From a lonely green stem

I stare out into the shadows, which come and go like ebbing black waters, lapping at my feet. My hands clenched tight to my sides, I decide whether to sprint or walk or die. When I run, I shall fall. Down, ripping skin from my palms and my knees, drawing blood from my beaten body and crushing me into the earth. My tears shall soak into the bloody ground but-

I shall laugh until my lungs burn, because the flowers will grow now. They shall feel their way through the misty darkness and push up through the oppressive dirt. They will penetrate the muddy ground and reach up with curling hand-like stems to the sky, never once seeing the sun in their pursuit, but hoping for it, and that is all that ever mattered.

Then, they will blossom. And I, in this shadowy place, watched by fantastically judgmental eyes, will look to them. They unravel their petals, opening up to the world, ready to embark upon their life after being a trapped, tiny seed caged within the ground. I will run among them, on them, they will push me forward, with their colours and their faces turned towards the not always visible sun. It's there, they'll shout. Keep running. Keep running.

The clouds will rage with angry rumbles across the dark sky, but the flowers of the night will grow with the rain that pours forth, and taller and taller they'll grow. Strength in their numbers, beauty in their strength, they will be with me until the seasons change, and we all return into the ground. But we'll be happy with our successes, because we kept running, kept moving forward, never laying down in defeat in the dark rain.

Listen to the flowers as they accept your heavenly tears. Listen to their voices as they travel towards the air above, unaware that life exists, but hoping that something is up there, with instinct their only companion. They live for only a moment here on earth, and you too have only a moment in comparison. Have the strength to feel your way blind as that lonely green stem. Have the belief that you will find the sun and be able to blossom just as nature had wanted.  

Red lights

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate eyes calling for your attention, but not truly wanting it; defiant humiliation, naked embarrassment leaking through every look, every glance. But cold stares hiding fear and expressing false love conceal all, begging to be believed. And the men, they fall for it, like they've been shot by cupids from burning hell, they turn to those with nothing like nothing at all is wrong. Crisp paper makes for morals and all the world is of course reality. 

With God-made bodies pressed up against the glass, they entice what will keep them alive, masters of a desperate trade always to exist and always to be judged. Perhaps with children to feed, they must stand under the stares and look back, strong. Just a tool, a method of pleasure, to be used as if they are worthless, but yet they must be strong. Though even the strongest and the most experienced have eyes that flash with fury at the world, at themselves for standing sentinel to their stupid, sickening profession. Respect is false, love is false, their happiness and livelihoods are false.

All read in a glance, a quick peek through the glass at a pretty woman striking a sexy pose, looking back as if she seeps normality. But under the surface, desperation lurks like a sickening overwhelming disease, pulsating through the streets and through the very hearts of the fearful females. When you've hit the true depths of disaster, where do you go? To the place with the red lights, to the whore's death row.

Wheelchair bound

Wheelchair bound, who needs legs when you can fly around on wheels? I take the world by storm, rocking over pavements and rolling over pathways like a broken racer. But a racer just like anyone. Give me a helmet with a visor and I'll take you on anyway, young rookie. You'd wished you'd never asked.

Age is just a number and I'm wiser than you sonny boy, you can snigger all you like but the things I've seen, the things I've done - you've no clue. My life is in the past but now I'm a racer, and a bloody good one at that. I race to bingo because I like to conform to stereotypes sometimes, but then I race to the co-op to buy alcohol so I can get bloody silly drunk. Too old to drink my arse, I'd beat you at a boat race Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday - any day kid!

Maybe when you're older you'll understand why I am so batty. Why I never slow down as I whiz along the footpath, regardless of old folks or women with buggies. I'm old kid. It happens, sometimes, but you gotta keep racing. Never jog, never take your hands off your wheels, because it's not over til the fat lady sings. My friends fat and she's not a singer, no sir she ain't that at all.

See me riding, cut me some slack for the wrinkles on my face. I never put them there I'm telling you. But I'd still take you on the final lap of a Grand Prix, and be home in time for my supper and coronation street on the box.

