tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19525418436313868152024-03-05T07:11:24.997-08:00Chris BrosnahanI write stuff. Thrillers, Science Fiction, Horror, that kind of thing. You can buy some of them (look down and right for links).
I put free short stories on here sometimes, along with blogposts and a serial novel. I'm on twitter at @chrisbrosnahanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-79147874158502969542016-03-25T05:15:00.003-07:002016-04-07T20:46:04.578-07:00Batman vs Superman review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeyGF0wQLslwjtXfAvRUc_zoh3QPlcUSsumrT5_bHyMjhz83a7mBENRljKCXG0oW4qM2Xbg8C60HKMaKZHlxh1xUq3fpUM47geUHTU-6OpPEYQ52JIruEtIYEh6vXsPRnV4J3bohaazQA/s1600/Batman-v-Superman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeyGF0wQLslwjtXfAvRUc_zoh3QPlcUSsumrT5_bHyMjhz83a7mBENRljKCXG0oW4qM2Xbg8C60HKMaKZHlxh1xUq3fpUM47geUHTU-6OpPEYQ52JIruEtIYEh6vXsPRnV4J3bohaazQA/s320/Batman-v-Superman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t think I've ever seen a film as immediately at odds with its own material as Batman vs Superman. It is fundamentally and joyfully a silly premise, but the film appears to be terrified of being labelled in any way silly. And that works against it.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-41dc86e3-adae-b128-18be-ed7c5d9322f9" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead, we have a movie that is so desperate to appear mature that it actually comes across as a teenager trying to make out that the patchy bum-fluff on his upper lip and chin is real stubble. It feels a bit like two and a half hours of Zack Snyder shouting at his mom that comics aren't just for kids. This is why we have tortured dream sequences, references to human trafficking and paedophilia, terrorism, PTSD and Clark Kent having sex with a strangely nipple-less Lois Lane in a bathtub. And it’s why we have a Batman that really likes his guns (and boy, that’s a strange sentence to write) and won’t hesitate to kill if he has to. Because it’s a grown up movie, mom!</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What’s frustrating, in a similar way to Zack Snyder’s Watchmen, are the glimpses of the film (or even films) that it could have been. The cast is fantastic throughout - everyone works hard, delivering performances that feel the most perfectly realised versions of these characters that have been around for a long time.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry Cavill is the best Superman since Christopher Reeve, and a pretty good Clark Kent as well. Ben Affleck is a really good Bruce Wayne and an even better Batman. Gal Gadot is immediately right as Wonder Woman, leading you to wonder just how studios thought this was a character that couldn't make money for so long. Amy Adams still feels miscast as Lois Lane, but she clearly has her working boots on, and she’s a great actress. Jesse Eisenberg, oddly, appears to play Lex Luthor as Jim Carrey’s Riddler, but he has moments that he hits a level of menace and intelligence that feel more right than any major comic movie villain not played by Michael Fassbender.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The movie looks, in places, perfect. A dream sequence of Batman leading a resistance brigade particularly stands out, where he’s wearing goggles and a heavy coat over his batsuit, in a way that looks ripped out of the comics. That this feels natural, in character and unremarkable is an achievement, considering how ludicrous it actually is when you think about it. In sequences where Superman appears in front of City Hall, you get the same thing - visuals that should appear incongruous enough not to work, yet they’re carried off so well that they bypass that part of your brain in exactly the same way the comics often do. You ignore the ludicrousness of what you’re looking at and just think ‘oh, Batman’s doing this… I'm on board’. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has moments where the ideas work as well. There's one, in particular, which makes fantastic use of a mild coincidence between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne that I've somehow never noticed before, and hits exactly the right emotional chord.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, and Hans Zimmer’s score is wonderful - easily his best since The Dark Knight, and it’s not like they've dipped far in quality since then.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All of which makes it a bigger shame that it wasn't a better movie. Because just about everyone involved deserved more. The biggest problem is that it isn't really a movie. It’s a studio checklist of what they think they have to do to compete with the Marvel cinematic universe. So it’s trying to catch up with where Marvel are now, rather than take the time and build the blocks in order. You know how, after 12 movies, the Marvel universe has become a bit too complicated for its own good? The DC cinematic universe has got there in two.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the space of one movie, it’s trying to be a sequel to Man of Steel, a new Batman movie, a new Wonder Woman movie, the first Justice League movie, the first part of Crisis of Infinite Earths, the first part of Kingdom Come, an adaptation of The Dark Knight Returns and an adaptation of a major mid-nineties DC event that I won’t mention for the sake of spoilers. All at the same time.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s exhausting to watch as a result. By the last half hour, I was totally numbed. It wasn't just that I didn't care about what they did - I couldn't. I was just sat there going “Oh. This is happening. And now this is happening. And I see that this is happening as well.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've been a comic book fan for a long time. For others that have been as well, I can best sum it up by saying that this is the kind of movie that Wizard Magazine really thought we’d have wanted, and that is actually everything that was wrong with comics in the 1990s.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It used to feel like mainstream comics (and DC in particular) were very aware of their core audience, and aimed everything at them. So you’d get events that only made sense if you’d already been a fan for at least ten years and bought everything.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You may remember how comics used to feel like a more exclusive club. And you may remember how it could make some (and I stress only some) comic book shops feel like a rather unwelcoming place to be if you weren't already a bit obsessed with the right characters, or if you seemed at all like you might not be. Some of them could be the kind of places that attracted the repressed and angry, those who felt marginalised and unfairly treated.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That feels like the exact audience that Batman Vs Superman has been made for and by. Angry adolescents who feel like they've been laughed at too much and want to prove how grown up they are.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For all the good elements in it, I’ve mainly ended up wishing for more silliness. I’ve ended up, instead, wishing for this Batman vs Superman. The one we’ll never see, but could feel perfect in our heads.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxLEtdFPnDjtoMlDlEqJSnUKLG-iQQqKMdR-tNwPKAyf7sdr2cw1Rv646JbLvBQdZpvK2wm0imqvGWoq-rRac0i8rlsAeZTvwQH4HvsBY8FSxs0e-_sjhgsyPp599zHDuDJFEox4s7b0/s320/SupermanChristopherReeve.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="230" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm sorry, Mr Bat, but I can't let you do that"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxLEtdFPnDjtoMlDlEqJSnUKLG-iQQqKMdR-tNwPKAyf7sdr2cw1Rv646JbLvBQdZpvK2wm0imqvGWoq-rRac0i8rlsAeZTvwQH4HvsBY8FSxs0e-_sjhgsyPp599zHDuDJFEox4s7b0/s1600/SupermanChristopherReeve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gRMGewfLlr0y0D1oyUOVjB5lSqvE2iQv88McYdbeJihuWFPofCgCcjsj2NTqgDYIxQMNPVEaUi41uysaGhGWMsCsbJdYd3NH7l0IbjWOLq4uTyLPUn8jsWJxDQZFwCs-TS9N02ukTzg/s1600/batman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gRMGewfLlr0y0D1oyUOVjB5lSqvE2iQv88McYdbeJihuWFPofCgCcjsj2NTqgDYIxQMNPVEaUi41uysaGhGWMsCsbJdYd3NH7l0IbjWOLq4uTyLPUn8jsWJxDQZFwCs-TS9N02ukTzg/s320/batman.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sorry about this, old chum,"</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-70540812058925726112016-02-07T07:51:00.004-08:002016-02-07T07:54:01.690-08:00London Wanderings - Saving London<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking around Central London at the moment is beginning to
feel far too similar to walking around the city at the end of the 1978 remake
of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers (admittedly, with less Donald Sutherland). You’re
seeing all the areas you used to know stripped of all connection and all
meaning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m seeing a lot of this at the moment. Walking around
London and seeing voids and building sites where entire blocks were before.
Progress clearly has to happen, but it’s feeling like a feeding frenzy at the
moment. And a feeding frenzy that’s indiscriminately damaging the city itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My point, before I go on, is not specifically about any
individual cases. It’s about the overall effect and the scale and speed with
which it’s happening. I’m just picking out a couple of specific shops I’m aware
of. You will likely be aware of others.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjjwRuQ__6imZhImUwr3VNGGeXt1cWb8jNYUF6T8c07RRqCBn27FCInUlbNBL5BErRK9yuXzuT8yKtfGTAOop3OnW2ikePb149PYzTikuIcYlBGNnukzDfW2pRqxbsghYxNxiaXC03vU/s1600/cinema+store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Cinema store " border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjjwRuQ__6imZhImUwr3VNGGeXt1cWb8jNYUF6T8c07RRqCBn27FCInUlbNBL5BErRK9yuXzuT8yKtfGTAOop3OnW2ikePb149PYzTikuIcYlBGNnukzDfW2pRqxbsghYxNxiaXC03vU/s320/cinema+store.jpg" title="The Cinema Store" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image source<a href="https://uk.pinterest.com/annaberthier/"> </a></td></tr>
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Just last week, the Cinema Store in Leicester Square closed
down after 22 years. As the name suggests, it was a shop that sold film
memorabilia and books with a downstairs section with more obscure movies (which
sounds far dodgier than it actually was, especially considering the downstairs
sections in other nearby shops – it was more likely to sell Jimmy Cagney’s
Yankee Doodle Dandy or Italian Giallo horror movies than [insert your own joke porn title here]).<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first time I came to London on my own would have been
within its first years. I remember finding it fairly quickly and found it
immediately both appealing and comforting. London was still the big, scary city
for me and a shop that seemed made for cinema fans like myself was the first
thing that made clear that London can be a city for anyone. Whatever you’re
into, there’ll be other people who are into it and who share your love of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The owner’s statement on Facebook said that “it has become
increasingly difficult for a small business like ours to maintain a physical
store in Central London due to the increasingly corporate nature of today's
retail environment.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoXND8FZYyGhtAr7V6xMMbQyvPoXxTN5C5bYMOkqPJridWeRfEXvvbtAdf985N4lge83zEWNA_Yw4Rsu5x7rQbiME1613nSyxwOaBPhwq6ZJnrMMeUNAE4H9achYw7a9iPbb2_Sjf8G8/s1600/foodforthought.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoXND8FZYyGhtAr7V6xMMbQyvPoXxTN5C5bYMOkqPJridWeRfEXvvbtAdf985N4lge83zEWNA_Yw4Rsu5x7rQbiME1613nSyxwOaBPhwq6ZJnrMMeUNAE4H9achYw7a9iPbb2_Sjf8G8/s320/foodforthought.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food for Thought <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/cities/2015/mar/30/food-for-thought-vegetarian-restaurant-covent-garden-closure">(original image at The Guardian)</a></td></tr>
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Within the last few months, we’ve also lost Food For
Thought, one of London’s oldest (and most loved) vegetarian restaurants after
44 years. One of the staff members said “In the last few years, the landlords
have put the rent up so much we couldn’t cope. It’s one of the few places in
the area that is still independent, low-profile but very busy. Now the whole
area is changing. All the older shops are closing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a vegetarian cinephile, these are two that speak closely
to me. But the slow death of Denmark Street is one that’s likely to hit home
for a lot more – the spiritual home of a lot of the London music scene,
generally know as <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2015/jan/20/london-music-scene-denmark-street-tin-pan-alley">Tin Pan Alley</a>. It’s being redeveloped into a large,
multimedia building complex with shops, cafes and a new performance space to
allow people to “interact with the brands we love in exciting new ways,” in the
name of “meaningful brand engagement”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQSHVjrELyMMoIApzu8TjgJ9d57B0FAm98_14ZtFga1tOlK1hqwak4m5aPZ0pJgJd6aXkydSkWdokeH2Ab7z35AS8LM6JAx27YJfYyd6fnV9oZNW8koIcE3kHXYzKFRsM_2ZYgyAocyk/s1600/denmarkstreethistory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQSHVjrELyMMoIApzu8TjgJ9d57B0FAm98_14ZtFga1tOlK1hqwak4m5aPZ0pJgJd6aXkydSkWdokeH2Ab7z35AS8LM6JAx27YJfYyd6fnV9oZNW8koIcE3kHXYzKFRsM_2ZYgyAocyk/s320/denmarkstreethistory.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denmark Street in days gone by <a href="http://louderthanwar.com/the-save-denmark-street-campaigns-next-step/">(original source louderthanwar)</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEAjSOYPSBdYvzrhok6bc-qRsk58RnD4MXmvoCq5jUyWNzG7PxgGueM_ny0aNCRyhSR4zx2NuKagJJkBy-QxwbgD9STgaELmuUiHfewpNt23P69AJiHTolM-g8fT2twaiYfQnDrJc-Zo/s1600/denmark+street+plans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEAjSOYPSBdYvzrhok6bc-qRsk58RnD4MXmvoCq5jUyWNzG7PxgGueM_ny0aNCRyhSR4zx2NuKagJJkBy-QxwbgD9STgaELmuUiHfewpNt23P69AJiHTolM-g8fT2twaiYfQnDrJc-Zo/s320/denmark+street+plans.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denmark Street plans <a href="http://www.bdonline.co.uk/tin-pan-alley-gets-spruce-up-ok/5063533.article">(original source bdonline)</a></td></tr>
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Meanwhile, gay venues across London are also closing - Manbar
and Madame JoJos have both closed recently due to surprisingly mild-sounding
legal issues surrounding noise and violence.
Both areas are being redeveloped at the moment in what I can only assume
is coincidental timing.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://www.yardbar.co.uk/savetheyard">The Yard in Soho</a>, one of the few left, is currently fighting
development. They say that “the Yard, not only of architectural and historic
significance, has played a key role in the LGBT community. It is one of Soho's
oldest surviving LGBT bars providing a safe haven during the dark years of
persecution, while offering privacy and a unique Soho atmosphere. The Yard is
not safe and the battle continues.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KL1vuPX86NNU1-ojeXF4dSl_PqUK8yhshNLjel1bvUc-98fQtY_lC4SwpPFMKWmV-xFfL2T783wsvOp3v1-kRRNlAacYX4KW3mB48UR_ULzdU9fVGttbYG1vuy0-Ms1lFNg8j6592cM/s1600/The+Yard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KL1vuPX86NNU1-ojeXF4dSl_PqUK8yhshNLjel1bvUc-98fQtY_lC4SwpPFMKWmV-xFfL2T783wsvOp3v1-kRRNlAacYX4KW3mB48UR_ULzdU9fVGttbYG1vuy0-Ms1lFNg8j6592cM/s320/The+Yard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yard and staff - <a href="http://www.westendextra.com/savetheyard">(Original source WestEndExtra)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A street away, where a number of small independent shops
have been closed for redevelopment, there are large advertising boards instead
of shops and windows, stating that the work will bring more colour to Soho.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopAcIE7gW_lhAmtRmkEANTrUGP92oeSdndRJWm_r6hDTraLelx04Rnn3crrdBVwgH0MTeXJUcuBVrWC6KGa-lZQrOPo9UYcnMdarYGCTJrur1nciZNO04JGSPJBIaqdYmpEPBgoLJ-hk/s1600/morecolour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopAcIE7gW_lhAmtRmkEANTrUGP92oeSdndRJWm_r6hDTraLelx04Rnn3crrdBVwgH0MTeXJUcuBVrWC6KGa-lZQrOPo9UYcnMdarYGCTJrur1nciZNO04JGSPJBIaqdYmpEPBgoLJ-hk/s320/morecolour.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More colour to Soho, apparently (image mine)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHd20DsPXbRWE65MZcVpGQ-i0LKcQmzAM2jWbtBDY8O07OO8TPI9c9wTanOxdnJJSfXlg9TZPOfKAL09rnNQchEO9bsE7uMcvOle3Q7pU2Wmwn4-Nj9RziN8e6PstPazL9X7ADA9n2Lk0/s1600/chinatown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHd20DsPXbRWE65MZcVpGQ-i0LKcQmzAM2jWbtBDY8O07OO8TPI9c9wTanOxdnJJSfXlg9TZPOfKAL09rnNQchEO9bsE7uMcvOle3Q7pU2Wmwn4-Nj9RziN8e6PstPazL9X7ADA9n2Lk0/s320/chinatown.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chinatown Market a few weeks ago (image mine)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Chinatown market is currently boarded up for
redevelopment (although it’s not clear whether or not the businesses will
return once the work is complete). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A street away, the Kowloon bakery (the
original Cantonese bakery in Chinatown) is feeling the heat of rising rents. As
the owner, Danny Yeung, said in this week’s <a href="http://www.timeout.com/london/blog/meet-the-people-who-live-and-work-in-chinatown-020516">Time Out article on Chinatown</a>, “‘I
don’t know how much longer we can go on, though. The rents have got higher and
higher until they’re almost killing our profits. We used to deal with
individual landlords. Now it’s a consortium: they’re all owned by a hedge fund
– a PLC. They don’t care about us. They just say: “It’s market forces. If you
don’t pay it, somebody else will.” We’re having to pay £600 a square foot for
rent and business rates. Even for a small place, that’s about £36,000 a month.
