Sometimes I think I’m like Quasimodo – scuttling around in the dark hiding from the real world with this bulge of unused stories on my back. But silence fills the space around me now. It presses against my face smothering the words I’m trying to say. The quietness of time from yesterday has mutated to this stifling nothingness of now. When I speak it should not be futile, nor worthless. The impossibility of saying what’s on my mind, what’s in my heart. If there is such a thing as a soul maybe that’s where the words could form, where they could find the right sequence, could convey my thoughts. Grammatically dramatic and instinctively persuasive they would make the listener (or the reader) stop grasping, stop assuming and just know the truth of what I say. In their mind they will see the scenes I’ve painted with words.

My eyes may be closed but I can see. My head may be bowed but I stand tall. The who of me has found itself and what it sees is joy, and sadness, laughter and loneliness. These sensations need to be exposed and critiqued, now, before they become old ideas to be dealt with by an aging brain that forgets more than it remembers. Ideas that would be made irrelevant by a mumbling, drooling writer that never understood that what you write is not as important as why you do. I fear that the why of me may never be known.

Words and themes, plots and deceit, covert twisting of the truth, clever use of words, accidental brilliance. All these things drive the urge to pull images from the temporal neurons in my brain and expose them to scrutiny. I need to cage them, massage and coerce them to create pleasure or anxiety or wonder. I could accept ridicule, be dismissed as irrelevant or worse as long as the words flow and the storytelling pours from my head, through my fingers and into the world. To meld my congested thoughts seamlessly with the long blank periods where nothing moves in my head. Sometimes my brain just sits empty and I’m fearful that maybe now it’s really been purged of any original thoughts.

Words without order and grammar are pointless, sentences without a reason to be spoken or read are worse. The story should draw you close, keep you involved while relaying new ideas, teaching new skills, fulfilling fantasy, making you laugh or cry, transporting you to another place and time.

Some stories are like the first few months with a new lover, with hormones raging you just can’t get enough and every minute apart seems like hours. Other stories are more the comfortable, easy bond of a 20-year relationship – you know what’s going to happen before you turn the page. I want to write the former.

So I sit at my desk and start.

“I’m in the cafeteria, the gunman’s moving towards me”. Hmm, No, that doesn’t work; lets try again “Its sort of kinky being naked in the forest”. No, can’t get moving on that one either. How about “It was a dark and stormy night”. That’s got potential but I’m sure its been done before. I lift my hands from the keyboard and sigh.

I’m infatuated with writing, in love with the process; I yearn for a happy outcome. To have the power writing gives me. But it will have to be another day, this one just isn’t going to work.

I squint, eyes adjusting to the glare from the ceiling light. The sound of my cellmates voice is familiar but I’m confused, the face doesn’t fit the sound. I peer at him and think I can see traces of a face that I know, but I’m not sure so I keep staring, uncertain. The owner of this face hasn’t shaved for a long time. He has lost a chunk of hair on one side of his scalp and there is a large purple scar where it used to be. One eye is closed with fluid weeping from it; there is a deep red scar across his cheek. The nose has been broken more than once and seems to be just clinging to a face that has numerous other badly healed cuts. He holds his arms out, “you going to give me a hug” he says.

I’m confused. “Jack? Is that you Jack?” I shout above the wall of noise from the other prisoners, He nods and speaks, his voice raw as if ready to break. “I knew you’d come for me I’ve been waiting for you, waiting for you to come Luke, I knew you’d come ”. I move forward and he grips my shoulders, pulls me in to a feeble hug, The stench from his body is powerful, I choke – pull away and gaze at him, I breathe, tears well up in my eyes, vision blurring. I want it to be Jack, my head is saying no, no, this can’t be him but my heart knows its Jack, my brother, Jack, I’ve been searching for him.

My brother, my big bear of a brother. Always my protector, the man with a huge heart, warm and compassionate with legendary strength has been reduced to this - a beaten, abused husk of the person he used to be. He’s obviously been tortured, battered and starved. I move back into his embrace and feel his bones under the scrawny body, hear his wheezing as he tries to talk some more to me. “Tell me your story Jack, Tell me what’s happened” I say.

Now that the guards have gone the noise around us has subsided. Some prisoners are still keening or wailing and a few continue to shout obscenities but the noise from the trays being dragged across the metal bars has stopped and we no longer have to shout to be heard. I try to block the stench from the open squat toilets, Jack sees me gag and passes me a filthy cloth to cover my nose, “you get used to it” he mumbles.

