Nameless Me

There’s a few names for a man like me. There’s a hundred stories that speak my legend. They once called me the doll maker. I took broken china and salt water tears, and made something alive and free. I brought rose back to their cheeks and a sparkle to their eyes. Yet when they’re finely dressed and set to impress, they always left my side.

I was a glassmaker, an artisan of the rough grain. I found shattered ballerinas and helped them dance again. Oh how they glittered and smiled in the light, how the world loved what was once fragmented dreams. But fame is a demon that’s all consuming and I was left in shadows once more.

I was known as the teddy man, the bear full of comfort and warmth. At night I listened to confessions and provided my wisdom to poor souls so wounded by life. Though as they grew older, they heard me less and soon I was just an object in the past they would rather forget.

I was known as a soldier, who fought and battled many wars. I defended their honour and carried their banner with praises loud and adored. Yet when peace time came, I was never in the court. I rusted in the rain and suffer a silent pain.

I was a pillar, I was a brother… I was everything and nothing to them all. How cruel are they that I dared to love them. How heartless they were, you used me and left me to become another name. Forced to abandon my dreams and my hopes. For I will always be a means to an end, but when will my end finally have a meaning?
I’m sure I will be remembered once more before I’m forgotten, but don’t weep for me players in this world’s game. I died the first time I lost my name.

Glassman’s last Christmas

Glassman was sat in his apartment slugging a bottle of beer. His apartment was mostly patched up with newspaper and chipboard since he was recruited from his last mission. Next to him was a Christmas card that was signed by his new team. ‘Can’t wait to start working with you in the New year!’ it read. It had been agreed that after recovering from his bullet wound, Glassman could have one last Christmas before moving into the team’s module base based in locations unknown. Just as he was finally getting into the idea of enjoying a peaceful afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

‘Piss off no carols!’ he shouted.

‘Is that Glassman,’ said a gentle voice.

‘I paid my debit, so you bailiffs can eat a dick,’ he Glassman.

‘Please Glassman it’s me, Mistress Grey.’

Glassman quickly reached for the door and saw his friend shaking in the doorway.

‘Hey, can I come in?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ said Glassman. ‘Sorry about the mess, a government organisation blew up part of the place.’

Mistress Grey took a few steps in and then lit a cigarette.

‘That’s why I’m here, I need your help.’

‘Okay… I don’t want to be that guy, but I am on holiday right now…’

‘Someone stalking me…’

‘I got shot on this weird mission to Sockoland and had a near death experience…’

‘It started the first of December, outside my apartment was a pear tree and inside of it was dead bird nailed to it.’

‘Well that… yeah that is weird.’

‘Then on the second I found a pair of turtle doves just flying around the place. Someone had broken in my home.’

‘Did you change the locks?’

‘Yeah, three times… after each time a new gift arrived. I got three French hens, four Callings bird and then these today.

She then pulled out five gold rings.

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Glassman, ‘just sell them for a fortune.’

‘Look at the inscription.’

One each ring was a single word that Glasman jumbled into a sentence ‘Will you marry me!’

‘Oh I’m sure this just a proposal gone wrong, probably watched ‘Love Actually’ too many times.’

‘It does say ‘will you marry me?’ when I wear them. They are all custom-made to fit my fingers perfectly.’

She placed them on her hand, including the thumb ring and the sentence read ‘You will marry me!’

‘Yikes that is pretty messed up,’ said Glassman. ‘So what do you want us to do about it?’

‘I’ve been able to track down a Geese farm on the outskirts of the city and found out if anyone had ordered six fertile ganders.’

‘Six geese are laying…’

‘Right and the man at the counter let slip of the address, I say we confront them and you knock some sense into him.’

‘Look Grey I’ll be honest, this guy just sounds really lonely and doesn’t know how to express himself in a normal way. I will come with you, but only for you to tell him you’re not interested.’

‘Fine, but please take a piece of glass with you, just in case.’

‘It’s Christmas, there are light everywhere. I think we’ll be fine.’

