An Ending

Posted: September 5, 2011 in Uncategorized

It’s half one in the morning of the fifth of September, two-thousand and eleven. I’m drying my hair and trying to make the bastard curl properly, like the rest of the population’s does when one ties it up and blasts it with hot air for hours on end. Unfortunately, like every other cell in my body, it’s selfishly stubborn and will not be bribed into doing anything that it doesn’t want.

Over the last few months I have come to realise that the world has enough writers. They’ll all connected into a nice little package. They know the right people. They read. They fuck drama students and go to plays. They probably eat brie and crackers on a semi-regular basis and their love for tea is probably much, much greater than mine. They know all the right stuff to write. They know all the words, all the characters and all the right things to say. They’ll have gripping storylines and one-off comedies. They’ll make you laugh and cry at their command.

I am, however, not one of these. I’m playing at something I shouldn’t be playing at. I write cheap stories that I want to be true. I write bad characters and worse plots. I can’t hack finishing things because I can’t hack life at the best of the times. My work is boring, lifeless, unoriginal bullshit that quite honestly should have stayed in my head. I feel embarressed when it’s published. I feel it’s attention seeking. I’d far rather hide it away along with the rest of myself than ever, ever let it find the light of day again. So, therefore, it has come to an end.

If I’m to actually make my fantastically dull, boring, pathetic life last until my thirtieth birthday, I am going to have to shut down this particularly avenue of myself. I should also sell my keyboard, my camera, my guitars. None of which are really mine to give away. But I can’t. They were gifts. I struggle every day with the fact that I am probably a selfish, twisted, arrogant bitch. I’d rather not add ungrateful. But I won’t be picking up those instruments again. Instead I will just work, and earn money. And give it away. Something. I won’t marry, I won’t find love. I don’t do that sort of thing. I’ll have friends and I’ll be there for them. But I won’t let anyone ever be there for me again. I don’t like that dependence. And I won’t ever let anyone get fucking close to me again. But don’t call me miserable or depressing. Don’t call me a weirdo or childish. In fact, do whatever you like. I don’t fucking care and I probably never will.

Keep It Hid – Chapter One

Posted: April 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

And yes I nicked the name of my main character from two people I know.

The flames licked the sky, taunting the darkness into submission. But for all their fury,
the flames were failing; for another darkness was creeping in, malignantly and without
perception. Amongst the thick cloud of smoke, sprinkled with the stench of death and
burning flesh, and down passed the rows of ambulances at the ready; far away from the
cowering crowds that had gathered to stand and stare; and just under the large bridge that
shaped the city centre of Edinburgh, stood a single, solitary man lost in his thoughts.

Standing in the shadow of North Bridge, rain drops dripping on his forehead from
above, was Eric Monteith. His hair swept across his face as the wind buffeted the heat and
the smoke. But his eyes, though they reflected the explosive torrent of colour and fear
before him, were witnessing something quite different to reality. Eric was fixed on
something straight ahead, something far off into the distance that he often – though not
always – forgot it was even there. His body watched, as his mind dawdled to catch up to
reality, bodies being dragged out, those conscious clutching their wounds; he saw groups
of men strip themselves of fear and dive in to the horror, mess and danger of death; he
saw how some did not return whilst others did; he saw all this, rooted to his lonely spot,
consumed by cowardice and writhing in regret.

The world had seemed to stop in that moment. The limp body of Eric hung in the street;
a lost passenger of life. So lost in his thoughts was this middle aged man of twenty-four,
was that he did not waiver when a voice cried out his name from behind him. He was still
not stirred when its owner ran towards him, tear stricken and brushed with panic and fear.
Only was it until he felt her hand slip into his own, was he rocketed back from limbo, and
into the harsh, bare, barren reality his mind had been running from.

“Eric! Eric!” Eliza was crying. Her make up was like watercolour. “Eric! Where is he? Eric!”
She was panicking. He felt the same thick clot in the back of his throat that he was sure

she, too, was feeling. His mouth fell open, unable to speak. His answer was too much for
even himself to bear.
Eliza withdrew her hand and stepped back, breath stolen from her body. Eric stared
at her, completely alone from her pain. He tried to muster some words; some form of
comfort. But he failed. He merely watched, an audience to her agony. She was losing a
brother and he felt sick to his stomach that he could only watch and not let on that he
knew all too much.
“No… no, no, no… I don’t,” she began mumbling, muttering to herself, “No I don’t – I can’t
believe it – no Alex is not here, no Alex is not… no. Just no….”
She straightened herself up, brushing down her tight black dress as she did so and
took off down the street, towards the mayhem, towards the carnage.

“Eliza! Eliza! Come back!” His tongue was relinquished from its silence. He found himself
being drawn towards her ever diminishing body – he ran to catch up with her as she sped
round the corner. His feet sped along the rough cobbled street, the firelight glistening on
the wet stones. It was almost beautiful. Almost.

