Link to original post: Diary of a Wandering Mind [Strong Language Alert]
First two chapters of some creative writing I've been doing because I felt like it. They aren't particularly masterful or anything but I just thought I'd share them because it was fun writing this.
First two chapters of some creative writing I've been doing because I felt like it. They aren't particularly masterful or anything but I just thought I'd share them because it was fun writing this.
“Do you hear them laughing? Their insincere voices like a pneumatic drill burrowing into your head. They call you self righteous when you look at them with disgust, such moral fortitude they have. Great men who donate to African orphans, their way of absolving themselves after fucking their best friends’ wives during their lunch breaks. Welcome to the land of hypocrisy, the land wh-” The old man’s eyes blazed as he was interrupted.
“Are you done?” The soft, inquiring voice of the young boy was the only one that could be excused for interrupting.
“No!” The old man’s grey eyes danced with new life in his disgust. “Damn it child, I could continue until your hair was as grey and frazzled as mine.”
“An exercise in futility then?” The words sent the old man into a fit og hysterics, almost causing him to knock over his glass of brandy.
“Yes, yes. By the time you understand you will be too old to take advantage.”
“I think the point is that I’ll never understand.”
The old man sighed and rose out of his armchair, finishing off his brandy in a single gulp. He pulled a cigarette out of his top pocket and lit it, the smoke carried away from him by the gentle wind.
“I love this tree, young one. It lets me admire the lush field without me having to stray into harsh sunlight. It also protects us from the rain.” The aroma of tobacco smoke was reaching the boy, and he shuffled slightly in an attempt to escape it.
“I like this tree too, the surroundings are peaceful and simple. I’s also nice because it has two chairs and a tea table under it.” The old man smiled.
“Yes, quite.” He took a deep drag from the cigarette, and watched a cloud of smoke circle around him as he exhaled.
“Dear boy, do you remember our best friend?”
“Yes, naturally. He encouraged us to play football with the other boys in primary school, when we were lost and alone.”
“Yes, yes he did. He then tried to frame us for something we didn’t do a decade later.” The old man’s face fell. “Best fucking friend, like a brother, after all those years...”
“He was young.”
“So were we!” The old man slumped back into his armchair, a tear forming in one of his eyes. “So were we.”
“Old man if it were up to you, we wouldn’t have any friends at all.”
“Well who needs them? We have each other, and we trust one another.”
“A person can’t live with only themselves for company.”
“It is dull and empty boy, but at least it spares you the pain of betrayal and deceit.”
“So we hide from the world like a coward?”
“That, or you could fight.”
The young man rose from his deep sleep, almost like meditation. He lay still for a short while, before the light from the blinds struck his brown eyes, forcing hm to rise. He made his way to the bathroom, splashing his face with warm water, then cold. He dried it and stared at the youthful man in the mirror. He smiled and stood still for a while.
“Fight? The old man is never wrong.”
He sat in his kitchen, glinting jet black granite covering all the work surfaces. The table also, a pristinely laid table with unused cutlery and unopened condiment bottles. Fuck breakfast, he thought, twirling the energy drink can in his hand. He took a drag from his cigarette and tipped the half inch long ash into the ornate gold-plated ashtray in front of him. It was solid, and in the shape of a shoe but pointed at the end. He remembered taking it to primary school and using it as a weapon. Those were the days, the days of non malicious violence, the playground a war zone. There was no motive, just violence. They were boys, that was how they had fun.
His mobile phone tore through his blanket of solace, the ringtone chiming like a Church bell, loud and true.
“Yo listen up, here’s the story, about a li-”
“Yeah’llo?”
“Yes mah Damieeeeen!” The familiar greeting brought a boyish grin to his face.
“Safe mah molest what’s good?”
“There be a jam today, alie!”
“Where? More details”
At Aaron’s yard blud. There be sip, there be grets, there be puss- oh wait man’s not into that but don’t worry! There be mah battymans as well.”
“Sip and grets sounds fine, keep the benders for someone else. Time?”
