Well...

This is the best thing I've ever seen.














......EVER......

Green

The woman over the road was painting her front door green. It was nearly two-thirds covered, and the previous coat of red could still be seen sitting below, yet to be completely painted over. Janice Shearborne peered closer through her curtains; the red reminding her of those buses in London she had seen on the television. She could see that it still showed through the green that the woman was applying with short dainty strokes of her brush; her hands protected by bright pink rubber gloves and her thin grey hair pulled up in a bun. Once this coat was done it would probably take at least another two lots of green before the red stopped showing through. That was how many coats it had taken Mrs Shearborne to paint her door.

The brush dipped in again, rising from the paint pot to the door in a purposeful motion. The paint was thin, but the woman applied it liberally, causing it to dribble down the door, over the simple wood carving shapes, streaking through the red. The other way round, thought Mrs Shearborne, and the red would look like blood dripping awfully down, like a doorstep murder scene. She felt her own blood boiling through her thickening arteries, and tried to calm herself.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Shearborne flicked back the curtain to hide herself, cursing for she knew that she would have been seen staring out of the window. She ducked back behind the windowsill, hoping whoever it was would just leave. The knock came again.
“Mrs Shearborne, it’s me… your sister writes again!”
The postman.
Straightening her dress and taking three deep, relaxing breaths, Mrs Shearborne shuffled her way from the window, taking her time and not calling out because she knew that Mr Sutcliffe, the postman, would wait for her. He would wait until she answered; he never posted the letters through the door anymore. There was no need: Mrs Shearborne was always in, and he knew that she always liked to chat.

She opened the door. Mr Sutcliffe beamed at her through broken teeth and white tufts of beard.
“Liking the new colour, Janice…”, his greeting came, as he held out a white envelope with her sister’s scroll dancing across the front. Mrs Shearborne took the letter, and managed a cursory “Hello Mr Sutcliffe”, but her eyes did not meet his. He smiled broadly again, and continued his jovial greeting.
“But of course, being a postman, I’m quite partial to post-box red…”
Mrs Shearborne ignored him still, and the quiet of the street became an awkward silence. He turned sharply to follow her curious gaze, to see that the woman over the road was painting her front door green. Now that he looked away from her, he felt Mrs Shearborne’s words stab at him from behind.
“I do wish you wouldn’t always talk in jokes, Mr Sutcliffe,” she scolded him, “It is exceedingly annoying. And, on the subject of my door, it is a hideous colour.” He turned back to her glare; one that only women over a certain age are somehow able to muster. At a raise of one of his bushy white eyebrows, she continued.
“I had thought it rather regal when I painted it, but I have come to find it quite ghastly. I’m thinking of changing it immediately.”
“Well… that’s up to you.” He looked around, feeling like he should make amends to their conversation before he went on his way. “Please don’t change your dress, though,” he nodded towards her ample frame, covered in a bright floral pattern, “It’s very lovely.”
Finally Mrs Shearborne smiled. “Why thank you!” She enjoyed the new way the conversation was going. “I got it last week; very expensive it was too.”
Mr Sutcliffe mirrored Mrs Shearborne’s new happy face with one of his own. “Well, I must say, it really suits you. You look lovely in it… although,” he continued, “I’m sure I’ve seen that dress before.” He paused. “Doesn’t she have one?”, and he emphasised the she with a flick of his head towards the woman over the road. Mrs Shearborne’s face instantly became more wrinkled, darker, and a lot less friendly, and the postman knew that he should have continued his rounds when he had the chance.
“Perhaps...” came her curt response. “I wouldn’t know.”
Mr Sutcliffe looked back at the woman, who had finished the current coat of paint now, and he watched her for longer than he really wanted to, avoiding Mrs Shearborne’s return to her usual icy self.
“Good…” he began, but the door was closed.

Janice Shearborne pottered back through her hallway, and stood in the middle of her living room. It was plain; pleasantly decorated and colourful, but plain. On the mantelpiece, next to the old face that stared back from the mirror, the flowers that she had bought herself at the market last week were browned and drooping. The sideboard was bare, save a small collection of spirit bottles, and one and half bottles of tonic, for ‘decoration’, and the letter in her hand was the only clue to a family that Mrs Shearborne could call her own. When she was sure that Mr Sutcliffe had progressed far enough down the street, she toddled back to the window.

