K. Morris's Blog, page 794
January 8, 2014
The 8.32
He stood, leather briefcase in hand. Just another nondescript commuter awaiting the 8.32 to London Victoria.
“I am sorry to announce that the 8.32 to London Victoria is delayed by approximately 3 minutes. Please listen for further announcements. I am sorry for the delay to this service” the public address system announced.
He sighed, “Typical, I’ve never known the train be on time. You wonder why they even bother apologising as they obviously don’t give a damn about the poor bloody commuter!”
The balding elderly man who stood next to the speaker made no sign of having heard.
“What time do you need to be in today Tom? I’ve got a meeting at 9.30. The Director will go ballistic if I’m late. For heavens sake I’m giving the presentation. Its an important contract. I can’t be late” the man with the briefcase said glancing anxiously at his watch.
His acquaintance made no response.
“Damn rude” the speaker muttered under his breath.
Peter Jenkins had taken the 8.32 for more years than he cared to remember. He was on speaking terms with all his fellow commuters. It was most peculiar that Tom (he didn’t know his surname) was ignoring him. Perhaps he had a lot on his mind. We all have mornings when we don’t want to talk. None the less it was unpardonable for Tom not so much as to nod in acknowledgement of his presence.
“I am sorry to announce that the 8.32 to London Victoria has been cancelled. Please listen for further announcements. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause to your journey”.
“I don’t believe it. They are always cancelling that train. I’m going to be late again” Tom remarked to Lucy, a grey haired lady standing close by.
“I was just saying the same thing. Well something similar” Peter said addressing Lucy (she was a solicitor. Maybe a barrister. He wasn’t quite sure(.
“It’s a disgrace and every year they have the brass neck to increase the price of our season tickets. These privatised companies don’t care about the passengers. We are just bums on seats, that is when you can find a seat. I’ve had to stand the last few times”, Lucy said addressing Tom. What the hell was going on. First Tom, now Lucy. Both where acting as though he didn’t exist.
“At least it’s quite mild for January. In fact I’m roasting in this coat” Peter said tapping Tom lightly on the shoulder. Tom shivered involuntarily despite the unseasonably warm weather.
“I will be writing to the rail company to complain” Tom said.
“Good luck, but it won’t do a blind bit of good” Lucy replied.
He couldn’t understand it. Tom had exhibited no reaction other than a minor spasm when touched on the shoulder and neither Lucy nor Tom appeared to have heard a word he had spoken. Indeed the spasm he observed in Tom could well have been a mere figment of his imagination.
“The train now arriving on platform 1 is the 8.40 to London Bridge”.
“I’m going to take this one. I’ll get the underground from London Bridge to Victoria” Lucy said.
“Good idea. God only knows when the next direct train to Victoria will arrive” Tom said walking with Lucy towards the train.
The man picked up his briefcase and followed the pair onto the train. As he entered the compartment he brushed against a young woman carrying a baby.
“I’m terribly sorry”. The woman headed for a vacant seat appearing not to have noticed either the jossling or the apology of the man who had bumped against her.
He took a seat behind the row occupied by Tom and Lucy.
“Did you hear about Peter?” Lucy asked.
“No but I was thinking how unusual it was not to see him this morning. He’s so punctual, you can almost set your watch by him”.
Yes he was as regular as clockwork. Poor old boy was found by his wife on the bathroom floor. He was as cold as ice. He’d obviously been dead for hours. Must have got up in the night and had a heart attack”.
“I’m sorry. Poor Jane must be distraught. How did you hear?”
“I bumped into one of their neighbours on the way to the station. She was woken up by the ambulance and went outside to see what was happening. He was pronounced dead at the sceene. Poor old Peter”.
