Tuesday, May 26, 2009

When I Die

When I die, I would like to be remembered by two particular quotes.

Firstly - "Science Fiction is the least ficticious of all the genres." inspired by my most recent significantly-developed education.

Secondly - "Virtue is the least virtuous of all things." This is slightly more complicated. And personal. Only those who know me intimately may be able to decipher what this means. If anyone. Maaaybe. If anyone..

But regardless, these are my two quotes. If I die tomorrow, remember me by these. Thank you.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Status update

A psychotherapist named Steve has saved my life. I don't know what I would do without him.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Baby Statue

A few days ago, my Mum bought something incredibly horrifyingly incorrigibly creepy. So creepy, in fact, that I decided that it needed to be chronicled. Lookit. Say it with me now, one, two, three, Aaaaaaarrgghh!


I don’t know about you, dear reader, but my initial thought was ‘Oh my god kill it with fire!!’

Gah. Just gah. Am I the only one scared halfway to death by this thing? Look at its eyes! What’s wrong with its eyes? Why does it have no trousers? Where are the trousers? No really, I’m serious, just...just...why? Why? Why make a creepy little baby out of ceramics with no trousers but adult hands?? Is this designed to be given to children? Or adults? Oh so much confusion, so little time! Every time I look at this thing I feel wrong. Like something’s gone wrong in the pit of my stomach.

Early this morning, I found out just why.

Two days ago, Mum came home and deposited that thing that you see above on the table. “Isn’t it cute?”she exclaimed. I decided that even though I’d seen cuter Angler fish, I should probably hold my tongue. Mistaking my silence for acceptance, she walked over to the window overlooking the back garden. Placing the...thing on the windowsill, she stepped back to admire the handiwork.

“I don’t know,” she began. “I just find it unique.” Now this I could agree with. If nothing else, that baby was certainly unique. I stared at it. I swear it had a knowing expression on its face. I resisted the urge to cause it to have an ‘accident’ as soon as possible and settled myself with the fact that I could always just close the curtains so I couldn’t see it. Who needs sunlight, anyway?

It was getting late. Saying my goodnight, I crawled into bed and collapsed. I forgot all about that thing.

But there’s a problem. I am an insomniac. That’s not the problem, but this is. Since I was irreversibly awake at four in the morning, I went downstairs to watch some TV.

The figure was now facing the window.

I did not do that. I did not do that, and neither did Mum. When I left the figure, it was facing into the room. Now its facing out the window. Who moved it? Did gay men break in and rearrange the furniture? Is it magnetic? Is it frickin’ alive?! Is there some mechanism in it created solely to freak me out? What?

Or maybe I did shuffle it about before I went to bed. I wouldn’t be surprised, I am much happier now that I can’t see its face. Not so sure if I’m happier about seeing its arse instead, but oh well, its just ugly all over. Fearing my Mother’s wrath, I took the statue and turned it back to the way it was. Then I shuffled back off to bed to pretend to sleep.


No really. This was what I found when I came back downstairs. But this time the tiny little left arm was raised towards the window. Pointing outwards. Mum found it, actually. Pointed it out as soon as I fell into the Living Room.

“Did you do this?” she asked.

I went cold. “Er, no.”

“Then how did it get this way? Are you sure you didn’t do it? I mean, if you don’t like the statue, just tell me, and we can put it somewhere else, maybe somewhere less visible?”

But right that second the idea of putting that thing somewhere where I couldn’t see it seemed like a very bad idea. There was something up here, and I wanted that thing to be somewhere where I could keep an eye on it. Maybe train a gun on it, too..

That night, I was to watch the statue. I wanted to know who was moving it. Or did I? What if there was a squatter in our house that I didn’t know about. Who had a...uh, fetish for spinning tiny child dolls. Oh god, why can’t I live in a normal house. Aheh.

