Words: Alex Lendrum

Glimpses of the once lucid man beneath betray themselves, cutting strained lines that flank the sockets through which he peers. Cognitive gears whir into sluggish motion – the scene is surveyed, deciphered and forgotten forthwith. Fumbling hands grasp barstools like rudimentary taproots, etching fingerprints into the chintzy imitation leather. These moments of clarity are nothing if not cursory – all too soon the furrowed brow dissolves, taking with it the stony grip and the illusory poise of sobriety.

What returns is a familiar vision of inebriation; an innocuous husk suspended in waggish perpetual motion. It lurches into speech, surprising itself as much as all parties in earshot.

“So, who’s the chap you..”

The pause is palpable, a synapse misfires and the repercussions fill the space between us – tangible stumbling blocks that halt his discourse and distract the unwitting recipient of the incomplete query.

“..you brought along? -I recognise his face” Further noises continue to trail from his lips, unformed words from unfinished thoughts, while the question falls flat on the floor. A spoken shambles that brings an awkward shift in the atmosphere. With no apparent intonation it sits unrecognised by the intended recipient. A doe-eyed colleague blinks back her own confusion; mind racing for riposte, hands fidgeting in pockets that rustle with promise of crumpled papers and plasticky wrappers.

We each pause, sagging uncomfortably into our stances, not one of us able to fathom an agreeable path forward. Like players rehearsing an unfinished script, the performers reach a state of torpor – not a modicum of initiative to share, three incongruous drones glaring po-faced at the space between.

Whirling in from stage-right, the bartender hits his mark precisely. Commanding the attention of the room, his presence affords each of us time to hastily gather our much garbled thoughts. Naturally, the drunkard does no such thing – for the drunkard has no thoughts to gather. Their allotted space is occupied by a primordial urge to hunt, gather and intoxicate.

“Three margaritas.. frozen, please.”

I’m baffled by the caveat, deeming it much too whimsical for one so far beyond the realms of whimsy. The bartender rushes away and, pivoting back to his gentle colleague, the drunkard’s prior line of questioning emerges afresh. “Is he your man then, man?” A terse return to an already brusque dialogue. Lumbering through each motion with now-characteristic lethargy.

“Girl!”

Speaking as though her voice has gotten away from her, unexpectedly released from some form of vocal shackles, the pitch and volume are wayward, heightened, shrill even. He glances at me for what I’m sure is the first time all evening – I just teleported in from somewhere outside of his alcoholsphere, the banshee cry to my left duly heralding my arrival. I’m suddenly aware of both the situation and my inclusion therein. The Drunkard has mistaken his colleague’s female friend for a male. In his present condition this comes as little surprise, the more experienced reader will surely attest that in such a compromised state even the most majestic of female forms can fall victim to ocular-buggery.

“Is he..”

The drunkard, again, is trying to process before unravelling his sentence. Would that he had foresight, he might do so before beginning it.

“SHE!”

Employing the same supernatural sound spectrum as before, her voice cuts through the space between his words like piano wire.

“Oh, that’s a girl!?”

His words, joining their forefathers, calcify on the floor around us. It’s the sort of line that you think, but think better of voicing. Internal rhetoric is best kept that way, particularly when one’s vocalisation buffers are all but dissolved.

“..that’s great.”

A swift recovery of sorts. His smile evolves into a tooth-filled grin boasting a sincerity that has no doubt carried him through worse encounters.

“..really, great.”

He doesn’t need to be talking anymore. Had he ordered standard margaritas, the bartender’s timely arrival would put the gender slip to bed and we’d all be grinning like Cheshire cats, chinking glasses and readying our palates for a sweet Mexican haymaker. This said, his repetitive parting shot had seemed surprisingly effective, forging an air of finality that was quite masterful. Seamless and watertight, our focus had returned to the bar and the liquor icebergs swiftly approaching by way of our drink-pouring friend. Unbeknownst to us, the colleague sought her own form of closure. “Are you drunk?”

The alcohol-fuelled man and I are bewildered. His expression is reticent but I know enough to see through the drunken veneer. He’s reeling, he recognises the catch-22 that stares him down.

“You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on!”

I vomit the words out at an elevated volume. My timing isn’t perfect, you understand; excitement gets the better of me and I deliver the line like a child gasping to visit the washroom. Still, I’m giddy, both parties can tell this much.

“What does that even mean?”

