pointlessness in an electronic box

I'm not evn sure I'm payin attention to this anymore let alone anyone else. But if you are out there (Carl?) then here is a little bit more. I just haven't had time to do anything for months now. Not even write junk on the intramanet late at night. So just to prove I am still alive in blogland, here are some words.

IV

The survivor did not open his eyes at first. Consciousness dawned with a whole new fear. He felt hard nylon sheets against his skin. He listened. A rthymic bleeping that matched his hearbeat and only his breathing in the silence beyond it. Antiseptic stung his nostrils, after so long in the hold his nose had bcome innured to smell. so long had he been locked in the fetid stench that he had become inured. His eyes snapped open. The hospital room was hard white on pupils that had seen only darkness for the days he had been locked in the hold, to scared to sleep. He raised his hand to examine the pulse monitor wired to his wrist but movement in his peripheral vision jolted him. A nurse stopped at the wide window to his room, starring at him over a clipoard. He blinked at her. She turned and walked out of view. A wooziness crawled up his spine and into his head.

"You look well." said Gray. "Very well."
The survivor slowly widened his eyes and scanned the questioner and the suited man next to him, who repeated the unfamiliar noises in words he recognised.
For the first time he could speak to the man who pulled him from that hole.
"Are you police?" asked the stranger.
"Yes, I am. Tell me your name."
"I am Tamas Vadas."
Gray absorbed the information. He nodded to himself and said: "You are still not well yet so I will spare you questions for now but I want you to think about what has happened so that when we do talk about it tomorrow you will be prepared for it. I will ask you just one question now. How did you survive?"
Vadas turned his face to the window. "I know you will not believe me but I do not know. The last thing I remember is a woman tending to my fever. Then I think I slept. When I woke ..." he turned back to face the policeman, his throat quivering and his shotgun eyes disintegrating. "I woke in hell."
Gray felt his teeth pressing together as the smell of the hold flooded the room. He beckoned to the interpreter with a finger wheeled out of the room, stopping at the door. He next words were delivered slowly.
"Mr Vadas, you need to think very carefully about what you will say to me tomorrow. Or you risk swapping one hell for another."
"And if you think about what I will tell you," snapped Vadas, "you will understand that a cage is the best place for me."

random observation at 1.45am on Saturday November 8, 2009
Facebook instant messenger has just found me chatting with a girl I once fondled in a lane at an age when I shouldn't have been fondling girls in lanes. Is that a good thing or a bad thing. What do you say to each other? We had a strangely intimate conversation for an oddly long time. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Threedom

Afrika bambaataa,
It's transfer dealine day for a few more seconds ... now it's Tuesday. Have United signed Berbatov? Have they? I need to know. Anyway, while I sadly wait up here at 00.13am waiting to find out I thought I'd add some words to the wordalarium. First time in a while I know, but I've been away, ill, busy and rubbish at different times over the last month BUT, on Saturday, I was at a fete thing and a human male told me he had subscribed to this blog! Crazy shitweasel. But it gave me the kick up there arse I needed (cheers Carl) so here is another messy chapter of literals, clumsy sentences and unvarnished wordturds.
Chakka Demus and out
III
Silence filled the container again. Another puff of air somewhere to his right. Then another. And another. Rhythmic.
Breathing?
Gray felt his gut roll again as the thought struck him like a hammer to the face. A survivor?
As he turned slowly his beam of light illuminated violently painted walls. They spoke of struggle. The hyroglyphics of death. Bloody handprints scrabbled up and down the walls like a children's painting class spun out of hand. But then a flash of diamonds in the darkness. A pair of arrow white eyes looking at him. Gray moved closer but the eyes didn't move. The body didn't move. Yet there was clear life. Those eyes were burning with lucidity, focussed like shotgun barrells on the approaching figure.
Gray's disbelief rendered him momentarilly silent. But then he spoke.
"Are you hurt? Do you need medical help? Medic?"
For the first time the eyes blinked in the light, the body vanishing without their light. Gray aimed the torch. The man was sitting against the wall, huddled up cross legged. Clutching his knees to his chest. He was naked. Drenched in the bloodwater, his hair matted and dark with flecks of flesh, stuck to him like shrapnel. Comprehension and Gray were divorced.
"Can you walk? Can you climb?" he asked, pointing at the ladder.
The man did not move. Those eyes resumed their stare. Gray crouched down, his overcoat heavy as its tails floated on the bloodwater. He held out a hand.
"I won't hurt you. Friend," he said, resting his hand on his hear. "I will help you."
The eyes stared a few seconds longer, it felt like hours, before his lips began to shiver into life.
"H-h-h" he stammered, before releasing a word that sounded like a question. "Hold?"
"Yes, we'll get you out of the hold," said Gray reaching down to take the man by the arms and pick him to his feet. The man stood quickly, his wirey frame unnaturally strong. Gray took him to the bottom of the ladder, where the reflection of a pregnant moon shimmered on the moving blood.
"No! No, no," growled the man, suddenly fierce, flashing back into his corner and pushing his back up tight against the wall. "Nen. Hold. Nen hold, nen hold," he repeated over and over as tears began streaming down his face, running into the blood matted in his chest hair, crimson tears running down a stomach that was ghostly white beneath dried bloodstains.
"Farkas. Hold. Farkas. Hold," he garbled, pointing first at the skylight and then at his chest. "Farkas. Hold. Farkas. Hold."

