Go

With the drum rattling gone, the day carried on, and the dissident left the pavement. Over the road and onto the grass, a wide open expanse, skipping over a path or two when he came to it. Milling around in a great arc and the steel above his head subsided. Never able to keep away from the bustle for long, he turned into the sweep, the sway and to and fro, the marching mass, as it ran like a conveyer of faces. Through a door, into a store and the gentle browsing begins. The eyes wander and trip over a sight. The sight of a figure. A familiar figure? S.H.

Dissident

The dissident stands muddied and tired. He walks the uneven path with straightened conviction. The traffic noise sings around him and he settles into his skin. He passes the familiar sights and comfortable landmarks. He turns his trail down a side street and is met by a figure. The figure doesn't talk but he thinks she does and he chirps a friendly reply. An answer is given by the figure as she flows past. He turns and watches the figure depart, the drums in his head thumping and ratting a mad tattoo. S.H.

For Love Or Money?

Some time ago I decided that I would do what I enjoyed as work, even if it wasn't the highest paying or most sparkling of status positions. The work I do DOES enable me to look after myself, save money and do just about what I want within reason. I won't be buying a brand new beamer or owning that six bedroom home in Hertfordshire any time soon, but I've gotten along alright in the past.
The problem I find myself being readily confronted with is what will happen a decade or so down the track. Will I still be content with enjoying what I do, even if it means I have to scrimp and save a little in order to support my future family? Or will I HAVE to reeducate and up or even change completely my qualifications in order to get that "real job"?
I guess the crux of my query is this - is a guy's salary really a big pull or deterrent to a girl?
Add to the pot that what I do is not considered a "regular" occupation for a guy to have (for the record, I work with kids) and I have had many a girl who has turned the other way when she has found out my status among the career world.
Unfortunately, all this means that now more than ever I am faced with a simple question - do I continue to do what I love, with the risk that I will never be taken seriously by another as a future other half? Or do I change my ideas radically and go for the practical option, get another qualification and start doing a job that I may not enjoy as much, but at least I'll be able to park that new BMW in the front drive of my six bedroom house?
It all comes down to one. Does the higher flying job and larger salary package really mean that much? (We're not talking about the difference between being flat broke and a millionaire here. It's more the difference between having a second hand Toyota Corolla or a brand spanking new Mercedes C Class). Or is it really true that as long as there is love, you can always find a way to make it work no matter what? S.H.

The Star

I looked upon a star as it sat atop a hill. I saw this star in the day time and it was only me who saw it. I gazed at length and thought of how it got there. It twinkled for me, like a shinny fleck of steel. It went away then, but its job was done. It met the thought it sought to chose and pushed and shuffled things. The blue swallowed it up, the day smoothed it out. It joined itself back in the air in hopes of finding the night. S.H.

The Concrete Pond

I looked over and across the square. The dark umbrellas were like twirling lily pads on a concrete surfaced pond. They rushed along at a dizzying pace, spinning and swishing this way and that. The odd blots of colour looked like round frogs, zipping along on their own way, a coloured umbrella the sure indication of a more imaginative amphibian.
The fourth floor was a pretty good vantage point I had decided, definitely good enough to see anyone I was expecting as they approached the building. The rain seemed a little frustrated I thought, so many prepared commuters, their heads being astutely kept dry. But the skies would have their fun with at least one person today. This I knew for sure. The frog that I was looking out for had decided to swim through the crowds, not jump along with them. They had not forgotten their waterproof skin on this dampened day. They just never had one to begin with. S.H.

This Maddening Little World

Yes. Well. Let's make this an actual "blog" post, shall we?
I sit and stare out the window, waiting for the answer to leap into the room. The trees may as well be matchsticks. The sky may as well be a painting. Usually there is always one clear cut answer within the heart. It may be speaking the same language as the brain, or it may not. Either way, there is always an answer. A yes or a no. On those rare occasions when there is no clear shout, I have no other energy in me but to sit and wait. Maybe one of those birds has the answer for me? Oh ... no ... it's flown past. An interesting annoyance it is. To be leaning towards social adherence, and then turning away from it just as clearly is confusing to say the least. What a maddening little world we do live in. S.H.

