Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial

Written 5 December 2018

Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial Day 1:

‘Patient A’ is 43. Recently divorced following death of first child, subject was deemed an appropriate subject due to his traumatic recent history. Subject was locked in a room with various memoirs of his family. Photos, toys etc. Subject takes first dose. Crying persists throughout the day. Second dose yields same results. Subject falls asleep still crying.

Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial Day 2:

Subject seems better after first dose. Generally ignores memoirs. By lunch time, Subject is masturbating profusely. By evening, Subject is crying again, though whether this is to do with the pain of loss or humiliation from the masturbation we cannot determine from the brain scans.

Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial Day 3:

Signs of sadness have disappeared. Subject interacts with memoirs without triggering emotional response. This lasts all day. A promising sign. Only side effect appears to be Subject's inability to put food in mouth. A nutrient shot is administered overnight. Mash potato is also washed off of hair and face, and sausage removed from trouser pocket.

Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial Day 4:

Signs of sadness not present for a second day. Memoirs are now being used as materials in which Subject builds structure with, along with blankets and furniture. Subject claims to be Captain Birdseye. Structure is apparently ship. Ends the day by vomiting blue substance, before reingesting the regurgitation. Feet appear to have swollen to twice the size.

Hyspomiathin AKA ‘Emotion Cure’ trial Day 5:

Subject appears to be in vegetative state. Eye balls are hanging loose. Feet are now infected and black. Increase in vomiting overnight. Pulse still present, and breathing shallowly. Vague expression on face. Decision made to terminate trial. It is worth noting that, while unable to move, brain scans show that Subject was completely neutral, and any overbearing emotion had been eradicated.

Octopus

Written 4 December 2018

At the bottom of Loch Lomond lives an octopus.

He doesn't know how he got there, why he's the only octopus in the loch or, indeed, how he was surviving in freshwater.

He did, however, enjoy the peace and quiet. And the longer he stayed there, the less he thought about such profoundly massive questions.

And when a younger, more agile Octopus arrived to replace him, he found the company annoying almost instantaneously.

Archie, Lord of the Manor

Written 3 December 2020

Archibald Knight-Yaxley. Archie to his pals.

The last surviving member of the Knight-Yaxley dynasty. Over 200 years of being landed gentry, occupying Hyacinth Manor. Originally making their money from the slave trade, then wise investments, then living off those investments for three generations until the family silver was all gone.. Archie was the last of them, and he was handing the manor over to the National Trust.

He tried to sell it, of course, but the repairs on top of his asking price were just too much, even for the new money types. Archie reluctantly took the offer from the National Trust. His Grandad would be turning in his grave. He'd always insisted that the National Trust was full of “lesbians and terrorists.” They had seemed very nice to Archie, though.

Archie had tried to organise one last party. A chance for him and his pals to drink toilet duck, play Frisby with some Ming dynasty plates, skinny dip in the lake. But Archie was pushing 50 now, and all his friends had moved on. In desperation, he ended up inviting the team from the National Trust, but they didn't deem it appropriate, and begged him not to ruin too much.

His Father sat him down shortly before his death to give Archie the bad news. Archie would never have said out loud that he wished his Father dead, but the trust fund was gone, and it had stopped being possible to pawn the family heirlooms after a servant caught him sneaking out a Fabergé egg in his satchel. He needed that sweet inheritance money.

“I'm sorry, Archie, but there's no more money. You may have to think about working for a living.”

That hypocrite. That oaf. Living a life of luxury, and leaving his only son with nothing. Asking Archie to work when he had not so much as made eye contact with a worker for his entire life. The scandal of it. In the end the only thing Archie had inherited was a rare skin condition, a crumbling mansion, and £200,000 in credit card debts.

So here he was, watching enthusiastic volunteers remove his personal effects from his ancestral home, his birth right, and loading up a van to take his possessions, and Archie himself, to a little one bed flat in town. He wondered whether any of them could help him with his CV.

The Substitution

Written 2 December 2018

Ricky was never playing football again after his Sunday league side hauled him off at half time.

He threw his boots into the channel from the cliffs of Dover.

He set fire to his shin pads in the middle of a forest clearing.

He donated his kit to a charity shop, and then took it back, loudly exclaiming that life wasn't fair. Then he lobbed it down a drain.

His letter of resignation was 17 pages long.

Ricky had always had a taste for the theatrics.

Dinner with Pablo

Written 1 December 2018

It was blustery, cold and the sporadic rain was icy and heavy when it hit, but I'd agreed to go to Pablo’s, and I'm nothing if not a woman of my word.

