Setting Sun

Smiles, laughter and joy,
Red sun rising high,
Tomorrow is yesterday, yesterday is today,

Take my hand in the pursuit of pleasure.

Friends, fairies and love,
Will never fade away,
Infinite wishes and unending ecstacy,
Angels whose wings will never be clipped.

Lovers, fools and innocence,
The clock has stopped,
Existence a blur danced to a euphoric melody,
Heaven a place on earth.

Whispers, rumours and fear,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
The music has stopped,
Another gram, another pill, another bottle.

Pills, powder and booze,
Flames within sculpting effigies,
Rising slowly, slowly, slowly,
Toying, waiting for the banshee’s wail.

Terror, shakes and blood,
Her grip pierces the soul,
Wings clipped, mind warped, eyes dead,
The mirror cracks, a million broken pieces.

Death, dishonour and resignation,
Broken fragments turn to black,
Fate has dealt her cards,
Let go of my hand for she has come.

Hope, tears and light,
Weeping waters the rose hidden deep,
Red petals caress and soothe,
Born again to a world unknown.

Radiance, courage and the new,
Drifting as the clouds,
Far, far from home she smiles,
Love found and lost.

Borders, warmth and elephants,
Reality now but a dream,
Still to be lived and loved,
Take my hand again, time to go home.

And here I sit beneath the setting sun,
Fallen bodies lay, scars yet to be healed,
A final toast before I go,
Still I cry, still I smile, still I’m alive.

Falling Angels

Picture the 80s, what comes into your mind? Riots, coalminers striking, Thatcher standing up in parliament looking like the heartless bitch she was? Or maybe it was barrow boys from Essex who’d suddenly turned into millionaires snorting cocaine off the arse cheeks of some high class escort. Might even be Live Aid, the rich and famous finding a conscience, or trying to sell records, depends if you’re a cynic or not. A decade which had a cloud of grey hanging over it, playing out to a background of synthesisers and the shouts of an unemployed, disaffected youth.

The 90s began with that cloud still hanging over it. Thatcher went and people cheered, jobs began to turn up. The sun was beginning to shine through those clouds, ecstasy was all the rage, kids dancing the nights away in the fields of the home counties while the Old Bill were led on a merry dance. We’d forgotten about Africa as well, that charity thing was all a bit too 80s. Perms were no more, shoulder pads dispensed with. By the middle of the decade the sky was blue, Britain was cool again, Oasis, Blur, even the prime minister was cool, he hadn’t bombed another country yet. It’s amazing how a person can go from a saviour to a lying cunt in the space of a few years.

When you’re a kid a lot passes you by, growing up in the 80s you didn’t give a shit that the Russians might be coming. They were far away behind that imaginary curtain the teacher was telling you about in history. The miners were too far away, you didn’t really give a shit what they thought about. Some would say that about sums up Londoners, lost in their own world, all outside it irrelevant because the closest you’ve been to coal mines and green fields is the time your old man tried to take you away on holiday but the car broke down somewhere just past Watford so you spent the summer kicking a ball about in the concrete jungle you called home.

You tell people where you live and they’ll go ‘ooohhh, bit dodgy around there, ain’t it?’. You don’t really know what they mean. I mean your next door neighbour always seems to be bringing a new television home each night, and the woman who lives above you does seem to have a lot of boyfriends, what’s dodgy about that? There’s that geezer who lives on the bottom floor, apparently he likes to flash people, that’s a bit dodgy but he got nicked the other week so it don’t matter. The large grey blocks are good places to play run outs too, you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Fuck the holidays.

Then you become a teenager and you fucking hate everything. You know the woman upstairs is a crack whore and the geezer that has a new television every night is nicking them out of people’s houses. Your mate at school, the one who lives in a nice house a couple of miles away, he has a garden and his mum takes him out each weekend somewhere nice. Took him to Kew Gardens one weekend to look at the flowers, you ask your mum why she doesn’t take you to Kew and she looks at you funny. You hate flowers and why the fuck would you want to be wandering around a botanical gardens with your mother. You’ve got to find some way to wind her up though.

It’s around this time that the mates you make are the ones who stay with you for the rest of your life. Not always physically, they might move away, in some cases they might do something stupid and get locked away or they might be one of them bods who gets married, moves out to Middlesex and has ten kids while he drives a van around putting up satellite dishes. You’ll always remember them though, the stupid things you did as teenagers, flashbacks as you walk down the street thinking about the time you nearly got nicked for running on top of cars.

If you’re like me, you’ll have the piss taken out of you for having a bit about you, wanting to go to university. Not that you know why you’re going to university because you’ll be fucked if you have any idea what you’ll do after, but it sounds like fun. Getting stoned while discussing Sartre in some flat in Brixton, thinking you’re cool with your Che Guevara t-shirt and Bob Marely flag draped across the wall. None of you are any more revolutionaries or capable of finding hidden meanings in music than the average person but you like to think you can change the world. It’s the drugs ain’t it?

People are transient, they drift in and out of your life, forgotten until some event, a piece of music or a glimpse of a stranger triggers your memory. You look back with happiness, anger, longing, sadness, nostalgia. And then some other thing in a world over saturated with stimulation diverts your attention. An advert with a load of ‘lads’ in a pub putting a bet on, a fat geezer shouting at the screen telling you to be responsible while you contemplate putting your weeks wages on United to win at home because they would never lose. See, that memory has gone.

