I’ll Take The Stairs

I'll-take-the-stairs

 

“I’ll take the stairs,” he said.
He knew his colleagues thought him weird. Who works on the 25th floor and takes the stairs every day?
He had tried it once, but the panic had been unbearable. All he could hear was the grinding gurgling sound. All he could feel was the scratching fear of loneliness. The vulnerability of that moment in his little body trapped in that metal box, clinging to his satchel while the tears blurred the horror before him. The endless time he spent there while the big yellow men with screeching machines cut through the sealed doors, then lifted him away from his unmoving mother. Her eyes staring at him without the life force he knew so well. He never heard her voice again. He never felt her warm body holding his. They took her away on some wheels, all tucked in, even her head. The next time he saw her was in the silk lined box. He remembered thinking it looked more comfy than the big metal box they’d last been in together, when she’d clutched at her chest and told him everything would be ok.
He always used the stairs after that. It was good for the heart anyway.

 

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Newborn

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Her feet hurt, as if the shopping centre floor were made of shards of glass. She stopped at a convenient bench embedded within a wall of freshly planted council flower display. The smiling purple and yellow pansies giggled at her in the slight breeze, nodding and cajoling each other. She made sure she caught the heads of some as she swept her bags onto the bench. She only had five bags, one Prada – carried on the outside of the stack at all times – and the rest from various high end fashion outlets, but she felt like she’d been carrying a sack of potatoes for the last hour. She placed her hands into the small of her back and stretched. Her huge belly protruded before her, rotund with a joyous small human. A now quite heavy joyous small human. This would probably be the last time Judith could visit her favourite shops before she went into labour. Three days from her due date and Judith was excited to welcome her second little girl into the world. Excited to lose this huge bulge from her front. Excited to fit into her designer dresses once more, after a few sessions on the Abs-Master, of course. She sat on the council bench, pushing her back into its curved comfort and felt the gratefulness soak through her calves and into her feet. She was considering removing her heels, when…
“Room for a few more, love?”
The woman smelled of the underside of a bridge. A dilapidated bridge over a disused canal. Her ragged hair matched that of the two young girls standing with her: a dirty black, more knots than hair. The woman was smiling greedily. Her whole face contorted in on itself as she did so, making her stained teeth brandish themselves forcefully. The two children, pale, with lost eyes, stared. Judith recoiled.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
Glad that her bags were taking up most of the rest of the bench, Judith turned away from the three grubby females towards the comfort of her shopping, bringing a delicate hand to her nose to alleviate its distress.
“Is tha’ any way to treat your fellow kind?” said the woman, holding the two pale faced girls close to her. But Judith did not see her. Instead, she fumbled in her bag, smelling the shop she’d bought her new shoes from within it, hoping to get lost in reliving the experience rather than staying in this stinky reality. As she glided through the aisles of designer shoes she could hear a muttering coming from the outside world. She touched the velvet soft Jimmy Choos, the smell of dead animal skin, processed for her enjoyment, and the muttering faded. She felt a drop of something wet hit her ankle, but when she turned again to face reality there was no rain, there was no woman, no girls. There was just her and her bags, and a damp pool around her shoes.

Twelve hours later, on 23rd May 2016, Judith sat in her hospital bed while Abbey, aged five, had a tantrum on the pale blue disinfected floor. Colin, Abbey’s adoring father, had just finished crying, mostly relieved he’d carried out his perfectly planned emergency birthing procedure and delivered his wife safely to the hospital so that she may deliver their new daughter just as safely. He’d even managed to get a grumpy Abbey to sleep on the plastic chairs in the waiting area some time in the early morning hours, for a bit at least. He just hoped his parents would arrive soon to take the sobbing girl away from what should be this peaceful moment. Abbey needed attention, and lots of it. Colin knew it was only a matter of time before she worked out that she wasn’t centre of attention in this situation. That, along with the disrupted night’s sleep and lack of red crayon, had finally brought about an extraordinary outburst of pent up despair. He was sure he’d get an earful from his mother, having cut their luxury spa weekend short upon his urgent call, but what else could he do? It was part of the emergency birthing procedure. His father would understand that. A tiny gurgle in between Abbey’s gasps for breath reminded him it was all worth it. The brand new little girl looked up at Judith with unfocused eyes. Judith remembered the purchase of her first Chanel handbag, and the kindred emotion of the moment filled her eyes.
Two healthcare assistants were still clearing up around the now family of four, and another large bottomed nurse slipped through the door with a fresh jug of water and a huge bunch of rainbow flowers.
“These are from…” she studied the card embedded within the bunch, “…Barbara and Peter.”
“Oh, my parents are here?” said Colin, hopefully.
“Yes, they’re outside. I said I’d check how you were doing first.”
The nurse placed the flowers in yet another vase. A seemingly endless supply was inside the small cupboard next to Judith’s bed. Abbey, having noted the audience numbers increasing, screamed loudly.
“Good,” said Colin, and almost too efficiently gathered up the scattering of crayons and colouring books, Mr Fluffy the Penguin, and Abbey.
“Looks like Mummy’s not the only tired one round here,” laughed the nurse, who seemed immune to the formidable piecing screams coming from the small child. “I think we all need some rest, hmm?”
The suggestion felt more like an order. The lingering large brown eyes of the nurse confirmed this. Colin was used to decoding those sorts of looks. He kissed his wife and new baby girl gently as if he could break them, and took Abbey to see her grandparents.
The nurses, rosy with a job well done, smiled and left her to sleep. And Judith slept.

