Hurstley Secondary School vs Banks Grammar School

The scene opens at a football pitch. A school football pitch at that. The pitch is absolutely sodden and lumps of turf stick up like landmines at random locations. The white paint is hardly visible. It is raining lightly, and there is a very thick fog in the air. The two teams, Hurstley Secondary School Year 11's vs Banks Grammar School Year 11's. One team in red, the other in a pale blue.


 Hurstley Secondary (in red) wasn't exactly the Oxford of the schooling world. In fact, their coach was a supply maths teacher and the ball on the pitch was their third they had gone through due to them bursting. Their number one striker had been expelled a week before because he threw a brick through the Headmasters office window. The team had recorded only one win in the school year. A one-nil victory over their B-team, who were a whole school year younger than them. 


Banks Grammar (in blue) was a highly rated institution that was certified with an "FA Excellence" badge. Most of the team had already played on trial for the upper echelons of football. Some successful, some not, but one thing was bloody obvious, they were a damn sight more presentable bunch than the Hurstley lot. They danced down the touchline, warming up under the watchful eye of their Italian coach.


Hurstley ran onto the pitch, most of the lads wearing either a shirt too big, or more humorously, shorts too small. One of them tripped and went face down into the mud, before angrily punching the ground and then tying his shoe lace up. The Banks lads saw this, but maintained a calm professionalism, not even smirking at the lad's downfall, (at least not on the outside). 


The CV's then...


Mr Glouch. Forty-five years old. Hurstley Secondary School supply mathematics teacher, football team coach and postman. Lancashire born. Football experience: watching his beloved Wycombe Wanderers play home and away, week in, week out. Victories as manager: One. Draws: Zero. Losses: Twenty-Five. 


Mr Canimi. Thirty years old. Banks Grammar School Head Football Coach and Sports Director. Sicily born. Football experience: Played a whole season with Atalanta Reserves, including three first team appearances before having his playing career ended with injury. Victories as manager: Thirty-Seven. Draws: Zero. Losses: Zero. 


Kick off: 16:00. Current time: 15:50. Mr Glouch pulled up in his white ford escort, deliberately splashing some muddy water on Mr Canimi's Jaguar. He sauntered over to his team with a wide grin on his face. He didn't care about his poor record on the pitch. He didn't care that the school was failing in every department possible. He cared only about the sixteen lads he was walking towards and the words that were about to come out of his mouth. The team gathered infront of him, their lips shaking in the cold. Their pale little knees knocking. 


Mr Glouch: Right lads. I'm not gonna talk about the last match, because quite frankly it doesn't matter. All that matters today is the next hour. Alright?

A few members of the team grunted


Mr Glouch: Right, Banks Grammar School are only playing us because the other teams they usually play against are competing in a tournament in bloody France and they don't leave til Sunday cos they got a bye into the next round because the bloody sun shines out their arses. We are a training match for them, flatteringly enough.

The whole team laugh. They are used to his humour now. He is by far and away their most favourite teacher in the whole school.


Mr Glouch: That doesn't mean to say they haven't got their best lads out and aren't gonna do everything they can to give us a bloody good hiding. Lads, all I ask of you today is to just enjoy yourselves. They are a lot bigger than us and will probably all be playing for Arsenal or sommat next year. Don't be scared of them, let them be scared of your lack of fear. Alright lads??

The whole team reply with "Yes Boss" and run on to the pitch. Mr Glouch proudly watches them run and then looks over at Mr Canimi addressing his team at the opposite side of the pitch. He moved his arms like a conductor, and the whole team watched and listened in awe. He had a laminated flipchart which every few minutes he flipped and explained thoroughly their tactics and strategy. Mr Glouch watched this, shook his head and laughed as he looked at his lads freezing their bollocks off waiting. 


Mr Glouch: Oi!! Panini!! We playin today or what??

He shouted across the pitch. Canimi looked over and nodded, before packing his chart away and clapping his team onto the pitch. The referee was Canimi's second hand man. A proper, certified referee who in all fairness was known for his "great impartiality". 


Kick off. 


Banks passed it around in an almost "Total Football" way. A few parents of lads from both teams stood at either side of the pitch, either clapping in admiration or shouting in desperation. 


Mr Glouch: Get stuck in come on!! It's football not ballroom dancin!! Jonesy slide in!! Slide in!!

Jones was a rather rotund lad who had a surprising amount of pace. He ran alongside a lad who was built like Atlas compared to him. Jones leapt up and with one outstretched chubby leg, took the ball completely out of Atlas's possession. Atlas fell to the ground and looked up at Jonesy's fat face smirking at him. 