As he turned the corner he stopped. The limp form of Eric crept back into existence
as the nightmare he’d been dreaming danced into life. His stomach turned, and knotted.
His heart sank like a rusty old anchor on a stormy sea. Waverley Bridge was not desolate;
it was not empty, nor void of people. Waverley Bridge was not a barrage of eyewitnesses,
grievers and mourners; terrified relatives and fearful friends. It was a morgue.
Line upon line of bodies blanketed the street. Many were covered with white sheets;
somewhere merely placed on the ground. Some bodies were burned, some limbs were
gone; some faces looked inhuman, and by the stillness in their eyes, Eric questioned
whether they could ever have been human.
Eliza was standing, rather hanging, a little forward from where Eric stood. Within all
the mess of bodies, flame and men rushing past, Eric walked up to her and hugged her
from behind, as the thick cloud of tungsten smoke smothered them in their fears.

“He’s not in here,” Eric reassured her, “Alex is not here.”
Eliza collapsed in his arms, shaking with tears, “But what if he is?”
Eric pulled her back to look her in the eye, “But he’s not.”
He grabbed her hand and summoned all the strength he had left in him – he squeezed
every blood vessel he had in him to believe, to trust in his hope and wish hard and strong
enough for Alex to be alive.
They ran down the rest of Waverley Bridge, not daring to look at the pile of carcasses. The
heat from the flames on their left hand side was suffocating. They passed fire fighters and
paramedics, rushing down towards the chaos. A crowd had gathered at the top of the hill,
just next to where Princes Mall used to be. They were all entangled together, many linking
hands though they could all have been strangers.
Eric and Eliza ran up to them.
“Alex? Alex!” They were both shouting.

A woman grabbed Eric’s hands and screamed at him, “Have you seen my Arthur? Have

you seen him? He went in and he never came out, he never came out!”
“I’m sorry – I’m sorry,” he cast her wrinkly hands aside.

The air was thick with panic and pandemonium. Paramedics ran passed with boxes of
bandages; stretchers of the suffering and the screaming. Eric and Eliza pushed through
the throng of people, shouting for Alex all the way. But no echoes came back in the form of
his healthy voice.

“Can I help?” a paramedic grabbed Eric’s arm as they were being tossed out of the crowd.
“Yes! Yes, we’re looking for someone -”
“My brother – Alex, Alex Reader.” Eliza jutted in, her voice broken with fear.
The paramedic consulted a small list he had by one of the ambulances, looking up –
shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, we’ve not got anyone under that name. But that might not be bad news. These
are only the names of the ones we’ve taken for serious injuries -”
Eliza’s eyes were pouring with tears.
“No, no – no, please… I have to go – I hope you find him….” he said, disappearing towards
the hell beyond.
“Eliza, hey, hey, no one’s seen him – he’s not on the list…”
“I can’t lose him – I can’t! I only lost my dad two years ago, I can’t lose him! He’s my
brother – he’s my brother!”
Eric grabbed her and put his arms around her in a tight grip. “I know. I know.”

Doctor Who: Episode One

Posted: April 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

A little taster of half way through the episode:

The Doctor tries to touch the TARDIS controls again and receives another burning shock to his arm and another explosion happens – blasting him back against the wall. The TARDIS calms down after that. There are few sparks from the controls. Alice crawls towards The Doctor, who is lying against the far wall of the TARDIS, barely conscious.
Doctor? Doctor are you alright?
(quietly) Alice? Alice?
Yes! It’s me.
Alice crawls right up to The Doctor. He’s burnt, he’s bruised. He looks like he’s been crying. He stretches out an arm to her.
Alice! Please, you have to .. You have to leave.. It’s not me… It’s not me. There’s something… (coughs) inside me… It’s not me. I can’t control it. It’s trying to be me. It wants the TARDIS but she’s too smart, she knows! (coughs)

{Attempt fifteen at this novel, or so it seems. I first started writing this when I was 15. I am now going to channel the recent few months’ into this. You’ll see by the end of it whether or not it was worth it. I haven’t read this piece myself yet – as ever. I can only bring myself to do so once I finish an entire piece of work. Any spelling/grammar mistakes are to be expected. Also be aware that this is either the whole chapter or half the chapter. I’m still deciding on what to do next.}

The coffee was beginning to soak in to her dark blue, knee length skirt. She gently patted it dry once more before switching off the car engine and checking her reflection in the mirror. Saggy, wrinkly skin. She wasn’t old, she wasn’t young. It was that awkward age. But she only saw the layers of cellulite that only Botox and a time machine could fix.

It was late afternoon. The time of day that only coffee and sneaky bar of chocolate can get you through to see close of business. There was a little heat in the air, but the storm clouds were brewing and what looked like it could have been a nice day was rapidly turning into anti-climatical crescendo of rain and drizzle. But her coffee was still vaguely warm from the Starbucks she’d passed by on her way here, so she wasn’t too unhappy or disgruntled. She wasn’t the type of person to make plans for evenings anyway; nothing more than television and a plate of pasta.

Today was Tuesday and was parked in a large prison for cars: the hospital car park. It was one of those large expanses of tarmac that stretched out as far as the eye could see, completely littered with Fords and Volvos, vans and an enormous amount of taxis. The tarmac shone with that dampness that can only precede rain. She took in a gulp of the carpark before shifting round in her seat to search through the utter wreck of papers, pens, files, photographs and those flimsy little paper folders that could never contain its contents for more than a few hours at best. Her heart sank when she saw it, for she knew that she’d have to sift through it to find what she was looking for. It was only a small collection of files: three or four photographs and a letter or two attached to the usual print off from the computer database. No matter what she did with her paperwork, it inevitably fell into a messy abyss.