Anyway. That night, I sat downstairs with a torch. It was around midnight. Firstly, I would like some credit for my brave actions, please. Go back and look at the face of that baby doll again and tell me how you’d feel sitting in a dark room at nighttime all on your own with only that thing staring you in the face. I am either really brave, or really –


Ohcrap. I jumped to my feet and trained the torch on the windowsill. Just in time to see the little baby figure moving.

Shit. It was moving! Moving, spinning around on its tiny feet! The quiet sound of the ceramic scraping against the wood seemed to fill both the room and my head. Srrrccccchhhhh. Srrrccccchhh.

Slowly, the little baby pivoted. Srrrrccccchhhh. Pivoted, until it faced the window. I held my breath. I couldn’t have breathed if I tried. Slowly, oh so slowly, the tiny little left arm lifted. Lifted, until it pointed out the window.

Silence. My heart was thudding so fast that I thought it might pop. I was so afraid. Finally losing my nerve, I abandoned the toy, shot up the stairs, and huddled in bed with the lights on ‘til morning.

That morning I found the toy turned back around, facing into the room, his arm by his side. And Mum seemed to be tutting at me with her eyes. Its a skill only mothers have. She must still think that I was interfering with it. I decided not to tell her what had happened. I mean, if I said such a thing to you, would you believe me? And since she didn’t bring it up, the day passed as normal, even if the house seemed abnormally chilly for such a hot day.

Clever me had just had a new idea. What if I prevented the little baby from spinning around? It is like five inches tall. If I don’t want it to turn, its not turning. But that meant..could I actually being myself to touch it? After last night?

Oh come on, Raevyn. Its a baby. Not even a real baby at that, its about the same size as your hand. What could it possibly to do me? I would grip it in my hands and force it to remain facing inwards.

As the day passed, I confess, I got more and more jittery. I couldn’t think about anything else. When Mum went to bed I was practically climbing the walls with nerves. Calm down, Raevyn, is just a baby, is just a baby..

Night came again. I knew that Mum wouldn’t rise until half-seven, so I had all the time I needed. At around one in the morning, I literally forced myself towards the windowsill. I opened the curtains and trained the torch downwards. As per usual, my little friend had resumed his favourite position. With his tiny baby arm pointing outside. Reaching out with a trembling hand, I picked him up.


Nothing. Nothing apart from the feel of cold porcelain against my fingers. It didn’t move. Not knowing whether to be relieved or annoyed, I sat down. I stared at the little figure in my hands.

“What are you.” I mumbled. “What are you?”

Silence. Realising that I was in fact talking to a tiny china baby, I wondered whether I should give up. After thinking about hidden wires, mechanisms, magnets, and perhaps that the mushrooms in my dinner weren’t all that they seemed, I finally concluded that I had lost my mind. Might tell the psychotherapist tom-

The baby started moving. Slowly at first, it began to twist in my hand. I almost yelped and dropped it. It started to twist with more and more strength, and soon I was struggling to keep the baby facing inwards. I put all my strength into it, and that was when it clasped its tiny hand around my finger.

This time I did yelp. Deciding that I no longer cared which way the damn figure was facing, I shook my hand about, trying to dislodge it. It wouldn’t let me go. Damn. Dammit dammit why can’t I just mind my own business? Who cares which way some antique that my Mum brought home?! Hopping about now, I continued to shake. His grip only got stronger.

“What do you want?” I cried. Silently, slowly, the baby turned his little bald head towards me. My heart lept into my throat. Also silently, he lifted his other arm. And pointed. Pointed at the window. I looked. What was he pointing at? What?

His grip tightened and I began to feel pain. I shook some more, and then I heard a crunch. Pain lanced up my finger and I cried “Alright, alright, I’ll take you!” The grip loosened until the baby let go. Returning back to his stiff standing position, he swivelled towards the window.