Mr Glouch: Good lad Jonesy! That's it!!

Banks took their throw in, a Delap special straight into Hurstley's box which was met with a volley from Atlas. Straight into the top corner. Hurstley's goalkeeper, George Duffy, didn't even seem aware of the game, let alone the goal. One-nil.


Mr Glouch: Wake up Duffy you bloody clown!!

The Banks Parents/Supporters Club snobbishly clapped their hands without a single crack of a smile. Aaron Stead, one of Hurstley's centre backs shouted at Duffy, who angrily kicked a chunk of turf at him. 


Kick off.


Banks again passed it around until Hurstley's biggest lad, Rob Burn, through all his weight at a midget of a player, but by god a skillful one and almost crushed him. Yellow card. Freekick. A great lob which flew straight into Hurstley's box. Atlas volley. Goal. 2-0.


Mr Glouch: Jesus Christ. Doesn't get any easier for anyone than that.

Kick off.


The rest of the half continued at a boring, one sided tempo until...


Atlas received the ball from midget who had taken the ball past at least seven of Hurstley's lot, who then took it around Duffy, and with only five yards between him and a gaping goal...missed. 


Mr Glouch: Fuck me...

Atlas shook his head in pure embarrassment and received a tirade of angry body gestures from the boss. Still 2-0. Miraculous considering half time was a shrill peep of a whistle away in about thirty seconds. Jonesy had defended like a man possessed. A rare gem of a performance from him. 


Half time.


The team gathered around Mr Glouch, absolutely exhausted and covered in head to toe in mud and shame. 


Mr Glouch: Right lads. The first goal, easily defendable. The second goal, easily avoidable. Apart from those two we've done bloody well. I tell you what, when blondie over there missed that open goal I realised sommat. We can bloody win this match.

The lads snickered and shook their heads at him


Mr Glouch: I'm serious!! If they can miss an open goal they can let a few in. I don't think they are used to playing against teams like us. Against teams who play the game to enjoy it. Against teams where its not life or bloody death. They'll be signing contracts all over Europe and their lives away next year and won't remember today at all. You lot will probably be signing on the dole queue, but you lot will remember today for your whole lives. Right. Jonesy, keep it up you've been bloody great. Duffy, just wake up a bit and keep in charge of your defence. Rob, do what you've been doing all half but actually win the ball. Don't hurt the player, hurt the ball. Keith, Luke, and Peter, they are passing it straight through you. Don't give them the space they need, close them down, hassle them. Then pass it amongst the three of you, in a triangle. They have come here today expecting an easy game. I bet they aren't even giving it ten percent out there. If we play at our absolute best and take everything I've said on board, we'll dick 'em.

The team looked flabbergasted and bewildered. They usually get nothing more than a few words. Spirit and determination ran through their veins like fresh spring water over a dried out, dusty riverbed. 


Mr Glouch: I've always been proud of you lads for solely and purely enjoying playing the game. I see a hell of a lot more enthusiasm from you lot than them lot. You just need that drive, that determination to go out there and win. Trust me lads, if you can beat them, you can beat anyone. Go get 'em lads!!

The lads beamed and got to their feet, they took to the field with anxiety and anticipation. They had the greatest team talk they probably will ever experience ringing in their ears. 


Kick off


Mr Glouch: Who needs a fuckin flipchart eh? Bloody modern crap

Hurstley kicked off. Focused. Jones immediately passed it around, with Keith and Luke. Two twins who looked and played extremely similarly and started playing in a great passing triangle, slicing through the Banks midfield like a hot knife through butter. Atlas charged in on Jones but was shrugged away by a shoulder charge that showed so much aggression and fire that it could have burned the fog away. He passed it to Luke, who was playing his first game for the team after realizing he wasn't any good at extra-curricular painting. Luke panicked for a second and then let loose a blistering shot...off the post. Jones took a run up and dived headfirst, almost flying as if fired out of a cannon and headed the ball. It shot like a bullet in to the middle of the goal. He landed square in a puddle of mud and soaked about three Banks defenders in pure filth. 


Mr Glouch: GOAL!!! YES! HAHAHA!!

Glouch jumped around on the spot. Football's coming home? Jones looked up, his face a thick brown. He saw the ball nestled neatly over the goal line. With a great deal of difficulty, he got to his feet and let out a fearsome roar. This was officially the greatest moment in the history of Hurstley Secondary School. His team-mates sprinted to him and hugged and cheered. The Banks players were already in position waiting to start again and paced on the spot impatiently. 


Mr Glouch: Lads come on!!

Mr Glouch laughed to himself and felt a tap on his shoulder. A Hurstley parent was by his side. A very proud Father.