It took a few minutes for her to find the right files. She shuffled them in her hands and adjusted them into nice neat pile on her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a lone carpark attendant, biding his time by a tree not too far from where she was parked. He was barely over the age of sixteen. Perhaps he was on work experience, or, even worse, one of those types that adhered to all the laws and all the minor rules. She took out the parking ticket from her handbag that she’d taken from the machine at the carpark entrance. She had til six o’clock, as it was four o’clock now. Four o’nine to be precise, well according to her to wrist watch which was always a little slower than the rest of the world.

Sticking the parking ticket on the dashboard in full view of the barely-legal teenager, she got out of the car just in time for the heavens to split open like a shopping bag with too many bottles of white wine. But she strutted on towards the hospital entrance in her in the way that all women attempt to walk whilst wearing high heels. The automatic doors sighed her in and she was briefly blow dried by the air conditioning just above the door. Tempted though she was to stay under there, she marched onwards to the reception area which consisted of a large array of seating at the end of which was a tall counter and several young women with tight buns in their hair.

“Hi, excuse me,” she grabbed one of their attention when she reached the counter. “I have an appointment to see a Nurse Healy – Intensive Care department…. I think.”

One of the women typed something into a computer, “And your name is?”

“DI Catherine Garson.”

“Okay,” the receptionist smiled, “if you could go up to the third floor and follow the signs to Intensive Care, you’ll see the nurses station just before a set of stairs. If you ask one of the nurses there, they’ll be able to get Nurse Healy for you. The lifts are just over in the corner there.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said, and walked towards the lifts.

She pressed the button and waited for one to arrive. It was here that she got a waft of the anti-septic stench she’d been dreading all day. Catherine hated hospitals for a number of reasons, but the smell was one of the worst. It was so clinical. It wasn’t that it even reminded her of death, it was something else that she couldn’t quite grasp.

The lift arrived and she piled in with half a dozen other people. Two of them looked like visitors – one of them seemed to be comforting the other – and the others were either doctors or nurses. They all had their clipboards and pens. The doctor among them was adjusting his bow tie.

“Of course he’s never going to leave his wife – not after all this time – but she still believes that one day.. It’s quite sad. She’s getting on a bit…”

The two nurses were gossiping as the lift doors opened for the third floor. Catherine got out at the same time and rolled her eyes. She hated gossip at work. As the two nurses went one way, she stood at the sign on the wall and examined the route for Intensive Care. It was a lot more quiet up here. Downstairs there had been the din of people dashing about: nurses, patients, visitors, drivers and paramedics. Up here, with its magnolia covered walls and calming drawings on the wall,seemed quite removed from the chaotic world below though she could still hear the cry of ambulances three floors below.

Catherine continued down the same corridor as the two nurses from the lift after having deciphered from the sign where she must head. Along the corridor she glanced into the side rooms on either side of her. There was a small window in each door that allowed her to just in no more see the contents of the room behind it. They were mainly filled with patients lying in flat white beds and hooked up to large monitors and devices. In one a nurse was attending and in another was another nurse, covering an occupied bed with a white sheet. Catherine’s heart jolted for a second as she realised what was happening. A police officer though she was, she had never grown accustomed to death or dead bodies. It was still something that gave her the chills throughout her body whenever she saw the reality of it.

She reached the nurses station at the end of the corridor. The same two nurses from the lift were there, still chattering away.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Nurse Healy – you wouldn’t happen to know where to find her?”

The slightly shorter nurse replied first, “Are you DI Garson?”

Catherine nodded.

“I’ll just go get her. Take a seat.”

Catherine took a seat in one of the red plastic chairs that surrounded a magazine table. She perched her files on her lap and began to peruse them. Meanwhile the short nurse had gone off to fetch Nurse Healy whilst the other was writing down notes by a desk at the nurses station. All was quite quiet. Catherine began looking at the photographs provided with each case file. A lot were just portrait pictures from some family occasion, else cut out from a wider picture. A few of them contained a copy of a family photograph. Catherine was saddened by each of them. For many families, these photographs were all they had left of their son, daughter, their brother or sister, husband or wife.

“DI Garson?” A soft voice spoke above her.

Catherine looked up and saw a stunning woman in her late twenties.

“Jenny Healy,” the woman offered an outstretched hand.

Catherine, standing up, took it and smiled, “Catherine Garson.”

“Shall we pop into somewhere a little more… private?” Jenny suggested.


Catherine followed Jenny into a little office space with a hectic desk and array of files outwith their filing cabinet, which lined one of the walls. A singular pot plant signified the only piece of greenery Catherine has seen since entering the building.

They took a seat on either side of the desk. Catherine placed her files on top of the already cluttered desk whilst Jenny adjusted something on her pager.

“Before you see him, you must know a few things,” Jenny began, “He’s only been awake a day. He’s exhausted. You might be able to get anything coherent from him for a while. We’re keeping him mainly sedated so that the shock of being awake doesn’t take too much out of him.”

“How long was he in a coma again?”