When she woke she was sore. To be expected. Except this sore felt different to her last stay in hospital when Abbey was born. The usual soreness was there but it felt like an extra weight was bearing down on top of it all. She pulled herself up, and at once the horrifying lump made itself known. Had she dreamt the twelve hour labour? No. The cards and flowers were still there. The ‘It’s A Girl!’ balloon still bobbed in the corner. And she could still hear the soft breaths of her baby daughter mingled with the dull conversation from beyond her private room. Yet her swollen belly lay before her. Judith prodded it. It didn’t hurt. She smoothed her hand over the mound, pressing slightly in the hope of some escaping wind. Then something from within the lump pressed back. Without taking her eyes away from this horrifying situation before her, Judith hit the red button to the side of her bed. Eventually a nurse rushed into the room.
“All right, Judith, love, you can stop pressing your call button now,” said the nurse; the same large bottomed nurse who’d produced the endless vases. This flash of recognition happened in the back of Judith’s mind, as did the instruction to stop pushing the button. But, unable to process anything else, Judith continued pressing the button until the nurse took her hand from it.
“It’s moving,” struggled Judith, pointing her protruding blue eyes towards her engorged belly. The nurse unbuttoned Judith’s silk night shirt and revealed the lump. She massaged its edges, her eyes wandering about the room. She jumped, then stepped back.
“What?”
But the nurse didn’t reply.
“Er…” she stammered, backing away. “There must be some internal bleeding,” she said, grasping for the door handle, unable to remove her eyes from what shouldn’t be possible. “I’ll get the doctor.”

The doctor’s face changed from concern to puzzlement as she listened to Judith’s swollen stomach. Without saying a word the doctor hurriedly left the room and returned swiftly with another doctor. This doctor repeated the process and the same expressions adorned her face as the first doctor. They both listened. They fetched another doctor. The echocardiogram machine was wheeled in, the gel applied, and all stared intently at the monitor. There was much nodding, chin rubbing, and exchanged glances with furrowed brows. Just before the third doctor managed to say they’d be right back for the fourth time, Judith broke.
“What the hell is going on?” she snapped.
The first doctor stepped forward. Or rather her colleagues stepped backwards, leaving her exposed for explanation duties.
“Mrs Richards,” said the doctor, approaching Judith nervously, “I’m afraid… I mean, I’m happy to tell you you’re pregnant?” Inflected by the questioning tone, the statement assured Judith that this was indeed an anomaly in the mind of the doctor as well as herself. They weren’t prepared for this. Their three bedroom, two acre home with heated garden room couldn’t accommodate three children’s needs. Their 4×4 only had two back seats with considerable storage space. And they’d only bought a single Armani baby nest travel system. How would they cope?

That night, after only two hours, Judith gave birth to a beautiful daughter. She lay in the cot next to her newborn sister. A confused Colin had managed to deposit a disgruntled Abbey at her grandparents’ just in time for the unexpected happy arrival. The doctor said it must have been twins all along, just didn’t register on the machine at any point during the four 3D or the two 4D ultrasounds or the three abdominal examinations, even though they were paid for privately and done by several different consultants. “One must have been behind the other on every occasion,” the doctor had laughed. Judith and Colin had laughed too.
More cards arrived. More balloons bobbed. More vases appeared. As they explained the situation to the endless stream of visitors Colin and Judith came to believe the doctor’s story themselves. Colin cried, again. He kissed his wife and left to relieve his parents of their granddaughter. Then Judith slept.

