In hindsight I realised that Tobias had probably been sleeping there all night. The soil, dry and loose like ashes, had crept into his hair and smeared itself chalklike down one side of his face; infantile, he lay curled in an impossible tangle of elongated limbs and crumpled clothing. As I approached he stirred from apparent hibernation, but from the mechanical theatricality of his somewhat convenient revival I deduced that he had been awake for some time, covertly enjoying my attention. Stretching, his smug eyes met mine in a horribly knowing fashion hastily converted to unconcern as he registered my irritation. I brandished a bread roll by way of greeting, and received a gracious invitation to sit by way of regal gestures not dissimilar to those offered by royal personages, and drunks. I felt as though by not conforming to the conventions of ordinary human transactions I had somehow pleased him; I was being offered a treat.
Disconcerted, I settled myself on the floor beside him, decomposing and crackling leaves piling up behind me as I pulled myself awkwardly back against the tree trunk. Tobias languidly reached for the roll and ate, meticulously tearing small pieces of soft white flesh from the inside whilst leaving the crust intact. The process was somewhat absorbing to watch and we spent the next few minutes in silence, both of us immersed in our own thoughts. Occasionally a leaf would drift down from the blazing canopy and Tobias’s attention would flicker, watching the leaf’s journey to join its companions on the mouldering floor with distracting intensity. I took these fleeting moments to furtively inspect him, avidly devouring each change of expression as they danced across his eyes and pulled mischievously at his obstinately immobile mouth. He looked more tired and uncertain than I had ever seen him, or rather less guarded. There was something tribal in the contrast between the dirty gossamer white of his skin and the stark, vivid green of his eyes, rimmed with a sick purple sheen like bruises. Soft fall light stained the frayed edges of his auburn hair crimson and gold, with one half plastered flat whilst the other defiantly thrust itself into the air. The overall effect was one of uncharacteristic yet strangely endearing dishevelment.
And yet there was something cruel in the smile that lingered on his small, cracked red mouth as he regarded me, desperate to break the silence that hung thick in the air between us. Intangible flurries of thought, possibilities ranged across my mind but all the while I was conscious of the impossibility of it all. Impossible not to just sit here, dizzyingly close. In the distance, a gunshot fired. Tobias leaned across, and gently pulled the scarf from my throat. It scratched roughly against my stubble as he loomed closer, overwhelming my immediate area with his personal aroma of stale aftershave, spice and brandy; having pulled the scarf clear he withdrew swiftly to a safe distance. Tobias wrapped the scarf tightly around his own bloodless neck and walked out into the light.
By Kirsty Judge
Wednesday 3 December 2008
Antipathy
Loretta considered him cadaverous at best. At worst, whatever remained to be coughed from the primordial ooze of a gene pool his particular “fine” family secreted could not possibly have been more horrifying than the frankly spectral man before her. The thin light seeping sluggishly from between slatted blinds carved out a silhouette faintly aquiline, but in profile Loretta plainly and painfully identified the rarely seen toucan-human crossbreed known as The Lesser Spotted Nasally Well Endowed. Across the table, a similarly unflattering analysis was taking place. Signalled by a slight twitching in the man’s left nostril where it blended with his upper lip, Loretta watched fascinated as the two adversarial body parts battled their natural reflexive sneer. Eventually a truce was declared and Fortnum Gregory Saint-Claire was left indelicately lumbered with an indecisive twist of expression common to most born snobs, that of the superior individual sucking on a lemon whilst simultaneously endeavouring to perform dental surgery with one’s own tongue. A brief silence ensued during which they both waited for the other to speak.
In the absence of their master’s avid attention, sparse dust motes gleefully flung themselves across the barren desk like tumble weed. Loretta, locked in a stare-down worthy of the most ridiculous of westerns fought the urge to shout “DRAW!” in a last ditch attempt to release herself from the grip of the suppurating orbs of perambulating gristle which represented the windows into Saint-Claire’s turgid soul. Eventually she admitted defeat. A spasm of ridiculous, pathetic triumph wriggled its way across the victors face and he began.
“There his little point in me informing you of this for the eighteenth time, I believe, Miss Carr, but I feel it is my duty to remind you that…”
And the flat, nasal voice bored into Loretta’s skull, peevishly overemphasising every word which Saint-Claire believed gave him some meagre advantage. “Miss Carr” indeed. Loretta lazily transferred her attention to the bland potted cactus that she considered to be (excepting herself) the most sentient being in the room. A weak “bloop.” from an aged laminator in the corner of the dismally bleak room renewed her attention to its owner. Apart from the skeletal physique wreathed in gratuitous flaps of grey clothing, there was little to distinguish Saint-Claire from the conservatively retrograde machine. Or even the interior of his office. Loretta speculated that years of searching had finally led him to his natural habitat in which he was capable of camouflaging himself against any predator, merely through the merit of being almost entirely grey. His skin, tautly stretched between each angular bone, had seemingly absorbed the colour of an over-washed sheet- a sort of yellowish grey at best.
Light flecks of spittle were beginning to emerge from Saint-Claire’s thin lips as he realised that she was no longer listening; the muffled flutter of clothing could be heard as he trembled with righteous agitation. Loretta watched with a kind of detached horror as his ears emerged from the furrows of his neatly combed (and grey) hair as angry distress beacons, flaring red in the insipid light.
“And it is at this juncture that I believe that I will show you the door, Miss Carr. Do not return.”
by Kirsty Judge
In the absence of their master’s avid attention, sparse dust motes gleefully flung themselves across the barren desk like tumble weed. Loretta, locked in a stare-down worthy of the most ridiculous of westerns fought the urge to shout “DRAW!” in a last ditch attempt to release herself from the grip of the suppurating orbs of perambulating gristle which represented the windows into Saint-Claire’s turgid soul. Eventually she admitted defeat. A spasm of ridiculous, pathetic triumph wriggled its way across the victors face and he began.