“Almost six months. We haven’t informed him of the circumstances that he came here. We were going to wait until he is mentally ready. He still hasn’t remembered anything since I spoke to you on the phone this morning. He is going to be tough to talk to. The psychiatric nurse had to be removed from the room earlier because he was attempting to lash out at her. So please, if he’s showing any signs – let us know. But he’s on quite a lot of drugs right now he shouldn’t be too much trouble. Right, I think that covers it. Do you have any questions?”

Catherine shook her head, “No. But I’ve not managed to find an exact match on our systems. I’ve already informed all the police stations within a hundred mile radius of here about any missing persons they have matching his description.”

“Okay. Does it sound promising though?”

“It’s hard to tell at this stage. Someone could come along tomorrow and say they’re his mother, or it could be another six months. He might not have any family at all.”

“But someone, somewhere, will be missing him?”

“People are strange. That’s all I can advise. Friends who you think are friends turn out not to be bothered when you’re not there. We’ve all been there. And from the circumstance of how he was found, we can’t rule out attempted murder. Perhaps someone has been clever in covering their tracks?”

“That chills me. I don’t want to think about it. I’ve tended to his bedside for the last six months. I couldn’t bare to think that no one has realised he’s gone.”

“I know it’s hard to deal with. But I’ve come across some worse people in my line of work.”

“I guess. Shall I take you to see him now?”

“Yes, that would be good.”

Jenny got up, “He should be awake now.”

Once again Catherine followed Jenny along the corridor.

“He’s very weak, so don’t expect too much. Even if you can match his face to any descriptions you’ve got really….”

They stopped outside a closed door. This time there was no little window in it.

“If you need anything, just shout for me. I’ll be just down the hall….” And with that, Jenny opened the door and left Catherine standing in the threshold, gathering her thoughts and her files and readying herself to compartmentalise.

She was cradling a cup of tea in her cold hands as she sat on the edge of the sofa, cross legged and like a frog upon a lily, waiting to leap to somewhere else. She looked slightly withdrawn. Perhaps it was the insomnia she was experiencing of late. For over a fortnight now she was only catching a few hours of sleep a night. There were times where she would randomly drop off though: at work, at bus stops, in the shops or in the shower. They might only be for a few minutes, even seconds. But they were completely uncontrollable and they brought on the strangest of dreams.

She brought the cup to her lips, but it was cold tea that poured into her mouth. She coughed at the taste and put the mug back down on the coffee table. She had boiled the kettle right? She got up from the sofa and checked the kettle: it was still warm. Had she fallen asleep again? This time she had had no memory of a dream. Her eyes didn’t even feel as if they still had sleep in them.

“Are you alright?” Her sister appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m not sure….” she said.

“Did you fall asleep again?” Her sister approached her slowly, looking concerned. “You should go see the doctor. It’s getting serious now…”

“I can’t explain it. I can’t explain the last hour. I made a cup of tea – it’s stone cold now. The last thing I remember is pouring it…. I don’t even remember waking up this time.”

“Sit down, I’ll make you another cup of tea. It’ll help waken you up.”

“I don’t feel tired though, I never feel tired when it happens!” She fell back into the sofa, “It’s like I have no choice.”

Her sister filled the kettle again and set it to boil.

“We’re all concerned for you, you know. You’ve got your exams coming up, you’ll be going to uni in the autumn. It’s so stressful. I know, I did it.”

“It’s not even that, I’m barely worried about it. And you don’t need to constantly remind me of your terrible life…”

Her sister ceased arranging cups of tea and turned to stare at her younger sibling, both surprised and disgusted.

“I don’t know why I bother. I try to help you, girl, but it’s just thrown back in my face all the time.” She stormed out of the kitchen, leaving the kettle to boil to an audience of two lonely mugs and a quietly bitter girl on the edge of her seat, torn between childhood and the rest of her life.

A tear slipped out of her glossy, sleep deprived eyes. She always hurt people in the end. As she heard her sister slam the front door, she dissolved into a shaking mess. The wall that two weeks of strange dreams, tormenting insomnia and a throbbing ache in her heart had built up was finally crumbling. The tears were drowning her eyes – she was blind with them. Wiping them away, she suddenly saw the kitchen erased from her sight. No longer was she sitting on the sofa, no longer was she in the kitchen. She was standing up, taller than usual, and her eyes were dry. She was now standing at the edge of a tall building. A garden of lawn and concerete lay beneath her feet. A few bushes and trees detracted from the unkemptness of it all. She felt a strong wind blowing her backwards – she felt it through her, now short, hair. She could feel every atom of the air pulverise her pores on her face. It was exhilerating. She could hear somewhere in the distance, or somewhere down below. Quiet what they were saying, she did not know. And it was almost as if she did not care. The words flew passed her ears as if they were just grains of dirt in the wind.

All of a sudden she felt her body turn around and came face to face with photography equipment. The flash guns flared and the light bounced off; the photographer took another and another. And, like a puppet, she could remotely feel herself moving into different poses and positions as the camera shutter locked down and the flash guns hammered her with rays of bright, flourescent light.

