You might remember that a while ago me and Miranda Howard-Williams collaborated on a short play called 'The Swan'. Well having finished it, we submitted the play to a few London theatres with good youth writing programs.

As of the moment, the only theatre we've heard back from has been the Royal Court. Unfortunately we weren't accepted on to the program, but they had some interesting criticism to offer which Miranda and I intend to take on board. Expect an editied version of 'The Swan' some time soon, hopefully with the central scene rewritten.

In the mean time I've reproduced the rejection letter the Royal Court sent us below:

Dear Miranda and Jon

The Swan

Thank you for sending us your co-authored play The Swan.

We were interested to read the script, which is lovingly-wrought and energetic. At the same time, we feel there is room to focus the play through a series of precise present-tense actions and to develop a more playful sense of theatricality - challenging your audience's expectations. While The Swan is a warmly observed play, the confessional tone tends towards exposition at the moment.

As I am sure you appreciate only a fraction of the plays sent here can be considered for development or production, and we have decided not to take this script further. However,we are glad to have read the script and wish you success in your further writing.

Thank you for thinking of us.

Yours sincerely

Ruth Little

Theatre Manager

Also, having spoken to a friend involved in theatre we're planning on submitting the swan to a few other venues; in particular the Rep in Birmingham, another theatre which fosters young writing talent. The letter from the Royal Court will be framed and hung in the toilet - presumably the first of many.

Tune of the moment: The Year of the Cat - Al Stewart

Jac

Labels: drama, news, submissions

Part One
12 – The Hanged Man

It is one of those clichéd nights – dark and stormy with the wind howling and the rain hurling itself pell-mell against the windows. I put down my pen and sigh heavily, moving some of the dust that sits on the piano as I do so.

I open the window just slightly, just enough so the stench won’t be too awful when they find me. If they find me.

The tape recorder has committed my words to its memory, and the rest of the tapes sit on a shelf, gathering dust. Pretty much like everything else.

The box is waiting for me. I step onto it, slip my head through the noose and close my eyes. My ginger-blonde hair is dishevelled, due to my hands constantly running through it, and my gentle green eyes that so often betray me shut for the very last time.

I step off the box. I’m free.

Part Two
Six of Swords – Passage

“Jesus Christ!”

“What is it, Ern – Oh my God!”

“Call the police, Bea, I think it’s a bit too late for an ambulance, don’t you think? Well, judging by the smell…”

“My God, don’t! Don’t touch him, Ern, that’s for the police to deal with now – c’mon, get away from there!”

Beatrice and Ernest Marsh, the elderly couple that live downstairs from The Hanged Man quickly retreat from the flat with the door left unlocked, just in case anyone should come calling.

Ernest talks to the policeman far more calmly than he feels, while Beatrice makes a pot of tea in the small, outdated kitchen. There’s a dead body upstairs and Beatrice is making tea. How terribly British.

The policeman and woman arrive twenty minutes later, at half past six. The sun is just beginning its descent and Ernest stares out of the window, contemplating what he saw upstairs, and what’s still up there.

He lets Beatrice lead them up the stairs and into The Hanged Man’s flat, choosing instead to wash up the teacups. Ernest’s brother had hung himself, many years ago, and Ernest himself had found him in a situation very similar to that of The Hanged Man – alone in a room, swinging pathetically. Yes. He’d much rather wash up the teacups.

Somewhere around an hour and a half after Ernest and Beatrice had found him, The Hanged Man was put in an ambulance and driven off for his entirely unnecessary post mortem. Around an hour and a half after that, the police and the crime investigation team vacated the premises, not feeling the need to declare “death under suspicious circumstances”.

And somewhere near an hour after that, The Devil arrived, and sighed heavily.

Part Three
15 – The Devil

The Devil could see The Hanged Man swinging, limp, helpless in the centre of the room, even if he had been taken away more than three hours ago. The Devil took a long drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the doorframe to the flat.

Him and The Hanged Man hadn’t spoken in months…a year? He’d lost count, forgotten, moved on, but he’d still been summoned to the flat he though he’d never have to see again. It was typical. The Hanged Man can manipulate him even in death, and The Devil is disgusted that he lets him.

The flat stinks. It stinks of dust and memories and self-pity and cigarettes and alcohol and wretchedness. It stinks.

The Devil – long-fingered with cold, deep eyes, a strange stance and awkward build skulks in the hallway outside the flat. He should never have had to come back here.

The phone call…”…And your number was on the suicide note, sir, so we thought we’d better give you a ring. The flat’s been left open for you and the downstairs neighbours will keep an eye out ‘til you come. Were you two close, sir?”

“Once upon a time, yes,” The Devil had replied before ringing off and kicking the back of his sofa.

Now he stands in the doorway, waiting. For what, he doesn’t know, but he’s waiting until he feels the need to go in. Until that time, he looks.

The flat is an Aladdin’s cave of bitterness and nostalgia intermingled – photographs roughly tacked on the wall in a drunken fit of anger – mugs of half-drunk tea sitting patiently on the floor.

The Devil finally enters the flat, and decides to start at the beginning.

Part Four
Ten of Swords – Ruin

As The Devil walks slowly through the flat that used to be so well cared for, his eyes widen at the neglect The Hanged Man has shown to what was once his pride and joy.

The dust is inches thick and has settled on everything, from the carpet to the shelves stacked high with books. Most of those books are filled with The Hanged Man’s neat script, the words that are his own, his very soul.

The kitchen is probably is in the worst state – after all, he didn’t use it. Survived on tap water and dry cereal eaten every once in a while – The Hanged Man had no need for the appliances that are in there.

He used to be such a good cook – Italian food in particular. One could often come home to find him up to his elbows in tinned tomatoes, grinning happily and singing along to the radio. He used to be so joyful. So carefree.

Now, though, in the many months since they had severed ties, The Hanged Man had turned into exactly the type of person he used to want to help. Of course, there were signs of him…changing a few months before The Devil walked out and left. The Hanged Man became manipulative, depressive and selfish – antisocial and miserable.

That’s when the notebooks appeared. He’d sit up until all hours of the night, writing, filling book after book with song lyrics, quotations, poetry, doodles. “Random Thoughts of The Hanged Man” was scrawled on the front page of each, along with a roman numeral indicating which volume you were currently perusing.

Photography, tapes and tarots had been his other obsessions. His deck of tarot cards were dog-eared with use, and he often made comparison between himself and the cards. His favourite had been The Hanged Man. Now The Devil knew why.