“Seven o’ clock boss, and it shall continue. All. Night. Long!”
“I’ll be there.”
“Woo yes! Check you later then mah crust.”
“Yeah, take care Señor Molest.” He put the phone down and took a final drag from his cigarette. He exhaled, “fucking prick”
Damien walked to the front door and draped his overcoat around him, then pulled on his leather gloves. Everything was done with methodical precision, no clambering in a semi awake state. It was time for a few hours’ work at the lab. Fuck lab, he thought. Fuck everything.
It was snowing as he walked to the underground station, beautiful and unique snowflakes, he thought. He laughed sarcastically at the notion and threw his cigarette to the floor with conviction as he entered the station. He picked up his free Metro newspaper, because it was free and the nonsense lies in the newspapers kept him entertained on his journey. He swiped his ticket on the reader at the ticket gate. Seek Assistance (94), it read. Well fuck you then, he screamed in his mind, and pressed the card firmly onto the reader. The gates opened. Yeah that’s what I thought, cunt. His train arrived two minutes later.
“This station is Brent Cross…” The monotone intercom greeted him as he stepped onto the train. “This train terminates at Morden, via Bank.”
“Yeah, no joke.” He whispered to himself.
To those who don’t travel regularly on London Underground or any other subway service, the rattle and clatter of the speeding train is like a banshee wail, a chaotic rapture that eats away at them until they escape the claustrophobic hell of the carriage. To Damien, a man coming close to a decade of daily travel on the underground, the mix of sounds was a grand piece by a symphony orchestra, thenuts, bolts, and grinding metal were instruments of perfect pitch. The loud rumble of the train came in a succession of four percussive beats at a time, separated into two quavers. Badoom badoom, badoom badoom, he whispered in his head. This sequence was separated by a one second gap, and was the heart of the grand performance. Next came the screeches and the howls of he train grinding against the rails, the pitch sliding up and down, sometimes changing drastically, sometimes no more than a semitone of change. He could feel the performance building into a crescendo, with the introduction of the whistling wind, soft and subtle compared to the other instruments, but a perfect complement to the piece. Finally came the organic stars, the passengers. Coughing, sneezing, sniffing, blowing their noses, turning newspaper pages, idle chatter, their footsteps on the carriage floor, babies crying, all adding a unique twist to the train’s masterpiece. The performance would last a few minutes, the end being marked by the slowing of the train as it arrived at the next station, the music slowing with the train, the secondary instruments fading away as the diminuendo ending was reached. The final note was always the same, a fading paused semibreve as the train howled its way onto the platform, the percussive rumble coming to a crawl. Damien found it amusing that this ending was so similar to the ending of many pieces of music, perhaps to the point of being a cliché. This would happen as the train travelled between each station, yet no piece was ever the same, the dynamic nature of the passengers and the train’s speed being the reason for this.
“The next station is London Bridge.” Damien joined the parade of impatient commuters as they shuffled out of the train. As he approached the first escalator the large one, he came to the conclusion that he could not be bothered to walk u it, and opted to take his place on the right side and stand. Time was running out and he was panicking, he still hadn’t reached the comic strip and horoscope page, and he always had to do so before he left the underground. He frantically skipped through several articles and the countless advertisement pages as he tried to locate his daily breakfast. Halfway up the escalator he found it and a victory fanfare played in his head. ’This Life’ was comic number one, a cynical satire of daily life. Today’s strip was slightly more surreal but still as hilarious as usual, showing an enraged lawyer shooting a man in the testimony box, no captions or dialogue present this time, but they certainly weren’t necessary. He then shifted his attention to the next strip, ’Nemi’, about a tomboyish goth girl whose sarcastic mannerisms gave him great pleasure. In this strip, she was complaining how her latest boyfriend cried during a movie, comparing a grown man crying to “watching a majestic bear riding a small bike weaing a tutu and a silly hat.” Only a quarter of the escalator was left, it was time to squeeze in his horoscope. He never understood why he read it, but it was as important to him as praying is to a Christian. He found it, Aries.