She woke with a start and pressed the buzzer immediately. The same fat bottomed nurse had barely stuck her head round the door before her eyes widened and she ran down the corridor to fetch the doctor. The doctor arrived, then the next, and the next. The machines were plugged in, the monitor whirred softly to life, revealing the random blue grey shapes that somehow melded into the form of ten toes attached to two globular feet. Ignoring the impossibility of triplets being missed throughout a whole nine months of pregnancy, the doctors helped Judith through her third labour in three days. After only an hour the soft breaths of a third little girl joined her sisters. When the fourth sister came the next day Judith was moved to a more private private room. Somewhat larger than the other room, this room had no windows, no wi-fi, and no telephone. And after the fifth baby girl arrived Judith understood the cautious actions of her privately paid doctors.

In the moments between births Judith tried to rest. She tried to distract herself by picturing her favourite shoes on the blackness of her eyelids, but she could not get the image of that woman at the council bench out of her mind. Only she remembered something different. The pansies were still there, laughing at her. Her feet still throbbed. But the woman wasn’t smiling greedily as Judith thought she should remember. Instead, the woman was muttering words that seemed to fly into Judith’s body. The contorted face and stained teeth distorted as the murky blackness left the woman’s wide mouth, and invisible spears of her disgusting breath sunk into Judith’s skin, crawling through her. The two pale girls smiled while they watched. They told Judith something with their silent eyes. They would be safe now. And she slept.

A flustered Colin paid for a nanny to assist with the barrage of nappy changing and cyclical feeding schedule. Judith didn’t have too much trouble accepting she wouldn’t be able to breastfeed as all the magazines had told her to, and when the fourth and fifth nanny arrived to join the army of carers Judith happily showed them where the cupboards, later to be rooms, of formula were kept. The next baby arrived, then the next. One a day seemed to be the routine. The doctors considered sound-proofing the rooms on the advice of the legal team, should an unscrupulous member of staff decide they needed some extra holiday money from the Daily Fail. Feeding time was when they were most vulnerable. The 26th nanny suggested Colin invest in some earplugs, which he did, and got a discount for such a large order. One after the other they came. All girls. A new one each day. Another sister, another daughter. More soreness. More pain. Until, on 23 May 2017, while her 365th baby slept soundly, Judith awoke to a different soreness. A lighter one. It was over.

The chorus of hungry babies rang through the concealed hospital rooms as the army of 146 nannies marched into action. Machine upon machine mixed up batches of formula. Boxes of nappies were wheeled in on trolleys. Shrink-wrapped bundles of baby wipes made their way towards toxic bottoms in hurried porter’s hands, and stoic doctors awaited the page that never came. As unbelievable as the situation was, all these people knew these lives were precious. Each baby individual. Each to be someone unique. Each worth the time and effort, the care and love, even if all they could give back right now was stinky gifts. Judith slumped in her bed, her home for the last year. She thought of Colin. She thought of Abbey. She listened to her children’s call and vowed on the life of her Dolce & Gabbana earmuffs to always be nice to strangers as if they were her own. Even ones that smelled of canal.

 
 

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Under the Weather

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“But it’s not my fault it’s raining!” I exclaimed to the officer who’d just placed the handcuffs round my wrists.

“They’re designed to expand. It’s what I pay for them to do,” I said.

The officer had now chained me to the nearest lamppost while waiting for his colleagues from homicide. He was inspecting the scene carefully, occasionally stopping, looking at me, then shaking his head as he wandered to the next pair of legs protruding from the saturated white mass in the middle of the shopping precinct.  Sales assistants peered from doorways and stock room windows. The busker had stopped playing his ukulele version of I Want to Break Free and was trying to decide what, if anything, he could play next. Dogs sat, tied to lampposts and drainpipes, looking sorrowfully at me. A line of Motability scooters formed, and grey ladies peered over their baskets through magnified eyes and under plastic headscarves, lips dangling like dried apricots. Babies dribbled in bulky pushchairs wondering why their mothers had curtailed their journey. The joins between the crazy paving were slowly taking on a red hue, dribbling its way like carefully constructed rivers, bits of pigeon scattered on their banks. A discarded McDonald’s chip floated on one of the rivers, like a lost un-nutritious boat that will never rot. Of the next victim, only his feet remained, beshoed and soggy. The force of the suck had ripped the rest of him from them. His torso must be in the process of absorption. Soon the gathering crowd would be able to see the delicate pink stain within the whiteness.

“A sorry state of affairs,” said the policeman, shaking his head.

It appears, you see, that you shouldn’t leave your pocket open in the rain when it contains the super absorbent deluxe maxi expandie tampon. People may get seriously hurt.