Random observation at 00.18 on Sept 2, 2008. I thought Mark Hughes had waded into the shit with his mouth open at Man City but he's just pulled a million flowers out of his arse. Did he know about this takeover when he joined? Or has luck just dealt him a whole can of penis polish and a nice big rag?

A Chapter two far?

For anyone out there who is paying attention, this is the second chapter of the story I'm working on. Progress is slow because I'm not putting a huge amount of time into it, I hope to change that. Again, remember that this is unedited stuff, strictly first draft work, so look out for the odd typo or spelling error. A prize bullock to the person who doesn't point them all out to me.

Second bit.
Cheap shoes will always come back to haunt a man. Fortunately the water that splashed around Gray's feet was warmer than he expected, heated by bodies, hot sticky bodies giving up their heat. In the stillness of 80 corpses, air still circulated, puffing, as the bodies bequeathed carbon dioxide. The room breathed like an animal.
As the ship bobed in the dock, the water in the container lapped higher up his trouser legs, and when Carthage dropped three steps from the bottom of the ladder he splashed water thigh-high on his commanding officer. On a cold night, that was unwanted. But the warm black water didn't chill him.
"We've sprung a leak Sarge," said Carthage, his feet sliding slighly as he landed. "I'l get the bellows shall I?
"What?" said Gray, quizzically
"The bellows. To pump... "
"No, the first thing you said. A leak?
"Yeah. A leak. This is a ship's storage container isn't it. The one thing it's supposed to be is water tight."
Gray felt his stomach roll. He whipped the torch from his coat like a revolver and aimed it at the ground. When he flicked the swich, sure enough there was blood. A lake of blood. The warm liquid lapping at their feet was black in the darkness but an unmistakable dirty crimson in the small fullmoon of the torchlight.
"Jesus," said Carthage, turning his face away from the floor, searching for a section unsaturated by blood and settling on the night sky directly up through the entry hatch.
Gray closed his eyes tight. The room blew a sinister puff of air. He steadied himself and stepped forward, barely three shoe lengths before his foot struck something heavy, but not heavy enough to float away in the water when the contact was made. Gray stiffened his grip on the torch and aimed it down. It was the colour of drownwed skin, it was the size and shape of a torso, it was eviscerated like an upturned turtle shell and limbs were entirely absent. Head too. He felt his legs buckle. A wave of woozines hit his knees and he swayed like a drunk in the wind. As he reeled his torch beam spewed light around the cavern and illuminated a swamp of heads and limbs. A human casserole with faces bobbing like potaoes in gravy. Torn flesh, ripped like paper from the gift of life. The smell suddenly overwhelmed him. Faeces. Vomit. Blood. Gray bumped backwards against Carthage who was mouthing silent words to himself, his lips twitching.
"Inspector," said Carthage, his tongue struggling with what seemed like a foreign word.
"I want you up those steps Sergeant. I want floodlights in here ASAP."
Carthage needed no second invitation. His fear-frozen limbs suddenly found their motor skills and he squeezed the rungs of the ladder tightly as he began his climb to the safety of the night.
"Peter," said Gray, halting his partner momentarily in his climb. "No-one else comes down here until I say so. No-one sees this if they don't need to."
Carthage's shoes clanged up the metal ladder, echoing around the container, the noise bouncing off the walls until he was over the top and away from earshot beyond a parting comment to someone topside.
"It's a fucking meatbath," said the voice, trailing away.

