Typers note:
The three stories printed here came out of a creative writing workshop that
took place in the Kickstart squatted social centre towards the beginning
of December. Typing this up now two weeks after it closed there’s
definietly some feeling of loss somewhere in me, the lack of free, uncommercial
space that people can use to congregate socially, creatively and politically
in this city is absolutely deadening. Every corner is an imposing tower
of glass, some kind of monument to obscene excess, leering over the passers
by; people are dwarfed by the things they build, scurrying past, scurrying
on...so this writing is maybe something in response to all the crap they
suggest we continue to guzzle up at an alarming rate, recreating, redefining...I
enjoyed reading this anyway.. (it?)
What I'm trying to say is that it’s all in your hands...
Root Entry
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
CompObj
CompObj
d bang and, without thinking, I drew Daniel towards me and shielded him with
my body. All my anger and frustration with him disappeared with the thought
of losing him. Holding him close to me I looked up to see what had caused the
noise and saw a steady stream of coins flying through the air. Everything seemed
to slow down in that moment. Everyone on the platform was
Gazing up at the money in the air. Then, all of a sudden the coins dropped
and there was as much noise as there had been silence as people started grabbing
at the money. Caught in the excited atmosphere of the crowd I too stretched
out my hand. But I felt my son move away from me. Looking around, I saw he’d
turned his back on me. My five year old boy made me feel so ashamed that I’d
forgotten how close I felt to him in the excitement of getting a bit of loose
change.
I followed him back to the seat; there was no point trying to push our way
through the crowds now. I looked down at the silent, solemn figure next to
me and said apologetically,
“Alright then. Where did you want to go?”
He didn’t look at me. But he smiled.
Conductor moved on him to move him
My dog watches the coins
Suddenly, vending machine sells out cash(?)
My dog runs to catch it in my hat Big beard, colourful hat, stoned, old, happy,
any day?, trippy? watching, nothing? (illegible from here....)
I’m sitting on the platform, watching the people through my old green
eyes. Green and lidded snake-eyes. Wise and stoned. Singing as I play my guitar.
Singing like a fool, says what nobody knows and what nobody can understand
except myself, and my old dog. Black and bearded, just like me. Stoned and
wise. Watching my colourful cap, and the 12 pence that’s been sitting
there for half an hour now.
I’m singing my songs and no o____
singing my songs and no oC____
se and saw a steady streThe tube train drew into the station. The doctor on
the platform glanced at her watch. On board the train a five year old boy refused
to get up off his seat and, as the doors beeped open, his father pulled him
to his feet and towards the platform. A teenage skater girl slipped coins one
by on into the vending machine as the conductor called over the tannoy,
se and saw a steady streThe tube train drew into the station. The doctor on
the platform glanced at her watch. On board the train a five year old boy refused
to get up off his seat and, as the doors beeped open, his father pulled him
to his feet and towards the platform. A teenage skater girl slipped coins one
by on into the vending machine as the conductor called over the tannoy,
“This is a North bound Northern line train calling at all stations to Edgeware.”
A tube official tried to move on a busker, whose dog lay at his feet, watching
the coins in the cap.
As the skater girl dropped the last coin into the slot, there came a rumbling
from the vending machine. It started to shudder then, with a crack, shot a
stream of coins into the air. The boy and his father, at the door of the train,
watched the coins get caught in a gust from the air ventilation system, then
scatter across the platform. The busker’s dog grabbed the cap in its
teeth to catch the cascade of coins. After a stunned silence, people started
scrambling to catch the coins as they landed on the platform.
The doctor rushed to the dazed skater girl and took her pulse whilst slipping
coins in her pocket. The tube official tried to seize the dog’s catch
from the busker, while the conductor tried to stop people from clambering under
the train to get the coins. The father tried to join the rush for money, but
his son simply returned to his seat, ignoring the chaos.
“Come on Daniel,” I said impatiently. He’d been irritating
me all morning- refusing to eat his cornflakes, then dawdling on the way to the
tube. He’d been like that since Miriam left and I was getting to the end
of my tether.