Pulling back the curtain once again, holding the window frame through the material to steady herself, Mrs Shearborne watched as the woman opened her door to go inside. She was about to disappear when a shining black shape slid up the narrow road, parking perfectly into a space right outside the woman’s house. The car’s horn peeped once; a friendly, cheeky sound, and the woman turned, and smiled, and waved vigorously as two small boys seemed to fall out of the car. Through the window Mrs Shearborne heard them shout “Grandma!” in high-pitched unison, and they zoomed over to the woman who nearly dropped paint everywhere as she hugged them. The boys’ parents followed slowly: him suited from work but tie off and collar undone, her in a white dress and high heels, smiling softly at her husband as Grandma swept the boys inside and waited on the doorstep to kiss her daughter lightly on the cheek. Mrs Shearborne watched as the three of them conversed; the daughter and son-in-law nodding and pointing towards the door that sat open. Before long they disappeared inside and closed it behind them, leaving the green to dry, and to sneer back at Mrs Shearborne, rooting her to the spot.

As she watched the sun wink off the small glass arch at the top of the door, the boys appeared in the front window. They looked to be about to plonk their hands, dirty no doubt, against the glass, but their mother was too quick for them and saved Grandma’s window. Mrs Shearborne looked harder through two panes of glass into the front room, watching as the woman appeared carrying a tray crammed with cups, glasses, biscuits and cakes. She placed it down carefully on the coffee table in the centre of the room, for everyone to share. This scene drew Mrs Shearborne in, but something else caught her eye and she looked at the glass a few inches from her large, pointed nose. There she noticed a greasy spot on her window where the tip of that nose had rubbed as she leant forward, peering at the woman over the road. She made an ‘o’ shape with her painted lips and breathed out, misting the window with her breath. She stood back, about to clean the glass when she saw the greasy spot like an eye, and the misted shape a hideous mouth, lined up on top of the door across the road, appearing as if a grotesque green-eyed monster in her window; a wicked, scornful demon. Quickly she whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the glass clean. The monster was gone, but the door remained.

Mrs Shearborne looked at the letter still clasped, forgotten, in her hand. The handwriting on the front, so familiar yet not seen for months, made tears appear in her eyes, but she forced them to stop. She stumbled away from the window towards the sideboard, and dropped the letter into the waste-paper basket. Without pause Mrs Shearborne took up a glass from the top and filled it: one part gin, one part tonic. There were lemons in the kitchen, she thought, and ice in the freezer, but she didn’t need either of those. She took a large sip that spilled over into a gulp, and looked back out onto the street.

Outside the window, over the road, and inside the house that stood opposite, five people sat and ate, and drank, and laughed, but all Mrs Shearborne could look at was that newly-painted front door, still mocking her. She took another sip, small and controlled this time, and then Janice Shearborne walked slowly through her house to the garage, to find a tin of bright green paint.

Emerging from the Mist to rant...

So... I'm not even going to mention here how long it's been since I last blogged. I know... I'm an awful blogger.

But I'm back. And here's why.

Something happened on Wednesday night that made me so angry I had to blog. And rant. So here it is.

Me and Abbi went to see The Mist at the Gate. First thing's first: it's an awesome film. I recommend it to everyone. It was brilliantly made, original, and the ending is amazing.

But here's the thing. We didn't enjoy it.

Because the majority of people in the cinema LAUGHED their way through the film. But it wasn't funny! It wasn't even meant to be funny (apart from a couple of genuinely funny moments) - it is a serious horror film. It wasn't just once or twice that this happened, from a couple of morons that you sometimes get at the cinema. It was MOST of the people in the cinema, ALL the way through. Even at the end, when the protagonist is (understandably) distraught (I won't spoil why) and bawling in despair, people were laughing. Which completely ruined it; what should have been heart-renching just... wasn't. The totally immature people who somehow saw this film as a comedy destroyed the atmosphere for me, Abbi and anyone else in the cinema who was genuinely into the film.

It was such a shame, especially we'd been discussing, before the film began, how going to the cinema and experiencing a film there is so much better than watching it at home. But NOT when other people spoil it. And unfortunately, this may all have happened because the film is a 15.