You know how many buns you have to sell before you break even? That’s a lot of
dough!”</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08BXJnjZ7c15El1cZ32SHorEqnK0ZT0GGHIQ7IqPgZPxe3VYsvpGy9FUfJHvUH9wjfHYZ_Rk5I73_F5oPHvF1IA6jmGjq3i5zxDcw-9B0F-ddv8RbMpekGRxZs-ySgnyMZOQMIsgMkdI/s1600/kowloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08BXJnjZ7c15El1cZ32SHorEqnK0ZT0GGHIQ7IqPgZPxe3VYsvpGy9FUfJHvUH9wjfHYZ_Rk5I73_F5oPHvF1IA6jmGjq3i5zxDcw-9B0F-ddv8RbMpekGRxZs-ySgnyMZOQMIsgMkdI/s320/kowloon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kowloon Bakery, Chinatown <a href="https://homespunlondon.wordpress.com/2013/12/21/kowloon-bakery-chinatown/">(original source HomespunLondon)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Over in Shoreditch, the Norton Folgate saga, which has been
continuing for decades, nears a close. Norton Folgate is a tiny block
surrounded by glass corporate monoliths by Liverpool Street. It’s a beautiful Victorian
area, with plenty of local history which has been bought up by “British Land”,
a non-private-sounding private business. They’ve allowed parts of it to become
neglected in order to bring around the planning permission to destroy it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite a successful local campaign to prevent this, the
history-loving Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, has the ability to potentially
overrule local council decisions on this. He has done this twelve times so far,
and each time sided with the developers. He did it again with Norton Folgate, allowing
a 14 story office building to replace it, despite an alternative plan being
offered that would keep more of the heritage and provide a space for local
artists and businesses. The Spitalfields Trust is taking legal action to, if
not prevent it, at least see if there will be a ruling and some consequences over
what they say is clear misconduct (due to him calling in the plans within an
hour of receiving them – nowhere near enough time to begin to absorb the level
of information in there). You can read more about this in the wonderful <a href="http://spitalfieldslife.com/2016/01/29/beware-the-curse-of-norton-folgate/">Spitalfields Life blog by The Gentle Author</a>.</div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2W1ITJ76ZgHCKT6g-7pQU8wdE4t7ELfJqenggLOrCeAQVBt2gm6S3VPnL9chomEMlmSb8CO4EPlPJy3hHpWjLvv8qbPxuiHxqpGKWsQGHK8gL6PaoEQjg3algcGruBbg1aAvheeCJb8c/s1600/nortonfolgatenow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2W1ITJ76ZgHCKT6g-7pQU8wdE4t7ELfJqenggLOrCeAQVBt2gm6S3VPnL9chomEMlmSb8CO4EPlPJy3hHpWjLvv8qbPxuiHxqpGKWsQGHK8gL6PaoEQjg3algcGruBbg1aAvheeCJb8c/s320/nortonfolgatenow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spitalfield residents join hands against development <a href="http://spitalfieldslife.com/2015/07/21/d-day-for-norton-folgate/">(original SpitalfieldsLife)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm31A22LSMchp9Oj-COMfC-HZNK7r7KAuZlFOxrbZbUDMjAz6eRuF0URQDHV2Mqhh4v6f1_qWSWvkLSAsx6SneceDBO1c6l-nAWeAIH0vLapNVqOi0kRond0On7gawyMZhOgf76S3cmU/s1600/british+land+norton+folgate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm31A22LSMchp9Oj-COMfC-HZNK7r7KAuZlFOxrbZbUDMjAz6eRuF0URQDHV2Mqhh4v6f1_qWSWvkLSAsx6SneceDBO1c6l-nAWeAIH0vLapNVqOi0kRond0On7gawyMZhOgf76S3cmU/s320/british+land+norton+folgate.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">British Land plans for Norton Folgate <a href="http://spitalfieldslife.com/2015/09/02/a-new-scheme-for-norton-folgate/">(original Spitalfields Life)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again and again within a short space of time, we’re seeing
small businesses in danger. Not because they aren’t profitable, but because
they’re being forced to compete in an artificially raised market. A Nandos, a Starbucks,
a Sainsburys or an Apple Store will always be able to offer more money to the
people who own the land than small businesses. A small Cantonese cake store
will never be able to compete with yet another Jamie Oliver restaurant.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not the fault of the businesses, and it’s not even
always the fault of the landlords – with the amount of money they’re being
offered, it’s difficult to turn that down. Of course it is. And I don’t know
what the answer is, outside of some kind of rent cap for businesses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The London that I fell in love with was the London that
offered something for everyone, no matter what they were into. It’s being
replaced with brands aimed at everyone instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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To quote Warren Ellis talking about the rise of the
monoculture, “If we didn’t want to live like this, we could have changed it at
any time by not fucking paying for it. So let’s celebrate by all eating the
same burger.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If you want to help preserve some of these, these are the campaigns you can join. If you're aware of others, I'll happily link more.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><a href="http://savesoho.com/">Save Soho</a> - </b>Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/savesoho">@saveSoho</a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.savebritainsheritage.org/">Save Britain's Heritage</a> - </b>Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/SAVEBrit">@Savebrit</a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/savenortonfolgate/">Save Norton Folgate</a> </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.thespitalfieldstrust.com/">The Spitalfields Trust</a> </b>- Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/SpitalfieldsT">@SpitalfieldsT</a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><a href="http://savetpa.tk/">Save Tin Pan Alley</a> - </b>Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/savetinpanalley">@SaveTinPanAlley</a></div>
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<a href="http://savelondonmusic.org/news/"><b><br /></b></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://savelondonmusic.org/news/">Save London Music</a> </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><a href="http://yardbar.co.uk/savetheyard">Save The Yard Bar</a> </b>- Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/Yard_Soho">@Yard_Soho</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-81859442696859106042015-11-29T10:08:00.001-08:002015-11-29T10:13:13.506-08:00Some Gambit suggestions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4kbngibkBIRL-LFIm8YDAVwTzvQDRkT4qtobl1gNO3OEnuA8FXPjNFn6YtJVnWhYLArvnzSwRsIaO3xWJe45BHWRyJZpvYjeWzfdYhmb6sCAaCcGFgibSDDwqM-OOjhY__R1HdOIEH8/s1600/Gambit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4kbngibkBIRL-LFIm8YDAVwTzvQDRkT4qtobl1gNO3OEnuA8FXPjNFn6YtJVnWhYLArvnzSwRsIaO3xWJe45BHWRyJZpvYjeWzfdYhmb6sCAaCcGFgibSDDwqM-OOjhY__R1HdOIEH8/s320/Gambit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first became a fan of the X-Men in the early nineties.
Along with a lot of you, it was because of the cartoon and the fantastic runs
at the time by Fabian Nicieza and Scott Lobdell. And because of the timing,
there were two characters I particularly liked. Wolverine and Gambit. And while
Wolverine was the one that became the biggest character in the Marvel Universe,
Remy LeBeau always stayed my favourite.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I honestly believe that Gambit is potentially one of the
most interesting and complex characters in the Marvel universe. For a whole
bunch of reasons. And while the last few attempts to launch Gambit as a solo
title have involved concentrating on the adventurous side of his persona, with
heists a-plenty, I think there’s a lot that hasn't been tapped into for years.
In fact, I think it’s money left on the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I thought I’d outline my thoughts on the character – why I
find him interesting and why I think it could make for good stories. And also a
defence for some of the most loathed aspects of the Gambit back-story that I think
could be the basis for an enormously fun run.<o:p></o:p></div>
<h3>
The guilty hero</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVqb2_XJTDl1QaruwzVGlniSLGHVNQyzCbWJn_j7gKT6XsLnVI9GXOeTOERkuE2mGCv6CuWUroqJGC26Bjynl3M9tB97a-2A1yu5W9Zq5bScWIRsrww94Bwrjkcp-T0-jZeTa5s-QQw4/s1600/Gambit3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVqb2_XJTDl1QaruwzVGlniSLGHVNQyzCbWJn_j7gKT6XsLnVI9GXOeTOERkuE2mGCv6CuWUroqJGC26Bjynl3M9tB97a-2A1yu5W9Zq5bScWIRsrww94Bwrjkcp-T0-jZeTa5s-QQw4/s1600/Gambit3.gif" /></a>More than any other characters in the same universe, Remy
hates himself. That’s absolutely key to his entire personality, and it dates
back for decades by this point. And he pushes everyone else to hate him as
well.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He’s been raised as a thief. He killed his wife’s brother in
self defence. He unknowingly helped cause a massacre. He spent a long time
aware that people thought he’d betray his closest friends. And he became
Apocalypse’s horseman, Death.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Remy carries around an enormous amount of guilt. And it’s
not deeply buried either. He’s constantly aware of it. As far as he’s
concerned, he’s beyond redemption.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And yet… he still tries.
Still tries to do the right thing. Still tries to use what power he has
to be a hero. In spite of the fact he knows, deep down, he can never atone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On top of all of that, he’s a character who gets things
wrong. He doesn’t just make mistakes, he’s always one moment of selfishness
away from ruining everything. He’s completely, constantly, self-sabotaging,
because he can’t deal with being happy. Because he doesn’t believe he deserves
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His superpower is like a reverse Midas touch. He is capable
of literally destroying anything he touches. Every relationship he has leads to
people hating him – and if they don’t, he’ll do something that makes them stop
trusting him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s the bit I really like. He doesn't realise any of
this. Because, along with all of the guilt, he also has an enormous ego. He’s a
show-off. And sometimes, he thinks he deserves more than he’s capable of. He
looks at others who are loved with jealousy, and he feels the need to outdo
them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His ego veers wildly between non-existent and out of
control. Moments of a need to be the centre of attention and moments where he
can’t bear to be around anyone who knows him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, this has some mental health connotations, and
they’re part of what I think makes his character so rich and interesting.
Whether he’s going through highs or lows, the person he’s damaging the most is
himself, and his relationships with others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I was writing him, there’s something else I’d want to
introduce as well. Gambit’s an addict, as far as I'm concerned. He’s a (former)
smoker, and we've seen him go out of his way to drink in the past as well. He’s
been enough of a flirt and a womaniser that the idea that he might be a sex
addict doesn't seem unreasonable. And he’s absolutely an adrenaline junkie –
he’s performed heists out of boredom before. And finally, of course, he’s a
gambler.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you could get away with it, I’d take it a step further.
Have some substance addiction problems in the background. He’s got enough guilt
tearing away at him already – why not have had him hit rock bottom a couple of
times in the past? He’s managed to give it up, but by replacing it with other
addictions. And this is all part of the reason nobody trusts him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remy’s lived. He’s been through it all, and he’s experienced
highs and lows well beyond his years. He’s held down by his past, his weaknesses and his guilt. But even if he
doesn’t believe redemption exists at the end of his path, he’s going to do his
best to be a hero while he’s still here. And he’s good enough at what he does
that he can do it with a huge amount of flair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a character I want to read. This is a character I
want to get to know. Hell, obviously, it’s a character I want to write. But
I've only embellished on what’s been on the pages in the past a little – the
vast majority of what I'm talking about here is text, not subtext. But we’re
talking about a hugely conflicted, unpredictable character. One that I think
could really be a lot more valuable to Marvel than they seem to believe at times.<br />
<br /></div>
<h3>
The New Orleans War</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another millstone that’s perceived as being around Gambit’s
neck is his background. And it’s easy to see why. He’s a very nineties
character in a lot of ways. All trench-coat, long hair and stubble (and this informed far
more of my nineties fashion choices than I’d like to admit). But even worse
than that… the guilds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJx8clrxI6CUSR5_2gY9wu8mGrcnUGjBEqYFTS9WbXJLpBnOJ3CDZ4sC9ryROjjdP7qwajWuj2E5HydCgGVy6kb6gvuivIbNtZ7jpx0P7TdRoWDKBxlIc9i9QH-HwW-1ZuKMDzvP_lvQ/s1600/Gambit2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJx8clrxI6CUSR5_2gY9wu8mGrcnUGjBEqYFTS9WbXJLpBnOJ3CDZ4sC9ryROjjdP7qwajWuj2E5HydCgGVy6kb6gvuivIbNtZ7jpx0P7TdRoWDKBxlIc9i9QH-HwW-1ZuKMDzvP_lvQ/s320/Gambit2.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
If you’re not familiar with the background of the character,
Gambit was an orphan, taken in by one of the criminal guilds that runs the
underworld of New Orleans. Specifically, the thieves guild – the other being
the assassins clan. He was due to marry the daughter of a major family in the
clan, but he killed her brother in self-defence, pretty much guaranteeing the
two families would continue to be at war.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s complicated, but nor has it been particularly fleshed
out. It’s not attractive to new readers, and it’s separate to just about every
other character.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that doesn't mean it can’t be turned into a positive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two major criminal groups vying for control of the criminal
underworld? That’s something that can be fleshed out. Each of them have their
own traditions and histories? And there are families within that are battling
as well?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think there’s plenty of mileage in this. Game of Thrones
that shit up. Let’s learn a little bit about who these families are, and let’s
trust the readers to keep up. Because the point here is that the more
complicated it is, and the more at each others throats everyone is, the more in
the middle of the whole thing Remy is. And that’s before you get into how the
upbringing has affected him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finely balanced battles can be fascinating – just look at
the power struggles in shows like Breaking Bad. Make it very clear that the slightest
advantage on either side can lead to utter destruction of the other. Take it from a cold war to full-on
hostilities. And in the middle of the whole thing, against his will, is Gambit.
Having to play everyone against everyone, without getting himself killed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’d go a step further. I’d introduce other groups in New
Orleans – other clans and guilds that are struggling for power. Make sure that
Gambit has to step carefully at all times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you really want to shake things up? Bring in an
outside element.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How about this? You have a truce meeting agreed between the
clans and guilds. For the first time since Gambit’s marriage, there’s the
opportunity of real peace in the area. Some of the higher-ups meet together in
an hotel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the hotel blows up. We don’t know who did it yet.
But the clans and guilds blame each other, and it causes chaos. And in the
middle of all of this, there’s a hostile group trying to take over. Wilson Fisk
has seen the anarchy in New Orleans, and he sees an opportunity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, now, you have a situation where you have multiple
factions and groups all against each other. Outright war in New Orleans. And
right in the middle of all of it, you have Gambit – both in debt to everyone,
but also playing everyone against everyone else, and just desperately trying to
keep as many people alive as possible. When he fails, he deals with it badly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when he succeeds, when he plays people the right way,
manipulating and chancing his way into forcing the right things to happen… he
uses all of his darkest elements to show the hero that he can be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are your thoughts? Is Gambit a character that could be
a player in the Marvel Universe? Do you have favourite Gambit moments? Would
you be interested in my take on the character? Or do you think I've missed the
mark? Let me know in comments or on twitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-39146449553873951612015-11-28T02:40:00.002-08:002015-11-28T02:50:37.786-08:00Black Mass review<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEu257DeVL5qQ6daSDk1cGx8s7uilZDlHfQb4NyqqCQabADd65mi0tKAdl_ud8q3yWMT-W6pcx9JeffIwdrudmQmm5PWrwgpQ2tfgBxsKSCkE39aYvr5Fk9y9pdX-didvsqGGgniszHU8/s1600/blackmass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEu257DeVL5qQ6daSDk1cGx8s7uilZDlHfQb4NyqqCQabADd65mi0tKAdl_ud8q3yWMT-W6pcx9JeffIwdrudmQmm5PWrwgpQ2tfgBxsKSCkE39aYvr5Fk9y9pdX-didvsqGGgniszHU8/s320/blackmass.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Black Mass has been hyped quite a lot, not least as a return
to form for Jonny Depp. But it’s also a story about one of Boston’s most
notorious crimelords, and one within living memory at that – James “Whitey” Bulger
only went on the run in 1995, after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, to start with the biggest selling point – Jonny Depp is
a magnetic presence throughout. But you never quite forget that you’re watching
Jonny Depp. And that’s a problem. It’s as mannered a performance as he’s given
in many other films, but usually, that matches the film better. Here, it’s Depp
playing a real person, and that real person never convinces.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a scene where he’s sitting at the kitchen table with
Benedict Cumberbatch (who plays Whitey’s Senator brother), and this shows the
difference between the two. Cumberbatch comes across as far more natural and
believable. Depp is far more mannered and far less believable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However… you
watch Depp. Your eyes are drawn to him. While it may not be great acting, it’s
a hell of a performance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s indicative of a larger problem with the film. It’s
ultimately shallow. It’s very much “and then this happened, and then this
happened, and then this happened”, and rarely slows down to find out what that
means to anyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best performance in the film by a country mile is Julianne
Nicholson’s, and it’s squandered. She plays the wife of an FBI agent (Joel
Edgerton) who grew up with Bulger, who sees the effects of the corruption of
her husband. She plays it well and subtly, and was the only character in the
movie that I ended up caring about. But she’s in about five scenes, and her
story is played out in shorthand. It never feels like her story either – it’s
there to enhance the men’s stories only.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what separates it from achieving the sort of
connection that Goodfellas made. In that, the stories felt real and felt like
they had real impact. We were made to care about the characters more, so as the
degradation hits them, it matters to us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Black Mass, the film is so concerned about showing us
what happened that it skips over taking the time to make us care about why it’s
happening. That’s a scripting issue, and it may be one that’s occurred because
it’s been hamstrung by having to keep close to what actually happened. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s an example of this in the opening, actually. The opening
focuses on Kevin Weeks (Jesse Plemons, who you may remember as the creepy Todd
from Breaking Bad) turning informant on Bulger. As a result, the first ten
minutes are all about him, which make you think that the film is going to focus
on him more throughout… but it’s not his story. He’s a background player in the
film. But he’s a background player that took a large real life action, so he
has to be there. In a film more removed from the recent past, he’d probably
have been combined with another character (likely W Earl Brown’s portrayal of
John Martorano), and the film probably would have been better for that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this said, the film’s actually pretty good. It’s
brilliantly shot throughout – every fifth shot looks like it could have been
the movie poster. And while I have issues with the plotting, almost every
individual scene is fairly strong and giving some more-than-capable actors
plenty to do.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem is that this could have been this generation’s
Goodfellas, and clearly wants to be. But it falls short. It’s worth your time,
absolutely, but I doubt it’ll stick in your mind years later.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-57162376577657289352015-10-27T15:37:00.001-07:002015-10-27T15:37:02.755-07:00Dentophobia - Fear of Dentists - #OctoboPhobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The light is glaring into my eyes as I sit back in the
chair, my mouth open, while the dentist prods and checks through my mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, you’ve got a bit of an infection,” he says. “Just
here…” He touches the end of the small metallic stick against it and a jolt of pain
jumps through my mouth like electricity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah!” I say, involuntarily.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re going to need a root canal,” he says, pulling his
fingers away from my mouth and angling the light away from my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m relieved at the light being moved, but immediately apprehensive
about the root canal. “I’ve heard they’re painful,” I tell him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They used to be” he says, looking at my x-rays. “Now,
though, we can kill the infection before we extract the root, so it’s not as
bad. Back in the day, they used to go ahead with it when it was at its most
painful.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh,” I say, stupidly. I’m still nervous, the hairs on my
arms rising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m getting married next month, which is why I’m here. I
promised her that I’d come and get the full check-up. Even though I’ve not been
to the dentist since I was 16. I avoid them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s easy enough to avoid, most of the time. For the most
part, tooth pain doesn’t last. It’s more an irritating twinge, without serious
pain. Even when it gets properly painful, a mixture of painkillers and alcohol
not only usually helped, but they also meant that nights out were fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I promised. We want the wedding photos to be perfect and
she wants me – for just one day – to be perfect as well. So I’m here, proving
just how much I love her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I met her, I was a mess. Drinking every night to get
through to the next day, and just going out of my head at the weekends on
anything I could get my hands on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the women. I never thought I’d be able to be satisfied
with one woman. Every night, if I wasn’t drinking, I was doing my best to make
sure I woke up in someone else’s bed.
