March 2011 theme & competition entries

[Tallyman 10]

March theme & competition: Mad as a March Hare

Set by Geza

 

As March is the month responsible for the hare population going slightly bonkers (if the saying is to be believed) I thought it would be appropriate for this month’s theme to explore the psyche of madness.

 

Other great authors have tackled this theme with great effect; think Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland and Stephen King’s spooky novel, The Shining. So your story could be as light hearted and funny as the Mad Hatter’s tea party or as spine chilling as the axe wielding ‘’Here’s Johnny’’ and of course anything in between.

 

Your mission then is to write a short piece which explores some form of madness: anything that touches on the mad, crazy, or total lunacy would fit the bill. Get inside the crazies’ head or tell it from the point of view of an observer- just do it in 500 words or less.

 

TO ENTER: Competition entries of 500 words or less should be posted on this thread. If you prefer to write a longer story, outside of the competition, then please post it in a new thread with both the title and 'March 2011' in the heading.

 

JUDGING: Geza herself will judge the entries, and will announce the winner in early April.

 

THE PRIZE: The prestige of becoming the SFWG Competition Winner AND the opportunity to choose the writing theme for May 2011.

 

Any problems posting/uploading your piece, please consult the guidance 'stickies' at the top of the Forum page. If you still have problems, please contact either Tallyman or Ron Blanco.

 

Have fun!

 

Tallyman

[G12Ravda 10]

On madness

Being mad is not so bad, for you don't know you are.

It's going there that brings despair, and knowing that you are!

[mikomi 10]

In My Defence.

 

After being married for 20yr or more the spark tends to fade, you get into a routine where your life seems to revolve around a clock 10pm we go to bed 8 am we wake, that type of thing. For the first few years you can’t get enough of each other but then you settle for the obligatory grunt. It had been a while since any form of intimacy had taken place between us something of the past but there was life in the old dog yet.

I remember the sun shining through the open bedroom window on to my face. Spring was here and it wasn’t the only thing that had sprung into action, turning over to face my wife I opened my eyes and my imediated thought was that it was a lot hairier than the last one I had seen. No-doubt it was enjoying a lie-in or so it would seem. I had a plan.

Sliding out from under the bed sheets and into the bathroom I waited .Seconds ticked by on the bathroom wall clock and sure enough come 8am it happened the loudest blood curdling scream you could imagine. Time for action, time for the knight in shining armour to appear with hard soled slipper in hand, after my heroic deed what damsel could resist my charm, my hour of lust assured . I burst back into the bedroom like a banshee, red mist descended over my eyes, I beat the monster in my bed into submission, I could hear the squelching of flesh and feel it’s blood licking my face as I pounded away, the whole onslaught took less than a few minutes and my final act of bravery was to pick it up and throw it out through the window, job done.

When the red mist in front of my eyes disappear I had to look twice and feeling rather puzzled as my adversary was still on the pillow intact and looking at me rather bemused, then it spoke.

‘Jeeze mate, thanks, I didn’t think anyone would hear my screams, what the hell was it’, . Then the spider winked at me and was gone.

On the ground below lay my wife not a pretty sight I agree., she was pronounced dead at the scene. I searched high and low for the spider he was my only defence, he would vouch for me that it was a case of mistaken identity wouldn’t you agree.

[Lady Agatha 10]

Madness

The builder drew up in his heavily valeted Jag. He eased himself out of the driver’s seat, leaned on the door and smiled to himself. The Jag was not the source of his satisfaction today – though his passion for her never waned – it was his new acquisition that he was admiring. He pulled on a luminous coat and hard hat – both as clean as the boot which had held them – and looked over the grimy facade of his building.

 

Local people called it the Old Asylum. It had been built 150 years ago in an imposing and austere style, almost wagging a stony finger in disapproval at potential inhabitants. It held a position on the top of a low hill, looking down on a town which had once been industrial and prosperous. Any resident of that town that had acted in an unseemly manner had been swallowed up by the iron gated outer wall. Sometimes they were never seen again. But eventually science interjected, and the asylum surrendered its prisoners to the hospital in the city which lay 10 miles to the East.

 

Next, the local council moved in. The asylum spent almost as long as a home to beaurocracy as it had done to the mentally unwell. Then health and safety laws interjected, along with the rain, the wind and the pigeons. New offices were secured in the centre of town and auction boards went up on the shabby but still disapproving facade.