Anywho, it completely fucked what should have been an awesome night at the cinema.

*breathes*

Sorry about that... rant over. Blogging resumed.

B&W

This is the first B&W film I've shot in my Holga. Most of the pictures, as usual (shut up, Kier...), didn't come out very well, but I was very pleased with a couple.

'Escher's Cat roams Newcastle'

Like I've said before, I'm really starting to enjoy taking photos of people, especially Abbi...

'Are you going to take a picture, or what?'

'Abbi and Mickey'

Taken with Ilford XP2 Super 400.

Untitled

First off, apologies for not posting for ages. I've really not been writing much lately either, and it's kinda getting me down. However, a certain someone gave me a much needed kick in the arse last night... so here we go.

This is the (tentative) beginning to a short story, likely to be about 4,000 - 5,000 words when I'm done. I'm thinking this might be what I hand in for my Prose Workshop 2 submission, so as ever contructive criticism more than welcome!

Rip into it, guys... ;)


Untitled
A short story (Excerpt)

She looks at Mr Thompson, Mr Thompson looks at her, and everybody else looks at me. The girl, who has just opened her mouth for the what seems like 14^th time this lesson, has deliberately not turned around to face me.

“It’s not that I don’t understand…” I say to the back of her head, loud enough for the whole class to hear, “it’s just that I fail to see the point.”

Now she turns around, and speaks very carefully to me.

“I just think you’re being deliberately… awkward.” Her voice is measured and her eyes stay fixed on mine, wide and accusing. Her heavy make-up draws me in, and I stare back at her eyes, intently, but I wish I didn’t. I want to look past her, at Mr Thompson, but I don’t.

“Why would I do that?” I whisper this time, looking down at my notebook, and the writing in it, that has nothing to do with our lesson.

“Because you don’t get it,” she sneers, “Do you?” I look back at her again to see her pretty face twisted in nastiness. I want to say something back, but I hesitate too long so Mr Thompson ventures in. “Can we just… return to the text please, Jessica?” he says, and she turns back round noisily.

The rest of the lesson I spend staring over at Stacey Carver, three rows forward and two rows across. Usually my view is blocked, but the two people who sit between us are absent today, and I can see Stacey’s legs, dressed in tight jeans and boots, tucked underneath her chair. At one point she uncrosses them; placing her feet more firmly on the floor before putting up her hand and making a point about the character we are studying this lesson. It’s a very good point; one I had noticed last week but couldn’t be bothered to mention it. Mr Thompson says “Well done, Stacey,” and she tucks her legs back underneath, turns around to Rob sitting behind her, smiles and puts a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before turning back to her hunched posture over her desk and her book.

No one looks at me, looking at her.

“James, what do you think?”

He has deliberately picked on me. I try to think of what the question was, of what the class has been talking about, but I can’t. I look around the room before admitting I haven’t been listening.

“Sir, sorry… I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

He puts his glasses on. “You weren’t listening?”

“No.” I say.

A hand goes up, the next row to my right and two tables forward. Without waiting for Mr Thompson to acknowledge the hand, a voice says, “Well, I think…..”

I watch as Mr Thompson sits up in his chair. “Yes Derek, thank you. But I think I was talking to James…”

“Like he’s going to…” Another voice, directly behind me.

“Thank you, Mr Smith,” Mr Thompson says as he gets up from the desk. He walks out into the class, nearer to me. He perches on the edge of an empty desk, between me and Stacey Carver. “Do you have anything to say about this, James?” He points to the book in his hand. I say nothing.

Mr Thompson sighs, takes his glasses off, and cleans them. He puts them back on and says, “I’d like to see you after class please.”

“It’s not like you, James,” he tells me, when I see him later. I’m not sure what he means, but I go along with it.

“Yeah, I guess not…” I suggest. I’m looking out of the window, at the construction work going on across from the block, where the new Centre for Learning is being built.

“James…”

“Sorry.” My eyes meet his, then the floor.

“James…” he continues, “you’re not interested, aren’t you?”

“My grades are good, Sir…” I hope that this is the right kind of answer.

He sighs.

“I’m trying to get through to you…” my teacher tells me, like I’m in therapy or something. He gets up and begins straightening the chairs that my classmates have left stuck out from under their desks. I notice that mine isn’t tucked in either.

