Thursday Afternoon

(It's a bit long, so please forgive me. I spent the entirety of Sunday morning writing this without being able to stop. It's not perfect, but I thought I'd put it on anyway.)

‘People always ask me how I got this scar on my finger.’ Said the man, pushing up his flat cap with his thumb and placing his other hand directly on top of his knee. His ancient face scrunched into a grin as something flashed behind his eyes. He wore an odd-looking blue cagoule, and his shoes were so close to being slippers I wondered how he could wear them in this kind of weather. The clouds were getting darker. It would rain soon.

I gripped my bag tighter. It was Thursday afternoon, and this was the fifth week that I had seen this man sitting at my bus stop. Whenever I would walk over there his face would crease in a smile. Every time, however, I had pretended I hadn’t seen him and sat wherever else I could. This week, unfortunately, had left me with no choice. The seat next to the man was the only one available.

‘Funny things, scars…’ He held his hand in his other, palm outwards, fingers splayed, to show a long, winding white line that went from the tip of his index finger to the bottom of his palm.

Again, I wasn’t sure of what to say.

‘I remember it well though…’ He sighed, and began to talk in a slow, resonant, slightly gasping voice. ‘I was only a boy. It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon and I wanted to play outdoors. Our back garden gate led out to a small wood, and I would always play out there. ‘He looked at me as though he expected me to add something, but when I did nothing he carried on.

‘The trees were wonderful. I loved the smell of them, the feel of the bark on my hands as I climbed them. It was heaven.’ He paused, and took a wheezing breath. I wondered if that was the end of his story.

I was terribly wrong.

                ‘I remember that on that morning I had stolen my dad’s pen knife. Not for anything bad, of course. I just wanted to carve my name into my favourite tree. The one that lay over a small river. I liked to sit there, and listen to the rushing and thrashing of the water on the rocks. If I’d been able to read back then, I know I would have loved to have taken a book out with me.

                ‘I began to slice my first initial in; T. I carved and carved, but as I finished the spine of the letter, my knife slipped and flew out of my hands.’

                ‘Is that how you got the scar?’ I asked, hoping this was the end of the story.

                ‘No.’ He said, vacantly. ‘That was when I met Ruby.’

                ‘Ruby?’

                ‘Ruby Kenwick. She was my age. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. She caught my knife as I dropped it. She was so fast it was… well, she was… She was a bit different, Ruby. I asked her where she was from and she said a farm in the forest. I said I’d never known there was a farm in there. She asked me to go back with her. Said she was scared.’

                It had begun to rain. Enormous, fat drops splashed on top of the bus shelter, pouring down the sides like some kind of odd, murky waterfall.

                ‘Did you go with her?’ I asked.

                ‘I did.’ He replied with a sigh.

                ‘Why?’

                ‘I have no idea.’ He pushed up his cap again. ‘I ran through the forest with her, trying to figure out which direction we were going so I might be able to find my way back. I was too optimistic choosing to follow her, of course. Within minutes, something horrid happened.’

                ‘What happened?’

                ‘A fox. That is what happened. Not a nice little sneaking common fox that might try and steal your wellingtons from your front steps; this fox was enormous, with claws on its feet and it teeth – I’ve seen dogs with fangs before but never like that. The fox jumped at me – ’

                ‘Is that how you got your scar?’ I asked.

                ‘No.’ He said. ‘Ruby Kenwick jumped in front of me before I could get hurt. Told it I was a friend.’

                ‘She talked to the animal?’

                ‘Yes. But that’s not the strange thing, you see, the fox… it listened.’

                The rain was pouring harder now.

                ‘How could a fox listen?’

                The man ignored my question and carried on. ‘The fox ran away, whimpering, back into the trees, and Ruby and I set off again.’

                ‘Where did she take you?’

                ‘I’m just getting to that! We reached a small clearing, just in the middle of the forest like she’d said. There was a small wooden house that looked… well, a bit dodgy if I’m honest. The walls were mouldy and the chimney crooked. Wasn’t much of a farm, either. She pulled me inside. A fire was burning in a corner, next to a woman who looked as though her own skin had grown too large for her. She was cutting up carrots on a little wooden chopping board with the speed of an old mule.’ He laughed to himself; throaty, sonorous, ending with a coughing fit which brought more than a few others at the bus stop to stare at us.