With the cloth pressed to my nose I sit on the stool and Jack sits on the bed. “Talk to me” I say, reach out and take his hand in mine, he winces and I realise some fingernails are gone. We stare at each other for a while, Jack has tears streaming down his face and he struggles for air. Then, with a low moan he closes his eyes, starts rocking and begins to talk, his voice is raspy and I strain to hear him.

“Remember the grand idea we had?” I nod, we were so happy. So confidant. The plan was for Jack to travel through African countries scouting for opportunities, ideas that we could use to expand our business, offering unique travel destinations, adventure tours, specialised exploration, the ultimate adrenalin buzz was what we were looking for. Jack’s Rugby playing days had made him a household name and with my legal experience in negotiating and marketing, we were convinced we couldn’t lose. Jack dropped his head into his hands, “You and I were going to get rich” he said, “We just needed to find the right opportunity.” Well, Luke he said, “I found it, I found our El Dorado”.

“But I wish I hadn’t”, his voice is cracking with emotion. “Its why I’m here”.

Jack positions his feet carefully on the floor before pushing his scrawny body further up on the narrow bed, he fails on the first attempt, waves me away and push’s down on his feet again. This time he lifts his body back further on the bed, bum shuffles and leans against the wall, sighs ... starts talking again.

“I’d been on the road for a month, looking and listening and getting a bit discouraged, so far there had been nothing I’d seen that stood out as a really special adventure, the ”Top Gun” adventure our client’s had asked for. I had been in Somalia for a week and after a day of relentless heat and grime needed a drink and some company so wandered into bar not far from the hotel I was staying in. The barman was a big happy Irishman named Shaun, business was slow so we chatted for a while. I told him why I was here and that I was looking for adventure that was “off the edge”, something that our young, wealthy clients would pay big money for.

Jack paused; talking was clearly painful for him. His chest rose and fell as he sat motionless against the wall. His eyes opened and he looked at me for a few moments before continuing.

What sort of adventure the barman had asked, The grittier the better I told him, there must be an element of danger, a chance to show off physical and mental strength and it’s essential there is a reward for winning. Some of them have been in the military, have survival skills and are familiar with guns. They were bored with the Safari treks and survivor type tours. This needed something much bigger than that. It had to be really special, maybe not even legal. The barman listened carefully as he dried the beer glass’s, then glanced over at 2 men talking quietly in a booth at the rear of the room and said “ If that’s what you really want then talk to Ivan and Zachariah over there, tell them I sent you over and what your looking for. He suggested I bought some beer and snacks for them to ease the introduction

Jack closed his eyes and squeezed some pain away from his face. His breathing was shallow and slow – he face pale. I waited for him to start talking again.

“So I ordered three beers and a bowl of banana and rice, the local delicacy in Mogadishu, then wandered over to their table, told them I was looking for adventure and that the barman had suggested I talk to them. One had looked over at Shaun, acknowledged the nod from him while the other kept his eyes on me, appraising me. We exchanged names and shook hands and sat a while till the beer and snack bowl arrived. They were both big muscular men with shaven heads, tattooed arms and necks. Zachariah seemed to be the alpha and asked me to expand on what it was I was looking for and what my clients really wanted. I told him they were looking for real adventures, where a man could use his strength and cunning to beat the odds. I told them these were mainly ex military men who had survival skills they wanted to use and were willing to pay for the action.”

Zachariah glanced at Ivan , they exchanged a nod, he looked back at me and smiled, “ I think we can help you” he said.

Inside my head I’m screaming, shit scared, totally freaked out. The noise around me is overwhelming, constant and loud, really loud, crushing my thoughts into splinters of memories and a blur of pain. The guard shoves me in the back and I stumble, I’m clutching a small pile of clothes, an orange jump suit, black plastic sandals and some “one size fits all” underpants. I’m naked. I stumble again and shuffle forward, the ankle chains have cut deep into my skin, and each step is agony. I look up and see a long corridor with cells off each side. Each cell is fronted with bars and I can see everything that’s in them, a narrow bed with a folded blanket and a flat pillow, a small table bolted to the wall and a stool bolted to the floor. A battered steel food tray and a mug sit on the table. There’s a hole in the floor in one corner, a squat toilet. No door to hide behind. No windows, no shelf, just dull green painted walls and a dirty grey concrete floor, some with irregular dark coloured stains. There is one light fitting with steel mesh over it in the ceiling.