“… but you won’t tell me what you think.” He isn’t looking at me while he says this. “So, I’ll tell you what I think. I think that you’re rude, uninterested, and deliberately not trying. She may be a dunce and a slut but I think Jessica White has you spot on.”

“Sir… that’s not very…”

“Nice. No… but that’s what you think too, isn’t it? You don’t like her…”

“Sir…”

“James,” and Mr Thompson sighs, and his face doesn’t show the same emotion that I thought he was feeling, “I have a class to teach. You need to learn this book, and soon, and you need to sit down in the exam and write about it and get a good mark. That’s how this works…”

“And…”

“And you’re making it bloody difficult, to be honest James…” He’s now looking at me, from across the classroom. “You keep disrupting my class like this…”

“I’m sorry.” I tell him. “I am.”

Mr Thompson stops, his hands firmly gripping the back of what happens to be my chair.

“What’s your problem? You haven’t been like this before…”

“It’s the book, sir. I’m… just… not interested in it…”

“Well, it’s our text, so… you need to know it.”

“But I do know it. It’s not hard… the whole class are getting it. Even Jessica. I get it… the exam will be easy. But… I’m bored of it.”

There is a loud crash from outside and we both turn to the window, watching the construction. I turn back, and but Mr Thompson is still looking out the window. He takes off his glasses again, but doesn’t clean them this time. He places them down on his desk, and I notice his eyes look tired.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not the point. I’m sorry you don’t like the book, but we all have to put up with it.” Mr Thompson begins to tidy up his desk, then looks up at me as though he has forgotten that I’m here.

“Um, you can go now James. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, sir…” I say quietly, and leave.

I Don't See It

Another story for you all. I can't take credit for the idea on this one; it's shamelesly taken from an anonymous video posted on PostSecret, and you can see it here. I haven't really changed the original idea at all, but I think it makes for a great story and was inspired when I saw the video to put it down in words. So, thanks to the guy from the video, and hope you all like the story. It's still very much a first draft, so any ideas for improving/changing are more than welcome, as always.

I Don’t See It
A short story
inspired by an anonymous video, submitted to PostSecret
by Christopher Jackson

She puts her arms around me, from behind, and looks into my eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. Between the slightly open folds of my dressing gown I can see her breasts; soft and warm and familiar. She lets her hands, cold, wander across my chest, playing with the rough diamond of hairs and tweaking my nipples playfully. I watch her in the mirror; she hugs me tight and rests her chin on my shoulder.

“I love you,” she tells me; like it is the first time she has ever said it.

When I was younger I would blurt out; say the words back as though if I didn’t say it immediately it wouldn’t be true. But now I pause; safe in her embrace and in her gaze, enjoying the soft silence that follows those words spoken truly.

“I love you, too.” I say.

She smiles, and closes her eyes. I do the same, just listening to our breathing and the hum of the bathroom light. She lifts her head from my shoulder, and I feel her arms around me slacken ever so slightly.

“I’ve never noticed that before…” she says. I open my eyes, and she is looking at my face.

“Noticed what?”

“That scar…” and she straightens up slightly, not letting go.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “I’ve told you all about it. It was a long time ago, but I did tell you.” I take her hands in mine, still resting on my chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the story…”

“I…I don’t know…”

“It’s a great story!”

“I can’t remember… tell me it. Tell me the story…”

Taking her hand I kiss it, once, and turn my head to kiss her lips, twice. “Well,” I say, and I turn back to the mirror, looking at the scar, as I tell her my story.

“Once upon a time…”

“Oh be serious!” she snaps, slapping me on the chest. I laugh and grab her hand, and start over.

“About a year before we got together, I was driving home from work, in a hurry, because I’d been delayed when some stupid intern guy messed up, and of course I had to sort out the problem before the day was up. Anyway, I’d made plans with my wife at the time and was pretty anxious to get home… so I was driving pretty fast, and…”

“Do you ever rush home to see me when you’re late?”

I turn to look right into Sarah’s eyes. “Of course I do…” I kiss her. “Now… shut up and let me get on with my story…” A wink saves me from getting hit again.

