Updates

More of this week's yarn, also the first bit has been re-edited (it's a work in progress, sue me.)


Clouds hung low over the hospital on the day of Gerald Smith's birth. An excruciatingly long and painful labour by all accounts, one Gerald's late mother never seemed to get over. On his sixteenth birthday, two weeks before she died of a stroke, she smiled and looked through the kitchen window. Her toast went cold with the chill of winter approaching, and the unending thoughts that Gerald would never know.
Gerald's childhood brought back strange memories whenever he let his mind drift back. Accidentally braking Tommy Johnson's arm in the third grade left a scar somewhere in his mind that refused to heal. Since the incident, Gerald always sat quietly by himself and shook his head if asked to come and play. Being dropped from the football team in seventh grade made the scar itch. He never meant for anyone to get hurt, and never expected he could hurt a boy twice his size.
Bullying came from all angles when Gerald made it to high-school. But he never came home with a black-eye or a bloodied nose easily outrunning the punches and kicks, and after enough distance, even the taunts. He knew he could probably win a fight if he had to, but he never tried. Gerald avoided trouble and by the tenth grade, trouble avoided him.
On the day his mother died Gerald went into the principal's office to learn the news. He didn't cry, he simply thanked the principal for letting him have the rest of the day off, taking his time on the long walk home.

Gerald Smith spent his eighteenth birthday alone at home, watching television. He bought a beer, and deciding he didn't like the taste, poured it out. Gerald wondered about his father, who he had never known. And he wondered about his mother, deciding he had never really known her either. She would stare into space; blank walls and open windows commanded her attention more than Gerald ever did. He never interrupted her and waited until she shook her head, and blinked her tired eyes, before asking what she was thinking about.
'Nothing dear,' she would always say, giving him a curious look.
'Okay.'
Gerald stared through the kitchen window that intoxicated his mother so often, rubbing the label on the empty beer bottle absent-mindedly with his thumb. The last leaves of autumn clung to the tree branches, fluttering to the ground whenever a sharp gust kicked up. Noise from the television became a faint crackle and Gerald saw a man floating near one of the grey trees.
The man wore a grey jumper with the hood pulled over his head, hiding his face. Gerald watched as he dangled in the air before vanishing. Turning his head away from the window, Gerald saw the shattered remains of the beer bottle he had been clutching so tightly. Green glass shards stuck into his fingers and Gerald went about pulling them out and cleaning up his mess.

That night Gerald dreamt about the floating man. The dream began with Gerald sitting in the kitchen holding his empty beer bottle. When the man appeared near the tree outside the window, Gerald found himself levitating inches above his seat. As it was a dream, Gerald felt no fear about his new-found ability to float and glided comfortably towards the kitchen window to get a better look at the man.
When he reached the window, Gerald just floated through it, still in a sort of sitting position. He hovered now, close to the man, who looked through him as if he wasn't there. Gerald noted the sweat marks on the man's jumper, the distinctive logo printed in blue on the front, and a nasty gash across the man's face which bled profusely.
Droplets of blood fell onto the grey jumper, the man's eyes widened, staring into space as Gerald's mother had done so many times, and then he vanished.
Upon waking, Gerald fetched a scrap of paper from his desk and wrote down everything he saw. He then climbed back into bed and fell asleep.

