Nick Morecroft writing wild

Nanmowri - Chapter 1 - The End

2011-11-01T18:41:00.014Z

Synopsis: My project for 2011 national novel writing month:

Dave's Jobs, Women, and that month in India

Dave Barker. Fool, lover, everlasting optimist, at least on the outside. He borrows a book from a beggar, then finds himself in a torrid love affair in India, before returning home to find his street demolished, and he just had his keys cut last month!

Chapter 1 – The End

     Dave walked along the bank grey street, swinging his keys, feeling the new metal chink cleanly together. After India, after Shupra, it felt very cosy being here. Rich, but cosy. He twitched his nose, strange to not feel it pinched by piles of rubbish. He almost missed it in a way, it represented a kind of freedom drilled out of Brits. Maybe the Indians had it right, religion, sanctity of the home, lack of billboards, hot spices, and free littering. He kicked an errant beer can in celebration.
     One corner later, the chinking stopped. The giddy gait stopped. Belief stopped. As did the houses, Dave’s and his neighbors. It was not that Dave’s house was any more absent, (at least absent as a house, present as rubble), but his eyes leapt with his heart to the pile of rubble behind the bent lamp post. He pursed his lips, and shuffled on unsurely, thoughts of zombies and military flitting through his mind. There were diggers and men at the other end of the road, and he hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was trespassing. Reason kicked his heels, and he came up square with his land plot. Unmanicured. Unhouse. Oh fuck! Oh bloody, oh stuff it, it’s only a house. Was. Bastards. Probably not their fault. Not bloody mine though.
     He wound up the clock that gave him courage. Courage to speak serious things to serious people. No more information here than crusty stuff. He leant leftwards until he had to step out to stop himself falling. This started his walk to the workmen.
     “Er hi.”
     “Yes?” A particularly large, and gruesomely hairy man in yellow turned to face him.
     “My house, it was one of those.”
     “Oh not you as well. Bloody pencil flickers. Name?”
     “Dave, David Barker.” Dave felt himself stepping onto a rather rickety road, supported by pencils and promises. “Er what’s the deal here?” The man looked him up and down, sighed, came over and put a ton of hand on Dave’s shoulder.
     “Come over here, have a cuppa.” He pulled Dave over the to back of a van where three lads were lolling. Dave was pushed down onto the back, and the man cluctched a pritine looking thermal flash from a duffel bag.
     “I take it the houses weren’t up for destruction?”
     “Well the ones that were weren’t. Someone got the paperwork wrong. There was supposed to be a community centre built. Two houses up the road had been bought off the tenants and emptied. We got here, found yours and the house next door empty. Paperwork said numbers 26 and 28, in triplicate. We just turned on the diggers and hove to.” Dave’s head was beginning to spin. Not possible. Just a house. Buggers. My 18th century bath. Where to have dinner. No more cold callers. “How come your house was empty? Your neighbor had moved out leaving his empty until it could sell.” Dave snapped back to.
     “I sold everything to go to India. Didn’t need to in the end, it’s only 50p a meal there. Except for the cost of paying off her father…don’t ask. I was going to, well, I don’t know what I was going to do when I got back. What am I going to do?”
     “Stay in a hotel? The council should reimburse you.” The man spoke with no confidence.
     “I gave my money to, well, I don’t have any money. I do, it’s in the, you know.” Dave thumbed back down the road. “I could probably manage a couple of nights, after that…oh crap.” Dave buried his head in his hands. The hand fell on his shoulder again.
     “How do you like meat pies?” Dave looked up. “It’s all Suzie cooks, that and the odd quiche.”
     “What are you saying?”
     “You can stay at mine, at least until the council pulls their pencils out their ass.”
     “I don’t know you.”
     “E’s alright is Steve,” one of the smirking lads piped up. “E looks after all of us, like a proper mother hen!” The lad ducked a feigned swipe from Steve, and grinned back. “Yall be okay, and Suzie’s pies are fucking marvellous!”
     “Okay.” Dave caught some of the lad’s smirk. Steve beamed greasily. Before India, Dave would never have been this fluid. Okay, so he didn’t have a great deal of choices, but it seemed India had loosened some bolts. Maybe Shupra had too. Yes, she definitely had. Dave let a smile from five thousand miles away. “Pies it is. Does your Suzie do curried pies?”

Black Water

2011-03-29T23:54:00.001+01:00

Assignment this time was to write a piece inspired by the following: "In his fatally recursive tale ‘The Mirror of Ink’, Jorge Luis Borges makes a black mirror – or rather a small pool of ink poured into the hand – the instrument of a terrible revenge."