Praise is headed your way, and I am sure you will love every minute of it. The need, to get out of a responsibility in the workplace, could see you telling a very unnecessary lie.
He smiled, it was funny because it was probably true. He finished it with perfect timing, his trip up the escalator was over. He tossed his paper to the side at the top and pulled out his ticket and a cigarette. He swiped out and out the cigarette in his mouth. He almost lit it before he remembered that smoking was prohibited on the underground since the 80s, before he was born. It was like Valhalla when he finally got out of the station and did light it, the fresh smoke clawing at his respiratory system. Next packet would be lights, he didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and have a coughing fir anytime soon. The street was busy, it was always busy. This was central London, the heart. Much like a real heart, the lifeblood of the city all flocked to central London for a short time before being dispersed throughout the city to do whatever they did. As he made his way to the laboratory building he caught sight of Mitch, possibly the only person he liked there. Equally cynical and apathetic as him, he had no trouble enjoying his company.
“You alright Mitch?”
“Won’t be in a minute!” His bright blue eyes and childlike smile were a complete contradiction to his personality, but that was part of what made him so interesting to Damien.
“Fun fun. We’ll be pipetting random crap or molesting rats, probably.”
“Oh you haven’t read the practical explanation either.”
“Course not.”
“Well if it is rats, at least you can stroke them.”
“Feels kinda bad stroking them though, when you’re making them OD on drugs.”
“I’d say they’re lucky enough to be given illegal shit in the first place.” They both laughed for a while at the joke, and the image of drugging rats to death.
“How long do you reckon we’ll trapped there for?”
“The prof will keep us there for a long time I know that much.”
“Professor Wilkins is such a ****.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking of sticking my finger down my throat so I can cause a health and safety hazard. We might get out early then.”
“Don’t get your poor finger dirty, just imagine being ***** by the prof.”
“True say man, fuck this degree.”
The laboratory was large but the workstations made it a confined place. Rows of bottles decorated the shelves with their different safety labels, and the main colour scheme for most things was yellow and red, save for the hand wash taps which were green. Professor Wilkins was not a typical professor by appearance, his hair was short and only showed small amounts of greying. He was clean shaven and wore no glasses, not even for reading. He looked more like a city banker if anything, a dull looking, immaculately dressed middle aged man.
“Okay ladies and gentlemen,” the sense of boredom in his voice meant the formalities were coming. “Health and safety! Don’t piss in the sink, don’t drink the absolute alcohol, don’t try stealing any either.” The sarcastic opening brought a chorus of delighted laughter from the eight students, who were pleasantly surprised by the lack of the usual boring hazard rules. “Look, you know it all by now, and just to make sure, read the rules in your workbooks before we get started. Aside from the obvious stuff, one thing to note since we’re doing gel electrophoresis today, is that we’re using a dye. It’s a lovely blue dye that’s for proteins, which you’ll have worked out by now if you’d read up on this beforehand, which I’m sure none of you have, or are just too hung over to remember.” Guilty laughter sounded again throughout the laboratory. “As you know, your skin is full of collagen, so do not get this stuff on your skin unless you want to look like a lame version of Dr. Manhattan for a week or two.”
“Oh shit!” One of the students interrupted. “You’ve seen Watchmen? That’s some sick movie.
“Yes, actually. I watched it with me son.”
“How old is he?” The nosey nature of the student caused Damien to plant his face on his desk in despair.
“Sixteen, finished his GCSEs last year.”
“So then isn’t he a bit young to be watching that?”
“Well, his internet history suggests he’s old enough to see a great many things.” Damien and Mitch’s jubilant laughter rang for a good ten seconds at this revelation, the wonderful world of the teenge boy was always a goldmine of hilarity. “Okay my dears, let’s get moving.”
The students moved to free workstations, Damien and Mitch chose adjacent ones.
“Well he’s in a good mood today.” The mocking tone in Mitch’s voice was always a pleasure for Damien to hear.
“Probably got some action from his wife last night.”
