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Short stories and poems
Blue Turtle Inn
Jack was from Tennesseeand knew a thing or two about gambling. He walked with a limp and a bit shooter in his trouser. Now he wasn’t known for his skill of the game. But from Minnesota to Olympia anyone worth his salt at blackjack knew the tale of Blackeye jack.
Born far from the tracks in a Christian town you would not guess him for an aceThey say he had eyes of gold, till he met his fate and Achilles heel in a foolish way. Her name was Sophie star.
Now it was a cold night, and the wind blew off the North Sea. When looking for shelter from the icy wind, jack found refuge at the blue turtle inn.He wasn’t looking for a hand, just a place to set his boots. But with a drink in tow, the game will find a weak man
So he stumbled through the room and found a table to take his place. There across the way sat his end, cut throats fear those words to this day. Her name was Sophie Star.
The card was dealt and he stood his ground, confident his queen could not be beat. Her hand was soft and fond to touch as the ace of spades was laid. Now Blackeye knew the game better than most and could call when he was licked. The gathering crowd could not explain what happened next.
He tossed his cards and they each landed with a certain grace. In a glazed stance jack announced that he would not stay. Surprised was Sophie Star.
That was the first and last time blackjack was played at the blue turtle inn. No one ever saw Blackeye Jack again and gambling would never be the same. But when the wind blows off the North Sea a lady sits to finish her game. Her name is Sophie Star.
The Bus to Victoria Station
2009
Scott had a heavy heart. The stale air of the airport only made it worse. He had left St. John’s two months ago, and been up in the valley for five of those weeks. His eyes were bloodshot, and his clothes smelled of the night before. He closed his eyes and dosed off into reverie of a Southern Bell and a crisp winter morning…
It was a cloudy day outside of Victoria bus station, and his luggage was hot. The people queued around the corner waiting to buy their tickets from an uninterested salesgirl from Brighton. Scott stood in the doorway next to a Southern Bell. To the right, two Angolan security officers looked lazily at their monitors. Scott’s eyes wondered through the crowd, unsure of where to step next. He embraced the Southern Bell’s hand and turn to the hallway on the left; where he was sure he would find no queue.
He slipped past each person, with the darling just a step or two behind. In London you’re bound to pass the world in those few steps. They past the newsagents, selling yesterday’s headlines and today’s gossip; they past coaches taking people to new lands, and old cozy homes; they past English to German, Iranian to American; all in search of a shorter line.
It was a strange time in both their lives. Each had completed a whirlwind tour that took them to many new lands, and a few old homes. Neither of them knew what kind of impact down the road this would have on their lives, but for the moment it didn’t really matter. Scott was leaving today you see, off on a new adventure, without his Southern Bell.
The air wasn’t stuffy, as the way to the coaches had no door; but the air smelled of burnt diesel from the idling buses. As they rounded the corner, a clear cashier was right in front of them.
“One return ticket to Norwich please.”
“Sorry love?”
“One return ticket to Norwich please.”
“Sixty three pounds and twenty pence please.”
Scott handed her the notes, the last of his money, in exchange for a ticket.
“Thank you sir, loading bay 24.”
“Thank you, have a nice day.”
He cleared the ribbon and tucked his ticket into his passport. His Bell wondered to the newsagent to buy some smokey bacon crisps and an icy lemon. They walked again, past the whole world, the uninterested salesgirl, the Angolan security squad, past the door back to London, all the way to stall 24. There were only two seats left: between a couple from Bangladesh and a family from Peshawar. The Southern Bell and the Canadian took their chances and sat down.
They sat in near silence, as she ate her crisps and he drank her Icy lemon. What could be said after all of this? So many questions were racing in his head. The clock on the wall ticked away, and yet nothing was said, and less was understood. A Peshawar baby grabbed on to his father’s tunic and pulled with all his might, the tunic would not give and the baby soon surrendered to his father’s will and was distracted by other things.
The announcement came up, in a thick Glasgow accent, that the 24 to Norwich was boarding. It was time for Scott to go. They stood up and he embraced her one last time and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He held her hand until the final bell rang and the Scotsman said to board. She waved goodbye with an almost lost look in her eye, and as he sat down his heart seemed hollow and his mind was empty.
As Scott sat in the Airport thinking of that day, how many years was it? Two this May. He wondered where she went, and if she will get home. It wasn’t the first time he had thought about that, he could only estimate, probably about 730 times this May.