I took a deep breath. How the hell did I get here. Its okay, its just your back garden, you know there’s nothing scary there. You’ve been playing in it ever since you could walk. Resolving myself, I stepped towards the window. Opening it, I placed the baby on the sill. Jumping out and landing on the grass, I reached back inside and picked the baby up. He retained his stance, pointing at somewhere at the centre of the garden. Shaking slightly, I walked. After a few feet, the baby started to swivel. I’d gone past where he was pointing. I backtracked three paces. Swivel. I took one more step forward. The baby lowered his arm. He seemed to lose something just then. It was like his animation, his consciousness, had gone out of him. He went still. He was just an old toy. I decided I wanted nothing more to do with him and that if he wanted to stay out in the garden, that was quite fine with me. Let him go as far away from the house as possible, if he pleased. I placed him on the grass next to me. Let him stay there. Let him stay where he’d been so desperately trying to reach. It meant nothing to me.

Or did it? What was it about this particular spot in the garden? Was someone buried here? Was something buried here? Was there treasure? Yeah, that was unlikely. So what? Were there more of these critters buried underground? Brr. God I hoped not.

I heard the creaking noise almost at once. It seemed to be coming from all around me. Startled, I spun round, but could see nothing that caused it. Then I felt a gentle movement underneath my feet. I turned the torch downward at once.

I did that just in time to see the see the ground open up as the wooden board over the old, disused well finally gave way and I fell twenty feet down the shaft. There was water all around me. I never hit the bottom but instead rose to the surface again.

Clinging to the smooth damp walls, it was then that I began to shout. I knew it was no use. I was too far away for my Mum to hear me, even if she did wake up. The last thing I saw in the faint light from the broken opening was the little baby sneering down at me. Then it was gone, making its slow journey back towards the house. It was a long time to half-past seven.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

I Just Wanted to Get to Know Her a Little

I am not The Raevyn. Keeping in tone with her blog, which I have read after I found it open on her computer, I will tell you a story.

I have been watching her for a long time. Liking everything about her, her walk, her face, her figure, and her voice, I decided to stalk her. Loving everything about her even more with every second I spent hiding in a bush, following her in my car, watching her through her window. Eventually every waking thought of mine became obsessed with her. Deciding that I wanted to meet her at last, we had a little accident.

To be honest, it could have been avoided. Hell, I didn’t mean to hit her that hard. Evidently I am stronger than I think I am. Really, it was just a little tap. Although you wouldn’t think it to look at her now, lying so still. Eventually the blood stopped flowing, it’s not coming out anymore. Very good. Yes, she looks at peace now.

Now at last, you can see how gloriously mad I really am – though for her, it is too late - if you go back to the beginning of the entry, only this time look carefully at the first letter of every sentence.


(p.s this is just a joke/mindfuck I'm still alive, nobody call the police)

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The Hitchhiker

It was my 23rd birthday and, having missed them for a while, I decided to spend the day with my parents. We’d just had a fantastic day out in Shaldon. Spent a while on the beach, went to a museum, sat in quaint little cafes, got some obligatory rock. I sat in the back of the car, enjoying that feeling of tired contentment you get when you’ve just had a really good day. But now the rain was really heavy, and it made it hard to see out of the windows. The darkness didn’t help. Almost dozing off, I listened to my parents chatting in the front of the car.

“As soon as I brought out the needle, he passed out. I thought of doing the filling right there and then and save him the pain, and the anaesthetic too, but if I got caught I’d be in hell of a lot of trouble..”

I drifted in and out. My Dad is a dentist. He and Mum are so different. Mum works part-time as an estate agent, and she’s always been tougher than my Dad. Dad is kind of insecure. I think it’s because most people he sees on a daily basis are scared of him. Burden of being a dentist, I suppose. Even though he’s soft. When I was little it was always Mum who did the discipline. Dad would let me do anything and would do anything for anyone. Mum was a bit more stern.

They’ve both changed, though. Nowadays, they’re more withdrawn. It happened thirteen years ago, when my brother Tom died. They’ve never really recovered from that. My life has never been the same since.

“Hey, look at that.” Dad said, bringing our attention to a dark figure, huddled over and walking on the side of the road. I jumped out of my trance and looked. A man was trudging along, his coat pulled tight to protect himself from the rain. Suddenly, his hand shot out, thumb facing upwards. The universal sign of the hitchhiker. He wanted a lift.