Falling Angels, available tomorrow 28th March on Amazon. Like my Facebook Page for more info

The Urban Playground

The tree lined street is silent, their bare, jagged branches reaching out into the winter sky; the windows of the terraced houses closed off to the dark night, the occupants safe and warm inside. The air is cold, a dampness lining the pavement, soon to become a white film which will be the cause of much dismay when the sun rises. Hurried men and women slipping and sliding as they rush to catch a bus or train, children laughing, their unfortunate parents sitting prone on the ground, cursing under their breath. From behind a wall, a thin cloud rises, the breath of a fox carefully examining his surroundings. Looking one way and then the other, not another living thing in sight, he emerges from his hiding place, hungry and watchful.

A faint smell drifts through the night air, reaching his small black nose. He stops, lifting it and sniffing, turning his head towards the object of his desire. He crosses the road, looking neither left or right, on the other side pushing open a small wooden gate with his head. A mound of black bags lie in front of him, a feast awaits. The silence of the night is broken, a soft rustling of thin plastic, a snuffling, his nose diving deep between objects which have no meaning or no use for him. He delves deeper, a strong scent of meat intoxicating him, he has found it.

It’s a small meal, a chicken bone; he devours it as if his last, cracking echoing into the night as his teeth break through the hard, white bone. Surrounding him are discarded objects, useless to him and the person who has decided they no longer want such a thing in their house. A toy lies next to his head as he gnaws. It is still shiny, only defaced by the small specks of food which now cover it. An unwanted gift perhaps, a child having grown bored of it quickly, taking up too much space in the house, the only solution to throw it away.

He stretches, licking his lips, satisfied with his meal. Snowflakes begin to fall from the sky, he looks upwards, the whims of the weather beyond his comprehension,  a brief curiosity. His bright orange coat dotted with white, he shakes himself, continuing his nightly prowl. Over a wall, he emerges in a garden, the grass covered, he sniffs, hesitantly licking, his head recoiling at the coldness of the snow. A red ball catches his eye, pawing it, chasing it as he pushes it around the garden.

From a window above a child looks down. The lights in his house have long been turned off, bedtime story has been read, now he’s secretly stealing a look out of the window. The night time world one he often daydreams of, but one whose darkness and mystery frightens him. A peek through the gap in the curtains, expecting to see giants and ghostly creatures stalking his garden. There are no frightening figures, just a fox playing with his ball. The animal prodding his birthday gift with his nose, chasing it from one side to the other. The boy giggles, the fox’s ears prick up, head turning to the window, his yellow eyes meeting the owner of the ball. In a second he is gone, through the bushes and away to some place unknown to the boy. He returns to bed, falling asleep, dreaming of frolicking with the fox in the snow.

A piece of paper floats along the street, carried by the wind and snow. The fox squints, his eyes stinging from the sudden onslaught of the soft, white crystals falling from the sky. The paper drifts past his head, he reaches out with his mouth, plucking it from the air. Sniffing in, he releases it, the wind deciding its fate. Written at the bottom of the paper are the words ‘I love you.’ A love letter, a failed delivery or letter never sent. An abandoned symbol of unrequited love perhaps. The fox cares little, it cannot be eaten; love, rejection and all it entails are concepts far beyond his understanding, the piece of paper simply a distraction in the night.

The sound of footsteps, he darts underneath a car, waiting and listening, sniffing. A threat approaching, he stays deathly still. Crunch, crunch crunch, closer the sounds come. Two feet standing just in front of him, unaware of the fox’sv presence. The feet shuffle forward, legs swaying, the person slipping to the ground. He rolls over, looking around him hoping his fall has gone unnoticed. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, the fox remaining under the car, too frightened to move. The figure stands itself up, brushing off the snow, whistling as they walk away, pleased their mishap is their little secret.

The snow stops, dim light gradually appearing in the sky; almost time for sleep. One more snack will do, to get him through the cold day as he sleeps among the bushes. He stops still, a shop door to his side. A figure sitting there, wrapped in a blanket, cold, tired. In his hands a box, the remains of his evening meal, one he too had scavenged. He tosses the box towards the fox, the animal distrusting but the smell of the scraps alluring. Grabbing the box with his teeth he runs forward a few steps, turning and looking back at the man. A look passes between them, both scavangers, both sleeping in the wild.

The man sighs; while the fox goes to bed, he has to pick up the mantle and do what he needs to survive. He blows out a breath of air, watching it freeze in front of his eyes. He stands up, folding away his blanket and sleeping bag, placing them in a sack. Throwing the sack behind his back, he trudges off through the snow, unsure what the day will bring. He allows himself a wry smile, perhaps it would be easier to be the animal; oblivious to everything but the need to survive. Or perhaps man and animal are just the same.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wonder/

 

What’s It All About?

The dog is sniffing a brown paper bag on the floor, his coat is shiny from the good food he’s been eating, he picks the paper bag up with his mouth and drops it at Pat’s feet. Pat laughs and rubs his head, satisfied with the adulation he’s received for bringing a piece of rubbish to his master he lies down on the floor, resting his head on his paw and closing his eyes. The money in Pat’s pocket is growing ever smaller, it’s not all gone but he’s going to have to be a bit more careful. He twists his lip, a decision needs to be made but misplaced nostalgia is holding him back.

Looking back on life a person prefers to remember the good things. The old flat. He remembers sitting in there with friends, acquaintances, drinking the night away and laughing and joking. Those nights were few and far between, usually it was cold and damp, noises in the night waking him from an already restless sleep. Checking the door before he went inside to make sure it was safe and there wasn’t someone with evil motives lurking in the dark room he called home. He remembered the good nights though and it was those good nights he’s clinging on to, stopping him from leaving in the hope they’ll happen again. Just the once would be good enough.

He stands up, Socrates follows, his lead has now been dispensed with, he won’t leave Pat’s side, not even for the small bird which is chirping and teasing him from the canal side tree. Instead of taking the path towards home they carry on walking straight ahead, under the graffiti covered bridges, past canal boats which have been converted into homes, their owners lovingly tending to the floral arangements adorning the tops of the boats. The sun is still high in the sky, a beautiful evening, one for a good walk.