 

The pair arrived outside a small industrial park with a small camper van parked out. The ground was coated in ice and grit.

‘Blood hell it’s cold, I should have brought a fucking coat,’ muttered Glassman.

Mistress Grey then knocked on the door of the camper van. An elderly Tai woman answered the door.

‘Oh carollers… let me get some change,’ she said.

‘No we’re not carollers,’ said Glassman, ‘we’re here about the geese.’

‘Oh you need to talk my son about that. He’s in the shop mixing the paint for New year deliveries.’

‘Why what does he do?’

‘Oh he doesn’t like labels, something about hating CV’s.’

Glassman stared at the Tai woman.

‘So… which one is it?’ asked Mistress Grey.

‘The one is Tectonic grey,’ said the Tai woman.

‘Thank you… come on Glassman.’

Glassman was unmoved.

‘What is his job title?’ asked Glassman.

‘ He doesn’t have one he just mixes paint and takes orders and sales thing and bit of a admin and… bit of everything really.’

‘No… stop being some liberal hipster bitch and tell me what his job title is. I’m not kidding… what does he do?’

There was staring contest.

‘He’s the Paint operationalist,’ she said.

‘Good, a made up title for ‘wanker who deals with a paint pots’. That’s all I wanted,’ said Glassman.

He then walked away from the trailer.

‘What was that about?’ asked Mistress Grey.

‘Something personal… something you just wouldn’t understand unless you were a barman.’

 

The pair entered the Tectonic Grey building. There they saw hundreds of picture of Mistress Grey hanging on the walls. Some were photoshopped on wedding gowns, while others were nudes in explicit positions. There was a clatter of a stick hitting the side of a tin. The lights came one an a small made in a paint stained baseball cap stared at them.

‘You’re here,’ he smiled with a toothless grin. ‘Finally we can be together.’

‘Actually I’m here to tell you to stay the fuck away from me and if you come back my friend will kill you,’ said Mistress Grey pointing to Glassman.

‘Why do you say such hurtful things silly… you know we love each other.’

‘Dude you have like some mental health issues and I get right now you’re probably just high of paint fumes, but seriously back the fuck off,’ said Glassman.

‘Oh really?’ said the Paint Operationalist. ‘ I am afraid it will be you who will be leaving.’

The Paint Operationalist then clicked his fingers and a gaggle of geese dropped from the ceiling. They attacked Glassman with their wings and beaks.

‘What the fuck man!?’ shouted Glassman.

‘You think that’s bad, how about I let you have my fiancés’ gift early!’ shouted the Paint Operationalist.

He picked up a wooden crate labelled: LIVE STOCK and threw it at Glassman. It cracked open onto his side and seven swans crawled out angry as fuck.

‘Seriously what’s with all the birds?’ shouted Mistress Grey.

‘There for you my love, for a pond in the castle I made,’ said the Paint Operationalist pointing to the wall.

On it was crudely painted picture of a castle.

‘But first our honeymoon,’ he said pointing to the picture next to it.

The picture was of Las Vegas.

‘I would not go to Vegas for a honeymoon,’ she said.

‘You see… at first you didn’t want to marry me, but know you want a say in the honeymoon. Everything going to plan.’

‘Someone please get these fucking birds off me!’ shouted Glassman as he snapped the neck of a swan.

The Paint Operationalist then took to can of paint, one in each hand and swung them at Glassman. Glassman was able to cushion the blow with a goose before swing a swan at his attacker.

‘Why can I never have a normal day in my life!’ shouted Glassman as the stunned bird he wielded came back to life.

‘Oh sorry to see you’re feeling a little blue,’ said the Paint Opertationalist as he cracked open a tin of yellow paint all over Glassman’s head.

‘That would have worked better if it was actually blue paint,’ said Mistress Grey.

‘Help me damn it!’ shouted Glassman.

‘I haven’t got any powers, I just retouch things,’ she said.

‘And that’s why I want to marry her. The perfect paint,’ said the Paint Operationalist.

‘Sorry?’