Proud Father: Well I don't believe it. Ya must have worked some bloody magic at half time me laddo. Get in!!

Mr Glouch smiled smugly as Banks kicked off again. They began to pass it around like Barcelona again. Tim, the Hurstley left back, who in previous games had scarcely even TOUCHED the ball, and was only in the team because he was the only lad who liked football AND had a left foot, closed Midget down and as coolly as you like, nicked the ball from his feet and tapped it through his legs. Keith and Luke flanked him at either side. Tim took it past another player...


Mr Glouch: Go on Tim!! Don't be afraid of them!!

His heart was absolutely hammering. Atlas came back from attack to defend. As soon as Atlas went in to tackle...


Mr Glouch: Pass it Tim!! Get it to Luke!!

With his RIGHT foot, he lifted the ball over Atlas's tackling legs and over the Banks defense who stared at it like a UFO. It fell perfectly for Luke, who, with more effort he had ever put into a single second of his lessons at school, POUNDED the ball into the bottom right hand corner. Hurstley Secondary School had scored two goals for the first time in their history. The parents went mad and celebrated like fans in a stadium. The Banks parents were muttering the word offside at least twenty times in a matter of seconds. 


Mr Glouch: YEESSS!! Ha take that you bloody grammar smartarses!!

He didn't care if he said anything inappropriate, this was better than anything he'd seen from his beloved Wanderers. 


Kick off. This time Banks stepped it up. Focus up. They passed it around quicker, not allowing Hurstley to close them down in time. Atlas received the ball and was on his own infront of goal. Duffy was prepared, his eyes glaring at Atlas stampeding towards him. The defence were helpless, torn to shreds by a killer pass. Duffy ran out of his area and dived at his feet to claim the ball. Atlas let out a scream and jumped over him like a hurdle, which he cleared perfectly with no contact, before hitting the ground with a thud. 


Five minutes to go. Penalty.


Mr Glouch: Never!! You diving little shit!!


Hurstley tried to argue their cause but to no avail. Atlas smirked and picked up the ball, before placing it on the spot. Duffy's time had come. If he saved this, it would best any trophy, any hundred thousand pound a week contract, any advertising agreement with Nike, anything. Atlas took a few steps backward.


Mr Glouch: Come on Duffy, watch his eyes. Watch his body language...

Atlas jumped on the spot and ran to the ball before booting it with great force towards the goal...


Sting. Good god did Duffy's hands sting. The ball slapped off his hands and bounced harmlessly out of play. Hero.


Mr Glouch: You little beauty!! Come on you Wander-.

Mr Glouch stopped himself and blushed a little. Two minutes to go. Banks took their corner and Duffy soared to the skies to claim the ball perfectly in his hands before quickly throwing the ball to Luke who knocked it on to Keith. The two of them passed it between them but lost it to a chunk of turf that looked almost mountainous. Midget danced through and Atlas called for the ball, however he was ignored and Midget carried on. Atlas angrily waved his arms and got into a prime position, all he needed was the ball and that would have been it. Desperation. Midget looked up and saw Atlas in position...


Duffy watched as the ball soared high and wide over the bar. Atlas screamed at Midget as he watched his shot bounce onto to the roof of the Science block. The two argued as Mr Glouch quickly gathered another ball from a net of balls of various colours and makes and punted it towards Duffy. 


Mr Glouch: Get it forward!!

Less than a minute to go...

Duffy punted the ball upfield. It landed at the feet of Jones who held off resistance and knocked it to Luke, who ran down the wing and crossed the ball...the keeper reached for the ball but was impeded by an angry, disillusioned Atlas. The ball dropped in front of Tim, who created conversation topics throughout the dirty, sweaty corridors of Hurstley Secondary School, and embarrassed shame throughout the glistening, trophy-flanked, carpeted corridors of Banks Grammar School. Goal. Final whistle.


Uproar. Ecstasy. 


As football goes, Hurstley lost their next game 7-0 to Treebridge Secondary School. 


Memories are worth more than any amount of money and fame in the world. 

Bath

Michael walked into his apartment and threw his keys on the sofa. He knew he'd be frantically looking for them the next morning, but in all honesty, he couldn't care less right now. His dwelling was a total mess. He could clean it, but the guy had zero motivation for doing so. The floor was littered with old take away boxes and newspaper. The aroma can only be described as mouldy, and there was no light in the room. Just a faint grey glow as the sunlight tried to creep through the thick fog outside.  To say his day at work had been crap, well, that would mean he had just had the best day ever. A whole day of being shouted at by customers who were awkward for the sake of being awkward. He sat on his sofa and sighed his lungs out. As he reached over for the remote he noticed a great tear in the bottom of the arm. 


