My Book Babies

My Book Babies
You can find all of my books on Amazon, Barnes and noble, and through other retailers on my website, www.victoriapearson.co.uk

Saturday 24 December 2016

The Clock Strikes Christmas - An Alternative Christmas Tale

“You have to understand, we didn’t want this” said Berry nervously. “Every elf in the workshop chose this job because we are passionate about bring hope, joy and laughter to people all around the world-"

“Yet here you are, threatening to strike days before Christmas” said Santa, stroking his beard. Something about the movement made Berry nervous, reminding him of a Bond villain stroking a cat. “Happy to disappoint every child in the world, and for what? To make some kind of political point?”

Berry tried to swallow his nerves. He wished more than anything that it hadn’t been him that drew the short candy cane.

“With respect sir, it isn’t about the politics. Whether we agree with the expansion or not, things just aren’t workable as they are.” He scrambled around for the words to explain, words that would make him understand. Santa rarely visited the shop floor, preferring instead to sit in the grotto with his sexy secretary Mrs Claus and some of the perkier elves, counting out cookies and mince pies and basking in the adoration of the masses. He rarely saw the worker elves sobbing with exhaustion as they tried to work out how to craft the latest piece of gadgetry.

“We’ve become so focused on the side venture that we are losing sight of our original mission statement.”

Santa snorted, then leaned back in his seat, tucking his thumbs into his red braces.

“We have to move with the times Ber,” he said. “Joy and hope are nice, of course, but that’s not what the modern consumer wants. They want HD ready, virtual reality compatible real time gaming experiences.  They want the latest smartphone, suitable for socialising and work on the go. They want status symbols, material proof they are loved. The market has spoken.”

He said it with an air of finality that booked no argument, as if he had said “it is written” or “God wills it.” Berry took a deep breath, clenched his bladder against Santa’s thousand yard stare and said; 

“With respect, we don’t serve the market. We never have” he flinched as Santa leant forward, then ploughed on when he realised the big man was just taking a fat cigar out of the gold plated case on the desk between them. “We serve Christmas.  Our primary job has always been to gift enough hope, compassion and joy to the world to see them through the year. We can’t do that when we are tied up making drones and smart phones.”

Santa chewed on the cigar, raising a single, fluffy eyebrow. Berry tried to fill the silence.

“We’ve always been about bringing people what they really need,” he said. “It’s the reason most of us came to work at North Pole Incorporated. I mean, we could cope with the workload when all we had to make was a small wooden train and a yo-yo.  But this is beyond a joke, it’s all too big, this isn’t what our job is all about.”

“Your job” Santa said “is to make whatever the fuck I tell you to make. Hope? Joy?  Laughter? Outdated concepts not fit for a modern workforce.”

“But it’s our primary purpo-"

“But nothing. Wittering on about love and peace like they are saleable commodities. Going on like the humans are the important part of this-"

“But sir,” Berry interrupted, trying not to pee in his stripey tights “the humans are the only important part of this. They are the reason the firm was founded. Joy is what Christmas is all about-"

“Wrong.” Santa sat forward in his chair suddenly. “You know what Christmas is all about? Me. I am Christmas. It’s about what I say it’s about. And I say it’s about $14billion sponsorship deals from coca cola. It’s about $200 billion per year contracts with toys r us.  It’s about Samsung and Apple entering into a bidding war with each other over who gets my endorsement. You think people care about joy and love and goodwill toward men? People care about going one better than their neighbours. No one cares about our invisible gifts. People want things they can hold, and show off and sell on eBay.”

“But without our gift of hope, humanity will fall into darkness...”

“I’m not saying don’t give them the hope. We will do that alongside the material gifts, like always.”

“We can’t keep up with the demand, sir.” Berry said “We don’t even have time to pee! Holly gave birth on the shop floor, she was too scared to stop work. When the Festive Joy-O-Matic crushed Buddy to death, we didn’t dare shut the production line down. We had to return the body to his family in a set of jumbo sized crackers. We just can’t go on like this!”

A pair of blonde, giggly she-elves burst in, but when they saw Berry, they stopped,  uncertain of whether to come in or not. Santa raised a finger at them to wait. Berry eyed them distastefully. Tall, leggy wood-elves had no place here at the pole. They weren’t suited to the climate like the small, pointy eared snow elves that traditionally ran the workshop. They were too flighty to work the shop floor, and too noisy to fill stocking.  No one knew why Santa bothered employing them at all.

“This just isn’t sustainable sir.”