The hastily scrawled note at first surprised Gerald when he finally found it the next evening. He couldn't recall if the details in the note were from a dream, or if they were something he had seen during the day. The scribbled red ink read; 'Man, mid-twenties, State Uni sweater.' And, that was all. He read the note again and put it in his pocket before grabbing his jacket and stepping out into the cold night air.
The sun was still up enough to cast a pink glow across the sky, burning the jagged clouds a deep purple. Gerald walked along the path behind his house and watched his step, avoiding the dead orange leaves that lined the gravel. Within fifteen minutes he had entered the sprawling State University campus.
Gerald had wanted to go to a University. It didn't necessarily have to be this one, but he had wanted to go. After his mother died, Gerald resigned himself to the fact that he would have to work to support himself. He didn't resent his mother for dying, his only regret was not ever being sure what was happening in her head.
With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Gerald roamed around the campus, stopping to admire the buildings and statues of old scholars. He walked past several students clutching books to their chests and running to make the last bus. Some he recognised from high-school, but knowing they wouldn't recognise him, he walked on.
As Gerald turned the corner of a particularly old-looking building a girl about his age ran into him, falling backwards and dropping her pile of books. Gerald removed his hands from his pockets and walked towards where she had landed. She had already gathered the precious literature before she looked up towards him.
'I'm so sorry,' her voice cracked on the last word.
Gerald held out his hand and helped her up. 'What are you studying?'
'English, oh. You mean this?' She looked down at her books.
Gerald nodded.
'Late eighties graphic novels.'
'Like comics?'
Her eyes glistened pink, mirroring the last of the glowing sky. 'Like, how were America's social fears at the time projected in pop-culture.'
'Are you writing an essay on it?' Gerald watched as her shoulders sagged at the mention of the word “essay.”
'Yeah.' She looked up at him and cocked her head to the side slightly, only for a second. 'What are you studying?'
'Medicine.'
'Oh,' her shoulders sagged again and she looked down at her books before glancing away. Gerald didn't know why he lied, something told him to say medicine. Her eyes flashed up at him, 'do you like it?'
'No. You're not missing out on anything.'
She smiled and blushed, cocking her head to the side again. Gerald returned the smile. Her hands fumbled with the books until they were safely tucked under one arm before she extended her right hand. 'Nice to meet you...?'
'Gerald.'
'Gerald.' She shook his hand. 'Sally.'
'Sally.'
'I have to go Gerald. Don't want to miss the last bus.'
'You won't,' Gerald smiled. She gave him a puzzled look and smiled before shuffling past. Gerald watched as she did a sort of semi-jog and disappeared between two buildings.

Around the next corner, of the building that Gerald discovered was the library, he saw two young men huddled up against the wall. He turned to leave when he heard one of the men whimper, the noise carried by the wind. Gerald watched as a man in a black jacket shoved a man in a grey hooded jumper against the wall.
The man in the grey jumper whimpered again and Gerald walked over, his hands still in his pockets.
'Fuck off!' The man in the jacket spat at Gerald, sensing his presence. Gerald stepped over and put his arms between the two men, separating them. Gerald realised he had his eyes closed when he heard a loud thump followed by another harsh crash. He opened his eyes and saw the man in the black jacket lying on the ground, his nose dripping blood. The man in the grey jumper was slumped on the ground at Gerald's feet.
'Jesus Christ! You can have his fucking money!' The man in the black jacket scrambled to stand and quickly ran away.
Gerald looked down at the man in the grey jumper, his hood covering his face. Dark blotches of blood began to seep through the back of the hood and Gerald saw a large crack in the brick wall of the library. He leant down and placed his hand inside the hood, feeling warm blood drip onto his fingers.
When Gerald gently titled the man's head towards him, he saw a deep gash across his face that ran from the neck up to the hairline. The man's eyes widened before he vanished. Gerald looked down at where the man had been slumped and wondered why he had disappeared. The crack on the library wall, and the blood on Gerald's fingers were the only evidence that he had ever existed.
Gerald wiped his fingers against the brick wall, leaving long streaks of blood. He then put his hands in his pockets and made his way home.


There is more to come, it doesn't end there! I'm getting a little cliff-hangerish with this one. I'll post more when it exists.

This week's work

Here are the first few hundred words of a short story I'll be working on this week. It doesn't have a title yet, but I have a few ideas about where it is going. Any input would be great. I'm sort of experimenting with the magic-realism style that Gabriel Garcia Marquez used, it's somewhat hard to do, seeing as I normally write very strictly in the realism style but it's very fun to let go of logic and it gives your imagination a work-out.


Clouds hung low over the hospital on the day of Gerald Smith's birth. An excruciatingly long labour by all accounts, one Gerald's late mother never seemed to get over. On his sixteenth birthday, two weeks before she died of a stroke, she smiled and looked out of the kitchen window. Her toast going cold with the chill of winter approaching and unending thoughts that Gerald would never know.
As a young boy Gerald was never the biggest kid, but he had an unnatural strength that frightened him. Since he accidentally broke Tommy Johnson's arm in the third grade, Gerald shook his head whenever he was asked to play. In the seventh grade he was dropped from the local football team after an especially rough tackle that left a boy with concussion.
'You're too rough,' the coach said.
'I'm sorry.'
At high-school Gerald was hardly ever bullied, only because he was too fast. Even for the older boys who chased him around the corridors until they gave up, panting and cursing. He knew he could probably win a fight if he had to, but he never tried. Gerald avoided trouble and by the tenth grade, trouble avoided him.
On the day his mother died Gerald was called into the principal's office to hear the news. He didn't cry, he simply thanked the principal for letting him have the rest of the day off. He took his time walking home that day.