Mike: How the...fuck sake


He shrugged it off and attempted to turn the television on. Nothing happened. 


Mike: Oh for...


He got up and pressed the button on the set, again, nothing. He scrunched his lips and walked over to the lightswitch, flicking it on and off. No power. He punched the wall and cracked the wallpaper slightly. He screamed at the top of his voice and kicked over a small table covered in blank lined paper and old, chewed pens. After kicking a few sheets into the air he headed into the bathroom and noticed his bath was completely squeaky clean, with a calm body of very hot water in it. Also, the light shone in the room brighter than it ever has done. 


Mike: Seriously...


The bathroom door slammed shut and he was suddenly drawn to the water. There was no steam in the room, in fact there was a static chill. The room eventually reached a temperature where Mike began to shiver. He looked at the mirror and his heart skipped a beat. He saw his reflection slowly change, into as if a window had been installed into the sidewalk outside. Just a series of people walking on it, and then the thick white of the sky. Mike was shaking now, and not just because of the cold. He tried to open his door, and eventually did...only to find a brick wall at the other side of it. 


Mike: What the fuck is happening here??? 


He stepped away from the wall and felt a great force push him into the water. There was no splash, he was just absorbed into the bath. As he lifted his head up out of the water to catch breath, he noticed his clothes were hung up on a rusty coathanger on the knob of the door. The light went out, and flashed back on. Sat opposite him was a creature that was smiling at him. It's head was triangular and a brilliant white. It's eyes were very much like a human's, only a bright yellow and slightly bigger. The creature's teeth were an unhealthy yellow, and a green "blood" oozed out its gums. The creature's body seemed to be just bone, and had long fingers that looked like pork crackling on a lump of meat. When it moved it creaked and cracked hideously. It stared into Mike's eyes, whilst tapping its fingers on side of the bath. 


Mike: Oh jesus...what the fuck...


The creature opened its mouth with a loud snap and spoke with a perfect English accent so fine you would think of him as royalty


Creature: Fuck jesus, Oh what the. Mike...


Mike stared, paralyzed by fear


Creature: MIKE!!


Mike tried to shuffle away from it, but the water was suddenly very heavy and almost impossible to move in


Mike: What do you want...what the fuck are you...


Creature: What do you fuck...what are you want....Mike I think we are going to be happy in here...


Mike: What?? 


Creature: Me. And you. We're going to be in here forever you know. You died on the way home didn't you?


Mike: No...no I didn't.


Creature: Yes you did. You didn't look when you stepped out in front of that autobusmobile. Splat!! You flew through the air and scraped your face on the road. 


The creature cackled at this causing the room to shudder. A few tiles fell off the wall and into the bath.


Mike sat in deep thought for a few moments and tried to remember his walk home


Creature: You got hit by the number 9 bus. Ouchhh. 


Mike's eyes widened...suddenly everything felt real...


Mike left Burger King, whopper meal in hand and headed down the street. It was busy, as you'd expect on a day as glorious as this one. He took his hat off and dropped it into a JJB sports bag he had acquired earlier in the day. He reached his bus stop and sat on the pavement. A blind man was stood next to him and accidentally hit him with his bag. 


Mike: Oi!! Watch it will ya?? Jesus...


Blind man: Sorry 


Mike started eating his burger and noticed a poster in the window of a River Island shop opposite him "Sale! 20% off!". He looked at his watch and noticed he had half an hour until his next bus. He got up and crossed the road, only to be alerted by a loud car horn. He looked to his right and saw a bright, pixelated number 9. 


Mike shed a tear, which when landed in the bath, turned it a thick black. 


Creature: Yes you are a corpse now Michael. At least, in the physical plane. Here you are a trapped spirit. Yes..yes in purgatory if you like. I don't like to use such a strong word like hell...no no it's far too a strong word. Seventeen years ago you were born a bright happy innocent littley baby, you were oh so very much loved by your mummy and daddy. Then you went to school times and you enjoyed every day. What happened then Mike? 


Mike burst into tears and shook his head


Creature: Yes Mike you got into fights and your innocence you had when you were little evaporated like hot water. You KILLED Tom Vincent didn't you. On that school trip he didn't slip on the wet grass, oh no no you pushed him off that cliff. You should have heard his neck snap on those rocks Micheal. Ooo I did enjoy it. You are in hell now Mike. Time to pay for what you did. 


Mike: I'm sorry...I'm sorry Tom...please...please forgive me...


Creature: No Mike. You stay here now. With Tom.