“There his little point in me informing you of this for the eighteenth time, I believe, Miss Carr, but I feel it is my duty to remind you that…”
And the flat, nasal voice bored into Loretta’s skull, peevishly overemphasising every word which Saint-Claire believed gave him some meagre advantage. “Miss Carr” indeed. Loretta lazily transferred her attention to the bland potted cactus that she considered to be (excepting herself) the most sentient being in the room. A weak “bloop.” from an aged laminator in the corner of the dismally bleak room renewed her attention to its owner. Apart from the skeletal physique wreathed in gratuitous flaps of grey clothing, there was little to distinguish Saint-Claire from the conservatively retrograde machine. Or even the interior of his office. Loretta speculated that years of searching had finally led him to his natural habitat in which he was capable of camouflaging himself against any predator, merely through the merit of being almost entirely grey. His skin, tautly stretched between each angular bone, had seemingly absorbed the colour of an over-washed sheet- a sort of yellowish grey at best.
Light flecks of spittle were beginning to emerge from Saint-Claire’s thin lips as he realised that she was no longer listening; the muffled flutter of clothing could be heard as he trembled with righteous agitation. Loretta watched with a kind of detached horror as his ears emerged from the furrows of his neatly combed (and grey) hair as angry distress beacons, flaring red in the insipid light.
“And it is at this juncture that I believe that I will show you the door, Miss Carr. Do not return.”
by Kirsty Judge
The Honey Carnival
Susie had fallen down and cut her knee badly and John was bored and poking the Newspaper man’s dog with his stick which was a sword and we all wanted to go home, because the parade was over. All the dark men in dark suits had come and filled the space, treading on all the confetti with shiny shoes like grease and Susie was sad saying “I’m poorly, I’m poorly,” and picking at her plaster with sticky candyfloss fingers. The parade was gone. I went round the corner of the street to see where with all the lights and colours but a bear was in the way. Sat next to it was a little old lady cracking nuts which she fed to the bear like a baby.
“Don’t step on a crack now, you hear?” She had a laugh like wicked witches in the Christmas play, rough and crackly.
I saw them three times that week and never again, there were three performers and one bear and the bear had a big chain on its neck which went clank clank every time it moved. It was slow and heavy and clanked away after the music stopped but sad like it never wanted to stop dancing, never never. (All the people here now are fast and hurry but Don’t Step On A Crack, because the bears will get you but no one here seems to care not like me and Suzie).
“He loves all the lights and cheers, you see.”
“The bear?”
“Yes, Tomato lives for it! Strange in a bear but not all animals are wild in the same way, you might say. Or I might.” Venezuela was old and odd but we liked her smell of nuts and paint.
Tomato the bear could ride a bike, peel an orange and stand on his feet, and I couldn’t. The first night we went we watched him dance too, but only with Venezuela’s whistle, and the second night we brought him honey in a big jar, Suzie and me.
He danced first this time, big feet thudding with clicking claws and his front paws that were like hands held out in front, still sticky with honey from the jar. The bike came next, with Tomato bowing before getting on and cycling backwards, and forwards, and THUNK. The man behind us began to laugh, hawing like a donkey. Tomato looked up and after that he never ate nor cycled nor danced not once.
The third time I saw them I was on my own and I am glad- they had no shoes, or bike, or chain, and they sat sad and thin at the bus station. Tomato was very still, and slow, dark like brownish black and smelling strong of old meat or maybe mouldy leaves. Venezuela, Arabian Beauty of the Night curled close to him but Tomato looked dead. In a week he was, and 5 men with a truck had to take him away in a green plastic cloth. In four days Venezuela Arabian Beauty of the Night went with him, like the most normal thing in the world.
by Kirsty Judge
“Don’t step on a crack now, you hear?” She had a laugh like wicked witches in the Christmas play, rough and crackly.
I saw them three times that week and never again, there were three performers and one bear and the bear had a big chain on its neck which went clank clank every time it moved. It was slow and heavy and clanked away after the music stopped but sad like it never wanted to stop dancing, never never. (All the people here now are fast and hurry but Don’t Step On A Crack, because the bears will get you but no one here seems to care not like me and Suzie).
“He loves all the lights and cheers, you see.”
“The bear?”
“Yes, Tomato lives for it! Strange in a bear but not all animals are wild in the same way, you might say. Or I might.” Venezuela was old and odd but we liked her smell of nuts and paint.
Tomato the bear could ride a bike, peel an orange and stand on his feet, and I couldn’t. The first night we went we watched him dance too, but only with Venezuela’s whistle, and the second night we brought him honey in a big jar, Suzie and me.
He danced first this time, big feet thudding with clicking claws and his front paws that were like hands held out in front, still sticky with honey from the jar. The bike came next, with Tomato bowing before getting on and cycling backwards, and forwards, and THUNK. The man behind us began to laugh, hawing like a donkey. Tomato looked up and after that he never ate nor cycled nor danced not once.
The third time I saw them I was on my own and I am glad- they had no shoes, or bike, or chain, and they sat sad and thin at the bus station. Tomato was very still, and slow, dark like brownish black and smelling strong of old meat or maybe mouldy leaves. Venezuela, Arabian Beauty of the Night curled close to him but Tomato looked dead. In a week he was, and 5 men with a truck had to take him away in a green plastic cloth. In four days Venezuela Arabian Beauty of the Night went with him, like the most normal thing in the world.
by Kirsty Judge
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