Most nights, I failed, but every now and then, I’d reach one of the few
times I didn’t utterly loathe myself. Some I saw more than once, but most I
never saw again. I just treated them like bodies. Warm bodies, with presumably
some past and home life, but not ones I ever cared about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then her. The one least likely, with the quiet demeanour,
the brain I could never match and even the daughter that I loved just as much.
The one who made me change everything. Eventually. I’d strayed once or twice,
but even that had fallen by the wayside. A few problems here or there, but I’d
decided to make it work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And eventually, that brought me here. I’d been given a
family, and even if I didn’t want to come to the dentist, if Sarah asked me to,
I did it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How do you kill the infection?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s just an injection,” he said, picking up a syringe and
readying it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried not to think too much about it. My fear of needles
was not playing well with the idea, but it was outperformed by my fear of a
painful root canal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then we do the root canal?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
`“No, that’ll need to be in a few days, while this takes
hold. It’ll be fine though – you won’t even notice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay,” I said, thinking of Sarah.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open my mouth and look up at the ceiling, not looking at
him hulking over me, reaching down into my mouth and pushing the needle into my
gum, then pressing down on the plunger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that the needle is something I should barely feel,
although it pushes against the root of my tooth. I know that, but I feel the
hardness of it, pushing unnaturally into my mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It won’t take long,” he says. And then he chuckles. A deep,
dark chuckle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel a prickling sensation spread across my face and I
pass out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wake up, my head pounding. I try to move it, but I can’t.
I can feel something against my chin and forehead keeping it still.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sat down. I can feel that. I try to move my hands up to
my head, but they are prevented by a large, thick leather strap on either
armrest. It’s the same with my ankles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I struggle against them, I realise that there’s another
strap – a larger one – wrapped across my waist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What the hell?” I try to say, but my words come out wrong.
Like I can’t form letters, my tongue too big and clumsy for my mouth. “Whu hu
hehh?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” He says from
somewhere behind me. I try to turn, my eyes still taking in my grimy, dark
surroundings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Iduhd….I duhndnuh…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wall is covered in something that look like egg containers,
but black. Lots of them, covering from floor to ceiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No reason you should, I suppose,” he says. His tone is
conversational. He could be describing what’s gone wrong in the engine of his
car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wuh… wuh…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“To you, I suppose, she was just a one night stand in some
hotel somewhere. A one night willing fuck that wouldn’t leave you alone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I… I duhn….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I wonder if that’s why you chose her. From watching you
over the last few months, you have enough going on in your own house, with
Sarah and little Lizzie. You don’t need another relationship, do you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I.. inevuh….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can hear something metallic behind me, grinding against
something else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean it’s all good for you, obviously. You get to have
your fun and then walk away from it all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He walks in front of me, across to another table, but doesn’t
make any eye contact with me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pluh….” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe she told you her real name. Maybe not. It doesn’t
really matter. Because she left me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I dih… dihn” He starts rummaging around the table and the drawers
next to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But I found her again. And I made sure that she’d never do
it again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nuh! Nuh! Pluhs!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And that just meant that I had to find you. This took a
long time, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With his back to me, he makes a low, deep noise. I realise
he is laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to speak, and try to shout, but all I can make is
grunting, incoherent noises.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He turns to me, the dental drill whirring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re underground. I had this room soundproofed, just
waiting for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He laughs again, it becoming more high pitched as he moves
towards me, or maybe that’s just the whine of the drill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t be afraid to scream.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He moves the head of the drill against my tooth, and pushes
down slowly. The vibration in my skull is as deep as the noise is high.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere I am screaming. Somewhere he is laughing. But the
whine of the drill is all I can hear.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-41324121507377764922015-10-18T15:17:00.000-07:002015-10-18T15:17:09.197-07:00Decidophobia (fear of making decisions) - #Octobophobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBZuUBozWzliDBaAhs3sjOLdUVPHtDfOdpslfWxACcS2EbpjSFau3VNdQO5sfydyA3U9zJU9DPy0ThHukN8j8OhxppjtsvaAX00CQebuvRj0vAbwgjs4qYHDbl8DpGCY9_pqpykHWmPo/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBZuUBozWzliDBaAhs3sjOLdUVPHtDfOdpslfWxACcS2EbpjSFau3VNdQO5sfydyA3U9zJU9DPy0ThHukN8j8OhxppjtsvaAX00CQebuvRj0vAbwgjs4qYHDbl8DpGCY9_pqpykHWmPo/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The announcement has been overdue for months.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ve tested the radio,” The daughter says to her father.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m testing it again,” The father replies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The noise is irritating her and setting her off. “There hasn’t
been anything for weeks. It’s broken.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The system’s down, that’s all. “<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s broken,” she says and walks away from the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The whirring of the generator and the static of the radio
are too much for her. She goes to the area of the bunker that’s been cordoned
off to give her some privacy and lays down on the campbed. She tries to think
of somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anywhere else. Anywhere on the other side of the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tries to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The father tinkers with the radio still and tries not to
think about his wife. Tries not to think about everybody else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The food won’t last forever. They both know that, but he has
a more realistic idea of how much is left. He knows how quickly it will realistically
work out. He hates to see her hungry, but if there’s one thing he can do while
they’re stuck down here, it’s to keep her alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don’t have much privacy or space, but they have some. They
have some dividers for their own spaces, but they can always hear each other. That’s the bit he finds the most difficult.
They’re cut off from everyone else, but they are never entirely by themselves
either. Instead, he knows that he irritates her now more than any human being
ever has, even while he knows that she loves him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tries not to think of the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slowly, he goes through every frequency on the radio,
testing both ways. He repeats the phrases as he does and waits for responses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like he does every day. For months now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The daughter eventually stands up and walks to the bunker
door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are you doing?” The father says to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The radio’s broken,” she says. “We’ll go crazy if we’re
down here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if it isn’t safe?” He says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then we’ll… we’ll…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is why we wait for the announcement.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if the announcement never comes?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The father doesn’t say anything. All his answers have fallen
apart. They’ve been down here too long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We need to leave,” the daughter says, weeks later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can’t,” the father replies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do we have if we stay here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if it isn’t safe?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We don’t have a choice,” she says. “We’re running out of
food.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, we’re not,” he says. “There’s still enough.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re running out of options, then.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then that’s enough to keep us alive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods. “Keep us alive, yes. But this isn’t living. This
is just waiting. We don’t have a choice. We need to go outside and find out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We might die if we do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We will die if we don’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looks at the door. “It won’t take long,” she says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We cant,” says the father.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She walks up to the door. “We don’t have a choice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course we do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We don’t know how bad it is out there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles sadly. “We may never know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The father pulls back, nervously. He watches her for a moment, then sits at the
table where they’ve been eating the same four meals for days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The daughter stops. Her hand just in front of the door handle.
“Really?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” he says. “But if we go out… if the radiation is bad…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wouldn’t you rather know?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…we can fix the radio.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The daughter shouts now. “We’ve tried fixing the radio! We’ve
been trying for weeks to fix the radio! There’s nothing!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He hangs his head. “We should wait. We don’t have a choice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s always a choice,” she says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But taking it may kill us,” the father responds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She steels herself and then places her hand onto the door
handle. The metal, like the door, like the walls, like the table, like the
campbed, is cold.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t do it!”, the father shouts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She holds her hand on the handle. All she needs to do is
push down and then pull.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s all she needs to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she hesitates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/opening-octobophobia-decidophobia-ending.html"><b>TO OPEN THE DOOR CLICK HERE</b></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/waiting-octobophobia-decidophobia-ending.html">TO WAIT CLICK HERE</a></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-17071588237897303622015-10-18T15:13:00.002-07:002015-10-18T15:13:51.826-07:00OPENING (#Octobophobia Decidophobia ending)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnO7ib4OuS53K25syB7V7NY8wyUlRjMlqREELkuP4l64Sl0be5rkW8p1zJ9jSQNp4zaCBUR6wQEJ4H_5Rle352zOi13SP-B6I2rsSGmWs-nd7zm5Dym6oT418XozI-snrSKAq2GoLozw/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnO7ib4OuS53K25syB7V7NY8wyUlRjMlqREELkuP4l64Sl0be5rkW8p1zJ9jSQNp4zaCBUR6wQEJ4H_5Rle352zOi13SP-B6I2rsSGmWs-nd7zm5Dym6oT418XozI-snrSKAq2GoLozw/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She feels the heat first. The clouds are dark and heavy,
with only the smallest fragments of daylight making it through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come back in,” the father pleads.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ignores him and takes some shaky steps forward. The air
is acrid and thick. The ground feels hot underneath her feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He feels the heat now behind her. “Is it… is it… okay?” He moves towards the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looks around her, trying to see in the darkness. The air
is hurting her eyes, burning like chlorine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I… I don’t know,” she says. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her eyes slowly, painfully adjust.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She can see for miles. Rubble, dust and death is all that
there is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bringing her hand to her eyes, she rubs them. It helps with
the stinging a little bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there anyone there?” the father asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” she says. “There’s nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She begins to walk.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-52373657714936200892015-10-18T15:12:00.001-07:002015-10-18T15:12:06.925-07:00Waiting (#Octobophobia Decidophobia ending)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She takes her hand off the handle and crumbles to her knees.
It is the last burst of momentum that she had and she knows it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The father puts his hand on her shoulder. “We’re better
waiting,” he says. She believes him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The announcement will come, surely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it never does.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They wait for months, but eventually the generator fails.
Without it, the air filtration stops working. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slow, painful time.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-36695893460278429512015-10-15T12:49:00.002-07:002015-10-17T03:35:37.055-07:00When things you love stop being yours...It’s a strange feeling when something stops being yours.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Superhero comics and wrestling have been two hobbies that have
been mine since the early 90s. I’ve been obsessed with both for decades.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I started watching, both were aimed fairly firmly at
me. Boy hobbies very much aimed at boys. And as I grew up, my tastes in both
matured, and they continued to be aimed at me, with the (relatively) clean cut
Bret Hart and Batman replaced by the stubblier and more violent Wolverine,
Gambit and Stone Cold Steve Austin. Aimed squarely at me and people like me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And recently, this has changed. Because they’re no longer
aimed at me. I have a fairly major and specific complaint about this. They’re
aimed at girls. Not even women. Girls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1RVOPblh8ZC8hkMkeAl_jMvwB61kqaG-VAf2KrnsO8mfOH7t_N1HmFwohaG3nCLzJ2bv83JL2QDs65gFGl9tJfjD0cT-2IyIFyMua0PfEBqYWjn6UPHm6Hxy8VVckc5bctgeIncdoFQ/s1600/Screenshot_2015-10-15-19-25-43.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1RVOPblh8ZC8hkMkeAl_jMvwB61kqaG-VAf2KrnsO8mfOH7t_N1HmFwohaG3nCLzJ2bv83JL2QDs65gFGl9tJfjD0cT-2IyIFyMua0PfEBqYWjn6UPHm6Hxy8VVckc5bctgeIncdoFQ/s400/Screenshot_2015-10-15-19-25-43.png" width="225" /></a>That’s not the complaint. Let me give some context first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The latest issue of Ms Marvel came out yesterday. Now, Ms Marvel, if you haven’t heard, is a superhero. She’s also a teenage Muslim
girl named Kamala Khan, who has to juggle saving people with hoping that her
strict family don’t find out. It is one of the best comics Marvel have put out
in years, and one of the best comic books of the last decade. It’s funny,
heartfelt and smart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Kamala has created a fandom that’s brand new. Just look
at this letter (left) in the latest issue from a little girl called Charlotte.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This, believe me, is not the usual level of letters that you
see in comics. Absolute adoration for a great character by a little girl. And
treated in response warmly and without mocking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This isn’t my complaint. I’m getting to it though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait. Let me explain with some wrestling stuff. I’ve written
before about problems with <a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/wrestling-with-racism.html">racism</a> and <a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/darren-young-and-wrestling-with.html">homophobia</a> in wrestling, and at some
point, I’ll address sexism, but this is a bit different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is Bayley. She is the NXT (WWE’s smaller league feeder
division) women’s champion. Unlike the past ways women have been treated in wrestling,
she’s been main eventing. And she’s been having a series of great matches. She’s
also wholesome, cute, wears headbands and shirts with ‘I’m a hugger’, which
sell enormous amounts already.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtj-LBzyb2lqpO4UuC8M2iujEwm0kQloprKx8c_KTVDKT7XWa1xc-Bur8k7nsP-Tg17AtT8sSl1SsEDinGuWj2kfhSrxzyS4Y1gV3v6nYsdc-wDxIwrpSRil5HPKuMSuXZh5OPWoxvQrc/s1600/http%25253A%25252F%25252F33.media.tumblr.com%25252Ff8c6ffaa11da0e121bdaa82dd02d9669%25252Ftumblr_nw8mqsPDD31sbzhteo1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtj-LBzyb2lqpO4UuC8M2iujEwm0kQloprKx8c_KTVDKT7XWa1xc-Bur8k7nsP-Tg17AtT8sSl1SsEDinGuWj2kfhSrxzyS4Y1gV3v6nYsdc-wDxIwrpSRil5HPKuMSuXZh5OPWoxvQrc/s400/http%25253A%25252F%25252F33.media.tumblr.com%25252Ff8c6ffaa11da0e121bdaa82dd02d9669%25252Ftumblr_nw8mqsPDD31sbzhteo1_400.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's throwing a hug to the audience. And because they love her, theyre throwing it right back.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is Izzy. She’s Bayley’s biggest fan and comes to lots
of the events dressed as her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfqsmRAOv_u45_5ljZMIbKM0P6twcYgkNUhDn4R_zdfZ8w4ZnEunplfP8rrIzkfQ0C2j1pGUcbpz7m4JbBRCxeKEZ8iwcOo_CN2djZgUd6E9hWygY0FrU7U34DOiBxlAp6xfHZivyL34/s1600/https%25253A%25252F%25252F40.media.tumblr.com%25252Fa890ca255425601d4e789896326c4c4b%25252Ftumblr_nw9utqrHkm1qjhttjo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfqsmRAOv_u45_5ljZMIbKM0P6twcYgkNUhDn4R_zdfZ8w4ZnEunplfP8rrIzkfQ0C2j1pGUcbpz7m4JbBRCxeKEZ8iwcOo_CN2djZgUd6E9hWygY0FrU7U34DOiBxlAp6xfHZivyL34/s400/https%25253A%25252F%25252F40.media.tumblr.com%25252Fa890ca255425601d4e789896326c4c4b%25252Ftumblr_nw9utqrHkm1qjhttjo1_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, it’s fair to say that this is not your typical
wrestling fan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Izzy gets emotionally into it to a huge degree. She’s young
enough that this is real for her, and Bayley is her absolute hero. When Bayley
was fighting Sasha Banks (an arrogant ‘heel’) in one of the best matches of the
year, Sasha started teasing Izzy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Q7B2l2hkkdJk3TfqM10Z6kexvQeBqynHuX9CYyhDvw6IYkk2woAmIA9HRmKUO9CLz300FJSPC0WbuD7mx3bvuOkjdRjBLXKLhrlxZU7jhti5nopCm8xdyeqtTE-M9wya0Evjv5DouMA/s1600/https%25253A%25252F%25252F38.media.tumblr.com%25252Fc208a60487fc22f24037c331c137dc14%25252Ftumblr_nvw2k9aWLN1sj4xr4o2_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Q7B2l2hkkdJk3TfqM10Z6kexvQeBqynHuX9CYyhDvw6IYkk2woAmIA9HRmKUO9CLz300FJSPC0WbuD7mx3bvuOkjdRjBLXKLhrlxZU7jhti5nopCm8xdyeqtTE-M9wya0Evjv5DouMA/s400/https%25253A%25252F%25252F38.media.tumblr.com%25252Fc208a60487fc22f24037c331c137dc14%25252Ftumblr_nvw2k9aWLN1sj4xr4o2_500.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now that's a heel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She even stole her headband, reducing Izzy to tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgtt3Qj-sf1qrKR_-psXRTKBPu1vpxf34mvwpQX_B96QNP8L2LTrK-Z_cIneHExA_RTTpSZaoPdil5OwuSdKX56tvld9a3r6WA9S4J3Xg-NxSVF6eeRdXEark1bJFLUBZDAaJP-FDkZIQ/s1600/https%25253A%25252F%25252F38.media.tumblr.com%25252F9ed81ffa23aacd0d208bed7c14e34026%25252Ftumblr_nvw2k9aWLN1sj4xr4o5_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgtt3Qj-sf1qrKR_-psXRTKBPu1vpxf34mvwpQX_B96QNP8L2LTrK-Z_cIneHExA_RTTpSZaoPdil5OwuSdKX56tvld9a3r6WA9S4J3Xg-NxSVF6eeRdXEark1bJFLUBZDAaJP-FDkZIQ/s400/https%25253A%25252F%25252F38.media.tumblr.com%25252F9ed81ffa23aacd0d208bed7c14e34026%25252Ftumblr_nvw2k9aWLN1sj4xr4o5_500.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most horrible thing to ever happen in wrestling.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bayley fought back, finally celebrating. Izzy’s reactions
throughout the match told the story almost as well as the women in the ring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCe23-ituvurfsneTFSSoN_RRmHvNat9N-kv1JHO7t2uiFf0OHGL8W4hwn9s4YpMuDZXnrkx-k3qGRas38w0JBkFnFa0EptqVYctv5ulcGtqci3gPGSjJFCml6KIBdK0wbztmf8Z0vQw/s1600/https%25253A%25252F%25252F41.media.tumblr.com%25252F9fc9898f29b4267db5e4c8403e718c18%25252Ftumblr_nvvwslsm2x1tkh4pio1_540.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCe23-ituvurfsneTFSSoN_RRmHvNat9N-kv1JHO7t2uiFf0OHGL8W4hwn9s4YpMuDZXnrkx-k3qGRas38w0JBkFnFa0EptqVYctv5ulcGtqci3gPGSjJFCml6KIBdK0wbztmf8Z0vQw/s320/https%25253A%25252F%25252F41.media.tumblr.com%25252F9fc9898f29b4267db5e4c8403e718c18%25252Ftumblr_nvvwslsm2x1tkh4pio1_540.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twitter and Tumblr may have got a bit emotional.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the following day, she forgave Sasha (who also gave her
the flowers in the background).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYv4ny1DsBIa6suwopsVH_fpATPIOoLdbL9RHU90P0x65fKqp_JN36872D7DON1mEmxi9VaDiZzLY3wQspX2VDDJdJYnTjXsYDd5sHbcjO2ATwvXpQ5Z0LEmw6mAfANnNmD-EIjuzEWLg/s1600/tumblr_nvyfvfP2JW1qlhou3o2_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYv4ny1DsBIa6suwopsVH_fpATPIOoLdbL9RHU90P0x65fKqp_JN36872D7DON1mEmxi9VaDiZzLY3wQspX2VDDJdJYnTjXsYDd5sHbcjO2ATwvXpQ5Z0LEmw6mAfANnNmD-EIjuzEWLg/s400/tumblr_nvyfvfP2JW1qlhou3o2_500.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never seen anything like this in wrestling before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor in comics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this is my complaint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the hell took so long?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s nothing to gain by limiting your audience. Nothing.