Journalism

“Louise, have you considered journalism?”

Simplistic though it sounds, this is a very complex question. The truth is, I have considered it. But this is probably not the answer they were expecting.

Journalism is just the manipulation of the public. It is an incredibly powerful force that is very often misused, as it can spark emotion and action in almost anybody. The power of words is such that it can cause death and destruction, anger and upset, or love and hate. It can twist things, brainwashing the public into believing what they are wanted to believe, cruelly misleading people into taking up different views.

It can be harsh, drastic and devastating, with cold hearted words causing suicide, or glorification throwing people into fame only to gleefully rip them to pieces months later. It is a place of greed, scandal and opinions which aims to mould the public like dough, and the sad thing is the majority don't even realise they are being fooled. They are spoon fed views and ideas, spitting them out on social networking sites and to their neighbours, following each other like sheep.

It angers me when I see these articles in the papers and I feel like I cannot believe a word that is being said, but it also fascinates me. The majority will sponge it up and it will be seen as truth, and the writer will be patted on the back for doing such a good job. How can the world be like this? It is not wrong to voice your opinions, so therefore this can never be disallowed. People will be forever humiliated on front page news, and disrespected in evil articles, which can inspire such hatred and misery against those who it is aimed at. Words are so much more powerful than people think, and you can do almost anything with them.

I often wonder, when I see an exposing article on a celebrity’s life, where did the crook who wrote this start out? Were they asked the same question? Did someone ask them if they had considered journalism, as they gazed innocently out from behind a school desk?

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

Soft, Everything about him was soft. His hair, his skin, his heart - though that I could not see. All soft, all except those jewel-like eyes, which were stony hard: rough orbs of glassy mirror which shone like angry disaster, peering out of a velvet, beautiful, creamy white. Not his corruption, but the swimming memory of sickening horrors past just by, witnessed by this mere boy and trapped inside his tiny skull.

When asleep he was perfectly picturesque, but awake you could read his past and feel your own stomach turn. He's not old enough to see, to understand, such pain, but it's plain from one glance that he knows more than is imaginable. Unforgettable images in an irretrievable mind; damned to psychological hell when life was just beginning.

Life - what was the future when the past was filled with all that ever was? What was there to dream about when every nightmare was ignited, erupting in a flamed fury every minute of every hour, never letting go? He needs his mother's arms around him, for he's as soft as he seems. If you look into his eyes, you see he's breaking at the seams.

Racism rant

This is my first rant...and I regret to say that it has not been sparked in anyway itself, I had to stoop to the floor and create the fire manually, because it seems utterly pointless that this blog is called “the ranty shorts” when I have no rants to offer you. I'll talk about one of the things that has always, and will always bother me: racism.

So, racism. We should all, I know, be like Atticus Finch on this one ( if you don't know who that is, you pain me, go and read the best book of all time) but, we live in the 21^st century and we are supposed to be the most intelligent and most advanced our species has ever been...but still there are so many who judge people on the colour of their skin or the race they belong to. It honestly baffles me how people can actually be that stupid. Like, really, do you have a brain? How does skin colour affect a person's behaviour, actions, the way they function? How can it make them different in any way other than appearance?

Fear – fear of the unknown. Fear of something different, something that is unlike what we are surrounded by. That is what sparks it all and what allows us to create these disastrous prejudices that have the ability to tear our world apart. People are flawed within themselves and insecure, so they pick out a minority and target them. When in doubt, blame the foreigner, because the foreigner can do little to retaliate, and there is safety in numbers when everyone looks and acts the same.

But, people need to open their eyes. Diversity is not a hindrance, it is a blessing. Were we all the same not only would we all die – natural selection – but the world would be a dull, grey, boring place with no happiness or thriving colour brought by the differences and spontaneous joy of our race. It is just an excuse, we all need insight to see that. These people need a scapegoat for their own problems, or the societal problems, and those they are wary of, because of their unfamiliar faces or practices, are the ones to take the hit. It wasn't fair in the 1900's and with our new, intelligent and scientific approach to life, it certainly isn't fair now.