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The Locket

The-Locket

Ever since she could remember the locket had always been there in her mother’s jewellery box. It looked old. She had never seen her mother wearing it. It was silver with a pattern made of dirt. Naturally ornate, curling and curving over its oval figure. It was beautiful. Something to treasure. Something important, judging by its enclosed existence inside its red velvet bed on her mother’s oak dressing table. The clasp was stuck fast so the contents of the locket had always been a secret. It remained a fascination to her in any case, and she’d sit and fold it between her fingers, let it dangle delicately from her hands, spinning and twirling its patterns like a fairy dance.

She remembered hazy dreams when she sneaked through her mother’s creaky bedroom door, not treading on the loose, painted floorboard with her right foot, over the spongy pile of the bedside rug, snugly on her naked feet, to the big oak dressing table. She remembered opening the heavy lid and letting it rest on its hinges, its plush redness inviting her in. The seductive beauty of it. The locket was the first thing she looked for, and the first thing she found. She remembered the click of the clasp as it opened effortlessly. The small yellowing parcel inside, the faded photograph. It told her its story. A sad and frightening story. The pain coursed through the locket’s dirty curves while she listened, and felt. A story she could never forget, but one that she never remembered. For dreams only.

One day her mother found her with the locket and was very angry. Far too angry. It was only a locket; she wasn’t breaking it. Her mother snatched it away from her and took it with her as she left the room full of cross words. The locket didn’t return to the jewellery box for ages after that day. Instead she tried on her mother’s rings of gold and red, playing with the light that sparkled in them. Broaches that creaked when she opened the pin, the years of flint encrusting the hinge, always blue. She made snake nests with the silver chains in the bottom of the box, swirling them round so that they lived. But nothing could enchant her more than that locket, and her time spent with the box grew less and less because of its absence. Until the day of her 13th birthday.

She had a new dress, the colour of shepherd’s delight. Her mother suggested a ring from her jewellery box as her little girl was nearly a grownup now. She hurried up the stairs, her new dress flowing behind her, square heeled shoes clomping on each step. As she lifted the lid and the crimson velvet warmed her eyes she spotted it. The locket. As beautiful as she remembered it some years ago. She took it into her hands, immersed in its ornate dirt, feeling its round edges between her fingers and thumb. She smiled her broadest smile and rushed to her mother, who was wearing her green fruit apron while she prepared butterfly cakes for the party. Her mother turned abruptly at her daughter’s wild excitement as she flung herself round the door, hanging from the frame. She held out the locket to her mother, pleading with her to let her wear it. But instead of seeing her mother’s kind eyes melt into acquiescence, she saw the fearful whites of them twist into uneasy rage.

Her mother shouted at her so loudly that the ringing in her ears lasted until the next week. She thought about what had happened for a long time after. Her mother had said sorry to her, but told her not to touch the locket again – she’d thought she’d hidden it and didn’t know how it ended up back in the jewellery box. It must mean a lot to her. But she never wore it. It wasn’t fair.
She didn’t see it again. Many birthdays passed, and many changes came. The locket nearly faded into nothingness.

Nearly.

Years passed, and new life came. Her mother deteriorated quickly. She did what she could to look after her, visited her every day, taking her granddaughter as a reminder of happiness.

She found her mother one evening, around seven. There was blood where she’d hit her head falling against the big oak dressing table. Her eyes were closed. Sleeping, endlessly. The open jewellery box blazed against the dark wood; the locket wasn’t there.

She cleared the house, apart from the odd bit of furniture. It wasn’t important. As it stood there on that patch of ground with lifeless windows, the house became something to get rid of. But nobody wanted it. So it was just left to fade away.

A squirrel moved in. Holding a fresh acorn between his teeth, he found his way to his stash behind a barren arm chair then scampered his scratchy claws up the abandoned stairs and across the peeling floorboards, over the one that creaked. It snapped in two under his weight, and the broken section lifted and rocked with a tingling squeak. A silver chain hung on its corner, weighted by its oval burden. The ornate pattern danced like dirty snakes as it twisted in the air. Below it, a dusty pine casket peered from the dark hollow, small as a child. A baby. Running from its home’s disturbance, a spider hurried across the small wooden plaque on top of the casket. The dust danced in the stale air. Gold writing glinted in the sunlight, almost as though enjoying the warmth of its rays for the first time in so long.

“Born asleep. Forever remembered.”

 

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Unfair

unfair

The scream pierced the bright room and wound its way through the ears of the tall humans sipping their coffee. Freya watched them ignore her. The frustration welled in her small stomach, which was still not filled with sweets. The unfairness stabbed at her eyes, making them fuzzy with water. From the bottom of her nappy-clad bowels the next outburst pushed its way up, through her body, rippling at her internals and out of her wide mouth, now with a full set of milky teeth.
 
