Monday, 13 June 2011

A trawl through the vaults . . . STARS

This weeks trawl through the short-story archives, picked at random by a small dog made almost entirely out of cheese is . . . 'Stars'.

'Stars' was my first story published at the magnificent Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

As usual with all the stories I write, they sort of find me rather than the other way round.  Sounds like pretentious, I know, but it's true.  So I was laying in bed one night, and this voice crawled into me head.  'Lift up my head,' it said.  The voice was sort of croaky and gurgly, not the voice of a man in a good place, you might say. He continued, 'Let me gaze at the stars one last time.'  And that voice, it kept going round and round and round.  Coukln't stand it no more, so I went downstairs in the early hours and wrote 'Stars'.

And here it is . . .

STARS

'Lift up my head,' he says, quiet, blood slidin out the side of his mouth. 'Let me gaze at the stars one last time.'

Gaze at the stars? Who does he think he fuckin is? But I'm a bit of a softy, me. All heart, you know. And this one is a bit different. So I bend down to him, slip me left hand under his head and lift it up a bit. No good for me back, the bendin down, but I do it anyway. Sort of bloke I am. He tries to talk but there's just a load of blood comes out, and he starts coughin. I back away a bit, still holdin up his head.

Gaze at the stars? Who does he think he fuckin is? But I'm a bit of a softy, me. All heart, you know. And this one is a bit different. So I bend down to him, slip me left hand under his head and lift it up a bit. No good for me back, the bendin down, but I do it anyway. Sort of bloke I am. He tries to talk but there's just a load of blood comes out, and he starts coughin. I back away a bit, still holdin up his head.

He puts his eyes skywards.

There's a car goes by, but no-one can see us here. I mean, who comes to a place like this, this time of night? No fucker, that's who. Less they got a job to do.

Me dad used to bring me up here as a kid. At night. He'd sit me down in the grass and tell me not to move a muscle. He'd know if I did, he said. Then he'd fuck off to the pub for a couple of hours. I'd sit there shakin, listenin to the owls and the wind and the voices what sounded like they was everywhere. But there weren't never no-one here, not that I never saw, anyways. He'd come back for me, all stumblin and pissed . Drag me into the car, and if he saw so much as a tear on me face, he'd beat the shit out of me with his belt when we got back home.

Said it was like the Spartans. Said they had the right idea. Told me they'd leave their littl'uns on the side of a mountain day they was born. Come back the next night. Any still left, you know, still breathin, they'd bring em down and make warriors of em. My dad loved all that shit. Warriors, and that. Said you gotta look after yourself in this life, your loved ones, and that. Know how to handle yourself, you know.

He'd be tellin me all this while he was hittin me with his belt, so I never got it word for word what he was sayin, but I got the gist, you know. Done me the world of fuckin good, mind. Wouldn't be here today if it weren't for my old man and all the lessons I learned off him. Was a tough little fucker growin up. Hard as nails. Still am. I got respect on the manor cos of it, and respect is the most important thing there fuckin is.

His head's gettin heavy. He ain't got long, this geezer. I don't usually get this close. Usually just do the job and fuck off out of there. But this ain't no usual job. Fuck me, it ain't. Didn't really wanna do it, to be honest, but I got me reputation to think of.
I'm tryin not to look in his eyes, but he's sort of draggin me to em just by lookin at me. Sort of forcin me. He's tryin to say something, but there ain't nothing comin out his mouth other than a load more blood. But everything he's sayin, he's sayin with his eyes, like he's lookin right inside me.
There's a wind whipping round us. And it's got cold as fuck.

Me mum, she never knew the half of it. Reckoned she never, anyway. Said me dad was old school, didn't know no other way. She reckoned he loved me to bits, and in his own way he probably did. Never felt like it at the time, mind. And I never saw nothing in his eyes other than hate and black and blood.

When he popped his clogs, me mum never talked about him again. Like he never lived.

He's coughin up again, this geezer. And I'm cradlin him in me arms and he's shiverin and the blood's splatterin all over me face, and the moon's showin blood all over the dog collar thing round his neck and me breath's catchin in me throat.

I tear me eyes away from his face for a sec cos I can't bear it no more.

The gravestones are watchin us. Watchin me. Watchin what I done. What I am.

Fuckin hell.

I'm thinking of them babies on that mountain not havin a fuckin clue why they're cold and why they're scared and hungry and wonderin if this is it, you know, if this is what it's all about.

I pull him close. Lean right in. And there's a tear comes out me eye. Drops on his face. I twist the knife in harder and push it upward, and I let his head go gently onto the grass. Then I lay down next to him.

And look up at the stars.

4 comments:

  1. That last paragraph still sends cold shivers down my back -- the absolute beauty of it is stunning.

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  2. Quality writing this, bud. Even better second time around.

    Regards,
    Col

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  3. Cheers, lads. Still freaks me out a bit, this one. Have never quite worked out what it's about. Every time I read it, it disturbs the darkness a little. Mmm . . . time for a coffee . . .

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