Something seems wrong…
No idea what it is, something just hasn’t felt right all week. Boo hiss. I need to get back on my blogging, maybe thats it? Life just isn’t complete unless you vent yourself in a block of text that no one will ever read.
I also have serious writers block which is about the most frustrating thing I can imagine. I’ll have a sudden burst of inspiration, but when it comes to writing it down or playing it, nothing happens. Boo hiss number 2.
The boo hissing could go on all night, there are far too many things to moan about. I’m turning into a regular Aaron Ulph.
Anyway, here is the beginning of a story I apparently started writing while drunk a couple of weekends ago. The problem is, I hardly remember writing it, and I have no idea where is was supposed to go (assuming I knew at the time…). I think I was speaking to a friend at the time, maybe she knows what it was supposed to be about… I’ll ask her… “you didn’t really say too much about where it was heading tbh.. well, not enough for me to tell u about it” Boo hiss number 3…
The notepad had about 10 pages worth of random characters where i’d fallen asleep on my keyboard which I’ve deleted, but they didn’t seem relevant.
My father died when I was 10 years old.
I begin my story with such a statement for two reasons. The first of which is not to raise sympathies, nor is the second while focus is on the matter of reaction. I learned long ago that time plays an important role in the sympathetic gaze such a statement can expect. Being forty two in a few months, and more than 30 years from the fact, the expected response is closer to vague understanding than sympathy.
I begin my story with such a statement for two reasons.
The first is to highlight the number of years which have passed since my father, and to make it absolutely clear that on the night to which my story relates, my mind was no more focused on him than it had been since my teens.
The second is to highlight the certainty that my father is dead. There were no suspicious circumstances, no unanswered questions, and a body in a coffin, both of which were buried in plain sight of those who attended his funeral.
My father died when I was 10 years old, and until that night I was as sure of this as I was that he was my father, and I am his son.
The night to which I refer was that of 12 December 1932.
The evening was no different to any I had spent in my home on York Street. I had entertained friends as much as they had entertained me, first with recollections of our younger years spent travelling, then later, as the clock moved subtely into the new day, with stories of ghosts and monsters from our childhood’s.
The last tale of the night was told by a now-more-than-tipsy John Brindley, my oldest and dearest friend. His face had become red as he built to the end of his story, “Through excitement!” he would laugh. “Through sherry” would his wife, less enthusiastically.
His story (or correctly, the story he had borrowed from his grandmother) was of a haunted train travelling the line between London and Manchester, and of the lonely passenger who was to make company with the souls trapped on board.
Although told with conviction and showmanship, John had little success in scaring his audience, consisting of myself, his own wife Paula, and Matthew, a fellow batchelor whom we had known since our trip to Paris some 20 years ago.
John concluded his story with a loud shout as he grabbed at Paula’s leg, who, despite owning the benefit of hearing the story no less than 10 times previously, released a short yelp before regaining her composure and attempting to hide her embarrassment.
The men laughed mockingly while Paula excused herself, glancing back at John on her way, finding difficulty in hiding a grin behind her anger.
“Thank the lord for Paula” I laughed.
“Oh?” Matthew and John questioned in unison.
“If it wasn’t for her yelp I fear you may of noticed my jumping at the end of your story!”
We laughed harder, Matthew nodding agreement. “Well said.” he added “Well said.”.
Why in the name of god would I decide to set a story in 1932?