It's not just race, it's all kinds of differences. People are cruel because it is in their nature to do so, so this almost cannot be helped. But it is sad to see the larger vultures as they prey upon the weak, despite the fact nature made them that way. We need to become 21^st century people, not prehistoric beasts who fear that which they don't know or are not accustomed to. The vulture could be trained, eventually given time, to be vegetarian. We must train our next generations to eliminate racism and these absurd prejudices instilled in us since ancient times, because we have no need for them now. We are all a ball of mangled guts stuffed inside an exterior of skin, and we will all die, every one of us, just a corpse in the end (rather like my friend Shakespeare mentions through Shylock).

I've surely not said anything you haven't already heard...to be honest I'm not really sure what I have said, all I've done is type angrily at the keyboard until I have come to this point. It just frustrates me so much, the racism, the judging, but also the fact that it will always be like that, and there's pretty much nothing we can do about it. I can talk of training generations, but there will always be those with selfish intentions, who need someone to blame to purge themselves of guilt. What is my message? I'm making you think, that's all. Think about how messed up we as humans can be. And I'm done.  

The answer to everything

Floating in orbit, the answer to everything floats, untouched, unknown and undiscovered by the world. Beyond space and time, it turns to the laws of no one and it confines to nothing. It moves in the dark and the unforgivable blackness, alone with an incomprehensible understanding that no one will ever witness. Scientists, philosophers - they all think they may have grasped some of the concepts of the universe, and they smugly sit behind their earthly material desks and wrinkle in peaceful intelligence. But the answer to everything bobs in the spacious void of life its very self and watches it all unfold. What would life be to them if they knew? What was this thing called 'life' when you knew all the answers? It was a twisting mass of grey  knowledge for an eternity. When all the colours had been explained away, and all the beauties and magnificent sights have their black and white purpose, there is nothing left. Let them argue. Let them wonder. Let them think they know. It is the one joy of a cruel existence: to know truly nothing at all.

The broken man

He was a broken man, but a man just the same as any other in the world. His grey clothes hang loose on his skinny body, and dust had gradually gathered in the thoughtful creases of his face. He had his hood up to protect himself from the cruel London cold but his fearful eyes were still visible through the shadow. They told a story of one who was crushed, defeated and cheated by life, left in the gutter to die: unloved and unwanted by anyone. He was like glass; seemingly he was hard and tough, but so very breakable and fragile. He had been dropped and shattered, his dreams lay in useless puddles at his feet, trodden on and sniggered at by all passers by.

He was past crying. Now, he simply existed. When people saw him they usually turned away, embarrassed, and picked up the pace just to be free of the guilt. He could hardly blame them; he was the poster boy for the disregarded societal problems, the ones they didn't know how to deal with, so they threw them aside with hard eyes and an aching heart. It was delusional, but to them he was nothing, nothing but a bad image on a perfectly respectable city.

When you've hit the bottom, how do you find the strength to pick yourself back up? Sitting, hunched in a darkening street, cold autumn rain running down the back of his neck, he had no idea. There was nothing to be done, nothing more to give. He would sit here until death took pity upon his soul and swallowed him up.

Drowning in his own miserable thoughts, he was almost oblivious to the black car that pulled up just beside him, spitting rainwater from it's tires as it grinded to a halt.

A woman got out in a hurry, holding the door open impatiently as a small child came tumbling out behind her. Dressed in a dainty red raincoat, the girl ducked away from her mother's opening umbrella and slipped into the rain, a smile on her face. She lifted her tiny head to the dark angry sky, her palms in the air to feel the rain as it splashed playfully around her. She then spotted the man, sitting there in his corner, and she stopped. Her smile froze. Her mother made to grab her and drag her away; to pull her away from what would poison her view on reality, but the child stood fast.

“No mummy. Look at that man. Why is he out in the rain? Tell him he can come to our house, mummy. We have lots of spare rooms that he can stay in,” she pointed, and the mother desperately tugged at her daughter's arm, her eyes flitting from the man's haggard face to the puddles at his feet.