The doors slid open and I pulled him to his feet. As I pulled my reluctant
son towards the platform there was a loune cares. They’re no good to
anyone except me, really. My dog looks bored, waiting for the cash, and his
next meal. And I just watch the people ignoring me. I watch a punk girl, young
rebel, walk past me, glances nervously, but looks away and walks away like
she didn’t see me. YOUNG rebel. She’ll learn. But for now she’s
still like all the other, blank faces, scared to be human.
I’m the exception to this formal world, where people just want to catch
their train to the next destination, and grey, tinny voice speaking through
the speakers, mouthing words I can’t understand. I understand my music,
my song, they understand their grey world.
A grey angry man walks towards me, wearing a blue-grey uniform. he objects
to my song, don’t like my rhythm. I watch him with stoned, wise eyes,
and prepare my excuse, and prepare to leave.
But then, some excitment, to shake their grey world abit. Small grey coins
are poring out of a vending machine, much like the shock of the nervous young
rebel, who’s hunched on the floor. And suddenly, all the grey people
are rushing to catch the grey coins, filling their pockets, well excited. I
smile as my dog jumps up, caught the contagion, and catches the coins in my
hat, knowing its dinners coming soon. It trots to my side, and the angry, shocked,
grey conductor, outraged at this disturbance to his ordered, clean world, tries
to take the hat from his mouth.
“Hey man, get off my dog”
and I rouse myself from my stoned, wise lethargy to grab my hat. Just another
face in the crowd now,...fighting for my hat, and fighting for respect.
“Look at him, the smug cunt” i thought, but barely
“His twaty little guitar, thinks he’s talented. I’m the fucking
dog” Woof
“Argh a cap, like caps do. Yesss” said my voice. Cap what is it,
what is it. I don’t know. TRAIN. lIKE BIG SOUND. BIG BIGGER. Small.
twat sound grows louder, is it Xmas already. Did I think that can’t he
stop the shitty little fucker. But coins?! They shine, oh mother they shine.
Look so many. Argh Woof who’s this, strap on leg and play-doh scowl,
stinks, like March, or ducks or summint. Kick the twat kick him til he welmp.
Do it.
The stupid boy-that's what they’ll call him on the damp spring morn in
Reading or when father replaces him with disappointment-yes, the stupid boy
sit-good stupid boy Woof (but bigger this time) CAP! I am the cap I’m
a hundred caps Woof (and you are the Mongol hordes) Look Yes the coins
I’m a good dog
(I pretend)
Woof
Two weeks, three days, eight hours, twenty three
minutes, twenty seconds, over six thousand arrivals and departures,
and countless passers by...
and still my bio-digital clock was ticking away; I was well over-due and still
I’d dropped no metal...a constipation of a bottleneck of Queens’s
heads, a dam in the river of the economic systems...
Its that damned buskers dog...she was rubbing my circuits up the wrong way
with her wet nose and now she’s got my microchips in a fizz.
Usually it’s just the occasional lucky commuter I spew out an extra quid
to when they hit the coin return button, or a little kid I dole out a free
chocolate bar to for I am a generous vending machine: blessed by the goddess
of the flimsy plastic cups and the rotating spiral crisp packet thingy, but
ever since that damn dog started interfering with me my mechanical bowels have
been overladen with 50ps and lined in pound coins. The strain was getting too
much and I felt like I was about to pop...
...then I saw her. A vision of teenage-skate fairy loveliness, a baggy-panted
symphony in Slipknot, a beautiful fairy of the city centre on a Saturday...all
it took from her was one glance at my dairy Milk and I was in love...my digital
circuits flickered in anticipation...
.... my transistor went into overdrive....
....my coin return slot quaked with passion and my LED display lights started
flashing with glee......
AAARRRRRRGH!!
at last, release!
I gushed forth a cascade of metal passion,...over a fortnight of pent up frustration,
moments of clinking coin on concrete.....
WHEW! That’s better! ***Instead of going straight home, I took a little
detour right to go to the shop, past the blue rows of flats and the empty warehouse.
