For want of a better title

So it’s been another long gap. At this point I think that the stints of writing are the gaps in the long stretches of procrastination. The problem is that procrastinating is very easy when you are a parent. It becomes I don’t think it is very fair for me to work on a project while the kiddos are up however this hypocrisy is instantly found by the causal I’ll just do one round in the crucible and then get back to playing with the kids to find that the whole morning has disappeared.

My problem is that when I get hooked on a project, I get hooked. It becomes everything. My current big project is creating a CYOA in a fashion that it breaks the rules that generally binds CYOA’s. It’s my hope that it will bring ‘Death of the Author’ concept to the fore because once written, what happens will be out of my hands. Whether the character survives an encounter or even opening a door it down purely to stats and luck…The problem when I was in full flow was that it was all I did with my free time.

Overall the project is quite exciting. But it is requiring a lot of coding and learning in order to pull it off. I mean, I can do all of it through coding functions. However, I need to create the screens to make things easier to edit and show direction. Problem with that is I have no clue where to begin.

So I suppose the more factual part is that I haven’t been writing because I haven’t wanted to face the daunting task I’ve set myself… But I will… Once I figure out how I wish to proceed…

A Good Drink Badly Interrupted…

The tavern hummed with the general chatter of those that had nowhere better to be yet still had the atmospheric heaviness of the patrons that sat in dark corners drowning the sorrows of the past and those yet to be committed. It was to the latter that Jared sat at the bar to ponder. It wasn’t that he had somewhere better to be, those of his order had seen to that it seemed to him, but it was more that he was morosely considering the decisions that he had made that led him to not having anywhere else more pressing to be that kept him gloomily glaring down into the dingy brown depths of his tankard. It was that definitive objectivity, Jared decided, that kept him apart from those of his ilk that sat in the poorly lit areas, whose dagger-like eyes were at this moment piercing holes into his blue beer stained cloak. He sat in the light, because he was evaluating his path in life, rather than falling into the pits of despair that required that dark corners to affirm.

He giggled silently at this revelation and ordered his ninth beer. His arm clanging on the metal rail of the wooden bar as his arm dropped back down faster than expected after the barman acknowledged his request. The problem, Jared deduced as he winced at the silence the sudden noise had caused, with plate mail is that it is always so much heavier after a few drinks. The dregs of the tankard swirled mysteriously in response, which nauseated Jared so he downed the last bit as the Barman slid its replacement down to him. His shoulder plates squeaked lightly, catching on a bit of rust as he reached across to accept the pint and talk slowly resumed to its usual level. Jared reached with his free hand down into his rapidly lightening pouch belted to his waist, and tossed a copper down in payment.

“Wish he would drink elsewhere,” muttered a nearby patron as the Barman scooped it up.

“Or at least hide the emblem,” another agreed, a woman this time, “shame on him bring such a holy name into such disgrace.”

Jared focused on his drink. He didn’t mind the talk, or rather he did mind the talk but he couldn’t think of a retort strong enough to silence them. Largely because, he had to admit, they were right.

“Or at least leave for a while to give the illusion that he washed himself…” the first concurred.

That too was unfortunately correct, Jared had to silently concede, but when he was given his last pay three days prior, he had come in here to decide what to do next… the problem was that he was still deciding now. The self-declaration that he was now on his ninth beer was sheer delusion in the most part and denial in the rest. He couldn’t quite lead himself to believe that he really had remained in this very seat close to three days now, apart from the odd nature call and spell of passing out, sometimes in tandem. On one occasion he had nearly brained himself on the corner of his shield which was propped up against the bar by his feet.

“Is there a healer in here?” a voice lifted above the noise, driving it to silence once more and Jared groaned. He didn’t need to turn away from his beer to know that twelve pairs of feet had taken a step to one side to allow a direct line to his gold emblazoned back. He now wished that he had listened to the woman’s complaint.

“Thank you,” the female voice said and then metal-clad steps thumped on creaking, beer soaked floorboards, gradually getting louder as they closed on him.