“We should stop.” Said Dad.

“We should not!” said Mum.

“It’s horrible weather out there, he’ll catch his death of cold. And he’s miles from anywhere. Let’s pick him up.”

“But Harry…” began my Mother, anxiously.

She was right. Letting strangers into your car is a bad idea generally, but particularly so when you’re ten miles away from an asylum for the criminally insane. Which we were. Everyone knew about Fairfields. Fairfield’s Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane, to be more exact. It’s a big ugly building with metal gates ten metres high with spikes along the top and gates that open electronically. And now we’d stumbled across a lone man in the middle of nowhere walking alone.

That’s the point I’m trying to make. When you’re ten miles away from a loony bin, you don’t stop to pick up someone you’ve never met. I began to add my own reservations, but Dad pulled up next to the man. Slowing the car to a stop, he waved him to get inside. He’s a good bloke, my Dad. Though sometimes he can be too good. What if he was an escaped loony? What if he’d cut the throat of the prison guard and slipped through the gates? The figure slumped towards the car.

I had a really bad feeling about him. I don’t know why but he just made dread form in the pit of my stomach. The man walked towards the car, pulled open the door, and slumped onto the seat next to me.

My god, I thought. It’s Professor Snape. He had greasy skin, greasy long black hair, and a hooked nose to boot. Only this guy had a huge scar running down his face. Going from the top of his forehead, over his eye, down to his chin, it seemed to push his eye out of place, giving him a mad look. He smelled like damp clothes. Which made sense, I suppose. But there was a smell I couldn’t place, too, something..metallic. He wore a long brown trenchcoat, grimy trousers, and shoes that had seen better days. His skin was pale, as if he hadn’t been outside in a while.

Noticing me staring at him, he turned to me. I felt a chill run down my spine the second his gaze met mine. Silently, his mouth moved. His lips formed the words “You’re dead.”

Suddenly, the car veered to the right. The man’s hand shot out to steady himself. When his hand grasped the seat, his arm extended briefly from his sleeve.


I gasped. Whose blood was that? His, or someone else’s? He pulled his hand away. He knew I’d seen it. Maybe he wanted me to.

“Damn foxes!” exclaimed my father. “They want to get run over, I swear. So, where are you headed?” he said, addressing the hitchhiker, while I tried to process what had just happened.

“Totnes.” His voice was rough and low.

“What’s your name?”

“Rellik. Ian Rellik.”

“What were you doing out in that rain, coulda caught your death of cold out there!”

“My car broke down.” He intoned.

“That’s a shame.” Said my Dad, merrily trying to make conversation. “Are you going anywhere nice?”

The man paused. Eventually, he said “Visiting my family.”

I knew he was lying. Why would be pause right before replying? Was he making it up, trying to think of what to say?

I shuffled further over to my side, away from him.

“Oh how nice, visiting the parents? Do you have any kids?”

“No.” was the simple reply.

I think my Dad sensed that he wasn’t going to be having a lengthy conversation anytime soon because he didn’t ask anything else. Shuffling further away, I prayed that we’d get this man to his destination before he did anything. Trying to forget where I was, I idly wrote on the window the first word in my mind.


There was a flash of lightning outside. Jumping, I anticipated the thunder. As I did so, I caught glance of myself in the mirror. I looked white as a sheet. I would have gotten whiter if it were possible, when I saw the words I’d written reflected also.


The thunder came. The man turned his attention back to me. I met his gaze, determined to look confident. He silently mouthed some words again. “I’m going to kill you.” Then he turned his attention downwards, and reached inside his coat.

Oh god. He could have anything in there. He could have a knife or a gun or worse! And I would be his first victim. He wouldn’t attack Dad, or the car would veer out of control. He couldn’t attack Mum because he couldn’t reach her. I would be his first victim. Then he would kill Mum, then he would kill Dad, then maybe someone else. I had to do something.