‘We you’re power, we can paint the whole world more beautifully. We could bring classic artworks back to freshness and restore everything. Just you and I forever, the perfect couple for a perfect, beautiful world.’

Mistress Grey was taken aback.

‘Look… I would happily do thoses things with you, it’s just marriage is a huge commitment and we never dated. I don’t even know your name,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘No. I just thought I buy Glassman some time to find something to kick the shit out of you with.’

On the dot, Glassman slammed a barrel of paint remover into the lovesick painter. He then opened up the tin and poured it onto the Paint Operationalist.

‘It burns… it burns… and I’m getting pretty dizzy,’ he mumbled as the barrel drained.

The Paint Operationalist was defeat.

‘Well that’s over with… we need to contact the police and see if we can have him arrest,’ said Glassman. ‘Maybe put him in a mental health centre where he can treatment and become a functional member of socie…’

BANG. Mistress Grey shot the Paint Operationalist in the head.

‘ Jesus Christ woman, you didn’t need to that,’ he said.

‘ Oh so let me get this clear, you want to put him in an asylum where doctors with arbitrarily release him and/or let him escape so you can re-fight him on several more adventures, putting the general public at risk. No…No fuck your ego and fuck your moral code. I am save everyone, time, taxes and making sure that people with mental health problems who are not going to reoffend, actually get treatment. So I shot him. He’s dead. Merry Christmas.’

Mistress Grey then left the scene with Glassman staring over a dead body.

‘I should have just stayed on the module base,’ he muttered to himself for entering the winter cold.

A sinking discovery

 

Every morning Kelly would wake up to see her bathroom sink covered in toothpaste. Every night she would brush her teeth and go to bed, but made sure she cleaned the sink afterwards. So why was there such a mess? She had a plumber come in and check the pipes that the drain was not regurgitating her spit. Then she started to store her toothpaste in her medicine cabinet in case it was leaking. Despite these change, every morning the sink was ruined.

A friend suggested she might be sleep walking and suggested that she tape herself to see if she was doing something in her sleep. Kelly set up the camera and went to bed that night. In the morning she examined the tape and saw she was still in bed. Walking to the sink it was found a complete mess. She decided to set up the camera this time in the bathroom and hope to find an answer. When it came to examining the new footage, Kelly was reluctant to believe what she was witnessing.

On the screen, several pairs of fairy like creatures had invaded her bathroom sink and were skating around in it. Their gentle butterfly wings fluttered as they rolled around the edge and jumped into the air. It was all fun and games until a few fairies opened up the medicine cabinet and found a tube of toothpaste. They squeezed it into the sink and the skaters stopped to make snowmen out of the blobs of toothpaste. Some threw it around like snowball, while others painted the side of the sink with it.

One cheeky fairy then sat on the cold tap and turned it on. The water poured down the drain and started to make the toothpaste foam. This new sea of foam changed the game once more and the fairies were now swimming and dancing around in it. Some took this bubbly screen to get more cosy with each other. Finally the bubbles died down and all the fairies took flight away from the sink leaving it a mess.

Kelly considered her options with dealing with the matter. That night she set her alarm to 3am and set a can of wasp spray next to her bed before rolling over to sleep.

The Gnome Races

 

Once again it was time for the monthly forest race. All the creatures and enchanted races sat around the course awaiting their favourite racer.

First was the eldest and most loveable racer, Gnome Gardener Green Thumb or G3T as the younger generation called him. He rode on his childhood mount, Spinach the loyal snail. He had never won a race and most commenters noted that it would actually be fast to walk than ride Spinach, but G3T was always happy with the result of being ¾ of second faster. They’re dream of coming in third would happen someday.

The next in the line was a tattered and rugged Gnome whose beard was braided into a five ropes. His name was Konkers, who wore acorn armour and twigs like anthers. He was sat on a bark strip that was pulled by a sleigh of woodlice. Fast and crafty, it was his temper that got the best of him, especially around corners.