Part Five
0 – The Fool

The Devil found the note sitting on top of the piano keys, clearly left there for him.

They’ll call you and you’ll have to come back. I’ve still got you. You know what to do.

And at the bottom there was The Devil’s telephone number. The Devil was incensed by the mocking tone of the suicide note: it was clearly meant to wind him up.

Such a foolish thing – that The Hanged Man still managed to get right under his skin, like a rat manages to squeeze itself into impossibly small holes. It was ridiculous.

And it was even more ridiculous that The Hanged Man knew it.

Part Six
Three of Pentacles – Work

The Devil knew what to do alright. The tapes, the notebooks, the letters – they were all for him. After he had walked out, The Hanged Man had phoned e-mailed followed constantly, saying typing whispering the same thing over and over and over again.

Start at the beginning. Tape number one. Then take the red notebooks – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet notebooks. Photographs to your left. Then you’ll know.

It must have taken months of near constant work. To amass a library of thoughts the sheer size of the one The Hanged Man had created, well…He must have been very patient, very lonely, or completely insane. The Devil reckoned it was probably all three.

Start at the beginning. Tape number one.

The Devil peered at the shelf of tapes, with the sign “The Death and Life of A Hanged Man” taped above it seemingly very recently. He sighed and pulled the tape with the Roman numeral for ‘one’ on its side and slotted it into the old cassette player, listening to the static before the voice of The Hanged Man started.

Part Seven
21 – The World

I saw you sitting on the step outside the café. You looked so interesting. Your dirty blonde hair was hiding your face, and your hands were clasped tightly around a leather bound journal, that you were feverishly writing in with a fountain pen that’s sitting on your bedside table at the moment.

I thought you were broken inside; that someone had taken your heart and turned it into stone. I thought you were cold, dead.

I knew I wanted to help you.

I approached and you looked up, with barely concealed interest in your eyes. I smiled faintly and introduced myself, and you did the same. We sat on that step for three hours and…twenty-six minutes; watching the late afternoon turn into dusk, then fade into night, talking about nothing yet everything.

There was a pause in The Hanged Man’s monologue as he sighed softly, apparently happy.

I then knew that you needed my help, and I was willing to give you it - you could take everythinganythingall you wanted from me and I'd let you. I knew I'd let you suck me dry and leave me a broken shell of a man. I knew I wouldn't regret it.

I knew you were…extraordinary.

I knew I loved you.

I knew you were my world.

Part Eight
Ace of Hearts – Love

The Devil glared as he paused the tape. Start at the beginning. Of course…when they first met. That was the beginning of the end for both of them – obsession from The Hanged Man and eventual disinterest from The Devil equated to fireworks, suffering and misery. Hoarse throats from screaming. Headaches from glaring. Cold hearts from hating.

Together, they were a perfect lie.

The Devil pressed play.

You bought me flowers. You would say you loved me every morning, after you’d woken me up by kissing my face, and you’d smile at the dopey expression on my face. You read to me. You cooked for me. You loved me. I was so in love with you. We were so in love.

Now you’re gone, and I’m going to remember it all.

The Devil gave the tape player a filthy look – hearing The Hanged Man’s voice sounding so bitter, so filled with hatred a second after it had been nostalgic, happy, even, was a shock.

The Devil used to win all their fights…one way or another. The Hanged Man was never up to it, and, in truth, The Devil enjoyed tearing him apart. He knew he was sick, that destroying the Hanged Man from the inside out was wrong, he knew it was sadistic and something that mental cases did, but he loved it.

The Hanged Man stopped fighting, stopped shouting, became whiny and manipulative and completely dependent on The Devil. He stopped going out. He stopped seeing his family and friends - he cut himself off completely from the rest of the world. He said The Devil was his world, and The Devil would use this infatuation to his shameless advantage, by smiling sweetly at The Hanged Man - by buying him flowers, saying he loved him, reading to him, cooking for him. Loving him.

Yes...The Devil had loved The Hanged Man...once upon a time.

Only then, after perhaps a few weeks of adoration from The Devil, The Hanged Man would find himself constantly ignored, snapped at, told he was worthless. His self-esteem was non-existent.

And everything was The Devil's fault.

Part Nine
Three of Wands - Opportunity

The Hanged Man worked whenever The Devil was out. He'd always liked to write, even though The Devil was better at it than he, but he enjoyed himself nonetheless. The Hanged Man tended to stick with writing out song lyrics and quotations - the words that weren't his own, and therefore only revealed his state of mind when they were noted down.

The Devil fetched a journal down from the shelf - a suede-bound one that was probably expensive - and left the tape rolling in the background. The Hanged Man was currently informing The Devil how much he truly hated him, but The Devil ignored it. He'd heard it all before.

Well, Sir, from the silent dead,
Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you!
--Robert Burns

The Hanged man had loved Robert Burns, particularly the poem that extract was taken from. Was it 'My Love Nancy'? No...'My Spouse Nancy', that was it! Yes. The pages that poem covered in the poetry book had tea stains on them, as it had been read over and over - usually late at night with a source of caffeine.

...All, except only Love. Love had died long ago.

That one was Rupert Brooke. Definitely. The Devil had loved Rupert Brooke until The Hanged Man had become obsessive over his work and seemingly every poem ever written by him was copied up neatly into notebooks, with doodles running down the side of the page. 'The Funeral of Youth: Threnody', the last line being one of those things that would stay with The Devil forever.

FROM the candles and dumb shadows, and the house where love had died, I stole to the vast moonlight and the whispering life outside. But I found no lips of comfort, No home in the moon’s light (I, little and lone and frightened In the unfriendly night)...

Rupert Brooke again. The Devil glared, the old annoyance at The Hanged Man's constant imitation of him flaring deep inside him. Surely that wasn't normal.

He's such a vile creep.

The Devil laughed then - a loud, merciless laugh at the pathetic way The Hanged Man had written about him like a teenage girl in her diary, storing up his bitter thoughts until it had spilled over into his eventual suicide. He was the lowest kind of thief? Yes, that was a fair assessment.

I could gag you with sweetness until you choke, until you can't breathe, until you beg me for help and I'll just watch you gag on my words and my actions and my thoughts.

The Devil had certainly had first hand experience of The Hanged Man acting that way - he seemed such an innocent, such a victim, but he was suffocating, overpowering, and he didn't even need to break a sweat to be so.