Tommy’s promise to see him had never come about. He doesn’t know what happened, if he’s still at home with his mother or if he went off again. The day he handed him the money and the lead to the dog Pat had changed his mind about killing himself. He’d also changed his mind about giving up the drink too, but he needed something. He often thought of Tommy and what had become of him, there was a large part of him who didn’t want to see him again because he was scared he’d resent his friend. He didn’t want to resent a kid who’d finally had a break.

Socrates barking breaks his thoughts, the dog is standing in the middle of the path and barking at the bushes, his eyes flicking back and forward between Pat and the unseen threat.

‘It’s just a bird, mate. He’s not going to bother you.’

He walks past the dog, expecting him to follow on but he remains still, a low growl coming from deep in his throat. Pat sighs, turning around to see what has startled him. There’s a gap in the bushes, through the gap he can see a small child sitting down playing with a plastic bag.

‘Where’s your mum, little man?’

‘I’m hiding from her.’

‘Why are you hiding from her?’

‘She didn’t buy me some sweets.’

‘You need to go and find her, mate. She’ll be worried about you!’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

Pat looks both ways along the canal path, hoping to see a distressed woman looking for a child. There is no one except for a couple of kids smoking a cigarette. There’s a bridge a hundred metres in front of him, a path from the canal up to the road to the side of it. Either he goes up to the road and tries to find the mother and risking the child disappearing or he brings the child with him and most likely be suspected of abducting him.

‘Come on, mate. Let’s try and find your mum.’

The boy emerges from the bushes and follows Pat and the dog, Pat tries to keep his distance not wanting to get to close to the child. At the top of the pathway to the bridge a woman is talking frantically on her phone, she sees the child and rushes towards him, first hugging him and then shouting at him.

‘Where did you go!?’

‘I was hiding, you were supposed to find me.’

‘Don’t ever do that again!’

Pat crosses the road, and walks down the path to the canal trying to look nonchalant, not wanting confrontation or praise.

‘Good boy!’ he rubs the dogs head, the dog looks pleased with himself. From his pocket he pulls a can of lager, opens it and takes a long swig. They sit down underneath the bridge, the sky is beginning to darken.

‘Where are we going to go, boy?’ The dog licks his hand. ‘We’re not going to go back to the flat, I’ve had enough of that place. I’m not sure where the canal even goes. It might go all the way up to Scotland. Fancy a trip to Scotland?’

A group of kids appear at the far end of the bridge, laughing and shouting loudly. One of them smashes a bottle against the ground. The dog growls, Pat puts one hand on his neck and shushes him. Socrates can sense his owner’s nervousness however and continues to growl. If Pat gets up now the kids will pay more attention to him, if he just sits here then they might just walk past. He stares straight across the canal, pretending to be lost in some unseen thing on the wall. They slow down as they approach, he can hear them whispering.

He feels a blow in his left side, one of the kids has launched a kick at him, one of his friends is now holding him back while the others laugh. Pat looks up at them, another approaches but the dog begins to bark loudly, he backs off.

‘Calm your dog down or we’ll hurt it.’ Pat pulls Socrates closer to him, holding him tightly by the fur, hoping he doesn’t manage to wiggle free and bite one of them. He’d like him too, but that could be end of the dog and the end of him. The kids edge past them, when they are far enough away one of them throws another bottle towards Pat but it smashes on the edge of the canal, the glass falling into the water. They make fun of the boy for missing, this angers him and he begins to walk back towards Pat. The dog breaks free, the boy turns and runs, the dog following.

‘Come here boy! It’s okay! Come back!’

The dog turns a corner in pursuit of the kids and out of sight. Pat jumps up and runs after them, reaching the main road he looks both ways but can see neither the dog or the kids. Not knowing which way to go he decides left, passing a parade of shops. Still no sign of the dog, he opens the door to one of the shops and asks the man if he’s seen any kids running past but the man waves him away dismissively.

‘I just want to find my dog, mate! Have you seen any kids?’

‘You think I care about your dog? Go on, fuck off, you’re not welcome in here.’

Pat continues to walk the streets, trying not to wander too far from the canal. Eventually he gives up, losing all hope he’d see the dog again. He’s a nice looking dog, someone might have picked him up and taken him in. That’s the best he can hope for, the worst he doesn’t want to think about. He searches in his pocket for the bundle of notes and pulls out a twenty pound note. The only shop open is the one where the owner told him to ‘fuck off’. He won’t serve him. A woman is outside the shop, just out of view of the owner.

‘Excuse me, could you do me a favour and get me a bottle of vodka? I have the money but the owner don’t like me. I’ve lost my dog and I want to get drunk.’

She looks him up and down and then smiles and takes the note. ‘Be two minutes.’ She reappears with the bottle in a bag and hands it to him, handing him the change too he tries to stop her but she shakes her head. ‘I hope you find your dog.’

A few hours ago him and the dog were going to go off on an adventure along the canal and now he’s sitting here despondent, already drunk and contemplating jumping in the canal. No one would know, they’d find him tomorrow and that’d be it. He can’t go back to the flat. He puts his head between his knees and begins to cry, wondering how it’s all ended up like this. How is his life dependent on a dog? He lies on his side, trying to fight his closing eyes, he hears the bottle of vodka tip over but he’s too tired to right it. His eyes close, falling into a sleep haunted by ghosts of the past and the torments of the present.

 

 

 

Liar

“Why don’t you have a dad?”

“I do have a dad, he’s just busy.  He’s going to come back one day and I’ll bring him to school and then you’ll all stop laughing at me.  He’s big and tall, he has a gun too, if you laugh at me he’ll beat you all up.”

