Pheromone Flaws

The butter was too hard again, and ripped his last piece of bread into two shoddy halves.

“Fuck.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Look, sometimes swearing is necessary; it’s an exclamation, a show of frustration or annoyance. It’s a wonderful nuance of the English language and so I’ll use it to its full extent whenever I so please, thank you very much.”

“Hmm, I see. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Fuck you.”

Arthur’s life had become much more difficult since all the bugs in his flat had developed a voice, and so he squashed the offended beetle with the plate that held his now deformed breakfast.

“Now really Arthur, that wasn’t very nice at all! The poor fellow was only trying to improve your diction. I dare say you could do with it, always muttering and mumbling the way you do.” A moth on the ceiling had obviously witnessed the morning’s fiasco and decided to join in, knowing he was safe from the ceramic, butter smeared weapon.

“Oh for the love of god”, sighed Arthur as he turned to face his latest accuser. “Can’t a man show a little misery anymore without being berated for it? What’s wrong with a touch of pessimism every now and then? There’s no use going through life with a false grin on all the time, pretending that the world is fine and dandy when it’s not.”

“But what’s so wrong with the world Arthur, shouldn’t you be happy? You’ve got it better than most!”

“What’s wrong is that my house is infested with judgemental, condescending, pompous, talking insects. Not to mention the fact that my breakfast is well and truly FUBARed.”

“FUBARed?”

“Yeah, Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.”
“Easy now Arthur! What have we just said about the cursing? I know that sometimes a man needs to get something off his chest but there really is no excuse for …oh.”
Arthur had already left the room.

After abandoning any hope at a breakfast, at least one without any more casualties, Arthur decided it would be best to start the day fresh with a nice shower. Cleanse the body, cleanse the mind, and wrestle the day back into the realm of something potentially worthwhile. He shed his pyjamas in the flat’s single bedroom, leaving them piled up on his bed as always, and headed to the bathroom completely naked. He tried to ignore the sniggers and chuckles from the woodlice as he walked down the corridor.

“Go on, go on! Do it!” One woodlouse whispered urgently to another, nudging his hard grey back.

“But he might squish us! You’ve heard the rumours about what happened to old Keith in the kitchen this morning!”
“Nah, we’ll be fine, if he comes for us we can just hide in the wall, or pretend it was one of the flies. Come on, grow a pair and do it!”

“Ok, alright, ok. Here it goes.” The woodlouse filled his tiny lungs and screamed, “CALL THAT A DICK?!”

“Oh my god! As if you actually did it! Did he hear you, is he coming?”

“Nah. Doesn’t look like it…”

“Well, if he didn’t hear you then it doesn’t count.”

“What?! Yes it does! The action still remains whether he heard me or not. It does so count.”

“Nah mate, sorry, doesn’t count.”

“Well stuff you, I’m counting it.”

“Whatever, I’m bored.”

With that the woodlouse scurried back into a damp piece of flooring, leaving his disheartened colleague to ponder on whether a courageous act that goes unnoticed is indeed a courageous act. He became so consumed by this idea that he lost all awareness of the world around him, and Arthur unwittingly vacuumed him up a few days later. His final cries of, “My courage internal, my bravery eternal!” drowned out by the vacuum’s suction.

Arthur stepped into the bathroom and locked the door firmly behind him, before resting his soft pink hide on the edge of the bath. He had heard the woodlouse, but decided it best not to react. All they wanted was to get a rise out of you. After a few moments contemplation he stood up and, rubbing his weary eyes with one hand, reached out with the other to turn on the shower. Just as his fingers touched the rusted chrome tap, a gravelly and spite filled voice calmly whispered into his ear,
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you pal.”

Arthur whipped around so quickly that he nearly went head first over the side of the tub. Managing to claw back some balance and composure, he saw a fairly large house spider hanging from the light fixture, a few inches away from his head.

“Careful there lad, don’t want anyone getting hurt now do we?” snickered the spider. “So to that effect, as I said, move away from that tap you were about to turn.”

“And why exactly would I do that, Mr Spider?” Replied Arthur, with a sarcastic tone to his voice, embarrassed at having reacted so nervously. “It’s my shower and I want to use it, why should I be put off by the aggressive and likely inconsequential threats of an eight legged creep like you?”