It was then that The Devil wondered where The Hanged Man got all of these quotations from...books? Stories? The Internet? It was probably all three of them, as he doubted The Hanged Man could write anything as powerful as what was scribbled down. He was never particularly clever.

And he laughs. Laughs. Oh, if he had any idea of what I could do to him...

Smirking, The Devil flipped over the page. The Hanged Man had never done anything, couldn't do anything, would never do anything to him. Not now. Not anymore.

Oh, I want him I hate him I love him I loathe him I need him I'm scared of him I'll kiss him I'll kill him. It's too much.

But when he makes me laugh, when he holds me and tells me he loves me, I won't remember any of that. I'll let him hold me and let him destroy me. God, I'm pathetic.

The Devil stands in the centre of the room, holding the journal, shocked at how much The Hanged Man actually knew about what he was doing. The Hanged Man knew what he was doing. He knew. But he stayed. Why? What for?

And The Devil's mind races back to the first part of the tape.

I then knew that you needed my help, and I was willing to give you it - you could take everythinganythingall you wanted from me and I'd let you. I knew I'd let you suck me dry and leave me a broken shell of a man. I knew I wouldn't regret it.

His heart dropped out of the bottom of his stomach. The Hanged Man was the one with the power all along. The Hanged Man had been trying to help him. The Hanged Man had sacrificed himself, his happiness, his sanity, because he thought The Devil needed help.

The Hanged Man was right.

Part Ten
Ten of Pentacles – Protection

Taken from The Hanged Man’s Diary, three months after meeting The Devil.

I think he’s happy. I hope he is. He says I take very good care of him, and he smiles far more than he used to, when I first found him half-frozen on the doorstep to the café.

He’s so fragile. He rarely goes out, but he’ll dash to get the newspaper really early in the morning, when no one’s about.

He told be what his life was like before I found him. He had £30 left in an envelope that he kept under a floorboard in the disgusting excuse for a flat he was forced to pay too much rent on. He’d lost his job, and had about a week until the landlord of his flat would throw him out into the street.

His family thinks he’s dead…he won’t tell me why. He had barely any possessions; the few threadbare clothes on his back and that journal he writes in. The long and short of it is that he was desperate.

He needed help, he still does, and I helped him, am helping him. He’s so fragile.

I think he knows I love him.

The Devil let out a frustrated roar and flung the diary across the room – furious at being reminded of how weak, pathetic, fragile he once was. He’d sworn to himself that he would never, ever turn into that person again, and The Hanged Man had brought it all back to him. Not that he escaped it very often.

How The Hanged Man could possibly remind him – not now, not now, but he has and he can and he will with his tapes and his words and the truth.

Part Eleven
Ace of Swords – Force

Ernest dashed up the stairs to The Hanged Man’s flat and braced his weight against the front door, shoving it open.

He was greeted with the sight of The Devil ripping pieces of paper out of a notebook, tearing them up and throwing them into the air; choking and muttering and kicking anything in sight.

Ernest coughed and The Devil stopped abruptly, staring vacantly at the elderly man.

“I, uh, I heard you yelling, lad.” Ernest took a tentative step forward into the flat, and gagged at the awful smell he didn’t notice earlier on. “Are you alright?”

The Devil continued staring.

“You…you used to live here, with him, didn’t you?” The Devil nodded slowly.

“My God, lad. You used to look so happy.”

And with that, Ernest turned and shuffled out of the flat, with just one backward glance at The Devil.

He was stood stock still in the centre of the room, watching Ernest go with a look on his face that wrenched at the old man’s heart. Ernest thought how unnerved he seemed, blue-grey eyes swirling with emotion, his shoulders slumped and mouth slightly open

He looked terrified.

Part Twelve
Two of Pentacles – Change

The Devil slammed the door after Ernest left, and noticed for the first time that the back was covered with photographs, printed in black and white and carefully arranged with captions underneath them.

Us, in a pub not all too far away, July.

Despite himself, The Devil smiled faintly at the photograph – he and The Hanged Man grinning inanely at whoever had been taking the picture that evening. They’d been so happy, once.

The Devil ran his fingers tenderly over the photographs, smiling gently. All of them held a memory, and, what’s more, a happy one. The empty space where his heart used to be grasped at a sudden warmth and held it there, and slowly, ever so slowly, The Devil felt his heart start to grow back.

Sighing, The Devil peered at the shelf where the notebooks were arranged in colour order. At the very end of the dusty shelf, its brown colour making it almost invisible, was a thick leather bound journal that used to be the only thing he owned in the world.

Fingers fumbling, he pulled it frantically off the shelf and opened it at the first page.

Start at the beginning…

Part Thirteen
10 – Wheel of Fortune

May 2nd
I’m going to be thrown out of my flat in eleven days if I can’t find the money to stay there. I lost my job. No one else will hire me. I’ve got £30 in a brown envelope, the clothes on my back and this journal. I’ve got no future, no prospects, no money, no job, no belongings, no passion, no hope. I may as well be dead.

Funnily enough, I don’t care either way.

May 3rd
I’ve been sitting in this café doorway for five and a half hours. It’s relatively comfortable, the wind isn’t as sharp here, and there’s a lovely smell every time someone opens the door.

What am I going to do? I could sell my body, but that would mean selling my last shred of dignity as well. No, I’m not that desperate. Yet.

May 5th
I met someone today. He wants to help me, and, truth be told, I’ve never needed anyone’s help more than I do right now. He has kind eyes and a nice voice, and he made me smile. I’m valuing that above anything else he said or did, or will say and will do.

I was going to do it. It’s a fifteen minute walk to the canal from this hovel and I was going to do it tonight ten minutes ago right now, but…I’m still here. I stayed.

I stayed because he made me smile. Perhaps I do have a little bit of hope after all.

The Devil shut the journal and put it back on the shelf, the bottom corners of his mouth tugging downward in heartbroken reflection.

He was totally weak when The Hanged Man had found him – found him, cared for him and made him smile until he grew strong once more – stronger than The Hanged Man; far surpassing him in intelligence, looks, charm, talent…everything.

Only now did The Devil appreciate it. Only now could he put his hands meekly in his pockets and toe the carpet like a six year old in trouble and whisper, “thank you.”

Part Fourteen
6 – The Lovers

“Is it on?” The Hanged Man muttered to The Devil as he poked the tape recorder.

“Of course it’s on, you fool,” The Devil whispered fondly. “You just pressed record!”

“Alright, alright…so, this is, well, us, September 1999, talking to you, sometime in the future.”

“Unless your curiosity is piqued and you can’t help but listen to it while I’m at work,” The Devil said, laughing slightly.

