Storyless story

I’m already annoyed because I know nobody will actually like this. There is way too much implied story, which I suppose at some time I might bother to write. But I really like the fact that there isn’t actually a plot. Nothing happens. Because this isn’t a ‘story’ – it’s not about what happens. It’s just a reflection on this character, this one woman who has been abandoned in the most beautiful place, knowing that she will die there, and submitting to it.

I don’t even know why I’m publishing it but here you go.

 

Like always, it doesn’t have a name. Call it Ark if you want to call it anything.

 

The colour of my hands reminds me of home; it’s the first time I’ve seen blue in almost eight years. Things are different here, so backwards, but so beautiful. It’s like a dream and I’m waiting to wake up.
I’m sitting on a cliff edge. I managed to climb part way down to a ledge where my feet could dangle but my back could be supported. And I can see a scene I’ve seen before, but the orange sky is not ink. The silhouetted animals are not static. They look closer than they are, because they are so big, like nothing I’ve ever seen on earth except in the museums. There are species here I never got the chance to save, and it’s such a waste. To my left, a sun sets, as one rises to my right. It was in a similar twilight that I sat down and kicked my shoes off and watched them fall, bouncing off the blemishes in the cliff’s face, until they fell out of sight. How many days and half-days have passed since then is hard to tell when both suns look the same.

The sky is an amber canvas, pink-ribboned, beautiful. I woke to it naturally; even if I had an alarm I would not let it ruin this tranquillity. I haven’t heard a sound that I did not make in days. Even the calls of the birds don’t carry this high. They’re not entirely different from the birds I used to nurse at home; colourful and charismatic, but with bigger wings. The air is more dense here, the copper crystals which give the sky its ginger tint also make it heavy. I don’t notice the taste of the copper any more, and I’ve already been out in it so much longer than we were told was safe without a mask. But since the ship flew, taking with it all the oxygen chambers and purification generators and not me, I’ve had little choice in the matter. Eight years to get where I am, to collect the data, to study, monitor, understand. When, in two years time, they get my work home, my old colleagues will study, monitor, but they will not understand. And I will not be there to help; I will be long-since crystallised, and likely the whole planet, by that time, will have perished too. The two suns which march relentlessly around SC-J are its keepers, the masters of its fate, and the architects of its inevitable destruction as its sulphur core slowly cooks until a forecast simultaneous eruption from its bowels blows the surface into a myriad tiny satellites orbiting what will be the only known naturally-forming metal planet, forged in the furnace of its own micro-solar-system.

There is no place for life on that planet. Not for the animals we came to save. Not for the team that left without me. Not for me.

 

I’m a writer, I’ve got a bit of a problem…

In the words of Stephen Davidson:
“I’m a writer, I’ve got a bit of a problem. I picked up some moves in my youth and I’m scared that I’ve lost them.”

He’s got a genuine gift with words. That’s not the finest example of his work, not by a long way (check out ‘Hospital’ by Tellison on YouTube), but it is the most appropriate for me right now.
I think that’s part of the genius of it sometimes, it’s very relatable.

See, the thing is, my ‘thing’ in life is writing. That’s probably the thing I’m most noticed for. I have a real complex about being recognised for stuff. Not in an arrogant way, but I need a ‘thing’ of my own, something that is mine. In my social groups I’m not the sporty one, although I am sporty. I’m not the musical one, although I am musical. I’m not the funny one, although I like to think I am quite funny. I’m not the good-looking one or the clever one or the kind one.
I’m the writer.

Which is fine, although it’s easy to overlook. I don’t mind that so much, I suppose it makes it seem more worthwhile when people discover it.

The thing is, I basically can’t write any more. Not fiction.
I can put these words in a nice order and make it easy to read, maybe a bit funny, and you can maybe get to the bottom of how I feel because I can express myself reasonably well through the language I use.
And I can speel, and my grammar am quite goodly, and I know how to use apostrophe’s.