                I asked quietly if he was okay. He ignored me again.

                ‘The woman… when she saw me…. The woman lifted her knife up.’ He held out his hand as though he was holding a knife himself. ‘And threw it at me.’ He gestured throwing.

                ‘And…’ I was hoping this was the last time I would have to ask this question. ‘Is that how you got that scar?’

                ‘Nope.’ He snorted. ‘Ruby.’

                There was a pause.

                ‘Ruby jumped in front of it. Sliced off part of her cheek. Her face was never the same after that.’

                I gasped. ‘But who was this woman? Why did she have a knife Why did Ruby take you to her?’ My voice as becoming loud and panicky, and more of the bus stop dwellers turned to stare at us.

                ‘She was your great grandmother.’

                He had said this as calmly as though he was telling someone the time.

                ‘What?’ I said. ‘But… what?’ I had begun to shiver from the cold.

                The man let out a chortle. ‘Your grandmother… she was called Ruby Kenwick.’

                A wave of something swept over me. He was wrong. ‘But – but – my grandparents… I have two grandmothers, none called Ruby.’

                The man smiled.

                I opened my mouth to say something else, but quickly closed it. He was just a mad old man, that was all. I wouldn’t take this any further.

                ‘What’s your name?’ He asked.

                I couldn’t ignore a mad old man. ‘Erica Devlin.’

                ‘Erica, Erica.’ Rolling my name around his mouth as though addressing an old friend. ‘My name is Thomas Letterchewt.’

                He held out his hand. I shook it.

                ‘I am your grandfather.’

                Again I ignored him.

                ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to believe me. You see that, woman was a witch.’

                I knew he was completely insane. But I had to listen.

                ‘She was Ruby’s mother – a horrible woman! She made Ruby do everything for her. Too lazy to get her own victims. And on that day she had told Ruby to go and get a boy from the village and bring him to her. I was the boy.  But she didn’t want me. She couldn’t use me for what she wanted. I was terrified.. Ruby’s mother became so angry. I asked why she couldn’t use me. She snorted, glared at Ruby, and that was when she threw the knife. The knife held the curse. It was aimed at me. I was supposed to be the one with a hundred grandsons who couldn’t remember.’

                ‘Remember what?’ I asked. I completely forgot I was supposed to ignore him.

                He ignored me. ‘When that knife hit Ruby in the face, I knew what had happened. I should have known she was a witch form the start, with the listening fox and all. Anyway, there was only one thing a witch could do. Well, could really do. They lie – they say magic can be good. It never can. The day Ruby was cursed was the day I became cursed too.’

                ‘You became cursed?’

                ‘Yes, but not in the same way. I became cursed with Ruby. I loved her at first, but after years… It became unbearable.’

                ‘What did?’

                ‘Some curses are – ’

                ‘Just tell me what the curse was!’ My cheeks overheated and I tried placing my cold hands onto them to cool them down. The other bus stop residents stared at me.

                ‘She was made to live the same day until her death. Every day for her was that Thursday afternoon. Every day, inside her head, she took me from the woods and met her infuriated mother. Every day, I had to listen to the screams.’

                I looked at my lap. Why was he telling me all of this? What did this have to do with me, even if he thought that woman was my grandmother?

                ‘Why are you saying this to me?’

                The man smiled. ‘Because the curse didn’t remain in one body. That’s not how they work. Ruby was cursed to live the same Thursday afternoon forever, and so every girl who would be born from Ruby, or Ruby’s children, or Ruby’s children’s children, they would always live the same Thursday afternoon. You’re cursed too, Erica.’

                I laughed then. I laughed for so loud and so long that I couldn’t care less what the bus stoppers thought of me or who this man was. I laughed until my cheeks hurt with strain, I laughed until my throat dried up and I could laugh no more.

                ‘You know you mother?’ He said. ‘She had fair hair like me, and blue eyes. She didn’t possess the curse. But you, with the same dark hair and eyes as Ruby. I knew what would happen. It knew it as soon as you were born.’

                ‘I’m not cursed!’ I cried with the last laugh I could muster.