“Ye won’ be in a minute lass,” Jared heard someone say and he couldn’t help but agree.

Instead of turning to face the person who was looking for what many would say were his talents, Jared decided that the best method was to play the “If I can’t see you, you can’t seem me” ploy and so stared even more intently into his beer. His blue eyes reflecting a mild amber, parted by a distorted nose that was not caused by the liquid.

The sound of a nail pinging against his shoulder rang through him and Jared pretended that it was the cuff of his arm-plate, catching the handle of the tankard that had caused it and indicated as such by rubbing at it with his other hand, as if trying to silence the sound.

The person looking for the healer knocked on the armour again and this time cleared her throat with it. Jared sighed, the ploy wasn’t working. He went to speak, but considering the amount of drink he had imbibed, his throat was surprisingly dry.

“Yes?” he croaked after swallowing twice.

“Are you a healer?” the woman said once more.

Jared moved the arm he was leaning on to point at the emblem on his cloak and slammed forward into the bar instead. Rather than regain any semblance of dignity, he stayed where he ended up and finished the intended action. Better let her know what she’s in for I suppose.

“That’s what it says on my back,” was all he said, his voice muffled slightly by the bit of cloak that had followed him.

Suddenly, he was jerked round and would have fallen had not two strong hands pushed against his shoulders do keep him upright, so that he was instead faced with intensely green eyes, thick brown brow and a scarred cheek. The nose of the woman scrunched back away from him.

“Gods, you stink” she said, wafting the air.

“You don’t look so grand yourself,” Jared muttered.

A fist drew back and slammed into his jaw sending his already unstable mind into circles, which seemed to revolve around metal plate that he was quite sure was in the place where breasts should have been. Instead, a dragon’s head span before him, taunting him with its forked tongue.

“Great,” he muttered, blinking in the hope that it would stabilise his mind while it tried to work out what it was that had sent it reeling. “a Kingslayer.” He righted himself so that he could stare at the scar on her cheek once more, unwilling to face the accusation in the emerald eyes. “What does an insufferable such as yourself want with the likes of me?”

Another thump sent his mind whirling once more, this time in the opposite direction, as his body registered something hitting the side of his head this time. Jared staggered, focusing on retreating out of the bar, past the dagger-eyes glinting with mirth and out into the cool evening air. The breeze sobered him slightly, allowing the message from his stomach that he had, till that point, been able to ignore and he instantly doubled over and emptied the last three pints.

“You know this is an abuse of power right?” Jared complained to the closing footsteps behind him as he wretched once more before awkwardly slumping down on the ground to stare up at her. As he sat there, he realised that it was lightly raining, the misty kind that lays on your armour and makes the rust even worse while giving the air around it a curious sheen. He sighed as he looked up at his persecutor. The areas that she had hit beginning to make his injury known. She had a hard punch, Jared decided.

The Kingslayer before him stood in all of her mercenary garb. The chain-mail hanging in rings past her waist covered by a mixture of studded leather and iron plate, making her more susceptible to arrow fire, he deduced, or an unseen dirk rather than the slash of a sword. The dragon on her liveried chest plate stared down at him. Her red cloak gathered about her and a heavy two handed hammer peeked over her shoulder at him. Her short brown hair accentuated the contrast to her green eyes and seemed to spike up in random directions that somehow still seemed to work.

In her gauntlet-clad hands was a familiar shield. The sign of the Ha’havarn, the most holy one, embossed on its surface, which was caked in the tavern’s grime and beer. Despite this, the symbol still shone in the guttering light of the overhead torches.

“What is i’ you even want?” Jared said, glaring at the symbol that, until three days ago, had ruled his life.

“A healer” she said.

“I guessed, but what for?”

“Healing.”

Jared sighed, it was going to be a long night. He rested his head against the wall. Everything had finally stopped spinning at least and had instead settled into a seafaring teeter. The throbbing had spread from his jawline to link with the lump forming on the side of his head then from there outward so that three quarters of his head pounded with every beat of his heart.

“Fine, where did you want me to go to heal?”