I loved him to bits, but he did possess a level of pathos that could be quite trying, and he couldn't cook. Nevertheless, I popped my umbrella up and headed over.

He answered the door with a sigh. I greeted with a hug and a kiss on two cheeks. You know an evening is going to be difficult when the first sentence uttered is “What's wrong?”

Oh, well, the risotto lacked salt, the honey glazed carrots had caught in the oven, and forget about the raspberry soufflés, there wasn't a chance they were going to rise. Besides the cooking, Geraint hadn't called him back, and there was a write up on his latest show that made no mention of his genius.

“I mean, you would hope they'd at least poise the question?”

I waited patiently for him to take my coat and serve me a drink, but this gesture didn't appear to be forthcoming, so I threw my coat over the back of a dining chair and poured a generous glass of wine.

After 30 minutes of complaining, Pablo eventually asked me how I was. I told him okay. The divorce was coming along smoothly. Alice liked her new school. The shop could be doing better, but considering the state of retail, it wasn't too bad.

He listened, nodded, agreed when he was supposed to agree. He wasn't really taking it in. He continued to look sulky, like just by me talking I'd deprived him of something he felt entitled to.

After the risotto, which indeed was a little lacking in salt, Pablo popped the question.

“Why don't we get married?”

“Besides the fact that I'm already technically married and your gay?”

Pablo was lonely. That was all. He had lots of friends, but most found him too much. The complaining, the theatrics. And I listened. He wasn't looking for an intimate partnership, just someone with a little patience.

He cried on my shoulder a while, confessed to cheating on Geraint, hence why they weren't talking. I baked the soufflés, which didn't rise, and I stayed with my struggling friend for two more bottles of wine before disappearing into the wind to relieve the babysitter.

And despite the pathos, the melancholy, I had a really smashing evening. Pablo was many things, but he was never boring, and I was flattered to be his sound board for his apparently infinite list of problems.

The Electrician

Written 30 November 2018

Sally is an electrician. She's married to a man named Bill, and they share a cosy cottage in the Yorkshire Dales.

Theirs is a good marriage, they treat each other well, rarely fight, and generally still enjoy each other's company.

But one day Sally will murder Bill.

Murder him in cold blood.

And she won't regret it.

You see, whenever someone asks Sally what she does, Bill will cut across her and tell the person, who is usually a stranger, that Sally ‘lays cable’ for a living.

He then laughs at his own joke for up to 2 minutes.

When they are both in their late 50’s, with two children who have left home, and having moved to Harrogate to live in a beautiful town house, and having enjoyed a long and successful marriage, Bill will tell her son's girlfriend, the first girl he'd ever bought home, that Sally lays cable for a living.

And it will be the 57th time he's made the joke.

And it will be the last.

When the house is empty again, Sally will strangle Bill with a thick electrical cable she had stored in the garage.

And when he stops struggling and the lights in his eyes go out, she'll throw the cable on top of him and shout “how's that for laying cable?”

Which doesn't really work as a literal quip.

But I wouldn't be the one to tell her that.

A Christmas Carol

Written 29 November 2018

David St. Swift hated Christmas.

He despised it. Even when he was an insufferable little kid he refused to partake in the festivities, mocking his Santa hatted classmates and ruining nativity scenes with graffitied nobs.

He hated the food. Turkey was dry, tasteless, disgusting meat that took up most of the oven. Cranberry sauce was, just, wrong, and sprouts tasted like farts in vegetable form.

He hated giving presents. When you're a kid, you can't afford dick, and when you're an adult, you don't like anyone enough to part with your hard earned cash to buy them something they’d inevitably shove in the back of their closet.

He hated that it gave everyone an excuse to act like a twat. “why not, it's Christmas!” smash cut to four hours later when the bantering little shite is cracking on to the bosses wife and pissing himself.

Most of all, he hated how long it was. As soon as Halloween was done it begins. Never-ending fairy lights and mulled wine and happiness. How tedious Christmas was, how long, how expensive.

So when he was visited by the ghost of his dead business partner, who told David He would be visited by three other ghosts who would help him discover the spirit of Christmas, he told the cunt to do one. He never really liked him anyway, and why should he take advice from someone who died of a heart attack after doing too much coke?

The first ghost was a little creepy child ghost. It showed him loads of different memories David had of Christmas. The time he got so drunk he told his step dad to suck his dick. The time he set fire to the doll baby Jesus during a nativity, the time he bought his younger sister a tarantula. David loved seeing all these memories again.