As the main road came into my view, the rank and file of car headlights flashed
past and the chill December wind rushed upon my skin, leaving it icy, silhouettes
of trees against the orange haze of the city, broken glass glistening on the
pavement, the perfect setting for a modern gothic fairy tale. Then coming into
my view I recognised a black clad figure in a long dark coat...it was her,
it was my ex Rachel going home from work. A thousand little pinpricks of uneasy
recognition pierced my emotional shell; my heart sank with the burden of parting
on horrible terms, the unresolved karma. I could feel from the thought waves
that she had seen me too but had obviously decided not to talk to me...
or had she? Should I talk to her? or do we just leave ourselves as strangers;
passing in the cold pre-Christmas night? I decided to keep on my way, if the
fate didn't want us to meet why force it? While walking I didn't realise I
went past the shop I was supposed to stop at, I went past my house and I found
myself in a smoky bar, asking for a beer as all my thoughts had drained all
my energies. All of a sudden I felt someone else's glance on me; the guy behind
the bar was staring at me as if we had already met, with a grin on his face...
“Hey, Frank right? Its Bob! How are you doing? I’ve not seen you
in ages”
I looked at him, complete bemusement on my face. Who the hell was this guy?
I’d never seen him before in my life. I’d never even met anyone
who even vaguely looked like this guy. And my name wasn’t frank.
“Erma, sorry you’ve got me...” I began, but too late, he had
flung up the flap of the bar and hugged me so hard he knocked the breath out
of me. I felt myself getting squeezed, going purple, when out of the corner of
my eye I spotted her, Rachel, sitting at a table with her friends. For some reason
this only made being crushed to death by a huge, sweaty barman even worse.
“It’s been so long, when did you get back? Have fun in Paris?”
“Erma, well I...”
“Heard some great stories about you- the poker nights, the cigars, the
scene, the mne- you must have had a blast!”
“I think maybe you...”
“What happened then- you and this artist guy- did he come home with you,
did you travel together? Oh ny god its been so long.....have you heard about
me and Micheal, Oh never mind I’ll tell you later. Sit yourself down I’ll
get you a whiskey- scotch on the rocks? always was your drink!”
(rachel stares across in utter bemusement and then makes her way towards the
bar)
“Hope you dont mind me interupting” said Rachel, “you said
you were living in Hulme, what the fuck is going on?”
This was a tricky one. caught between a confused stranger and a prickly ex.
There was only one way to get out of this with aplomb.
“Make it a double Bob,” I said warmly. Then turned to the flabbergasted
woman at my side. I fixed her with my eyes, as if i was pouring the dark contents
of my soul into her.
“Rachel sweetheart, I loved you, and I always will, but there’s sides
to me you’ve never even glimpsed.”
I downed the scotch in one, then called to the barman, “Micheal, heh?
You lucky boy!”, with a meaningful wink. Rachel choked on her pint. I
sprung to my feet slipped my arm around her waist and gave her a deep kiss.
She was too shocked to react, and before she had a chance to I swept out of
the door, shooting her a mysterious smile.
“never even glimpsed”, I repeated, leaving a barful of baffled people.
Outside it was drizzling but the dark and cloudy night suited my melodranatic
mood. Goodnight rachel, I thought. Sweet dreams.
***
I could hear her tapping, softly against the
cold metal shutters,
tap,
tap,tap,
short silence,
tap,
tap,
tap, tap, tap...
I croutched in the corner, telling myself it hadnt been so bad. If I went out
now, walked across the room and peered through the gap at the bottom of the
window, if i opened the door to the cold, dark night and to her she might forgive
me. But what if she’d not come alone? The anger in her eyes had shone
right through me as she’d walked out the door. I could picture her, stood
outside under a streetlight, weighing a steel bar against her palm, on fire
with rage. But glancing out of the window, she’d gone. Silence. Then
from the back door a crash...