He’s suddenly more lucid than I care to consider and already I feel like a parody of myself, serving quotation over frozen margaritas. I stare down into my sauce, thumbing the tinted blue neck with fervour. I consider downing it to hurriedly adopt his ensemble. Donning his apparel, his drunkard’s regalia, a wayward quote would warrant not one look. Not one. I try to explain: “It’s Dean Martin, he said that. I, I thought it pretty apt, no?”

No time passes.

“Not really.”

“No, not really.”

They seem to enjoy their agreement. Small solace there, I suppose.

Words: Needs More Robots

—–Original Message—–
From: Cassidy, Thomas
Sent: 26 June 2008 10:49
To: Dorr, Wendy E
Subject: Men’s Health
Hello,
Just read in Men’s Health “Studies show that meaningful, ah! I see, I mis-read it. That’s a shame. I thought it
said “Studies show that meaningless relationships, even with pets, decrease the severity of depression”.
I thought it odd. Now I see that it says you need to be friends with your pets. I will, however, imagine a
meaningless relationship between a man and his cat and live it out in realtime in my head for as long as I can.
Tom
—–Original Message—–
From: Dorr, Wendy E
Sent: 26 June 2008 10:58
To: Cassidy, Thomas
Subject: RE: Men’s Health
I need more information about said man and pet please. Names, colours, professions, dietary requirements etc

The man’s name is George. He is unwell.

He obtained a cat as a solitary companion just over a year ago, hoping to find a friend in this big old world. The cat he got was a half-Siamese creature from lady who takes in strays. His name is Archie and Archie is six years old. George, 48, is a man who up until two years ago had never had a day off work in his life. Then, at the start of autumn, after an unusually hot summer, he stayed in bed. The next day, after ignoring the letter that was hand-delivered from work, again he stayed in bed. He did this for four days, wondering what else he could be doing with his life.

He started walking, heading out for miles at a time, exploring the villages around the town he’d lived in for almost twenty years. In all that time he’d never left the town, apart from on the train back to his family home twice a year – once for Christmas and again on the day his parents celebrate his sister’s win at the Great Hocklington féte, where she not only grew the largest collection of vegetables, but also excelled in the egg race. That was on the 16th of June, 1906.

They never celebrated anything of George’s. They only looked at him with mild disappointment and it was starting to grate. What, if anything, have I done? he began to wonder.

So, as autumn dawned, he changed his outlook. As the seasons shifted, so did his mindset. What a wonderful world, thought George as he noticed the leaves slowly turning brown and falling off the trees; always more for him to kick through as he shuffled his way out of town and into the countryside he felt free in.

As the cold winds came and adopted a frosty bite, he took his humble savings, wrapped in a handkerchief, to the town tailors and bought himself the finest, warmest coat, scarf and a pair of leather gloves at a cost of such proportions he felt giddy handing over the money. He was giddy at the parting, but also heady through the excitement of finally allowing himself to spend money on something he enjoys – walking alone through barren fields, watching the world change before his eyes. As the cold, hard winter set in he revelled in walking on the earth that was once soft mud and had dirtied his shoes, now frozen solid with a white dusting, the purity of which filled his heart with the thought that seasons change. I’ve watched them before my very eyes and I know soon spring will come, followed by summer, to warm my heart.

Unfortunately for George, this new-found optimism was marred by his hacking cough and the weakness that overcame him on the cold afternoons. It will be spring soon, he thought, I’ll get better then. But it was no use, he returned to work and it was as if nothing had changed.

The four other people in his office, a small struggling stationary firm, still greeted him in the morning and would on occasion say goodnight as they left, but that was the sole sum of his interaction; unless one can include the letters he’d send out regarding unpaid bills. They wouldn’t often see a reply either. Once people learned the small firm hadn’t the funds for legal assistance they would often get things for free. Rendered powerless by his letters to no-one and his yearning to be walking in the frosty air (which was all but impossible now, in his condition) he felt worse than ever.

It was a trip to the bakery two streets away that first made him consider a pet. By chance he looked in the window of the tobacconist, who also sold exotic publications from overseas. George saw the bright American Homemaker’s Gazette, the cover of which sported a drawing of a cat and the strapline “Your New Best Friend”.

To George, at this time of hardship, this seemed like a small glimmer of hope in the days of darkness. He had had a best friend before, Arthur Nesbit, a good friend from the age of twelve to sixteen, at which age Arthur was called up to fight in The Great War and died in a field thirty miles east of the north of Italy.