Six Word Story

He lunged. She fell. He jumped. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #3

Don't worry your pretty little cotton socks. This one will also be back soon. S.H.

Here Comes The Sun

Her face folded across the sky like clean white cloth, silken and pure. I dared not reach out, for it seemed too perfect a thing to touch with my imperfect ways. The ground moved from under me like running water, and I could have been anywhere. The blue sky rejoiced above her head, no cloud filled peaks to worry the dawn. The roughness subsided to nothing and I continued to stare, nothing able to dampen her beauty. The winds changed, not in the air but behind my chest, and my eyes fell down to closed. That was it. S.H.

Nice Guys Finish Last

Reading a post from one of my kind followers, I have been inspired to communicate a little information concerning the issue of dating. More especially I mean the "finding of one's other". According to most contrary and otherwise opinions, it's hard as hell. This is a sentiment I would have to concur with. From my extensive research, I have concluded that there really does seem to be an overwhelming amount of awesome girls out there. The problem seems to be though, is that somehow the douche bags somehow manage to get to them first. Why is this so? It's surely not universally true, but there seems to be a startlingly high percentage of this occurrence taking place.
I get the image that a lot of girls seem to go for a more volatile guy because it makes things a bit more interesting, but is this really true? The phrase "nice guys finish last" really does seem to ring true. However, on the other hand I have heard of many situations where a girl would like nothing but someone who is good to them. Sure, they've got to be interesting, I think that works both ways, but nice is nice. It's one of many attributes the right guy should have in order to find the right girl. But seemingly, this just doesn't work. Could it be that what a girl is attracted to and what she really wants in the deep pools of her heart are two utterly different things? I've had a friend or two (who happen to be girls, mind you) say that the "looking" for someone doesn't work, and to an extent I agree. I think you still have to put yourself in the situations where you can "not look" for someone, but then don't you have to show initiative as well? I'm a big believer in that if you want something you have to go out there and get it. Were as this has proved a sound philosophy to everything else I have accomplished so far, could it be that it does not apply to the single thing that is number one on the list of needs and wants anyway, above all other goals?
There should be a website called "I'm a nice person dot com". It should be a place where nice people are selected by an independent judge that flies around the world and signs off on everyone that wants to join the site. There are plenty of sites out there as it is, but somehow I really don't think internet dating is the way forward. I could be wrong. I could be wrong about everything on the subject. That conclusion would at least explain why I'm still in the same boat as all those other hopeful, not desperate, but hopeful singles out there, patiently waiting for the lightening bolt to strike them down with a vengeance, the smile on their face never so wide for such a bout of electricity to be running like wild horses through their veins. S.H.

Walk On

There is a place you can go if you leave the road and make your way through a crumbling fence. Laying your soles on the lush grass you need to scale the hill. Make sure you wave at the cows as you pass but avoid stepping in their left behind reminders of a livestock's breakfast, lunch and dinner. Push through the Kissing Gate with care but step even more lightly into the graveyard. It's a nice place, and without the blankets of snow around its edges, all the more friendly, the tombstones laid back and sighing in the warmth of the sun. Pass the small church on your right and and head towards the local hall. If you look up, the trees are bending from Spring's weight and stretching out their thin green fingers to catch a ray or two from the sky. If you turn your gaze as you walk the hill drops away behind you and falls into the lap of a small valley. A village lies scattered across the opposite hill, like stones dropped from an ancient and gigantic hand. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #2

I'm going to cheat a little here by reposting and old story. As I'm getting some increased traffic this way I thought the new people might like to see it if they were not readily inclined to make their way quite to the bottom of the page. I've been told this story is not too bad.

Don't worry, this one will be back soon too. S.H.

