There's Something Inside of Me

My name is Clive Johnson, and I am fifty-three; I am not long for this world. There’s something inside me: it’s not a child; it’s much smaller and much harder than that, but it grows just as voraciously as one. I want it out of me.

       It’s not the sort of thing to rise on a churn of bile and part-digested food: it is embedded in there, like a little pearl, slowly killing me.

       When I was nine, my mother had an abortion: my father beat he like an animal skin, making her go a deeper colour; she would dismiss the bruises to her friends as caused during sleep – she had a fanciful story about being an erratic sleeper. After my younger sister and I, and the regular fists and threats of knives, she refused to put any more children through it.

       My sister would stand in front of me when my father would come home drunk. Don’t hit him, she would say: hit me, you coward. And he would lay into her. I often wonder what my younger brother would be like if he were here; I swear I can sometimes hear him calling me from the back of my mind; I swear there’s a voice telling me that he deserved life.

       They said it had gone into remission, but it’s back. At the moment, it is the size of a pea, in the soft lining of my left lung. It has started to spread: it will soon move to my bronchus, my throat, then who knows where.

       I always missed my lost sibling – could it be that I am the host for a long-dead thing? A loose bundle of cells, and a loose bundle cells; dividing every twenty-four hours, dividing every few hours. I will not give it a name – it is not soft. It is a hard bastard. It is a hard bastard which I am forced to call my own.

       I’m back on the cocktails: my hair has been shed in a soft chemical violence. I feel tired. I cannot eat. I want some marijuana. I want the little bastard out of me. I tell myself it was never my fault: the guilt I lay at my feet has always been dead and lifeless. I wish my mother hadn’t done it – I wish she’d had the other instead.

       Things could’ve been so much better.

Meat Head

The Night Shift: 10.30-5.30 am. The cows streamed in through the narrow way like a slow, fatty trickle. Second shift – break over.

         Daniel was operating the boltgun – Billy the Bolt, the fellers called it – and had just cleaned it after tearing a hole in the skull of the last lump of flesh.

         The room was big and white, with rows of brilliant lights – the whiteness of it got to be like a blow to the head, but you could always zone out of it. The factory floor was pale linoleum – it seemed to give the blood a terrible dimension. One every five minutes: decapitated, gutted, skinned, and washed. They usually thrashed about for a short while as they spent their last – a cruel person might laugh.

He often wondered whether they ever knew they were dying. He often wondered that. They were disgusting. Something about it was disgusting.

         It was sometime in the early hours. He’d killed perhaps thirty cows that day: the farm held, at any one point, up to 50,000. Farm: more of an industrial prison. Cow-schwitz, he’d often joked. It was a Nebraskan establishment: Norton Meats. But there was no Mr Norton – he’d died in the ‘50s. This place had been expanding for near 90 years, buying out small farms and denuding the land. Cows and dirt and grain – just cows and dirt.

         There were several men on tonight besides Daniel. There, there, he thought; easy, now. He’d just cleaned the boltgun again. The thud was soft, but he imagined a lengthy stretch of time filled with crunching and squashing and squelching and ruptured blood vessels. He’d worked there for six months. Over that time, he’d noticed the animals’ eyes more and more – those eyelashes. Was there more there than just shit and fur?

         He wiped his brow. The whole place was big and brilliantly ventilated, but he felt he might’ve been coming down with something. The blood was nothing – besides, it was soon washed away. They could get through five-hundred cows in a week – that’s 225,000 pounds of meat. That’s a lot of waistlines to fill.

         A cow approached him, the eyes big and inconstant – more like a fish’s eyes in this moment – and moaned low. Did it know its fate? Boltgun, processing, distribution, down the gullet, out the arsehole, and into the ground. Could it infer from the immaculate, organised carnage, from the faint musk of iron in the air, that its number had been called?

         Daniel looked intently at it, then put on his mask, held the boltgun to the cow’s head, and pressed the button. It shot out several inches into the animal’s skull. It went down in a heap of legs, blood, and traumatised flesh, convulsing in this church of white, cold death.

         It turned his stomach. The animal would soon be dead. Its head would be removed, a sharpened blade, wielded by some poor Mexican’s arm, would loose the contents of its stomach, and then its skin would be stripped off, washed, and shipped off to Norton Leather.

Michael approached. He was 6’2”, blonde, with a small scar under his right eye, and a cleft palette.

‘Michael,’ Daniel called out. ‘Come here.’

         ‘Hey, what’s up?’ Michael could see he looked uneasy – this feeling had been growing in Michael for some time.