At each cell as I pass the resident stares out, most just glare at me as they run their metal trays back and forth along the steel bars, some yell obscenities,. A few stand naked, puckered scars and unhealed sores burn red against their grey skin. One has a maniacal smile, a toothless gap in a battered and bruised face. “Stop here” the guard shouts in my ear. A second guard crouches down and unlocks the shackles around my ankles. Runs his hands roughly up my legs and into my crotch “ I need to check your not hiding anything” he says with a crazy laugh, then “just joking” and they both hoot with laughter. I’m so scared I piss on the floor. “You can clean that up you mongrel “ Guard One says, he snatches my jump suit, dumps it on the floor and pushes me down “go on, soak it up”. I kneel down and wipe the floor; notice there is still blood mixed in there too. Guard two notices and hauls me up, peers into my face “you wanna see a doctor?’ he spits at me, I nod and mumble, “please”. “Request denied,” he shouts and the 2 guards laugh maniacally.

Red mist rage flows through me, I take a breath, I close my eyes - time seems to slow down. My mind has blocked out the pain, I feel calm, in a space that is safe and I know I’m in control again. I open my eyes and look directly into the face of Guard One, its pock scared, his nose has been broken many times in the past, his eyes are bloodshot and his breath stinks of some cheap alcoholic spirit. Two teardrop shaped tattoos near his eye and 3 dots lower down on his cheek tell me he’s an ex-con. One ear looks like its been torn off, maybe bitten off, no lobe and only half the rest of it is there. I decide to name him Daniel as in Daniel Craig – because he’s the exact opposite. I turn and stare at Guard Two – a short but muscular man, black body hair everywhere, he has a fat face with the capital letters CC in a circle tattooed on his forehead above his right eye. He has another tattoo on his neck in black and green of a flying eagle. His arms seem too long for his body, his torso too big for his head but from the look he’s giving me, I know he has attitude. I decide to name him Tattoo – from the fantasy Island TV show.

“Look away, look away – do not look at the guards,” yells a man from the cell beside me. “You stupid arse, look away!”

The noise has started again, steel trays against the bars, screaming voices, loud shouting in languages I’ve never heard before. The guards don’t react to the warning shout. “Were a bit overcrowded,” yells Daniel above the cacophony of noise, “you’ll have to share a cell”. He turns the key in the lock and the cell door slides open and I’m pushed inside. “Share the bed” he snarls and slams the door shut. I turn to look at the person in the cell already. “Well, what are the chances of that” he croaks, “ long time no see”.

Greg lies still in his lazyboy chair. His face and arms pale and blemished from too many drugs. His once curly hair is gone, just a smooth pale hairless skull is left. The rest of his body is hidden under a grey woolen blanket. I sit and watch his shallow breathing, the small rise and fall of his chest. His body is shutting down, those once strong arms, well muscled and tanned from working in the sun most of his life have gone. I think about my friend of 40 years, the laughs we had, so many funny times, the hangovers, not so many over the last few years but each one had a story to tell and I remember them all. Holidays, lots of them before and after marriage - so many shared memories. I guess he senses me sitting there, his eyelids flutter open and he squints against the sunlight. It takes a while for him to focus but he sees me, smiles and raises one hand “gidday mate”

I squeeze his hand and nod, “you look like a plucked chicken” I say, he grins and his eyes briefly sparkle – “yea, I know, I tarted up for you, sweetheart”. We stare at each other for a while; I don’t want to say, “how are you”, and all I can do is say “gidday mate” back to him. I stay holding his hand for a minute and feel a huge sadness that this man is so ill.

Annette comes into the room, sees me and nods acknowledgment that I’m there. She is no longer the best mates wife all charm and smiling. Now when she’s with Greg she is angry and moody, bitter. “His pills are in the organiser, fresh pajamas on the table, meals in the freezer, just microwave them for 5 mins.” She pauses and then “You will have to help him to go to the toilet, the Kids are with my sister so it’s just him you need to look after. I should be back by Tuesday night but it might be Thursday if the customer wants to sign”. She leans down to Greg and air kisses - near his face “Bye Greg, Ron will stay and look after you until I get back” She looks up at me and a smile flicks across her face for a few seconds and I once again I wonder at her strangely coloured eyes, a mixture of emerald green and smoky grey, there is a slight flush to her face but she glances away and then in a drift of perfume and swish of silk she’s gone – off on another business presentation. I stare after her and watch as she checks her face in the hall mirror, smiles, picks up her travel bag and leaves the house.