I turn and run away to the sounds of laughter and my classmates imitating my voice. It doesn’t happen all the time, only sometimes. When they are bored and want to pick on someone different they choose me. The rest of the time it’s the fat kid whose clothes don’t fit him properly. I’m thankful for the fat kid. If it wasn’t for him it would be me all the time. I hope he never goes on a diet or his mum never wins some money. I sit in the corner of the playground and watch. Watch and wait until they forget that they were picking on me.

They are right, I don’t have a dad. I have never seen him, I don’t even know what his name is. I don’t want to admit that to them though. If admitted then they would tease me more. If I lie it might make them think, maybe some of them will believe me and be scared. Mum says that I shouldn’t listen to what the other kids say. She says they are only jealous of me because I can tell such good stories. None of them want to listen to my stories though. If they only listened for ten minutes they would like them, they would stop teasing me then.

I hope mum hasn’t gone out tonight. I have a new story that I want to tell her. She hasn’t been home in the evenings for weeks, when she gets back I am already in bed asleep. I know we need the money but she spends it all anyway. If she isn’t home tonight I’ll just go and see the nice old lady that lives in the block next door. I wanted mum to be the first to hear it but I just can’t keep it in anymore, if I don’t tell anyone I’ll forget it. The other kids have started to tease the fat kid. I think it’s safe to go back out onto the playground.

As I walk towards them I kick a stone that’s lying on the floor.  Pretending to be a football player.  Pretending I am at Wembley and about to score a goal in the cup final. One of the other kids comes over and joins me. He’s not my friend but he doesn’t tease me. He talks to me about football and what he does at the weekend. If none of the other kids see him, he sometimes walks back home with me after school. He lives on the floor above me. He said his mum doesn’t want him to walk back with me but he doesn’t care. Just don’t let her see us together.

As we kick the stone back and forth he asks me what I am doing after school tonight. I tell him that I need to go home and see my mum. She’s been busy working recently. I can see a smirk on his face as I say it. One of the other kids calls out to him and he runs off, leaving me to the stone and my imagination. The teacher told the old lady, Mrs Smith, that I have a vivid imagination.  Mum was busy so she couldn’t go to the parent’s evening. Mrs Smith said she would go instead. I don’t really know what a vivid imagination is. I do like to dream though, even when I am awake I still try to dream.

Back in the classroom the teacher gives us some work. It’s boring. I wish she would give us something exciting. If she gave us something exciting she wouldn’t have to tell me off for daydreaming.  I look around the classroom at all the other children. Some of them are sleeping and some of them are doing their work. The teacher isn’t paying any attention. The fat kid is playing with his ruler. I sometimes wonder if one day he’ll go crazy and kill us all. I hope he doesn’t, maybe I should make friends with him. Then he might not kill me, just kill all the others.

The bell rings and the teacher lets us go. I run out the door as fast as I can, the quicker I get out the further away I am from the kids that walk the same way home as me. I look back and can’t see any of them. I walk slower, if I get home too quickly mum might not be there, the later I am, the more chance there is that she’ll be home. I wish she would take a holiday like some of the other kid’s mums. I don’t think she has ever taken a holiday. As I walk across the park our estate comes into view. I can see the windows to our flat. It doesn’t look like anyone is home, I don’t know why but just by looking at the windows I know if someone is inside or not.

Our estate is big. Big tall, long buildings.  We live on the bottom floor so I can play football outside the door if mum is at home and busy with work. There are ten floors above us. I always wanted to live on one of the higher floors, if I lived on one of them I could look out across the city. I can’t see anything from my window, only trees. The boy in my class who lives above me said at night you can see all the lights from the other buildings. I asked him if I could come up and see it one time but he said his mum doesn’t allow anyone inside their house.

There is a park just outside the door too. We don’t use it though. At night some of the older kids hang around there smoking and drinking. There is broken glass all over the floor. One of the little girls that lives next to Mrs Smith went in there one day and her hand got pricked by a needle. They had to take her to hospital. Mrs Smith said the needle could make her very sick. She has to wait for three months before she knows if she is okay. Now none of the other children will play with her. Even my mum said don’t play with her and my mum doesn’t care who I play with.

Next to the park there is a newspaper shop, an off license and a fish and chip shop. Sometimes when mum has come money she lets me go to the fish and chip shop to buy dinner. I buy a battered sausage and a large portion of chips. If I have enough money I buy a coke too. Mum sends me to the newspaper shop to buy her cigarettes, I am supposed to be 16 to buy them but the man doesn’t care, he knows they are for mum. When he gives me the cigarettes he winks at me. I feel bad because sometimes I steal a chocolate bar when he turns round to get the cigarettes.

I’ve only been into the off license once. They only sell beer in there and the man wouldn’t let me buy it for mum. He said if she wants it she’ll have to come and get herself. I know he sells it to the other kids though. I see them at night when I am kicking the ball against the wall. I’m not sure why he doesn’t like me. After that day I went home and wrote a story about the man and he got eaten by a lion. I told it mum and she really liked that one. I hope she likes my new one, it doesn’t have any lions but it has a dinosaur. Mrs Smith will definitely like it.

Our flat is right in the middle. There are nineteen on our floor and ours is number 9. Last year mum stopped working for a few months. She said she needed a rest. She painted the door red and put some flowers on the windowsill. When she went back to work I tried to keep the flowers alive but they died. I gave them water every day but it didn’t seem to work. The door is dirty now too, one of the windows has some cardboard in the corner, someone throw a stone at it. I don’t know why. I remember it frightened me. Mum said not to worry, it was an accident, I am not sure it was though.

