Well I've had quite a weekend! I caught potato in my mouth, nearly had my eyebrows singed and saw Jason Manford live (Bear in mind the first two occured in a Teppan-Yaki restaurant so it wasn't so wierd after all). If only I had an apartment in Manchester on the side, then I could do stuff like that every weekend. Aah... a boy can dream!
Anyway apologies for the lack of posts but hopefully in the coming weeks before christmas they will be flooding in thick and fast! My aim is to try and produce one creative piece a week, churning out some interesting short stories as regular as clockwork that will not only help me flex my creative muscles (which are looking a bit like noodle arms right now) but hopefully bring some enjoyment to any readers that may come across this blog on purpose or even by accident.
This first installment was originally called 'Disposable Personality' which was a bit of a rubbish title to be perfectly honest. I've subsequently called it 'Hot Property' which I'm hoping sounds a bit more exciting.
Part 1
All he could see in front of him were the rolling dunes of an unknown desert. The air around him was thick with heat and the deep blue sky seemed to shimmer as he looked further into the horizon. All that seemed familiar was the small dot of a sun that seemed to be floating on the surface of that great expanse of blue. Larello’s feet sank into the fine sand making him sink ever so slightly. The stale smell of his own sweat hung loosely in his nostrils. The dank moisture tingled nerves in his face as he felt it drip onto his blue dressing gown made of Egyptian cotton. As his descent continued with him staring at his gradually disappearing toes, he got the feeling he should really make a move. After stepping his way out of the ground Larello patted himself down to make sure he was still together physically and mentally. Physically he was all there. Mentally he was worried he had indeed lost it. Why would he be in a desert of all places?
A few more steps and he understood.
The small dot of a sun started to grow larger, and larger as if he was zooming in with a camera and had his finger stuck. Larello started to run, even though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. He could feel the ferocious heat biting his heels and crisping the soles of his feet as the sun blotted out the sky. Then the sand started to ripple beneath him with a loud bang. It dislodged his footing momentarily until the next bang knocked him off his feet with the force. The sand leapt with him as he left the ground and landed with a thud and a face full of golden powder. It snuck into his mouth, his ears, his nose, his eyes. As the ground kept on thumping as if someone were hammering the underside of this desert like a gong, and the sun grew large enough to see its fiery surface, Larello turned over, to meet his fate. All he could think about was that he probably looked bloody ridiculous right about now; grimacing and all that. He always wanted to go out with a bang. Like being shot whilst firing a Gatling gun on the back of a unicorn, riding toward an army of giant ant monsters. You know, something like that.
He awoke so abruptly that he fell straight off his bed onto the hard imitation floorboards. Larello sighed heavily before dragging the curly black hair back off his face as it was tickling his nose. The large master bedroom looked the same. Long sliding wardrobes still had an avalanche of Armani shirts spilling out as if it were throwing up into his room. The desk was strewn with anonymous pieces of paper that almost covered its once-polished surface with the open double glazed door to his balcony in the backdrop. A 60” flatscreen hung motionless on the far wall, with a monstrous crack in the middle stretching to its far edges. The hangover was evident but surely he couldn’t done any of that? He saw a battered looking Grammy below it and the pieces slotted together. (The latest movie, Chasm 3D, had done horribly at the box office) He held his face in his hands and slumped against the bed, half leaning on a bedside table full of magazines covered in his own face.
Larello could still hear the thumping. For a second he thought he was still in the midst of his strange dream, the details of which were already beginning to fade like sand disappearing through an hourglass. Then he heard something else that was a lot more alarming.
“Open up Larello. There’s no point in fighting it, you’re finished!”
The voice was deep, husky and American. He was scared of those voices when he crossed the Atlantic for the first time. How would his prim and proper British accent stand up to a voice full of authority?
Larello stood up and crept towards his bedroom door. He opened it just a crack to see a foot come through his apartment door followed by a black suit and a shiny white bald head. He slammed the door shut and locked it from the inside. One advantage of dramatic yank security; locks on all your doors. Or did he request it?
Several loud steps and the handle turned.
“I’ll give you to the count of three Larello. I could boot doors down all day; it’s what I’m paid for!”
“What do you want Maxwell?”
“John T. wants a word.”
He knew what that meant.
“Look, for fuck’s sake Maxwell. Just give me a second to get dressed!”
He just got a breathy sigh from behind the door.
Larello shuffled over to his wardrobe, pulled on the first shirt to hand, which happened to be a mint green and purple striped number. He grimaced as he put it on. The combination of colour reminded him of neatly arranged vomit. Next a skinny pair of jeans, the previous evening’s underwear and socks, and a battered pair of white converse. He stopped. On the bottom of his foot the tattoo was still there. He hated looking at it. Crossing his legs to look he tried to read the words but could only see one, smaller than small print, just reading ‘Property’.