                ‘Erica,’ his face had become serious now, ‘do you remember the fifth of November, in 1997?’

                I laughed again. ‘That’s todays date!’

                ‘No. It isn’t. That date was the first Thursday you ever experienced. You weren’t even a year old.’ The old man’s face turned sour.

                ‘What are you talking about? What is all this? Why are you saying all of these things? And you never even told me about the stupid scar on your hand! That’s what all this was about, right?’

                ‘You’ve been living this same Thursday afternoon since you were tiny. When your mother had you I hoped you would be like her. I hoped the curse wouldn’t pass on. It couldn’t have, she didn’t have it in the first place. But Monday came, you were born. Tiny and fragile, but healthy. Tuesday came; you lay in your mother’s arms. Wednesday came, everything was perfect. And Thursday… On the fifth of November 1997, you shivered, coughed, spluttered and ran. You ran from your mother’s arms, away from the house; a child who had never even known how to crawl.’

                I really didn’t know what to say anymore. This man was scaring me now. I wondered why the bus still hadn’t arrived.

                ‘You came here. You realised you wanted to go home, and waited at the bus stop. Alone. A baby. Just a baby. People gave you odd looks. There were people searching for you everywhere.  But that’s when I came. I found you first. I came to take you home.’

                That’s when I noticed the rain wasn’t there anymore. In fact, I wasn’t sure if it had been there in the first place.

                ‘I tried to pick you up at first, but you refused… kicking and biting…’

                I saw that the sky was no longer the murky blue Thursday afternoon that it had been a second ago. It was now pitch black.

                ‘I placed you down on this seat here, next to me, and tried to talk to you. Which was ridiculous. You wouldn’t have been able to understand me.’

                I watched as the people who had been waiting at the bus stop slowly disappeared.

                ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘Where’s… why’s everything…’

                He smiled.

                As I looked around me now I saw nothing but darkness. Just the man, the bus stop, and myself. ‘When did it get so dark?’

                ‘It is the early hours of the morning. You should expect it to be dark.’ The man smiled weakly.

                ‘But it was afternoon not long ago.’

                ‘Yes. You have been living in that Thursday afternoon since you were a baby. I came to try and get you out again.’

                I stayed silent for a moment. Everything that had happened seemed so completely odd that I wasn’t entirely sure if I was going mad or not.

                ‘You never did tell me how you got that scar.’

                He grinned then, and held it out again as he had before, fingers spread.

                ‘You were a strong baby. It must have a been a lovely Thursday afternoon, because you wouldn’t let me take you out of it.’

                I lost all of my words. They seemed to have tumbled off my tongue with my sanity. I just sat there, stuttering. Trying to make sense of everything that was happening.

                ‘And now you can see.’ He smiled again. ‘That this is the real world.’ He gestured to the dark background surrounding us.

                ‘It’s a bit too dark.’ I said.

                He laughed.

                ‘So what now?’ I asked. ‘Do I go home? Am I cured?’

                The man’s smile faltered. ‘I’m – I’m afraid not.’

                ‘Well what do I do then?’ I stood up. ‘I’m going home. Which way’s home?’

                He just stared at me blankly.

                ‘WHERE DO I GO?’ I cried. ‘TELL ME!’

                He just stared at me with his miserable eyes glinting in moonlight. ‘You can’t.’

                ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN’T?’ I was breathing quickly now, waiting for him to say something reasonable. Something realistic. Something real. Just one thing would have done. Just something to make some sense of everything that was happening. I ran.

                I ran through the dark streets; passing building after building, not caring where I was or why those buildings were there or who lived in them or what purpose they had. Because I had no purpose. My Thursday Afternoon had never happened. It had all been a long dream that wasn’t even gone long enough for it to become recurring.

                I tripped and fell over something. I don’t even know what. But it made everything turn darker than it already was.

                I awoke, sometime after, to a bright, sunny day in a place bustling with people. I saw a calendar in the window of a shop.

 The fifth of November.

 It was Thursday afternoon, and I was late for my bus. 