The most beautiful racer was the one and only Spore, the female Gnome. She rode on a chariot pulled by a hedgehog called Prim. She would leave a trail of petals behind her as the pair raced through the forest. They could climb up the hills and roll down them, faster than any other racer. They were also very good at digging under and around obstacles in the ever changing race course.

Finally the betting trunk’s favourite; wearing a blue button mask and clean shaven, Skip-toe. He had won the most races of the four and had the longest winning streak of four races. He was always smiling, even in defeat and was eager for everyone to finish the race ( even if Spinach did take 3 hours longer than the 10 minute race required.) He rode of Ribber the frog whom has the shiniest skin of all the frogs. They were fastest in the rain and mud, but lost a lot of ground on the dry seasons.

Despite their differences and fierce rivalry on the track, the four racers were the best of friends. It was on one full moon that G3T put it the best: ‘ I would rather lose to a friend than beat a stranger.’

So came the countdown to the beginning of a new race. Who would win?

3

2

1

Off they charged.

Picture perfect behaviour

Hanging in a row were three paints: The Son of a Man, The Girl with a Pearl Earring and The Old Guitarist. They had finished a long day of being observed and critiqued by visitors before the lights went out.
‘Ah… me duele el cuello,’ said the Guitarist straighten his back.
‘Stupid tour guide, always getting telling them I’m over 400 years old,’ said the girl, ‘I’m like 18.’
‘You’re not fooling anyone frau,’ said the man, ‘I can see a few cracks’.
‘How? You have an apple in your face?’
‘Yo voy a jugar ‘ Wonderwall’ ‘ said the guitarist.
‘Oh not again, learn a new song’ said the girl.
‘Qui, why not play something else?’ said the man.
The guitarist then starting strumming, ‘The White cliffs of Dover’.
‘At least this one doesn’t have lyrics to it,’ said the man.
‘I have wonderful singing voice,’ said the girl.
‘There’s only one thing your lips are good for.’
‘Mamada,’ giggled the guitarist.
‘Aweee you’re both so gross… God I can’t believe this exhibition going to last another three months. I totally can’t wait to go back into storage.’
‘Could be worse,’ said the man. ‘I heard ‘the Scream’ actually terrible conversationalist. He’s just hoarse from all the yelling.’
‘Whatever… I want to be BFF’s with the Mona Lisa or the Monroe quadruplets, they’re more my kind of crowd.’
‘Prefiero paisajes, muy tranquilo,’ said the guitarist.
‘Are you ever gonna learn English?’ spat the girl.
‘Hmmm…. Fuck off a slag you.’
‘Almost there,’ laughed the man.
Before the girl could retaliate the lights went back on and the cleaner came it. When they got to the paints something was amiss. The girl was frowning, the guitarist was sat up right and the man face was peering from the side of the apple.

Thingsmyexsaid- a review

In our lives we will find the love our lives. We will care for them, share our hopes and dreams, experience some powerful physical motions and generally believe we have found the perfect partner. Then we get dumped. It fucking sucks. While the rest of society copes with alcohol, eating their body weights in junk food, crying floods of tears or just being psychotically bitter, one person had a different idea.

This is the blog of Things my Ex said, a blog devoted to the sharing the most humours (and often painfully terrible) things that scorned lovers have been told. A quick one or two panel comic with the 1950’s style that takes on average less than 15 seconds to read, these post leaves with you with hours of discussion. Things my Ex said brings an interesting light onto break ups by empowering the heart broken rather than pitying them. There is no background to the characters or who these people are, no different than juicy conversations you overheard at a bar or waking in the street.

I love this blog, the diversity of stories and events makes no two post the same. It’s frequent enough to look forward to, but not end up being flooded into you’re feed (sorry guys if I’ve ever done this I do limit to 3/7 days a week for a reason). The option to submit your own stories and quotes also gives a lot more interaction between the writer and the subscriber which is an excellent feature. The language is relevantly clean though the content of conversation may not be suitable for young children. From the shocking awful truths to the almost alien logic of the ex’s, you’ll laugh at the absurdity, you’ll grit your teeth in frustration and maybe on the right kind of day you’ll shed a tear in empathy.