I open the door and call out. There is no reply. The house is empty. I look into mum’s room to see if she has been home recently. Her clothes are all over the floor and I can smell her perfume. Her room is different from the rest of the flat. The walls are a dark pink colour. There is carpet on the floor too. It’s clean, the clothes just making it look messy. There are mirrors on the wall and she has a lamp on the table next to her bed. I’m not allowed to go in but when she is out I always open the door to have a look.

The living room doesn’t have much in it. There is one sofa, a wooden chair in the corner and a small table with the television on top. We used to have a coffee table in the middle but it disappeared one day.  Mum said she threw it out because she didn’t like it but I looked in the rubbish tip outside and couldn’t see it. Maybe someone came and took it away. The floor has no carpet, only black tiles that are freezing cold in the winter, especially if she forgets to pay the electricity bill. Last year when she forgot I could see my breath in the air. I took some sheets from my bed and pretended I was on an expedition to the Antarctic to find some penguins.

My room is the smallest. I have my bed and a small wardrobe to keep my clothes in. There is no carpet in my room either. The walls are painted white, I want to paint them blue but mum says I’ll have to wait until next year. Underneath my bed I keep some of the books that I stole from the library. I push them right into the corner so that she can’t find them. Not that she comes in here anyway. Just in case, though. If she found out I was stealing books she would never let me go to the library again.

It’s nearly summer time so the house isn’t very cold. It doesn’t get dark until very late either. When it doesn’t get dark until late I can stay outside playing football for longer. I can stay at Mrs Smith’s for longer too. She doesn’t like me to walk back home in the dark. I am not scared but she says some of the older kids might cause trouble and she is too old to walk back with me because she’d have to walk back on her own then. I think she doesn’t want to see mum, but maybe she is right, it isn’t very safe around here at night.

Looking out the window I see some of the other kids playing football. I really want to go out and play with them but they won’t let me. They call me names and say bad things about my mum. Instead I just watch them from the window, hoping that they can’t see me. Every time I watch them playing I hope that they will stop playing and call out to me to come and join them. I can show them how good I am then, I could even tell them about myself, if they knew about me they wouldn’t hate me anymore.

As the light begins to fade their mum’s call out to them from the windows above. None of them wanting to hurry inside. If it was my mum calling me I would come in as quick as I could. They don’t seem to care though, they see their mums all the time. I only see mine when she isn’t busy at work and that’s not often. When they’ve gone back inside I think about sneaking upstairs to one of the balconies and looking out over the city. I hear a loud bang from outside, one of the older kids is playing with a firework. I change my mind.

I think about the presentation that we have to do at school tomorrow. We have to think of a place that we’d really like to go to and describe it to the rest of the class. I still can’t think of somewhere that I’d really like to go to. The teacher says it has to be real, I can’t make it up. One of the books that I stole from the library is the Jungle Book. I’m not sure if it’s real or not. Mrs Smith said it’s in India but I don’t believe that there are animals that talk in India. I think I will choose the jungle in India, I just won’t talk about animals that talk, I can have animals though, especially tigers, I love tigers.

I don’t know what the jungle looks like, I can only think of it as how I imagine. I close my eyes and pretend I am there in India. I can see really tall trees, the top is completely green, the sky is covered with only small bits of light coming through. It’s hot, really hot. I am wearing only a t shirt and some shorts. Above me I can see monkeys swinging through the trees, screaming out loudly, telling all the other monkeys that there is a small nine year old boy walking through their jungle. They hold their babies close to their bodies as they swing through the trees.

In front of me there is a river. I can see a crocodile waiting. Patiently waiting for something to come along that it can eat. A small deer is next to the river drinking water. The top of the crocodile glides along the surface silently, the deer unable to see or hear him. As the crocodile is almost upon the deer one of the monkeys above lets out a loud screech and the deer turns and runs back into the green forest. The crocodile angry that he has to wait longer to have his dinner. The monkeys above laughing to themselves having ruined the crocodile’s plans.

Across the river I spot a tiger. She moves slowly through the forest, frightened of nothing. The monkeys stop laughing and swing back through the trees. The master of the forest has arrived and everyone is making way. From across the river she spots me, only looking briefly before carrying on her way. Not bothered about the strange, small boy walking through her home. Maybe she thinks I am not enough to eat, she wants something bigger. Even the crocodile has swam away. Away from the beautiful cat to find somewhere he can wait in peace, away from the monkeys too.

As the tiger walks off to find her dinner a large bird flies down from the trees and perches on a branch next to my head. A parrot. He looks at me with curiosity, his look asking what am I doing here. Am I lost? I shake my head in reply. He lets out a loud sqwuak and flies away again. It is so peaceful here. Only the sounds of the animals and the water flowing. I’m in a place where nobody can tease me. I wish I could wait here all the time, each evening I spend on my own waiting for mum to come home I wish it was here in this forest.

I jump to another loud bang. This time it’s not a firework but the sound of the door closing. It has gotten dark without me noticing, mum has arrived home. I haven’t turned any of the lights on so she probably thinks I am asleep. Her footsteps sound clumsy, as though she is tripping over. I know she isn’t wearing her high heels because I saw them on the floor when I looked in her room. She goes into the kitchen and I hear the sound of her lighter. The same sound for the next ten minutes. I quietly take off my clothes and slip underneath the covers of my bed. Hoping the door will open just a crack and she’ll look in.

Another twenty minutes pass and there is still no sound from the kitchen. Maybe she is tired, sometimes she falls asleep on the kitchen table. I hear the sound of the chair moving against the floor and my heart jumps. Her footsteps get closer to my door and then stop just outside. The door opens slightly and I can just see her face from the light coming from outside. She is smiling, but her hands are shaky, the door wobbling slightly back and forth. I pretend to be asleep. I’m annoyed that she didn’t come home in time for me to read my story.