R

Playing God

The words I know

I honestly don’t

They greet me at first sight

On every page I breathe

And stay with me like old friends

They have lived up there quite patiently

Watching as I went through each

Impossible

Conflict

Waiting until I could think again

Waiting until I could see again

As I always do

That I know something more

Pain is what teaches best

Though there is always more to learn

I always thought those words were people

Whispers of the dead I once knew

The ones who I collected

The ones to whom I spoke

They have evaporated now

Only words live here

You may think that rather dry, but

Let me tell you, words are the base of everything important to me

Of the worlds that reside in my head

Of the millions of people that live inside there

I keep picking at them

Choosing each one and placing them where they fit best

Sometimes one won’t, sometimes I’ll move them or change them or throw them 
Back into my head

But they aren’t perfect

And neither can I ever be

Not so much a hobby, more a necessity

But taking them away, one by one

There’ll be a time

I’ll be left with one

The one I fear the most

I stumbled through all of it

I always stumble; I think it’s my genes

Always wondering when it would be my time to go

To disappear

And I can always feel it coming

Rushing towards me like an icy cold wave

And now it’s closer than ever.

R

Hatterdale

My dearest dear, listen closely now

As I tell you of my tale

How the plain little Fox tricked a Cow

One day, in Hatterdale.

A plain little fox, she had always been

No diamonds in her tail

The Cow was tall and combed and clean

The Queen of Hatterdale.

‘What is this?’ Smirked the Cow with glee

‘A cow that isn’t pale?

You creature, are completely ugly

The ugliest in Hatterdale.’

It was quite true, among the town

That this Cow, though a pretty pale

Had never understood, with a frown

That there were more than cows in Hatterdale.

‘Come, my lady.’ Said the Fox

Stepping to the forest fence rail

‘Let me show you, just this once

The jewels of Hatterdale.’

The Cow went, with pattering feet

Yet slowly, like a snail

She followed the Fox with wide blue eyes

Into the forest of Hatterdale.

Further and further into the forest they went

Past the river, on their trail

The cow didn’t know mud, only cement

From the streets of Hatterdale.

‘Where are we going?’ Asked the Cow

Beginning to look quite frail

The fox replied ‘Not much further now.’

They were no longer in Hatterdale.

They reached a lake, vast and wide

The Fox said ‘You must swim!’

‘But I can’t.’ The Cow did cry

And so the Fox pushed her right in.

‘Oh no! Don’t leave! I’ll surely drown!’

The cow splashed and thrashed with a wail

‘When you die, I’ll take your crown.’

Smiled the new Fox queen of Hatterdale.

The cow had gone, plain out of sight

Her skin covered by a watery veil

The Fox slipped away, as it became night

To become the ruler of Hatterdale.

 _________________________

I don't know I had a weird 

R

Mermaids

            There was a young man,

            His name was Redley

He had kind little eyes

But his smile was deadly

This clever young man

With his chilling grin

Took children home

And took off their skin

He cast it aside

And instead gave them scales

And once they had stuck

He began to sew on their tails

Redley would smile

Oh, how he would grin

When he took off their arms

And gave them two fins

He wouldn’t give them back

He was mad, you’ll agree

But you should’ve seen his grin

As he tossed them into the sea

‘Goodbye, my little ones!’

Oh, how he’d bellow

As he left them forever

To live with their mermaid fellows

R

The Northern Lollipop

Because of what I was born

It is expected of me

To be taken by the stick

And to be eaten clean

It’s not much of a feat

And so short a life span

And to make it worse

I was born a Northern’

I don’t want to be bought

I don’t want to stay

I just want to live

I want to run away

And yet I have no legs

Not even one limb

I cannot climb from this jar

And most definitely can’t swim

I am told by my friends

‘Ya shun’t be so sad!

To dream of such things

It will send you flippin’ mad!’

But one day, you’ll see

I’ll leave this horrid glass jail

I’ll fly past shooting stars

Like a warrior, I shall prevail!

But for now, I sit and dream

In this silly little sweetie-shop

I cannot move, I cannot leave

For I am just a lollipop

R

The Lizard boy.

Mr Crest had owned one of the shabbiest, most scruffy-looking static caravans that had ever sat in the little world of Ocean Gates Caravan Park. He was a tall man, with jet black hair and a crooked nose. He had had the battered little shell for years, and was now known to have taken a permanent residence there. There had once been a time when he had visited the little place every weekend with his wife. They had been a happy couple. She had always worn the prettiest dresses, and her large eyes were glittering blue orbs.