 

A group from the town below formed a committee. They wanted the asylum to continue serving the community. They secured a promise of lottery funds for refurbishment – all they needed was a council lease on a peppercorn rent. Their vision of support groups, advice sessions and classes would make the town prosper and grow. But the council knew that the builder was circling round in his shiny Jag, and that under his immaculate hard hat were plans that would make money now. Luxury apartments. “That’s what this town needs” he told them, and they believed him.

 

The builder began to walk towards his new darling, the one that would make him. His boots echoed in the portico and disturbed two passers by from their budget shop carrier bag reverie.

“So it’s going to be luxury flats this place then.”

“Yeah.” The companion replied thoughtfully. “I wonder who’s going to buy them. I wouldn’t live here if I had money would you?”

“Ha! Nothing to do and a crap view out of the windows. They’ll be queuing up I’m sure.”

“Madness. That’s what it is. Sheer madness.”

 

Lady A

[Geza 10]

Three very different contenders already- I wonder how many more we'll see before the month is out....

[maidinsheff 10]

I had a go at something completely different (for me) this month - A bash at 'stream of consciousness' although I am not sure how well it works out. Hope no-one thinks I've gone bonkers!

 

On Reflection

 

So your back you’re like a disease you can’t keep away and I don’t know what the cure is everyday you come back twice a day three times a day staring at me with eyes that match mine and you look at me wondering who I am and who you are and where you’re going with your life I’m going nowhere I only live in here when you are there when you talk to me its depressing hearing all the things that are wrong with your life as if my life’s any better what you expect me to do about it I don’t know I can’t do anything and you look at me as if you’re expecting sympathy well you can forget that for a start I give the same rat’s arse about you as you give about me and your bloody life is sooooooooo boring how about being stuck here staring out at your miserable face and knowing you hate mine and look at me searching for every blemish squeezing spots and smearing pus in front of me and wishing me away as if you can block me out with green scum what I did to you I don’t know I sit here whenever you want me and look back at you and never complain and all you do is hate me and wish me dead those thoughts rattling round your brain I can see in your eyes what you plan but every day you chicken out as if tomorrow is going to be any different as if you sit on a different chair the world will change and your face will change you can go out and look at strangers I can only ever look at you one face in front of me sick of looking at it ugly face never smiles never laughs just stares and finds fault and has me mimic stupid expressions that make things worse not better perhaps you should wear a bag over your head plastic bag with no holes in it and stop breathing stop caring about acne and everyone sad they didn’t listen when you said what you’d do pouring out your heart but no-one gives a monkey’s you’re just a kid you’ll grow out of it don’t see that you can’t stick it anymore if anyone else says there there never mind you’ll go mad stupid sods can’t see how close you are toes over the edge you’re going to jump and smash your face into the pavement then they’ll be sorry no go on then get sleeping pills from mum’s bedroom swallow all of them go ahead pour the bottle of gin down your throat see if I care watch you gagging burns all the way down stare and stare go to sleep don’t expect to wake up don’t expect to dream not dreaming not breathing not seeing can’t find you what have you done? No reflection! Can’t get out. Can’t get out! Madness! This is MADNESS!

 

 

MadinSheff

Edited March 13, 2011 by maidinsheff
can't proof read either - shocking!

[Ian Rivedon 10]

A Lover’s Lunacy

 

My head spun like a candyfloss machine, but I plucked up the courage to look down at the ground, forty feet below where I clung desperately to the trunk of the oak tree. The boy was still there, sitting on the grass beside his bike, watching me intently.

‘Why don’t you sit on the branch?’ he shouted.

I shook my head, quickly looking up again, pressing my face against the rough, bitter smelling bark.

‘There’s no way I’m shifting,’ I thought, though my legs were quivering, and I longed to sit down. The boy shouted again.

‘They’ll soon be here, mister—don’t worry.’

‘I hope so,’ I shouted, tightening my grip around the tree trunk.

I’d been up the tree for over three hours, alone and terrified for two of them, before the two boys had spotted me. When I was young, these woods used to crawl with kids during the school holidays, but they were now overgrown and deserted. I’d feared of being stranded all night, then I had heard the two boys cycling along the path. How they had noticed me I don’t know, but thank God they had. They eventually gave up trying to coax me into climbing down, and one of them had gone to raise the alarm.