Silently she closes the door. I hear her footsteps go into her own room, the sound of her falling onto her bed. Tonight she is back early, I hope she will be awake in the morning. I want to tell her to take some time off, she looks tired lately. She won’t listen to me but I can try. I drift off to sleep, flying back to the jungle that is my new safe place, where even the animals won’t tease me or eat me. Where I don’t have to wait each night for mum to come home. Where I don’t have to pretend that I have a dad.

 

Mum

I’ve let him down, I know that. When I look in at him at night I know he’s still awake, I can’t bring myself to talk to him, what am I supposed say to him? I don’t think he’s as innocent as he makes himself out to be, surely he must know what’s going on. The kids at his school, I knew all their mums when I was at school, they like to talk, but what else can I do? I can’t take him out of school, he can’t be hanging around here all day. Anyway, I want him to be at school, I want him to do well for himself, I can’t have him ending up like me.

I am getting more and more tired of all of this. Standing around on lonely street corners every night, when it’s all finished going to some manky old squat and then coming back home. What kind of life is it? There ain’t anything, if I was on my own I reckon I’d just end it all, but I couldn’t do that to him, I might not give him the best life but it would be better than the life he’d have in some home or with some family that don’t really care about him. I’ve tried to get out of this circle before but I always fail, I don’t know how to live any other way.

The road is dark, next to the old canal, the streetlights aren’t all working, I’m used to it, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be scared. Well scared like most people think, you know? Scared of being murdered or raped, I don’t ever get scared like that no more. What’s the point? If I was I might as well stay at home and then we definitely wouldn’t have nothing to eat. When I say I’m scared, I’m scared of myself, scared of what I am doing to myself, scared of what I am doing to the boy, how is this all going to affect him when he’s older?

At the end of the dark road I turn onto the high street, there ain’t anyone about at this time of the night apart from a couple of homeless old boys. I suppose it could be worse, I could be one of them. I have something I can hold on to. The walk back every night is the worst part, the shame is all over me, my body constantly feels dirty, sometimes I walk back slower, just to make sure that he’s not awake to see me come in the door. I know that’s what he wants, but I can’t face him, it’s too difficult.

If his old man had stayed around I wonder if it had all of turned out like this? I doubt it, I wouldn’t have to do what I do. It was all different when he was around. He looked after me, I’ve never been able to look after myself. He’d of looked after the boy too, the day he walked out, it was the day that led us all to this. I still don’t blame him, I can’t, he didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t handle it all, he was scared and he ran, if I had the choice at the time I think I would have ran too. I didn’t have that choice though, I had to stay.

I remember looking into his big blue eyes as he lay in my lap. I knew I couldn’t leave him, I couldn’t give him to no one else. I promised myself that day they I would do the best I could for him, try to give him the best life I possibly can, it ain’t really worked out like that, I’m still trying but I’m starting to give up hope that things will ever work out the way I wanted them to. People will probably say it’s my own fault, it’s because I am selfish, but I don’t know any other way to handle life. I was too young, they don’t think about that though do they? They just want to put you down all the time.

There’s a couple of kids in the park, not sure what they are doing but it’s probably not something good at this time of night. I know some of them going in there to do gear. When I see them in there I want to shake them, I want to ask them what the fuck do they think they are doing, why are they wasting their lives going down the same fucking road that I went down. They probably think it’s one of them roads where you can just turn around and walk back, but it ain’t, it’s nothing like that, it’s a long straight road where a brick wall follows right behind you.

The house is quiet, he must have gone to bed because none of the lights are on. I wonder what he does in the evenings? I don’t ask because it makes me feel even more guilty. It’s always so fucking cold in here, I really must buy us a heater so he can keep warmer at night, I meant to buy one last week but I forgot. I sit down at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette, and another one. I’m starting to feel sick, the goose pimples rising on my skin. I’ll wait until I’m in my room though, it feels better when you tease yourself, it’s the one rule I have as well, only in my room.

I stand up and look at the small mirror that’s on the kitchen wall. My eyes are dark, my face skinny and pale even with make up on I look ill. How must he feel to have this come home to him every single night? I light another cigarette and sit down, I’ll take that mirror down in the morning, I don’t want to have to keep looking at myself when I get in. One last cigarette before I go and check on him, I have to smoke at least three, I’m nervous, I keep waiting for the day where he isn’t there when I get home, that he’s had enough and ran away.

I look through the crack in the door, he looks asleep but I’m sure he is awake. There’s a small smile on his face, he knows that I’m here. I’m feeling a bit shaky so I hold on to the door handle, I don’t want to walk away just yet. I can’t believe that such a complete waste of a fucking life like me could have created something as beautiful as him. I don’t know where he got his intelligence from either, I doubt it was from me, well it can’t of been. I kiss my finger tips and blow it towards him, smile and walk to my room, the sickness is coming fast and I need to stop it.

.

People We Meet: The Big Man

He was tall, stocky, looked like he’d be able knock a person out with one punch. He had knocked more than one person out with one punch, something he’d delight in telling you. He was soft as well, if he liked you he’d look after you, not wanting any harm to come to those he had time for. He’d endlessly tell stories of the mischief he’d got up to, revelling in tales of madness and often stupidity, usually ending with him in a police cell somewhere. He couldn’t let go of that, it was his downfall, he thrived on the madness and without it he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You look at people and make a judgement. Big, tall, strong, you tend to stay away unless they approach you themselves. We like to think we’re good judges of characters but often we’re wrong. You don’t know what pain lies behind those eyes. You can see the sadness but you don’t want to ask for fear of offense or even violence, the person looking like they’re ready to blow at the slightest provocation. It’s none of your business anyway or ‘he probably deserved it’. How do you know he deserved it? You don’t even know what ‘it’ is?

