rant two.

Hey blog, it’s been a while.

I’ve been doing my trials. during this time though I’ve checked out some other, different blogs. As it turns out seeing in a mirror is one of the far less self-indulgent blogs that I’ve read.
So I’m here to change that.

I know this is (/hasn’t) been the style of the blog, but I thought I’d just post some stuff I’d written, since;
a) I don’t have very much time on my hands but I wanted to post anyway
b) I love fiction and bringing glory to our creative God through that medium

Hope you guys enjoy it. Any thoughts, suggestions, critiques are welcome.

(N.B. There’s no deep allegorical design at work here!)

A Pre-Dawn Light was stirred slowly by a ceiling fan in unit Seven. A small peace lily reached out its leaves into the unhurried current. Sheets of paper peeled themselves half up, waving hello as the air moved by. Anchored steady though, in a knot of sheets, was a body. The sheets whispered to one another as she made a quiet movement. Her arm came to rest on the figure lying next to her. Contentment crept through her lips, leaving a small smile in its wake. Her eyes cracked open and she saw that the figure was a pillow and the contentment was a lie. The fan stirred the room.

Alone again. As it had been for the past months.

The First Light leaked under the blinds of unit Six, slowly filling a puddle which crept across the room. Having been made conscious of the alarm’s irresistible summons the couple swung their legs over the bed and dipped their toes into the pool of light. The blinds finally gave way to the impossibly cheery morning light which flooded the room. A routine begins. Socks and shirts then pants and shoes. The coffee bubbles to the left and toast is scraped, a radio narrating. A small European nation starts with E and is 9-down. Donor is 4-across.  A kiss goodbye and a start to the day. As it had been for the past months.

He had never brought himself to change the time on his alarm, which rung in unit Five. Everything else had changed. His family, his house, his bank balance, his friends, even unit Ten sounded foreign to his lips, made them crack and bleed. So he had concluded not to change the time his alarm went off. He could feel the red blinking numbers pressing on his eyelids, but he no longer had deadlines, workloads, pay checks, anything that would give those numbers meaning. Stewing here in month old bed sheets he came to realise that he had never really liked his job. But of course it had never been about the work. More like… what the work made him. It had made him a working man. A family man. A man about town. He didn’t have to live in a unit because he could afford a house. Public transport was something to complain about, not use. But he’d done more than enough thinking for one morning. He could feel old, stale resentment wasting away inside him. A more than firm whack of the snooze button kept the dream alive.

It had taken them the last six years to save up for unit Four. And it mean that for the first time something belonged to them. It wasn’t rented. It wasn’t on loan. It was second hand but it felt new. They filled it with rented furniture, but the table was theirs. This was their place. And as they found out, there was something different to really owning a home. There was no more hesitation, no more apprehension. They hadn’t crept into someone else’s life, in someone else’s home, expecting them to turn up at any moment. It’s a funny thing to own something for the first time. They had staked this tiny piece of the world as their own. The sense of pride, that they knew would grow weary, like the view that went from spectacular to familiar. So they invited people round. To see the view. So that fresh eyes would remind them of what they have. And unit Eight breathed people.

He knew that by twelve unit Three would be empty. He didn’t know who lived there. But he had liked the look of him. Which was a shame really. Not much to be done for it though. He stood from afar until someone came to enter the block and let them graciously hold the door open for him. It’s funny how people come to regret actions. A hundred other people he could have let through that door would have been friends. Family. Visitors. A thousand other people.

When the man turned to say hello he pushed straight past. He knew he shouldn’t act to suspicious but it was more than he could bear to interact. He took the stairs, lifts always felt dirty and claustrophobic. He walked down the corridor and stood outside the tarnished number Eight, letting the peephole give him a once over. Glances left and right confirmed he was safe to start picking the lock. This was the best part. He always went into a kind of daze. Eyes rolled off, mind wandered away. His whole body felt each successful click. It was the best part. As the last pin slid in he slipped open the door and entered the room. He took in his surroundings. Everything was normal. There was a television. There was a table. Vase. Couch. Computer. There were some poorly reprinted Van Goghs. They would definitely be first. Nothing was ever different in these places. Everyone had the same television. Same table. Same poorly reprinted Van Goghs. These units were moulded at a factory, shipped off and stacked up. Complete with a faded stain on the carpet.

The poorly reprinted Van Goghs shattered the vase. The television was drowned in a cascade of glass that was the shower screen. Down oozed from slashed cushions as cutlery drawers were upturned in bedrooms. Table legs snapped. The computer gouged a black hole in the wall.

It was chaos. No more order. Now, here, he felt more comfortable. This wasn’t factory made. It was personal, individualised. Homely.

They sat on the balcony of unit Two. They’d been here so long that they’d seeped out from their shoes and into the carpet and the walls. Or the unit had seeped into them. They couldn’t tell. This afternoon wasn’t special, none of them were. But it was quiet. They had on this particular day, watched the flow of cars go pouring towards the city in the morning where they would all be stored up. Sliding down ramps then slotted into car parks. Now the first trickle had leaked back onto the streets as they made their way home. But they were just up here, watching. They had an entire life stored away inside them. Marriage seemed like the bigger file within which so many others were inside. But Working, it was just one file. Retirement was a new file, but they supposed it had always been at the back of the drawer, not until now were the first few sheets filling it up. He got up and came back a few minutes later with two cups of English Breakfast. Tea’s the sort of thing you’ll have the same way for your whole life. It doesn’t matter what else changes in your life, you’ll always have your tea the same way. This is the sort of thought that strikes you in your fifth week of retirement. He was inexplicably pleased with this revelation. He smiled and felt like she thought the same way. He couldn’t wait for more epiphanies. But for now, the cars.

The Fading Light made the boxes glow in unit One. They were filled with notepads and imbued with a phosphorescent orange light which faded the words infinitesimally. She wandered through the columns they formed, stacked above her head. Under the window was a single box and she stepped up onto this podium and peered out. It wasn’t clear to her how this had begun. In moments which flitted past as leaves in the wind she thought that this was somehow wrong, this endless recording. But that was all it was, she was just recording what she heard, what she saw (was always her eventual resolve). She never made judgements on her findings, it was always just recording. Today she heard a terrible crashing upstairs, but thought not of what might have been its cause. 12.22pm The unit two above mine sounds like it is collapsing in on itself. She was quite proud of that entry’s poetry. She looked out the window and watched. It was quiet.

The Last Light diluted the Foyer. The fake plants, the cedar veneered walls, took on a certain impermanence. Like a hand could pass straight through them. But there were no hands. The Foyer was empty. There was only the Last Light.