“Probably stole some Viagra from Pharmacology’s supplies.” The mix of robotically accurate work and schoolgirl giggles continued for the next two hours. The two were now both at their last tray to prepare.
“How many wells have you fucked up today, Mitch?”
“Probably all of them, micropipettes are so gay.”
“Think they’re pretty easy, really.”
Shut up man, they’re gay.”
“Whatever, let’s just hurry up and do this so we can get a drink.”
“You alchie man, it’ll be like two o’ clock.”
“Perfect time for spirits.”
“I seriously wonder if I’ve ever seen you sober.”
“Probably haven’t.” Damien loaded his last well with the dyed protein, two micro litres into a well that looked like it had no depth. “Okay done. I’m getting the fuck out of here, meet you at the bar.”
“But bawss, I’s afraid of bein’ alone!”
“Jawn Coffeh, like the drank but not speht the same.”
“Seriously felt more sorry for him than the Fritzl victims.”
“Cold man, cold. But so fucking true. Safe, see you in a bit.”
The bar was almost empty, students only came here en masse at lunch or in the evening. He made his way to the idle bartender and started surveying the liquor bottles.
“What can I get you, a beer?”
“Hmm…”
“I don’t know of any drinks called ‘Hmm’”
“Well they should make one, I’ll never have to think about what I want.” The bartender smiled coyly, he was a student too, earning a bit of extra money working at the university bar. Damien was pretty sure he was gay, and he was pulling the strings on him for his own amusement. He was very much Damien’s type, but Damien was too apathetic to bother with any sort of pursuit. “Alright, I’ll get a double Courvoisier.”
“You’re joking, right?” Damien’s returning stare showed he certainly wasn’t. “Wow, you must be really depressed or something.” There was an air of concern in the bartender’s gaze.
“Nope, just bored.” Damien picked up his glass and took a gulp of the slightly sweet hot fluid. Definitely his favourite neat spirit.
“Your name is Damien, isn’t it?” Damien’s head rose with a look of bemusement.
“Why yes, yes it is. How’d you know that?”
“Well you know…” His face was turning scarlet while Damien chuckled in his head. “Just been asking around about people you know? Just want to get to know people better.”
“That’s pretty tragic, I try staying away from everyone.” Damien almost felt bad about the way he was toying with him, he was a nice enough boy and was very good looking.
“Well actually I’ve mainly just been… oh never mind. I’m Jack by the way. Give me your number, I can umm…text you offers at the bar, I’m sure you’d like that.” Damien grinned at the genius of that line, and felt it deserved him giving his number. He pulled out his phone and displayed his number on the screen for Jack to take down. “Thanks Damien.” Jack’s feeling of achievement was evident in his slyly triumphant smile.. Damien suddenly put down his glass and wrapped both his hands around Jack’s left hand. He stared into his eyes with the sweetest, most loving expression he could muster.
“Jack! I’ll never let go!” If Jack’s face had turned any redder, Damien suspected his head might explode. Damien let go of his hand and retuned to his usual composed state, before cackling quietly at the effect his action had on Jack. He picked up his glass and found his favourite seat in the bar, next to the jukebox. He hoped Mitch would stop idling and get himself down to the bar.
True to the nature of wondering when someone will show, Mitch popped his head through the bar door and waved at Damien.
“Oi JackJack sweetheart, a pint of the old wife beater please.” He picked up his beer and brought it over to table before collapsing on the sofa.
“Wait Mitch you know that boy?”
“Yeah man he’s been asking about you, I think he likes you.”
“Wait shit man are you going to-”
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“The fact that he’s really cute doesn’t change the fact that I don’t care.”
“Yeah, you faggots make no sense at all.”
“Well obviously not, it’s why sane people don’t like us.”
“Look man, brother to brother, I think you should go for it. Getting laid would do you good.”
“But he’s one of those cutie sweethearts that’ll get all caught up and deeply involved, which is exactly what I can’t be bothered with.”
“God, I bet you just want to avoid caring about someone.”