The room then transformed into a windy, rainy coastline. Mike was now sat in a rockpool. The water was freezing and waves crashed up and covered him in water, which didn't fill the pool. He couldn't move an inch. 


Opposite him was the lifeless broken corpse of Tom Vincent. His eyes were open. Staring at him.


END

Art-Tissue

The scene opens at a packed bus stop in the centre of a rainy, cold London morning.  Damp, sweaty tourists apologise as they walk into tired, frustrated workers as they are blinded by their gigantic street-maps. The traffic is heavy, and clouds of exhaust fumes and condensation billow down the street. 


Stood at the bus stop is a rather disconsolate looking female dressed in a black leather coat, jeggings and knee high brown boots. Her brown eyes watered as she looked to be in deep thought. Her hand clutched a portfolio which was more of a burden than anything else. She looked at her watch and sighed impatiently. A small, shrivelled up drunk man approached her, not looking where he is going and bumped into her, spilling a metal hipflask of brown liquid on to her coat. "Eh! I'm..I'm a pe-pedestrian. B-B-Bloody...eh!" he staggered off and the woman took a plain white kleenex out of her pocket and, in vain, wiped the liquid, only to smear it and then be surrounded by the odour of whiskey.


She was having a pretty shit day and being covered in alcohol was not what you needed after having the interview from hell at Art College. The big red bus pulled up. Naturally it was packed with the same old stew of people. She stepped onto the bus and dropped her oyster card on to the floor. As she bent down to pick it up she knocked into a tiny, elderly man clutching a zimmer frame as if his life depended on it. "Watch what you're doin ya bloody idiot!" he grumbled loudly. "Sorry" she responded desperately. As she swiped her card, it beeped orange. Rejected. "Sorry I'll try again" she said. The bus driver angrily shook his head "Come on love I'm already ten minutes late". She tried again, orange again. "Right you'll have to pay" he huffed. "I have no change I'm sorry" she whimpered. "Off then. Can't do owt then. Off" People chuntered at her as she exited the bus, a tear starting its descent down her cheek. 


She stood at the bus stop and cried to herself quietly. A tall, thin ginger man then ran into her, his arm in the air and knocked her over. "Oh shit I'm sorry!!" he said as he watched in sheer sadness as his bus pulled away. She didn't get up, instead she sat with her knees to her chest without a single word. He frowned his eyebrows and sat next to her on the ground. His grey suit dotted with rain drops. He took an umbrella out and opened it, sheltering them from the now very heavy rain. "I'm sorry about that. I really am. My name's Arthur" he said, holding his hand out. "Lauren" she responded. "Are you hurt?" asked Arthur taking a packet of red flowery tissues from his pocket. Lauren managed to smile through her tears. "Are those your tissues?" she asked. "Erm..yeah, they match my curtains" he joked. Lauren took one of the tissues and wiped her eyes. "They are nicer than mine" she confessed. "Oh no, my curtains are just lovely." Lauren laughed and gently hit him. "Bad day Lauren?" he asked as he put his tissues back into his pocket. "Very. I have a shit interview then I can't even get on the fucking bus. Fuck fuck FUCK!!" she yelled as tears started rolling down her cheeks. "Where was your interview?" he asked. "Art College" she responded, this seemed to only increase her melancholy, Lauren never wanted to utter those words again. Arthur nodded with interest. "That your portfolio?" he wondered as he eyed her portfolio which was haphazardly thrown onto the pavement like an abandoned newspaper. "Yeah, portfolio of shite" she scowled. Arthur picked it up. "May I?" he asked as he had already unzipped it. Lauren didn't respond, instead she buried her face in her hands. Arthur looked through it for a good ten minutes. His poker face not letting anything on whatsoever. Throughout the whole ten minutes Lauren looked like she wanted a hole in the ground to open and swallow her up. He closed the portfolio and returned it to her. "This is my bus" he said with no expression whatsoever. He took the umbrella and closed it. 


The view changes to the other side of the street. The bus obscures them from our vision and as it pulls away we see Lauren dressed in a flowery skirt and white sandals. The sun floods the streets and the tourists bask in the hot July weather. We follow Lauren down the street until she reaches a brilliant white building with "ARThur" written in calligraphic writing above the glass doors. As she walks in, Arthur, still in the same grey suit, raises his hand. "Morning Lauren" he greets happily. "Good Morning" she responds. 