I look back at Greg; he has tears running down his cheeks. I’ve never seen him cry before, never seen him so vulnerable, I bend over and hug him, he clings to me and sobs, I’m crying too. It all feels a bit awkward, 2 mates hugging and soaking each other’s shirts with tears and snot – but I can’t stop bawling and neither can he. We cling together for a minute; the sobbing stops and I start to feel really silly. He gulps a lungful of air and pushes me away. “That’s all you’re getting, no nooky for you, you big ape” We squint at each other and take refuge in the “bloke banter” as we always do.

I sit on the stool beside his chair, grab a tissue from the box on the floor and wipe his face, take another and wipe mine – his lower lip is quivering, eyes squeezed shut and he takes another gulp of air before exhaling with a sigh and gulping again. A silence settles between us, then “we need to talk” he says but his words don’t register with me. I’m trying to clear my own thoughts and I’m stalling for time as I try to arrange the words I need to say to him. They will be a mixture of truth, half-truth and lies. Spoken from a desire to protect my lifelong friend but also a need to be honest as a friendship like ours dictates. Our mantra has always been “no secrets, no lies, never explain, never complain” but I’m not sure I can do that now.

I breathe in quietly and exhale gently, keeping my hand on his arm, trying to comfort him. “I need to tell you a story Greg, its one you might know a part of but not all. Its important you listen to it all before you say anything.”

Greg stares at me, I can see confusion on his face and alarm in his eyes. He sinks back in his chair and pulls the blanket up to his chin – his breathing is steady now and his face seems passive, accepting I guess. “go on then” he whispers.

“Annette always was the party girl, that’s what attracted you to her, remember? She was ambitious, intelligent and very pretty. You two were always at the centre of the social stuff in our group. Greg is staring at me, I hesitate but now I’m committed to telling him “A few years after you married she started, um straying I guess would be the word – just a quick cuddle with friends at first but later allowing more, actually encouraging touching, fondling … and more.

Greg raises his hand and says, “stop”. I’m surprised at the strength in his voice, his eyes clear, and his grip on my arm strong. “I know this Ron” he says, “I know where she’s gone now, another business trip with her boss. I know about the affairs she’s had, all of it.” I stare at him; I know he doesn’t know it all.

He keeps talking, talks about the friendship we’ve had, the strong bond that has grown since we first became mates, we were only 8. Growing up, crazy stuff through our college days, sports we did, rowing, surfing, tennis, always competing against each other, learning how to be men, discovering and appreciating women, taking charge of our lives, being there for our families and each other through the great times and the bad times as well. Always having each other’s back. He talks about the code that friends have, support your mates, be there for them, always buy your round, never nark.

He lies back in the chair and looks at me. “I’m dying Ron, the oncologist says I may have 2 or 3 months left. But mate, I’m in real trouble here, the pain is bad and its there all the time, I cant breathe without pain, I can’t crap without help, try to fart and I shit myself. I want out now.” He grips my arm tighter. “I need your help to finish this – now! I need to go out on my terms, with maybe a little dignity intact. Ron, you’re the only person who I can ask’ Pick up that pillow and press it down on my face, 2 minutes Ron and my suffering will be over. Mate, please, do it now. He stares at me and I stare back – what I’ve left unsaid acknowledged in his eyes as he continues to look directly into my soul.

I pick up the pillow and move close to him. He smiles and nods. The pillow is on his face when the door opens and Annette walks in. Her beautiful eyes look at me then shift to look at Greg, she moves forward and press’s down on the pillow, still staring at me. We hold the pillow down together, Annette looks up at me, smiles, leans in and we kiss.

it seems to me that if I have a story to tell no-one wants to hear it but if I place some sulky words around a perfidious idea and throw in a bit of erotica then everyone thinks thats a pickle tickle and worthy of voting for. So, maybe spanking the monkey is a more intellectual pastime than being a fabulist. 