As usual, I splurged it out in the hour before class, here's what I did:

Black Water

     Ivan stared into the pool of black water. It sat in his hand, strangely dry. That was part of it’s menace. It felt wrong, like a dark cloud in summer. He looked up at Arnold, questioning.
     “How does it feel?” The tall grey man asked. Ivan grimaced. “The real thing, there’s nothing else like it is there?”
     “How come you couldn’t do this, holding it?”
     “Oh I want to. I am not a well man. I have borne it too long.”
     “I thought you said it made you feel better?”
     “It does, it would. It’s just afterwards.” Ivan’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Arnold had never lied to him before.
     “What next?”
     “You’re ready? Okay. Take a couple of breaths. Rest your eyes on the surface. Expel all other thoughts from your mind. Let yourself be drawn in.” Ivan did as he was bidden. The thick darkness seemed to expand, he lurched, just managing to hold his arm steady. It was like the pool was getting larger, or him smaller, but his hand stayed the same size. He could swear it was bubbling at the bottom, and more. It seemed to have a grip on the skin of his palm, like a malevolent cat, sharp though strangely without pain. He resisted the urge to open his fingers, was not even sure if he could. Tears came to the corners of his eyes, blurring reality into the edges of the ebony lake. Everything felt wrong, like a dead animal skull, bringing you close to death. “It knows you now. Ivan, resist it no longer. Allow yourself below. Break the surface.” Ivan knew then that return was impossible. He had no chance at retreat. With a sigh, he let go. It was like falling from a ledge into a deep sleep.
     Immediately his brow was damp. An icy waterfall coursed over his spine. He was trespassing, no one should be here, ever. Awake, in dream. His arm ached dully now. He couldn’t look at it, but felt the claws had somehow reached his elbow, it was locked solid. He no longer felt like any decision was his. Somewhere far above, the surface laughed, lapping at some obsidian shore. His nostrils pumped the ooze in and out, even though there was air in his lungs. Time stretched, a road of lives.
     “Uh?” He uttered finally. Instantly a cold hand grasped his arm. He turned quickly, but the owner was always behind him. “Help. Please. Let me go.”
     His own voice came back at him. “You came here for something. Ask it.”
     “N..nn..nn.” He was bursting inside to say no. No wasn’t a word in this world. It just didn’t exist, like someone had removed the moon. “I want Adrik dead.” It came out before he had a chance to check it. He had been trying to utter another sound to see if it was possible, test his voice. He had spoken, and now he felt a current, swirling like a snake around his middle, his feet, tearing him through the fluid, rushing up. The laughter was growing. Fear was like a bear with it’s jaws poised. Everything was woefully wrong. Nothing like this ended well. He had gone beyond good, beyond a good life, beyond humanity. Anger rushed up in him like he in the pool. There was no way he could allow this, not only for Adrik, but also for the taint on the rest of his life and that of his family.
     Ivan squeezed his hand. It wouldn’t budge. He knew it would take more. He shut his eyes as dark light flickered beyond dream. He gave up every part of himself. A complete wilful sacrifice. Nothing else could be left, just so long as he could close his hand. Like a tree breaking free of it’s roots, the fingers tore together. He didn’t stop until it felt like his nails had come out the back of his hand. The eddies around him changed direction violently, his body span about, dizzying him. He threw up, head totally gone, giddy with a heaving floor about him.
     Moments passed and the world slowed, it calmed. Senses told him he was back in life, but he had nothing left with which to try it. He felt who he assumed to be Arnold carry him and rest him down. He struggled for an age to stay, not to fall to sleep. Piece by piece, muscle by muscle, sigh by sigh, he came back.
     “Ivan. Are you there, are you with me?” Ivan managed a grimace, moved his arm. It was like he had been chopping wood for days on end, the muscles screaming at him. Blinking away clouded vision, he looked at his palm. The skin was shiny black, like the pool but dry. He was too tired to be afraid, but turning the hand over, he found it on the back too. Arnold took it gently in his own hands, eyes gaping.
     “You’re not supposed to say no.”

After The Final No...

2010-12-15T00:29:00.000Z

Our homework for this week was to write a piece that followed on from the line:
After the final no, there comes a yes, and on that yes, the future world depends.