“Anyway, I’m driving pretty fast, flying down the motorway… and my mind is already home, getting ready to go out for our evening, and…”
“Shit… you crashed?! I would have thought I’d remember tha…”

“Baby, I didn’t crash!” I turn around now, holding her arms. She looks frightened almost. “I wish…” I continue, “might have been less embarrassing!”

“Embarrassing?” I’m looking into her eyes as she says this, and it doesn’t look like she is looking at my scar.

“Yeah…” I continue, reposition myself into her arms, wrapping them around me and looking into the mirror once again. “I didn’t crash, but I zoomed into the driveway, whacking on the breaks. Into neutral, handbrake on, engine off, keys out… I opened the door and… tripped out the car.”

A laugh blurts out from Sarah’s mouth, immediately caught by her hand.

“You… tripped!?”

“Yeah.”

Another blurt.

“It fucking hurt!”

She’s laughing hard now, so much so that she’s separated herself from me, clutching herself. She has to wipe away tears that appear in her eyes, and soon enough she’s sitting on the toilet. I pretend like I’m insulted. She manages to speak through laughing.

“Oh, don’t be like that…!”

“I could have been seriously hurt…” I say, turning away and crossing my arms, “and all you can do is… laugh.”

“I know… I’m… sorry…” she manages to say.

“I’m just lucky I didn’t put my eye out.”

“What?”

She stops laughing immediately and the look that she gives me is completely unexpected. She goes to open her mouth, turns me around to look at me properly, and then looks back in the mirror, as though searching for something.

“Your eye out…?”

“Yeah…”

“But…”

“The scar on my eyebrow…”

She stops. “No… the other one.”

“What ‘other one’?”

“The… the other one. The other scar on your face.”

I look back into the mirror, moving closer.

“There is no other scar…” I tell her.

“Darling… there is.” She tries to move in front of me, taking my head in her hands to inspect my face. I push her away.

“Get off…” and I move closer to the mirror. My eyes search everywhere, but the rest of my face is fine. “I… there isn’t…”

I notice in the mirror she’s sitting on the edge of the bath. “Mike… there is.”

I look again. She gets up, and this time I let her hold me. Her finger presses to my lip, stopping there for a moment, before moving down; straight at first then cutting across sharply and creeping under my chin. It stops. She looks into my eyes; her finger doesn’t move.

Taking my hand, she repeats her finger’s journey with mine.

“Mike…” she says, and I turn away from her eyes.

I look again into the mirror.

I don’t see it.

People, Debates and Not Writing

So, a little bit of a diary post - just to let you know I am still blogging (two weeks is too long to go without posting, I'm sorry...) and to comment on a couple of things.

Roberto

I've been trying to take more photos of people recently. Because, let's face it, we're pretty interesting. I mean, I love taking photos of beautiful scenery and interesting architecture (expect more of the buildings when I get my black and white film going) but I've never been one for taking many photos of people. But I should. I think the Holga is wonderful for capturing emotions and moments; when I click the shutter, that's it.

Claudia

Which brings me on to a conversation/debate I had with Kier and Abbi in the Goose on Monday, which almost got me a punch in the face (not from Kier, or Abbi, but from an hilarious drunk. "You talk a lot of shit... trying to impress this fucking girl...") I just don't think he liked my face.

The conversation was about Holga, and why I choose to shoot manual film, with all its flaws and failings, over digital, where you can take hundreds of photos without cost or effort, making sure you get the perfect shot that you want and then deleting the crap ones. It's too complex a topic to go into here in depth, and I am going to write an essay/article on this, which you should hopefully be able to read here soon.

Before that I hope to post a short story I've been working on in the next few days. I really haven't been writing much lately, and it's getting me down a little. But, never fear Dear Readers, there will be more written fun on the way.

Mr. Villis

I love these three photos, but (and this will only give Kier more ground in our little digital vs manual/'real' photography vs Lomography debate) the other nine photos in this latest film were... shite. Unfortunately. Partly due to my lack of photography skillz, and partly due to the fact that sometimes the Holga seems to want to co-operate, and sometimes it doesn't. I think I'm discovering that this is part of Lomo; more on this in my essay. For now, hope you like these.

Oh, and lastly... if any of you get chance, go to the 4th Floor in the Baltic and stare into the black dot. Trust me... it won't fuck with your head at all.