..NO! I told myself. She’s not real. She’s just a part of my psyche...she’s
just part of my imagination I can’t control. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Think happy thoughts. Try to not think of her and she’ll go away. She’s
just a projection of my dark side, she’s just part of me O can’t
see. I’d been dreaming about her coming back for ages, the same reoccuring
dream, but for these past three evenings I’ve felt her becoming more
vivid and I’ve heard the same tapping felt the same presence, the same
anger. But still I could hear the crash echoing...yes the crash was real even
if she wasn’t, or was she?
When the new sun rose, my temperature had dropped down. I opened my eyes jumped
up from the bed towards the window. What a nice day. As I heard someone stepping
up the stairway I rushed into the bed, and covered myself as I was still asleep.
....opened softly the door as he didnt want to distrub my sleep. As I started
moaning, as to let him know I was awake, he jumped over the bed; OK! DON’T
CALL ME ANYMORE CHRISTINE, I’M NOT YOUR SISTER!”
Oh God, what the hell is going on. First I thought it was her, and now it was
some strange guy shouting at me. My heart is beating hard, I roll out of bed
and pull the bedsheets close to me, and I run out of the door in panic.
“hey Christine, where the fuck are you going?”
Whats this all about? I’m not Christine. I run into the bathroom and
lock myself in, and then look in the mirror, and who is that staring back at
me, with long black hair, green eyes, and a sharp thin thin face. And then
then I hear him, banging on the door...
....the banging took on a rhythm, “Fuck its a Barbara Streisand song” I
said. And then I realised the bathroom had no walls but an audience instaed.
And I was that woman who used to do the Big Breakfast and I was on celebrity
stars in their eyes. I came second to Lulu when put to the public vote.
Then we all went home for crumpets...
***
A squatted building, temporary burst of creativity, reaching the end of its
life as the baliffs, drank thier coffee and wait as the days pass, one by one,
until the time come comes, when they’ll want to come calling. What will
they find when they arrive?
As anticipation gives way to despair, soon washed away in a new resolve. As
the smell of oil gives way to curry and skip juice. Things fall apart and we
try and find meaning in the scattered pieces. But as the laughter creeps through
doors and walls it all seems cool, yeah?
We’d like to believe so, I suppose. On the surface it’s all cool.-
and the so called cool surface is what the baliffs will see, our meaning just
paint smaers to them, our politic on the walls to be laughed about by those
slaves of the state, tied to its beliefs by shackles of home and car and children
and the latest new gadget- what are we to them, what are we to the world rushing
by on Deansgate- a world subdued and work weary-can they hear us? Is there
meaning in the scattered pieces of the past two weeks?
So the voices fall and rise, people come together, disperse, then reunite-
in a different time, a different building, sometime a different city. But for
now the door is bolted, the squatters jumpy, the baliffs coming and the building
sold. Like everyhing in this life-forsaken city. Everything but this place.
There is a knock on the door.
“friend or for?”, says the squatter
“Hello, it’s me Dave.”
“Oh, hello Dave come on in.”
“Look I’ve found an empty building just up the road, we could squat
it. Only problem is the windows are all boarded up, but there must be someway
we could get in.”
The squatters looked up optimistically, hopeful at the prospect of relocating
the beauitufl place they’d got together, this community came from nothing-
it can disappear and then re-appear in the blink of an eye, faster than you
can say, “baliffs!”
“So are you with us?”
There’s always someone with you...You may not realise it yet; behind
every blank face there could be an explosion about to happen, every caustious
look of connection something to reach out and embrace; another space is lurking
somewhere in back streets beneath towers of twisted metals, creation is always
a possibility...
music for typing was
fugazi- repeater
sonic youth- washing machine
husker du- zen arcade
sweep leg johnny- record w/ blue cover
burnst rehearsing in our basement
it can disappear and then re-appear
in the blink of an eye, faster than you can say, “baliffs?!”
“So are you with us?
my view I recognised a black claD FIGUREd figure in a long dark coat...it wa
my view I recognised a black claD FIGUREd figure in a long dark coat...it wa
Quill96 Story Group Class