Sunset descended from a commotion of crimson and milky ambers into the a dull blue night’s sky. It was late evening. The chimney pots smouldered a little with pitiful smoke; it was winter. Cold bit at the windows, trying to get in. Frost began to form and seep inside. But she didn’t care. Twirling her long black curls in her finger, she remembered the dream that she’d just woken from. An afternoon nap that had turned into something else; something new. It was vivid. She felt odd; old even. There was a small part of her that felt slightly violated: as if she’d surrendered a bit of her subconscious to another, secretly, unwillingly. Her mouth was dry as she recalled a garden. She could see herself standing in a grand building – a large bay window watched and guarded a vast garden before it. There was an oak tree and a weeping willow too. It was sunny, but there were no signs of summer in the air there either. It was dark inside the building – perhaps a living room or drawing room. There were big window seats and chez longs. It was as if someone had become too accustomed and too familiar to the lack of light, that they’d forgotten to switch the lights on again. Outside two children played – chasing each other around as siblings do. There was laughter, but not from them. From someone else out of view. It was a close laughter, almost as if it were inside her own head. But she didn’t feel as if it were her own body. It felt quite removed – as if she was just a bystander, a contemptable sneak that had crept inside the mind of another to watch and to spy. And then she’d woken up. Nothing had happened dramatically to wake her up; nothing frightening; nothing physical. It just happened, as if there was a bad connection and her mind had just timed out. She was now leaning against her own windowsil now, examining the city lights that had began to glow below. A wave of sadness took over her. She felt like she’d lost someone dear to her but someone so long gone that they’d slipped from but the vestiges of her mind. Only there, in the small little backwaters of her brain, did they still exist and tap at the door of her ceberal entity; patiently waiting to come back in.

He woke quite abruptly and without any warning that he’d even fallen asleep. His mind was frazzled; he felt as if he still belonged back in the dream world that he’d been inhabiting for the last while. He reached over for a glass of water on his bedside table, but there was none. How had he even gotten to the bedroom? The last thing he really remembered was standing at his windowsil, watching his children play. He pulled back the covers – he was still fully clothed. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He felt disgusting. He got up and tore it off, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His heart gave a little jolt. A rush of addrennaline throbbed through his veins. For a second he had struggled to recognise the man that was staring back at him in the mirror. It was almost as if it was another man taking off the same top, wearing the same jeans and adorning that same, stupidly little dazed expression. He took a few steps closer towards the mirror and touched his reflection’s face. It was him, but it wasn’t. He withdrew his hand and brushed his hand against his own face. Suddenly he fell back as his body collapsed. His eyes were wide open but could not see, or at least could not see what was really in front of him. All he could see was an image from somewhere; perhaps his dream, perhaps not. It felt familiar, as if he’d been there before – recently. But for all the world he could not understand where this image had appeared from so vividly from the corners of his memory, for all he could see was a city of tungsten lights and smoky chinmey pots and sea of darkest blue above……………

White. It was all white. A bright white light from the window drenched the room in a dull early morning glare. A gently spring breeze buffeted a thin white curtain that draped down on to the dirty white linoleum floor. White walls were covered in cheap plastic frames and cheap sketches of flowers, lakes and riversides. Calming scenes. Occasionally a health and safety notice spoilt the theme. It was cold in the room. A touch of frost may have been biting the trees and air outside. The sun had not quite crept into proper existence yet. It was pre-dawn. The loneliest time of the day.

There was little noise, save the wind gently blowing against the window pane. The odd highheeled footstep passed by on the concrete street below. Perhaps an ambulance or two out in the distance, chasing on death’s path. Maybe children were crawling out of bed for school. Perhaps it was not even a weekday at all. The dull light and cold sting in the air would not reveal. The heavy silence told not a single tale. But it was all quite removed from the little white room, white walls, white chair.

No one sat on the chair. No one had in months. It was redundant. It faced small bed and a pathetic, lifeless string of limbs, a heart, a head and two eyes. It was smothered in a nest of white sheets and white pillows. Quite unaware. Yet something in this apparent corpse was changing. Its eyelids began to flicker, perhaps they began to open. A blurred world began to form; a white mess of shades and shadows. A few seconds passed, a few moments to adjust: the world was forming slowly, but forming nonetheless. His mouth was dry; his breath was slow, a little difficult – painful too. He was numb. Cold and numb. His vision focussed, though still askew from reality, on the world around him. The chair, the window, the walls, the floor….

His heart rate quickened. He had seen his body. His lifeless body all wrapped up in his cocoon. His breath followed suit with his heart: his lungs felt restricted. He tried to breathe faster, harder, deeper. But it was as if there was something wrapped around his throat. And then, an odd sensation crept back to him, like pins and needles, like a sixth sense. There was something wrapped around his throat. He focussed on his face, the top of his nose. There was something there, a transparent mask of sorts. He motioned to throw it from his face – but his arm was caught. It hung limply, lifelessly in midair: attached to a small wire – or tubing – that ran the entire length of his arm and cut deep into his skin. And it was then that he saw – no longer a blurred cacophony of light and shapes – a large box, on a stand, systematically beeping and displaying a green series of quickening spikes. Each spike was passing more quickly on the screen. Each beep was followed more quickly by the next. He could feel his whole body swelling; his mind was bursting at the skull. It was more than shock, it was more than a desperate realisation of where he was and how he’d come to be there. Thoughts rocketed through his brain, but there was no other conclusion… there was no alternative to the one bleeding through his panic stricken conscious.