The second ghost, a fat fuck who kept infuriatingly forgetting things, showed him his present. His sister calling him a ‘jumped up tosser.’ his step dad calling him ‘a waste of a good kidney.’ (David had refused to give his Mum a kidney, resulting in her death) The baby Jesus doll, melted and hideous, refusing to decompose in a landfill. David was indifferent to the whole spectacle.

The final ghost, a tall bloke in a cloak with a scythe, showed him his future. David's death. And no one gave a shit. They were happy, even. It was pretty soon, as well, within the next 2 years. David shrugged.

“We've all got to go sometime.” He said to the cloaked chap. He stayed silent and kept pointing at a gravestone with David's name on it. David took no notice.

“Can I go home now?” David said, exasperated. The ghost shook his massive hooded head, and next thing he knew David was back in his bedroom.

He had learnt absolutely nothing, and went on hating Christmas until he was hit by a bus two years later and died. No one attended his funeral.

Hospice

Written 28 November 2018

To be perfectly honest, I find death a little boring.

It's not that I don't sympathise with the friends and loved ones solemnly crowded round the death beds, but working here you just see so much of it the drama and heft just sort of doesn't affect you.

There was one couple that was different.

I had to reprimand the husband several times for sneaking contraband into the facility. It was usually stuff that was banned for the sake of it, as opposed to things that would actually harm his wife or other patients, like a hip flask full of fancy Scottish whiskey, or a terrarium designed to look like a little crooked house on a hill. A bacon sandwich, that sort of thing. But rules are rules.

The problem is, every time I tried to stop him, he charmed me into allowing him to do it. “This was the whiskey we drank on our wedding night, and I just want to take her back there.” Lines like that.. He was what my Nan would have described as roguish.

And his wife was just a delight. Long, sparse grey hair, milky white eyes but with a smile that could light up any room. I'll be honest, I wish we had more people like her come through. She treated it as a holiday camp, like this was her last great adventure.

The two of them would just sit for hours, laughing and joking, talking nonsense. The way they looked at each other, it was really something.

One time I walked in to give her some medication, and I found a tiny golden Labrador puppy licking her face enthusiastically as she laughed. The husband looked like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets. It was such a hilarious scene I didn't know how to react.

“When I walk back in in 10 minutes, that thing better be gone.” He nodded enthusiastically. When I walked back in, the puppy was nowhere to be seen. I heard something scratching about under the bed, but decided not to investigate.

Her condition deteriorated, and the laughter began to subside.

On the day she died, I was stationed near her room. The two of them just sang. Mostly silly versions of Sinatra, or a call and return song I couldn't make out. She would croak, looking lovingly at him, smiling so warmly it was almost indecent. He held her hands, smiling back, tears in his eyes.

The last song they sang was about a dog, one that they must have owned together, one that had probably passed, called Double. They both broke down whilst singing it, and he held her hand and head, weeping uncontrollably. And I was overcome with such a palpable sense of loneliness and sadness it took everything I had to stay standing.

It wasn't how long they had been together it was how happy they had been, I think. With a lot of people that come here, you can tell that the partner or family feel a slight sense of relief. And you can't blame them. People come here after a long life, or a long illness, or both, and that takes its toll.

As she passed and he lay over her, wailing uncontrollably, you just knew that was the end of his life too. And it broke my heart thinking of him going on without her.

The Leg

Written 27 November 2018

“You're probably going to lose it,” the doctor told me. “The leg, I mean.” he clarified.

“Should I pull the emergency leaver?” I asked, panicking slightly.

“What, and inconvenience all these people?” the doctor said, disapprovingly, gesturing at our fellow passengers, most of whom were heading home after a long day at work.

He was right, of course. So, I just left my leg stuck in the train door. Sure enough, I caught it on the brick wall as we entered a tunnel.

Off it flew.

On Set

Written 26 November 2018

“Where is he?”

Liam Neeson was shaking me now, holding his prop gun in my face. I remain stoic, I even manage a little smile, as I try to keep the gun in focus.

“He has Allah on his side.” I whisper, in my best pan-Arabic accent. I start making the tongue sounds most Americans think all Muslims do. Just as my eyes are bulging, Neeson cracks me on the side of the head with the butt of the prop gun. Too hard.

“Ah, fuck Liam.” I shout reverting back to my New Jersey.

“Ah jeez, I'm sorry fella.” Liam said, reverting back to his Irish.

“Cut”, the British director says, sounding bored as shit.

“Sorry everyone.” Liam said to the room at large.

My prop turban is now stained with blood. At least they didn’t make me wear the fez this time.