Random thought at 21.09 on MOnday July 4. I wanted to go and watch The Mist at the cinema tonight but it's no longer showing. Rubbish. With all this tv on demand malarky, and swanky new digital projectors rather than limited numbers of film reels, when will we get cinema on demand? The I could watch The Explorers on a big screen anytime I wanted.

Next step

Ok then, someone, no names mentioned Bernie, said they might be interested in reading what I'm thinking about writing as per my last post. Its taken so long to make another post because my 18th century brain can't keep track of the fact that I now have three email accounts, all with passwords that are similar enough to be slightly maddening when i can't remember them. Anyway, below you will see a chapter or so from a short story I am sketching out. Please bear in mind this is simply writing from the top of my head with no research and no redrafting, its like having brain-shits, it comes out in a slurry and there's a lot of cleaning up to be done afterwards. Grit your eyes and read.

Chaper ??
THE door to the storage bay groaned open, four forearms taking the strain to prevent the iron clanging mercilesly in the cold November quiet.
Steam rose from the darkness, as if the cavity were breathing.
On the underside of the hatch were industrial claw marks, patterned like fingers on a hand but the indentations too deep to be made by man on metal.
The slight movement beneath his feet unsteadied him as the giant vessel queased on the water, the sea's long reach ending at the harbour walls to create a rough swell. His legs were strong enough, his stomach stronger, but the water and the smell weakened both.
That smell. Hot. Rich. He recognised the gasses of decomposition, but much stronger. Intensified and multiplied.
"So what do we know?" asked Gray, his eyes wandering across the black horizon.
"Everything and nothing," replied Carthage. "Captain Pugwash there called us an hour ago. This ship is just in from Budapest. It seems his Roger the Cabin Boy opened the hatch on arrival to unload his naughty cargo and the next thing Pugwash hears is Roger screaming."
Gray's eyes raised to the upper deck where the captain, just about audible, was giving his staement to an officer in accented but excellent English.
"Where is the cabin boy now?" asked Gray, keeping his words short as the air chilled his tongue.
"In the ambulance. Been unconcious since we got here. Paramedic says he's fine. Likely in shock."
"Shock?" said Gray flatly, lowering his gaze to his shoes as he dropped his cigarette onto the deck and ground it out with a worn leather sole that had seen better days.
"What's so shocking?"
Carthage shook his head. "Don't know yet. Pugwash says Roger said one word before he passd out. 'Farkas'. No idea what it means. My Hungarian is as bad as Pugwash's English."
"The captain's English sounds fine to me, Sergeant. Bring him down," said Gray, stiffening his back as his buttoned coat blew tight against his legs in an icey gust. When the wind kicked up it was like death stroking at his shins. He pulled another cigarette from the box in his pocket. Struck a match and cupped the flame in his hand, feeling what heat it offered, and lit up with a long careful drag.
"Captain?" enquired Gray curtly, offering the sailor the respect of his title.
"Yes. My name is Afelay," he said, pulling his head back into the thick woolen collar of his jacket.
"What happened here?"
Afelay raised his eyes to the sky, a lone cloud drifting past the moon at seemingly furious pace. He levelled his eyes with Gray's and the policeman saw something as yet unfathomable in them; was it a lie? Fear?
"I want to help you for this," offered the captain. "I do. You must believe that. Do you believe that Mr?"
"Gray. And it's Detective Inspector, not mister. I make it a habit not to believe every sea captain I meet at a murder scene. What's in the hole Capain?"
"I will tell you what I think happened here if I get your word that you will not hold me responsible. Or Vanya.
"Vanya?" echoed Gray, a eyebrow raising
"Vanya is the man who found them. He is my sister's son. He is a good man. He could not kill a man. Not like that... " he tailed off.
"I'll indulge you for a moment captain. What's in the hole?"
Afelay let out a deep sigh:"People."
"How many?"
Afelay breathed deeply and looked at the ground. He dredged the word from his gut and sounded drowed when it left his mouth. "Eighty." he gurgled.
"And how many are dead? asked Gray.
Again Afelay paused, summoning courage for the simple act of speech. He raised his eyes to meet Gray's once again. "Eighty. But maybe 79 were killed. I think one might have died on the journey. When they carried him onto the ship he looked very ill. White as lelek. Shivering. He had little clothes on. Rags."
"Are you saying an illness killed these people? A virus?"
"God's wishes it were so. See for yourself."
"How did they die?" said Gray, tersely, his patience wearing thin.
"I do not know" defended the Captian. "But it could not have been by a man's hand. Not that many. Who has the strength? Who has the .. the will?"
"So you've been down there Captain. You've seen it for yourself?" asked Gray a little surprised.
"No. The screaming on the voyage told me. The torches told me the rest. Have you seen it?"
"No." said Gray, knowing the moment could not be avoided. "Please finish giving your statement to the officer there. I will want to speak to you later. Once I have seen the bodies. Are there lights down there?
"Yes but they are not working now. They were fine when we left port. Whoever did this must have cut the power to them."
"Can we get some light in there? Are he spots here yet?" asked of the ether.
"No Sir. Looks like you'll have to do it the old fashioned way if you want to go in now," answered Carthage. "Here have mine too," said the deputy, handing Gray the powerful barrelled end of his torch."
"Uh-huh," said Gray, "You think I'm going in there on my own? Whatever did this could still be in there," he grinned.
Gray gripped the ladder to the vault and hoitsed himself overt the edge. Taking the torch from Carthage and stuffing it in his teeth, he lowered himself into the blackness below.
ENDS