“You shush,” The Hanged Man reprimanded, grinning and cuffing The Devil round the head.

“Argh! Abuse! See, this is evidence, mate, it’s all going onto the tape. Do you want to be eternally remembered as a wife-beater?”

The Hanged Man snickered.

“You’re not my wife, you prat, now shut up and tell the tape about yourself.”

“Are we going to reveal our names or remain all elusive, like a…secret agent or something?”

“Oh, honestly…”

The Devil let out an affronted snort and widened his eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me! Alright then, I’m going to remain an enigma. I have bluey-grey eyes and I’m five foot something-or-other. My hair’s this daft blondey-brown colour and I have weirdly long fingers, but you can’t see any of that, so…” The Devil tailed off.

“Why don’t you just tell them what you’re like? You know…what you like doing and everything?”

“Well thank you, Captain Obvious, for that amazing suggestion. I was just getting round to that bit! Yes, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I like to write and cook and smoke and play football, and…all sorts. I like acting, as well. Also, I’m pretty bummed out that the world’s meant to end in a few months as well.”

The Hanged Man laughed. “That ‘The Millennium is going to kill us all off’ thing is just crap. Anything else to declare?” he asked, scratching his chin.

“Not really. Apart from the fact that my friend here hasn’t shaved in four days, and is currently sporting a rather impressive beard, which looks somewhat like a small dead rodent stapled to his face.”

“Oh, thanks for that!” The Hanged Man said in mock affront, flicking the end of The Devil’s bizarrely shaped nose.

“See, you’re at it again, wife-beating…and anyway, it’s no trouble, none at all. Your turn now.”

The Hanged Man giggled stupidly.

“Aye, I suppose so. Well, I have strawberry-blonde-“

“Ginger!”

“Strawberry-blonde hair and very sexy green eyes and I’m just the right height to reach the middle shelf.”

“That translates as ‘I’m a midget’ for those of you unfamiliar with him,” The Devil whispered conspiratorially to the tape recorder.

“Oi! I am not a midget!”

The Devil and The Hanged Man kept up their good-natured banter whilst the recording of the tape went on. Once they had filled the one side with rambling, The Devil asked,

“What’s going on side B?”

“I’m going to stick some songs on there in a bit.”

“Ah, right. What are we actually doing this for?”

“To remember all the fun we have together…how much I love you. Just…to remember.”

They both paused in what they were doing and smiled at each other, suddenly shy.

“Put the photos in then,” The Hanged Man said, gesturing to a small pile of copies they’d had made.

Later that evening, The Devil and The Hanged Man sealed the box and put it at the very back of the airing cupboard.

Part Fifteen
11 – Justice

The Devil’s face wrinkled in pain as he remembered. He should never have come back here – it wasn’t right, not after all the pain and the lies and the tears and the screaming. It hurt to remember the good times they’d had, and they were plentiful, even if they all took place in a short amount of time.

Remembering the bad times was easy. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t make him cry, and he’d managed to forget that he and The Hanged Man had loved each other. Remembering the good times was clichéd, gut-wrenching, agonising, ‘rusty knife in your stomach’ kind of pain.

Choking on the dust, The Devil missed out the other tapes on the shelf and snatched the last one off, slamming it into the tape player. The Hanged Man’s voice, previously so bitter, so hurt and full of anguish, was now just…sad. It wasn’t melodramatic or over the top, it was the plain truth and that hurt more than anything.

“I’ll only stop when I’m finished. I’m…I’m so sorry. I’ve got to do it though, you’ve got to remember me, please, please remember me, it’s all I want from you. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to…I’ve got to finish this. I’m nearly there now, a couple more weeks and it won’t hurt anymore, it’s not your fault, I don’t blame you, I’m weak and I’m sorry and I’m wretched and I just want you to remember me, could you do that, please? I’ve got to finish this. I’m so sorry.”

The Devil dumped his angular form heavily onto the filthy floor. Sprawled on his knees, clutching a photograph of the two of them, he nodded as the tape continued rambling. He nodded, and finally let the tears fall.

Part Sixteen
Eight of Hearts – Sacrifice

The Devil finished packing his things into his rucksack, and glanced at the sealed letter left on the bedside table. In it, he’d asked for forgiveness for leaving, for being so controlling and cruel, and sincerely written that he hoped The Hanged Man could move on, get his own life back, and start living, and not just existing.

In his heart, The Devil knew that that wasn’t possible. He knew The Hanged Man would find him, because he always did, and he’d try to persuade The Devil to come back with him, to come home and they’d be happy…enough.

The Devil knew it was not gallant sacrifice, it wasn’t chivalrous or noble, but he had to do it. He had to leave. Slowly, he and The Hanged Man were pulling each other down, deeper and deeper into doomed destruction, with only one way out.

One of them had to leave.

When they’d talk, they would reassure each other that they still wanted to be around one another, try and convince themselves with words. Their actions, the glares and mutters and poorly concealed sobs from the direction of the locked toilet door, however, would contradict that.

Someone had to leave.

The Devil checked he had everything one last time, and patted the letter for reassurance he was doing the right thing whilst The Hanged Man slept on, oblivious. He sighed at the pile of notebooks on The Hanged Man’s side of the bed, filled with bitterness, and pressed a kiss to his mussed ginger hair. The last kiss.

The Devil walked quickly and quietly out of the flat without a backwards glance to the sleeping figure. That way, he’d be able to replace the happiness with tears, the fun with loud arguments, The Hanged Man’s gentle, shy smile with a glare and their love with mutual hatred.

The cigarette that he lit up once he was on the street offered no comfort.

He had to do it. He had to leave.

The Devil sighed, hailed a taxi, and was able to start forgetting.

Epilogue
Three of Swords – Sorrow

“I’m sorry for your loss, Sir.”

The Devil nodded politely and stepped out of the small room into the warm spring sunshine, The Hanged Man’s ashes tucked protectively under his arm.

“C’mon, you,” he whispered, and wandered off to the top of the hill.

There he stood, letting the breeze whirl about him like a lover’s strong embrace, one that he’d once had but lost, through his own fault.

That morning, he’d finished cleaning The Hanged Man’s flat and restoring it to the way it once was. In the two months since Ernest and Beatrice had found The Hanged Man, The Devil had carefully filed all of the notebooks and put the photographs in albums to preserve them.

He’d listened to the tape they had made near The Millennium near constantly – an hour and a half of happiness that he could relive over and over again was almost as precious a gift as the smile The Hanged Man had given him on the day they met.