Jo Is So Lucky

Written 25 November 2018

My friend Jo got an imitation meat Christmas “Turkey” dinner this year.

My mum got sacked. She spent Christmas dinner crouched on the floor, crying. It sucked. My friend Jo is so lucky.

Still, Dad has a job, so it could be worse. We still ate a passable imitation vegetable based meal. I might have imagined it, but I swear there was a little more salt then normal.

My pal Paul, his mum got fired too, and his Dad died in a fire earlier in the year. They ate imitation cracker based soy snacks on Christmas day. Things could always be worse.

Progress Report from your directors at WantCo

Written 24 November 2018

Dear employees/colleagues/friends,

First of all, congratulations. Your production and selling this year has been exemplary on the most part. In fact 87% of you hit your targets. Last year, only 85% of you managed it, and although you still have a long way to go, progress is progress.

And to those of you working in Sector 9, a special thank you. I dread to think how difficult it was during the facility fire, both during the incident itself and afterward. Working at 63% capacity must have been really tough, but you persevered through limited staff, bereavement for your colleagues who passed and, in some cases, chronic lung disease to finish on 72% of your target. Again, not where we want to be, but still admirable given the circumstances.

In true appraisal style, I am designing this email as a good news sandwich, and that unfortunately means it's time for the bad news. There is no easy way to say this, but our overall profit only grew by £3.2billion. Although this is still growth, our target was 10% above last year. I don't need to tell you that we didn't achieve this. You would have seen in your daily progress reports that we've been trending below target for some time. And though we're not yet at Christmas, I've been asked to “Call it”.

Because we are going to miss our profit target, there will be no bonus this Christmas. We are also cancelling your leave, and there will be a 13% staff decrease based on performance.

We know this must be tough to hear, but we did warn you this might happen.

Now some more good news. Those who hit target this year will receive 5 coupons for a meat imitation “Turkey” dinner for Christmas day, so feel free to treat your family whilst you are here working your shift. We believe this is very generous, as these meals are not cheap.

Those who missed target will be receiving their termination papers very soon.

Have a great build up to Christmas, and I assure you we will do better next year.

All the best,

Simon St Stephens

CFO for WantCo

Pigeon

Written 23 November 2020

Tommy poked the pigeon with his hockey stick. It didn't react, just laid there, eyes open, looking frosty.

“What are you doing Tommy?” his mum, already irritable due to spending her Saturday morning watching an Under 7’s hockey match in Baltic temperatures, just wanted to get in the car and go home. 

“This pigeon isn't moving.” Tommy said, prodding the pigeon again to demonstrate. His mum considered it for a second.

“It's sleeping.” she said, simply. “now come on, let's get going.”

“Why is it's eyes open, then?” Tommy asked, helpfully pointing out the offending area with the stick as if presenting evidence in court. Again, his mum paused.

“Pigeons don't have eyelids.” she said. “Now, come on, it's too cold to be stood in the. . .”

“It's rock solid, though.” Tommy interrupted.

“That's what happens to pigeons when they're asleep.” she replied with a bite of Impatience. 

“Shouldn't it wake up when I prod it?” Tommy said, resuming his prodding.

“Look, we haven't got time to talk about this. . .” But she stopped short as Tommy had bent over to pick up the dead pigeon. “What are you doing?” and before she could stop him he had thrown the bird across the car park. It landed 12 feet away with a pathetic thud. It's stomach ruptured, spilling out the bird's insides. 

“I reckon it's dead, you know.” Tommy said matter of factly. And he walked past his shocked mother towards the car.

Pencils

Written 22 November 2020

Michael methodically ordered his pencils.

Firstly, he put them in length order, but the disparity between the third longest and the fourth longest was just too irksome.

Then he put them in colour order. But, alas, too many reds. He thought about throwing one or away, but what a waste!

Finally, he decided to order them by sharpness. This required a certain amount of sharpening, cleaning of shavings and finger pricking,  but when all was said and done, he was pleased with his pencil display.

Meanwhile, his house had burnt down.

Intense

Written on 21 November 2018

“I am the angel of death. I have lost count of the number of souls I have harvested.

“I am God and the Devil, Good and Evil, Black and White and every colour in between.

“I can count the number of good night sleeps I've had on one hand, and yet I'm more awake, more prepared, more dangerous, more alert, more downright focused then I have ever been.

“I am the Dragon in the treasure, the one who could destroy or unite on a whim. I am the hound, the tiger, the hunter and the ghost.

“I have seen heaven and spat on it, I have seen hell and stopped for a beer, I've seen purgatory and outlasted everyone, and I have seen reincarnation. I've been a fox, a sheep, a shepherd and a butter churn. 