The End

Posted: March 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

Dear my one and only reader (AKA Google robot scanner)


I am quitting writing as of today. Any ideas what’ll keep me going for the next sixty long, drawn out, horrific years whilst my barely concious body repels disease and my every effort to mistreat it with copious amounts of ice cream and wine?




Me neither.



Rain splattered on to the front window screen. The grey light was fading as we hurtled through into a tunnel in our red Megane. He turned round in the driver’s seat, panic stricken and fraught with fear.

“You don’t tell anyone, you don’t know I’m here.” The Doctor said, although the face he wore was already dead.

We all remained silent – and the car ploughed on through the darkness.

By the time we’d reached the other side it was snowing. We’d arrived in this little town, a dark little community whose street lights blared a white, harsh lighting. It was as if we were in a different world, and maybe we were. I looked at The Doctor and he saw me in the rear-view-mirror. We were staring at each other in silence.

The other three in the car were people he could not remember. One was young; curly brunette hair and a youthful smile. She was in love with him, The Doctor. She’d met a long time ago, and worshipped the ground he walked on. She tried to touch him as he drove, touch his hair, touch his face. He could barely contain his anger, his disgust.

The other two were just two men who worked with the girl. They could barely care who he was, but the reason that we had all gathered together – here in this car, in this small out of the way town, was too important to brush off.

He took the car up a small hillside road, where snow covered the sides and glittered in the midnight moon. It was eerie, to know that we were the only ones around for miles. For no one was here, not any more; not in this war-zone. We pulled up in an overgrown, little driveway in the shadow of a huge barn. As we stopped and cut power to the engine, we were met with a wall of thick silence. It was overpowering. I felt excluded from the world around me, as if my presence alone was overbearing it.

“Why are we here?” I asked him, and no sooner had the words left my lips than a light in the house to the left of us had switched on. It lit up a small area of garden around it. Bushes and hanging baskets littered the pathway leading up to would have been the cosy little cottage in Alps if it weren’t for the war that consumed it. A woman opened the door and beckoned them to come.

We all got out with no questions. The Doctor led us, or rather we followed, towards the house. He hugged and greeted the woman. She was older, maybe in her late fifties. Her hair was covered by a blue bandanna sort of thing, though grey hair still flowed out from the back of it. She hugged each one of us as we entered. When it came to me she slipped something into my hand and looked gravely into my eyes.

“Only when she remembers,” she whispered.

I stepped into the entrance hallway. A fire roared from the living room, which now contained The Doctor, standing solitary by the hearth. I looked at him, as he stood deep in thought, and then looked at the item clutched in my hand. It was a bright silver ring encrusted with the most dazzling diamond I had ever seen. As I looked up, I caught his eye. Had he been staring the whole time? But by the worry in his eyes I thought that maybe he’d missed it. Why would such a thing of beauty make him worry?

We all gathered in the living room. The girl with the curly brown hair, I didn’t even know her name, had taken seat beside her darling Doctor. He seemed uneasy in his thought and repulsion was illustrated all over his face. The two men stood by the window, which looked out on the valley below. It was a huge vista of darkness, save for isolated torch light far away. They were close, I thought. I remember a shiver rattled down my spine: I knew what was coming. I knew. And so did The Doctor.

“Tea?” and by her accent I knew that the old woman was German. She scuttled off to the kitchen and filled an old kettle before returning and placing it on the fireplace.

I looked around while the water boiled. It wasn’t what I had been expecting of a nineteen-forties home. I expected less. I expected it to be bare, but it wasn’t. It was filled with ornaments and personal items, cushions and throws. Portraits and black and white pictures lined the walls. It was cosy, it didn’t seem as if this entire town would be overrun with Nazis by morning.


“Why are we here?” One of the men asked, disgruntled but serious simultaneously.

“Because I took you here,” The Doctor said, stressed.

“But why?” asked the other man.

The fire reflected in his pupil as he looked deep into my eyes. He knew from where I came. He knew what time I lived in, what horrors I’d read of and what horrors we would all, sooner or later, witness with our own eyes.

“Something is going to happen here tonight. Something of unspeakable terror,” He looked at me at those final words, “and I have come here to stop it.”

“What? What’s going to happen?” The men chimed in unison.

“Today is the the 19th of February 1943 and today is the day that Germany wins the war.”

The kettle whistled in the aftermath of his words. Even the young woman was rattled by what he had said, though her vacant eyes portrayed differently. The German lady wandered over to poor us all cups of hot, steaming tea. There was no milk though, nor sugar, but it was warm and that was all that I wanted right now. I noticed that it had started snowing again. It would be so beautiful if it weren’t for the impending doom.

The young girl snuggled into The Doctor. He tried to drink his tea awkwardly without throwing up, I thought. I didn’t know how he knew her but what made me even more curious was why he was trying to pretend that she wasn’t even there.

“Biscuit?” The old woman said, gesturing towards a tin.

I waved my hand in disfavour. She went round the group and repeated the question. Only the men accepted.

“How do you know?” one of the men asked. I questioned though how there was little terror in his voice.

