A SERIES OF SHORTS 1.  

ANOTHER CENTURY

(Digging up a past again)

 

 I never felt the beat of my heart until I was 

six years old. A two hour white knuckled 

journey, two sick bags later the aeroplane 

fell like a time machine and taxied to

a halt on the runway. 

A rush of blood surged through the young 

boys' veins he kissed his mothers bruised hand.

He watched the countryside disappear out

the back window of the taxi falling through 

civilisation shops school’s, people churches, 

  As they travelled a main road, he watched

 the grey clouds of depression follow them.

He heard is father say that boy needs good

kick in the ass, you molly-coddle him, this

town will sort him out, can't you see

he was frightened.

 

As the car turned at a mill, into the olde part

of town like going into another century, that’s

where your aunt Sarah works said his father

 passing a schools double spiked gate,

he said there’s your school, it stood empty

alone surrounded by a red brick wall topped

with rusted barbed wire.The car turned right 

onto a cobbled street,it thumped up past 

a group of rough looking boys playing football 

on the street while girls swung on ropes around 

gas lights converted year was nineteen sixty-seven.

 

The car pulled up and his father knocked on

a blood-red door. A mousy-haired woman

in a drab apron stood, her and the street

kids eyed them over like a family of animals.

All nine in a two up two down, they huddled

around the fire listening to Sarah who lost

three fingers at the mill spun stories of, Flax

street and banshees.

 

That night his mother tucked the little boy 

into a mattress on the lino floor. The boy was

afraid to use the outside toilet after hearing

tales of banshees. When she left he stood 

tearing the flea bites on his flesh.

he told Kcare that is etched into his broken

mind like livestock branded. The left him

crippled, his left brain was of 45 years of

memory, he couldn't remember his 3 kids

being born his childhood and a 20-year no

marriage, no x-mas celebrations no long-

term memory but this was tattooed under

his skin like the marrow in his bone.

 

 He stood there in his brothers hand me down 

pyjamas rolled up he tore his flesh, on the wall 

above his bed was the picture of a man in a crown 

of thorns drenched in blood. What is this evil place

he thought that people talk of banshees and death.

He pulled the curtain aside to see a full moon

Light up the street like it was high definition.

His mother came in with the bed pan, he asked

what is this evil place where people tell stories 

of banshees and death, she tucked him in again

don’t worry she said we will have our own

place soon.

 

He tore at his flesh looking out the window

Thinking the other side of the street was only

yards away. A man ran and stumbled on

the cobbled street from the alley chased

by police their numbers flashed in the moon-

light, they truncheoned him down kicked

him into the gutter one jumped into the air

and opened his head like a rotten tomato.

 

He boy stepped back from the street screen

That looked like a cinema silent movie,

 he threw up and retched as peas rolled on 

the lino floor. 

The next morning he was sent for broken biscuits 

to the greengrocers at the end of street it smelt 

of earth on potatoes and dulce from the sea 

the man said taste it and he spat it out, rancid.

He checked the gutter on the way back to make 

sure he wasn’t just dreaming but the blood 

was bleached white. That would be the norm 

for thirty years.