Sitting in the row behind, Peter Jenkins felt a sense of growing bewilderment. “I always assumed that when you die that is the end. Perpetual darkness with no awareness of anything. Can I really be dead? What will happen when I go into the office? I won’t be noticed by anyone. I can’t contribute to discussions. What can I do with my life now?” He cut himself short. “I’m dead. I have no life. All this is so pointless. Can I float?” he wondered suddenly intrigued by the possibilities now open to him. Peter concentrated and after a moment of uncertainty when nothing appeared to happen he floated up to the ceiling of the train. He glided through the compartments. As he passed over the commuters they shivered which was odd given that the train’s heating was turned to maximum capacity.
“Someone just walked over my grave” Tom said with a shudder.
“Mine to” Lucy said reaching to fasten her coat.
Updated Author Profile On Goodreads
I have updated my Goodreads author profile to include my latest collection of short stories, “Street Walker And Other Stories”. For my Goodreads author profile please visit https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6879063.K_Morris.
Kevin
January 6, 2014
To Indent or not Indent?
That is the question at the heart of this post.
When writing a novel or novella, do you indent, or not?
What are the reasons you have for that?
I'm curious here, as I have been copying style, and a good friend has suggested not indenting. So, which is your preference, and is there any particular reason?
An interesting question
Sexbots are Persons, Too?
Reblogged from A Philosopher's Blog:
In my previous essays on sexbots I focused on versions that are clearly mere objects. If the sexbot is merely an object, then the morality of having sex with it is the same as having sex with any other object (such as a vibrator or sex doll). As such, a human could do anything to such a sexbot without the sexbot being wronged.
Just because it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck is it, in fact a duck? I am not sure that it is, although if it could be demonstrated that advanced robots of the future feel (as opposed to simulate pain) then there would be a case for according them similar treatment to humans, I.E. some kind of human rights.
January 5, 2014
My Birthday
Tomorrow (6 January) is my birthday. I must admit to being 31 again …! It being difficult to meet up with friends during the week, we got together on Saturday evening in my favourite local, The Railway Bell, http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/s/11/11712/Railway_Bell/Crystal_Palace. The Bell is a lovely traditional pub with pictures of old trains on the wall, an aquarium full of tropical fish and an open fire which is wonderful on a cold winter’s evening. Despite the absence of a blazing log fire yesterday (I love it when my guide dog Trigger stretches out in front of it as there is something very homely about the sceene) my friends and I spent a convivial few hours in the Bell. Incidentally the reference to Sunday roast on The Beer In The Evening site is, sadly inaccurate as no roasts have been served in the pub for several years. The Bell does, however offer a selection of delicious rolls (freshly made, not pre-packed) to which I have often succumbed. I am particularly partial to ham and tomato on fresh bread.
Yesterday we all resisted the temptation of freshly made sandwitches, moving on to The Palace Spice for a delicious Indian meal and a bottle of house red, http://www.palacespiceindian.co.uk/restaurantinformation.aspx?restaurant=1. The Spice is a regular haunt for my friends and I. Talking to my friend Brian we estimated that we spend (together with other guests we take there) over £1000 a year which is a testament to the quality of the food!
Tomorrow I will have a lazy day which will no doubt encompass a trip to the Bell at some juncture.
Kevin
January 4, 2014
January 3, 2014
Listening To The Rain
Listening to the rain. Safe inside, no fear of the midnight knock on the door. I am at peace free to think my own thoughts. No pyres of burning books, no sound of jackboots coming over the hill. Only the noise of the comforting rain wild and free.
January 2, 2014
The Magic Of A Story – Guest Post By Cupitonians
Many thanks to Cupitonians (http://cupitonians.wordpress.com/) for the below post. Anju has a wonderful blog which I would encourage you to visit.
My love for literature began when I was a toddler and my dad would enact Tom Sawyer or Oliver Twist before bedtime. I would squeal and jump about with glee, trying to imitate him every night. This was often accompanied by my English Teacher mom correcting my dad’s horrendous pronunciation of names (“It’s Shar-Lut not Char-lut-eh!”) and shaking her head in disbelief. Mum would tell different tales, lores from the various places she had lived as a travelling family, folk tales she’d heard from her friends from around the world, stories she ripped off from Chinua Achebe books. We grew up as a family with a lust for things that captured our imaginations.