George didn’t go to war. His life-long affliction of bad lungs saw to it that he stayed at home, wondering and worrying what was happening overseas.

So, a new best friend? thought George. A spring appeared in his step. But where would I find a cat? He decided to skip lunch and spend the money on the magazine. Three pages were dedicated to the joys of animal companionship and it sounded like a dream come true. He was so eager that he even asked Esther, the office typist, where he might find a cat, and soon. Esther, 58 and satisfied with her lot, looked taken aback when approached by George, but was happy to tell him that she has a friend with a farm that stray cats tend to gravitate to. She takes them in and gives them food and warmth, but works the fields so finds paying to keep them an overbearing task, finding reward in the knowledge she’s doing good for the world and in the companionship the cats give her now she’s all alone. She too lost a loved one in the Great War, her husband, also named George. He died in the battle of the Somme, along with countless other loved ones.

***

Exactly a week before George asked Esther where he could find a friend, the friend he would receive was on the prowl.

Prowl, one could consider, would not be quite the right word. To call finding his way into a pigeon loft and killing six prize birds prowling would be quite inaccurate. No, Archie was committing a small massacre, something he’d grown to find pleasure in. The night before he had been turfed out of his third home in as many years – he was a sweet looking beast with a terrible temperament. After killing the pigeons he slinked out of the cage and slept in the cold night.

When he awoke hunger set in. He headed out of town and came across a farm house. There he saw a bowl of food, piled high. He ate merrily, finishing the lot. “You there!” shouted Mrs Isbett, the owner of the farmhouse and the friend of the cats. “You! You certainly were hungry weren’t you? Come inside and meet the rest.” He hissed as she approached and ran through the door behind her. Inside he found a warm hearth adorned with a bowl of milk. Upon spying the other cats, he launched into a frenzied attack – chasing them all out the house and administering brutal grazes on their faces and backs. “No!” cried Mrs Isbett. “We all get along here, that’s not how to be.” Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t listen.

The cat looked at her with distain, strolled past her and curled up by the fire. Ever-kindhearted, Mrs Isbett sighed and looked upon him. Maybe he’s just had a rough few days, I’ll let him sleep and see how he is later on.

As the cats tentatively strolled back in one by one, he roused and chased them out, one by one.

For days this went on until no cats returned. “You’re a bully, cat,” said Mrs Isbett.”You’re just like my brother, Archie. In fact, that’s what I’ll call you, Archie.”

She longed to get rid of him but didn’t have the heart.

***

There was a knock on the door. A man, a man asking if she has a cat he could have. She wasn’t sure if she ought pass the burden onto the gentleman who introduced himself as George, but, feelingdrained by the past week of Archie’s company, her kind heart had a lapse. Look at this man, she thought, swanning around in all those fancy clothes, I bet he’s a rich chap getting a cat on the cheap for his brattish children, he deserves Archie! I learned from my brother that clothes do not make the man.

“Of course I do!” She said. “There’s one here. He’s my favourite but I’ve only him left and I wouldn’t like to see your children go without.” “I’m sorry?” George replied, confused, but then the desire for a friend took over. “May I see him?” he asked.

“No, no, it’ll be a surprise when you get him home,” she said and with that left George on the doorstep and went inside. She threw a blanket over the sleeping cat and bundled him, after some struggle, into a small chest. “Here he is,” she said, when she returned, flustered. “His name is Archie.”

“Archie,” whispered George with a smile. “Thank you so much, I’m eternally grateful,” and with that he strolled off, looking forward to opening the chest of wonders.

When George got home, he sat on his bed, lit his lamp with one of his three remaining matches and opened the box.

As he unclipped it his new companion forced his way out of the chest and darted to the corner of the room.

George quickly approached him, quietly saying his name but was greeted with hisses and attacks.

Oh dear, thought George, I don’t think he likes me, and Mrs Ibett said he was her favourite! Maybe some food will help.

George went to the icebox and found a meagre yield. As it happened, he was forced to share his luncheon meat with Archie. Upon placing the food on the floor, Archie ran out, ate it up and returned to the corner, not before giving George a look of utter hatred. I never thought animals could be so expressive, thought George. If even this usually sweet-natured animal can’t stand me, what hope do I have?

George went to work the next day and when Esther asked how he’s getting on with his new pet, he didn’t have the heart to tell the truth as he feared it would upset sweet Mrs Ibett if she heard what a monster her beloved pet had become after a night in his care.