“Because, you mouthy sack of meat, my wife has got herself stuck in that bath. If you turn that tap, she drowns. If she drowns, then I will personally guarantee that I and every other spider in this house exact our silky revenge upon you nightly.”

At this Arthur turned back to the bath and saw that there was indeed another, even bigger spider scrambling up the side before slipping back down the porcelain.

“Quite the ultimatum,” Arthur said as he turned back to the protective male. “What do you suggest I do about it though? I still need to shower after all, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Well seeing as I’m a spider, and have therefore never had any use of a shower, I’ll say that I don’t fully understand, no. However, the fact remains that if you turn that tap, my beautiful wife will die. Therefore, I’d think long and hard about what your next moves are, and come to some sort of conclusion wherein my wife is no longer in said bath when you do decide to turn the tap. Understood?”

Arthur couldn’t believe his day. He’d already been berated by a beetle, chastised by a moth and ridiculed by a woodlouse. Now he was naked and being threatened by some anarchic arachnid. With nothing more than a moody nod to the spider, he left the bathroom and plodded back towards his bedroom. When the woodlice again whistled and jeered him, he jerked his foot towards them, as if he intended to bring it down and crush them. They all fled at this speedy movement, other than one, who remained motionless. Arthur couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be in very deep contemplation about something. Once back in his room he quickly located a dirty glass and a magazine and returned to the bathroom.

“You’d best be bloody careful with them,” said the spider, still dangling from the bulb.

“Don’t worry yourself,” said Arthur. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to help an idiotic spider that’s stupidly fallen into my bath.”

“Seeing as you’re helping us out here, I’ll let that one slide. Enough with the insults though. Ok?”

Muttering something incomprehensible to himself, Arthur descended towards the trapped spider, glass upturned. Carefully he positioned it so that, when it was brought down, the spider would fit neatly within the circumference of the rim. He didn’t want her losing any limbs; god knows what her maniacal husband might do. With a light, “clink” against the bath, the glass fell snuggly into place around her. Arthur let out a sigh of relief. It was going to be ok. However, the now trapped female had different ideas, and chose this moment to lose all sense of composure and dignity.

“Holy fucking shit! I’m trapped! Help me, help me, help me! DENNIS! WHERE ARE YOU?! I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating, the air in here isn’t right, it’s deadly and he’s trying to murder me!!!!”
She started jumping up the side of the glass, trying to claw her way up and banging herself on the upturned base. Arthur used one of these opportunities to slide the magazine underneath her, thus muting her panicked cries and enabling him to lift her up. He glanced fearfully at the male, who had relocated himself to get a better view, and now watched from atop the curtain rail.
“Don’t worry lad, that’s just her claustrophobia kicking in,” He said to Arthur, easing the look of dread that had crawled across his face. Then, to his wife, “It’s alright darling, the meatball’s helping you. You’ll be out soon.”

Though this had little effect on the tinny screaming, it certainly made Arthur feel a bit better. The fret of a silky doom really wasn’t something he wanted to add to his list of worries.

“Now, just you lay that glass down carefully on its side on the windowsill, that’s it.”
Arthur did as he was told, lay the glass down gently and removed the magazine from the opening. This assuaged the cries from inside the glass, and she began to make her way out, softly whimpering now.

“Good, good. Now then Arthur, if you would be so kind as to open the window, we’ll leave you to wash that soft pinkness of yours and be on our way.”

Relieved to have the end of this ordeal in sight, Arthur quickly grabbed for the latch. Unfortunately the window had fallen into a state of disrepair, and so needed a fair shove in order to release it from its frame. However, Arthur was far too keen and overzealous with his shoving on this occasion, and the window flung open violently under his force. Arthur stumbled forward, half hanging out of the window. He had the displeasure of watching as everything from the sill cascaded away from him, out of the window and down to the concrete, many floors below. His toothbrush, comb and shaver all met grizzly ends, but Arthur was transfixed only on the glass that slipped slowly away from him, the screams of the spider growing fainter and fainter until they abruptly ended, the glass popping on the pavement.

