It was a bluish day in sky and mood. There were no appointments, no stress. There were only the pure green blades of grass, the shadows of the billowing trees and the calls of the distant birds. Pure easiness, pure clearness of mind. Sharp rays of sunshine illuminated the garden so that John had to squint and blink, and shade his eyes with his hand just to watch the sprinkler putter-putter-putter at the other end of the lawn. He was alone with his thoughts, but he had found that he had had to discard most of them upon moving; thought here was encouraged – there was little to do but think. But thoughts of rush, hurry and bustle were taboo and frowned upon by the staff. So he sat deep in his chair, the one with the thick arms and wicker back, like a convalescent.
Category Archives: Hashmark Fiction
‘Pigs are actually very clever,’ someone replied. ‘The average pig is as intelligent as a three year old child’.
‘Yes, but they are still ignorant of their own existence,’ said the voice again. A long haired guy next to me was drooling, but I don’t think he realised. A television was making noise somewhere, and I realised I had gone too far.
‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you!’
A horrible fear was kicking in – everything was moving too fast, too many thoughts, none of them satisfying. Time rolled on, and I realised I had no idea how long we’d been sat there in the dark silence in our New York hotel room. Continue reading
I was fifteen when I first discovered I was a David Bowie fan. I’d had urges before, of course, but I’d always assumed it was just a normal part of growing up; a phase everyone went through. This was not the case, however, and before I knew it I was having yearnings to listen to the Ziggy Stardust album on an almost constant basis. I’d never actually heard the album before, nor did I really know who David Bowie was, but the craving was still there; ever-present, uncontrollable and shameful. I could never tell my parents. Musically, we were worlds apart. My father listened exclusively to the Beatles and my mother to old LP’s of the soundtrack to Doris Day musicals co-starring Rock Hudson. The fact that no such musical existed only added to my feeling that she would never understand my secret desires; and I swore never to tell her, or indeed, anyone else. I would take my embarrassing, shameful secret to the grave.
There is a man who shapes his trade not far from Pune, in the small town of Alandi. Of Alandi’s 21261 citizens he is the only permanent outsider, a man whom no shop will sell to and, indeed, a man who will not sell to any shop. How this outsider kept his vittles numerous was of some curious interest to the locals and more often than not a source of extreme pontification for those inclined in the way of conspiratory babble. His real name is of no importance to this story, however, suffice it to say that he was known most commonly as the Frenchman of Vittel for he had in times past inhabited that small spring water town. In actuality he originated from the shores of Corsica where he as a child had stared starry eyed at the soldiers in their barracks before his daily rituals of study and woodwork had begun. It was most likely this early introduction to the art of war that inspired his former occupation as a solider himself. He, as I learned during our first meeting, was not a solider of the private class but that of the status of lieutenant; he confided that at this time he commanded a troop of loyal men, every one of which would have laid his life down for his gallant commander. He himself did not use the word gallant; he was a man of the most severe modesty and reverence, I merely inferred this quality from our many lengthy discussions.
When the phone rang, the boy sleeping in the other side of the double bed was just stirring, woken by the intrusive sound of the telephone buzzing. The telephone was on the girl’s side of the bed, and she had woken as soon as he heard it. The boy lethargically turned to lie on his side, facing the girl, whilst supporting his head with his hand. The girl asked “Should I get that?”, and the boy asked what kind of a stupid question that was, and yes, she should answer the goddamn phone. The girl smiled at his shortness, she knew neither of them had had a good night’s sleep for weeks because of the telephone calls.
I’m not afraid to say it: I enjoy sex. Lots and lots of sex. The rougher, the better. There’s a name for people like me; as I said to Jane last night:
“I want to have sex.”
The dialogue is, of course, abridged.
That tap is driving me crazy. Drip drip drip. Pause- ok, that’s it, it’s over. Drip. Fuck! All evening long, nothing but that dripping. I may have to kill someone in a minute. The couple in the room next door maybe. I saw them come in when I went to get some ice. He was hairy and pug nosed. She was dying for a fuck. I could tell. It was in her body language. I tried to make eyes at her as her troll stooped to open the door but she wasn’t paying attention. Avoiding my eyes. I threw some ice at her, just a cube or two. “Ice cold in Alex!” I shouted “The receptions fucked but the lizards haven’t got the ice box yet!” Then her boyfriend opened the door and they darted into the room as quick as they could. Oh well. I’d tried to warn them, they’d get their comeuppance soon enough. Those lizards were crazy.