End

I opened my eyes and looked out on the great blue azure. The sky was clear and the clouds were beginning to accumulate on the horizon. 6^th February 2013. The day the world will end. This wasn’t some mentalist’s conspiracy, not some ancient philosopher’s scripture, this was it. At exactly 2:15pm, a piece of rock the size of Spain will crash into the earth and every thing me and every other person on this Earth has ever loved will be gone in a flash. The final news broadcast just finished an hour ago at 1pm. The number of emotional montages I’ve seen on television over the past few weeks has been stifling. Everyone’s tears have run dry. Mass suicides on an unprecedented level have taken place all over the world. The wind has picked up considerably in the past 20 minutes. It is as if the planet is bracing itself. A small bird lands nearby and pecks at the long grass. It tilts his head and looks at me, then at the sea, and darts off. The last supper perhaps. It’s the end of the world, and I’m all alone. I strip my clothes off and let the wind carry them out to the ocean. I’m naked, just how humanity began on this earth, and at least for one tiny, tiny percentage of it, how it will end. I’m not scared anymore. All my fear ran out upon realisation, upon it hitting me that this time it was real. There was nothing the greatest minds of our time, nothing NASA could do to stop it. I began to walk along the coastline and said to myself “5 minutes”. My eyes began to water, and I heard a gargantuan rumble in the sky. Here it comes. They said it would hit western Australia, and that entire nation would be gone in an instant. As for here, the South Coast of England, the heat blast will apparently incinerate everyone and everything within five minutes. Ten minutes to live. I thought about throwing myself off this cliff. But, I, am just too scared. The thought almost made me laugh. ALMOST. Too scared of dying one way so you don’t die in another. I stood facing the sea and outstretched my arms. My family’s faces rushed through my mind, and my friends. I felt my girlfriend’s kiss on my lips, it was soft, warming and ultimately salty, as a tear ran down them. I was suddenly not alone. My mother appeared from behind me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, “goodnight son” she whispered. My father walked from my left and embraced her, whilst holding on to my hand firmly, “goodnight son, we’ll see you soon” he said with a smile that could bring hope to the weakest child watching her dog get put down. My friends all walked up from the right and embraced me, holding on to my legs and looking up at me. They all started to laugh and joke about past jovialities, whilst at the same time, streaming with tears. I was surrounded by those who created me, and those who made me who I am. The ground rumbled and shook, I had to take an awkward step back to prevent the shake from tilting me over the edge. My mother kissed me on the cheek, and grabbed me tightly. My father, not a tear in his eye, held her closely and stroked her cheek, still holding my hand like he did when teaching me to walk. My friends all smiled at me. The sun broke from a cloud, and my shadow, my lone shadow spread across the grass. I was alone physically, but with enough love, friendship and togetherness, not even forces strong enough to crumble mountains can make you feel alone. I felt a colossal heat, and with a kiss on my mother’s cheek, I embraced the light. 

Penguins and Princesses

I wrote this one this morning, and has a damn sight lighter tone than 3x3. I was inspired to write this purely by the song Copa Cobana by Barry Manilow and I particularly like the two characters Rico and Danielle.

This nightclub was a far cry from your denim and chequered shirts, and also mused distaste at you supermarket shelf beers. Look left and right and you saw penguins and princesses. Lola the showgirl in angelic sparkle sang so beautifully that Frank Sinatra himself could be seen dancing around the dance-floor as if the music had set him free from his eternal rest. The walls of the club were a snazzy 70’s wallpaper, a black and white floral design that seemed to move upon sufficient inebriation. The large mirrors had seen everything and everyone this rich man’s haven had to offer. The disco ball rotated and shone like a planet, with fat cats and belles in a perpetual orbit.  One man, Rico, sat at the bar with a bulbous cigar in one hand. His jet-black hair was slicked back and his bow-tie was spirit-level horizontal. Rico sipped at his Jack Daniels and tapped his fingers to the beat of Copacabana. This penguin was without his princess, until two red heels tapped their way over to the stool next to him and took a seat. The occasional white lights advertising her long, sleek legs. Her blonde hair was smartly up, held together by a silvery hairpiece. Her mascara showed not a single imperfection of appliance, and her lipstick was as scarlet as her shoes. The barman walked over, his red waistcoat without a single crease. “Glass of red” she said, somewhat impolitely, but manners were not the virtue here. Rico reached inside his inside pocket and took out a twenty.

Rico: I got this

Daniella: Gentleman

The barman put a black napkin down on the table and placed the glass on top of it.

Daniella: So, this your Saturday night? Buying whoever you can a drink?

She said this without a smirk or a sarcastic grin, but with a New York accent that was confident, and suggested that between the hours of nine till five she used it with great authority. “

Rico: Oh no Miss, I like the company, and why should I let company pay?

He smiled and raised his glass. She smirked and raised her glass

Daniella: Because it’s the company that pays for it? Who do you work for?