 
The piercing roar echoed around the clean walls. More tall humans turned their heads in her direction. They could plainly see she was strapped into her chair with wheels, Lolly the sheep resting on her knees, and, most importantly, the lack of any sweet based objects which she so desperately craved. Why were they being so cruel? What had she done to them? Is this what being alive means? Deprivation? Denial? Languishing for hours, days, months on end in various sitting positions while the tall humans with their sweet purchasing abilities watched her torment.
 
 
Bastards!
 
 

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Rubber

52 storiesrubber-with-text

Rubber grinned as he fell through the air, watching the sky disappear, the top of the building get smaller, and the rush of wind thundering past his ears. His friends paused, wide mouthed, clutching their tequila shots from their boredom induced game they’d just invented entitled ‘Tequila Slammers on the Windowsill’. All three of them had licked the salt off their hands and then leaned back at the same time, downing their drinks, but only two of them had returned to the upright position ready to suck on their lemon slices.

His real name was Robert, which his mum had shortened to Robbie when he was a baby, then added the nickname that stuck after the sixth time he fell out of his baby seat and bounced. Rubber Robbie, the bouncy kid. Catchy. He’d fallen off numerous things as a child and bounced right onto his feet again. No tears. Just a giggle and off he went. As Rubber grew his childhood boinginess never left him. He’d fallen from trikes, bikes, swings, slides, walls, wardrobes, and many trees. He’d bounced off lino, carpet, grass, woodchip, concrete, asphalt, marble, rock, and even steel, and each time he’d bounced just like a tyre, or a spring, or a rubber band ball, and got up and walked away unharmed.

Once he fell from the top of a multi-storey car park after a particularly violent argument with his girlfriend and her, it turned out, not ex-boyfriend. The huge hairy man had pushed Rubber over the wall with his hammer like arms. He’d resembled a gurning gibbon, thought Rubber, just before he plummeted 200 feet towards the pavement, in complete calm silence. The man with the hammer like arms maintained his puzzled expression from the 20th story when Rubber got up, brushed the cigarette ends off his jeans, and walked off, turning to wave to his aggressor who couldn’t contemplate how to get to the ground as quickly as Rubber had in order to finish the job.

This is why, as Rubber fell from the window, he wasn’t too bothered about it. He’d bounce, as usual, get up, and walk away. He hadn’t noticed the black railings that led up to the steps and curled around to the door. Shiny and sparkling in their glossy paint. Tall, thin, each with a beautiful hand crafted split spike on top.

The pop was heard in the next town. The mess took the local council ages to clear up. Blood spatters were found for weeks afterwards and a reluctant council employee was despatched with scrubbing brush and paint. Mavis found Rubber’s little finger in her geraniums a week later, and left it out for the birds along with a few bacon rinds. She noticed how they seemed to have to chew on it quite vigorously before swallowing. Must be a bit rubbery, she thought.

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Chav

chav

 

“Got a fag mate?”
“No.”
The chav sneered at my lack of charitable assent.
“Got 20p for the phone then?”
“No.”
His eyes fill with the further unfairness of life. He jitters in his skin, hands firmly in his thin coat pockets. Agitation spurs him on.
“No need for that is there?” he barks at my stoic face.
Not to exacerbate the situation, and purely out of need, I produce a fully formed cigarette from my baccy pouch and light its delightful end. The excess smoke engulfs the Eastmoorlian creature and he splutters with pretend distress.
“All right, mate. No need to rub it in, innit.”
“You can’t rub smoke in,” I say, informatively.
His lack of words portrays his disbelief at this cold hearted fag bearer whose wanton malice makes his bitterness spurt fountains of bile within his Gregg’s filled stomach.
“Please mate, just one, eh?”
I pull another freshly rolled cig from my pocket and place it in his grubby hands.
“Make sure you breathe it in nice and deep,” I say, as I generously offer a flame to spark his desire. And he follows my instruction, nice and deep, into his squishy lungs, into his corrupted blood, into his body and soul.
He coughs.
I think he’s trying to thank me, but the melting flesh from his throat must be catching the words.
He coughs. Then hacks.
The red stuff falls from his mouth. He tries to speak, something to do with “What the f…” But he coughs again. The pool of bloody lung cajoles around his ragged trainers.
“Why don’t you take another drag?” I say.
I think he saw my satisfied smirk as I left, framed by the concrete pavement and chunks of his own innards.

 

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