When you look at anything – be it movies, books, horror, wrestling, comics, or
(and yes, this is a big one) videogames – the longer that it’s purely aimed at
young (and, in my case, not so young) men, the longer it becomes a defensive monoculture.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A monoculture that gets defensive and sarcastic, in places
like wrestling forums I’ve seen, where Bayley’s repeatedly criticised for not
being attractive enough. Because a lot of fans still think that it should just
be for them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A monoculture that ends up just like Gamergate. One that
will abuse people for not liking things the right way. Not allowing them to
even be fans in their own way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can understand wanting to keep part of a culture to
yourself. There’s a level of ownership, which can give a sense of control – a control
that can often feel lacking in other parts of life. Sometimes, this can be a
positive, but the longer it goes on unchecked, it can go from affirmation to a
strange “I am special because I like this” approach. It becomes exclusion
rather than expansion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I look at Izzy and Charlotte, fans of things that I love at
an age that’s younger than I ever got into it, I’ve found myself oddly
emotional. There’s something rather wonderful about this, and about seeing some
of the things that I love opening up to new audiences – ones that couldn’t be
much further away from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This isn’t mine any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s a wonderful thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-26243938913370104282015-10-12T15:07:00.001-07:002015-10-12T15:07:41.369-07:00Cynophobia - Fear of Dogs - #Octobophobia Short Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKviF7z0RtCBqqWKvWQJ0Pm6ZaqOE4J9q946RylS0xcl5pWwZruR29GOHgFLEGZ84cl4PU56cRRjWs6MzlMC2jAZ8kJVvWZBCedJPO9pg06pLmSiaFYKHJUHuRIachP2oAu5RwHqFakJc/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKviF7z0RtCBqqWKvWQJ0Pm6ZaqOE4J9q946RylS0xcl5pWwZruR29GOHgFLEGZ84cl4PU56cRRjWs6MzlMC2jAZ8kJVvWZBCedJPO9pg06pLmSiaFYKHJUHuRIachP2oAu5RwHqFakJc/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother was a cancer. An absolute cancer on my life. I’m
glad she’s dead. Or I was, anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I maintain she’s why I never married. Every man I ever got
close to always suddenly had second thoughts about the relationship after they
had to spend time with her. And every one of them pretended it wasn’t anything
to do with her constant undermining, constant passive-aggression and constant
neediness. And then she’d make constant comments about me being single again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was the worst of all worlds. And she took up my entire
world. Phone calls, visits, texts. Just constant bloody attention. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when I didn’t answer for more than a week or two, she’d
get ill. Every time. And it’d be one thing if she was faking it, but she never
was. And it was always either serious or had the potential to be serious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’d have to give up time to look after her again. I’d
have to move in again and cook for her, clean for her, and – depending on the
level of severity – clean her. And she’d take it all with a clear sense of
disdain, making it obvious that she considered that she as the one doing me the
favour<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’d just sit there, or lie there, like a bloated,
poisonous toad. And she’d ignore me and put all of her attention on that bloody
dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t mentioned the dog yet, have I?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a small, black, wiry, oily, unpleasant little thing.
It would follow her around like a malevolent shadow, and she would dote on it
with all of the love that she never showed me. “Bluebell”, she called the
thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It hated me, obviously. Any other visitors, which were few
and far between, would be treated as a new best friend. But me… it would sit
and watch me warily the entire time. The only noises it made were either high
pitched whines or low, petulant growls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little ball of hatred, carried around by a woman filled
with hate. Like a colostomy bag for bitterness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere along the lines, I stopped helping and started encouraging
her to die. Somewhere, when she started trying to improve her health, I’d push
her towards the unhealthier options. Reminding her how much she loved drinking
and smoking. Reminding her how much she loved red meat and rich food.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere, I started hoping she would die, as I spent every
day cleaning up after her, wiping up after her, and avoiding the sullen stares
of the dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And one day, when she’d shouted at me, abused me and been as
ungrateful as she ever had been, I watched her die. She slipped in the bath
while I was sat on the edge. She was trying to grasp and get her balance,
trying to lift her head above the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I needed to do to save my mother was to reach. With one
hand, even. Just enough to grasp her hand and allow her to right herself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I didn’t. While the dog clawed at the bathroom door, I
just sat and watched. Watched her try to lift herself, but not able to. Watched
her panic and desperately try to breathe, but having the water fill her mouth,
throat and lungs instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited. Eventually, I walked out of the room. The dog ran
in frantically through my legs and jumped and barked at the bath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave it a while before I called the police.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to get rid of the dog. I did. Of course I did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it didn’t work. I opened the door and found her on the
pathway outside. I asked all of my mother’s friends if anyone wanted to take
the small, black demon, but none of them did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I left it be. I let it just be outside, and went away to
work. But by the time I came back, the mutt was still sat there, whining and
growling at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t not feed it. I may have allowed someone I hated
to die, but despite my loathing, it was just a dog. And I couldn’t bring myself
to let it starve.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wolfed down any food I brought it at first, but as it
regained its strength, it appeared to regain its hatred of me and would snap at
me as I brought its food near.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I appealed online, making the dog sound friendly, and it worked. For a week. And then the dog turned up on the path again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep seeing the dog in my head, no matter where I was. Just
looking at me with those wide open eyes and the same slight tilt to the head.
It always takes me a little time to work out if it’s real or not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would be comical if it weren’t for the sheer malevolence.
The sheer hatred. It shits wherever it can – not because of a lack of training,
but just to make the point which of us is tolerating the other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t kill it because it’s my responsibility, sitting
there and watching me. Nobody else would take it (for good reason). And no
matter what I try, it refuses to do anything other than glare, whine or bark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may have killed my mother, but the dog looks at me and it
knows what I did. And really, that’s why </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to put up with it, however many years it has left.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It knows what I did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I can outwait it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited for my mother to die. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can wait another few years for Bluebell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And until then, I will feed her and tend to her and clean after her, while she subjects me to whines and growls and hatred.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-40966289597031795802015-10-10T09:52:00.000-07:002015-10-10T09:52:16.431-07:00Coulrophobia (fear of clowns) - #OctoboPhobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The clown turned up at my door at midnight. He stood in the
rain, although his colourful makeup stayed put. And he watched me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched him for a while. Watched him watching me. And when
I walked through to the kitchen, I knew that, within a few minutes, he’d turn
up at the window. Not being aggressive. Not saying anything. Just watching.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I knew why he was here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was five years old, I was taken to the circus for the
first time. I remember the noises and the lights and the colours. I remember
the animals – bears, lions and elephants (although, looking back, I cant help
but wonder how they were treated). I remember the acrobats, defying gravity
with every move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But most of all, I remember the clowns.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two of them came out, with overexaggerated movements and
ludicrous outfits. They went through a routine and the audience laughed
hysterically throughout. Except for me. I was repulsed by them immediately.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom hugged me and told me it was okay, and they were just
playing and in outfit, but I didn’t believe her. I didn’t trust her. And I
certainly didn’t trust them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In old pulp novels, the clown is almost always on the run.
Hiding in disguise, while it turns out that they held up a bank or a shop or
something, and something went wrong and they shot someone, and they went into
hiding somewhere that was always on the move, and somewhere they could keep
their face hidden the entire time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In real life, they’re far worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever heard of John Wayne Gacy? Google him and give
yourself nightmares for the next week. If the round, demented clown face isn’t
enough, Gacy killed dozens of young men and teenagers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he’d put that face paint on for local events. Look
at the pictures and look at his eyes and that smile… not the painted ones. The
real ones underneath. Look at them, and tell me that you’re really, honestly,
truly surprised that he was capable of that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As human beings, we use our sense of sight (assuming that we
have one) to help us know whether or not to trust people. We see their faces
when they talk to us and we communicate by expression as much as by voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just look at emojis. We had to find a way to put basic
facial expressions into text once we started using it as an immediate method of
communication. We didn’t feel the need to do that with letters, because letters
removed the immediacy. But when you’re talking to someone online, using text
alone, emojis are useful ways to get a little bit of that extra level of
communication. After all, we all need to know when something’s being said with
a smile and a wink, don’t we? Deadpan really doesn’t come across well when it’s
typed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We need that extra element of expression, because otherwise,
when someone comes at you brandishing a knife, you need to be able to tell
whether they’re friendly or angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So think about the importance of expression, and now wonder
what kind of person feels the need to paint an expression over their own. A
permanent expression that constantly makes a point of telling people that they’re
smiling. That they’re happy. And that there’s nothing to worry about, because
just look at them with their painted smiles and eyes and colourful hair and
outfits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Think about what kind of person goes to those lengths to
convince people that they’re friendly. That they’re not a threat. And that they
definitely don’t have a knife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, my mom and I were sat near the front, and I was crying
by this point. And one of them must have noticed, because they involved us in
their next trick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was brought into the pit in front of everyone, a shaking,
terrified mess. I never really forgave my mom for that, and I never really
will. I think, charitably, she was under the impression that I’d enjoy the
attention and forget how scared I was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It probably only went on for minutes, but it felt like it
went on for hours. They kept doing things that seemed like they were going to
be unbelievably dangerous, before it was revealed they switched it out for
something safe. Like an oversized wooden mallet, swung for my head. The
measuring up for the shot, like a batter winding up to knock it out the park.
The swing… the practice swing… and then he brought the mallet back over his
head, like he was going to do one of those tests of strength in fairs, and then
all of the weight of the mallet suddenly returned and made him fall over
backwards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crowd laughed as I wet myself, absolutely convinced they’d
just been about to kill me. And as he struggled with the mallet, the other
clown laughed and laughed and laughed in my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then they got the bucket, which they proved to everyone
was full of water. And before they poured it over my head (which was in my
hands as I prayed for it all to stop), it somehow turned into confetti.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t care. I felt the water hit my head and run down me,
and when I opened my eyes and looked through the tears, everything was red.
Blood poured down my body and seeped through my clothes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I screamed. I looked down at myself and screamed and
everybody laughed because they could only see confetti and they thought I was
just overreacting. They couldn’t see me covered in dark, red, cold blood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I could see it. And from the smiles on their faces, they
could see it too. I could see, underneath the grease paint, utter malevolence.
For the first time since the routine had begun, I could see they were really
smiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And one of them knelt in to me and whispered – and even
through the noise of the crowd laughing, I heard him clearly – “You’ll be one
of us now. One day, we’ll come for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pretended not to see him at first. He’s not the first one
to turn up recently. Always at midnight. Always a different clown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s been a different one every night. And they just
watch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he was the first one that managed to get into the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought that I’d locked the back door. I maintain, looking
back, that I locked the back door. But maybe that didn’t matter. I’d gone to
bed and eventually, fitfully, slept.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up to find him at the foot of the bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watching me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had green hair, this one. Green hair and a hat. And
clean, black-and-white makeup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He held out his hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of them held a knife. The other held a makeup box.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched him for a while, with his open smile etched onto
his face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew what they were for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He walked with me into the bathroom and he let me talk while
I slowly took the box, and looked in the mirror and began to apply the paint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The smell of greasepaint is one that sticks with you. It
gets into your throat and sinuses and the hairs in your nose, and it doesn’t go
away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I painted my face with a smile and comically large eyebrows,
with big red bags underneath my eyes. It
was simple, but there were flourishes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He beckoned at me to open my mouth and I wished that they’d
never picked me. I opened it, and he grabbed my tongue between his fingers, and
then pushed the knife into, and then with no small effort through it. He hacked
at it and sawed for minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere, I was screaming and screaming, until I felt the
blood pouring down my front and my throat, and suddenly, I remembered what it
had felt like when they’d poured the bucket over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What it had looked like to everyone else. And then I thought
about how funny it would be to see their reaction right now, as the clown tore
through the last parts of my tongue, severing it completely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as much pain as I was in, all I could think of was how
funny everyone’s faces would be if they knew what was really happening that
night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point, the screams turned into laughter. Hysterical,
deep, overwhelming laughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked into the mirror at my new blood-smeared,
gore-splattered face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And
laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-52954122578866360522015-10-08T17:13:00.000-07:002015-10-08T17:14:28.175-07:00Claustrophobia - #OctoboPobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKviF7z0RtCBqqWKvWQJ0Pm6ZaqOE4J9q946RylS0xcl5pWwZruR29GOHgFLEGZ84cl4PU56cRRjWs6MzlMC2jAZ8kJVvWZBCedJPO9pg06pLmSiaFYKHJUHuRIachP2oAu5RwHqFakJc/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKviF7z0RtCBqqWKvWQJ0Pm6ZaqOE4J9q946RylS0xcl5pWwZruR29GOHgFLEGZ84cl4PU56cRRjWs6MzlMC2jAZ8kJVvWZBCedJPO9pg06pLmSiaFYKHJUHuRIachP2oAu5RwHqFakJc/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nobody pays much attention to Calloway. At the end of the
day, as it turns dark, he walks around the graveyard. He locks the gate with a
chain and padlock, and then walks around every path, picking up litter,
collecting the dead flowers that have withered too much to be left, and making
sure everything is clean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Most people don’t want to see anyone there while they’re
visiting. It’s a private time and they want to be left alone. So he’s used to
staying out of the way, and used to people not paying attention to him.<br />
<br />
He
likes it. It suits him.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He’s old and quiet and his slight build belies a surprising
strength. He isn’t the only one that digs graves, preparing them for funerals,
but he does it more than anyone else. It’s
hard work, but he does it regularly. At other times, he can be found in the
shed, drinking tea from a thermos and eating sandwiches. There’s a kettle there
now, and a microwave, but old habits die hard, and he likes the way the thermos
feels.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As caretaker, he’s a council employee, although nobody on
the council really knows him. Nobody really measures the work he does. If they
don’t have to go there, people don’t really like graveyards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Well, most people don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Teenagers, on the other hand. Some of them love graveyards.
Some of them see them as somewhere to drink cheap alcohol, smoke poorly made
joints and some of them have awkward, fumbling sex.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There’s a couple right now, on the other side of the
graveyard. Can’t be much more than eighteen.<br />
<br />
They’ve been furtively coming in
here once every few weeks, and from a safe distance, Calloway has watched her
take off her knickers, lie down on the stone slab and spread her legs as her
boyfriend frantically pushes into her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
They always take their time when they’re not screwing. Drinking
between their thrillseeking passions, then starting again. Calloway remembers
when he was young and virile enough to do it multiple times like that, but he
has other passions these days. Over the months, he’s got to know their
patterns. And they’ve never even realised he was there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He walks to the caretaker’s shed, opens the door and takes
the shovel in his hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teenager wakes up. He breathes, his head pounding and
dripping blood, and it takes him a while to realise why the air is so musty and
thick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He tries to move, but he can barely lift his arms. He’s
pinned by wood above him and to his sides. He scrabbles against the darkness,
feeling sharp, broken pieces of bone underneath him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He can’t get any leverage at all. He tries shifting his
weight, seeing if he can bring his hands up to his chest by twisting, to give
himself more space. He can now see the skull by the side of his own head, and
he tries not to panic (although he’s aware that the air is getting thinner and thinner).