One evening he sits down with you to tell more tales, this time he casually drops in details you’ve not heard before. Opening up to you but not wanting to make it too obvious. Another story of foolishness, stealing from shops, running away from police, and then being tied up by a family member and left outside his house until he had withdrawn from heroin. What? Say that again? How long were you out there. ‘I can’t remember,’ he says, ‘it wasn’t the first time either, sometimes he’d kick the shit out of me too.’

That’s where the sadness comes from. His eyes have softened, you don’t just see a big angry person, you see someone who is vulnerable and scared and uses their anger to hideaway from the world, not letting anybody in. He tells you about his kids and he softens more, now you see a loving father who is lost. He doesn’t want his children to see him like this but he doesn’t know how to let go, allow people in so that he can be free. The children are always there in his mind, his guilt adding to the anger.

One day he runs away, you thought he would but you hoped he wouldn’t. You’d spend the days telling him it’s the best place for him to be, that if he goes back out there it’s just going to be the same shit all over again but this time he not make it. He shrugs his shoulders, he’s submitted to his fate, he can’t see a better world for himself. It’s all taken it’s toll, letting go of the small things isn’t enough, he has to let it all out but he can’t, it’s too much. The temptations of the outside world are a slow suicide, he knows that but, another shrug of the shoulders, it doesn’t matter.

Months later, he’s back again, back through the door looking angrier than before. He says he’s back this time to make it work but you know it’s not his choice, he’s been forced to come back. He lasts a couple of weeks and he’s gone again, this time there were no stories, just anger. Another week later and you hear the news. He’s gone, he won’t be coming back through the doors this time, maybe he’s happier. Now it’s your turn to be angry, angry he couldn’t let go of that burden, he could have been a friend for life.

 

In memory of a friend, someone who had more impact than they ever knew. 

People We Meet: Snowy Mountains

People We Meet: Snowy Mountains

High up in the Himalayan mountains, in the north of India there is a village which will forever stay with me. It’s a small village, one amongst a series dotted along a winding road which reaches up to just below the peaks of snow-capped mountains. Each village has a school, usually a room in which one teacher attempts to teach all of the children together. The playgrounds are rocky pieces of land, precarious falls at the edge of them where one slip would mean an unintended trip hundred metres down the side of the mountain. Cows often wander through the playground, walking in front of makeshift cricket stumps made from pieces of rock.

In the evenings when school is over they run off up slopes like mountain goats as you watch, wanting to cover your eyes waiting for their inevitable slip. None of them slip, at the top of the slope they turn and wave back, aware you watching, delighted in proving you wrong. Home they go to do their homework or help with the cow which is tied up in a small courtyard, emerging in the evenings covered in shawls to keep the cold away. In the summer it is a beautiful place but in the winter it is cold and unforgiving, the clouds full of snow slowly making their way down the mountainside before coating the villages.

In the mornings they are back again, walking down the slopes in groups of twos and threes, their mauve jumpers and grey skirts or trousers. Happy to be in school, or just happy to be with friends. To be with friends is the most likely answer. Before the teacher comes out with his hand bell they throw balls to each other, the girls draw squares on the floor and dance around them while holding hands. A stray ball coming into their arena the girls throw it away, scolding the boys for interrupting them.

Their teacher is a harassed looking man, he teaches them everything from maths to History. His English is broken but still he tries his best to use the tattered textbooks to give the students some basic grounding in the language. Over and over they recite a paragraph about their cow, the cow is always black and always fat. Colourful posters with the letters of the alphabet adorn the shabby walls, all of the children are able to recite, except for one, but the other children whisper the answers in his ear as he slowly makes it from A-Z.

One child stands out. His English conversational, having the ability to form sentences beyond his cow being fat and black. He had aspirations too, he wants to be a pilot, he wants to make his family proud. Talking to him you have no doubt he will some day achieve his goal. There’s a desire in his tone of voice, his eyes light up as he talks about his future dreams. It’d be easy to dismiss him, his school is a ramshackle building, his home not much better. He believes in himself though, and you can’t doubt that he will try to achieve his dreams.

When it’s time to go, back to your own country, far away from these mountains, the boy refuses to talk to you. He doesn’t want you to go. For three months the place has been home, in a few days it will just be a place consigned to memory. The boy will be consigned to memory too, but surely he’s much more than that? He’s shown you that without desire and belief, even the smallest of dreams will remain out of reach, never able to be grasped because you never really wanted it.

 

People We Meet: Grass Soup

For two years I lived in a university dormitory in China. Just in front of the dormitory is a patch of grass and behind that there was a small sitting area with a few benches. In the summer I used to sit out there, my nightly routine was to buy myself an iced coffee and an ice cream and just people watch. Each evening an old lady would come along and pick weeds from the grass and put them into a plastic bag. A friend told me it was because she had no money and she would use the weeds to make a soup with.

There was a point when I was in China where everything was going wrong for me. I had four job interviews, each one I got the job only for something happen and it fall through. I was completely skint, I was living on a few quid a week. I ate a bowl of fried rice each night which was my food for the day. I was too proud to tell my mother, I felt like a failure. I’d go and sit in the sitting area each night and feel sorry for myself. Not only was I thousands of miles from home but I had no money either.

One night I was sitting there I was watching the old lady pick the weeds from the grass. Someone passed her by and said something to her. She stood up and smiled and began to have a conversation with the person, she was animated and laughing. She literally had nothing, whereas I, feeling sorry for myself, could make a phone call and get money or I could just go back home where I’d have a bed and food.