The noise of a distant, approaching siren wafted through the foliage of the adjacent trees, and I hoped it was the fire brigade, but a young copper arrived first, and even from my eyrie, I could see that he had a broad grin on his face. After making sure that I was all right, he stood talking to the boy, then the lad’s mate returned, after cycling back from wherever he had dialled 999.

The fire brigade arrived, and took over an hour to get me down, by which time I was in a real state, shaking like a leaf. Paramedics wrapped me up in tin foil, like a Christmas turkey, and then I had my first ever ride in an ambulance.

Apart from feeling like a prat, I was unscathed, and discharged after a couple of hours. The police were waiting for me, along with newspaper and television reporters.

When asked, ‘What possessed you to climb up there?’ I just smiled innocently, and said that I had just wanted to see if I still could. I felt like a celebrity, but when I walked in the house after the coppers had taken me home; Sarah’s demeanour returned me to Earth.

‘You silly old fool,’ she said, ‘why?’

‘I just got the urge, sweetheart. I just had to see if it was still there.’

‘See if what was still there?’

‘What I carved, up that huge oak tree—can’t you remember?’

She stared blankly, and then her eyes became rheumy as she realised what I was talking about.

‘And?’

‘It is,’ I said, ‘“Sid loves Sarah—True”, almost as clear as when I carved it, fifty years ago.’

‘I thought you were barmy then,’ she said, ‘now I know you are.’

[FatDave 11]

This is my first entry, so please be gentle.

I've never written a short story before, found it harder than I thought and after removing about 40% of the first draft and reading it over about a dozen times, I can no longer tell if I have left enough detail.

 

So...

 

Mad As A Lorry

 

Prison cigs, that’s what my mates call them. Rolled so thin that most of the cigarettes width is from the paper, but what do they expect, money’s tight, and the Dole is tighter.

How can they expect a man to afford to smoke on the paltry sum I receive for incapacity benefit?

Ridiculous!

And so those wise people at the local Dole office had seen fit to spoil another of my days, calling me in for an interview; again. Checking up on my condition; again.

I knew they’d be watching me, setting me up to see if I’m faking, they do it all the time.

It started with the dog. I’d hardly left the garden when I saw it, owner-less and staring at me with its floppy inside out ear. I chased the dopey thing for ages until I finally caught it and straightened its ear.

They knew I wouldn’t take the bus, too; the school run would have left germs everywhere, so I walked the two long miles to the meeting.

The interview was a breeze though, (the councillor had left an empty plug socket switched on, but I didn’t let that throw me) she even asked if I would feel comfortable attending a course to help control my fears and emotions, but that rubbish isn’t for me, I’m not really a loony after all, just a little eccentric.

And then I met Julia, standing at a job search terminal.

I loved her as soon as I saw her, and, with a smile, she showed me that she loved me back. Only a few minutes of flirty small talk separated greeting and invitation and soon we were in her pine forest scented Fiat and off to her pristine flat.

I’m not an idiot, I’ve done this before. You always say no to the coffee, and then move in for the kill straight away. It’s your confidence that they love.

Oh, the surprise on her beautiful face as I pulled it out, hard and heavy in my hand, made my heart melt and I loved her deeper than before. The little moan as I slid it into her. The gasp as I withdrew, then wiped the blood on her blouse.

The knife knew what to do then, I always use a different one for each lover, of course, that’s just a matter of respect, but somehow it always knows where to cut.

She thanked me with her final blinks, but there was no need.

And so her tender sex remains forever perfect, in a jar with her perfect name, sitting in the refrigerated shrine between Harriet and Keith (i... Who do I know with a name beginning with i?), and surrounded by all my other lovers.

I sigh when I see the time; such an exhausting day.

Why did I ever agree to meet John and Isabelle for a drink tonight?

Although... Isabelle?

I smile as I think of my love for her, and today is looking up once again.

[John Webster 10]

MAD AS A MARCH HARE

 

Mid-March.

 

Oliver’s haring along the street, back to his one-bedroom basement flat, as if pursued by the hounds of hell. He has no deadline, he could happily saunter, only these days he cannot happily anything.

 

44 last week. A brief flurry of cards and texts from surviving family and dwindling band of friends left just the aftermath --- crushing resignation to the increasing weight of his years. Sister sent £10 to boost his Jobseekers’ Allowance --- does he need to declare it? The dreary agonies of official rules weigh heavily with Oliver --- and some Ferrero Rocher. Eaten at one sitting while fretting over a health complaint or cursing a politician or a vacuous young TV presenter; he couldn’t remember which.