But I can write stories.
I have SO MANY good ideas for stories, but I don’t know how to get them out. I have all these characters in my head who want to live, but I haven’t created a world for them yet.

I studied Creative Writing for 3 years, and whilst I loved it, and was good at it at the time, I’ve basically come to see it as more of a challenge than a blessing. I didn’t really learn how to write well, I just learnt how not to write badly. We looked at each other’s work and criticised, and we looked at famous work and we criticised. But now it just means I can’t write at all. I’ve closed off all the options.
I’ve got a bit of free time this afternoon, and whilst I really fancy reading, I also really fancy writing. I have this idea, but I can’t work it.

I’ll see if I can get it out, probably in quite brief, and you can all tell me how to make it better.

Thanks.
xx

New Book

Before you even knew me, you knew me. You knew me enough to give me the perfect present, my soul’s want, my heart’s need. You gave me a book.

It was the book I had always wanted. The book I knew so much and so little about. The perfect gift.
You gave it to me wrapped and ribbonned, perfect and pristine. I was too excited to look for the flaws.

I spent a lot of time with that book to begin with. It wasn’t your classic page-turner; the kind of book you burn through to get to the end and find out what happens. It was the kind of book you read slowly and carefully, addressing every detail and knowing every name. The kind of book where you read a chapter in bed even way after you’re tired, and re-read in the morning to make sure you didn’t miss anything. The kind of book you even enjoy the smell of.

I was half-way through before I first noticed the dog-ears. When I became aware of it I looked back and found there had been some already, I just hadn’t realised. I wondered if I had tattered the book, though I was so careful. I started seeing signs that I wasn’t the first person to thumb through this book, though perhaps I was the first to be so gentle with it.
As page followed page, so each became more scrappy and scuffed, and with each new revelation I found more I had over-looked already. It wasn’t long before I found narrative interrupted by missing pages, evidence of paper torn hurriedly from the spine, evidence that this book had been manhandled and mistreated by one, perhaps more, handler before me. And slowly the book became less beautiful.
And slowly your gift became less perfect.

And slowly you fell page from page in my hands.

Know Love, Peace, Grace and Mercy, and be Joyful

What if?

It’s just been Christmas day.

I was thinking… what if?
Like, what if the Christmas story really is true?

We all know the Christmas story, we all know the idea, even a weirdly high number of people pretend to believe the story (for this one month of the year…)

Celebrities always bring out their boring biography/autobiographies around Christmas, there’ll be millions on sale in January. It’s just funny really, cos Jesus is kind of backwards in some ways. I mean, the idea of an autobiography is to tell the world about the history of a person who is famous now as a grown-up. Jesus is the other way round – we all know where he came from (a manger, right?) but actually people are quite happy to switch off there and not pay attention to the growing-up and the spicy ending. Even if you don’t believe it, it’s a killer narrative. But if you do believe it, it changes EVERYTHING. Right?

How are we not more excited about that?

I literally don’t think I saw anyone smile at church this morning. We all hang out and sing carols and pray and talk and whatever, but we don’t seem excited.
Are we over it?

What if it’s actually real? Seriously – what if there really is some kind of ALMIGHTY GOD WHO CREATED EVERYTHING in all its beauty and glory?
What if He gave us everything and some stupid people in history threw it back in his face?
What if He still loved us, and became A TINY BABY (remember the capitals from a minute ago? Same person) in all the innocence, humility and vulnerability of being a human child in a cattle-shed.
What if that child grew up, showed only love to everyone, and received only hate in return, only to be arrested, tortured and killed by regular people, people like you and me.
What if, even in that horrible death, he loved us, you and me, and offered us freedom and hope. He offered us life in his death.

I dunno, I think that if we all really believed that truth we’d probably get a bit more excited about the time that marks the beginning of that journey of redemption. Wouldn’t we?

Jesus was born on earth so that he could die for me SO THAT I COULD LIVE FREE.

GET IN!

A saviour is for life, not just for Christmas.