Now everything was finished and he was ready. The Devil twisted the lid of the jar of ashes off gently with spidery fingers and reached in, letting the fine dust run through his digits. He scooped up a handful and threw them into the air, watching as they blew away and appeared to vanish.

*

The evening was chilly, and the stone of the bridge cool to the touch as The Devil watched the rather unimpressive sunset through tired eyes. The wind had picked up since the morning, and The Devil’s t-shirt wasn’t enough to keep him warm. It didn’t really matter anyway.

He swung himself up onto the edge of the bridge and peered down into the water below. It was fast, deep, and probably freezing.

The Devil bit his lip and ran his hands through his hair, and shut his eyes before stepping forward with one foot.

Unexpectedly, the wind changed direction with such force that The Devil was forced to step back, shocked and frightened. He was caught and held by the wind, which, for some reason, suddenly felt like wings and a tender, warm embrace that he remembered from many, many months ago.

And then there was a whisper.

Start at the beginning…

Labels: fiction, submissions

Labels: fiction, submissions

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

Another submission from Emily, which is another excuse for me to find the most embarassing pictures I can of her on facebook to include as a headshot. Sadly this is the best I could do this time; Emily is notoriously difficult to capture on film, since she is usually the one behind the camera, not the other way round. Note the wry smile she's sporting. Kind of like the Queen, in a fuck-you-Anne-Libowitz-I-could-have-you-decapitated-if-it-wasn't-for-that-pesky-Gordon-Brown sort of way...

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

The Swan

Miranda Howard-Williams & Jon Clewes

Characters

Bob – pub regular, in his seventies, gruff voice and traditional views
Geoff – Pub landlord, early fifties, resigned and quite content with his lot in life
Amy – his daughter, 19, homely but with dreams and aspirations

Prologue

[Bell rings; a voice shouts “Last Orders”. Lights up on Bob, slumped at the bar like an old man (grizzly, in his seventies). Turns to address the audience.]

BOB: It ain’t half changed round here, you know. I mean; you been up the other end of the brook recently? Posh new houses, that’s what I hear. ‘Course I ain’t been there in a while. Nothing for me there, is there? Forty new homes, for families like. All look the same, and going to all kinds of people; estate agents, bank clerks, call centre managers, stuff like that. None of ‘em done a decent days work with their hands in all their lives. And if you’ve seen one of those houses you’ve seen them all – haven’t got any character, have they? Just a double garage for your cars. And they always have more than one don’t they? You know who I’m talking about. Paving over their gardens so they can fit their kid’s cars in, and their cousin’s, and their brother’s. Not that I’ve got anything against them mind. I like a good Balti as much as the next man. And if they’re here, well, they can live however they want. But I tell you, some parts of town don’t look like England anymore, do they? More like Bombay if you ask me. Like I said I don’t mind them, I ain’t a racist or anything, but they just don’t mix with us, do they? Don’t think the same way we do, don’t do the same things. ‘Course we gotta respect their customs and what not, but they’re here, why don’t they learn to respect ours? I mean, you don’t see many of them in here do you? And the one’s that do drink, well, it’s never pints is it? Or watching the footie? It’s vodka and cola or whiskey and whatever, and they’re always hogging the pool table and getting the Asian flush. Like I said, nothing for me. That’s why I spend most of my time in here. This place doesn’t change. Good old Geoff, he knows how these things work, likes to keep the place the way it’s always been. Got a cribbage board and a box of dominoes for the regulars; none of this quiz machine malarkey. All the beer’s on draft, and most of it’s local still. Nearly threw some kid out the other week, so he did, asked for a bloody lager shandy. A lager shandy! If it ain’t made with proper beer it ain’t a proper shandy. I ask you… Kid was whining he was driving or something, didn’t want a drink. I mean when did that happen? Everyone knows you can have a couple and still drive; least they did in my day. Still, all these lagers, they’re getting stronger ain’t they? If it’s not premium this it’s export strength that. Just gonna cause trouble if you ask me. Kid’s getting off their heads, and into fights and stuff. ‘Course you know who’s fault that is, don’t you? It’s all that Snail and Cabbage, re-branded, Delia Smith gastro-pub bollocks isn’t it? Just like their houses, now they want all their pubs to be the same too. Fancy cocktails, wine; and that’s just the blokes! Next you’ll be telling me that a baby-sham isn’t good enough for the ladies. Not that they should really be in the pub in the first place mind. I mean, why do you think they want their pubs to do an ‘organic hummus and tomato mezze’ or a ‘hand reared calf’s liver and winter vegetable mash’ after all? Because their wives ain’t at home cooking for them anymore, that’s why. Used to be a cheese roll was good enough, if you got hungry, or Steak and Ale pie Saturday if you felt like a treat. You ask me, only time women should be in pubs is if they’re pouring the drinks. Course, it helps if they’ve got a pretty face and a bit of good conversation, if you know what I mean? Girl who works here, Amy, she ain’t half bad. ‘Course she’s a little young. She’s been here nearly all her life to be honest. Watched her grow up, I have. And she knows all about running this place; learnt it all from her old man ain’t she? She’ll make a good land-lady one day, if Geoff can keep her. ‘Course, it’s not much for a kid nowadays is it? Time was, you used to be happy if you had a trade or prospects like this; you’d settle down, raise a family, happy enough just to be comfortable. Now that ain’t good enough for them; they want to go out, see the world, with their gap-years, and their bungie-jumping. Can’t get enough of it can they? You ask me, it’s all because they’ve never really had to suffer, have they? Never lived through a war, never gone hungry, never lost anybody. So now they have to do it to themselves; puking their guts in some filthy third world country, building another orphanage or what have you. Throwing themselves out of planes, thinking its all a big game. It’s not when you’re seventeen, lied about your age, and now you’ve got no choice but to jump and there’s a load of hairy German bastards just waiting down there to kill you. Not like what I had to do. Still, Amy, she’s a good girl; her dad should be proud of her. Always helping out behind the bar, when her friends are off drinking their alchopops and dancing to their disco music; causing trouble and what have you. No, Amy respects her old man, working night shifts, collecting glasses and such. ‘Course, Geoff needs all the help he can get, there just being the two of them. Like I said; a good kid.

Scene 1

[Amy enters. She is nineteen, and dressed sensibly for work. She looks tired, plain, and her mascara has run. She is collecting glasses. As she enters the jukebox springs into life and plays the first few bars of Frank Sinatra You are the sunshine in my life before Amy stops it with a kick.]