Arthur withdrew slowly from the window, and saw that the male spider was also on the sill now, staring down at where his wife lay crumpled among a million shards of glass. Arthur backed slowly out of the bathroom and slammed the door. From inside he could hear the muffled wailing of the recently widowed spider and the flurry of threats thrown towards the firmly shut door. Troubled, he traipsed back to his room to get ready for work. It seemed there would be neither breakfast nor shower this morning.

Solemnly, Arthur donned his uniform. Big boots, green shorts and a green shirt with the words, “Reptile House” emblazoned across the back. He sat a while on the edge of his bed, lost in thought. Gradually, a satisfied smile crept across his face. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. 

Bruise

The bruises she leaves always turn yellow, eventually.

He’s tracing his fingers slowly around their circumference, tenderly following the crude line left by the sub dermal bleeding. Almost unnoticeable against the skin, a subtle shade of decay, a temporary feature. He’s staring hard, and sees that a gentle purple flower remains in the centre, the focal point of trauma blossoming outward across his skinny arm. He feels the pain.

Bright red lips shine so bright that he never sees her eyes.

Transfixed on the music of her voice and the saunter of her gait, the world blurs around her and caresses his feeble nature.

He’s driving his finger hard into the heart of a contusion, feeling the dull ache beneath as the weakened capillaries fall once more to his pressure. It will never be the same. Every bruise shall be different, he knows. But so long as skin is marked then she remains, if only for a little longer. He’s pushing harder still.

An Answer to my Predicament

Upon awakening from the most hideous of stupors, I found my hands clutching desperately, as if with a will of their own, a length of rope that was suspended above my head. As thought and function returned to my feeble mind, I became aware of the undeniable pull of gravity, the tension in my wrists and shoulders as the full weight of my body was bore onto them, and realised with a rush of comprehension and epiphany that I was suspended from this rope, my own grasp the only thing preventing me from falling.

Overwrought with panic, I became consumed by chaos; my heart beating so savagely that its vibrations may have shaken me loose at any moment. I filled my shallow chest and screamed. Guttural and demonic noises spewed forth from my barren lips, a flow of hatred and fear the likes of which I had never thought possible emanated from my very core as time and time again I flung obscenities into my surroundings, until my lungs burned like coals in my chest and the iron taste of blood traced a path across my tongue.

Through tightly shut eyes and the deepest breathing that my meek frame would allow, I wrestled back the control of my mind and voice, and it was only now that I made the effort to view my surroundings. I followed the line of the rope so that I may see what it was anchored to, but found only an undefinable distance into which the rope extended, before eventually fading from site. Above, in front and below me I saw the same murky vastness, so that I knew I must be at quite some height, though had no means of establishing an orientation of any sort. Too scared to attempt turning around, I arched my neck as far as I could over each shoulder, in the vain hope that perhaps there would be something unseen behind me. From all my peripherals would allow me to perceive, there lay nothing but an extension of the void in which I found myself.

A rare spark of logic and rationale passed through me then, erupting into an inferno of hope and prayer. Due to the ambiguous colour and nature of my surroundings, I had instinctively presumed that I must be hanging many feet, if not miles, above whatever solid surface lay in wait for me below, was I to fall. However, this efficient spark informed me that I could not be certain of such facts, and that indeed I may be suspended mere inches above the ground, my toes nearly scraping its unseen surface. With the burning in the joints of my arms growing, and suspense in my heart mounting, I began to carefully pry the heel out of my left shoe, tenderly pushing down with the toes of my right, wary of jarring myself loose from my precarious grip. The idea was that by watching the descent of the shoe and counting the seconds it took to stop falling, or for me to hear the sound of it concluding it’s fall, I would be able to roughly gauge the distance I would drop, should I decide to. With the lightest of touches, as though I were delicately stroking the cheek of a sleeping lover, I worked the shoe forward so that it rested upon the edges of my toes, and would require only the softest of shakes to be sent free, into the unknown. I tightened my grip on the rope, steadied my breath, and shook the shoe loose.

One

It began to fall slowly away from me.