 

He walks in the shadows; unwittingly ominous, unwillingly anonymous. Half-dressed young women eye him and veer consciously towards the kerb, little knowing his kind heart and harmlessness. It’s his unkempt beard; his old clothes, perhaps. The eczema on his left hand. He bitterly reflects, while marching through the cold wind, on why he’s so dark to strangers, when he means only light and compassion.

 

He clutches the cheapest of disposable supermarket carriers, ever tighter until he finally makes it home. Throwing his coat onto the sofa as if putting the heaviest shot, nearly losing the loose button he’s been meaning to sew on more firmly since January, he moves to the galley kitchen and upturns the rustling carrier to reveal its contents. Packet of jelly babies. Microwaveable Chinese. No chocolate; he’s given it up for Lent [barring the birthday present], though he hasn’t been to church since he doesn’t know when, and he’ll be stuffing three Wispas a day down his throat as soon as Christ has risen from the dead.

 

He shakes the bag in case he may have acquired anything else. A resurrected mother. A happy marriage. A job. A sense of purpose. The best years of his life back. Milk.

 

It’s almost a chore beyond endurance to refresh the TV and view some programme relaying why the latest loser in a dance-off, skate-off, sing-off or cook-off is ****** off at being voted off by the ripped off of Britain. He sees the contestant as a child of God, to be respected as all others; he also believes him a tosser, who should slope off more graciously to his more normal corner of highly-paid celebrity. Absent-mindedly, he negotiates the last jelly baby and heaves himself out of the armchair to rip the outer sleeve off his banquet and behold the irony of his reflection in the film lid of a sweet and sour chicken.

 

Phone’s ringing. Let it. Nothing must disturb his meal, although it’s his fourth supermarket sweet and sour in a week and he’s sick of it. Some relative with energy pointed out how much easier it would be to make ends meet by buying breast fillets and vegetables and chopping them ...

 

And so back to the TV.

[FatDave 11]

Another one... guess where I found my inspiration...

 

The Troll

 

Tap-tap-tap.

Her worn nails provided percussion to her impatient song as she stared at the monitor.

F5… Nothing.

She sighed, almost four minutes since she’d posted and still no reply, some people just didn’t have her work ethic.

A coffee and a p*ss, that would pass some time.

She filled the kettle quickly, but had barely clicked it on when the bungee cord tightened, pulling her back to her station.

F5, nothing…To the toilet!

Quickly, knickers down, push hard, quick wipe, no time for hand washing, back to keyboard, F5, nothing.

‘Damnit!’

She looked in disgust at the wet mark on the F5 key, unconsciously wiping her fingers on her leggings.

‘Sod it.’ She said aloud, and went to make her coffee.

The kitchen was filled with steam so thick it could have been smoke. The aging kettle, double its original weight with lime-scale, had long since lost the ability to switch itself off.

She flinched as the steam erupting from gaps in the kettles seals scalded her knuckles. She leaned back enough to see the screen, knowing full well that it wouldn’t update until that damned key was pressed. The red bar across the top of the screen squinted back through the hot cloud.

Coffee; powdered, cheap, two heaped spoons to make it strong enough to taste.

Sugar; five of them, her hectic lifestyle demands the extra energy.

Milk… She could smell it before she opened the bottle. The warm liquid sloshed around like it was full of pebbles.

‘Little bitch!’ she swore at her daughter, almost loud enough for her to hear it two miles away.

At her age she should remember to put the milk back after she made breakfast.

She had been trying to avoid thoughts of her daughter, but now they’d been forced upon her, she risked a glance at the clock.

Twenty minutes, where had the day gone? She’d been so busy this morning, what with the scrap men (forum-speak for Gypsy) in Hillsborough and the cyclist ranting at drivers on Halifax Road, she’d barely had a minute to herself.

People expected her to post on these subjects, they waited for her opinion.

‘Sod her,’ she thought bitterly, ‘she can walk it home, it’s not far from the nursery.’

She dropped the bottle into the bin, then considered walking to the shop next door to buy more.

With another glance at the monitor she regretfully poured the coffee into the sink.

Sitting back where she belonged, she tapped F5 once more; the computer quickly gave her the hit she craved.

“I Hate Nick Clegg Megathread”. Finally, something she could get her teeth into.

She reclined in her chair, looking to the ceiling for inspiration.