“I just do. That’s all you need to know. And within an hour you’re going to start to believe me. Now, would you like to join me upstairs?” He motioned to me.

I put down my mug and followed him upstairs. He seemed to know his way around the house. Had he been here before? He took me into what looked like a child’s room, although no child slept in the empty bed.

“Doctor,” I said, “Why have we come here?”

The Doctor turned round and looked at me with a tear in his eye. “Because today is the day I continue the war.” He turned away from me. I thought I could hear a slight sobbing but when he spoke again his voice was clear and unbroken. “It all happens in this house, it all happens with that girl down there. She is the key. She’s the key, and I don’t know why, or how but it all happens with her.”

“Who is she?” I asked. “How do you know her?”

He turned back to talk to me face to face. “That’s not important right now.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“No, I’m being me. Now we need to think of something. I need to think of something. I need to… I need to….”

I felt the ring in my pocket. I’d stuffed it down there when I caught him looking at me. Now that we were alone I knew he hadn’t seen me with it; it would have been the first thing he would have asked. I wondered whether or not to tell him, but he wasn’t being himself. I think he wasn’t being himself, it was complicated. It was all wrong. This wasn’t The Doctor I knew – this wasn’t the man who had scooped me up in his time machine three months ago. This was an old Doctor. This wasn’t my Doctor.”

“Doctor, why have you brought her here if she is what they need?”

He stopped in his train of thought and furtively glanced at the clock on the wall. “Because it needs to be this way.”

“Doctor – I don’t understand. If she is the one who is meant to end this war tonight and allow the Nazis to win, then why on earth have you brought her to the scene of the crime? Why did we specifically try to find her and take her here and how the hell do you know her?”

“I don’t know her. I don’t. She’s just this girl, I don’t know.”

“For all the time I’ve known you you’ve never not known something, what is going on? Why aren’t you telling me anything?”

“I don’t… know.”

“Doctor!” I could have grabbed him and thrust him at the wall till he told me what was going on, I was that angry and frustrated.

“Ssh!” He put a finger to his lips. “They mustn’t hear.”

“And why not? They have every right to hear what we’ve got planned for their lives?” I whispered.

The Doctor looked at me and sighed. “I wish I’d met you earlier, then maybe I wouldn’t have done this to myself.”

“Done what?”

“Look at me,” he said, “this isn’t the man you know.”

“No, but it’s the man that I will one day know.”

He smiled.

“What did you do to yourself though?”

“I took you away from myself. You can’t go back. Do you know where I am right now? Right now in this whole universe, in the whole of time? I’m buying you Neptunian Ice Cream from fifty thousand years in the future to give to you three thousand years to go in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. But you won’t be there, because I took you. And by the time you get back, I’ll be gone.”

“But you can’t be? What?” I felt sick. Life without The Doctor?

“I can’t return you. I can’t bring you back. I can’t take you back after this.”

“But you took me here – you can take me anywhere in time and space – you’re a Timelord! You have a TARDIS!”

“Yes… but I can’t.”

“But why not? Why won’t you?” I was getting hysterical now – it was as if someone had died.

“Because I say so.” Tears were streaming down his face now.

“Why?” I cried.

“Because if I take you back to him, back to me, then you’re going to die!”

It was as if the life in me had already been withdrawn. I felt all the air in me being sucked out by the sheer horror of it. Death?

“How? How?” How do I die and how do you know it – The Doctor I know isn’t you – you’re just his… his memories – you don’t exist!” I shoved him up against the wall with each final few words. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You asked!”

My hands went to his neck to throttle him.

“Stop it!” He pulled my hands away from him, he was smiling as he did so.

“What happens? How do I die?”

The smile was wiped from his face, “At home. In bed, when you’re eighty-eight and with three great-grandchildren by your side.”

“Seriously!” I withdrew a little from him.

“Now, these Nazis out there!”


“You’re going home, that’s final.” His voice had a tone of finality.

There was a knock on the door suddenly.

It was the young girl.

“Ahh, there you are,” she pointed drunkenly at The Doctor. “Sneaking off…” she giggled.

“Do me a favour?” He turned towards me, “get her away from me. She makes my skin crawl.”

I could not help but smile as he writhed on the spot.

“Come on, I’ll take you somewhere…”

I hadn’t any idea planned on taking her into another bedroom, but it somehow happened. She immediately threw herself under the covers and beamed from between the sheets. She barely looked older than twenty. It was hard to believe that she had the power within her to cause so much… desctruction.

“How do you know him?” she giggled.

“The Doctor?”

“Yes, if that’s his name.”

“I thought you knew each other?”

“Oh no. I do. I’ve known him for years and years and years. But I forget. Sometimes I forget.”

What an odd girl, I thought. “His name is The Doctor.”

Something happened. To this day I can not explain it, but somehow she seemed to emanate a crystal blue light. She seemed to illuminate the room in a frightening glow.

“What are you doing? What’s going on?”

She begun to slowly elevate into the air, bed sheets and all. She was floating as if by magic.

“Doctor! Doctor!” I cried. She kept on rising, and then a deep laugh menaced the room, echoing off the walls and hounding my ear drums.

“Your Doctor cannot hear you any more!” She turned her head as she said it, though the rest of her body was lifeless.