He manages to bring a hand up, and tries to push the lid properly, but it won’t
budge. He scratches frantically, until his fingertips start to bleed. He
realises this approach isn’t doing anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He manages, slowly and painfully, to turn onto his side, and
then his front. He doesn’t have the<br />
strength to push with his hands, but if he
arches his back…. Pushes with it…. He might just be able to shift the coffin
lid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He doesn’t think about the skeleton that he’s now facing. He
doesn’t think of the fact that he can’t hear anything other than soil falling,
muffled, onto the top of the coffin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He pushes and pushes. And when that doesn’t work, he screams
as much as the air will let him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He no longer has the strength to turn. And besides, there was hardly space.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Instead, he lies down in the remains of the first owner of
this coffin and can’t find the strength to move any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Before long, he can’t find the strength to breathe, either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the teenager struggles and screams, Calloway slowly and
calmly shovels dirt on top of the coffin. <br />
<br />
He doesn’t rush. There’s no need. There’s nobody around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He knows what he’s doing. He’s done this dozens of times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When the screaming stops, he keeps piling the earth in.
Keeps filling the grave, adding weight to the lid of the coffin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Nobody ever notices that the graves have been turned, as
long as he relays the grass fairly carefully.<br />
People expect a certain level of upkeep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And when people come here secretly, in singles or in pairs,
they tend not to tell others where they’re going. They might be missed, but
nobody knew they were here in the first place. And Calloway knows how to spot
the ones that will be less missed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Because he doesn’t just keep out of the way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He watches. And waits, and plans, and then fills the coffins
with extra passengers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Once he’s done, he looks down at the next grave. The funeral
taking place in the morning will provide more cover than anything else could
do. She lies there, her skull caved in, blood and brains spilled over the soil
feet further down than the grave needs to be. Once he’s dumped enough soil over
her, the coffin will be able to be lowered slowly down on top, and nobody will
ever know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
During the funeral, he will stay out of the way, watching
without the smirk that he feels inside.<br />
Looking at the grave and knowing that
there’s one victim underneath, and then just a few feet away, one that died
screaming in a box only barely bigger than he was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He’ll know all of that is there, but nobody else will have
the slightest clue. And he’ll sit in the shed, and he’ll smile to himself
thinking of those lying there, and the ones he left in there alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Once he finishes filling in the graves, he continues to
clean up around. Then he locks up the cemetery and goes home. The next day, he’ll come back and he’ll wait
for an opportunity to do it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He’ll pick someone and he’ll wait until the right time. And it
will come and it will happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Nobody pays much attention to Calloway, after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-7940563809175045002015-10-06T18:27:00.003-07:002015-10-06T18:27:24.261-07:00Chronophobia (fear of colors) - #Octobophobia short story<div class="MsoNormal">
Great cinema is black and white. This is, as far as I’m
concerned, indisputable. The use of light and dark to signify everything.
Shadows and subtleties that screaming colour can never live up to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A double bill of Les Yeux Sans Visage and The Man with the
X-Ray Eyes. Neither one a favourite of mine, but I couldn’t help but smile at
the pairing. Schlock and sublime shock together. I only wish that it was the
supposed lost cut of the latter – if it ever existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat in the projection booth and watch. So many cinemas now
have digital, it felt like a privilege to work with well-maintained vintage
film cameras. And as venues go, I loved working in this place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s culty and
silly enough not to be fully arthouse, but there’s a genuine love of film
seeping through every pore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s after those films that I first noticed the colour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was sat in the pub with some colleagues and closed my eyes
after looking at the menu and there were lines and shapes dancing around behind my
eyelids. Nothing unusual, of course. But they were a more vivid and sharp than
they normally are.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wear glasses, due to short sightedness, and I’m fully
aware that I’m at risk of further sight loss as I get older. I get floaters in
my vision fairly regularly, but I don’t worry too much about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What surprised me about the colour behind my eyelids was
that it didn’t feel quite as natural. It…shone. It was like a burst of neon
colour lit across the inside, and after it flared, it had gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was, I thought, probably something outside. Someone had
taken a photograph and the lens flash had taken me by surprise. I’d looked at
something just as it went off, and it burned an after-effect into my vision.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, I woke up to it when my son came into the
room, shouting that he was late for school. A vibrant, glowing river of colour
behind my eyelids. It didn’t last long. Just enough to wake me up in a panic,
utterly confused and disorientated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It lasted a bit longer this time. It hung around for a
couple of minutes, bright against my eyelids, burning them. When I opened my
eyes, I could still see brief lines and shapes, like looking at the outline of
a magic eye painting. But they faded quickly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Driving carefully, I took him to school. I can’t remember
the last time I drove with my foot hovering over the brake so gingerly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That night, as I became more tired, helping him with his
homework, the lights returned when I closed my eyes. This time, it went on for long minutes,
burning each time. Bright reds, yellows, scalding greens and blues. Shimmering
crystal razor blades against my eyes each time. I tried to keep my eyes open,
but each time I blinked, it was like having a shotgun go off in front of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time it stopped, I was in agony. My eyes felt scalded
and sore. When I looked into the mirror, they were bloodshot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son looked at me, scared. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it stopped, I did the obvious thing. I googled. I
looked for symptoms, and after convincing myself it wasn’t meningitis, I
decided it would be worth going to the doctor. This could be a stroke or
similar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called the following morning. But by the time my
appointment came round a few days later, I was in the hospital, sedated and in
bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unconsciousness was the only place that I could escape from
the colours. Which were just getting brighter and more vivid each time. And it
was going for longer and longer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would occasionally get a small bit of relief, and it would
stop, and I’d be able to focus for a while on other things. But then it would
return, even stronger than before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They ran tests. They looked for eye damage, brain damage,
tumours, blood diseases… nothing. Every eye test they could run, they ran. But
they could see from the darkening colour of my eyes that something was
happening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only time I had a prolonged period of relief was when my
eyes were held open and moisturised with drops during some of the tests. While
it was uncomfortable, it wasn’t the blinding lights that I saw when I closed my
eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the colours were getting brighter and brighter still.
Coalescing into the purest white.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every time I closed my eyes, it was like staring at the sun.
Even for a second, it hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son didn't understand, but I didn’t want him to hear my
screams. He was staying with my ex for a while, and even she burst into tears
when she visited and heard me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought about his face. But each time I’d tried to look at
him, a blink had led to fierce, stabbing pain. I thought of the movies, those
pristine lines, and all I could see was the light from the projection booth.
Harsh. Unforgiving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This went on for weeks, until I could finally take no more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the middle of the night, while the hospital was at its
quietest, I pushed my fingers into my eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both at once. I tried not to think
about the pain as I tore into them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of them ripped and tore, blood and liquid pouring down
my face, as I held the remains in my hand. The other one came out whole, and I
ripped at the fleshy connections to the back of my eye socket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With no small effort, it ripped away, and for a moment, I knelt
and laughed in relief. The pain was almost overwhelming, but not as much as
that sense of freedom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blood and liquid dripped over my top and lap (which I could
feel, each drop hotter than I’d expected). I laughed. In hope. In freedom. In
pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I closed my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whiteness blinded me once again. Intense, shining, glaring
whiteness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like staring into the sun. Into death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could still see.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-27530648817528359022015-10-04T15:17:00.001-07:002015-10-04T15:17:28.434-07:00Chaetophobia - #OctoboPhobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsihy3KB-Xci3lJ_AD4kjkbUCdeMWjxbjlaWQf7VuQqep14P4edFvsfC9c2Ey9uj_VTIhaQjBm_wUh2A5qcs4m_mzkvbFIk2gttC6GNBtulrYXYOYrCWhcvxcX40SeELipexpF0b-YhQ/s200/Octobophobia.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It starts like a joke. A hair in my soup. Thick country
vegetable soup, just out of the can and heated up. No waiter to send it back to
the kitchen. Just me on a Sunday afternoon. And I’m halfway through the soup when
I find it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hair I find is long. I don’t have long hair. There’s
nobody else in the flat (and there hasn’t been anyone else in the flat in some
time). It must have happened in the factory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If it was worth it, I’d send a letter of complaint, or take
a picture and tweet it. But for a single hair, it’s probably not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite my revulsion, I pick it up with the spoon and dump
it in the bin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I find another one, polluting the soup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sickened, I can’t eat any more of the soup, and I pour it
out. A thick clump of matted hair comes with it, and I struggle not to throw
up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leave it and try not to think about it, other than
rethinking any ideas of pictures and complaints. A letter. That’ll do the job.
An actual letter rather than an email. Maybe threatening to go to the papers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
take some photos of the soup in the bin, and the bowl, which still has some
stray hairs. While trying not to concentrate too much on what I’m doing, I pick
up the matted hair with a fork and take pictures of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not until later that evening that I realise the mild
tickle I’ve felt in my throat for hours isn’t psychological, but is actually
one of the hairs. I must have half-swallowed it in that first half of the soup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can feel it in my throat, harshly stuck well behind my
tongue. I don’t like the idea of swallowing it, so I try to cough to dislodge
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t move, so I cough harder, and then hard enough
that it chafes my throat a little, but the hair doesn’t move its position,
other than in a mildly tickling way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going into the kitchen, I retrieve a glass from the cupboard
and run the tap. I may not like to swallow the hair, but it’s better than
leaving it there. I let the water run until it’s colder, then fill the glass
and take a few sips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing. The hair doesn’t move at all, although I feel the
water going down against it. I drink a few proper gulps, some running down my chin
a little bit, but still it remains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something solid. That’ll do the trick. I turn to the counter
and open the breadbin. There’s half a loaf of multigrain, which I tear a chunk
of, chew and swallow. When that doesn’t work, I try a few more chunks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With every mouthful, I feel the hair moving. It really
should have dislodged, but it hasn’t. I try more water to help the bread down,
which has stuck in my glottis a little, but the hair doesn’t move with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It feels thick and wiry, and while I know that the more
tense I feel, the less likely it is to shift, I can’t help it. What I should
do, I know, is to try not to think about it, and at some point it will just
shift, whereas the more I allow it to irritate me, the more it’ll physically
irritate me. The more my throat is likely to swell slightly inside and become
inflamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I can’t help it. I try to bring the hair up a little
instead, using the muscles in my throat to squeeze and push, somewhere between
a glottal stop and a retch. This means that I feel the hair touching both sides
of my throat, but it also seems to work. Not much, but there’s a bit movement
and it tickles against my tonsils.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel comically like a bird regurgitating its food as I
keep tensing and moving the muscles in my throat in an attempt to shift the
hair, but it’s definitely beginning to work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hair works its way up a little, almost within reach of
my tongue, if I curl the base of my tongue back. It’s harsh against my throat,
and feels as if it’s longer than I realised – while the tip of the hair has
definitely moved up, I can still feel the hair in the middle of my throat as
well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to stop for a moment, as I almost throw up – my body
has got confused by the constant mild retching and thinks I’m trying to vomit.
But a few gasps of air help, even though every one of them makes the hair tip
move and tickle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, the tip of the hair gets to the point where I
can just about feel it if I pull my tongue towards the back of my throat as
much as I can – it’s annoyingly out of reach at first, and it’s frustrating
because my throat is now beginning to hurt, but the hair is almost at the point where my
tongue should be able to get some real purchase on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I push the back of my tongue to the back of the roof of my
mouth, and try to pull the hair out with it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time I do it, it moves the
hair up just a tiny bit. It feels like a wire going down my throat, because I
still haven’t brought the other end up. It must be long, as it’s still in my
throat as it was when I first noticed it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d thought this would have brought the whole thing up by
now, especially as the hair tip moves up the roof of my mouth, creating a
straight line that pushes against my tonsils.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, I reach into my mouth with my fingers, grabbing the
tip between the end of my first and second fingers. I’m very careful, because I’m
having to reach quite far and I don’t want to unintentionally gag, but I want
this damn hair gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull it slowly but surely, and it’s tight, but it comes. I
have it out to around my teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This thing is long. I can still feel it lodged in my throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I have it now, and I have a proper grip between my thumb
and first finger, and I pull harder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It still comes. Right out of my mouth, but still the other
end is somewhere in my throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull harder, and I feel it slicing into my throat and tongue
and tonsils as I do so, but no matter how much they’re irritating, I want this
damn thing out of me. I’ll deal with the sore throat, I’ll deal with the
stinging. But I cannot deal with this hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it keeps coming, without the other end appearing. I pull
it and have it out the entire length of the width of my palm, and pull with my
other hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now it’s slick with blood, and I can feel the blood in my
mouth, but I still pull.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I stop, the pain of my throat getting too much to keep
relentlessly pulling, the hair is now hanging out of my mouth down to my chest.
I spit the blood that’s collected into my mouth into the sink. It’s thick and
red and mixed with saliva. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few deep breaths, each one like a razor blade
against my throat, I pull again, harder. More comes out, more blood, more bile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it keeps on coming. Further and further.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have it wound around my hand multiple times, but I can
still feel it scraping the inside of my throat, which is now raw and painful,
and every now and then, I have to stop and cough and spit up more blood, and
each time there’s more blood than there was last time, which I have spattered
down my chin and front. My hands are covered in blood, some of it now dried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull and pull again, until eventually, I feel something
new.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep inside my gut, I can feel the hair is attached to
something. Something at the base of my stomach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I pull it, I can feel it pulling up my insides.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tense. Each time I pull, it’s painful, but I have feet and
feet of this hair now wrapped around my gore-crusted hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I pull it, will it break? Or will it pull up something
inside, tearing?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t have it in me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull one more time.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-77177390133031157882015-10-04T05:09:00.000-07:002015-10-04T05:09:12.279-07:00Arachnophobia - OctoboPhobia short story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnO7ib4OuS53K25syB7V7NY8wyUlRjMlqREELkuP4l64Sl0be5rkW8p1zJ9jSQNp4zaCBUR6wQEJ4H_5Rle352zOi13SP-B6I2rsSGmWs-nd7zm5Dym6oT418XozI-snrSKAq2GoLozw/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnO7ib4OuS53K25syB7V7NY8wyUlRjMlqREELkuP4l64Sl0be5rkW8p1zJ9jSQNp4zaCBUR6wQEJ4H_5Rle352zOi13SP-B6I2rsSGmWs-nd7zm5Dym6oT418XozI-snrSKAq2GoLozw/s320/Octobophobia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first memory is of spiders. I am seventeen now, and don’t really remember much before I was five, but this is something I’ll never forget. And as I look at his eyes, I remember it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was wearing my yellow skirt. I don’t know why that is something that sticks in my brain, but it is. I don’t know what else I was wearing, although I was wearing socks rather than shoes. That’s definitely important.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were visiting my grandparents in the countryside, and I was able to run around their grounds as much as I wanted. Looking back now, it wasn’t as big as I remember, but it felt almost like its own country. Like it should be on a map somewhere. “Grandparents”, just around the same size as… I don’t know. Birmingham or somewhere I’ve never been.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was so much bigger than where we lived. So much bigger than anywhere I’d ever been. We didn’t even have a garden of our own. We had a small piece of land outside our flats, and there was a park down the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was allowed and even encouraged to explore, as long as I stayed away from anything sharp and I didn’t eat anything I found. And, of course, as long as I didn’t go near the road by myself. I’d seen a rabbit and chased it for a bit, shouting and screaming in delight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I found the shed. Not the shed they actually used, the new, larger one that was also their garage. The old shed, the one on the top end of the garden that you couldn’t see into.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t reach the handle with enough of a grip to open it, but I could fit my fingers into the gap between the door and the wall. I pulled it, expecting it to be locked, and it opened, scraping against the ground. I had to put all of my strength into opening it enough to fit into.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were shelves and piles of cans, old tools and jars and bottles. It was like a treasure trove, and I ignored the dust and the cobwebs as I began to explore it, opening drawers and looking around everything that I could. There was an old wooden chair that served me as a small stepladder as I searched my way around it (including finding a small stack of old magazines, hidden in a drawer, featuring naked ladies that made me feel troubled and confused as to why there would be such a thing at all, although looking back, they were likely an old secret of my grandfather’s, although that thought never crossed my mind at the time).