Never Mind The Bollocks

Unfortunately this is going to be a little bit more along the lines of bullshit than inkwells. It comes to my attention that there are quite a few blogs out there are filled with nothing but tawdry and self obsessed bollocks. Happily, no one that follows me (yet) has a blog that matches this description. However, oh so many webpages seem to be supplied by pretentious twits with a somewhat twisted sentimentality that so wears at everything I do posses. I'd really rather not run ANYBODY down for anything because, truth be told, they aren't bothering anyone. It's not these people's fault that they have no true concept of what the real world is. They will one day. But until then they seem happy, so why not just let them be? Far be it for me to stipulate what constitutes a blog entry, because quite clearly I don't know. But if I read the words "I love vintage" uttered anywhere one more time ... Well. Let's not go into what might happen if that little situation was to eventuate in the not too distant future. S.H.

The Bread

The bread. The bread. The doughnuts? No. The bread. What about the M&M cookies? They call to me with their little chocolatey voices. Their multicoloured bodies laid to rest amongst a grave of golden brown dough. Yes. Those will do nicely. I will take some of those. In walks a guy right out of a Dolce and Gabbana advert in GQ magazine. I guess he's looking for animal produce. Our little friend saunters up to the deli counter and enquires as to the brand label of the hairnet that the plump little lady behind the glass cases of meat is wearing. At least that's what I imagine he said, I can't say I was listening. Anyway, the bread. The guy thankfully exits my view and I'm left to wonder if he actually paid money for that shirt, of if it came with his Burberry sweater. I make a b-line for the checkouts. I exchange a crumpled bank note for my goods in a plastic bag and onto the streets once again I do venture. The sky is in it's own shade of steel, looking down on us all with a bored expression. I thread my best through the clatter alongside swiftly moving clumps of machinery and metal and hit the steps. A wide set that lead downwards like a gently sloping grey hill. Across the Mall, a cheeky wink in the direction of Her Majesty's abode, and it's into the park for me. Crunchy gravel and jumbled laughter from bohemian wannabes kindles my soundtrack of general city noise and my hunger ceases to be theoretical. Dead candy shells are calling. S.H.

The Supermarket Thing

Does the supermarket thing really work? You know the score. You're walking along, minding your own business in the deli section when before your view there slides one of the most charming looking girls, or as the case may be, guy, that you have seen in recent memory. You clear your throat with sandpaper comfort and set about chancing introductions. "Oh, fancy that, we use the same brand of cottage cheese. Shall we go out?" Of course I now it's probably not that simple. But then again, it might be. The question that remains for me is wether or not it is humanly possible for humans. This is excluding Brad Pitt and and any other demigod of the netherworld, that is. I have a friend that assures me it is defiantly possible. But when you look like he does, it's more probable that HE'S the one getting approached by nervous produce wielding beauties. Mind you, this is also the same friend that suggested that in order to take it to the next plateau with my then girlfriend of four weeks, that I book a hotel room without telling her and then end our day's date by saying "I've got us a room. Let's go." Maybe that would have worked. But maybe not. The supermarket thing works in movies. But everything works in movies.
Back to the main thread, and IF this all works. Well, I'm sure it does. But I'm even more sure that it's not normal people that manage to pull this seemingly unsurmountable feat off. It's done by these chiselled characters with mythical good looks. It's done by the Populars and their scudded accomplices.
Aside from anything else I think common decency holds ME back. I just don't think anyone wants another person to creep up behind them while they are trying to make the ever important decision of wether to get smoked or regular bacon. I just don't think it's good manners. But then again, what's manners when the magnetic field begins to wail? What does common decency matter when your favourite song begins to play over the supermarket loud speakers, seemingly spurring you on in an oh so spiritual way. That's how it happens in the movies. Maybe that's how it happens in real life too? S.H.