         ‘Oh, nothing. Well… no, no: it’s stupid.’ He scratched his head, then his cold, coarse cheek. ‘I’ve an odd feeling, Mick,’ he said. ‘I’ll be honest: I don’t think I can do this job anymore.’

         ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. He looked shocked – the suddenness of it, the lack of grit, the unreason. ‘What about Martha? She ain’t holdin’ down a job, is she? You know times is uncertain.’ Michael paused. Daniel was still working over the gristle in his mind. ‘What about the security, the –’

‘I can’t explain it! I just feel… odd. I - I keep thinking… I keep thinking whether the animals can, you know, perceive the world – you know, anticipate their deaths.’

Michael looked at him blankly. Perceive the world? he thought. Anticipate death? His first thought was that Daniel had been up too long or slept too little. Had he become cranky?

          ‘What do you mean?’

         ‘Well, what if they can anticipate their deaths? What if they’re conscious? What then, huh?’ He thinks about their eyes going from placidity to panic. Pasture to packaging.

         Michael thought about this: ‘Well, I’m not sure. I guess that means it’s murder. I guess that means –’

         And then the foreman came onto the killing floor. ‘What’re you doing? I overheard ya. Why ain’t you workin’?’

         ‘It’s – it’s nothing,’ said Daniel. The next cow approached. The boltgun felt leaden in his hand. Michael looked at Daniel oddly, almost scared, and Daniel felt naked and dead: the blood congealed inside his veins.

Sweet of the Week

Daddy, look at these! Martin was staring up into a big golden container. Toffees – shimmering on the shelf, out at sea in a wave of colour. They’re all stuck there, until the shopkeeper reaches for them. The ritual, the ritual is beautiful.

       Daddy, I want those ones.

       Okay, Martin, says daddy, you can have three types, okay? I recommend the toffee crumble: it’s yummy – it feels like tasty dirt in your mouth, and it’s sticky! Martin smiles. He’s six years old. He doesn’t live with his daddy. His daddy is a naughty man – a bastard: that’s what mummy calls him. The shopkeeper hands Martin a small chunk of the crumble – mmmm….

       He looks around, looks down the long shelves of the slim shop; looks at the regular containers and all the colours; has no idea of the taste, but wants to find out. They go in like a dark thumb, the saliva working the sugar over tastes good, and then you need a drink. Martin’s favourite is cream soda. He sees the window and the flash of green.

       Oh, daddy, what are those? Let me see, says John… chocolate limes. Oh, they’re chocolate limes. They’re good, Martin! Number three? He turns to the shopkeeper: sweet of the week?

       The shopkeeper points to the sign by the window: oh, yes, they’re special! He looks down at Martin: they’re very special!

       The man has a warm face, but it’s a bit scary: it’s big; his hair has receded and he’s bald, more or less – he has long sideburns, more like whiskers, grey and erratic.

       Yes, they’re special, thinks John. They’re special, he tells Martin.

       He remembers, as a child, his nan used to give him sweets every Wednesday when he’d go to see her with his father, her house all hers, big and happy and empty: boiled sweets wrapped in paper, with each fruit on them; creamy fudge; fruit pastels; toffees; crispy fudge… and the chocolate limes. Oh, the chocolate limes! Everything humbugs could never be! He missed them after she died – they just went away. It’s all chocolate, chocolate, chocolate…. The flavours, the flavours! (The flavours go.)

       They look good, daddy! I want those ones.

       So, toffees, toffee crumble, and chocolate limes?

       Martin pauses. Yes! He smiles, big and broad, all lips; he smiles at both of them.

       John scoops the sweets into a bag. Okay, then, friend, says John: you heard ‘im! Right you are! says the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper weighs the bag of sweets.     

       They’re special, thinks Martin: they’re green and lovely!

       They’re special, thinks John: they’re crispy and crumbly. They’re wonderful. They belong to a better time.

       They’re special, thinks the shopkeeper: we’ve got so many of the bloody things and no one ever buys them; we need to shift ‘em!

       He hands John the paper bag, lined with red and yellow stripes. He folds it over, hands the man the exact change - £2.23 – and smiles.

       Right, then, Martin, put your hood up: it’s started raining.

       I’ll save mummy a chocolate lime, he thinks. He smiles up at daddy, and daddy nuzzles his hair, soft and messy.  

       They leave the shop. Outside, it’s Saturday.

       Martin is like a bobble outside in his blue mac, floating down the street with daddy. The rain swallows all.