For all I praise this blog for, it also has its faults. For women it may be empowering, but for men it can seem rather sexist as it portrays men as the absolute evil in all failed relationships. I will add that there have been posts made for men who have had terrible ex’s and it may just be that few men are as open to talk about their ‘feelings’ to a stranger. Given how much lad mags and websites are devoted to ‘slut shaming’ do far worse I think the world could just take a bit salt and enjoy the stories. Then there’s the issue that we never really get to know the people behind the quotes, as such there is a sense of bias towards the ‘quote poster’. One post was in regards to a boyfriend saying that he thought his girlfriend was ‘like a character from Lord of the Rings’. This needs so much more context. If he’s saying she’s an Orc than yeah what a bastard, but say it was an elf (generally beautiful creatures loved by all but dwarfs) than that a compliment. To me if that was the worst thing your ex ever said to you than maybe you needed a reality check on how good you had it.To sum up at its best Things my ex said is a wonderful cheeky and healing blog that can remind any heartbroken woman that it better to laugh at your monster than cry over them. At its worst, it’s a man hating free for all for bitter spinsters. My personal view: Read five posts and you’ll be hooked. If you get offended lads, I’m sure you’ll ‘man up’ and move on with your life.

Band of Misfits

You would think being part of a big group of people would bond you like a family. The hours of practice. The precision timing. Everyone working towards a shared and unified goal. Wrong. The reality is that we all bicker and fight like anything. Just like high school, everyone had their little circles and clicks. The brass section, the wind, the percussion and don’t get me started on the inner circles within the strings. So when one member is overheard talk about a new diet, the brass section makes a bumble sound as they waddle away. When someone having a bad day and explain their sorrows the violinists play a spiteful sorrow tune. This one time someone’s son called ‘ George’ was dealing with him coming out the closet. The flute players decided to make a whimsical tune whenever ‘George’ was mentioned. All the polish and decorum is an act, I may as well be working with criminals. I’m a conductor, not a referee. When it gets violent I take my stick and go home. And people ask me why I look so stern during my performances. Because I have to keep them all in bloody line!

Sandpaper skin- a coward’s regret

I met a wide range of characters when I first went to the University of Birmingham and made a group of friends that will be with me for the rest of my life, God willing. There were also a wide range of characters that I never got a chance to speak to, but were quite literally the talk of the institution. There was an African guy known as ‘Zeek’ who was bare footed even in the middle of winter. I found out later he was studying Engineering and was quite aware of his reputation. There were the fruit sellers and their ‘moon pears’ which to this day have not found in any of the supermarkets (sadly I never ate one.) Even I was known for my eccentric nature, wearing face paints, sunglasses and shoe polish on my face during lecturers and seminars ( seriously I have the pictures to prove it and a mate created a blog based on me that got a couple of hundred views). I still want to run around with it on, but people just aren’t that tolerate outside of university. But there’s one character that I wish I had talked to.

I first saw her was in the Mason Lounge (it was this it IT lab/social area in the art building and it even had a little coffee stand.) I was quite taken aback by what I saw. I could only guess what the cause could have been: a car accident, a house fire, an acid attack. Whatever the cause, her body was completely wrapped in bandages: arms, legs, everything but her face. Her features had shrunken in and all I could see was those eyes looking back. I was overcome with sorrow for her. When she reached for her bag, her hands were hooked and her fingers closed together. For all I know they may have been melted together from whatever had happened to her. She would walk with a jerky shuffle as her heavy bag swung taking her off balance. She was only a small girl too and she had very thin form. One could never truly imagine what it would be like for every joint and movement to cause such pain. I loved the Mason Lounge, it was the best place to meet people but I always dreading seeing this girl suffer.

By my second year the shock of seeing her had gone and I became more interested in her interactions. She was with a group of friends at times and generally seemed more upbeat in her body language. The same jerky walk was somehow more fluid and on occasion she would smile as she swung that huge bag of hers. The swelling had gone so more of her facial features had come to the surface for everyone to see. The main difference though was her hair that had been previously absent. Her sandpaper skin and fragile nature may never fully heal, but this was a good sign that some sense of normality would return to his innocent girl’s life.