He laughs and clinks glasses with her. “

Rico: I’m a director at The Mellon Corporation, yourself?

He took a sip of his glass and rotated on his stool.

Daniella: Marilyn Model, I design all their clothes, everything. Oh, and how rude for you not to introduce yourself

She looks the other way with a grin on her face. Rico holds a hand out.

Rico: My name is Rico, and I own a pawn shop down 33^rd. What’s your name?

He has one eyebrow raised. The woman turns around and shakes his hand.

Daniella: My name is Daniella; I’m a waitress at the Ritz.

They both laugh and rest their elbows on the bar.

Daniella: “So, how does a pawn shop owner like you manage to afford a tux like that in a place like this?

She asked with genuine inquisition.

Rico: Well, this Tux is my Daddy’s, and this drink?

He takes a glance around and shows her a metal hip-flask in his inside pocket.

Daniella: You sneak. I could get you thrown out for that

She threatens flirtatiously. He sniggers and looks her up and down.

Rico: Says the waitress. I know you all to well. You get dressed up in the same dress every night you go out; size too small, cleavage showing. Walk in with Daddy’s money or your daily tip, go stand at the side to look lonely as a cloud and wait for as long as it takes for an innocent sucker to walk over and buy you a drink. And boom, free night out. Am I right?

He smiled and supped.

Daniella: I guess I’m not the only one with the mask on Mr. Rico

She smiled, although her cover was definitely blown.

Rico: So, what made you make the first move tonight Daniella? My shoes have that million dollar shine?

He took out a small comb and mended his hair.

Daniella: Don’t flatter yourself. I was behind you in the queue. You were the only one in a hundred grand tux that wasn’t cruising straight through with the VIP crowd. Definitely something wrong with that. I guess you aren’t as blended in as you thought. You stuck out like a sore thumb. I had to laugh.

He looked at her with bright eyes and a defeated scowl.

Rico: Well. At least I’m not the only person here who doesn’t belong

He tilted his head and moved his feet as a fat, snorting banker with two stunning women slammed a hundred on the bar and walked away with a bottle of champagne so big it looked like an inflatable toy.

Daniella: So, Daniella, you fancy going somewhere a bit more our scene?

He got off his stool and held his hand out. She frowned her eyebrows and leaped off the stool; she looked at the barman and smiled.

Daniella: Hey!! You!! Two of your cheapest beers!!

The barman took a step back and foraged around a fridge and took out two bottles of Budweiser that looked like they had been there for months.

Barman: 6 Dollars

Daniella scowled and took a crumpled five dollar note out of her purse and threw it at him. She laughed and grabbed Rico’s hand and pulled him towards the dance floor. They barged past the penguins and princesses, and she took off his jacket and bowtie, throwing it to the side.

Daniella: You want some real music Rico?? Give me a twenty

She shouted. He shrugged his shoulders, but beamed a smile at her, before handing her the money.  Daniella walked over and whispered something into the singer’s ear, before slipping her the twenty.

Daniella: You know it?

She asked, and the singer nodded. The singer started singing Poker Face by Lady Gaga, and the dance floor swiftly emptied. Daniella walked back over to Rico planted a kiss on his cheek.

Daniella: This a little better Rico?

She asked whilst laughing.

Rico: Sure, I get a little sick of Copacabana after a while

The two of them danced manically right in the centre of the dance floor to looks of pure distain and disgust from the clientele. Daniella took her hair piece out and her long blonde hair flowed out in all directions, she then kicked her heels off, which knocked glasses off tables and ruined million dollar poker games. After the song had finished, security guards dragged them out the building and pushed them outside into the street. Rico and Daniella were laughing so hard they sat on the floor to avoid suffocating.

Daniella: Oh my god that was fun

Smiled Daniella. Rico nodded and helped her to her feet.

Rico: So, Daniella, how about we go somewhere where two crap wage waiters belong huh?

He winked at her.

Daniella: Ha, so you ain’t got no pawn shop huh?

She laughed at his ploy.

Rico: Nah, I’m as poor and pathetic as you are

She spat on her hands and ruffled his hair up, before clutching his hand and dragging him down the street.  The two of them laughed into the night under the New York City stars and just for tonight, 2 waiters in a bubble of greedy bankers, reveled like millionaires. 

3x3

I wrote this piece on a creative writing website, I listened to An Ending - Ascent by Brian Eno whilst writing and thought it was a very moving stimulus to the piece. The character of David, lives on his own with his Father, who has entered an extreme depression after his wife and other son left them.