Here's what I did:

After The Final No...
by Nick Morecroft
December 2010

            “After the final no, there comes a yes, and on that yes, the future world depends.” The speech ended, and the radio clicked off as I flicked it’s nose.
            “How on earth did we come to such a point?” Ben asked. I looked at him, shaking my head. Why did I always have to explain these things. More to the point, how did one go about explaining this?
            “Ben…” Ben arranged himself like he always did, like a child snuggling up under the covers for a bedtime story. It irked me that did, he was thirty three for heavens sake. Rolling my eyes, I searched for the appropriate metaphor. “…ahem. Right, you know how the rocks have been falling to earth for the last year now?” Nods. “And how no-one wanted to leave their homes?” Shakes. “Do you watch the news? All the shouting in the streets, bankers with billboards?” Ben had the look of a rabbit faced with a book on astrophysics. Gods, why was this man my friend? “Okay, you know how you spend twenty seven hours a day on Battle Cry? Alright, nineteen. Well while you’ve been out thwarting the chaos-mongers of Silnibad, no, let me finish, you told me about that mission already. While you’ve been doing that, the world has been trying to work out what to do about the rock fall. The outcome is that they want to move the main administrative centres to the north. London is to be effectively disbanded.” Rabbit again. “The Battle Cry servers will have to relocate to Durham, or maybe even Inverness. Scotland Ben, where the coos are.” That’s rattled him.

I pondered for a bit on how important it might be that he know anything more than he already did. Ben’s gaze had drifted over to the flicker in the corner. This was one of those rare moments I could pry his gaze me-wards. It was like shooting something fluffy, my heart cried at the torment playing out on his brow. It started to mirror on my own. There was something so, so, nice about Ben. Just an absolute absence of malice, of pretence, of engagement in anything this ruinous world threw. I loved him like a brother, and somehow knowing him, it neutralised my own acrid cynicism. All in a moment, I knew his ignorance must be maintained. If I were to crush his simple spirit, that would somehow give something to the suits, the tie strangled bastards. Ben was the antidote, and I had it hovering over the drain.
“But don’t worry, they’ll manage the transition seamlessly. They’ve got backups in Belgium, redundant arrays in Rotterdam. You’ll be able to bulldoze the enemy twenty four seven wherever Battle Cry is.” I was rewarded with the smile of innocence alive in a thirty three year old.

My First Bed

2010-11-27T01:49:00.001Z

Here goes, my first ever blog...don't run yet!

I attended a new writing group this evening. Great local bunch, varied and friendly. We all had to bring a piece to read, inspired by the title "My First Bed". I will say this isn't autobiographical!

I tried to start the piece a couple of times, each ending up too farcial for my liking. I did a bit of mind-mapping for some ideas, and that ended up being all I had amongst the torn up attempts. I started my third attempt at about the time I had hoped to leave, squiggled it out in about 25 mins. In fact I don't think I did too bad! Here goes...

My First Bed

by Nick Morecroft

    I had chosen the corner with the large stain. I heaved the pine frame over, leaving dark lines in the carpet. It sat there weakly. It didn’t really fit with the image I had had in my mind. It was a bed however, and a start. Would it work? Sweating a bit now, I pulled the mattress around from the hall. It smelled of muddy flowerbeds. Should have covered it last night. Damn. I wrenched the window open. This must work.
    I placed the ancient cabinet alongside, flakes of paint scattering around my hands. I looked about, thrust a hand in my left jeans pocket and placed my covert bundle in the cabinet, far into the shadows.
    The whole thing was Tony’s idea. Flat, bed. Simple. Tony was like that, no messing. He reckoned that was all I needed to get Suzie. In my mind I hadn’t really figured on thinking as far as a bed. I just wanted her, like I had wanted nothing else before. It was fortunate I was now earning enough, I just put myself in Tony’s hands. Peter on the other hand had been as much support as usual. I had long ago learned to blank Peter’s nay saying. He was the law student, I screw bits of metal together. Not really a comparison. Yet he was the one smoking thirty a day, and I would beat him to Suzie.
    I had a feeling she preferred me to him. At least Tony said so. And she smiled more at me. What to do next? Tony had said buy her a drink, I always bought drinks. I made it a thing to get to the pub early so as to beat Peter to it. He would arrive in a grey huff. Last week. Oh last week. Everything timed right. I beat him again, and everyone’s day seemed designed to bring us closer. Suzie was there, looking, well, sad. I brought over drinks, put them down, and heart doing a dozen, put my arm around her shoulders. How novel, real contact! She smiled. That was it. That was all I needed. I recruited Tony, who instantly set to with the grand plan of bedding Suzie. Bed her or no, if she would be mine, if I could so much as kiss her. Oh my.
    I looked at my watch, my jaw dropped. Ten minutes from here to the pub, ten minutes late, ten minutes to shower.
    Speed walking, grumping at slow people, I slide into the Lion. I see Suzie, my knees nearly give way. Her face is stuck to Peter’s.

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Til next time!

Nick.