‘What’s my motivation?’ she whispered into the air, ‘To be hated, to argue with everyone, to belittle everyone’s opinion, to pick on people who need information…’

She smiled and went to work.

“What rubbish," she wrote, enthusiastically, "Nick Clegg is doing a fantastic job for the people of Sheffield…"

Edited March 15, 2011 by FatDave
Noob spelling mistakes...

[greg2 10]

I have succumbed to the black arts:

 

A MESSAGE FROM THE CHIEF EXECUTIVE

 

Last month I heard of an incident which took place at one of our Christmas parties. Seeing at the height of the party someone throw open the main window to an outside temperature of minus 12 degrees, staff had ejected the person responsible.

You will all be aware that we need to raise our game in reducing the costs incurred by the organisation. We need to be looking constantly at all our costs, wherever they arise, and at what we can do to cut them.

A substantial area of cost for our organisation is the operation of our buildings. All our buildings are now equipped with modern temperature control systems, and in this situation there should be no need to open a window. Opening a window allows into the building cold air in winter, or hot air in summer, adding to the cost of running the building’s heating or chilling systems.

I was being asked to approve the commencement of disciplinary proceedings against the members of staff who had carried out this ejection. It seems to me however that we need to embrace their initiative, and systematise it across the whole of the organisation’s estate. Spontaneous defenestration (SD) has an important part to play in our cost reduction efforts.

I would like us all to agree that from today we will not open windows in the organisation’s buildings, and will take action which we know will be effective to deal with anyone who does. While we will want to show sympathy for the family and friends of those who may be lost by SD, our priority needs to be the recognition and support of those whose decisive SD action is putting a permanent end to unnecessary cost pressures.

This is not something top management can implement by itself. It requires all of us to think about our own actions, and those of colleagues. I am looking to each of you to implement our new policy, and to ensure your colleagues know of the SD consequences which will follow if they do not do likewise. Your manager will be asking you to describe your progress in implementing the new policy during monthly team meetings.

[FatDave 11]

Now I've started you can't shut me up.

 

This one is completely autobiographical, it happened to me just the other day on nights.

 

The Panic Attack

 

God, here I go again.

Try not to think about it, occupy my mind, don’t let it take control.

I turn to the computer, my breath shallow, quick, each satisfying me less.

iPlayer, quick, quick, I need something pleasant to distract me, bring me happy thoughts… Blue Peter, perfect!

I press play and wait for the intrusive advert to run its course. Buying a BMW is the last thing on my mind as once again I attempt a yawn, a cough, anything to get more air into my lungs.

I reach for my inhalers, blue and brown swords to fight off my fear.

No! They’re my last resort. Besides, if they don’t work, then there’s nothing else to do but call an ambulance; the last time I did that I felt such a fool.

I’m not asthmatic, the inhalers were only to ease a chest infection a year ago, but since then they have become my crutch. They do sometimes ease my breathing, but the terror I feel when they don’t work is so concentrated, that the fear of their use torments me.

Knowledge is no defence against anxiety, no matter how much the dole tried to teach me about my fight or flight response in the six months I allowed my “issue” to force me out of work.

Blue Peter sings his familiar song and I catch a breath that sticks. For a moment the blackness leaves my mind, replaced by memories of lazy afternoons avoiding homework. The relief of finishing another torturous day at school is helped by the sweet marijuana smoke filling my lungs…

My nostalgia is elbowed out by thoughts of my dead aunties’ cancerous lungs. The mortality of those I love plagues me, but not as much as my own.

My weakness shames me, cowardice is my north star. I don’t care, I just want to live.

Why won’t my lungs work?

They take in air, but not nearly enough.

Blue Peter isn’t working, there’s no room for happy in a head filled with Taliban execution videos.

My panic is absolute; I rush to the front door, firing the inhalers into my useless lungs with hands shaking so badly I struggle to unlock the reception doors.

Blue-blue, brown-brown-brown.

Out into the darkness, the cold air feels good as it washes some of the panic away.

I stare at the hotel next door, comforted by the movement inside despite the late hour. A beacon should I need it.

Breathing deeper now, I lean against my car, my thought’s finally under my control.

When will this end?

I consider asking the GP for another referral to a councillor, but the shame of my condition fills me again. I remember how hard it was to even admit there was something wrong to my family. I know if my illness was one I could bandage, things would be easier, people would understand.

And so I push the fear back down, and wish once again that I believed in God.