Rain can only hit a window for so long before it loses its therapeutic touch on a dark and depressed mind. Those drops that you recreationally race with lack of anything else better to do merge together with other more static drops like all those brain hammering worries in your head that you swear will one day give you some kind of brain cancer. Sometimes helps if the room you are bored to tears in is lit up, but your family, or what’s left of it hasn’t paid the electricity bill this month. So everything in the room seems to form the same colour, a blurred, horrible grey through eyes as watery as the soaking mist. There’s no life out there. There’s no life in here. Everything…is lifeless…David’s cheek was pressed firmly against the window and most definitely his ribs were also. Those bones tapped the glass as he moved to seek even the smallest amount of comfort. He would pray for some form of blubber in between his flesh and bone, even if there was no love between the flesh and bone sat behind him. His father wore jeans that were days, no weeks old. Stained. He wore a bib made out of vomit as nutritious as paper and clutched a bottle of something as fresh as a rotting crow. Only David would prefer the pot pourre of the crow above the sweaty, fecal odour that filled the room. His own Dad, a magic tree that grabbed every sense of your body and made them eat shit. He sang with almost choir boy clarity and innocence...

David: Ave Maria….

Christianity was a device created out of faith of something higher that would offer salvation in times of great desperation. Those who decided to forsake this system were said to be confined in a fiery, burning hell of eternal pain. Fire burns the skin, perhaps 3rd degree burns, maybe creates blisters. They heal though, you might go pale with the pain and your eyes water. The burn may scar the skin, but it always stops hurting. Always stops hurting. David always stops hurting. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, yeah right, what doesn’t make you stronger certainly doesn’t bring you to life either. This house, buried alive in a weather front predicted by scientists, but how can one see in so much moisture? How can one get any bearings in visibility so poor? The space around you is what? 3 feet by 3 feet? Then it’s just a void. Everything you have in your life seems to just be in that small space. Everything that matters anyway. Your heart, your brain, your thoughts and your memories. You can’t fit casino’s and big sports cars in that amount of space. A billionaire is as poor as the tramp in the fog. David let out a small smile. What you can’t see can’t harm you. He backed away from the window and sat on his Father’s knee. He grabbed the bottle and took a swig of the liquid. He choked and shot straight up, spitting the spirit on the floor as if it was a possessive demon. Only the demon, even if it was Satan himself, would have walked into that room and would have felt immediately redundant. David flushed his nose out and prodded his Dad. 

David: Wake up Daddy…

No? Never mind. It hadn’t worked yesterday, or the day before that…or the day before that. He traversed the mess on the ground and picked up the receiver on a black phone. No dial tone.

David: Doctor please. My Daddy hasn’t eaten his dinner yet. He likes to look at it though.

His dinner, he did eat it, but then decided to wear it

David: He’s still asleep. I thought if I have some of the juice he has in his hand I might fall asleep with him. It tasted yukky though. Bye Doctor.

The Doctor was busy. He’s always too busy. David put the phone down and sat by the window again, clutching his knees.

David: Daddy, I thought we could go visit Drake tomorrow? I haven’t seen him in so long and I would love to see him. Can we Daddy?

David smiled and felt ever so drowsy. His Father rose up from the seat and shook his clothes down. The vomit ran down his top like the crumbs did when he had his festive mince pie on Christmas Day. He sat beside David, the warm glow of the fire became the perfect 0 to the falling, white Christmas snow’s 1. The tree in the corner housed baubles as proud and bulbous as the breast of many a passing robin that day. David cuddled up his Father, his face nestled so comfortably into Daddy’s new jumper. He had been gifted a new book, one of his many Christmas presents. The book, “Stig of the Dump” sat in his Father’s hands like the Bible; he could read aloud like the greatest storytellers in history. The cover turned like winter into spring, the “new, fresh book” smell made David close his eyes, welcoming the sudden entrance into a fictional world.. It was just David and his Father, sat with legs stretched out in a space 3 feet by 3 feet, and it was only in that small, small space, where everything they held dear in the world at that time, was there. His Father read, stressing the right stresses, acting every line of the characters out with the delivery of the finest players that would take the stage at the Globe Theatre in London to a standing ovation by the richest in the land. David dozed off to sleep, his eyes just glimpsing the frolicking reindeers on his knitwear as he drifted off…

Rain can only hit a window for so long…

My name is Graham Thirkill and have been interested in creative writing since my school days. Over the years I have written numerous things such as stories and scripts. I have a degree in Performance: Theatre from York St John University and have undertaken scriptwriting classes at the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough. I will compile my work onto this blog as a method of letting others read and perhaps give feedback, and as a tool for myself to reflect on. So have a read :)