The allotments are a sociable place, especially for me because my plot is right next to the entrance. So I get to greet, and chat to, everyone coming through the gates. The conversations are kindly and cheerful, except when the subject is pigeons or cabbage root fly. So, when I greeted Billy Epps on his return from his holidays (Morecombe – two weeks), I was utterly unprepared for his bitter response:
‘Eh? How am I? How am I?? I’ll tell you how I am: I haven’t had a crap for four days!’
It was the best of times; and it was the worst of tacos. An endless cycle; ebb and flow, wax and wane. Beans and cheese. Sour cream and salsa. Double and dip.
Again and again, we all had naught to do but watch as our joys came to us, then inevitably slipped away.
In this, we are all lamenters; grievers; mourners. We all wail and gnash at the bitter draught we must drink. The loss of the seasonal specials.
The door was locked. Of course, it was. It would have been a disappointment if we could waltz right in. After all, we had spent centuries on our quest for this door. Our entire conscious lives dedicated to this very moment.
We stood spellbound for a few moments, watching the fluid motion of the carvings on the ancient steel door. The serpent dancing around the lock shimmered its warning. The carvings of men and women in love and in combat glittered and shone. They were enacting stories as old as time. They were also offering hints to the combination of pictograms which would open the door. Adam and I turned to look at each other. Now that we were so close, all our doubts had resurfaced.
You never liked me. I don’t know why. You always discouraged and demeaned me at every opportunity, and because of that I’ve never been open to improving the situation. We never confronted the problem, just put it on the back burner to simmer away for years.
Picture this.
Friend A is from Poland. You met when he briefly studied in your university. He has blond hair, too long to be due to negligence, too short to be tied back. He is relaxed and has a kind of vulnerability to him that he is happy to expose. This makes him extremely easy to be around. You are always quick to let your guard down around him, and that has been the basis of your friendship.
I am born.
Bright lights. Concerned faces.
“Look, at the eye! Doctor? The right eye is crossed.”
“Don’t worry. In laymen’s terms it’s called a lazy eye. The weakened muscle can be corrected.”
“What a shame! Such a pretty blue.”
I’m blue.
CLICK.
A mid-morning light splinters through the blinds, illuminating the now familiar wrinkles on the backs of your hands. You caress your short, unpainted nails and remember long pinks and reds. A cut-glass vase of tulips shed yellow petals at your feet. You move them in slow circles with the tip of your toe like constellations.
“Seven letter word. Trace or remnant.”
Though the modern generation is more sensitive to cultural appropriation and its negative implications, one minority still finds themselves a major victim to this theft of customs and styles. Vampires.
Since the days of Bram Stoker’s classic fabrication of the undead, vampires have been portrayed only as mortals saw them, not as they truly are. Though they were unflatteringly represented, vampires were happy not to have the spotlight cast of their culture. Until the Goths came along with their blatant misappropriations.
It transports oxygen and nutrients to cells which are suspended in a liquid matrix. This is called plasma. It is leaking down my legs. I feel it soaking into my socks. Red blood cells contain haemoglobin, a protein with red pigment that carries oxygen. Oxygenated or not, your blood is always red. You cannot pretend the liquid dripping down your thighs is unseen.