“You don't understand, we can't,” she hissed angrily. The child started to cry, hot tears wetting her already dripping cheeks, the shrill sound piercing the cloudy air.

“Why mummy? Why? He shouldn't be out here in the rain,” the child squealed as she was flung onto her mother's shoulder. She watched the broken man with sad brown eyes, her face a picture of despair and simple anger. There was no understanding, because it made no sense: this man should not be out in the rain. He smiled as they disappeared into the night, appreciative of the beauty of the mind of the young. If all could see like children, the world would be a better place. Sometimes we just need to start looking, and with our hearts as well as our badly trained eyes.

Under the setting sun

Dusk was falling over the city, cushioning it in a soft and sleepy glow. The hot lazy streets were slowly coated in darkness as night descended. The city didn't hush, in fact, it seemed to brighten, and when all that was left of the light was a few streaks of sun on the horizon, it was unrecognisable.

The hot and humid day had faded, and at last the people could emerge from the safety of their shade. Music that seemed almost to have no source began to play, joyfully reaching out through the city, touching every corner, every window, every doorway. Exasperated parents tried desperately to control their excited children, but they still hung from their windows and waved at the people who had started to dance below. They laughed at the clowns – the men with painted faces who juggled and fought playfully with each other, rolling around in the dust.

One boy did not laugh. Dusty and dirty, perched on a rooftop, he watched the celebrations with cold hard eyes. So much happiness, so much fun, but yet he couldn't even crack a smile. Instead, a single tear escaped him, cutting a clean path down his blackened cheek. He thought about wiping it away and pretending that he hadn't let the wretched emotion affect him, but no one could see him. It had happened, despite his best efforts to contain it, but that was that. So he let the tear stay; an emblem of momentary weakness.

Quite suddenly, he leapt away from the edge, whirling around and running in the opposite direction. Lithe and nimble, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, desperate to be rid of the music and the contagious feeling of joy wafting in the air. He ran until the light was all behind him and all he could see was darkness. The city wall was impressive, but this didn't faze him; he came and went as he pleased. Tonight it was especially easy to scale it, as the officers had left it unguarded and had gone off to join the party. He calmly climbed his tree, swinging onto the wall, daring even to pause and catch his breath before he leapt over it.

The sand, crumbling and silky, was there to catch him. It still held some heat, but nothing like the burning ferocity that it had during the day. He dug his toes into it and his lips trembled, almost as though he was willing more tears to fall. But none did, so he started up again running across the sand.   

Jessica's Cliff

It's windy up here - I'm telling you, it's windy, and I can't go down and I'm scared. My cheeks are red raw from the cold and my fingers have gone numb. Where am I going? I shall sit down here, in the frosty grass, in the gathering darkness, and decide. The water looks so nice from all the way up here, like a soft silky blanket on top of the earth, curled around the cliff edge. But it's so windy, that's the problem. The wind is really what's getting me.

Where am I going? Why am I here? Will they be looking for me, I wonder, down there in the town, so far back behind into the black? They should know this is the only place I'll come, they should know that this is where they'll find me. Momma will think I'm going to jump, of course she will. The water does look so nice, but no. I am not ready to die. I'll sit here, cold from the wind and decide where I'm going to go. Somewhere, that's for sure. But not up to God just yet.

I left because they were shouting again, always shouting and screaming. I ran out the door and now I'm here and oh, it's windy. I feel sad for Momma but I shan't go back, unless they find me and then I'll have to. And they really should, where else would I go? This is Jessica's cliff, this is her cliff I tell you, but it's not her wind. She jumped last year, the water looked nice to her too I suppose and now she's gone. But this is her cliff and this is where I go, but now I'm so cold and I've nowhere to turn to.

 Jessica, Jessica, I can't take their shouting, it's too much, make them stop, please. I'd go back then, I swear. Then Momma would be happy. She's always happy when I come back, but today I won't. I'm getting up, running in the black, not too close to the edge, down along the road. I'm down, it's warmer but Jessica's not with me. It was HIS wind, it has to have been, who else would send it? It was like cold blades against my pale, bare skin.