Peace out kids xx

Cracks

I forgot to ever clarify that this is a poem I wrote during a lesson on War Poetry. I got the kids to write poems and told them they must sit in absolute silence so as not to disturb me while I wrote one.

Not bad for 20 minutes… perhaps a little over-the-top with poetic devices but it what I was marking them on so I thought I’d give it some!

 

Cracks

Rain against the window like machine gun fire,
Spluttering and splattering and battering the shutters.
Cannons in the graveyard as the lightning strikes the spire;
I try to say a prayer for them but even think in stutters.

Lonely I have watched them lie in sleepless slumber,
Stuck inside the cell of my own body, so broken.
Slowly, over sixty years, I’ve seen them swell in number,
In sixty years not a single word I’ve spoken.

Cracks, my dry voice, and chokes,
And I see the puddles well.
“Amen,” the first and last words I spoke,
As at last I meet old friends.

The Confession

When I came on here to write this, I noticed that my last post was a story I wrote about a ‘fictional’ character who was annoyed about how the thing that used to be unique about him was now worthless and wasted.
It’s obviously been a theme in my life for longer than I realised.

See, a close friend recently told me that I’m not that special. I think it was said in that sarcastic way where it’s like “You act like you’re special but you’re not.”
I know she was in a bad mood when she said it, and I know I was making it worse, but she had a good point.

I’m not that special.

And that’s ok; I mean, no-one really is, are they?
I know we’re all individual and unique, in the same way that a snow-flake is individual and unique. But, when it comes down to it, a snow-flake is just a snow-flake, same as all the others. They all look the same and do the same thing.
They’re nothing special.

It’s tiring, pretending.
I feel like I spend my whole life pretending to be much better than I am. I spend my whole life pretending to be funny, or clever, or good-looking, or sporty. But the truth is, I’m not outstanding either way.
I’m average, mediocre. Satisfactory.
Satisfactory Simon.

I’m not especially clever, but I’m not dumb.
I’m not really ugly, but I’m not handsome.
I’m not massively fat, but I’m a bit tubby.

I occasionally say funny things, I sometimes do good things on the football pitch, and I can just about hold a tune on a few instruments.

But I’m just average at everything, same as everyone.

This isn’t a moan, it’s just an observation.

I don’t mind.
So don’t feel like you should get in touch and tell me otherwise – you’d only be lying (or exaggerating). Insincerity is the worst.
In fact, I don’t think anyone will read this anyway.

I guess what I’m saying, if anyone does read this, is don’t be surprised if I don’t make the effort any more. It doesn’t mean I’m glum or miserable, it just means I’m settling for being average.

Whatever.

Dust

Here’s a fictional story I wrote.
It’s about a fictional guy who is tired and kind of fed up, and is realising he’s no longer good at the thing that used to be unique about him – writing.

I think it’s called Dust, or something.

I’m at the junkyard again.
It must be because I’m tired. It’s where I always go when I’m tired, and I’m tired now. That must be it – because I’m tired.
It’s my sanctuary, my solitude. My solace. See, there’s little comfort there, except the cold old blanket of satisfaction. Satisfaction, but nothing more.
It’s all I really know.
I let the crumbling rubble of old similes and metaphors and clichés sieve through dry fingertips. I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting to find here. Perhaps, somewhere amongst this scrapheap of vocabulary, there are a few forgotten words which hang sweetly together. Perhaps somewhere in this labyrinth of language there are a few lost thoughts, ideas, notions. An suggestion here, a nuance there, even a golden nugget of allusion.
Perhaps nothing.
And so it is, like always, I leave the jumble sale empty handed. All I can do is clap the dust of old words from my palms onto the page, and publish.

Rags

I was just thinking about my clothes.

I’m wearing a pair of jeans, which I’ve been wearing for ages and honestly might not have been washed for over a month. And I’m wearing the same t-shirt I wore yesterday (and also a few days ago). And I’m wearing a hoodie I found on the bedroom floor, which has been there a few days and I don’t know how long I wore it for before it got ditched.
The boxers and socks, well they’re clean on today. I’m not a complete skank.