“Spraga.”

“Spraga? That’s four villages over!”

“Yes,” her face remained stoic although there was an icy tint to her words.

“Why come to me? There’s bound to be a better choice than I in any of those villages you passed.”

The Kingslayer crouched before him and his eyes drifted once more to the scar ascending her cheek. “Maybe. If any of them had anyone in it.”

Jared frowned, “I don’t understand.”

She wafted her hand in front of her face. “I’d like to say I’m surprised.” she paused a moment as if pondering on how to continue. “Three days ago, all hell broke loose. Two days ago everyone that wasn’t enslaved before we could erect a barricade fled the area. So now the only thing between the demons and your drunken stupor are the Kingslayers and a few hundred terrified peasants that were conscripted to help us.”

“And this has something to do with me how?” Jared replied, “Because if you beat me out here to play on some conscience of mine, I’m afraid that died about five gold pieces ago, so you’re going to have to do better than that because I want no part of it.”

It was at this point that Jared realised how drunk he really was, because that seemed like a plausible, iron-clad reason as to why he should be left alone. Why the whole world should go to pot around him and leave him to his drinking. Then, once he had figured out what he wanted to do, he could venture out in pursuit of whatever goal he eventually came up with.

The Kingslayer’s fist, crushing his head against the brick of the tavern, however, made him re-evaluate this.

“Ow,” he said, cradling his ringing head, “stop hitting me!”

Fingers clawed into his neck coif and yanked him forward so they were nose to nose. “We are dying.” She grated, her eyes glistening with tears that spoke his own death in each drop. “We are dying while you are pissing yourself in this tin can. You are coming with me to keep as many of those sorry sons of bitches alive as you can. And if you do not, or if you try to run away from this, I will hunt you down and then I will castrate you and make you eat your own balls and do everything in my power to make you wish you were dead before killing you. Then I’ll find myself a healer who is worth a damn to bring you back, just so I can do it all again. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear.”

Jared’s skin paled momentarily as he gazed into eyes that he was sure were green before, but burned into him with a fire that stained them red in his mind. His skin then flushed once more and a smile crept out. Pretty, he thought.

“Well, when you put it that way,” he said, as the world began to oscillate between spinning and tilting, “lead on… Did you know you are quite striking when you are angry? It really suits you.” Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed, face planting in her lap.

To get things started

Ranger pushed open the door to find Gabriel in his favourite armchair, booted feet crossed on a nearby stool. His blue haired friend was leaning back, a furrowed brow transfixed on the ceiling while a small clay pipe hung from his bottom lip, balancing on the crook of a knuckle.

“What are you doing?” Ranger asked, ripping the bandana from his own forehead to reveal his pointed ears and slinging it in a corner of the room to join the rest of the week’s washing.

Gabriel ignored him for a moment and a soft silence settled on the room.

“Are you sure there’s no such thing called magic?” Gabriel replied then, blowing smoke from the pipe.

“Yes.” Ranger’s long trench coat flew from his hand to land on the hook of a hat-stand and swished there.

“Yes you’re sure? yes there’s no such thing? Or yes there’s magic?”

Ranger flopped down on a beige couch and rested his head on the arm cushion, hand shading his blue-rimmed brown eyes from the bright light shining through a nearby window.

“Yes I’m sure,” he said finally, sighing.

“So you’re saying that T’Shea is wasting her time then?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Is that altogether safe to suggest considering how long she’s been looking into it?”

“No, probably not. But it’s my belief all the same.”

“Even with the gauntlets you wear?”

Another sigh. “They were hand crafted and given to me by the Gods… That’s not the same as a mortal messing around with the elements to which magic implies. It’s a blessing more than anything. Besides, T’Shea also says that Magic is just stuff that we do not understand… That once we understand something it no longer becomes magic.”

Another moments silence settled while Gabriel played with his mouth, trying to mould it with his hands into different shapes. “The – hmm – hid he hooo-mit?”

“What?”