“some have tried to break me, others have tried to befriend me, and others still see me as a God and worship my every move. I am a wolf and I come out at night. I am an owl who graces the bright sunlight of daytime.

“Everyone I meet is changed, everyone I meet could end at any moment, everyone I meet could be experiencing their last day, and yet I will keep on living.

“I am immortal.

“And you look really cute in your photo. Fancy a drink sometime?”

The Floor Again

Written on 20 November 2018

It wasn't the first time she’d done it, and it wouldn't be the last.

She was on her knees, hunched over, cradling her head. She could see spots, bright and flashing, and a high pitched frequency hummed dully in her ears. A single trickle of blood came from the increasingly swelling wound on her forehead, slithering towards the bridge of her nose.

There she stayed, trying to shake the demons. She breathed heavily, trying to stem the urge to do it again. That part of her brain, the part that despised her and wanted to see her destroyed, told her “do it do it do it” and she wanted to do it, if not just to shut it up.

And she thought she deserved it. She deserved the pain, the pain, the pain, and the misery. She deserved every ill thought in her head, every feeling of anxiety, humiliation and misery. Everything. She deserved everything bad.

And yet, the instinct to do it again was ebbing away, and all she was left with was a bleeding head and her sadness and desperation. And she stayed on the floor and cried, just trying to get rid of it. That part of her head. The one that just wouldn't leave her alone.

The Culprit

Written on 19 November 2018

“Just come forward. It'll make it easier on yourself.” She was absolutely furious, but also impressed. Her class mostly looked down. A couple looked curiously around at the rest of the class.

“If you know who did do it and you don't tell me, I assure you your punishment will be just as severe if I find out you knew and didn't come forward.” Not a peep from the 8-year-olds.

The next morning, she changed tact. “Okay, I'm not angry anymore. I just want the books back. I'll leave the classroom at lunch time. If you are the person or people responsible please just return the textbooks.”

But when she returned from lunch, the books were nowhere to be seen.

“Right, that's it.” She said as the class took their seat following a nutritious luncheon meat meal. “If No one admits it, or tells me where they are, then all of you will be in detention.”

“Please Miss.” Sally Esters. Her best student. If anyone was going to tell her where the books were it would be Sally. “Are you sure you haven't just misplaced them?”

“No I did not just misplace them Miss Esters there are over 500 of them.” She was at the end of her tether now. “Right. When I find out who did it they will be expelled unless you come forward this instant.”

Silence. And then Tim Whisper slowly stood up. Answers at last.

“Miss. I took the books.”

“Right then Tim. Where are…” but before she could finish the sentence Raj Patel was also standing up too.

“Miss. I took the books.” and she was transported back to a few months before when they were studying ancient Rome. And watching Spartacus. And she knew exactly what was about to happen.

“Miss. I took the books.” Emma Samson.

“Miss. I took the books.” Destiny Adams.

“Miss. I took the books.” Paul Woodford.

And so on until every single one of her class were stood up. She was absolutely furious. But also impressed.

The Pink Power Ranger

Written on 18 November 2018

“Janine, do you have to?”

It was the pink power ranger outfit today.

“Who's Janine?” she said, resuming the kung fu stance she last deployed six days ago. “I'm Amy Jo Johnson muthafucker!” 

They'd been trapped there for 68 days without rescue.

The Cockroach

Written on 17 November 2018

The cockroach had got into the baking cupboard again.

He’d scurried about in the flour, eaten up the golden syrup residue and made a mess in the chocolate chips. 

Cameron wasn't happy when he got home.

“Stephen, what have you done, you naughty boy?” He delicately picked up the cockroach. “How did you get out?” 

Cameron placed the cockroach back in the plastic tank. The cockroach continued its agonising life in captivity. 

Twins

Written on 16 November 2018

He was on his seventh Jack and Coke and he was looking to fuck. The bar was full, grimy, and the music was so loud.

He stumbled through the crowd looking for a woman, any woman that would take him. At the far end of the bar two ladies were chatting. Both had long blonde hair. Both had blue eyes. Both drinking colourful cocktails with umbrellas in them. Both were fucking gorgeous. Twins. They were twins. That would be something.

He lurched over to them, holding down a burp. They turned to look at him, unimpressed. 

“Hey, d'you come here often?” they stared at him with complete disdain, unblinking. He persevered. 

“So, you're twins? Which one is the evil one?”

“Both of us.” They said together, and in perfect symmetry they both removed their cocktail umbrellas and jammed the sticks into each of his eyes.