However, one weekend he appeared, and his wife was nowhere to be seen. That was the day that Mr Crest’s face had become sullen, and his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. Weeks and weeks after that, nobody saw his wife, and people began to assume she had passed away.

He led a quiet life after that. Apart from some occasions in which he had played music awfully loudly, and he had had to be told to keep the noise down; he kept to himself, and didn’t leave his caravan other than to have his breakfast at the Ocean Gates café, or to post a letter. I thought he had been quite a nice man; not at all capable of what he had been recently accused.
It was only yesterday that I had witnessed the scene of the body being carried from Mr Crest’s battered old caravan. It was Mr Lizard. The old, pot-bellied, red-haired, red-face little man who owned Ocean Gates.
Mr Lizard had never married, and with no children, he was completely alone. Who was now the rightful owner of Ocean Gates Caravan Park, you may ask? The police had set some private detectives to find someone who could take his place. If not, they would have to sell the land.

I had been going to my parent’s caravan every weekend since I was a young boy. The place offered me an escape from the horrors of reality, and instead gave me a sunny atmosphere, fresh, salty air and a wonderful view of the sea. But although Ocean Gates had always been my blissful retreat, the death of Mr Lizard had awoken something in me.

His body had been found lying in the centre of the sitting-room of Mr Crest’s static caravan. Surrounded by the dull, brown moth-eaten sofa which surrounded the walls; and the petite wooden dining table with its three matching chairs. A puncture wound went right through his heart, and a large slash down his left cheek. Mr Crest had apparently been standing over him, holding a tiny silver kitchen knife. It was said that Crest had been playing his music rather loudly again, and old Mr Lizard had only gone over there to kindly tell him to lower the volume.

He had been arrested of course, for murder. But he hadn’t done it. I was certain. My clue, my only clue to prove this, was that the knife gash on the side of Mr Lizards face was on the left. Only a left-handed person could have done it. Mr Crest was right-handed. Mr Crest hadn’t killed Mr Lizard. And I was going to prove it.

And so there I stood, in the empty living room of Mr Crest’s old caravan. The dried blood stains still on the grey carpet, everything else still intact. I had obtained the keys from Mr Lizard’s old office (no one ever went in there anymore) and let myself in.

I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, but I had hardly been in there for ten minutes when I found it.
A shrill, screeching howl filled my ears. It came from the room which I knew to be Mr Crest’s bedroom. I ran inside, not even thinking. Nothing. Just an empty room. Mattress, wardrobe and all. But then it occurred a second time, and I realised that the interior of the caravan didn’t match the exterior. It was far too small inside for it to fit the outside. And then I pieced together the mysterious wail and the too-small interior and pushed open the wardrobe door.

Inside, sat Mrs Crest. Her skin was yellow, her dark hair matted and thick with dirt. She wore nothing more than a bed sheet and as soon as she spotted me began to screech again. Mr Crest had been keeping his wife locked up in here all this time. Had it been she who had killed Mr Lizard? Had she escaped from her tiny prison and slaughtered him? Had Mr Crest taken the blame for her madness? What had made her become so mentally disturbed?

Just when I thought I had found the answer to Lizard’s death, something extraordinary happened. A young boy, around the age of six, jumped out from behind the door holding a knife. She had a son. The mad woman had a son. But from his rosy-red cheeks, and his bright red hair, I knew instantly that Mr Crest wasn’t the father.

And so, from that little boy’s harsh, protecting glare; his mother’s mad eyes; the secret room. I knew. Of course it hadn’t been Mrs Crest, I always knew she had been right-handed from when she would write stories in the café.

Mrs Crest had had an affair. This had resulted in a pregnancy, which Mr Crest had already known was not something he had caused. He had become angry, terribly angry, and hurt, threatened and sent his wife mad because she had hurt him so much. He then had no other choice to lock her in a secret room. And the wailing? That was the purpose of the loud music.

Now the child had grown up with his mentally insane mother, and he and Mr Crest had done everything they could to keep her hidden. This also meant keeping the existence of the boy concealed.
Mr Lizard had come into Mr Crest’s caravan to find a mad woman, escaped from her room. Who had killed him? The boy, of course. The only one who cared about his mother that much; the only one who would be willing to kill to stop her being sent to a madhouse.