I ran to the door to scream for him, but some force had slammed it shut before I could get there.

“Your precious Doctor cannot hear you child, why won’t you listen to me? He cannot – hear – you!”

She pointed a finger at me and as she did so I felt my breath stolen from me. When I tried to scream though it was not my breath that had been taken but my voice. The entire room was filled with her laughing once more and she pointed once more, not me but to the window. It smashed and threw glass in every direction. Her body, still levitating, flew out the window and into the night.

“Doctor!” I screamed mutely. I ran to the door, which was now peppered with bits of glass. I ran out in to the hallway and back into the room where I had previously been with The Doctor. He was not there though. I hurtled down the staircase into the living room. The Doctor was calmly dunking a biscuit in what looked like my teacup.

I ran up to him, still vainly trying to speak.

But he didn’t look up. He didn’t even blink. I waved a hand in front of him, but he took no notice. I looked around – the other two were sitting staring into space. I looked at the German woman and she looked straight back at me. Her eyes were actually focussed on me – weren’t they?

“Can you see me?” I mouthed.

She nodded.

“Can you hear me?”

She nodded once more.

I ran up to her.

“Why can’t The Doctor hear or the other two see me?”

She tried to speak, but I thought her English must have failed her. She just merely looked at me and pointed towards my pocket.

The ring! The ring! I took it out and examined it. What was it that she had said when they had first arrived – “only when she remembers?” But, wait – she had! But how was I have meant to have used it? To wear it as protection? To give it to her?

“What is it for? How did you know that this would happen?”

The woman stumbled some words out, “Someone… gave it… long time now. Him,” she pointed.

I turned to look back at The Doctor, who was now looking at the staircase dreamily. Maybe he was waiting for me to come down any moment.

“What do I do with it?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Keine know.”

I went to The Doctor now, and knelt at his side. Crumbs were floating in the tea now, it was quite disgusting. He was chewing like a horse, the wet biscuit he’d just been dunking.

“Please, please hear me. She’s got out – she – she remembered! She remembered your name, who you were. I need to know what to do with this,” I hoisted the ring right up to his nose.

Nothing, no reaction whatsoever. It was as if I wasn’t even real. But then how did the German woman see me – and wait a minute, how did the German woman speak to me without him hearing?

“The Doctor – can he see or hear either of us?”

The woman shook her head. “Ring.”

My heart beat fast against my chest as my brain rattled through the thought process. Why had the ring done this to just two of us?

“What’s taking those girlies so long?” The Doctor said, trying enormously to make small talk.

“What do I do?” I moaned to The Doctor, “Tell me what to do!”

Suddenly I heard gunfire. It wasn’t far off – it sounded like it was just next door. I ran to the window – down in the valley there were little sparks of gunfire, and far off in the distance the sky was speckled with artillery fire. It had begun.

The others, too, had noticed this. They had also run over to the window. The Doctor was horror struck – he looked over to the staircase and shouted my name.

“Where are you? Where are you?”

He ran upstairs. I tried to follow as quickly as I could. He’d run into the room that I taken the young woman.

“Oh my god…” He was horror struck at the state of the room. “Gertze! Gertze! He shouted! Where are you?”

The old woman, I thought, he must mean her.

He ran back down stairs to the living room, “That old woman – have you seen her?” he said to the two men.

Both shook their heads. The Doctor looked frantic – I’d never seen him like this.

“You two – stay here. Just…. do as your told and stay here.”

He had already about-turned and was running out the front door. I followed invisibly after him. He flung himself into the car and had already switched the engine on as I took jumped into the car. He jumped at the sound of my door closing. He was staring at the place where I sat.


I smiled back, in the vain hope that he may actually see me this time.

He began to reverse out of the driveway, though kept a curious eye on my lap. The gunfire outside had not ceased, but was growing ever more intense. It was as if the entire town was crawling with soldiers, though unseen by the deep darkness.

“Where are you taking us, Doctor?” I asked as he flew down the hill at enormously illegal speeds. It wasn’t until the bottom of the hill that we saw it. From the sky there was this huge glowing orb. It was crystal blue. It was her. She cast her light on the valley beneath her feet.

What was she doing so high in he sky? What was her plan? And how would her life be the key to rewriting history?

“Come on, Doctor, see me, look at me…” I sighed, stroking the dazzling ring in my pocket….

To all four of you who read yesterdays post – and to the one dedicated reader who read everything else as well. You know who you are.


So another day has gone by and I have not written anything more. I am too tired to even contemplate writing anything more strenuous than this, and even then I am kind of forcing myself. However, in an up-lifting note, I did manage to eat something for dinner. For those of you who know me, this is a rare occurence. Borderline unwanted annoerexia. God I’m so tired these days. I feel sleepy almost all the time. I need a good break. I need a break from it all. Not just a holiday. I hate work. I hate the way it takes up most of your time. Scarily, I’ve only been away from work for 6hrs.


I wish I could finish things.


Does anyone actually want to read any of my stuff? I may put it up on request, but as there’s only 4 people reading this, there doesn’t seem much point.


And the sad thing is, I almost typed up my generic signature email:



RBS Business Operations


Fucksake. Kill me now.


I’m going to upload something in fact.