It came as quite a surprise to my teachers that I was so passionate about my English Literature classes. Everyone else hated it and for good reason. I studied in an all-girls convent school that was formerly a British hospital turned to a school for British-only students. Later, they opened the doors to Indians as well (I have since found out that my grandmother was among the first Indian students to set foot in that school). This brought in a lot of changes but the one thing that didn’t change was the syllabus. A huge part of our curriculum included all the famous British authors, including our beloved friend, William “Bard of Avon” Shakespeare.
While my classmates moaned and whined about how they wished “these damn writers would die” (“Erm, but, they are dead. That is sort of their claim to fame”) or the examination board would burn down and we would be free from these wretched exams, I would make jokes about opium eaters and how England is my soul country and how if you pricked us, would we not bleed? One particular teacher really resented me for correcting what I thought was her half-baked knowledge on my artists. And they were all MY writers, spinning stories just for me. To prove that my theories on her ignorance was right, for my final project where we were meant to write a story on based on a proverb, I copied word for a word a story from Nicholas Nickleby. She gave me a 100 on 100. Hence proved!
By the age of 15 (when I passed out from Indian high school) I had devoured every “masterpiece” that was on the top “to read” lists. I was reading Tolstoy & Nietzsche, James Joyce & Virginia Woolf, The Bronte Sisters & Jane Austen, Mark Twain & Ernest Hemingway. I came across a list of books that the school had banned, and being the rebel that I claimed I was, I read the Harry Potter books. When I went to University, I was studying (purely for the pleasure of it) American Literature, Indian Writing in English, Commonwealth Literature and well, I could go on. There also comes a certain arrogance from reading books such as the ones I was hooked on to – only a select group of “intellectual” people could read and discuss them. After a while, conversation with them would seem contrived because I wasn’t reading for form and the grammar. I was reading it for the story, for all the things unsaid and shining through in between the lines, for the places that only a great book could transport you to. I do have a wanderlust to quench after all.
I still try to tick off book lists, that’s just me. I’m 21 down on the top 50 banned books and steadily making my way through the 100 greatest books of all time. But picking books isn’t as deliberate anymore. Sometimes I go to my favourite used book store and pick up a book whose title has caught my attention. Sometimes I open the front of these books and then buy them for the unique message someone had written to someone. If I have one flaw, it would be that I don’t like going by popular opinions, I need to form them myself. This has led me to losing 5 days of my life reading the Twilight series (which I have to say is a masterpiece compared to 50 shades, which I also read) and gaining so much more from reading the Hunger Games Trilogy. Like everything in life, there is a chance of a hit and miss but one thing’s for certain, there will always be the thrill of learning something, anything and the chance that you will come upon magic.
January 1, 2014
The Letter
Susie gazed out at the atlantic. Great waves crashed against the cliffs . A gust of wind caught the girl almost knocking her off her feet. She seemed not to notice, her eyes remained fixed on the wild sea. Unbidden the words came to her
“Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.”
Susie’s salty tears mingled with the sea water which the ever increasing wind blew into her eyes.
“I’m not crying, it’s the sea water making my eyes sting” So what if I am crying? All this will pass and go. Long after I am dead this will remain, the uncaring ocean buffeting the cliffs as it has for millennia. Eventually the cliffs and the surrounding habitations will be claimed by the sea. Out of the sea life came and to the ocean humanity will return.
But I’m 20, I don’t want to die”.
All flesh is dust a mocking voice intoned. Susie whirled around. There was no one save for the gulls which wheeled and screeched overhead.
“Yes I will die but please god not yet. I have my whole life to look forward to” Susie said burying her face in her hands.
“Stupid girl” the voice, like some insidious demon crept into her brain.