Gabriel released his lips to gaze at the bowl, his one good red eye gazing into its depths while an errant strand of electric blue hair played with the tip of his nose. “I said, ‘Then how did he do it?'”

“How did who do what?” Ranger’s voice poorly hid his growing irritation or the extreme fatigue that kept washing over him in waves.

“There was this chap in the market today doing all sorts of tricks this pipe.” He waved the clay object in his hand. “It was really quite remarkable. Lots of O’s, snake tendrils, Figure eights-”

“What? Is that even possible?”

“Evidently by what I saw but that’s not-”

“But How? Did he pinch his lips or something?” Ranger turned his head to look at his friend with a brow raised.

“No idea, old boy. He either moved his hands at a time I wasn’t focussed properly or maybe two O’s or something, but you’re not following me that’s not-”

“No,” Ranger said, sitting up. “two O’s wouldn’t cut it, because he would have to blow quickly to get the second O to run parallel to the first and that in itself would distort the first… so how did he-”

“You’re not following. That was basic compared to what came after.”

Ranger was silent and watched Gabriel who had gone back to looking at the pipe.

“Wait, you took his pipe?”

Gabriel looked back at him, confusion apparent. “Of course. How else will I work out whether or not it was magic?”

Ranger sighed, “Does the entertainer know that you have his pipe?”

“He won’t if you help me figure out how in the netherealms he managed to make a smoke fox with his mouth alone.”

“A what?”

“A fox. The skulky mammal that is often hunted-”

“I know what a fox is.”

“Well imagine one made of smoke and that’s what came out of his mouth and as far as I can see, there’s nothing different about this pipe than any other pipe of its kind…”

Gabriel’s voice petered out but his hand continued to move through the air as if he was silently conversing with himself. Ranger pondered it as well for a moment before rising and moving back towards his coat.

“We had better go and see if T’Shea has a theory…” he muttered darkly.

Gabriel smiled but said nothing.

 

 

Transferable Skills

On Friday, I had my latest in a string of One-To-One’s with my Team Leader. While preparing for the meeting, I came to a realisation that left me more than a little awestruck for a moment, so I thought I’d share.

As those who know me know, and a great number of whom jested at my choice of course, a year ago I completed a Single Honours Degree in Creative Writing. In one of the lectures for the course, my Lecturer Ness spoke to the group about Transferable Skills.

To avoid potential confusion, these are skills which transcend the role or activity in which you learned them. For instance, being successful within a Call Centre will give you a good telephone manner or playing a lot of sport can give you great hand-to-eye coordination. Ness was speaking of the Skillsets we learned as part of the course, which would transcend writing stories and articles into other fields.

It was during my preparation that this lecture came to mind and it was in that moment that I truly realised the weight of what she was trying to convey, because it as then that it occurred to me that I use them all in my current role, which has very little to do with telling stories.

And I informed my Team Leader as much.

Understandably, she was surprised by my thought process and asked me to clarify, saying that she found the comment interesting, so I smiled and replied.

“Well, you assigning me a program to write is like asking me to tell a story and you hand me the premise to it in the form of a Specification. Most recently, you wanted me to intervene on a current program to re-write in my own manner, putting my spin on the code in the hopes that it improves it. So I have an outline of what I need to write and how it needs to look.

“Next, I design the flow of the program as I would a story, navigating my way through the loops and statements as I would the twists of a narrative. Once the story is told and the program has its start, middle and end, it doesn’t really matter how this was written, it just has to have some ability to reach the end and then do something, just like the first draft. I can then start the proofing process.

“I set high level prompts through the code that let me know that the program is hitting the statements I want them to hit. Once I know that, I go over the code again, tweaking elements as I would craft a story. Ironing out the superfluous and clunky phrasing and fine tune the process so that the program flows through from start to finish without falling over. It still may not do everything I want it to do, but it’s able to hold its own.

“When I reach an obstacle that doesn’t seem to resolve itself, I try to look at the problem from a different angle and tackle it from there. Again, this is a skill developed from my Degree where if a part of a narrative wasn’t working, I’d take a step back, look outside the box even, and approach it again from a different angle to see if that gives me a better result.