       Daddy puts the sweets under his long jacket and turns up the collar. The walk to his flat isn’t far – and then later the long drive back to Melanie. He’ll be sleepy and warm, behind the immortal slow rain tapping the windshield, dark in the passenger seat, with a small green hard thing in his pocket for mummy. A small hard thing, thrumming away somewhere – dark, deep, and warm.

Human/Pose

Human/Pose

There is no such thing as ‘handsome’ or ‘beautiful’ – beauty is just a pose. To be worn; it doesn’t last long. It’s just a countenance. We can all be ugly; we can all look ugly. We can all develop a paler aspect. The blood drains.

Try telling James, 27, the Calvin Klein model, who got cancer of the throat in August: half of it was removed. He’s now almost mute and sounds like a gurgle of water. The mirror is now a vexation. He’s thinking of moving onto razor blades….

We’re all human. They’re all human. It’s just a pose: Never forget that. And we can all pose. Beauty is a fleeting little bird that flits its wings and then keeps on flying – but sooner or later it must land and fold its wings back into the wellspring.

And now a poem...

There is no such thing as ‘handsome’ or ‘beautiful’ –

beauty is just a pose.

To be worn; it doesn’t last long.

It’s just a countenance.

We can all be ugly;

we can all look ugly.

We can all develop

a paler aspect.

The blood drains.

Try telling James, 27,

the Calvin Klein model,

who got cancer of the throat

in August:

half of it was removed.

He’s now almost mute

and sounds like

a gurgle of water.

We’re all human.

They’re all human.

It’s just a pose:

Never forget that.

And we can all pose.

Beauty is a fleeting little bird

that flits its wings and then keeps on flying –

but sooner or later it must land

and fold its wings back 
into

the wellspring.

Don't Be Too Outrageous

Diana opens the door and steps into the hallway, passing the two porcelain beagles which sit either side of it. The waft of early spring is in the air, sweeping over her shoulders and squeezing through between her legs. She knows the smell – she's smelt mulch and bloom for many a year. The pansies, geraniums, and snowdrops, lining the low wall that girds the garden, are stirring from winter-weariness, showing the first pangs of yellow, red, brilliant purple, and white; some of the geraniums are splotched with white; the daffodils are beginning to peel open, giving themselves piece by piece to spring's every gesture; the roses lay under a pall of slumber, the red curls as yet hidden under folds of green, and the lavender of her garden is anchored steadfast – a biennial soldier struggling eternally through warmth and waste; all these flowers gently perfume her, still primed for the full explosive potential of their colour and scent.

She wipes her shoes, enters the warmth of her house, and sees the picture of Charlie and Gerry, Charlie staring up with his tongue hanging out, Gerry sniffing the grass, ears drooping, wet nose; she can still recall vividly the oak and honey of their fur.

Then the thought goes like a small shape slipping under a hedge; the feel of it losing texture with each year. She misses walks in the park. Winter walks were the best – so quiet, so peaceful, so much tension. But that’s in the past; she has her garden to look forward to, after all.

          'Darling, are you there?' She drops the bags on the laminate wood floor of the kitchen, takes out a brown paper bag from a white, plastic one. She finds Bill in the living room in front of the television.

          ‘Hello, dear.’ He doesn’t turn. ‘Have fun at the market?’ he asks.

          'Oh, yes! I've got something to show you! I think it’s utterly delightful!'

          He watches the screen, flicking from the races on BBC1 to a western on BBC2. John Wayne’s face fills the screen. What a ridiculous man, he thinks. What a pussy! Yes, that word was still in his vernacular.

          'What is it?' He turns to her, his eyebrows arched in a lazy expression, worn in an attempt at interest.

          Smiling, she sneaks the thing gently from the bag.

          'Ta-da!'

          'Oh... what’s that?'

          'Duh!' she says. How obtuse he can be!

          'He pauses. 'Oh, a garden gnome. A rude gnome, isn't it?'

          'Yes! Guess how much it cost.'

          'Well....'

          'Guess!'

          'Okay, five pounds.'

          'Three pounds fifty!' she says.

          ‘May I ask why you bought it?’ It’s a bit vulgar, he thinks; it might raise some eyebrows amongst the neighbours, especially the Davidsons....

          Diana curls her lips up in contemplation. ‘Well, I thought it would give the garden a bit of cheer – you know, add a bit of character to it.’

          'Hmm... and you want to put this out in the front garden?' He turns back to the television and reaches for the table in front of him to nibble on an oatmeal biscuit.