The Great Escape

I sat and I watched on a sullied park bench as a plastic bag set fourth to make its great escape from a rubbish bin. The birds in the trees chattered away like children and the surrounding traffic noise rose up like the unconcerned rumblings from parents in the background. The tall leaves around swayed like hair and the plastic bag lay in wait, timing its actions like the prisoner watching the guard. After several valiant attempts the cause looked all but lost. Until, handles pulsing as great steadied arms, the bag got itself teetering over the edge of the green bin. The time was now, all was poised, and perched on the knives edge between freedom and deathly relegation, the bag paused, waiting desperately for one last ounce of wind. It came! And with the warm whip of the wind, liberty was found. The bag looked like a delighted animal, skipping off at high speed down the park path. It rolled and spun with its own pride, and carried away on the summers breeze, towards the city from whence it came. S.H.

How Long?

It sucks like quicksand. Pulls like tentacles. I walk along in second hand skin and no one notices. It's been worn before but not by me. I trace a path and songs refuse to help, speaking of things in twos and pairs of doves, none of it any use to me. The tether is breached. It's spent and frayed. Parades of bliss before me don't inspire hate but envy. Not envy but longing. The sky changes its face again to rumple up and offer its small condolence. Being awake for handfuls of small lifetimes takes it's toll the most. To remain without relief for so long is a powerful tool for any to use against me, but for one to set me free.
Again, apologies for the melancholy bullshit. Situation dictates manner. S.H.

Could I Whisper?

Do you want to hear about the hilltops? Do you want to hear about the trees? The jagged rocks that slowly get tamed by centuries and moving earth, the mossy grass like cool emerald lava. Would you like to know about the mountains? The stars that seem the only things close enough to tell of what it is like to be so high. Could I whisper in your ear about the sky, and the many faces it chooses to show? Can I tell you about the cities? The bricks and mortar, the stone and toil. The bust and bustle, the rats and their race, the people and their shoes. Would you believe me if I told you about the lights? Oh, the lights. Glowing like fireworks, painting like ink onto any skin that bares itself to the air.
Sorry. Not too sure where that came from. S.H.

Ruby

There's a children's hospital in Melbourne. In Carlton I think it is. And at one point I had occasion to be working a day in that hospital. For the life of me I can't remember how I got there. I seem to recall catching a train into the centre. Silver and sleek, graffitied vistas along the way. From there on I think I must have walked. I ambled uphill for some ways, that I know to be true. It was quite early as well. Vacant building blocks and black gum stains on ashen paths. The security at the hospital was amazing, as well it should be. One of the first people I met during my day was Ruby. Ruby was four years old. And only just so, as she proudly told me. She wore these red Mary Jane style shoes, all shinny leather and sparkling silver buckles. They matched her name perfectly and seemed to me to be the perfect kind of shoes for splashing about in puddles. From then on I don't remember more than a handful of seconds or so that Ruby wasn't at my side. She turned out to be one of the coolest kids I ever did meet. I remember climbing on the playground and racing toy trucks with her. Ruby gifted me with a hug before I left that day. Given to a person that eight hours previous she didn't know from a bar of soap. Her little arms barely had enough length to wrap around my knees.
I lived for a further year and a half in the city of Melbourne after that day, but not another time did I see Ruby. She'd be a fair few more years older than four now, but every time I think of her she's wearing those bright red shoes. S.H.

Jacqueline

Jacqueline. Twenty one and works behind a desk. Her grey suit serves as her skin. It looks the same as everyone else around her. It camouflages her into the office walls, like a brand new piece of equipment, fulfilling the same old tasks. Her skin appears the same as others, but she has nothing in common with them. She is here by foolishness. They are here by ambition.
Her day ends and she steps into the damp darkness that greets her. Having long ago learnt to blot out the vulgar eyes that trace over her skin like dirty fingernails, she instead doubles her pace. Thin heels on uneven pavement. It is the nature of the world that a being of such beauty has admirers. But in preference, not such followers as those on rain stained streets lurking at the sharp edges of sullen street lights.
Her dark flat is right where she left it. As well as her regrets of past decisions and forks in roads that have led her to living such a soulless life. The snap of the light switch turing on feels like a broken bone, leaving her only short of distraught as to how many more times she can sustain the injury and force repair before all confidence in continuing seems lost. The television goes on and the oven warms up. She yearns for a holiday. She hopes for the holiday to find her. So that work can forever onwards only be done when needed for the money. S.H.