I'm running now, who knows where to. God does, I'm sure, but he won't tell me right now. Goodbye Momma, goodbye Jessica. I love you both very much.

White phantom faces

The white phantom faces whimpered and wept. She strolled among them, draping her darkness, cradling them close to her with those cruel long fingers. They flinched, but still seemed drawn in, fascinated almost. She was the only light in this god forsaken place, but yet darkness followed her like a faithful bloodhound. She smiled crookedly at her trapped phantom faces, but couldn't help but look beautiful. Like a God, they adored her; they unwillingly lay down their lives before her. Why?

All she did was hold them back. She trapped them here, in this darkness, that seemingly had no end or purpose. There was a whole world out there for them to explore, but yet they stayed and stared and cried at her, and she smiled back so lovingly with those perfect pearly white teeth every time. She was almost a sorcerer of some kind, she had them under a spell – a trance, yes – they didn't know what they were thinking. They knew no life without her, and were as faithful as the darkness that trailed behind her in the shadows.

And those on the outside, those who could barely peer in through the dim grimy windows, had no real understanding. It was too dark to really see anything properly, it was almost understandable if they missed her perfect glowing face from where they were looking. Just a bunch of faces, cowering over nothing, hovering together like newborn sightless kittens. How strange, how unnerving. But swallowed up on the other side, from the very jaws of a very real surreal danger, the faces can say nothing, do nothing. They just stare back through the windows and sigh, deep sighs that sound like howling wind on a stormy summer night shuddering through the trees.

After some time, the people will walk away. Something else will catch their attention, because humans are much like that. They will walk away, and the faces will fade from their memories. It was like they never existed, not in the real world. They were made in some fantasy dimension, and that was where they would stay.  

Dark defiance

Darkness had fallen heavily on the village, like fresh snow sent from the devil himself. A serene silence filled the cool summer air, and all was peaceful and calm. The birds rested patiently whilst the village slept. With the morning sun would come their morning songs.

A loud note broke the silence as surely as an axe through thick winter ice. One bird could not wait. He sang, his head tilted towards the black sky, his chest puffed out in pride. He threw his wings out behind him and sang from his rooftop; calling again and again and again. The other birds looked out from under their sleepy wings in horror and disbelief, watching this little creature so brazenly defy the rules.

Lights were starting to go on in the houses. The little bird had woken everybody up. One grumpy man in his pajamas spotted the bird and huffed; so this was the thing that was making all the noise. He picked up stones and flung them roughly at the roof, the first few missing, but the last one striking the bird, knocking him. He lost his balance and fell, shocked with the pain and the cruelty, but he remembered himself and flew upwards just before he hit the ground.

Gingerly resuming his perch, the bird watched the man victoriously stroll back inside, and he sang one last mellow note before quietening. His head faced the floor and not the sky, and his wings had drooped by his sides. The other birds turned away and went back to sleep, bemused by the whole event, and the little bird who dared to sing in the dark flew up and away into the night alone, unnoticed by anyone.  

You have nothing to say and I have no one to blame

Tears, like tiny spheres of crystal, are falling from your perfect white face. This was never meant to happen. I want to put my hands around your neck, press my mouth to your throat and tell you that everything will be fine - but why lie? I can see it, in the dark dim reflection of those hazel eyes of yours. You're frightened, frightened of me and what's going to happen, frightened of the future ahead. And I'm hurting you, as sure as stabbing a knife between your perfect shoulders and twisting it around and around. The hot blood is spilling over my fingers now, I can see that...but what can be done?

Tell me, what can I do? I put my arm around your tiny waist and drag you closer to me, your warm breath against my cheek. I feel calmer for having done so, but at the same time I feel more terrified than ever. My hands are shaking – I need to leave you alone. This was never meant to happen. You don't belong to me, you never did. I run a tentative hand through your soft brown hair and almost angrily wipe the tears from your face with my trembling fingers. I don't want them to be there, because they are my fault. This was all my fault, don't you see? You blame yourself, but had you never met me, never known me, none of this would have ever happened.