“Well yeah, especially if they have a pretty face.”
“Damien, you are really weird.”
“God man, I’m so crushed.” Damien finished his drink and stared wistfully at the ceiling. “I hate not being able to smoke inside.”
Damien and Mitch had been at the bar for an hour before deciding to part ways. There was time to be wasted after all. Damien wasn’t sure what hed be doing when he arrived home, Mitch would be playing World of Warcraft and masturbating every few hours. As Damien was finishing his cigarette outside London Bridge station, he wondered how long Jack would take to text or call him. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. He entered the station and checked the train arrival screen in the ticket hall. Edgware in two minutes, his train. He was thrilled that there would be no interchange at Camden Town, then felt a wave of self pity at the fact that this gave him so much joy. He opted to walk down the escalator this time, it was always easier going down, something he believed was true for everything in life. He instinctively went to his right as he entered the platform, towards the end where the last carriage would be, which would conveniently stop right next to the platform exit at Brent Cross station.
The train was relatively empty, and there were plenty of seats to choose from. He took his place in the carriage’s middle row and stared at his reflection in the opposite window. The stone face of the underground commuter stared back at him. The next two stops were uneventful as usual, until a certain passenger got on at Old Street. She was a young woman in her mid twenties, black with an impressive hourglass figure, although she was slightly wider than an average woman. She was smartly dressed in a business suit, and wore modest makeup with little jewellery. She sat opposite him, next to a middle aged white woman and her companion. Bitch, you’re blocking my reflection, Damien lamented in his head. In a few minutes however, the young lady would be more than forgiven for this inconvenience with the entertainment she was about to provide. She pulled her phone out of her handbag and fiddled with it. Damien thought nothing of it, or of the women in front of him. Women in business suits, a very common sight and not one that would set off alarm bells. The young woman stopped fiddling with her phone and the reason became apparent. The piano sample from ’Still Dre’ started playing out loud and she placed the phone next to her ear. She rocked her head back and forth to the beat, completely lost in the song. Damien was holding on for dear life as he tried to suppress his laughter, he was fighting a losing battle. You can take them out the ghetto- no, stop thinking about it Damien for fuck’s sake. Okay, you’re at your mother’s funeral, fuck fuck fuck. His saviour came in the form of the middle aged white woman.
“Excuse me, could you please turn your music off?” Suddenly Damien’s need to laugh was replaced with apprehension. Oh God, please smack the white bitch, please. To his chagrin, the black woman did not resort to violence.
“Look yeah, why don’t you mind just mind your business, and I’ll mind mine.” The entire carriage shifted its attention to the episode, the burning desire for fisticuffs was clear in all the men’s eyes.
“It’s so inconsiderate and rude, just turn it off, it won’t kill you.”
“What did I just tell you?” The black woman kissed her teeth and resumed her head rocking. The white woman seemed to give up and settled with a disgruntled snort, before resuming the conversation with her companion. Damien didn’t like the white woman much, he had a feeling she’d only complained because the other woman was black and was listening to Hip-Hop. Complain about Mozart you slag, I bet you wouldn’t. For the next minute the air was calm, the calm before the storm. It seemed the white woman had lost her patience, and finally Damien’s tube journey would be locked in the chest of treasured memories.
“Look, just turn the bloody music off.”
“Listen, I’m not turning nothing off, just shut up.”
“So rude! This is your last warning.” The white woman looked at her companion and some whispers were exchanged.
“What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do?”
The black woman got her answer, although Damien found it bizarre at the very least. The white woman began to cough in the black woman’s face, who covered it with her hands for a few seconds, before releasing a furious flurry of slaps in retaliation. The white woman responded in the same fashion, and it became more a collision of slaps than a fight. Every man in the carriage stood up to improve their view, Damien included. Oh God thank you, thank you so much. The white woman got a claw on the black woman’s hair, causing all the eyes of the men in the carriage to widen with glee. The women in the carriage looked at the ground except for a punk girl, who shared the same expression as the men.