“Shut up, shut up” the girl wept sticking her fingers into her ears attempting to silence the tormentor.
“Stupid slapper. Silly whore” the voice said undaunted by Susie’s attempts to silence it.
Doing her best to ignore whatever devil was taunting her Susie reached into her coat pocket. She felt the plain brown official envelope.
“I can’t, I won’t open it. I’ll throw it away. Better not to know”.
“Ignorance is bliss, little miss a coward is” the voice sneered.
“Fuck off, fuck off” Susie screamed. Her words where lost in the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves. Susie became aware of the crumpled envelope in her hands. In her agitation she had screwed it into a ball. How easy it would be to rid herself of the thing. One flick of her wrist and the letter would be lost forever in the depths of the Atlantic.
“Coward, coward” the voice taunted.
With a supreme effort Susie unscrewed the envelope and with trembling hands opened it. Reluctantly the girl extracted a crumpled letter.
“I can’t read it, I can’t” Susie wept. “Why did I do it? God let it be good news. Please, oh Christ I can’t bare it”.
Susie’s mind went back 4 months. She was drunk. She had never been so drunk in her entire life. The thump, thump of the music transported the girl into a world where only she and the beat, beat of the bass existed. She danced wildly letting herself be taken by the music to another realm.
Susie didn’t remember him arriving. One moment she was dancing alone, the next Susie was spinning around in the arms of a total stranger. Later that evening Susie recalled having sex in a cubicle in the gents toilets. Susie thought that she had consented but she had been so drunk she wasn’t sure.
“Christ, no condom. How could I have been so bloody stupid. I went to a good school, got all the right exams and I’m now at uni. I should have known better”.
Susie had gon to the hospital on the following day and had been tested for sexually transmitted diseases.
“You have herpes but that can easily be dealt with by antibiotics” the nurse had said.
Susie breathed a sigh of relief.
“You will, however need to come back in 3 months time for a HIV test”.
“Can’t I have that today?”
“The HIV virus can take upto 3 months to manifest itself so any test conducted today would be extremely unlikely to show whether you are, or are not carrying the virus”.
Susie had thrown herself into her studies for the next 3 months. When not studying she partied hard. Alcohol helped her to forget for some of the time but, in the early hours of the morning she would wake up sweating.
“What if I am infected? Christ only knows how many other girls that bloke slept with before we had sex”.
Eventually the 3 months passed and Susie returned to the hospital for her HIV test.
“You can call in for your results in a few days time or, if you prefer just telephone the number on your card quoting your clinic number” the nurse said handing Susie a small slip of paper.
Susie had meant to call. She really had. However there always seemed to be something preventing her from making that call. There had been her friend’s wedding, her mum’s birthday and so, so many other things.
“Don’t make excuses. Of course you could have found a few minutes to make such an important telephone call” the insidious voice whispered in her ear.
“Yes, OK, I could. now fuck off back to whatever rock you crawled out from under” Susie shouted.
Slowly Susie raised the paper to her face.
“Dear Miss Armstrong,
I refer to your visit of 4 July and the test conducted on that date. We have, unsuccessfully attempted to contact you on several occasions. Having been unable to do so I am writing to inform you of the result of your test for HIV. I am pleased to advise that the test is negative (I.E. you are not HIV positive).
Should you have any queries regarding this letter please call the number above and quote your clinic number to the health adviser.
Yours Sincerely “.
Susie wondered idly why doctors signatures almost always resembled squashed spiders. For the first time in many hours she smiled.
“Thank you god. Thank you”.
The gulls screeched overhead, the icey wind buffeted the girl and the great waves continued to crash against the crumbling cliffs. Susie no longer cared. She embraced the storm for it represented nature of which she was an integral part. It felt good to be alive. Susie took deep breaths. The touch of the wind on her face was wonderful. She smiled as her long black hair blew wildly in the sea breeze.
“If you exist god, thank you, thank you” Susie said.
