fall out earlier while we ate ice cream from the isolated van. I didn’t say anything because I liked the way it framed one side of your face.

While settling down onto hard stone I see you walk around in tight circles, following an invisible path which, from experience, I know means you are searching for something suitable for skimming. Still, I ask:

“What are you searching for?”

“Something suitable for skimming.” You reply without looking up (and that familiar smile becomes visible at the corners of your mouth). A few moments later you pick up a stone that is flat and smooth and fits snug into the palm of your hand. You toss it into the air a few times, flicking it with your fingers and getting a feel for the shape, then you pull your arm back and launch it with a practised precision that sends it spinning well over the white foam and onto the swell of that heavy, undulating ocean. It skips three times and then disappears over the horizon of a far away hill of water. I clap through thick gloves. You turn to me and beam.

Gnarled

You are gnarled. Like an old woman’s hand reaching up to the pale morning sky. Worn and arthritic you remain stock still. On the rare occasion that you do move it is with immense and immeasurable pain. You stand as a testament to time that although nature has thrown everything she can at you, you remain whole and resolute.

Yet looking closer there are scars, too. Small ones. Three in particular. One from fire, one from a child and one from a man. They tell a story where all the characters are just phantoms lost to memory and time and where the circumstances are obscured by an indistinct fog and only the physical marks remain.

In some places the skin has come off; taken away by a blade, or maybe something similar. Where it has grown back there are darker patches that seem somehow odd, as if they do not belong to you but to some other, alien being.

There is a thump.

A creak, a groan and a crack.

Are you struggling to move, to reanimate in the cold winter air? No, because slowly you turn away from that sky, revealing parts of you that have never before seen sunlight. And they are joyous in its distant warmth. That rapture is short lived. Your death is a silent scream except that there are witnesses, who watch without awe as you fall with undignified speed. The event occurs without grace. You are not the morning star. They hear you crash with a broken, dulled thump.

More wood for the fire.