Nothing to Say

Nothing to Say

Saying Nothing

Writers Block, You See

Nothing to Say

Saying Nothing

Nothing says anything

But then Everything, Right Now, Says Nothing

It won't talk to me the way it usually does

Maybe it's something I've said

Maybe It's something I haven't done

Maybe maybe maybe maybe

Saying Nothing by Having Nothing to Say.

20 minute story

Drinking at the Waters Edge

They were drinking at the water's edge from the middle of the day. Jumping in and out of the water all day, now tired; they looked out at the lights peeking over from the other side. Moonlight and manlight streaked accross the solid ripples.
The boy held a can up to his mouth, and beer dribbled down his chin onto his shirt. "Shit", he said. "How about that." The rest laughed, and he looked at the girl. His girl; or so he liked to think. She was looking away out at the water. So he looked away over the water and stopped larking.
"Tea," said one of the other girls. "I think I need a cup of tea. I'm fucked from all this drinking." The rest made nyaah noises, and raised their various glasses, cans, bottles. She got up anyway and went back to the house.
When she came back, they'd all paired off except the boy who spilled his beer and the girl; both looked out to the sea. The boy looked over every so often, but then looked back out.
"Well lads, what's up with ye?" she asked. The boy looked over at his girl; she looked at the girl with the tea and said "Nothing. Just... thinking." The girls nodded, and the boy tried to think of something to think of. He looked down at his hands, clasping and unclasping each other. It helped him concentrate on not talking or showing off.
From over a rock covered in darkness came a laugh, followed by a bikini top. "You bastard" said a young one over there. Who was she with? The boy wondered. He thought she had a great sense of humour. Would his girl have... no. No, it couldn't be like that, he thought. Not us. We're more serious, you see, he said to himself. He looked at the girls beside him, who were grinning to each other, but looked sternly at him. No, he thought. Definitely not.
"Sham" came a voice from the other direction, "Sham!" again, louder, "Sham! Come here!" He looked at the girls, and they looked at him. At first he did not move, but then they looked at each other. So he got up and followed the voice. "What is it?"
"Look at this..." said Jimmy's distracted voice. Sham stopped dead and said "What're you up to?" He looked back at the girls, but they were now immersed in conversation. "Have you beer with you?"
"Yes. Just come over here. C'mon!"
"Ok, Ok, I'm coming"
It was a dead sheep, lying on its side, neck broken so you could see the twinkles from both open eyes. "Well, he didn't see that coming" said Sham, and the three boys already there laughed. That's what they wanted me for, thought Sham.
"Too sheepish to swim" another said, starting in a whisper, ending in a scream; it flopped. They looked at the sheep, its seaweed tethers, the blue stain on the back.
"Here, Sham" said Jimmy, "here." Sham went over to him and put his foot under it at the arse. Jimmy had the head. "Ready... one... two... three!" Sham went to kick it over sideways, but Jimmy kicked it upways. Sham jumped back and screamed. The boys laughed at that one. One of them gave him a beer. The girls looked over and said "What's going on?" Oh Jesus no, thought Sham. Now she'll know. It was the girl with the tea who saw them, but she screamed, so Sham's girl came over too.
"Aw Jesus Christ, what's wrong with ye? Jesus Christ. Can't you see it's dead?" Sham tried to get mature, but couldn't help himself. He giggled along with the other boys. They looked at the dead thing, and looked at the girls, and couldn't believe they didn't get it. The girls looked at the dead creature, then at the boys giggling, and couldn't believe they didn't get it.
"Sham..." his girl said,
"What?" he tried to say it softly, hoping she'd ask him away with her for a minute; but in his rush to reach out, it sounded like he was too busy to answer. She went back to the house with the girl with the tea.

kind of faux-poor man's-bad beckett...

She hands over the paper. Both of us look at our hands, exchanging. Both soft. "Not a day's work..." Still makes me angry, but not at her, not anymore. The grey walls meet the grey sky above us, and neither of us look, as it's nothing spectacular. Everything feels like a definite unknown; truly false; clearly confused.
They dressed me and disabused me, and left me out to fend for myself. I had to dress myself now. Fucking hell. Would've been easier if they had me do that from the start. But that was the problem, they said: that I always needed someone to have me do something. I should do something for myself, they said. After the years of telling me to not be selfish and do something for someone else for a change! Hypocrites, all of them.
Now, she is telling me I must do something. I wish I knew what, but she won't tell me. She says she doesn't konw either. If she doesn't know, how can she know there's something I need to do? This is why I'm confused. They told me to think before acting in future. That was after my brother's funeral. So after that time, I always thought before acting. But now they say I think to much. It might be the thought that counts, they say wrily, but it's the action that matters. How does that help me?
I have the paper now anyway. Blacking fingers run past the peadophiles, terrorists, politicians and other scourges of decent society to get to the jobs. I need a job, I'm told. I don't feel it myself, but here I am with black fingers and an intent look; copied from the other boys on the bench, waiting to be called so they could excuse themselves from work for another week. Every ritual humiliation holds the same moment. When you're sitting doing nothing, and it passes your mind that this week, they might just understand. Not at all, they do not. "Look" they say "I understand" they say "I'm like you" they continue "and if I could get a job, so can you" they cheer. "Well", you feel like replying "If I do get a job" confirming their request "Then you're good at your job" flattery gets you everywhere, you have to put it in, "But then you might lose your job" you sympathise "because the benches over there would be empty" you postulate "With everyone working" you explicate "Then where would we be?" asking rhetorically "Eternally swapping places" you answer for him "Because my job would be understanding you" you explain "And empathising that if I could get a job" you condition "then so could you" you reason. That kind of investigation deserves a pint. I decide to come back later.

very burroughs, I think...

They line up and fill out the bars. They are repositories of true genius. If a man could crack open them heads and spill out that knowledge, Jesus, a fortune he'd uncover. A fuckin' fortune. They're tuned to the ether, these boys and girls. Don't bother flashing your Gold or Platinum card if there's no credit or cash shoring it up. They know. They smell money. That, or they use photographic memory and telepathy to run a quick credit check before coming over to you with rock hard abs or super tits and you only get one chance. If you blow it, that's it for you in this establishment. They leave a watermark on you: Useless. And anyone with that kind of money needs something that isn't money to make them feel good. These boys and girls are it. They're running the show. Why was your boss such a cunt this morning? He was branded as useless last thursday in the bar. Sure, he's got a wife and kids; big house; bigger car: but all of it means shite. He needs to feel human, and for him, this is as close as it gets. And he fucked it up. So you pay the price.

This is a place to put up short stories, observations and other short pieces. I keep going to brenswestern to do this, and it'll only get cluttered to shit if I continue. Consequentally, this will probably be the more updated blog, as it'll be a fairly simple in-out job on most entries. Except the short stories, which will probably be posted and re edited until they look nothing like they did originally. But, like I always say, if God wanted us to engage in fidelity, he wouldn't have made us such damned good liars.