Chocolate Mistress Of The Night

As I look sideways at my phone, my stomach grumbling, and I contemplate if there is anywhere I can go at this time of evening to procure the correct ingredients for constructing you which I would desire. No. It's late, you fool. Don't give into that. Oh cruel mistress of chocolate and sugar, why do you mock me so? Your luscious lure is upon me like the spirt calling the poor grieving soul, the pain all the more stinging as it dangles in ones face what can not be seized by ready hand. To play with the heart of one so welcoming your gentle rush of everything sweet and good is a wicked game to play indeed. I will have you soon, my pretty. I will have you soon. S.H.

Interpretation

Okay. Give me your interpretation of this situation. A guy walks into a clothing shop. He's only looking, probably has no real intention of buying anything unless it's really cheap, you know, a real bargain. The store is fairly empty of other shoppers, one or two of them perusing the wares on display. There are two female sales assistants. One of them is behind the counter, the other busily restocking a nearby rack. Now, the guy, remember him? Well, he mills around a bit, and in doing so passes the counter. The girl behind it gifts him a smile. The guy returns the gesture and walks on, his back now to the counter. The girl continues to follow him with her gaze. The guy knows this because he can feel her eyes on the back of his head, like delicate fingers running through his hair. Sure enough, as the guy rounds the edge of the shop and catches the girl in the edge of his view, she hands him another smile, before offering an unheard comment to her coworker. Now the coworker throws a quick look at the guy too. At that moment, someone approaches the counter to make a purchase and the attention of the two sales assistants in redirected. The guys leaves the store.
So, should the guy have waited around until the other shopper had made their purchase? Or was the sales assistant behind the counter just being generally friendly? S.H.

A Paper Clip

"Nothing more than a paper clip getting blown into it, that'd do it. The whole thing would blow."
Thanks for that, mate.
Some years ago, and it was that I sat on a scantly filled domestic aeroplane, on my way to Nashville, Tennessee. Seventies orange and brown. That's what sticks in my mind the most. An airline seating decor to trump all other airline seat decors. It felt more like a small town jazz lounge than a plane cabin. I spent the better part of an hour expecting to hear a trumpet whine into full voice at any moment.
The fount of wisdom introduced himself as Eric. This is, of course, after his initial words to me were "I could tell you stuff about jet engines that would scare you senseless." A jagged spike of lightening flashed across the faceless sky out of the window. The plane jolted like a bucking horse. Thanks, Eric. He goes on to tell me that he is an engineering student at the University of Tennessee. However, what he is doing on a plane to Nashville in the middle of the night I have no idea of. He winks at me from within his rounded southern exterior, the flaxen locks on his head like a chiselled concrete mould. More lightening jumps through the window and and onto my face. Eric smiles again.
A sudden memory of a Twilight Zone television episode muscles its way into my mind, predictably doing me no favours.
Eric is a nice enough guy, sure. He's dressed smartly. And he doesn't really push his nature onto me. But in a plane that has almost as many flight staff as it does passengers, I did start to wonder what dice roll of fate had sat the two of us right next to each other. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #1

Don't worry. It will be back soon. S.H.

Perception

Perception. I'm sure there are many more interesting items of note that could be discussed on this fine day, but on this fine day, I can't think of any.
Other people's perceptions of you are primarily what they use to judge you. Wether it is done in a nice way or a not so nice way it's still judgement. Although these perceptions can sometimes be accurate, they are far more often invariably not. The problem with people's perceptions is that they are quite usually ruled by stereotypes, second hand information and assumptions. And as Samuel L Jackson has taught any good boy or girl, we all know what happens when you make an assumption. And fifty sparkling points go to you if you can pick the film reference there. S.H.