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was an old, cast-iron lawmower in the corner that was heavily coated in grim, dust and webs. I felt my way around it, confused as to what it was, and found a small latch that allowed me to open up the green metallic hood. It was entirely black underneath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the blackness moved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t understand what was happening at first, as the centre of the blackness vanished, and it moved outwards, up the inside of the hood, and across the lawnmower, but then it began to wave over my hand, a black sheet of thin, hair-like legs, swarming over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I screamed and dropped the hood, which slammed down with a crash, but what seemed like hundreds, thousands, maybe, of small black spiders crawled all over the lawnmower and the floor. I fell, trying to brush them off my hand, and more came over me as they tried to escape the now-destroyed safety of the lawnmower engine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could feel them all over my legs, body and hair, and I kept screaming, trying frantically to brush them all off me. I shouted and screamed as loudly as I could, even when I felt one around and then inside my mouth, which I spat out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must have been screaming loud enough for my parents and grandparents to hear, as it can’t have been long until they found me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cried and cried and cried as they brushed them all off me, and as they told me off for going into the shed, and as they stripped my clothes off, and then put me into the shower. I cried when I was put to bed that night, and I screamed again when I woke up in the night, surrounded by darkness and convinced I could feel them all over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever since then, I have never been able to bear them. Any time I see one, I know there must always be more nearby, but I always kill them. Stamp on them, roll up newspapers and squish them until they’re just a small black and red smear, or whatever I have to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s while I look at the toddler’s eyes, I remember it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I babysit now, usually two nights a week. It’s a good time to study or watch television or talk to my friends on snapchat. I get paid pretty well for it, and I usually like the kids. The parents are out until whatever time they’re out until, and once the kid’s asleep, I get the house to myself. Tonight, they’re at something in town, and will be out most of the night. I have the spare room, which means being paid even more to sleep, which I’m okay with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s old enough to help get himself ready for bed, although I have to help with some of the trickier stuff like changing and brushing teeth properly. But he’s well behaved and actually comes to tell me that it’s his bedtime. I’ve sat for him plenty of times before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s when he does that, that I look at his eyes. They’re dark brown, with black pools in the middle, and framed with thick eyelashes. He looks tired and maybe a little unwell as he tells me he’s ready for bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s as he’s saying that, that it happens. Two eyelashes, just right at the bottom of his left eye, move. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They curl up briefly, and then flex straight again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am stunned into silence, not understanding what I’m looking at, but then the memory of the shed overwhelms me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re not eyelashes. They’re two small black, hair-like legs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grab him as he leaves and turn him around to face me again, and he smiles, not seeing my actions as aggressive, and leans in to hug me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let him do it, and then hold him a bit further away at him again, and look at his eyes again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time, the eyelashes stay still. Maybe they know I’ve seen them, but I don’t let on. I have to surprise them this time, not let them surprise me. And I have to be sure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I help him get changed, and take the opportunity to look at the rest of his skin. It takes me a while, because I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but then I see it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His back is very slightly moving. Underneath the skin. Small waves of constant movement. It’s almost imperceptible. But once I see it’s there, I understand what is happening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In biology, a little while ago, I learned about parasitic wasps that lay eggs inside their prey. The eggs then hatch and they devour their victim from within, controlling them beforehand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t let them know that I know. But as he puts on his pyjama top, he smiles at me before he goes to brush his teeth, and I have to look away, pretending to check something on my phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His open mouth, smiling at me. I can’t look at it without imagining spiders pouring out of it. Not that close to me. I can’t do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He goes to the bathroom, and I follow him. I steel myself, and I put a towel around him as he stands on the step and I pretend everything is okay and I put the toothpaste onto the brush, and put my hand over his as he holds it and I pretend that I can’t feel the scuttling movement underneath my hand as we brush his teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put him to bed, which still has the barriers up a bit to stop him falling out, and leave the nightlight on, and I watch him carefully while I tell him a bedtime story. Every sentence I finish, I look again at him, and each time, I see more and more movement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He pretends to fall asleep, or rather they pretend to fall asleep, and I go downstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are in him, swarming all inside him, just waiting to come out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go into the kitchen and take one of the knives. I don’t know if he can be saved. I don’t know if I’m going to be trying to cut the spiders out of him without killing him too, or if he’s already dead and just pretending. But if he is, at least he won’t feel anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take a deep breath and climb the stairs. I know that once I make that first cut, the spiders are going to come swarming out. Thousands of legs and bodies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I have to kill them all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hold the knife carefully and open the bedroom door. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-61115071211793932512015-10-02T12:34:00.001-07:002015-10-02T12:35:53.309-07:00Agoraphobia - OctoboPhobia Short Story<p dir="ltr">She walks with a stutter. A hesitation that she can't get past. Every few steps, it's like watching a needle skip on a record.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The mall is enormous and crowded. Escalators opposite the entrances are next to six feet tall maps with "you are here" pointers proving difficult to find quickly. It clearly overwhelms her. She stands in front of the map, trying to work it out but it confuses her. She looks at it like someone trying to work out a magic eye painting. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Frustrated and upset, she has to move when someone behind her says something. She steps to the side and immediately apologises, her voice a half pitch higher than usual.</p>
<p dir="ltr">No further conversation takes place, and she watches whoever it was walk away. She's burning with embarrassment. She got in the way. Again.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She has always hated being out like this. Ever since she was a little girl, hating school not because of the subjects or the teachers but because of the lunchtimes and the schoolyard. The hundreds of loud moving elements around her shouting and screaming and playing and, once they realised she was vulnerable to this, taunting and teasing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Ever since she was at university, having to get food with everyone else and stand outside classes with everyone else, having to go through a thousand conversations she didn't know how to have. The everyday brutality of small talk.<br>
With people she knows, she is comfortable. More than comfortable. She is funny and confident and relaxed. She has no problem surrounding herself with friends. But she doesn't know how to make them.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She looks for safety. Always. Bedrooms, houses, cars, classrooms... in these things, she has a roof and walls that keep the rest of the world out.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A place like this? All space and people, surrounded above and below by people, moving hassled and determined people, all of whom seem to know how to do this when she doesn't? A place where she feels she stands out like a white hair where there wasn't one before? If it isn't her worst nightmare, it's certainly on the list.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But she is still young, despite how she feels sometimes when she wakes up in the night,  and she is in love.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And for love, she has come to this terrible mass of corporations, and will brave the crowds and the spaces, all to buy a gift that will make her smile, and the next time they're lying next to each other on the sofa, their long hair tangled together, she'll be able to reach to her wrist, stroke it and smile and it'll be a perfect thing they share. </p>
<p dir="ltr">For this, she is here, trying to look at the map without getting in anyone's way, frantically hoping nobody notices her.<br>
She traces the route along the map with her finger for a moment, repeating the directions to herself and then sets in search of the shop.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The escalator gives her something to hold onto for a few scant moments, and just the feeling of stability that provides gives her some brief salvation and calm. <br>
When she gets to the top, she begins to panic, losing herself for a moment. The scale and size of the place threatens to overwhelm her, and she looks like she's stepped into a plummeting fall, until she sees a shop she recognises from the map, and the panic fades.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She walks uncertainly, the love in her heart proving stronger than the fear in her throat.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She tries not to look into the shops as she passes. It feels like looking in on someone's living room window on a street at night, something else she tries and often fails not to do. It feels intrusive, spying on a life she can never have.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A full quarter of the mall later, it happens. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It's the toy shops, of all places. The toy shops. A run of them, with a play area outside, keeping their wares in the site of the children playing while their parents rest, letting them see other parents and children walking out with toys that they immediately want and harass and cry and end either getting or being dragged away, kicking and screaming in jealous fury.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Something happens. A stumble. A trip. A fall. And then... children laughing? Pointing? Parents rolling eyes or, even worse, offering to help.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Suddenly the centre of attention with nowhere to escape to, her breath starts to shorten. Her eyes grow wide as she stumbles to her feet, and then she blushes and reddens and cannot hold back the tears.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It has all gone wrong. Children laughing and pointing, even innocently. Reminding her, almost certainly of being the object of scorn and pity in the school playground.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The regret at her attempt to come out and find a shop is written across her face, but there is no anger and there is no blame. There is only horror and burning shame.<br>
She flees, her foot twisted painfully and her breath catching, somewhere else. Anywhere else. But the tears in her eyes blind her and she almost trips again, staggering into a stranger. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Now, she can barely breathe at all, except for occasional ragged wheezing loud gasps, that must only attract more attention that she cannot deal with right now.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She starts to run, tears streaming down her face, in absolute terror of people. She is partly doubled over, seemingly in agony.</p>
<p dir="ltr">With so many people around, she tries to find a safe area while trying not to look at anyone, so she can try to convince herself they are not looking at her, but the pain is making her clutch her chest again.<br>
Trying to breathe, she sees a toilet and bolts towards it awkwardly. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Once in, she storms into a cubicle and sits, one hand against the door and the other clutching herself as she tries to regulate her breathing and get through to the other side of what she must surely begin to realise is far more than a panic attack.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I whisper to her that I love her and I try to hold her as she dies, the heart attack deadly and painful.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She doesn't hear me. She doesn't feel me in the cubicle.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But she never has. Not in these last three years that I've come here every day and watched her relive the last steps of her life.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'll be here tomorrow and every day, trying to hold her and telling her that I love her and the watch that I found on the last page on her browser history would have been so perfect.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Maybe one day, it will help. Maybe one day I can help her be at peace. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Until then, I come here each day, reliving it as she relives it.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6IuuBi6e5jplheeGiFjSyXTXCmwLcl6HS7b5b5HibIb-zlxE4TinuNduiij5V29crslO9ktVYda18VZtDhyxgaWEcWo9qymIqEuPgsSVcMMUCdLi_QsiQbahd8JpqjoSMKg-2vPNtutg/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6IuuBi6e5jplheeGiFjSyXTXCmwLcl6HS7b5b5HibIb-zlxE4TinuNduiij5V29crslO9ktVYda18VZtDhyxgaWEcWo9qymIqEuPgsSVcMMUCdLi_QsiQbahd8JpqjoSMKg-2vPNtutg/s640/Octobophobia.jpg"> </a> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-36877051146639765602015-10-01T14:36:00.004-07:002015-10-01T14:38:15.864-07:00Acrophobia - OctoboPhobia Short Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKE9KefDDCqS-RfZtoaPwoE0-QTGyAdZSMEA6BIC5alMrDYHs6ji_hBQeK8Cy5be4akIPrzFbwy-cjo61egjQA_uXSIHH7VMtA8YWxHs_RUf5GbjpNoDeWbLrQSXJ5Nrx0PbL7zYGFgk/s1600/Octobophobia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKE9KefDDCqS-RfZtoaPwoE0-QTGyAdZSMEA6BIC5alMrDYHs6ji_hBQeK8Cy5be4akIPrzFbwy-cjo61egjQA_uXSIHH7VMtA8YWxHs_RUf5GbjpNoDeWbLrQSXJ5Nrx0PbL7zYGFgk/s400/Octobophobia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<h2>
<b>Acrophobia</b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing in the elevator, I looked at the floor, not at the
buttons, not at the door, and not at the display telling me how many floors
we’d climbed. I tried not to think about the cable holding us up, and I tried
not to think about what would happen if the cable snapped, and I tried not to
think about that moment where gravity suddenly decides to reassert its claim.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A double-booking. I gripped the handle of my suitcase and,
not for the first time since I’d walked into this hotel, inwardly cursed the
asshole that booked my room at the travel company my employers use.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was desperate to sit in the bar for a bit. Sit and read a
book for an hour or two with a glass of good whiskey and watch life go by. Or,
hell, bad whiskey, for that matter. But
that would mean getting back into the lift and feeling my stomach slowly rise
as it descended.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it slowly (hesitatingly and grindingly) made its way to
the top floor, I kept looking down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It finally stopped and the doors, with a whine that called
desperately for oil, opened. I pulled my luggage behind me, and walked down,
looking for my room number. It was unusual, in this day and age to have a key
rather than a card, but that was an unusual thing that I had no issues with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I found the room, I opened the door, switched on the
light and looked around. The lights were on a low setting, and most of the room
looked welcoming. But the sight out of the window made me immediately feel
nauseated. I could see out over the buildings across a lot of the city. I let
go of my luggage and dashed across to it, and felt at the curtains to close
them, when I saw something that made me feel even more uneasy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An old fire escape. The kind that zig zagged and stepped up
the entire building. The ones that ended somewhere with a ladder dangling onto
the pavement below.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled the curtains together and frantically looked around
the room, looking for the safety card, which was on the wall next to the door.
I read over it, looking for their fire regulations, and slowly let out a sigh
of relief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was an indoor fire escape down the end of the
corridor, just past the elevator. One made of thick concrete, that would take
hours for fire to even touch, allowing for safe exit. And, more importantly, safe
indoor exit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of the evening passed smoothly. I didn’t leave the
room. I worked for a while, then made my way into the slightly stocked minibar,
and had a drink while I read a bit of the novel I’d been trying to finish for
the last month. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, I would make my way across town to the
meeting, and then I’d get back on the train home. Tired, I decided to shower in
the morning, and concentrated on reading for a bit, so I turned the lights up a
bit more. I settled back onto the bed, on top of the blankets, and, for a
while, was peaceful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That peace was shattered by a shout and some scuffling in
the room across from me. There was the sound of some fighting, and then the
beginning of a scream, which was cut off, almost before it got started
properly. It was cut off by some sharp, strange sounding smacks. Which went on
for a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t know what to do. Should I call reception? I walked
quietly over to the door and looked through the spyhole.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It gave a fishbowl view of the part of the corridor in front
of me as I could feel my eyelashes against the small metal and glass hole.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched as the man with the fire axe walked out of the
room across from mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was tall and powerfully built. He had dark hair and his
light coloured shirt was sprayed with blood. He looked around carefully, and
was clearly listening as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked back into the room, and while I strained, I couldn’t
see anything beyond the door, and then he took one final look around the
corridor before he turned and began to close the door behind him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, briefly, he froze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked back carefully, looking around the corridor one
more time, looking for something that had evidently caught his attention, as he
tried to work out what it was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was staring right at my door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I just watched as he looked down towards the
bottom of the door. For what felt like long, long moments that stretched out
like a yawning chasm, he just looked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carefully, slowly, I looked down towards my feet. And it
felt like the floor had been ripped away from underneath my when I realised
what he saw.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The light from the room was visible underneath the door. A
little strip of light, interrupted by the shadows of two feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked back to the spyhole, just as he walked right up to
it, face first. I could see that he had specks of blood on his face, including
a spray down his right eyelid and cheek.. Tiny, almost imperceptible, but definitely
there. I couldn’t help it, but I stepped back, recoiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moment I did so, the door vibrated and shook. He was
clearly trying to get in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I forgot about subtlety and ran for the phone. Grabbing the
receiver with one hand, I tried to dial with my other. My hands were shaking,
so it took me a moment, as the door continued to shake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It rang, and every time it did so, it felt like an hour had
passed. Eventually, it was picked up by the man on reception.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please, I…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How can I help you, sir?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Help me," I whispered, my breath feeling icy cold and making
it painful to breathe in. "Send help… I’m on the top floor, and there’s a
man…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A heavy crack sounded from the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, sir, the line appears to be bad.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door shook with the weight and violence of the crack the
second time, and this time, the dull thudding sound in the middle of the crack
meant that I understood what he was doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Help me!” I
screamed at him. “He’s outside, oh God, he’s outside.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another cracking thud came from the door as he swung the axe
into it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left the phone for a moment, and moved back so I could see
the door. As heavy and thick as the wood was, it was beginning to splinter and
bend in the middle. It would take him time to get in, but probably not as long
as it would take the police to get here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked the phone back up. “There’s someone with an axe,” I
said, somehow sounding so much more calm than I felt. “He’s killed people and
he’s trying to kill me. I’m on the top floor. You have to send help and then get the police here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another smash at the door, and this time, I saw the very tip
of the axe break through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sir, I’ll… I’ll call them now. Then I’ll ring you right
back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put the phone down and climbed over the bed towards the
window. I didn’t look out, but instead looked right down at the catch, flipping
it before lifting the frame up as high as it would go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A blast of cold, vicious air whipped against me as another
crash, this time with not so much a thud as a breaking noise, came from behind
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lifted my foot across the window until I was straddling
it. And then I put my foot down onto the fire escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It shifted the second I did so. It obviously hadn’t been
used in years. I grabbed the window frame as my stomach dropped and I stared at
the wood. I clutched it so hard I could feel my nails digging into it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glanced back at the door and could now see a larger crack,
and through it, the colour of the wall beyond. And then I could see a blood stippled
shoulder barging against the crack, as it then lengthened and widened further
up the height of the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no choice. No other option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without looking, I shifted all of my weight onto the metal
lattice platform, and the entire thing swayed a bit, and I nearly lost my
balance, but it held. I leaned across and felt the railing against my hand,
noticing that it was a lot more slick with sweat against the flaked, thick and
sharp paint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could barely breathe. The wind was like being hit with
thick wet, cold blankets, and I could only take air in through the shallowest
of gasps. I couldn’t turn back to the room, but I couldn’t bear to look around.