[Geoff enters on the opposite side of the stage, shouting offstage.]

GEOFF: Night lads… see you next week Dave… You too Pete. Say hello to the missus for me. Night all.

AMY: Pretty slow for a Saturday Dad.

GEOFF: Tell me about it; if the trade doesn’t pick up we won’t be replacing that jukebox any time soon. Still, it’s been a pretty good week. Footballs on tomorrow too, should get a few more people through the doors.

AMY: It could be like that every day Dad… if we got Sky.

GEOFF: Not now Amy. Look love, go make a start washing those glasses will you?

Scene 2

[Geoff pulls himself a pint and sits down behind the bar, opposite Bob. They nod to each other.]

GEOFF: You alright there Bob? Always just us two isn’t it? [Sighs] Went to the hospital today. Had another little chat with the doctors. Got a second opinion; all these months of tests and they tell me there isn’t really anything to be done. Apparently there’s a chance… if I go back into surgery, and spend months in a hospital bed… and even then it’s too risky. I don’t feel like taking risks anymore. I don’t want Amy to end up being my nurse; heaven knows she’s taken care of me long enough. Plus I figure we all know when it’s our time eh? At least this way I get a chance to sort things out, make sure she’s settled. Not everyone gets that chance. I can take care of the lease on this place too, get it put into her name. I was never able to give her a lot, but at least I can give her this. Give her a livelihood and a home. This place has been good to us, and now it can be good to her and her family – when she has one. But I’m worried about her; I’m all she’s got really. I mean, she’s got friends, but she spends most of her time here helping me out. I know that’s my fault too, not that she blames me, but it’s not too easy for a kid growing up here. Managing everything at once. I hope she doesn’t feel like she missed out on too much. Still, a place like this, it’s money in the bank isn’t it? Kids don’t think of that, not like you and me, we know how these things work. A man’s job is to provide for his family and I’ve done my best. So I guess this will be the last thing I get to do for her. I know that she’s angry and thinks I’m being selfish about all of this. But I’m not putting her through any more hospital visits; this is the best thing for her, for both of us. It’s about a man’s dignity isn’t it? No more tubes and tests and probes. I mean if I did go through with it I’d have to be connected to an oxygen tank; I don’t want to go around looking like bloody Darth Vader, do I?! I can’t believe a little cough can turn into something like this. I wish I’d done something sooner, but like I said I guess it’s just my time. I used to wonder where I got it from. I mean, I used to smoke, but then again we all did didn’t we? I stopped when Amy’s mother got pregnant – I could never do anything to harm her. Not that she stopped mind, selfish bitch, she never was any good at resisting temptation. She smoked and drank her way through the pregnancy; I tell you Bob, the arguments we used to have. Always thinking of herself, never anyone else… except maybe that guy she finally run off with. But we’ve done alright without her. We’ve done ourselves proud.

[He drains his pint and gets up.]

But, I mean… I guess it was all those years of fumes laying loft insulation. Or brick dust from the site. Hell, I even used to think it might be this place. They didn’t used to think about asbestos when this place was last being re-done. I mean we never got told about those things did we? Not like today with health warnings on everything; we were totally ignorant back then. Or maybe it was just innocence. How does that song go? Be young, be foolish, but be happy. Well we were certainly young and foolish. I used to think everything would work out just perfect, but then I guess everyone does, don’t they? Certainly didn’t think I’d end up stuck here talking to you Bob – no offence. Yeah, when I got married to Amy’s mom, I thought things were on the up. A family. A bigger income. A car. A television. Nothing on the never-never either. A washing machine. Above all though, a house, a place of our own. Went back there today, with Amy. She doesn’t even remember it, or what our life was like back then, but I wanted to show her, wanted her to see where her whole life started. I guess it’s good she doesn’t remember in a way; she can’t miss it. This place and me, this is what she’s got now; although she won’t have me much longer. I guess that’s what I was trying to make up for today. We sat there for hours you know, just in the car, watching the house; with me telling her how it used to be, back when we were a proper family. Although, I guess my idea of what makes a family has changed a bit, what with bringing up Amy alone. Maybe you don’t need all that traditional stuff. We’ve been happy. I mean we’ve had our moments, but generally we’ve been happy. Well, what’s tradition anyway? It’s just the way your parents used to do stuff. I mean I everyone’s got their traditions, but I guess things always change. Bit late for an epiphany now though, hey? So we just sat there for hours, we didn’t want to get out. It was raining, and besides what’s there to see, someone playing happy families in our old house – I wish them more luck than I got. Amy didn’t really get it, she wasn’t upset and I didn’t want her to see me cry, so I just sat there behind the wheel. We’ve never been ones to look back all that much. It’s all about the future now, isn’t it? Even if I’m not in it. She’s like me with that, always making plans. Nothing like her mother, who couldn’t ever let go of the way things used to be. Once the salad days were over that was it – she was always caught up with how things weren’t, not how they were. Amy’s got some plans of her own, especially about this place, although I’m not so sure. I don’t see why it can’t just stay like this; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. To tell the truth its pretty much the way it was when the last guy left it. I was lucky with this place. The guy died suddenly – an aneurism I think, and no-one wanted to take on the lease. Well I couldn’t say no, could I? I mean it was a home and a business, rolled into one. Of course, there aren’t many places like this left. I’ve had offers from all over the shop; the big breweries and the like. Sure it’s been tempting, but this place and Amy, that’s my life. Pretty much all I’ve accomplished really. Although I must have done a better job than I thought with Amy; I’ve no idea how she turned out so well. I’m surprised nobody’s snapper her up yet. Still, she’s got quite a bit of character too. Although hers is less easy to hide than this place, nothing a couple of coats of paint and a board with some fancy wines on could ever cover up. That’s what it’d be like here, you know, if I just did what the breweries told me. And I’d never see neither of them, Amy nor here, in the hands of some smarmy career git like that. Though it’s not really as if anybody thinks like that anymore. You and me Bob, we’re the last of a dying breed. [Laughs wryly.] Though maybe that’s for the best. Amy’s always trying to please me, not herself, but I know that she wants things to change. I mean, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She got me through, she was always there in the tough times. I always had someone. I just wish that she had someone too. So I knew that when I’m not here anymore, she’d be alright. Sure she’s a good girl, but I don’t want her to have to go through this alone. Maybe one person’s enough, y’know? Maybe all each of us needs is just one person, someone to share our troubles with and tell stuff too – even if we know they can’t hear or understand us.