George grudgingly bought more food for Archie that day and the same thing happened. Not that he was happy to feed the cat at all as whilst at work his prized clothing, the hat, coat and gloves had been all but destroyed by the creature, who showed no sign of remorse.

This, then, was the way things were. A meaningless relationship between a man and his cat.

When spring came around, George could not muster the enthusiasm to begin his walks – he just went to and from work and in the evening sat in his pantry, avoiding the cat he believed he himself had corrupted by being so unlikable, and hoping Archie would one day be gone when he came home from work.

George, of course, was never that lucky.

Words: Tom Cassidy

Words: Alex Lendrum

First, your submissions and then the original.

Now… the original.

So there you have it. A stellar performance. Do make sure you tag yourselves on Facebook! http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=169047&id=151840456204&ref=mf

Hans was twenty years old when he first met Alaina. Her name meant precious, and she was very much so. Her hair was dark, the color of chocolate, and her eyes a subtle green. She was slender with the slightest hint of womanly curves. Their courtship lasted a year, and they were wed in the spring of 1938.

It was a changing time, not only for Hans, but for the country as well. In November of that same year, Alaina became pregnant with her first and only son. In the winter of 1938, he was born and raised on the very same farm that Hans had been.

That winter, Hans’ mother, Berdine, passed away. The flu claimed her life. She joined with her husband and was happy once again. Like most impressionable youth at the time, Hans took an interest in the Nazi party. Or maybe the Party had found an interest in him. They had all the answers; or rather, Hans believed they did. And Hans was looking for answers.

Alaina wasn’t looking for answers, and she was very opposed to Hans’ involvement with the Party. She pleaded that Hans stay in Kassel, stay with her son, to protect them. But Hans didn’t listen. He wanted answers and she didn’t have them.

Luck, as Alaina saw it, had stationed Hans in Kassel, allowing him to be with his wife and child. He had become a proud member of the S.S., and for a few years, their lives would be perfect. Or rather, as perfect as they could be, considering Alaina’s opposition.

1942; not a good year for the Germans. The British Air Force flew over the small city, as they did many others, and dropped hundreds of small containers. These containers changed thousands of lives in seconds. All three Sheimers survived the bombing of Kassel. Their survival, though joyous as it was, began a fight between the lovers, and ultimately ended their marriage.

Alaina begged her husband to abandon the army, to flee the country with his wife and son. She screamed until hoarse, not for their survival, but for their son’s. He was now four years old with chocolate brown hair, like his mother’s, and diamond blue eyes, like his father’s.

“Why have we not left this town? They’re going to come again, and they’re going to kill us because we were foolish enough to stay!” Alaina cried.

“I can’t give up!” Hans had shouted back. For him, pride had taken precedent. Many of the Nazis felt this way, felt that self preservation merely amounted to surrender. Hans refused. “I will not abandon the Führer.”

“And what of your family? Will you protect us as you do the Führer if we decide to leave?”

Hans, angry with her defiance, slapped her across the face. She fell to her knees as her cheek swelled. She averted her eyes as Hans stood over her.

“You will stay here with me, and you will defend our home,” he said with finality. He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. For the rest of the night, he walked the streets of Kassel thinking about what he’d just done.

Hans’ child, who had witnessed the whole thing, remained on the floor by his mother, playing with a model plane. Alaina sat next to him for an hour, watching her son as the swelling in her cheek rose. Her hair hung down, covering her tear-soaked face. She smiled at her son, and he smiled back.

The next day, when Hans returned from duty, he found his home to be empty. His little boy and precious Alaina was gone, both on a train to somewhere safe. The note he discovered was short and written in haste. They were leaving, and wouldn’t be back. Hans threw a chair across the room, and screamed. A moment passed before he grabbed his rifle, and returned to duty. It was his only answer.

That was the evening of November 22nd, 1943. Alaina and her son rode comfortably on a train heading north out of the city, unaware that above them, 569 of Britain’s finest pilots had returned to Kassel, humming in the sky like a swarm of bees. They’d followed the railway south, and spotted a train leaving the city. Believing it to be a military transport, the planes began their decent.

The shells began to fall from the bellies of the planes, landed left and right of the track. One such container fell spinning like a dead bird, and landed next to the third compartment. For a moment, it was brighter than day. So bright that Alaina and her dear child could see nothing at all. She had been smiling.

Words: Brian Maurer

Words: Alex Lendrum