Resume Dream Please

The grass was scattered with money. Hundreds and hundreds of notes. I joined my two cohorts, scrambling around on the ground to collect in as much cold hard cash as possible. A tiny wind was blowing, but nothing to take my mind off the prize that would await.
I became suddenly aware of helicopters wailing overhead, and within seconds the great metal birds had touched down on either side of me. I looked up and into the distance to see the burning red tail lights of my companion's Land Rover already disappearing over a far off hill. Bastards. They had run to save their own skins and left me alone to face the guns. Masked and machine gun swathed men all in black leapt down from the helicopters, their weapons pointed right at me. Thinking that it was their money I had been picking up, I threw my hands towards the sky.
"Don't shoot!" I said with cliche abandon. But shoot they did not.
"The pack!" one of the masked man yelled. I looked over at the army green backpack on the ground. "The jacket!" he yelled again. I looked over at the green bag once more. "A blue coated key in the left pocket," the man said, gun still pointed at me, his boots still not moving, "serial number 2 - 2 - 9." And with that, back into his helicopter he stepped and back into the new sky they soared. I looked over at the lonely backpack on the ground.
And then I woke up.
These are the final remnants of last night's dream. The overwhelming feeling that persisted in me was this: "wouldn't it be great to have a RESUME button in your dreams?"
I mean, I was pretty excited to see what happened next when I pulled that blue coated key out of the jacket pocket. And I was pretty pissed off to not have the opportunity to do so. It would be amazing to be able to drop back into sleep the next night after just such an occurrence, and then pick it all back up from where you left off from. I think I'd pay for one of those "RESUME" buttons. I really think I would. S.H.

When?

The Tempest is maddening. The rich salts have stung and continue to do their work. Is it that hard to find someone at least remotely like the mould that I have broken? Alas, this task is left to all of us in our own special way. The weary, the scuttled, the shaken. One for one is never too much to ask. S.H.

Girl at the Bus Stop

I remember the dead leaves the most. Hundreds of thousands of them, strewn all over the street. Puddles of leaves, small hillocks of the little bastards. All forgotten and blown away. They made the footpath somewhat more difficult to navigate along I will concede, but the faces of them were brilliant. A hundred shades of brown. Who'd have thought a colour like that could be so eloquent?
So, Leeds it was, and towards the city centre that I rambled. Earphones in ears and thoughts being thought. If it hadn't of been for the smile I would have missed her completely. I only turned just in time to see it. Black hair too. Indescribable black hair. She was waiting at the bus stop alone and I was walking past it alone. I returned it of course, the smile, with a feeble attempt of my own, but wether she took in its full meaning I will be eternally uncertain of. Five paces now separated us, then ten. By the fifteenth I turned my eyes back in the direction of the bus stop, only for them to be greeted by a large movie poster behind a perspex sheet. A pair of shoes and a pair of ankles were just visible below the poster, in the space between the bottom edge of the bus shelter wall and the uneven ground. Apart from the familiar black hair I remember only one other thing. She was nice. I knew she was nice, i just knew it.
"Go back," said my stomach.
"You can't now," my brain said back. S.H.

You're Not a Writer

Here's a little tip. You're not a writer unless someone's reading your shit, and you get paid for it. I wouldn't assume to be an expert on the subject, as I feel that no one should. But it really yanks my chain when those "oh so many" people out there think that just because they have a blog and enter a few short story competitions that they can call themselves a writer. By no means do I intend to discourage or criticise any aspiring writers, definitely not. But call yourself just that, an "aspiring" writer. You're not a writer. You aren't yet, bud. You just aren't. S.H.

The Symphony of Madness

The Symphony of Madness bothers me greatly. Not only are parental role models dwindling as parents seem to be deciding with more and more steady regularity that they are more important than their little ones, but because of this and the ready availability of digital media, kids have all too ready access to the Populars, who the children are forced to substitute as their secondary mentors. The problem with this is that the Populars are anything but role models. They facilitate and promote an image of human beings that is not only irresponsible, but for a vast number of the general population, unattainable. For the most part the Kings and Queens are oblivious. They serve only as the pretty puppets for the machine operators to twirl and preen, fully aware that the damage they are doing is not only far from innocent, but boarders on destructive and criminal. S.H.