Scene 3

[Amy enters from the back, and goes behind the bar. She is carrying a prospectus in her hands for the University of Central England.]

AMY: Hey Dad, listen to this. ‘A degree in business management can help you to set up a new enterprise, or to develop an existing family venture.’ See, that’s what we could do with this place… or I mean, what I could do with this place.

[The jukebox jumps into life again, stuttering through the first few bars of Sinatra again. Amy slams it with her hand once more.]

AMY: We certainly need a new one of these anyway. In fact we should get one of those multimedia stations; you know, where you the internet and all that too, that would be good!

GEOFF: I don’t know Amy. I mean, why would you need the internet in a pub? People come here to get away from that kind of thing; work, the news, the outside world. They just come in here for a quiet drink.

AMY: But it’s not about a quiet drink anymore Dad. We can’t survive off of the regulars for ever. [Notices the figure slumped at the bar.] Sorry Bob. People want sofas where they can sit and chat with their friends, and a… a gin and tonic; it can’t just be beer all the time. And when was the last time you had these stools sprung Dad?

GEOFF: And that’s the future is it? You don’t need a degree to buy a bloody leather sofa Amy. There’s enough people running around with useless qualifications as it is. You know how to run this place better than anyone.

AMY: But it’s not just about running it Dad. We could run it into the ground! I want it to grow, to do well! And that’s what Uni can teach me; I can have a business plan, get some capital together and remortgage and –

GEOFF: [Angry.] Re-mortgage! I didn’t bloody well slave away in this place for thirteen years, just so the bank can have it when ‘Sky’, or ‘Gastro-pubs’, or ‘cocktails’, or, or whatever god-forsaken fad is over. It’s for you - I want you security, prospect, things I didn’t! [Getting angrier.] And I don’t want you to take those sorts of risks!

[Geoff begins to get out of breath. Amy snaps back.]

AMY: It’s not a ‘fad’, dad! It’s the future!
[Geoff starts wheezing, and is unable to answer.]

AMY: I’m… sorry, of dad, are you ok?

GEOFF: I… I might just go and have a lie down. Mind the bar will you love? Oh and think about this; you’re going to have a hell of a time doing a degree with a young baby.

[Exit Geoff. As he leaves, the jukebox jumps into life again. Geoff kicks it as he leaves.]

Scene 4

[Amy sits down on the bar; highly emotional. She puts her head in her hands. There is a long pause.]