I just never thought I'd care about you. But standing there, leaning against me, your slender arms wrapped around my God forsaken shoulders, you are everything. I care about nothing more in the entire world than just protecting you. You have nothing to say, and I have no one to blame...what a pair we are. Inseparable, but yet we repel each other like pole to pole magnets. I cup your chin and delicately kiss the top of your head; it's now my turn to cry.

Our future, our beautiful future, destroyed by everything, smashed to pieces by our very society. I should leave you now, leave you before we both get killed, but your beauty is like a drug. I have to stay, even just to keep my eyes on your face and know that you were real, and that I didn't just dream you up. You are tense, and your face looks older than it did a week ago. You have aged in this time...this has taken things from you that can never be replaced. And it's all my fault.

The life of Mico: the station of doom

Mico had developed a fear of Leeds station, ever since that first visit, when he had been travelling to visit his elderly aunt. He had barely escaped with his life.

First, there was the train. It was hot, and the steamy oppressive air seemed to crush him, and begged him to close his eyes and sleep. He didn't notice when it started to slow down, and then suddenly he needed to get off. The doors were closing, but he made a dive and managed to throw himself in between them. Like the jaws of some great mechanical monster, they clamped down on him, immobilising him. He was held there at an awkward angle, trapped, to the great amusement of the passing commuters. Finally, it freed him, and he fell forward flat onto his face.

Wow, could things get worse? Of course they could. The machines. The bloody barrier machines. They accepted his ticket, but then spat it back out at him. When he tried again, the same thing happened. There was a que forming behind him but the machines merely barred his path; he could almost hear them laughing at his failure to outwit them. He ended up doubling back, passing a seemingly serene old man who then smashed his walking stick into Mico's shins for making him wait. His eyes watering with agony, he hobbled to a member of staff to explain his issue. With a raised eyebrow and an amused smile he was admitted through the dreadful barrier.

The door was within sight. This traumatic experience was almost over. But then, along came the crazy middle aged woman with the suitcase, rampaging down through the station like a hungry animal who had caught sight of prey. There was no time to jump aside, he was instantly bowled over. He was tall, but she had power and angry determination, so he lay dazed on the ground under the watchful eyes of the bored people around him. When he blinked and looked around, she had gone. Some people...

But back on his feet he kept going. A tap on his shoulder - what now!? No, he did not want to buy car insurance, he didn't even have a car. But then he looked up and saw the man who had asked him, towering above him with biceps the size of basketballs. Tattoos were scrawled around his neck and exposed chest, and his face was angry. Car insurance? Why, yes, of course he needed car insurance, how nice to be asked. Once he'd signed up using a fake address and fake bank details, he ran.

He ran, right into mad lady with the suitcase number two, over her bag and doing a sort of flip into the air, landing spread eagled on the ground. She was the colour of a watsit and also flashed tattoos, with fake eyelashes and pink lipstick to match. 

"Watch it, sunshine!" she bellowed, tugging her bag back to it's feet and hurrying off. Dazed, confused, and not sure he wanted to come to Leeds ever again, Mico got unsteadily to his feet for the second time.

Then he saw her. She saw him, really, and he caught her eye as she appeared to smile apologetically at him. Beauty was an accumulation of letters and did no justice to this delicate, angelic and wondrous human being. He approached her, barely knowing what he was doing - oh, she had dropped her purse, he would be a gallant knight and pick it up for her, and then she would love him forever, unconditionally.

Nope, instead she swung her arm and her fist connected with the fleshy part of his nose and he reeled backwards with blood spurting down his t shirt. 

"I don't think so, jack ass!" she yelled, grabbing up her purse and turning on her heel. Wow, an angry, scary witch had just erupted from the skin of the beautiful being. It was like the caterpillar to the butterfly, but in reverse. And so much worse because caterpillars are actually kind of cute and don't make you bleed uncontrollably.

Arriving at his aunts house, she gasped and grabbed his shoulders the moment she saw him.

"My god - were you mugged?" she peered up and down him; there was still blood all over his face. 

"No," he admitted. "It was just...Leeds station."