He needed clarity. Walking over to the desk he pulled out the top drawer and moved more files and scripts covered in coffee rings out of the way. One bottle of Finnigans, one glass. He looked down. Underneath the both of them was a revolver, a Smith and Western if his memory served correctly, though it had been so long since he’d looked at it, burning a hole in the drawer; a bomb waiting to go off. He didn’t know why he’d bought it in the first place. ‘Everyone has a gun over there don’t they? Better to be safe than sorry’ his mother had told him. Always bloody worrying about him.
“Larello, you aren’t going to bail on me are you?”
“Come on Maxwell, you think I’d really do that to a dear friend?”
“Yeah… I’d bet cold hard cash on that fact.”
Larello slammed the glass of Finnigans down his throat and coughed loudly. It went down with a warm pinch that nipped at his vocal chords.
“You do make me laugh Maxwell!” he stuttered.
“Just get dressed you little shit. You’ve got one minute.”
“I’ll only need 10 seconds mate…”
Larello turned and pulled himself together. Samuel should see this. He was still reliable given his years of service as his agent, and the extortionate amount that he paid him probably helped. Time to check out.
He pulled on his brown moleskin coat with his wallet and car keys in and made for the balcony. He could make it down the fire escape leading down the side of the building. Poor Maxwell would be talking to himself for a while.
With a grin he turned but knocked over the Finnigan’s bottle that smashed on the floorboards.
“Right I’ve had enough…” Maxwell shouted from outside.
He burst through the door foot first and crossed the threshold into the master bedroom before being hit in the head from a flying whisky glass. It shattered over his bald head into a thousand crystal shards. Despite it leaving his hand less than a second before though, Larello didn’t even see it, as he had already turned and fled out the balcony. He practically flew down the fire escape himself. He had to talk to Samuel. Samuel could sort out this mess.
“Why run Larello? Sunlight will find you, and then you won’t be running anymore. You’re finished!”
He barely heard Maxwell yelling out of his top floor window as he started up the engine of his 63’ Cadillac and roared down the street towards Jordan Boulevard.
Anyway apologies for the lack of posts but hopefully in the coming weeks before christmas they will be flooding in thick and fast! My aim is to try and produce one creative piece a week, churning out some interesting short stories as regular as clockwork that will not only help me flex my creative muscles (which are looking a bit like noodle arms right now) but hopefully bring some enjoyment to any readers that may come across this blog on purpose or even by accident.
This first installment was originally called 'Disposable Personality' which was a bit of a rubbish title to be perfectly honest. I've subsequently called it 'Hot Property' which I'm hoping sounds a bit more exciting.
Hot Property
Part 1
All he could see in front of him were the rolling dunes of an unknown desert. The air around him was thick with heat and the deep blue sky seemed to shimmer as he looked further into the horizon. All that seemed familiar was the small dot of a sun that seemed to be floating on the surface of that great expanse of blue. Larello’s feet sank into the fine sand making him sink ever so slightly. The stale smell of his own sweat hung loosely in his nostrils. The dank moisture tingled nerves in his face as he felt it drip onto his blue dressing gown made of Egyptian cotton. As his descent continued with him staring at his gradually disappearing toes, he got the feeling he should really make a move. After stepping his way out of the ground Larello patted himself down to make sure he was still together physically and mentally. Physically he was all there. Mentally he was worried he had indeed lost it. Why would he be in a desert of all places?
A few more steps and he understood.
The small dot of a sun started to grow larger, and larger as if he was zooming in with a camera and had his finger stuck. Larello started to run, even though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. He could feel the ferocious heat biting his heels and crisping the soles of his feet as the sun blotted out the sky. Then the sand started to ripple beneath him with a loud bang. It dislodged his footing momentarily until the next bang knocked him off his feet with the force. The sand leapt with him as he left the ground and landed with a thud and a face full of golden powder. It snuck into his mouth, his ears, his nose, his eyes. As the ground kept on thumping as if someone were hammering the underside of this desert like a gong, and the sun grew large enough to see its fiery surface, Larello turned over, to meet his fate. All he could think about was that he probably looked bloody ridiculous right about now; grimacing and all that. He always wanted to go out with a bang. Like being shot whilst firing a Gatling gun on the back of a unicorn, riding toward an army of giant ant monsters. You know, something like that.