Then I remembered that I was sitting behind my mother for a reason. What was it that she had said this morning…

“Don’t sit on the driver’s side, the catch on the door is broken. It’s dangerous.”

I noticed that he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. I was. Realising this, I knew what I had to do. The man’s hand closed on something inside his coat. I turned to face him and braced my back against the door. As he withdrew the knife, I kicked with all my might.

I caught him square in the chest and he smacked into the door. The catch gave way and he tumbled out the car. An industrial lorry blared past in the other direction. Ian Rellik went straight under the front wheels. He exploded in a fountain of blood.

Mum screamed and Dad hit the brakes. The lorry ground to a halt. Suddenly everything was silent except for the rain hammering on the roof.

Dad twisted round to look at me. “What…” he began. I quickly explained. I explained about the blood on his arm. The lies he had told. The blood on his arm. The knife in his coat. The lunatic asylum.

Mum was in total shock. Dad laid his hand on my arm. “It’s alright.” He said. “Wait here.” He got out of the car. I watched him talking with the lorry driver. There wsa no sign of the killer. He must have been fairly spread out across the road. I felt horrible about what I’d done, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I had saved the life of my parents, myself, and whoever else that man would have gone after. He gave me no choice.

“He says he’s going to call the police.” Dad announced, getting back in the car.

“Did you tell him what happened?” I enquired.

“Yes. He knows you did the right thing.”

I sat back. My father started the engine, and we drove another ten miles until we came to a building with ten-metre high walls with spikes along the top. We stopped at a pair of metal gates with a speaker at the front. My Dad leaned out of the window and said something.

I knew where we were. We had come to Fairfield’s. Fairfield’s Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane.

We had to tell them, I knew. The lorry driver had agreed. We had to tell them that Ian Rellik had escaped and that we had killed him. In self defence. They needed to know. I asked my father if that was why we’d come here.

“Yes. That’s why we’re here.”

We drove to a big Victorian house with red bricks and bars on the windows. Had he managed to somehow remove the bars and get out of one of these windows? I checked for evidence of an escape. I could see why the institution had gotten it’s name. It was surrounded by vast fields spreading for some distance under the high-voltage searchlights. Before we had even stopped, a bald man with a white beard in a white suit came out of the building.“Wait here.” Said Dad, getting out of the car. I watched the two of them talking but this time I managed to hear a little of what they said.

Dad did most of the talking. “You were wrong, Dr Samson, you were wrong, we never should have taken her…”

“None of us could have know. She was doing so well, we thou -”

“She was fine in Shaldon! She was fine! She seemed normal all day and then..then..this!”

“I don’t know what to say to you Mr Taylor. I don’t know what to say.”

“Never again, that’s what. Never again!”

The two men came over to the car. “We’re going in with Doctor Samson.” Said Dad.

“All right.” I replied.

Mum didn’t look at me as I got up. She didn’t even say goodbye. That made me sad.

Doctor Samson put his hand on my shoulder. “Come inside. We need to talk about what’s happened.”

“All right.”

Later on they told me that the hitchhiker’s name was Ian Renwick and that I’d misheard him. Apparently Mr Renwick was a gardener who has been working on an isolated building and his car had broken down and so he started walking home. They told me that it was mud I’d seen on his arm, not blood. He got his scar from falling onto a spade. And when they scraped him off the tarmac he was holding not a knife but a cigarette case.

That was what they told me but I don’t believe any of it. After all, they told me lots of lies after my brother Tom fell under that train. They even wanted me to believe that I’d pushed him! Nobody ever understood.

So here I am, back in my room, staring at the fields through a barred window. Same old view. I had such a nice day in Shaldon. I just hope I won’t have to wait another thirteen years before they take me out again.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Quote of the Day

'Love is a nauseatingly deceptive cherry-red fruit, whose smooth and glossy skin conceals a black and rotten heart infested with worms.'

- Epic quote from one of my friends.