Up before dawn, put on warm clothes and wet weather jacket, pick up the shotgun. Stumble out of the house into the dark and walk across the unfamiliar fields to a spot that Pete had reconnoitred the day before and stated that it would be a good place to bag a few ducks. We settled in and waited for 2 hours but not a single bird came near us, let alone a duck. Just after dawn we walked around a bit and hid in some flax bushes and spotted a couple of Shags but no Ducks. I was disillusioned, had thought I would do the hunter/gatherer thing and bring home enough to feed my family for a week or two. There was not a duck in sight as we poured coffee from the flask and ate the biscuits Sue had made the night before. It started to drizzle. I thought about Sue, snuggled up warm in the bed, naked. I don't really like duck but this was a man thing to do, out before dawn with a mate, providing for my family, bonding with a fellow hunter. The drizzle turned to rain and started to drip down inside my collar, I hate being cold. Thought about Sue again, her soft curves and sweet smell, all warm and welcoming. I peered through the rain as Pete shuffled closer to me, "stay here for an hour, keep still and the ducks will come" he whispered. " I'm going to go over near the big pond and settle there for a while, if we don't get any by 7:30am well go back to the house. OK?' I nodded, a plan was better than no plan. Pete disappeared across the field while I pulled the coat over my head and squinted into the dark, listening for any duck noise. Trickle of rain somehow found its way inside my shirt, cold and wet, buggar, thought of Sue sleeping in the big bed, on her back as she did, firm, full warm breasts rising and falling, one leg cocked to the side. Stop thinking about I told myself, be a man and watch out for the ducks. I imaged sliding in beside her, leg over hers, hand stroking her thighs and then up over her nipples and back down again to cradle her arse, run my finger along between the cheeks and probe softly into the special places. Stuff the ducks I thought, I'm going back to the house and bed with Sue. Started to stand then quack, quack, so settled back down and waited for the ducks to come closer, the light was better and the rain stopped, 2 ducks flew overhead, pulled the trigger then aimed ahead of the second duck and pulled again, bang, pause, bang. Both ducks fell, whoopee, I ran forward and retrieved them then heard more, reloaded and waited, this is the life, hunting, love it. In an hour I had 8 more ducks, decided that was enough today so set off over to the big pond to see how Pete was doing. He was not there, I looked and called, no sign of him. Maybe he had given up and had headed home I thought so I walked back across the fields towards the house, thinking how Sue would reward me for my big he-man act of bringing home 9 ducks. I crept into the house, stripped off all my clothes and crept into the bedroom and into the bed, just as I had imagined it, I was hard, ready for action and snuggled up close to Sue, she pushed back into me and murmured "thought you had gone but Ohh, you're ready to do it again, OK Pete but make it quick Jack will be wondering where you are.

What I have is fine but I want more than that

I want wonderful, splendid, marvellous, superb.

What I need is not much really

But a whole bunch of new things would make me feel special

What I'll get is sox and underpants

haven't even used the ones from last year yet.

Maybe you could write me a poem, make a card or bake some muffins.

That would be wonderful, splendid, marvellous, superb, stunning.

Mum spat on the corner of her hanky, rubbed my face with it removing something that displeased her, adjusted the twisted belt of my gabardine coat then bent and softly kissed my cheek. I stood in silence, staring at the long wooden box that my grandmother lay in. She had been a nice gran to me, told me funny stories about dragons, pulled funny faces, sang wonderful songs and talked about the olden days when she was young. I wondered why she was dead and would it last very long, I had never heard of anyone being dead before. In front of me an older cousin bent over the long box and whispered something to gran then seemed to kiss her. The line shuffled forward, my mum put her hand on my back and pushed gently. There was a small stool at the side and I climbed onto it and looked inside. My gran lay there, very still, eyes closed ... "gran?" no-one moved, "gran, are you asleep?" a cousin sniggered close by. I reached out and touched her face, it was cold and hard, she didn't move, I thought how small she looked and saw her hair was different to how she normally had it. I didn't like the feeling in my tummy, "give gran a kiss goodbye" my mum whispered. My eyes felt funny, I felt sick and wanted to run away then come back and listen to gran telling stories again. "Kiss gran" mum whispered in my ear again, I bent into the box to give her one of the butterfly kisses we did, touched her with my hand again and felt dizzy, vomited and fell into the box on top of her. 

I cried all the way home, cuddled into my mum as she shushed and stroked my hair.

trying to make sense of it, to find the connection to reality and understanding. Why, what, where and who  -  or is that whom? Everyday it seems to be just me, everyone else becomes a giant glutenous lump that conspires to confuse and reduce me to tears. Easily done these days and I welcome it now because it signals the end of that round of punishment and vilification leading to a pause of indeterminate length before it starts all over again. Should I write this down? If anyone ever read it they would think I was borderline stupid or at best just a little slow. What I don't get is why I see and hear things others don't, the result of actions before they occur, the never-ending tumble of conversations I hear all day and can never get rid off, they spin through my head at crazy speeds and merge with all the other ideas. Maybe today I will find the answer to it all, but then probably not because I need to find that connection to reality and understanding first.