“Once I’m happy that I’ve either done everything that I can, or feel that I’m close enough to a finish for external input to help craft further. I ask you, or someone else in my team to take a look and see if they can find any error I’ve missed. This is no different to feedback sessions for story writing where I’d have fifteen other people sat around the table looking over my story trying to find the holes, or weaknesses in structure or the kinks that trip up the reader and break the flow.

“Then I craft some more until I’m ready to submit it for consideration.”

My TL seemed quite taken aback by my response and I finished my explanation with the conclusion that had hit me so hard earlier that day.

“The biggest thing my degree taught me,” I said, “is that it is OK to fail. It is OK to keep trying again and keep failing so long as you fail for a different reason; because each time you fail, you learn something new and that new nugget of information brings you another step closer to a solution. So eventually you will have gathered enough knowledge about why something isn’t working that you can navigate through to something that works really well, but if you don’t throw those attempts out there because you’re scared of it failing on you, or being laughed at or rejected then you’ll get nowhere because you will attempt nothing.”

Reflection

I’ve decided that I haven’t been spending my lunchtimes as I should be.

It’s an odd revelation to have at 08:11 in the morning, but there we have it. I set myself a challenge, years ago, to write 400 words a day and yet this site has remained idle for the better part of a year, maybe even closer to two. However, I have more or less kept up with that pledge, they just never made their way onto here.

Before those closest and loved call bullshit on the statement, note that I put “write 400 words a day”, not that I wrote creatively 400 words a day. (Hey, if I can’t worm my way through that loop hole then I’m not really putting my degree to good use now am I? )

With the job I’ve had for a year and a bit now, I spent a year writing up Incident tickets and Service Requests, as well as several documents to explain fixes to other users so that they can apply the same techniques. Then in May this year, I received a promotion and now I write lines upon lines upon lines of code each day.

Suffice to say that when I get home, as well as trying to be a loving partner and a devoted father (which I’m sure I fail at as often as I like to think I succeed), Writing anything more than “Hello” and “GG”, both of which are macro’d so that no actual typing is required to state such pleasantries, couldn’t be further from my mind.

However, I have noticed that since my promotion, I have not been taking even a fraction of my lunch break. I’ll go to the canteen, grab a sandwich and soup and bring them back to my desk so that I can continue with whatever problem I am working my way through at that point. So I’m thinking that I should give myself at least 30 mins of my lunch to do something other than coding… Especially as I get docked that amount regardless of whether or not I take it.

Thus do I make my new pledge. That I will acknowledge that I cannot always fit a piece of work that is fit for display each day, but I will give myself 30 mins each work day to work on something that isn’t work. (Abuse of the word work intentional there before my old lecturers wince and wonder why they bothered teaching such an oaf!)

And who knows what this pebble piece may spark…

Battleball

 

I could hear the crowd jeering outside as my stomach churned from my perch on the wooden bench. The cold metal of the locker sent chills through me as I stared into my clammy hands. Then there was a clunk and the spinning of dials.

“There’s another one,” I heard Chaser say, which made me look up across the rows of wooden bars and metal pegs. The ends of the pegs had plastic caps on the ends of them to stop what happened to Portugal’s Aldo Cruz happening to anyone else. Those sorts of antics had to be left on the pitch. The locker room itself was small enough, however the rows of lockers for the other teams lining the edges made it feel even smaller.

I felt more than saw Boxer’s meaty black hand clap me on the shoulder as he sauntered past in nothing but a grubby towel wrapped around his waist. “Don’t worry Rimmer,” he laughed, “we won’t let you be the fourth.”

My face must have paled slightly as the room suddenly erupted in laughter. I shook my head and leaned to one side so that I could swing my locker open and grab the jersey from inside. It was the scarlet embossed with a roaring gold lion on the front. ‘The Heart of a Lion’ and posters said. It was what we were supposed to have.

Flipping the jersey round, I looked at the number 7 printed on the back and Traett in block white, while the guys about me made similar moves to kit up. A somber mood had set amongst us as we donned our shirts. The ceiling pounded with the sound of feet and seats flipping back.