AMY: Sorry Bob. I just… I just don’t know what to do. I really don’t. I want to think about the future, but how can I when I can’t imagine him not being here? [Sobs] I hate being angry at him, but… I mean… I don’t understand why he won’t fight anymore. I need him, doesn’t he know that? The thought of being alone scares me so much. It’s always been us – us against the world. Or rather, him protecting me from it. He says surgery would give him a chance; I don’t understand why he won’t take it. Why won’t he do this one thing for me? [Head in hands again. Pause.] Everything he’s done has been for me though, I know that. His life has been about providing for me. I would do anything for him, but sometimes I don’t think I want to live the life he wants me to. I mean he was happy when I left school with just my GCSEs, but I don’t want to pull pints all my life. You know I’m at college now, getting my A-levels? I’m doing alright. Dad thinks that’s enough. But I’ve got plans, for me and for this place. It’s not hard to daydream when you spend all your evenings in here. Of course, it has its advantages. I’m better off than most of my friends and well, I guess it keeps me out of trouble. And Dad’s shown me the ropes. But see, I’ve always had money, but never anything to spend it on. I feel like I’m constantly investing in a future I’ll never have; instead there’ll just be this place, same as always. I know you’d like that. But we have to draw in new people. Times are changing. And what would I have if this place went under? Then again, Dad’s got some plans of his own. [Dramatic pause] He told you what we did today, didn’t he? I mean, I don’t even remember the old house; this place is my home. I don’t know why we even went. Maybe he was trying to prove something to me… or torture himself. I could see him crying. We just sat there, for hours, in the rain. And then he asked me something, Bob, something big. He wants me to do one last thing for him before… before… you know. [Sob] He said that having a child was the only thing that got him through… through mom and everything. But it’s just so ridiculous… I mean, I’m only nineteen. I’m still at college. I’m single! How on earth am I supposed to have a baby for fuck’s sake?! [Pause] I guess I kind of understand. I know he doesn’t want to leave me if I’m alone. But it’s so different. He was married, and he wanted a family. I can’t just have a baby to stop me from being lonely. That’s so… so selfish. As good as my life has been here, I’m not sure if I would really want to bring a child into a world like this – do I really want to put a baby, my baby, through growing up here? But then, it’s as good as life as any I guess. Even if I did decide to have a child, I wouldn’t know how to go about it. [Awkwardly] I mean I do know, obviously. But what – do you just ask someone – please be the father of my child?! All the guys I know would run a mile! Would I ask a friend? The only boyfriend I’ve ever had was a holiday fling; I don’t meet many guys working here. Well, not the boyfriend type at least. I guess I could, what, meet a random guy and trick him into it? A one night stand – but I wouldn’t want to be… y’know… my first. [Blush] There are other ways I guess; sperm banks and all that. Or maybe I could adopt. But, I don’t even know if I want a kid at all. I don’t think I can do this, I really don’t. Dad seems to think it will help, if just out of necessity, but I don’t think I could ever get over losing him and raise a kid – I’m not strong enough. I mean, it’s emotional blackmail… I’ll do anything for him, but I don’t think I can do this. Me as a mom, I just can’t imagine that. What if I’m like her, my mom, and I just run off. But then again aren’t I just being like her now; just thinking about myself. This is what Dad wants, and he wants it for me; he always wants the best for me. But then he gave up his life to do so, and I’m not so sure I could do the same. I mean, my life hasn’t even really begun yet, not really. I’m just starting out; I want to live a bit, before I get tied down, tied to a family. Maybe that’s how mom felt; maybe I am like her after all. I certainly don’t think I take after Geoff. Dad I mean. Mom must have left because she thought she could have something, something better. Maybe she just wanted things to change, and eventually she had to do it without him. He’s never been one for change; not from the status quo, and not from his idea of the future. Do you know, I don’t really blame her? My mother. For leaving us, I mean. I’m not angry at her or anything, even though she abandoned us. Abandoned me. Some people just aren’t cut out for it are they? What if I’m not either; you know, at being a mom. I guess you never know until you try. But why should I? And why now? One day, maybe, but I don’t think I’m ready. I know Dad wants it. Maybe this is what he did to Mom too; from what he’s told me it doesn’t sound like she ever really wanted a family. Maybe it was all that which pushed her away. Me. I mean she only ever had me, she must have realised it wasn’t her; she didn’t take to motherhood. She might have been looking for an escape for a while. I’ve never tried to find her, and I’ve never even wanted to ask Dad; that would be too much like ingratitude, after everything he’s done. He’s done his best, his best at keeping everything together. He gave me a stable upbringing, gave me what I needed. Maybe I don’t need stability anymore though, I need something more, something different. But then I guess things are going to change anyway aren’t they; it’s out of my control, I just wish it wasn’t this. I can’t imagine this place without him. Have you ever noticed Bob, how everyone has a smell? You hardly even realise, but it’s always there in the background; what they wash their hair in, or their clothes, what they do. His is cigarette smoke and stale beer, that’s how much its become a part of him. I’ve always found it kind of comforting. I used to… when I used to think of mom, when I was very small, I used to think she must of smelt like that too. But no, I guess she can’t have done. She was never here; in the pub I mean. She was never part of it, never grew into it like me and Dad did. And you never know, a bit of him might live on in this place. But then… how long have you been coming here Bob? It must have been a while right? Did you ever come here before? Before us? As much as Dad’s proud of this place, it’s not really his own. He might have kept this pub the way he likes it, but he never made it like this in the first place. This is all someone else’s idea of what a pub should be, not his. He hasn’t bought anything new. Just look at that jukebox; it’s been here since we bought the place, and its still full of some other bloke’s music. The sounds of the sixties and seventies, and some forgotten old crooners, and now its breaking down, just like him. This place has absorbed him; it needed us as much as we needed it. He wanted to keep a dream alive, the dream of this place, the ideal pub, his haven. But now I can see that it was all an illusion. The dreams still alive but he’s dying. He always said this was a ‘real pub’ but this isn’t reality – what’s real is things change, move on, die, and new things replace them, right? I don’t want to just be the person who replaces Dad, I’ve got dreams of my own – everyone needs those. I don’t think I can face spending the rest of my life behind this bar. I don’t want to end up trapped here, not like… [Looks behind her] Bob, did Dad ever tell you about the last landlord here; I mean about what happened to him after he died. It was so sad. He was like Dad, he spent his whole life here, and his death too. He… passed away in the cellar. It was sudden, some problem with his heart or his brain or something. That, that’s when we got this place. They held his wake here too. His son came up to sort things out, but he didn’t want anything to do with the running of the place. He hadn’t been back for a while – I don’t think they got on too well. Didn’t seem to care all that much; he just wanted to get away again, like coming back was too much for him. He left in a hurry; a real hurry. He said he had to pick up someone up from the station; but he never came back. We’d just moved in, and when Dad was cleaning up he found a plastic bag, under the seat where he’d been sitting. And in it… was this urn. He’d left his father behind. We put it up there, behind the bar, waiting for him to come back and pick it up. But he never did. So we left it there. Dad thought that was what he would have wanted. Imagine that; never getting to leave this place… not even when you’re dead. I don’t… I don’t want that to be Dad. And I certainly don’t want it to be me. Thank God he’ll die in a hospital and not here… [Breaks down into tears] I can’t believe I just said that. I mean, how can I be so rational about it? How can he be so rational about it? Death… isn’t logical is it? It just doesn’t make sense. [She picks up the urn, and places it on the corner of the bar] This was someone once. Now all this, this dust… that’s all that’s left. [She opens the urn] How can this be it? [Looks inside] How can this be all that remains of someone’s life; a man with a life, a family; just like Dad, all rendered down to dust. How is everything reduced to this? [She takes out a handful of dust] I mean this can’t be it, it just can’t be. Dad can’t end up this way – a few handfuls of ashes [Sobbing throughout] A handful of nothing. I won’t let it happen, I won’t. Dad can’t end up as nothing, not like this. Nothing [Blows some of the ashes onto the bar], its just nothing. [Turns her back on Bob, and pours the ashes through her hands while sobbing. Lights down on Bob, who silently gets up and leaves the stage] If you want to end up like this, fine you selfish bastard, but you can’t make me!

Labels: drama, submissions

Labels: drama, submissions

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

Another submission. This time, photography.

Emily is "a psychology and sociology student with varied artistic ambitions, whose talents lie in giving lychees human features and making dressesout of maps. When not indulging these creative whims, the academic study of the media and late-night boggle provide intellectual diversions. Often to be found giggling, confused and sporting a very large lens."

She has submitted numerous photographs, most of them taken in and around Cambridge; which is probably why she's entitled her collection Cambridge: On closer inspection. I guess. Rather than overload you (and blogger) with her beautiful photogaphs all in one go, we'll be posting them in two parts.

Labels: On art, photography, submissions

I have often rippled those waters with tears of frustration,
my whimpers drowned out by cries
Of those fresh to their plight.
The blind, the lame, the paralysed –
We lay there as casualties of a war
in which we'd never agreed to fight.
We gathered in hope,
we lay there in expectation
in fear
in desperation.

And then we heard of his approach.

Was it he that had turned well water into fine wine
at a wedding, a while back?
Hushed rumours of his powers had reached us before,
but I wasn't buying it.
I've seen others like him come and go over the years,
promising it all
but, like us, helpless in the face of brokenness.
Forgive me for not holding my breath
when the whispers started
but I'd rather place my faith in a swirling pool
than in one of God's bearded politicians.

Despite misgivings, I admit to being struck
by this itinerant preacher;
he saw us with different eyes, I swear I could see
a storm of anger brewing
under that compassionate gaze.
Countless hours spent at the water's lip
now blurred to nothing,
and like everyone else, I pleaded with him

for consideration, for mercy
for whatever he could spare.

No-one heard him stoop to ask,
without the cadence of irony
near-mocking words: 'Do you want to get well?'

Does the starving man crave food?
Does the barren woman long to give life?
Who looks upon a helpess cripple and asks callous questions?
Here, we sit and endure,
rejected and degenerate,
awaiting redemption only death brings.

'Well then, get up! Pick up your mat and walk!'

But still I lay there, watching
in wonder, in longing, in jealous rage
as the cripple did just that -
thirty-eight years spread on a mat,
now he stood up and skipped away.

But why not me?
What about the rest of us?

Labels: poetry, submissions

Labels: poetry, submissions