“Stop!” Yelled a man with a heavy French accent, inciting a quick collective glare from the other men, before they returned their attention to the fight. With an almighty grunt, the black woman wriggled to the side and punched the white woman in the stomach, causing her to double over and let go of the black woman’s hair. The men in the carriage looked as if they were on the verge of orgasm. In a quick flash, the Frenchman pulled the emergency alarm handle and stepped between the two women, breaking up the fight. The men groaned with dismay, and if murder were legal, the Frenchman would have been nothing but a bloodied mass of flesh.
“Why did you ’it ’er?” The Frenchman asked the black woman.
“She was like coughing up in my face yeah, all dem germs and shit.”
“Why didn’t you just turn ze music off?”
“Look yeah, learn to speak English den come talk to me innit.”
“You should’ve… turned your music off.” The white woman had definitely come out of the fight worse.
“Shut up you slag.” The black woman kissed her teeth loudly. She looked at Damien. “Was my music pissing you off?”
“I would’ve punched you if it were.”
“See this boy didn’t care, but you can’t mind your own fuckin’ business, coughing in my face wiv all dat disease and germs.” She kissed her teeth again, as if it were her new method of punctuation.
The tension hung ferociously as the train rolled slowly into Angel station, the response to the emergency alarm would be directed there. Some of the passengers were visibly annoyed as their journey would see a potentially long delay as the underground staff got to the root of the problem. The train sat for a minute at the platform before the doors did not open. A London Underground staff member with tired eyes and a five o’ clock shadow made his way to the carriage, his appearance a direct reflection of his enthusiasm for the job. The doors slid open and the white woman, who had seemingly decided she was above the level of such unrefined behaviour, lwft the train briskly. The staff member thought nothing of it and furtively glanced around the carriage.
“Awright, what was the nature of the emergency? Improper use of the alarm will result in a fine.”
“Well zere was a fight between two ladies, but one of zem got off ze train.”
“Right, and the other one?”
“Over zere.” He pointed at the black woman, who put on a flustered demeanour.
“Okay madam, can you tell us what happened? Will police involvement be necessary?”
“She was like grabbing my hair and slapping and then someone pullled the alarm. She’s gone now innit so no point in calling police.”
“Awright then, thanks for your cooperation.” The worker leaned out the carriage doorand yelled down the platform, “all clear!”
The driver’s faint shout echoed back down the platform.
“So I can get green lighted yeah?”
“Yeah mate, I’ll call the signal in a sec.” The driver closed his door and the worker turned his attention back to the passengers. “Well, that were a fuckin’ waste of time weren’t it? Fuckin’ ‘ell.” Damien chuckled along with a good number of the people in the carriage. That was better than Macbeth’s soliloquy. The train doors closed and the orchestra resumed its performance, completely unaffected by what had happened. Damien and the black lady’s eyes crossed paths. Damien grinned with startling cuteness, causing her to smile with embarrassment.
“You enjoyed that didn’t you?” She asked the question with no hint of malice or sarcasm.
“Honestly? Yes I did, you were fucking her up pretty badly.” The black woman let out a delighted laugh.
“Not exactly hard. Some old white slag can’t do much.”
“You say that now, you’ll have a cold in a few days thanks to her coughing attack.”
“Oh God that was so disgusting. Man this whole thing isn’t a funny situation. Actually no, it’s a very funny situation but seriously, that was so grimy.”
“Best tube journey I’ve had this year, I don’t think I’m going to forget this.”
“Nah you won’t. It had everything. Cat fight, race war, everything.” They both smiled at the very recent memory. It was indeed one of the funniest things he’d ever seen, and there was no use in hiding it. As the train stopped at King’s Cross and the black woman rose out of her seat in a dignified manner, waiting for the doors to open. As the doors opened she turned around and gave her farewell to the carriage, “hope you enjoyed the show!”
“Yeah!” A testosterone filled carriage cheered back at her. She giggled and stepped off the train, and Damien closed his eyes, locking the memory in the most treasured part of his mind. The Chest of Legendary Memories.