Two

The dirty and haggard laces rippled behind it like streamers, celebrating its departure.

Three

The shoe began to twist, air currents spinning it across many axes, somersaulting and cartwheeling as the gap between us increased.

Four

I struggled to keep my sight focused as it sank ever further into a miniscule dot in my vision. 
Five

It had almost disappeared from view, leaving no sign of its previous existence.

Six

Faded forever from sight, I was left alone in the void, awaiting any indication that the shoe had landed, any sign of an answer to my predicament, anything that proved the existence of more than but myself and the rope to which I clung.

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

I let go.

Corsage

The flower

Once compressed in my coat pocket

Now lies dying upon my diary

Tenuous orange arms reach for me

Grasp and unfold

Shed feeble and tender fur to hope

Longing and prayer

There it will undoubtedly remain

To dry out and become beautiful once more

In former skin.

Thirty Thousand Feet

I drift in/out of sleep
On the ebb and flow of turbulent fronts
Bury myself in blankets
As aluminium Ravens
Vie for airspace
Over new Constantinople
And Ceylon

Ursa

I was walking through the woods, contemplating the life and death of myself, when a mournful plea began to twist among the branches, a sound unlike anything I had ever heard. A creature was nearby, slowly dying, and it was calling out to me in long, visceral tones punctuated with quiet splutters of exhaustion. I knew that I could not walk on and leave the animal to die in solitude, whatever it may be. Nothing deserves to die alone. I began to pick my way cautiously through the foliage, pacing towards the animal’s woe, wary of what I may find. I could see a large outcrop of hedge a short way ahead of me, and knew that whatever was producing the soft melody of death waited on the other side. Upon reaching it I paused, listening to the shallow breathing of the beast, not metres away, and wondered what it may be. It knew I was there. I steadied my nerves and rounded the hedge timidly, careful not to frighten the stricken creature that I found.

Button like eyes, black and serene, burrowed deep into mine as I witnessed, for the first and only time, a female grizzly bear cub. She continued to stare at me, absorbing my every move as I carefully advanced towards her, so weak that her head could barely be lifted from the ground. I could see no physical cause of her predicament, no blood or damage to indicate an injury, but it was clear that this creature was dying. The scent of death rose languidly from her aguish frame and came to rest in the back of my throat, a dull yet permeating fragrance, the memory of which is imprinted firmly on my mind.

I crouched down not a metre away, our eyes still locked, and she showed no fear at my presence. I edged ever closer, on my knees now, and felt the beating of my heart swell in my throat as I reached out a tentative hand to rest on her back. Her fur was thin and dirty, fallen out in places and the skin beneath was fragile and cold. I could feel the movement of her ribcage as she breathed, and felt the rattle of her lungs in my fingertips.

I sat down by her side, my hand still on her back as she calmly inspected me, feebly sniffing the edge of my jacket, pawing at my shoe. Even this close I could see no evidence of harm, the reason for her abandonment and now inescapable death beyond me. This is the way of nature, I thought, perhaps her only sin was to be weak. Or perhaps she was just unwanted, as so many of us often are.

I gently stroked her tiny frame for the next hour, her head resting on my knee as her breathing gradually diminished, and I could feel her heart slow down. She would occasionally open her eyes at the sound of a nearby bird or mouse, ever alert to her surroundings, look up at me with the acceptance of fate etched into her face and again rest her head on my lap.  She did not whimper, she did not cry, not once I was there.

She died as the shadows reached their shortest, the sunlight falling vertically through the canopy. My hand came to rest just below her shoulders as I felt a long final breath leave her body, all of her muscles relaxing in unison as she slipped peacefully into the void. I remained there for a short while, motionless and pensive, minutely stroking the back of her neck. I did not cry, I wasn’t sad for her, but I felt something change in me, something that I cannot explain. The world was a different place, and I a different person within it. This death had shown me a beautiful way to die.

I picked her up and held her in my hands, carrying her like water, as though I was afraid that her meek frame would slip through the cracks in my palm, and placed her at the base of the hedge. I caressed her head before standing up, looked down at her body, now an empty husk of blood and bone inhabiting the same solitude in which I found her, and I walked away.