I couldn’t bear to see the tops of buildings around me. It was a view I could hardly
stand from the ground while looking up. From here…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The railing. That was what I could concentrate on. The paint
and rust as I moved, hand over hand, and shuffled across to the steps…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I found the corner, and could feel the end of the
platform with my foot, I could hear what had to be one of the final cracks from
the door in my room. It wouldn’t take him long to get through now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to move faster. I couldn’t slowly grasp my way down
the entire length of the escape. I had to move faster.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s why I moved down the steps faster, not carefully
feeling my way down each step, but letting myself move down as if it were a
normal staircase, a regular starcase, each one just a step from the front door
onto the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was only four steps down when I slipped. I don’t know
what it was on. But one of the metallic steps was slick, and my foot skid
against it, no purchase at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to stick out my other foot to regain my balance, but
I felt it twist and snap underneath my weight, and I crashed down hard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There weren’t too many steps, but it was enough for me to
gain momentum as I slammed into the railings at the end of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the railings was eaten through with rust. It gave
immediately, and I barrelled through it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only thing that stopped me from falling was that I’d
somehow managed to grab the latticed platform. The muscles in my shoulders
screamed out in pain, as gravity took hold of my ankles and pulled with all of
its might.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could hear sirens in the background. Looking up, I could
see his head looking out of the window, looking down and then looking right at
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In movies, falling always looks graceful. It looks like swimming
in air. But I’ve always known that it happens so much faster. You’re not moving
through something with resistance. You’re whipping down, landing before you can
even take it in. It's faster than you can possibly imagine. And then it's all over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wind slapped me, and the rusted metal stabbed into my
fingers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t help it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-34687622027317880902015-08-04T14:07:00.001-07:002015-08-04T14:07:23.685-07:00Cthulhu Bread<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUrzmm6NhNVU8SX6PR8lVRAuMI6BDICYq0N17NilvjA8pc0Q3sPt6yBUKwnjhzs309KvCc0WZnt7F9pZP5YgLylGyWPPxXnFmpZrJi3MVMbLSe9BS_GJCWNP0UYE8O22L6PPnRokWRUM/s1600/20150804_212836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUrzmm6NhNVU8SX6PR8lVRAuMI6BDICYq0N17NilvjA8pc0Q3sPt6yBUKwnjhzs309KvCc0WZnt7F9pZP5YgLylGyWPPxXnFmpZrJi3MVMbLSe9BS_GJCWNP0UYE8O22L6PPnRokWRUM/s640/20150804_212836.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Morisssssssssssssooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnsssssss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcGQ_ElAoTcd8Dq3VLbjCKRfsH-m0kCFKvd2JBsqx5V6PSizZO7gSd7rZO3uLXp03r2Qbn_kMEb2HJoAGDNqBuCPwPLvFeFywOxy0BIlfgBNc7uRC_dglvDicQ7TWHMDkf4AGYoqNvBo/s1600/20150804_204640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcGQ_ElAoTcd8Dq3VLbjCKRfsH-m0kCFKvd2JBsqx5V6PSizZO7gSd7rZO3uLXp03r2Qbn_kMEb2HJoAGDNqBuCPwPLvFeFywOxy0BIlfgBNc7uRC_dglvDicQ7TWHMDkf4AGYoqNvBo/s640/20150804_204640.jpg" width="360" /></a><span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Why
is tiger paw bread c\alled tiger paw bread?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">It should
be c\alled cthulhu bread.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">You can
see on these photos how cthulhuy it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Love
from Christopher Brosnahan age 35 ½ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-62718094983007344372015-07-27T14:02:00.004-07:002015-07-28T14:04:49.250-07:00Wrestling with RacismI'm a wrestling fan. Have been since I was 12. Surprisingly, this isn't often a cool thing to admit, and right now, it's particularly not.<br />
<br />
The recent revelations about the racist remarks by Hulk Hogan have shocked a lot of people. Myself included. While I wasn't the biggest Hulk Hogan fan in the world, I can't deny that I was something of a fan, as anyone who read <a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2012_01_01_archive.html">this piece</a> by me in 2012 after I saw him live at Wembley Arena will remember.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOk9WunztYIM4HEsCae6NyT7qdsGgi-5VnxcFk1ShdFynTdglcz2iA24RhD2uJbV_iIhJkv9jot0rGkbgtXiE_dxCfOupg8hw752Psth5rNA_loOoOPmh6D3s9OjjCqyzRokTHMDNRrjg/s1600/Kamala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOk9WunztYIM4HEsCae6NyT7qdsGgi-5VnxcFk1ShdFynTdglcz2iA24RhD2uJbV_iIhJkv9jot0rGkbgtXiE_dxCfOupg8hw752Psth5rNA_loOoOPmh6D3s9OjjCqyzRokTHMDNRrjg/s320/Kamala.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't a photoshop. This is from 1986.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But while the explicit racism that Hogan came out with shocked me, the idea that wrestling has been racist for some time hasn't surprised me at all. By now, a number of news websites have run with some of the more racist gimmicks and storylines that have turned up in WWE over the years.<br />
<br />
And there have been a lot of obvious ones. A black man becomes Kamala, the Ugandan Savage. A Samoan becomes Umaga, the Samoan Savage. Two black men become Cryme Tyme, a gangsta team. Another black man becomes a voodoo high priest, before becoming a pimp, who walks down to the ring with his 'ho train'.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZjfci08_RMsPUeSyp-cyOLux01KuCVNt7WIdrvsuvsp3lxlvCdAigP3A4ePKertBSgeNmNH_5WBknEKVgoVyRVL4EWMwshNQ4dYoOkuu0-PO2tha_wqydfGlIjxhDd5KQAxgwsp8BDSs/s1600/yokozuna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZjfci08_RMsPUeSyp-cyOLux01KuCVNt7WIdrvsuvsp3lxlvCdAigP3A4ePKertBSgeNmNH_5WBknEKVgoVyRVL4EWMwshNQ4dYoOkuu0-PO2tha_wqydfGlIjxhDd5KQAxgwsp8BDSs/s200/yokozuna.jpg" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yokozuna and Mr Fuji<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And another Samoan becomes a Polynesian sumo wrestler, who comes down to the ring with a Japanese mananger who plays up to the evil stereotype, often attacking opponents behind the referee's back while the commentators complain about it being "like Pearl Harbour all over again".<br />
<br />
This is without even noticing that the list of black WWE champions starts and ends with The Rock (who is African-Samoan). This is after a storyline where black wrestler Booker T was told by evil WWE champion "Triple H" (standing for Hunter Hearst Helmsley) that "people like you don't get to be champion", before failing to win the championship at WWE's flagship event, proving that people like him really don't get to be champion.<br />
<br />
The same Triple H, by the way, in 1998, along with his compatriots in the "D-Generation X" stable of wrestlers, blacked up to make fun of The Rock's stable, the "Nation of Domination", which was a spoof of the Nation of Islam. Triple H and D-Generation X were, by the way, the good guys. This is a scene that WWE proudly replay as one of their funniest ever moments, usually getting a black wrestler to talk about how funny it was. They did this in their recent "Monday Night Wars" <br />
documentary series on their network.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_C3VAe_jvZBBJL6Wi6AKFKEhuGZQU5aMTGdI0GLvsHtrQx2S4XY-tzYbjB-UIoSWfL0p4jPBebQVUt2mS9LtbKvpK9Ugi6WKDnxbc_ZwQflL_wvy26bqLUyKFtCx0VX3FEbPossm6GI/s1600/dx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_C3VAe_jvZBBJL6Wi6AKFKEhuGZQU5aMTGdI0GLvsHtrQx2S4XY-tzYbjB-UIoSWfL0p4jPBebQVUt2mS9LtbKvpK9Ugi6WKDnxbc_ZwQflL_wvy26bqLUyKFtCx0VX3FEbPossm6GI/s1600/dx.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Triple H, second from left, is now WWE's Chief Operations Officer, by the way.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
All of this is awkward, to say the least. And, for the most part, in the past.<br />
<br />
But there's an incident that was quite minor that stood out to me that happened earlier this year, which showed just how endemically racist WWE and wrestling continues to be.<br />
<br />
A wrestler known as Bubba Ray Dudley was a member of a decades-long popular tag team called "The Dudley Boyz" along with his 'brother' D-Von. He's held pretty much the same gimmick since the 90s, with some minor changes along the way, but left WWE years ago. He and D-Von went to a rival company called TNA.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAWgh6c4Gd807t-bbAlXfY7j-ODwfP_HB5MrHIPMZ3Y0dpRgwcRNzxU6Bu3ICyKk341tnhahj5An4HiF7cXSDVKZbiPUAIq0doEBCk4MchAVWGhOmqWFjY2JlPz12E2CzBFnv3QzDjxA/s1600/Dudleys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAWgh6c4Gd807t-bbAlXfY7j-ODwfP_HB5MrHIPMZ3Y0dpRgwcRNzxU6Bu3ICyKk341tnhahj5An4HiF7cXSDVKZbiPUAIq0doEBCk4MchAVWGhOmqWFjY2JlPz12E2CzBFnv3QzDjxA/s320/Dudleys.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bandana really doesn't help, does it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Just quickly, there's a joke here that needs explaining. Bubba Ray and D-Von were brothers despite Bubba being white and D-Von being black. The origin of the team was that they were, along with the rest of the Dudley Clan, the children of "Big Dick" Dudley, who slept around a lot. The two of them had signature 'spots' that they came up with in the year 2000. Usually, they set up a thin table and put their opponent through it. They also have the "wassup" headbutt, where Bubba Ray holds the opponent's legs apart and D-Von screams 'Wassup!" before leaping off the top rope to headbutt the opponent's crotch. They still do the 'Wassup" despite the Budweiser campaign it's based on being over for a very long time.<br />
<br />
While I don't think this is immediately relevant to D-Von's choice to do the move, the headbutt has a long and proud racist history in wrestling. You may not be aware that it's been scientifically proven that black people and Samoans have harder skulls than white people, because it obviously hasn't. But in wrestling, it used to be a hilarious spot in a match where a white wrestler would headbutt a black wrestler, but they'd be the ones that were hurt. While I'm not sure of the origin of this, I suspect it's probably got something to do with the long dominance of boxing by black athletes. It was mostly phased out for black wrestlers but remained a traditional spot for Samoan wrestlers until relatively recently.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2jyRmwMkxg5wdRRnPVYCjhTv0HE-C15DGY-uvc5ir8kJctP0X0NhdtuVL1O_Gwc7-59bYZFJAGTzZ5y5V0QdNWHFpyDu0WzsYcTQwfIcmeaaPyR43plvIOjA9gEU92asHFWXSp35i20/s1600/RTruth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2jyRmwMkxg5wdRRnPVYCjhTv0HE-C15DGY-uvc5ir8kJctP0X0NhdtuVL1O_Gwc7-59bYZFJAGTzZ5y5V0QdNWHFpyDu0WzsYcTQwfIcmeaaPyR43plvIOjA9gEU92asHFWXSp35i20/s320/RTruth.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R-Truth, looking exactly like D-Von Dudley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now, one of WWE's biggest annual events is the Royal Rumble, a massive multi-man match where wrestlers enter the ring every two minutes, and get eliminated by being thrown over the top rope. They usually have a few cameos and nostalgic returns, to get the crowd to react. It's usually one of their most popular and fun events.<br />
<br />
This year, they brought back Bubba Ray, to a large cheer from the crowd. Since D-Von wasn't in the match, the assumption was that the classic moves wouldn't happen. But they did. Because a wrestler called R-Truth was available to do the moves with.<br />
<br />
Can you guess the only thing that R-Truth and D-Von have in common, other than strange initials in their name? Yeah. They're both black.<br />
<br />
That's it. That's all there is. That was the thinking in putting R-Truth with Bubba Ray. They didn't have the black guy he normally does the moves with, so they just threw in another black guy, because he'd do.<br />
<br />
At the same time, three wrestlers (Kofi Kingston, Big E and Xavier Woods) have been put together in a group with a kind of gospel-soul-self-help gimmick despite having nothing at all in common. Except that they're black.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnhUgt7Gwt5yfDpXHWyHWIrtrrd8U4WdSFqk0QbNRq__GcBUTj3WOYDzTL1QgvDZ3Iiqb1NOAmvx6rLbJnresq1PGN-gEq8yA3PtTS8vXLYgsMTXS22bOXvEPw3XkUFzHQwp_uCMJUcw/s1600/newday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnhUgt7Gwt5yfDpXHWyHWIrtrrd8U4WdSFqk0QbNRq__GcBUTj3WOYDzTL1QgvDZ3Iiqb1NOAmvx6rLbJnresq1PGN-gEq8yA3PtTS8vXLYgsMTXS22bOXvEPw3XkUFzHQwp_uCMJUcw/s320/newday.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The New Day. They have so much in common.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That's one of the biggest problems with wrestling. Black wrestlers are put together because they're black. Or they're treated as interchangeable. Everybody else gets characters. Gets defined by something else.<br />
<br />
Black wrestlers still regularly get defined by being black.<br />
<br />
Strange as it may seem, I'm still a wrestling fan. But I want them to acknowledge the problem. I want them to stop showing wrestlers blacking up as if it's hilarious and not awful. I want them to start treating black wrestlers as individuals and not either grouped or interchangeable.<br />
<br />
This can be owned, acknowledged and moved on. But the longer wrestling, and WWE in particular, pretends it's not been an issue, the more of an issue it's going to turn out to be.<br />
<br />
On a similar note, if this interested you, I wrote about <a href="http://chrisbrosnahan.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/darren-young-and-wrestling-with.html">homophobia in wrestling </a>a while ago. I'll have to complete the trilogy at some point and talk about their attitudes towards women...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-15773350990911699432015-07-07T23:57:00.001-07:002015-07-07T23:57:32.930-07:00The budget, Sky News and the BBCIf you haven't yet seen the advert for Sky's coverage of today's budget, it's unspeakably awful. And not just on the level that it's as creepy as anything I've seen. But because it represents something outright dangerous.<br />
<br />
The advert uses the music "I've been thinking about you", as it shows various people of different ages, ethnicities and genders, as they perform all kinds of tasks, from lollipop ladies to parents to factory workers to bankers to... etc. Except all of these people have George Osborne's face superimposed on top of their own.<br />
<br />
So far, so terrifying. And don't get me wrong - the advert is terrifying. You kind of get the idea that it's exactly how George Osborne views the world, in an even-more-disturbing Being John Malkovich kind of way.<br />
<br />
It then ends with the tagline "He's been thinking about you" and promises live coverage of the budget on Sky News. Obviously, when you see this, your first thought is of a malevolent kind of Santa Claus figure, who is drawing up a naughty and nice list, except everybody on it is naughty unless they're rich, and instead of coal, he just turns up in your bedroom at the stroke of midnight with an axe.<br />
<br />
But it's not the strangeness of the advert, the ineptness of the advert, or the sheer hair-raising terror of the advert that's stuck with me. It's something far more insidious.<br />
<br />
Look at how this positions the budget and Osborne himself.<br />
<br />
"He's been thinking about you."<br />
<br />
This is a thoughtful budget. A budget in which our chancellor has put himself into as many people's metaphorical shoes as possible. One in which he's thought about what each person and each job needs.<br />
<br />
And this is a chancellor that is thinking about people of different ages, ethnicities and genders. A chancellor that's genuinely tried to understand each person and their struggles.<br />
<br />
It positions it as a thoughtful, considered budget. And it also positions it, naturally, as the right budget. Because it's thoughtful. Because it's considered. And because good old George Osborne has worked long and hard to think about the implications for each person.<br />
<br />
This is a news advert, and it promises all the hard journalistic challenge and insight of a slow, soft candle-lit massage.<br />
<br />
It's attempted propaganda. It positions Osborne in a specific way, and it positions the budget in a specific way, before it's even been published.<br />
<br />
And now let's remember Osborne, just this week, outright attacking the BBC, on the basis that it needs to have its budget cut considerably. Why? Because it's online capabilities means that it's in danger of monopolising the competitive space with newspaper websites.<br />
<br />
Obviously, some of those newspapers are owned by Rupert Murdoch. In a similar way that Sky News is. And Murdoch has clear motive to want rid of the BBC.<br />
<br />
So, in the same week that Osborne threatens the very existence of the BBC, Sky News puts out an advert for the budget that is more an advert for the thoughtful nature of George Osborne.<br />
<br />
This, to me, shows why we need the BBC. Why we need an independent news broadcaster. Because as much as I've sometimes wished that the BBC would be more critical of the government, they've never quite been part of a circle-jerk like this while pretending that it's about independent coverage.<br />
<br />
The news and the government should not be quite this chummy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-24797546657048737982015-07-07T15:09:00.003-07:002015-07-07T15:09:46.538-07:00London Wanderings #8 - Boston wanderings and local pride<div class="MsoNormal">
I was recently lucky enough to be sent to Boston for a few
days with work. It was my first time in America, and I wanted to try to make
the most of it. After a long flight and a hectic first day, it was tempting to
crash in my hotel, and not go further than the restaurant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, I took a walk. I just picked a direction and
started off for a while. This is something I like to do in a new city. At least
once, don’t consult any maps or GPS, but rely on your own sense of direction to
see what’s around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ended up in a bar – the Beantown Pub, which did good
grilled cheese sandwiches and better beer. It was dark, but welcoming, with
baseball on the TVs and a nice thick bar, where I sat reading for a while.