The last train to Bombay
2008
The tallest, coldest, bitterest gin reigned over the table and an empty bottle of rum lay on the floor. The table was a mess of cards and shots, each glass with its own flavour. Winter winds gust through the hallways, as they huddled in the small room. In this sanctuary, the world outside could not touch. This cave was disconnected from the natural order found outside. It was a haven and a prison, a release and a cage. As each cigarette went out, another was lit, each pale cherry burning brighter with every drag.
The air had a unique scent, different from any other on earth; it smelt of dust, stale beer, smoke, and love. But it was as if love had once touched this room, only for the briefest of moments, until it found its way into the souls around it, and left forever with those hearts.
It had been a few days since he had left, and the room felt colder somehow. Winter would not end soon, with all the music gone. A mix of bitterness and ache was felt in each of their hearts. In his brief moment he had brought great joy and a deep animosity. He represented everything good and bad; pleasure and pain. His soul-hid crime, yet was free of any charge. Everything he would give he stole back. As quickly as he had come, Scott Adams was gone again.
The washer banged on against the thin wall, which connected the room from his. His room lay empty, decorated with only a few traces that he had ever been; shoes, a book, and most peculiarly, an empty suitcase. Scott had not thought to take it- it was empty except a picture of Beth. He had taken his books, knives and the letters- all 83, he had counted twice. He had written her everyday, sometimes twice, never thinking of anybody other than her. Maybe he was oblivious, maybe he was just dim, but the prevailing thought was he knew it all along; and basked in admiration. In this little room tonight there was more than one heavy heart.
Water condensed on the glass, forming teardrops that slid to the table. Each heart rested comfortably on its sleeve. Not one word of heartache would be said all night, yet every word would be filled with sadness. Of all the friendships that had been put on the line, Scott cleverly held his hand close to his chest. For all the love, nothing would ever be said; it didn’t need to be. Dave sat with his back against the wall, his hood pulled over his head shading the bags under his eyes.
“This whole thing here? It’s all fucked, I need to lay low in London for a few nights.” Scott knew when he needed to disappear; he also knew when to come back; he knew when things were bad and when things were good; he knew when to sing and when to sing louder. But he was gone now. The hallways would never be filled with his voice that would sew everyone together, and never again would the halls be filled with the horrible silence of a morning after.
Dave poured himself some more gin, topped it up with tonic and squeezed in a lime. He brushed past Monique whom, with guilty eyes, held a sleeping Marie in her arms. Dave walked down the hall towards his room sipping his drink. Scott had been his best friend, and now he had gone home to the love of his life, breaking so many hearts as he went. He stood outside his door for a moment, and placed his hand against the soft wood. He prayed, for the first time, to a god he did not know. He prayed for Scott, who had known love in many ways. That Scott would know love in the way he knew it.
The door pushed open and Dave crawled into his warm bed and in as he warmly embraced Samantha, he gently slipped into the best sleep he had had in months.
The Hunter
When the hunter came to the forest tall and green
He found he was not alone in the wood and stream
Many creatures noble that offered to share their land
The Hunter agreed with a slyness to walk hand in hand
Years would pass and they lived in a common peace
Far from the wars that raged in the land out east
The hunter brought unseen beasts the thrived within
They brought many books that spoke of great sin
Soon the land was not big enough for the hunter to share
And he stuck deals that were claimed to be fair
But with knives as long as their hides
The hunter carved out mysterious lies
In the night they came with blankets, guns and hate
To claim their god given stake
In virgin land that was not theirs to seek
The hunter turned his rosy cheek
When the hunter came to the forest tall and green
He found he was not alone in the wood and stream
Many creatures noble with tears for forsaken land
The poacher agreed a slyness to walk a slave in hand
Archetype
The plaintiff stood before high court
His demand that it was out of sort
The lamps were too dim
And the jury sang a hymn
It was faceless facts
And shameless attacks
But he was on trial
For all things vial
The defense pleaded their case
Prosecutors sat in fine lace
Waiting for him to sway
But what was true that day
Is the same as now
The pontiff would allow
With no prior intention
Clear of infatuation
That past is to learn
And cannot be a concern
That he wants to chase a dream
With you as a primary theme
If the accuser can accept
That he may be inept
He is often complex
But it is not neglect
Please sir accept me
Our dreams won’t be empty
Nightmares will fade
To rest this can be laid
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