He awoke so abruptly that he fell straight off his bed onto the hard imitation floorboards. Larello sighed heavily before dragging the curly black hair back off his face as it was tickling his nose. The large master bedroom looked the same. Long sliding wardrobes still had an avalanche of Armani shirts spilling out as if it were throwing up into his room. The desk was strewn with anonymous pieces of paper that almost covered its once-polished surface with the open double glazed door to his balcony in the backdrop. A 60” flatscreen hung motionless on the far wall, with a monstrous crack in the middle stretching to its far edges. The hangover was evident but surely he couldn’t done any of that? He saw a battered looking Grammy below it and the pieces slotted together. (The latest movie, Chasm 3D, had done horribly at the box office) He held his face in his hands and slumped against the bed, half leaning on a bedside table full of magazines covered in his own face.
Larello could still hear the thumping. For a second he thought he was still in the midst of his strange dream, the details of which were already beginning to fade like sand disappearing through an hourglass. Then he heard something else that was a lot more alarming.
“Open up Larello. There’s no point in fighting it, you’re finished!”
The voice was deep, husky and American. He was scared of those voices when he crossed the Atlantic for the first time. How would his prim and proper British accent stand up to a voice full of authority?
Larello stood up and crept towards his bedroom door. He opened it just a crack to see a foot come through his apartment door followed by a black suit and a shiny white bald head. He slammed the door shut and locked it from the inside. One advantage of dramatic yank security; locks on all your doors. Or did he request it?
Several loud steps and the handle turned.
“I’ll give you to the count of three Larello. I could boot doors down all day; it’s what I’m paid for!”
“What do you want Maxwell?”
“John T. wants a word.”
He knew what that meant.
“Look, for fuck’s sake Maxwell. Just give me a second to get dressed!”
He just got a breathy sigh from behind the door.
Larello shuffled over to his wardrobe, pulled on the first shirt to hand, which happened to be a mint green and purple striped number. He grimaced as he put it on. The combination of colour reminded him of neatly arranged vomit. Next a skinny pair of jeans, the previous evening’s underwear and socks, and a battered pair of white converse. He stopped. On the bottom of his foot the tattoo was still there. He hated looking at it. Crossing his legs to look he tried to read the words but could only see one, smaller than small print, just reading ‘Property’.
He needed clarity. Walking over to the desk he pulled out the top drawer and moved more files and scripts covered in coffee rings out of the way. One bottle of Finnigans, one glass. He looked down. Underneath the both of them was a revolver, a Smith and Western if his memory served correctly, though it had been so long since he’d looked at it, burning a hole in the drawer; a bomb waiting to go off. He didn’t know why he’d bought it in the first place. ‘Everyone has a gun over there don’t they? Better to be safe than sorry’ his mother had told him. Always bloody worrying about him.
“Larello, you aren’t going to bail on me are you?”
“Come on Maxwell, you think I’d really do that to a dear friend?”
“Yeah… I’d bet cold hard cash on that fact.”
Larello slammed the glass of Finnigans down his throat and coughed loudly. It went down with a warm pinch that nipped at his vocal chords.
“You do make me laugh Maxwell!” he stuttered.
“Just get dressed you little shit. You’ve got one minute.”
“I’ll only need 10 seconds mate…”
Larello turned and pulled himself together. Samuel should see this. He was still reliable given his years of service as his agent, and the extortionate amount that he paid him probably helped. Time to check out.
He pulled on his brown moleskin coat with his wallet and car keys in and made for the balcony. He could make it down the fire escape leading down the side of the building. Poor Maxwell would be talking to himself for a while.
With a grin he turned but knocked over the Finnigan’s bottle that smashed on the floorboards.
“Right I’ve had enough…” Maxwell shouted from outside.
He burst through the door foot first and crossed the threshold into the master bedroom before being hit in the head from a flying whisky glass. It shattered over his bald head into a thousand crystal shards. Despite it leaving his hand less than a second before though, Larello didn’t even see it, as he had already turned and fled out the balcony. He practically flew down the fire escape himself. He had to talk to Samuel. Samuel could sort out this mess.
“Why run Larello? Sunlight will find you, and then you won’t be running anymore. You’re finished!”
He barely heard Maxwell yelling out of his top floor window as he started up the engine of his 63’ Cadillac and roared down the street towards Jordan Boulevard.
Part 2 Coming Soon...
I've been to poetry slams before, but never with a razor sharp comedy edge and an open invitation for contestants of any skill. Some really tickled me, but some just lulled the packed Northern Pub on Oldham Street into stony silence. I was in position at the back of the pub, tallying the scores and acting as official whistle-blower for acts that took over 3 minutes delivering their material. Between hit and miss compering by Julian Daniels there was some cracking poetry and a marvellous stint by Marvin cheeseman whose joke;