          'Well, yes!' she says.

          'It's a bit outrageous, isn't it?' he says, casually.

          'Well, no,’ she says, ‘I don't think so.' She tuts, turns to go into the kitchen, and then faces her husband again. He’s never open to new ideas, she thinks, but he’ll come around – he always does. 'Listen, it's only a bit of fun.'

          All the while, she's holding the gnome, fondling it distractedly like a small living thing without her full attention. It's painted denim-blue, with a red hat, rosy cheeks, and wild grin; only it's squatting on a loo with its trousers pulled down, its green wellies planted askew but firmly on the green porcelain base, one hand cocked to its jaw.

          She stands before Bill and fingers the wisps of her hair; dusky blonde but fading to grey - caught somewhere between the brilliance of yellow candlelight and the emerging silver of twilight, a blonde lock falling slowly into a pool of chrome. She stands before him, almost pouting, with her hands on her hips; she makes the market she's come from appear more like Camden or the kitsch market of a cosmopolitan city rather than the small Sunday market that only the locals of this quiet county-corner frequent. She wears the soppy expression and seems to stare searchingly into him.

          She looks cute, he thinks. I know she's trying to stir my memory. 'Okay, honey, but don't let it face the street – it's just too outrageous is all. I'll tell you what, put it against the birch tree and have it face the window. That'll be just as fun!'

          She isn’t convinced. 'Okay,' she concedes. She leans over the back of the armchair and kisses him on his right cheek. She feels his coarse black hair, playing with his bald spot. He playfully knocks her hand away.

          She goes outside and puts the gnome against the tree their living room window looks out upon.

          Now its business will be only for us, she thinks. She steps back frowning, arms crossed. But she sees its little rosy expression, teeth bared in jovial grin, eyes big and full of joy, and she smiles anyway.

          Maybe one day the rest of the neighbourhood will see it pissing, she thinks. Then the wider world!

          A breeze falls down the street. She hugs herself and feels a brief chill. Suddenly, winter doesn't seem that far behind; it can tease at any moment with its chill breath and stir the memory of those living seemingly temperate lives.

           The sky is a picture of blue, white and grey uncertainty; it drifts like a hollow, empty wind high above the houses. The sun has not much left for this day.

She stands alone outside. She feels somewhere in the pit of herself – her stomach? – the encroaching wilderness; she’s not sure what it is. The days are growing longer, and possibility hovers somewhere. (But where?) She lingers desperately, trying to hold onto the whiteness of the sky; whether in vain or not, she tries.

          I’ll pop the dinner on, she thinks. I could cook a roast, if there’s time; or maybe I’ll heat up that lasagne from last night and make a salad. Yes, that’s better. Then we can watch Antiques Road Show: that’ll be nice. She goes back inside and closes the door behind herself.

          ‘Lasagne all right?’ she shouts out.

          ‘Oh, yeah, honey. That’ll be lovely,’ he says, and wriggles in his chair.

He looks at the urn beneath the fireplace. ‘Gerry, 1990-2003.’ A small image is framed on the oak base. Beside this sits the oak and maple impression of Charlie. He looks peaceful - dead in time.

A smile slips across one side of his face and folds; he gives out a small sigh, reaches up; hams for the remote resting on the arm of the chair.

The fridge door shuts. The microwave buzzes into life. The sound of metal on wood thuds, soft and regular, as Diana slices into the tomatoes. The day is winding down.

The Body - flash fiction.

The body was cold. Hours before, it had been warm and alive. The body was female, wrapped in blue flesh - lucid and shiny like plastic. The room in which it lay was airy and cold, panelled with a hard wood. ‘Go on: cry,’ urged the boy’s older cousin. He had been feigning it, forcing it, coughing in an attempt to concede emotion, but he felt little. Maybe the feelings were too hard to conceive or bear. He just stood there, sombre.

He had seen the last moments of this life; how the space of her throat frothed and foamed; she had gargled her last and made a sound like an angry primordial fear. Her eyes were wide, with whites ever so white, pupils tight, focusing on no one.

When her living was done and her dying was over, the boy’s father went outside to cry. He was urged on by his sisters to join him. He approached him and pointed to the clouds. In the faint light penetrating through them, he pretended he could see the figure of his nan: ‘look, dad: there she is!’ From that moment on, he knew he would never see her again. From that moment on, he would wrestle with guilt, struggle with memory, and try to allow joy to occasionally repair him. There was nothing left but a cold, paling, wrinkled shell for the worms of memory to turn over.