Chaser stood up near the door and looked at us, a hand scratching at the blonde spikes of his hair. His jersey was green, indicating he was our Keeper. His blue eyes met each of ours, and winked as they settled on mine.

“Easy up lads,” he said with a grin. “Not long to go now and we can show those Crouts who’s king.”

The others roared in response.

I was less convinced and leaned back against my locker, enjoying the feel of the cold metal against my back. The thumping overhead had changed from the clanging of movement to the insistent thump of thousands of people stamping in unison. They were ready for the next match and they were letting us know.

“Fucking Crouts don’t have no chance,” said Chirper. Our Veteran of twenty eight games, third highest in the tournament, one announcer had said. “They were lucky we carried them this far.”

Crouts. The meaning of this word for the Germans had been lost, long ago, but it had quickly resurrected during the tournaments, when Germany had change team allegiance. Right in the middle of the match we were teamed with them.

We had lost Cammie that match.

“Rimmer,” Chaser said.

I blinked and looked up. Chaser had his bat in hand and it was pointed at me. “Boxer says you’re a natural down the wings. Hasn’t seen anything like it.”

My throat dried and my voice failed. Instead I nodded.

“Counting on you kid.”

The buzzer went off above the door.

“Now let’s rock!”

A roar erupted from my throat to mingle with the others and we marched out of the door.

 

~ A Battle Ball Team is formed of 7 players ~

Intervention

I walked through the brown door of my flat and negligently swung it closed. It looked exactly as I remembered it when I thought back to the times that I had my flat. The faded red sofa that was as comfortable as my bed. The armchair that I sank into on a nightly basis and formed the battlements of my gamer fort, huddled around the television.

Normally, my two cats would come scampering towards me, whinging for food, however they didn’t seem to be doing so on this day. Instead, my living room was abuzz with people that had been bickering amongst themselves, only to cease with the thud of the closing door. I stared at the arrangement of my imagination as they formed a line under a banner titled “Intervention”.

“We aren’t in America you know,” I muttered. “There’s no such thing as interventions here…”

“You’ve been watching too much American pop culture then m’boy,” Gabriel drawled as he cleared the tobacco from his pipe. “It seems to have tainted your perspective of things.”

I ran a hand over my face.

“Still with the pipe?” I asked.

“Still with the lack of a story?” Gabriel countered.

“Touché” I yawned. “So why are we here?”

“To talk about your lack of writing,” Waya said as she padded forward from the line. Her silver fur bristling slightly, kinking the glossy wave that always shimmered across it.

“What about it?” The warmth of my armchair seemed to sap the strength from me and my eyelids felt heavy.

“It’s unacceptable,” Ranger, my half-elf, half-demon comrade spluttered.

“If you wrote something,” Waya continued, “even a line or two then it could be forgiven…”

A teen girl strode forward in her leathers with daggers belted to her waist and a bow hung across her back. Her green eyes bore into me and seemed to accentuate the flames of her red hair rather than give her a sense of serenity.

“But you’ve written nothing in weeks,” Serena said. “You’ve stared at blank page, after blank page and then made your excuses-”

“Hang on a moment there,” I said, pushing myself upright with an indignant plant of my foot. “Have you seen what I’ve been through lately? All the thing’s I’ve tried to keep together while pushing on?”

They nodded.

“And you’re giving me grief about not writing anything? Even though sometimes it’s all I can do to string a coherent sentence when I find time to write anything, let alone be creative? Give me a break.”

I walked back towards the front door.

“Come at me when you have something for me, until then I’ll go back to maintaining my stable lifestyle…”

“What’s stable about sleeping on a sofa?” Ranger muttered to Gabriel, who shrugged.

“I heard that!” I threw over my shoulder as I swung open the door and slammed it behind me.