But, you know, I’m not all that fussed about my clothes. They’re comfy, and they keep me warm, and as long as they don’t smell or have stains on, I’m alright with them. I don’t see my clothes as making a big statement about who I am, in the same way some people do. I don’t “dress to impress.” I don’t wear clothes to suit a label, or to be labelled. I don’t really wear branded clothes. I don’t actively avoid them, I’m just not excited about paying £20 for a pair of boxers with some other guy’s name on, or hoodies which claim me as a member of a made-up rowing club…
I’m not Jack Wills. I’m not Fred Perry. I’m not Ralph Lauren or Kalvin Klein or Hugo Boss.
I’m Simon Barber.

But actually, I should be worried about what I wear.
In his letter to the Colossians, Paul writes “clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience… and over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”
I like to think that if you were to look in my wardrobe, you’d find those things.
But the truth is I’m not wearing them all the time.
Because sometimes it’s more comfortable to wear indifference, selfishness, pride, security and ignorance, right?
And you know what else, it’s not just comfortable, it’s also cheap. You can pick it up at the knock-off discount store, the factory outlet. You can get some pretty sweet deals. In fact, there’s just one price for all of it. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet. All you can wear, you know. And the price is death.
Not a bad deal, eh?

And then you realise that the first outfit – the one with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience – they weren’t cheap. But they’ve been bought for you. Why pay any price at all (let alone the price of death) when someone has already paid for the better outfit?

And let me assure you, the quality of the clothes that were bought for you is perfect. I wouldn’t waste my time with that discount crap, cos after a while it’s itchy and suffocating, and it starts coming un-thread and making holes, and it doesn’t keep you warm any more, and it doesn’t look cool. And eventually you’re just standing there naked and humiliated and cold and wishing you’d taken the free offering that was there all the time. The gift that seemed too good to be true.

Don’t get to that point.
The offer is too good, but it’s true.

Choose love.

Easy.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, so that any who believed may not perish but have eternal life

Infinity

I feel like bad similes are like grains of sand on a beach.
I’m drowing in rubbish metaphors.
The angry fists of personification are choking me.
Misused language is LITERALLY going to kill me.

Shut up.

Why do we have to use so many similes and metaphors all the time?
I notice it most at church.
It’s the songs that are the worst.

And yeah, fine, Jesus spoke in parables, and the bible is rife with similes and metaphors and other figurative language. But it’s also got a lot of very simply-spoken truths, a lot of basic commands/statements/directions/other.

Grace is not an ocean.
Love is not a storm.
Faith is not a fire.
Heaven is not any kind of kiss; neither sloppy-wet nor unforseen.

I know why we do it though, I get why it happens.
It’s because we’re trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.
We’re trying to humanise the divine.
We’re trying to measure the immesuarable.

I don’t think we should do it.

I think there’s spleandor in the fact that we can’t work it out.
I think there’s divinity in the fact that it’s beyond us.
I think there’s beauty in the expanses beyond imagination.

I think that’s how we know it’s not us.

Time and space are both, allegedly, infinite.
I can get my head around that, because they’re both measurable. So for something to be beyond measure is fine, I have a frame of reference.

Love, grace, peace and mercy, amongst other things, are harder to measure.
I sort of get them, in theory, but normally only experience them in a very human, definable way.
The fact that God’s version of those things is SO FAR BEYOND ANYTHING WE KNOW is a spectacular thing.
I don’t want to dilute it by putting it into the context of something I get.
I don’t want to get it.
I want it to amaze me for all my life. I want to be lost in the majesty of it.

So here it is, without similes or metaphors or any other figurative crap convoluting it, the simple message:
The creator of the universe and everything in it, God of Heaven and earth, knows and loves you personally. It breaks His heart daily that you (and I) do not follow his perfect plan for us, but His love for you (and me) NEVER subsides. His gift of eternal life is available for all who choose to accept it.

That’s some pretty good news, no?

Goodnight xx