Sometimes I would see her with another lady who would have a large black bag which she would carry around filled with plastic bottles. They’d take the plastic bottles to a place which would give them money in return. You often see this in Chengdu, they don’t get much money at all for the bottles probably not more than the equivalent of pennies. They’d spend all day in the oppressive heat or freezing cold, there isn’t much in between in Chengdu, walking around the city looking in dustbins for bottles.

Old people in China have been through unimaginable changes. They would have been young during the times of the Cultural Revolution when all thought was controlled and those who did not conform were vilified, the country turned into chaos. After the death of Mao they would have watched as rampant capitalism took over. A poverty-stricken country which in the space of thirty years became the second largest economy in the world, opening up to the world and all it brings with it. Seeing a youth obsessed with mobile phones and technology while they still have to wander around collecting bottles or picking weeds so as to eat.

After that day I would give her the plastic bottles I had instead of throwing them in the bin. There was genuine gratitude on her face as I handed them over. A bottle is a simple thing, usually you just throw it in the bin without much thought yet for some it’s a lifeline. She spoke in a thick accent which I couldn’t understand so it was difficult to have a conversation with her. I would have like to known more but her but it wasn’t to be.

The two women were a good illustration of getting on with things and doing it with a smile on their face. They weren’t living easy lives, but they lived them and got on with it. Worrying about trivial things which you can solve is a waste of time and energy. Things got better for me not long after that, but those two ladies at least gave me a sense of perspective at a time when I needed it.

People We Meet: A Glass of Water in Laos and the Streets of Phnom Penh

People We Meet: Strangers in the Night

 

 

 

People We Meet: Strangers in the Night

2006 was a dark time. I’d spent the beginning of the year recovering from serious illness and despite dire warnings from doctors I had started to drink again. I was the most lost and frightened I had been.

I’d been out for a night somewhere in South London and got separated from my friends which was usual for me at the time. I found my way to Waterloo station and needed to get back to Euston. There weren’t many night buses in London at that time, I didn’t have any money either so the only way I was going to get there was to walk. I was sitting at a bus stop trying to work out which would be the best way to get up to Euston on foot. Sober, I know London like the back of hand but I wasn’t sober.

Three girls came up to the bus stop and sat next to me, they were drunk too and were commenting on the t-shirt I had on which had George Best on the front. I asked one of them how to get to Euston and she started looking through the night bus timetable for me, she couldn’t find a bus to Euston so she took me by the hand and we walked down the street hand in hand, at the end of the street we both stopped and just stood there looking into each other’s eyes. She let go of my hands and I just walked off into the night, still no idea of how I was going to get where I was going.

At the time I was right in the middle of my madness. I was lonely, and deliberately distanced myself from people. That encounter has always stayed in my mind, it was a rare moment of tenderness from a random stranger. I’d abandoned any hope of having any meaningful relationship because I knew I was incapable of having one.

Later on that night a random stranger also gave me a fiver to get a taxi to Euston. I never asked for it, I’d asked him the quickest way to get there and he put a fiver in my hand. I eventually found my way to Euston station where I stood outside with another group of strangers waiting for the first train. It was a night filled with people I don’t know just being good to each other which is not something you always see. I believe we’re all inherently good and it’s our upbringing and surroundings which influence how we treat people.

When you’re struggling in life, a simple act of kindness can mean so much to a person. You bring a smile to their face, allowing yourself to smile is a better feeling than any drug. It’s a reminder to yourself that it isn’t all bad. So whoever you were, thank you for giving me something to smile about at a time when I was lonely and frightened.

A Long Journey Photos

These photos are to accompany the A Long Journey which I have been writing over the last few days about my story from near death to travelling the world. You can read it here: https://seanhoganblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/02/a-long-journey/ it gives better context to the pictures!

My passport photo from around 2004 or 2005, I’m not entirely sure. It speaks for itself in that I look fucked because I was fucked. A good reminder of where I have come from!

Just after leaving rehab in 2008. Obviously a massive difference between the one above where I looked like I was on my way out.

Outside the Taj Mahal in 2009. I still couldn’t believe I was in India and had only been there for a day or two.

The view from the house I lived in when I was in northern India. There’s nothing better than waking up to snow capped mountains in the morning. The school I taught in was up those mountains. 

The Golden Temple in Amritsar, Punjab which is a holy site for Sikhs. Not too far from the border with Pakistan.

This was the view from the school I was teaching at. Not sure who the people are but I think the lady was picking stones from the rice. Big pile of rubble in the background, no health and safety here!

One of the kids I taught playing cricket in the ‘playground’. 

This was their classroom. 

Some guy I took a photo of. I wish I had it in higher resolution because it’s a brilliant picture. 

First couple of days in Beijing, 2010. I didn’t know how to use chopsticks and eating that hotpot was a struggle. Quickly learned though as otherwise I would have starved!

Enter a caption

Taken from the top of Emei Mountain in Sichuan. Well above the clouds and shows how high up you are.

Obligatory panda. You can’t live in Chengdu without seeing the pandas. 

Chinese countryside, somewhere in Sichuan.

Kids I taught in a school in Chengdu.

Sunrise from the top of Emei mountain in Sichuan.

Leshan Giant Buddha. An incredible thing to see.

Great Wall of China in 2010. All I remember about that day is how hot it was.

Chinese New Year in Chengdu. The writing says ‘Chengdu City 43rd International Panda Light Show’. 

Forbidden Palace in Beijing

Great Wall again.

The main square in Chengdu where there’s a large statue of Mao Zedong. This was during the celebrations for the 61st anniversary of the found of the People’s Republic of China.

Front of the Forbidden Palace in Beijing. The writing says ‘Long Live The People’s Republic of China! Long Live The Unity of the World’s People!’

Leshan Giant Buddha. The people at the bottom give you some perspective as to how large it is.