Fear

I splash water on my face and gasp as its bitter bite rakes my cheeks. Panting, I gaze at myself for a moment and have a bizarre sinking feeling. The light of my bathroom suddenly extinguishes and I’m left with just my reflection, illuminated by some unseen light, which then expands as the mirror stretches down towards the ground and then multiplies around me, placing me in the centre of an octagon.

All of them showing reflections of me and all of those concerning brown eyes were facing me.

I regard the me in front of me, standing tall, hair showing a distinct lack of gel as it lay in whatever manner it felt like, undecided between a centre or side parting. My shoulders are broad, laid back, relaxed and it even looked like I was managing to keep up with the routine visits to the gym that had been slipping to the sideline of late.

I grin suddenly, kneeling down to one side and spread my arms out wide as a small child came rushing towards me. She leaps and I catch her out of mid air and enfold her into a tight hug and stand with her in my arms.  I look down at my own which remain empty, but my reflection smiles as a women appears out of the gloom. Resting her chin on my shoulder, brown hair tumbling down my shoulder and arms envelope me and the child. Green eyes smiling back at me as she kisses my neck.

The other mirrors are in motion, breaking the lock of our gaze. In one I’m standing at a bar, cajoling with friends, at ease with my surroundings. Another me holds a book with my name on. Additional mirrors varies in scene, a mountainside, the lights of New York, the living room I’d glimpsed through the screen of a phone, meeting the child of a friend half a world away.

There’s one though, right behind me that I don’t turn to look at. I don’t want to, I don’t want to see that me. I focus on the others, careful to leave the final mirror out of my view. My eyes go to the girl in my arms, that aren’t my arms. The laugh fades from her lips and instinctively I reach forward to trail my crooked finger down the glassy surface of her cheek down to the jaw, same as I’d always done whenever she was sad.

The glass cracks at the touch.

I stare at the scar I’d created along her jawline and felt the blood seep from my own cheeks. The splinter in the mirror cracks further, distorting the image, as if someone had thrown a hard object against it. It spirals out. I try to stem the tide of the crack, trying to support the unbroken glass, only to find more scars on the surface beneath my touch, which streaks out in all directions, breaking the boundary of the mirror to race along the others, which also seemed to be sustaining heavy impact.

Desperately, I clutch at the images, trying to support the pictures they depict. Tears streak down my cheeks, cold against a sudden flush. My legs tremble and shake, then buckle. As my knees slam into the floor, the images about me freeze for a moment, giving me distorted mockeries. A green eye smiling on a mountain top while my right hand holds a beer over the lights of New York. Then, as if some aftershock had struck them again and they shatter and fall into nothing.

I’m left on my knees staring at the darkness with a cold glow on my back, listening to an intermittent steely screech.

I stay frozen, clutching at my chest, willing myself not to look at the light. Another spell of screeching commands me to move and I pivot round to face the last mirror.

He is haggard, his hair is disheveled and his cheeks are coated with stubble and whiskers. Bloodshot eyes regard me coldly as he sits at a table. A whiskey bottle sits in his left hand while his right arm rests on the table’s surface. A knife is in that hand, held by the tip of the hilt in forefinger and thumb. He regards me for a moment and then turns his attention back to the knife, spinning it on its point. The metallic screech returns as the knife twirls and he catches it once more as it begins to slow.

He looks at me again and a smirk gives me a sense of dread. Taking another swig, he spins the knife once more and spread his arm wide. It twirls as my eyes follow it, transfixed. Blade, edge, blade, edge… blade.

It teeters one way, then another and then begins to fall altogether. I watch him and he watches me. Suddenly, I launch off my knees, racing for the knife, I had to stop it falling! My hand passes through the glass of the mirror, through the hand that grasps my wrist to help me through and the knife and table to send me crashing to the ground and sliding to a halt.

The knife makes one final spin and clatters against the table and falls to the ground to lay next to me. A laugh draws my attention back to him. I scramble under the table, assuming he’ll be close.

But the nearby chair is empty.

Puzzled I gaze at the mirror, the glass that had let me pass and I see him, standing on the other side, where I had been moments before. Rage boils within me and I charge out from cover, my hands reach out, clawing for his neck… and crumple against the glass. Momentum sending my body full force against the unforgiving surface. Sliding down against it to the ground, my mind reels and he laughs watching the realization dawn on my face.