After a little while, I got chatting to a woman there, and we talked about
London and Boston for a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d been told by a few people when I first got there that
Bostonians had a reputation for being… let’s say ‘brusque’. But in my time
there, I found everybody I spoke to was pleasant, talkative and polite. As the
woman I was speaking to explained it, “If you act like a dick, people will
treat you like a dick. But if you’re nice to people, they’ll treat you really
well”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tend to think it’s a similar story in London. I don’t
think it’s that people are intrinsically rude – it’s that there are just more
people. Someone close to me was worried about visiting London, due to the
occasional seizures she had. “What would happen if I had a seizure on the
underground?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s an understandable concern. When you’re around that many
people, it can be difficult sometimes to see the good. The unpleasant or
uncaring people stand out more. The person who asked me about people on the
underground was worried that she would be ignored, or stepped over, or pushed
out of the way. As it happens, I’ve been on the tube when people have collapsed
before. And every time, someone has helped out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You get more arseholes in London. Definitely. But you get
more of everyone. And you get more of the nice people too. The numbers are just
bigger. And, again, if you act like a dick towards people, they’ll act like a
dick right back. But if you treat people nicely…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new friend back in the Boston bar also explained just how
big a deal the Boston Marathon is. I mean, I’d heard of it, but I hadn’t
realised just how big it was. The entire city stops for the day. It’s
practically a holiday. It’s a source of immense pride. She told me about the
time her brother ran it, with her eyes welling up with pride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she told me just how much the bomb at the Boston
Marathon shook the city. How it took something right at the heart of the city
and killed people, and made people afraid. And often, when people are afraid,
they fall apart. Often when societies are afraid, they turn on each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But instead, in Boston, she described seeing people talking
and taking care of each other everywhere. They were quiet, but they supported
each other. They went to neighbours, or they stayed together at work, or they
travelled together and they sat in bars together and took care of each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said it made her proud to be from Boston.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten years ago today, bombs went off in London. I wasn’t here
at the time – I was living up north for a short while, and working in a call
centre in Tadcaster of all places (next door to the Sam Smith’s brewery). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard about the bombs through the television in the
breakout area, and I watched, numbed for a moment. I contacted people who I
knew, and checked in online to make sure my friends back in London were okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A colleague made comments to the others in the breakout area
about it only being Londoners, and hoping they’d hurt a few of them, obviously
in the hope of general laughter. But instead, everyone ignored them. Some of us
were angry. But after some awkward and angry silence, she just left quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Along with general human empathy, she misunderstood something
about London. And something about Londoners (and I’m sorry to those who think
otherwise, but I’m of the opinion that if you live here and you love the place,
you count). And it’s a similar thing
to the Boston pride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re a busy city, and spend so much time looking at
pavements and travelling in packed tube carriages, face-first in someone else’s
armpit, that it can sometimes seem that empathy is in short supply in London.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if you look online, you’ll read many people’s stories
about how they came together with neighbours and colleagues and friends. In
work and in pubs and in the streets and at home. You’ll hear about how they
looked out for each other and how they came together. Just like they did other
times they were attacked or made frightened, by bombs or riots or threats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s something I love about cities like London and Boston,
and one of the things that I generally love about people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you attack people, they come together and support each
other and look out for each other and even love each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s what makes cities like this feel like home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love wins. Humanity wins. People win. Even in loss, even in
fear and even in grief.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-5479932939541939712015-06-14T17:34:00.001-07:002015-06-15T13:29:31.271-07:00London Wanderings #7 - I know this great little place"I know this great little place..."<br />
<br />
A night in London can lead to anything. That's one of the best things about it. It can do it anywhere, but the sheer variety and packed-in nature of what London offers means that it can offer an unexpected layer sometimes.<br />
<br />
It's one of my favourite things to do with friends. Have a few of us meet up late in the afternoon, and then see where the evening and the night takes us.<br />
<br />
I've talked before about London being a city that you interpret. A relationship that you build over experiences. And a lot of that is forged in moments and unexpected evenings. And when you get friends together, each one brings their own relationship with London to the table.<br />
<br />
So, asking "where next" can lead to places that you wouldn't think of on your own. It's how I found some of my favourite bars, pubs and restaurants in London.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.travelswithbeer.com/2012/03/15/the-angel-london/"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWMF469CxBbfUrJfurEMpS-NZYi9nh0M2qREZi9j3kIpDnExjeBr0-PkFtFZLLtTfkO-DzubCMeOpCh4sj4-mOgIBSs0NzbeY3nCrVYshXNA3gpMxQ_FLT33gAk8OjtfKVg-GIcu4VPM/s320/The+Angel%252C+Holborn.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.travelswithbeer.com/2012/03/15/the-angel-london/">The Angel, Holborn</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sometimes, it's the ones that are so much more interesting inside than they look on the outside - the small looking pubs that somehow fold space and time inside, like you've just wandered into the TARDIS.<br />
<br />
Other times, it's the places down a side street, that involve walking down an alley that you'd just never noticed before (and other times, those alleys lead into the back way into a pub that everybody knows about, but means that you can come and go even after the pub's officially closed the doors and drawn the curtains).<br />
<br />
And other times, it's a cool little cocktail place underneath a Mexican restaurant that has booths wallpapered with 1930s and 1940s pinups, or in a converted former sex-shop.<br />
<br />
And when you're out with friends, you find out about these places from each other. You share your narratives of the city, and you find something new or you get to show them, for a short amount of time, your personal interpretation of the place. And it's usually the one that started with someone else telling you that they know this great place, and it's just down the road...<br />
<br />
Sometimes, it can be exactly the right place. Having the right friends in the right place is what socialising is all about.<br />
<br />
A good few years ago now, I came out of a long-term relationship with my entire sense of self shattered. One of my closest friends, on finding this out, called me up and told me that we were going out.<br />
<br />
"I appreciate it, but I really don't feel like -"<br />
<br />
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."<br />
<br />
And less than an hour later, I was in a place that had a dirty, vibrant atmosphere, that was partly lit by candles rammed into Jack Daniels bottles, had the perfect mixture of noise and space for pool games and booths to sit and chat in, stayed open until three in the morning and the greatest jukeboxes in London.<br />
<br />
I met people and I talked to people, and over the next few months, it became a regular haunt for me. It was a place where I worked out who I was again, and what my life was now.<br />
<br />
The ability to stop, spend time with friends and remind yourself who you are, and even why you are, is an important one. You take yourself out of your comfort zone and willingly try out the London that they know, or you share the London you know with them.<br />
<br />
It's not just a London thing, but if you've ever done one of these nights in London, where you end up comfortably out until the early morning in places you've never been before, then you know that there's a magic there. The way London has so many different areas, tightly packed in, means that you can truly end up somewhere that you didn't even know about, that's just round the corner from somewhere you know well.<br />
<br />
And it's easy to start. In fact, I know this great place, and it's not far from here...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-75826344009800796142015-05-31T14:10:00.004-07:002015-05-31T17:13:22.246-07:00London Wanderings #6 - Secrets and Green ShedsIn 'From Hell', Alan Moore writes about landmarks in London drawing unseen patterns across the city, providing power that goes unseen by most people. In that, the landmarks are phallic spires, like Cleopatra's needle, that formed a pentacle.<br />
<br />
For me, it's not so much the sinister implications of 'From Hell' that I'm interested in (as much as I love that book) - it's the idea of secret patterns across London.<br />
<br />
There are networks across London that are old and mysterious. Not necessarily secretive as such, but ones that serve a specific function, and don't serve much other function. And if you're not part of that function, they're almost like gated communities. But ones that you don't see.<br />
<br />
In Terry Pratchett's discworld series, Death makes the observation that people simply don't see things that don't make sense to them. And there's certainly an element of truth in that. I know this because of how long it took me to consciously notice the green huts.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3VNjxYTHpC-0MyxNfqHvYgBcpY52fMwCh4aJxfS5xLxu687xVAgpqCbWnJ5dhIDmba-3sEweNrH7oGtzMZ-f9IIvDVNYQfMJBfFxXLYhTlKEdroS8F9Nob-9-64Qkz1CQ2EVPnyyf-Q/s1600/Cabmens_Shelter_Wellington_Place_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3VNjxYTHpC-0MyxNfqHvYgBcpY52fMwCh4aJxfS5xLxu687xVAgpqCbWnJ5dhIDmba-3sEweNrH7oGtzMZ-f9IIvDVNYQfMJBfFxXLYhTlKEdroS8F9Nob-9-64Qkz1CQ2EVPnyyf-Q/s320/Cabmens_Shelter_Wellington_Place_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabmen%27s_Shelter_Fund#/media/File:Cabmens_Shelter_Wellington_Place_2.jpg">Cabmens Shelter Wellington Place 2</a>" by oyxman . <br />
Licensed under CC BY 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I work near Victoria, and when I walk to work, there's a small green hut that I pass. I used to work in St John's Wood, and there's one there too. You can't see into them - they're basically like sheds. But they have little serving hatches, and they usually have prices as well for teas, coffees and hot food.<br />
<br />
This is because they're little cafes, designed for use by cabbies. And not just the kind of cabbies that drive around in black cabs either - they date back a hundred and forty years. And were designed for use by cabbies back in the days of hansom cabs. Inside, they have small benches and long tables, so a few of the drivers can have a break, a sit-down and a coffee. And so they've remained, many decades later.<br />
<br />
There aren't many around these days. Just thirteen now. A small handful still dotted around and in use. I'd become aware about their function, but only understood their history a bit more due to this notice on the one in Embankment. They're run by the Cabmen's Shelter Fund, and still serve the same function they always have.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5La_eUJ6hHRR99rn_Tai7i-XODEit66MVGno9M5xWg1wNkIwt-KM06AtO73rLH9tjga9JTRGqdFhoHa_COlFBf7n3eO3aCFY-VvJyMr05OlEiQAQUWMNagZai8_erohM69utyj-bGhlY/s1600/20150531_171428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5La_eUJ6hHRR99rn_Tai7i-XODEit66MVGno9M5xWg1wNkIwt-KM06AtO73rLH9tjga9JTRGqdFhoHa_COlFBf7n3eO3aCFY-VvJyMr05OlEiQAQUWMNagZai8_erohM69utyj-bGhlY/s320/20150531_171428.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
While you can buy teas and coffees from some of them (and fried egg sandwiches and ice creams in the summer), the insides remain secretive outside of heritage open days. Even in the days of sat-navs, they're the exclusive domain of those that have mastered the knowledge. That know the maps and streets of London in a way none of the rest of us ever do.<br />
<br />
The people that know this city's routes, streets and roads, that meet people and connect them from one place to another, have their own beacons lit across the city. Their own secret maps, with safety and warmth dotted across London. A series of green huts, making sense of the city.<br />
<br />
They're out in the open, and you can pass them by and interact with them a little bit.<br />
<br />
But they're not for you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-84155210513057164782015-05-24T13:49:00.001-07:002015-05-24T14:02:56.906-07:00London Wanderings #5 - Small MemoriesLondon changes incredibly quickly. It's not just in terms of buildings and stone being replaced with glass. It's in terms of feelings as well. When I walk around London, as I do fairly regularly, I see areas that I have specific memories attached to, changed forever.<br />
<br />
This is the case everywhere, of course. I grew up in the countryside in Ireland and moved away at 17. I visit around once a year, and it has definitely changed, partly damaged by the recession and partly rebuilt by local fundraising. But the change is slow for the most part.<br />
<br />
With London, things change rapidly. You walk from Oxford Street to Goodge Street, or around Soho or Charing Cross Road, for the first time in a couple of months and you see entire blocks suddenly demolished. And where there was stone, there are now wooden walls, protecting the empty space, like stitches after an operation. And then, slowly, something new starts to form.<br />
<br />
We all have our own relationship with the city, because we've all formed our own memories. They're not all important or life-forming or necessarily something that anyone else would find relevant. But they're how we navigate London - memory by memory, sense-remembering our way through. A kiss here, a drunken night there, a hideous social embarrassment to the left and a phone call you'll never forget there.<br />
<br />
One that I miss is a small one at Piccadilly Circus.<br />
<br />
I love Christmas, on a personal and cultural level. I love pretty much everything about it. During the darkest time of the year, we get together and drink and sing and blaze fires and lights, and we tell the long nights that we are not afraid.<br />
<br />
I usually go back to Ireland for Christmas and spend time with my parents. I like to take the train and ferry if I have the time (not least because it may be a long trip, but it's a long trip without much hassle, during which I can spend time reading and listening to things and not have anyone expecting me to do anything for a change). It also means that carrying Christmas presents the entire way.<br />
<br />
For years, I had something of a tradition. At some point in the week before I left, I'd head to town and buy presents. Usually, I'd look for something in the realm of music or movies or videos or DVDs. Piccadilly Circus used to have a Virgin Megastores and a HMV fairly close to each other. So, with coat, scarf and gloves, I'd search for gifts.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJmDaK9V7F1J3XsPoN3NAIOwPWYx_DmMezQmfLfaaGXVpW0_pvCc2gaVXZ98jbFAqU0-AM4gBAoaQLksqqZonvGD19TMeJAOHX4mXvDkuZytTRCXdROOal9SdSrpMB0eafNKLNSMqL2g/s1600/Virgin_Megastore_-_Piccadilly_Circus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJmDaK9V7F1J3XsPoN3NAIOwPWYx_DmMezQmfLfaaGXVpW0_pvCc2gaVXZ98jbFAqU0-AM4gBAoaQLksqqZonvGD19TMeJAOHX4mXvDkuZytTRCXdROOal9SdSrpMB0eafNKLNSMqL2g/s320/Virgin_Megastore_-_Piccadilly_Circus.JPG" width="320" /></a>I've always liked shops like that. I'm a movie buff, so I've always liked browsing video and DVD stores in the same way I browse bookshops. And they were open late, so it was always a destination. And with multiple floors, I could happily wander around for a while, searching for the perfect items.<br />
<br />
That's a memory that's very strong for me. I could wander the layout of those shops blindfolded. Of course, between iTunes, Amazon and Netflix, there's less need for shops like that, and they were early victims of the recession. Now, the Virgin Megastore is a clothing shop and the HMV sells 'London' and 'Britain' tourist tat like mobile phone covers and selfie-sticks.<br />
<br />
I'm almost embarrassed by the way I can have such strong attachments to chain stores, but I do. For me, they were rows and rows of movies and shows I had yet to see, and a way of entering other worlds.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm a Netflix addict, and in a lot of ways, it's better. These shops weren't cheap, by any means. But they're my memories, and my Christmas shopping. Small details that I doubt I'll ever forget, because they started off an important period to me each year.<br />
<br />
Small, but unimportant. And now gone forever. And, realistically, that entire kind of shopping is gone, more or less.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOTX3LWAC1KXu7VSHIUaAcqYB0w4o9dmqvJ4QI5Jsq1WFD0LOBz8N66KPnf_JWu_L-9y1yfYoKAkjjim4hil83aDkSOncp0lqUFu46Y7FRxuTXnwnp_FMlbah7yLUPOsyk2zjOFLnxa8/s1600/HMV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOTX3LWAC1KXu7VSHIUaAcqYB0w4o9dmqvJ4QI5Jsq1WFD0LOBz8N66KPnf_JWu_L-9y1yfYoKAkjjim4hil83aDkSOncp0lqUFu46Y7FRxuTXnwnp_FMlbah7yLUPOsyk2zjOFLnxa8/s320/HMV.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
It'd be nice to have all my memories in the small independent shops, or the beautiful tiny shops that are unique. And I have plenty of those memories too. But they don't feel gone in quite the same way.<br />
<br />
The world changed around my memories. And the world changed around the London that I knew. The London that I know now is different, and will be different again.<br />
<br />
Small memories. That make up a city and make up a life. What are yours?<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952541843631386815.post-73946357055816775912015-05-10T07:31:00.001-07:002015-05-24T13:41:24.411-07:00London Wanderings #4 - Whitechapel murders and "bad boys"I was in WH Smiths the other day, and saw their new Jack the Ripper magazine/bookazine thing (which still feels more comfortable to say than just using the term 'bookazine', which feels completely unnatural). It had a sticker on the front making it clear this was a 125th Commemorative publication.<br />
<br />
That's stuck with me a little bit. I suspect it was the 'least bad' wording choice, if anyone had second thoughts about it. It maybe lacked the obviously disrespectful connotations of 'celebration' and added at least an element of memorial over 'anniversary'. But it was still clumsy and still stuck with me.<br />
<br />
My feelings about it are partially influenced by the amount of media that does celebrate crime. Especially London crime.<br />
<br />
I've seen two trailers recently that made me think about this particularly. One of them was a trailer for the new Krays movie with Tom Hardy playing both of the twins. And the other was for London Live's "Bad Boys" real crime season.<br />
<br />
They're very different propositions. Almost purely based on the fact that Tom Hardy's involved, I expect the Krays film to be a bit more thoughtful and interesting. Whereas, based on the way it was sold, I expected the London Live series to be a bit more Danny-Dyer-style "proper naughty", and primarily looking at just how cool various gangsters were.<br />
<br />
This glorification irritates me. I get it, to an extent. With Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper being such culturally defining points to Victorian London, it's difficult not to think about crime with London. And it's difficult, any time you discuss crime, to do so in a way that's not glorifying in any way. It's interesting, it's fascinating.<br />
<br />
It's a fascination that I understand as well. I've been fascinated with the Jack the Ripper murders from a very young age (as a natural consequence of my childhood fascination with Sherlock Holmes). But as I've grown up, I've become more interested with the society of the time, and the lives led by the murdered women than in the mystery behind the case. If you have interest in this area, I strongly recommend Philip Sugden's book, the Casebook of Jack The Ripper, which is an in-depth and utterly fascinating look at the murders, victims and London at the time (see below).<br />
<br />
If you've ever seen the League of Gentlemen (and if you haven't, you absolutely should), you may remember the two young film fans, judging films by how many killings there are. When crime is glorified, and the victims glossed over, I think we lose something. We create a myth that is seductive and cool, but misses the deeper understanding. Rather more than the gangsters of the 50s and 60s, I find the society of the time interesting and why they gained such power.<br />
<br />
I don't particularly believe in honour amongst thieves and murderers. I don't particularly care whether the Crays "may have been bad boys, but they loved their mum". These things make simple stories, and London is more fascinating when you look at the complexities.<br />
<br />
Crime used as a way to explore London can be fascinating. The Whitechapel murders as a filter to view London of the time can be fascinating. The Krays and the like as a way to look at London in decades past, and understand how these things worked, is fascinating. And the psychology behind the murderers is fascinating.<br />
<br />
Reducing it down to hard men, bad boys and cloaked men in top hats and knives isn't fascinating. It's fetishistic and simplistic. And I think there's more to the people involved, more to the city involved and more to all of us than that.<br />
<br />
Recommended:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNR6_oo2FpiCONMhbTX2YAszbA7t0QqArv2Wp5U_2WeVSNXB6dw7XF2u1Y4jghywZfOKZsgBPJbAEyRIVkTRbdhRYdVgDzXQDIc_919bYT4DiM5dTx_kuZ_c8GQyj8938W6jFrJiw6QY/s1600/Jack+the+Ripper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNR6_oo2FpiCONMhbTX2YAszbA7t0QqArv2Wp5U_2WeVSNXB6dw7XF2u1Y4jghywZfOKZsgBPJbAEyRIVkTRbdhRYdVgDzXQDIc_919bYT4DiM5dTx_kuZ_c8GQyj8938W6jFrJiw6QY/s200/Jack+the+Ripper.jpg" width="131" /></a>If you're interested in learning more about the Whitechapel murders, I'd recommend reading the following - and while I'm linking to Amazon, if you can pick these up at your local bookshop, it's always worth doing so.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Complete-History-Jack-Ripper/dp/1841193976">The Complete History of Jack the Ripper</a> by Philip Sugden. This isn't just the best book out there on Jack the Ripper. It's also one of the best books about Victorian London. Its very in-depth, but Sugden makes it relatively easy to read. A great book.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwQVxanwni1BIBIuanupRmtIcfgd1555LmSS-I3YvBu-dVQsnfIsZQPzFVc6mCS8FhJ6hUq7h4Bg-FxsbShUAcm_RmhukZV67nJla3pgGwBlv1mIKuBCVzavqI-TUr2_vP_coGERPfqs/s1600/From+Hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwQVxanwni1BIBIuanupRmtIcfgd1555LmSS-I3YvBu-dVQsnfIsZQPzFVc6mCS8FhJ6hUq7h4Bg-FxsbShUAcm_RmhukZV67nJla3pgGwBlv1mIKuBCVzavqI-TUr2_vP_coGERPfqs/s200/From+Hell.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/From-Hell-Alan-Moore/dp/0861661419">From Hell</a> by Alan Moore. This graphic novel is astonishing, and a completely different beast to the movie (although I enjoy the movie). It's an exploration of the murders, the victims, the nature of murder itself and an occult take on London.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04491119539410707538noreply@blogger.com0