Why had Mr Crest taken the blame? After all the time he had spent with the child, though he wasn’t his own, he had grown to love him. He couldn’t see anything bad happen to him.

And who inherited the Ocean Gates? The little boy, with Lizard’s red hair, and his mother’s blue eyes.

R

When I dream

I feel so free

And I turn this feeling

Into poetry.

And when the darkness

Reaches my heart

I turn this madness

Into art.

And when my fear

Demolishes all feelings

I lift my chin

And a song I’ll sing.

And when my thoughts

Become all gory

I pick up my pen

And write a story.

-R

Alice.

From reading

And breathing

And sitting around

I stumbled upon

A hole in the ground

Inside I fell

Without a sound

Much more fun

Than sitting around

I landed upon

A patterned floor

Surrounded by a mass of doors

Upon a table

You won’t guess what I found!

The smallest key

And a liquid, I frowned

Was it poison?

Could it be?

With its label entitled ‘Drink Me.’

I drank it anyway

It wasn’t often I found

A dangerous liquid underground

As I began to shrink

Slowly to the ground

All I could think was

This was much more fun

Than reading

And breathing

And sitting around.

-Rebby

You must never tell.

'Ha! I have the folder!' Yelled Eric, snatching the open green folder from the desk where the other man sat.
He lifted his head to face Eric. 'I will make you into shoes.'
Eric held the folder close to his chest.
'Give it to me.'
'Never.'
'If people see what's in there, you know what will happen to me... to all of us.'
Eric held the folder closer to him, almost squeezing the pages out of it.
'You messed with... With their souls! It's wrong! I don't know why- I don't care. I just want it to stop.'
The other man behind the desk frowned at Eric, and without another word, reached into a drawer and pulled out...

R.

The Box

I couldn't avoid answering the door forever. I looked through the peephole once again and saw how guilty she seemed to look. She never really had been good at trying to keep things hidden. Her hair was not its usual orange silk, but had become tangled and messy. Her clothes seemed creased and were worn in such a way that suggested she had been wearing them for quite a few days. In her hands she held the little black box. Our secret. The thing we had been trying to create for almost ten years.

Her hands seemed to be straining with the weight of it, and the madness in her eyes kept me from letting her inside. The thing we had always dreamt about, an escape from our own reality, right there in that box. But there were consequences. People would die if that box was to open. And I had helped to create it.

I slid my back down the wall and landed on my knees, planting my face in my hands. If I admitted that I did not want to be involved then I would lose the only friend I had ever had. The only person in the world who could understand my thoughts better than I could. However, if I did go though with it, thousands of people's lives would be at risk. Because of us.

-R

Believe.

Daria lay silently in her bed, on the bridge between sleep and conciousness. Her bedroom door lay open, exposing the landing; a soft breeze blew in from the an open window above the staircase. Daria shivered.

It was Christmas Eve, and Daria had been trying to coax herself to sleep for almost two hours. Though there was a non-stop merry-go-round of thoughts circling aound her head. She knew that Father Christmas didn't leave presents for children who didn't sleep on Christmas Eve, and this terrified her, but getting to sleep was a lot more challenging than she had thought it would be. She couldn't stop imagining how wonderful the next day would be, opening all of her presents, seeing her family again; even though most of them had fallen out over something quite silly, and would probably refuse to talk to each other. But Daria didn't mind, as long as they were all together once again.

She turned to her side, still trying to force herself into sleep. While doing this she opened her eyes for just a second, and what she saw made her shut them again almost immediately. She had caught a glance of a large, red-cheeked face framed by a waterfall of white hair, which held a beard so magnificently white it had seemed as though it was glowing. Father Christmas had come upstairs to check on her on his visit, and she hoped more than anything that he hadn't seen her open her eyes.

She didn't dare to open her eyes again after that, but was amazed at the wonderful being she had just caught sight of. She had seen Father Christmas! He existed. She had proof! And from this night onwards, Daria would tell of this experience to any person who refused to believe in him. He was real, and she knew it.

Always believe.

-R