He locks eyes with me, triumph glinting within, adding to the horror of my defeat. Charging back to my feet, I slam against the mirror, but it  holds and repels me.

Laughing, he turns his back on me and saunters through the darkness and out of my bathroom, leaving me desperately banging against the glass.

Graham’s Rants: Disclaimer

Graham is a forty-five year old man who has become cynical of how the world has become, what he sees, hears, smells and even tastes and his viewpoints on it. Rapidly approaching his mid life crisis (well, he’s a lot closer to the big five oh than he was twenty years ago) he has little care for etiquette, whether you like him or not, or whether or not he has managed to offend you. In fact, he does offend you then he would probably be quite happy as it means he’s touched a nerve. So do not think him a racist, chauvinistic, inappropriate, seedy, disreputable old man. He may be these things to you but he doesn’t consider himself in this manner.

They are the honest opinions of a fictional character, although he would be offended that I called him fictional. Through reading these postings, written by him, you are consenting to keeping an open mind and not judging him in the manner that I’m sure he would judge you. It is an unfair clause, I know, but I cannot be bothered to deal with the splurge of aggressive emails calling me every name under the sun for something that I didn’t do. Something I am not. Just because you don’t like something that he has said. It’ll be like me having a go at you for something that a relative of yours has done, you remember those injustices as a kid do you not? It wasn’t fair. I’m asking for the same benefit of doubt you yearned for as that kid. (Apologies to those without relatives or did not have a childhood, I did not mean to offend you.)

Graham is an average man on all accounts. He barely keeps his head above the financial red line. Doesn’t have a washboard stomach or require one of those mobility scooters to head down to get to the local greengrocers. He has the average lot in life, a wife that barely tolerates him, a son that disrespects him and a daughter that has him wrapped around her finger, as all girls should of their fathers. At work he is equally average. His boss overworks and ignores him and colleagues don’t acknowledge his self-perceived greatness, while benefiting off the work he does.

Essentially he is invisible to all.

You have you warning. His postings will be Headlined as his rants so it’s not as if he’s going to sneak up on you. So just enjoy… Or argue with it… It’s all the same to me.

Just don’t bother me over it…

Tips for Avoiding Procrastination PT2

Now, you have managed to get to work in time for the first time in a long while due to the first awesome step! Your managers are happy with you (for the first time ever it feels like) and you’ve had the best shift ever! So with this elation in mind, we must turn our attention to going to the gym. But we all do it don’t we? We all go home to change our clothing and have a drink before we head out to the gym. We all sit in that snug sofa and all the work euphoria goes out the window. Why bother? We think, There’s always tomorrow. We can go then!

DON’T!

In fact, don’t even go home after work, head straight to the gym! Ride the waves of accomplishment and strut your way into the gym giving off that aura of dominance and if anyone is going to be using that piece of equipment it is going to be you! and pound out those sets like the man (or woman) beast that you are!

“But,” I hear you say, “I can’t do that, I don’t have my gym stuff with me when I go to work! I can’t work out in my suit, it’ll get ruined!”

Worry not my dear friends, I have the answer. Allow your other procrastinations to aid you overcome this one! You know those times where you’ve taken a bit of clothing out with you, that just in case I need it piece? Then you look at it on the back seat of the car or in the bottom of the bag and think, I should really take it out… Leave it! So it may get a bit mildew eaten, or a packet of biscuits may break open and spill all over it, who cares? You’re going to sweat into it anyway! Then when you head into the gym after your euphoric day at work, then you have the clothes already in the car or bag ready to rock and roll and rejoice in the awesome change that has come into your life thanks to these tips and your rigorous effort!

The third tip… Well, I’ll get to that later…

Note: No animals, size zero clothing wearers or packets of biscuits were harmed in the development of these tips. For more information go to http://www.illgettothislater.com or contact your local Procrastination Avoidance Sponsor.