Unrelated: Random observations at 0.10am on July 22. I have a new mobile phone arriving today. Yay. It's silver. It's a newer version of the model I already have. Familiarity breeds phones apparently. Also arriving in the post, my new cape. I bought said cape for my impending 30th birthday party. A boy's got to have a cape on his big day.

Chapter Parts Centre

The purpose of this blog is not to keep you upto date on some facet of news or culture that I feel is unrespresnted, although there isn't enough mainstream news coverage of lion rape for my liking. Honestly, it's rife in Canton. YouTube it.
This blog is designed, rather self-indulgently, to make me write outside of work. In that sense it has already been a success because last week I started a short story. I'm about three short chapters in at the moment and I'm just sketching things out - very badly - in draft form so that I have something to begin working on. That means that late at night when I can't sleep or am bored I can edit if I feel like editing (and sometimes I do - it can be addictive) or I can write when I feel like writing (less addictive but more involved). Note to parents. If your kids are going to get adicted to anything, editing is a relatively safe vice. No-one has yet died during one of my editing sessions, although the possibility of massive sexual violence if you disturb me while writing is a very real possibility.

Anyway, to get to the point. I wonder if anyone out there is interested in seeing a work in progress rather than the finished thing? I could perhaps post up an unfinished chapter at a time and people can ask me questions or tell me that what I'm writing is utter shit.
I know at least four people read this blog last time so I will presume I can carry at least one of you through to posting two. My story is sort of a horror about about people smuggling, which strikes me as a rum business. People smuggling, that is. I think horror is a fine affair.

The idea was to write something akin to Murders In The Rue Morgue (The Edgar Allan Poe one not the Iron Maiden one) but with a bit more gore and a modern twist. Anyone interested? Or is it best to wait until a piece is finished before it is given to people to read? What does your brain think?

Random thought for the night at 1.27am on Tuesday, June 24, 2008.
Dark Blue is equally as good a James Elroy film adaptation as LA Confidential, although on a much lower budget. Which may, in the circumstances, make it the bigger success. Kurt Russell's hair is lovely throughout. I think most of the budget went on hairspray for him.

An Ode To Narrow Loss

A mate sent this me a few weeks back. When our 5-a-side team - Real Dandy FC - were on the verge of a title win, I composed an ode to inspire the team. We lost the title by a point. Whether we were that little bit short up front or the team would have preferred a haiku instead we will never know. This is the kind of junk I will be posting here.

The thing that always puts me off about blogs is the fear that it is just ranting at the gods from the darkness of the cosmic wardrobe.
What's the point?
Let's face it, I have nothing to say. I'm not crazy on the politics, high on environment or horned on some particular celebrity. In short, I fear I care about nothing thesedays but that's no bad thing because I'm currently very happy with my lot.
I love my girlfriend but I'd like more money. And there's the balance of life in glorious action.
At some point I suppose I should do something with my life and career and believe it or not, the setting up of blog feels to me like a step in the right direction.
Perhaps I will start writing for reasons other than work again. So here I go, separaing the jaw bones, inhaling, and readying my beige tongue/fingers for some light warm-up exercises. Occasionally I will post some of my reviews on here, loose pieces of writing, short stories, maybe even songs and poetry, I once even wrote an ode.
But I doubt it. If you happen to be reading this, first of all, tell me why you are reading it. Then just talk to me about the nothingness of life.
If this gets read by anyone I will eat someone else's hat. I don't have hat. They don't suit me.I go, hatless, into the breach ...