The third year was the greatest change. Not in her, but myself. Sure her hair had grown longer and less bandages revealed more healed skin, but that wasn’t it. In three years I had witnessed someone go through a horrible scarred for life event and come out the other side victorious. A living butterfly if you would. As third year was a busy time, I saw less over her and over all everyone else really. So when I sat my last exam I realized I would never see her again. If I had been brave, half a brave as her I would have done it. I would have gone up to her and told her. ‘As stranger from the outside observing, how amazing and wonderful you are. That you are beautiful.’ Yet I didn’t and in some ways it might be for the best. For all I knew she had a devoted partner who had been by her side through her ordeal and I was just the shoe polish wearing nutter.

I don’t know if she’ll ever read this or she really knows who I am, but if the opportunity arrives for anyone who knows her to pass my message along this it: you’re beautiful just for being you.

The Rational Patterns of Life

Every time I drive past a graveyard I always tip an invisible hat to the dead. I never know why. Maybe it’s respect for strangers who I’ll never be friends or enemies with. Maybe I hope they’ll respect me when I’m dead. Maybe it’s just another compulsive habit to add to the rest of my growing insanity. Yet graveyards have a threefold effect. First you see head stones in a row and it’s like an art exhibit: the vast range of crosses and worn squares poking out the earth. Occasional angels and misfit statues stand ready to watch your movements. Then the dip in your stomach when you know below the ground is a host of rotting flesh in boxes. All frozen asleep, battered and worn like their head stones. The last thought is the sheer number of dead and the question: how many have died before us? It’s an impossible figure to calculate. That is the rational pattern: art-emotion-math. This pattern seems to have followed me in every aspect of life. My ex was a wild fire that I wish I had loved, but that’s why we only lasted six months.

The Slasher

Jennifer had just left her study session and was heading back to her dorm for the evening. Against the advice of her friends she travelled alone in the darkness of night. Rumour of an attacker had spread throughout the campus and though she had taken little notice, the flickers of shadows had triggered a pit in her stomach. She shouldn’t have at taken the short cut away from the lit path. The sound of heavy breathing echoed around her was out of sync with her own. Books clutched tightly, she began to pick up the pace. The scrapping came next and the stories flooded into her memory. The breathing. The screeching. Beware his hook. A lose pavement flag forced Jennifer to the ground and the sting of grazed knees was dulled by the looming shadow behind her. She turned to see a man in a black mask, his eyes pinning into her.
‘Come to see your world’s end?’ he said.
His hook played in his fingers before it floated to the sky. Jennifer gave out a scream and pushed her textbook forward to block the swing. Her eyes widened as the book was gently lifted from her.
‘Oh you study Geology?’ said the Slasher.
‘Yeah?’ she said.
‘Sorry my mistake.’
He offered his hook and pulled Jennifer back onto her feet.
‘It’s okay,’ she said smiling, ‘you did have me worried then just in case….’
‘Nah, there’s a rule for us. First spree BA students only,’ he continued. ‘Folklore studies, Paranormal studies, art, photography majors, cultural studies, psychology, English Lit… you know the type. Second I can move onto a doctor or scientist, after that it’s all fair game.’
Jennifer laughed, ‘yeah the whole ‘come to see world’s end’ thing that’s quite ambiguous. That’ll work.’
There was awkward silence.
‘I gotta get back to my thing, but I could walk you home?’ asked the Slasher. ‘You never know what’s knocking about.’
‘I’m good it’s just over there,’ said Jennifer pointing to the dorm through the trees.
He gave Jennifer back the book and she continued on her way.
‘Try a more raspy voice,’ she called at him.
He wiggled his hook as he sulked back into the darkness.
A few days later Jennifer would turn on the news and see an artist’s interpretation of the Slasher.
‘Totally got the ears wrong,’ she said to herself before returning to her essay on tectonic movements.