Gerald Smith spent his eighteenth birthday alone at home, watching television. He bought a beer and deciding he didn't like the taste, poured the rest out. Gerald wondered about his father, who he had never known. And he wondered about his mother, deciding he had never really known her either. She would stare into space, blank walls and open windows demanded her attention more than Gerald ever did. He never interrupted her and waited until she shook her head and blinked her tired eyes before asking what she was thinking about.
'Nothing dear.'
'Okay.'
Gerald stared out through the kitchen window, his thumb rubbing the label on the empty beer bottle. The last leaves of autumn clung to the tree branches, fluttering to the ground whenever a sharp gust kicked up. Noise from the television became a faint crackle and Gerald saw a man floating near one of the grey trees.
The man wore a navy hooded jumper, obscuring his face. Gerald watched as he dangled in the air before vanishing. Once the man was gone, Gerald looked down to find that he had shattered the beer bottle. Green glass shards stuck into his fingers and Gerald went about pulling them out and cleaning up his mess.

Fresh "content."

With uni over I have some free time to continue my writing. I'm aiming to have one fresh short each week, and maybe more if I am feeling up to it. Hope you enjoy.

Buffalo
By Tim Harvey

The floorboards creaked under Anthony's heavy boots and he paused in the dim light. Did he hear that? No, he didn't. Anthony held his position in the barely lit hallway, sweat soaking through the navy wool balaclava covering his face. It must be in this room, he thought as he lifted one foot and tested the boards. They groaned again, but quieter than before, giving Anthony the confidence to take another step.
He slid up against the wall and tested the door handle to his left. It whined quietly and Anthony's gloved hand muffled most of the mechanical clicking of the old relic. He pushed the door open a fraction and leant over, peering into the darkness. This was the room, Anthony knew it. The window let in enough of the moon's shadowed glow to illuminate the ancient armoire in the corner. It must be in there, it has to be.
Anthony crept into the room and eased the door shut behind him. As he walked over to the armoire he was struck by the sickening feeling that he had been caught. His pace faltered and he stood, almost crouched in the centre of the room. Although he couldn't see who it was, he knew there were eyes on him from across the room.
Surely he would say something. Completely exposed, Anthony considered fleeing. He would have a gun on me. He must.
'What now?' The mumbled words were barely audible, even to Anthony. He waited. No reply.
Slowly turning his head, Anthony saw the glistening eyes watching him from the corner. He turned back to the armoire and continued his stealthy trip across the room. The heavy wooden doors opened easily, and without a sound. The prize was there on the top shelf.
'Did this get you too?' Anthony asked towards the eyes as he took the wooden box down from the shelf. After unlatching the small brass lock Anthony slid the top open and took a moment to observe what lie there.
The gold embellishments of the long-barrelled Colt shone in the moonlight. The glistening varnish of the heavy wooden grip, and the immaculately polished steel of the gun took Anthony's breath away. He lifted it out of its velvet-lined coffin and held it up to his eyes. Running his fingers along the barrel felt like bliss. One-hundred and fifty years old, history in his hands.
The barrel rotated easily, well-oiled and ready for war. Anthony eased the hammer back, watching the chambers revolve with military precision.
'Did this get you too?' He asked the eyes again, raising the heavy pistol towards them. 'How old are you?'
The great white buffalo head eyed him with disdain. Mounted and stuffed, the last of his kind to ever roam the Earth. History, hanging on a wooden board.
'You're all locked away in here,' Anthony said to the pistol in his hand, pulling it close to his face. 'Hidden from view.'
He remembered the first time he saw the gun, at the shooting range. The old man had brought it in to show off to his buddies. They marvelled and asked if he would ever fire it. No, he replied. It's too old. Anthony swore if he ever had such a firm grasp on the past he would use it. He followed the old man to his house and hid outside until late at night. He would have that gun. He would use it.
Now, with the pistol in his hand, Anthony faltered. The drive to use this gun, this pistol that had probably killed, was gone. Who knew how many Southerners this gun had wiped from existence, in the name of the Union? Who knew which officer carried this piece into battle, or if it even saw combat?
'What am I doing?' The words were dry, and the buffalo watched on, asking the same question. What are you doing? Anthony slid the gun back into its navy-velvet home and eased the lid of the case shut. He placed it back on the top shelf and closed the doors of the armoire.
'Did that gun get you too?' He asked the buffalo once more. There was no reply, no answer. Anthony sighed, realising he would never know.
He crept down the hallway and climbed out of the window that he had entered by. There was no answer, there was no explanation. Anthony would have to make his own truth.