“Listen here you little shit” Santa growled. “We might have started out as a two-bit not for profit, scraping together a living on stale mince pies, but I’ve moved on. I’m a someone now.” He beckoned to the wood elves. “and I’m not going back to being a small time demigod  scraping a living in the snow. You can do what you want as regards hope and joy and all that shit. As long as you keep my profit margins up. I have shareholders to appease.”

He pulled the identikit blondes onto his lap.
“You’re dismissed Berry-"

"But-"

“Berry. Either run my corporation how I say, or I’ll sack the lot of you. It’d be cheaper to outsource your jobs to China anyway. Go ahead, give me an excuse. You think no one wants your job?”

Santa fixed Berry with his ice blue stare. What more could he say? Berry was defeated.

“Understood sir”

“Good. I make that 16 minutes you’ve been in my office. You can make that up at the end of your shift.”

Berry sagged, sighed, and trudged out to give his coworkers the news.

“Now then my lovelies” Santa said, nuzzling into one of the elves necks. “which one of you is naughty, and which one is nice?”

Friday 2 September 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016

I'm in a writerly quandary.

It's the start of NaNoPrep season, and I don't know if I'm going to participate this year, let alone which WIP I should work on next.

For those who don't know,  National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is a challenge that takes place in November, where those writers who thrive on pressure, competition and deadlines (as well as those who just need a running kick up the backside to get started) try to write at least 50,000 words in a month. I did it last year, and finished my first novel, Baby Steps, and then took part in camp NaNoWriMo in July to finish off the WIP I have been working on *forever* - Before Digital Dreams.

NaNoWriMo is really good fun, and I've met some brilliant writers through it. It's a good way of keeping in the habit of writing each day as well, and I find the progress graphs a really good motivator. But I will be a lot busier this November. Last year Youngest wasn't particularly mobile, and had two naps a day. Now he is a curious, exploring toddler who isn't keen on naps and hasn't yet developed any sense of danger.

I have been asked to contribute my political thoughts over on HeavyMetalPolitics (and with that as my outlet, I won't be putting my political thoughts here anymore, just chatty posts like this and fiction). I start in a couple of weeks though, and I'm not sure if I will have the energy to NaNoWriMo on top of researching and writing for HPol. 

So the sensible thing to do would be not to participate in NaNoWriMo this year.

But I know once it starts I will wish I had.

And I do have at least two novel ideas that have been badgering my brain for ages - A clone story called My Better Half and a young adult novel exploring the back story of Malcolm, one of the characters from A Tale of Two Princes.

The coloured post-it notes are calling me.

I'm going to need a *lot* of coffee in November...

Tuesday 9 August 2016

Never A Dull Moment In The Labour Party

The Labour party's spectacularly shambolic coup attempt took another two major blows yesterday, both in the High Court and in the NEC elections, and the reactions have been extraordinary.

For those who missed the millisecond of coverage on the BBC, yesterday the High Court ruled that advertising membership of the Labour party with the wording “New members will be able to vote in Leadership elections” meant that the NEC had no authority to impose a retroactive freeze date on new members voting in the upcoming election, effectively returning the vote to the 130k voters who had lost out. This also means that those members who then managed to scrape together the ridiculously inflated £25 to vote are likely to be refunded (which is good news for me, as a member of a low income household, but also saddens me because it meant I sold treasured possessions for no reason).

There was immediate talk of an appeal, which would be funded through members donations. A large chunk of the membership are understandably incensed by this, given that they pay their fees on the understanding that  their money will be going towards supporting the party and fighting Tories, so a petition has already been started to block the party from fighting the decision using member’s money. I am convinced the members will win again – the law is very clear on misselling – so it seems this is just another way to splinter the party further.

The NEC election result was another indicator of strong support for a more socialist, traditional Labour party, with all six “left field” candidates storming to victory on a massive margin. We are consistently told by the right wing of the labour party that social media success has no bearing on election results, but the opposite seems to be the case in this instance. All six candidates were heavily supported on social media (particularly twitter). Perhaps social media won’t make an impact in a General Election, but it certainly makes an impact within the party, and that’s a strong start. Like I’ve said previously, a strong, united membership could be an election winning tool, if they are properly guided on how to campaign for Labour.

What has shocked me, is the reactions among the right wing of the party. Ok, so none of us like when a vote doesn’t go our way, but that’s democracy. Surely, as we are all members of the same party, and therefore members of the same team, this is the point (had it not passed already) where we start to put electoral success above petty factionalism and unite against the Tories?

Britain is in a dangerous position. The Tories, now fully untied behind Maggie – sorry, May – have the future of our country in their hands. Post-Brexit ref, there is a lot of uncertainty. We are looking at an historic opportunity to create a British Bill of Rights, and enshrine a British Constitution in law. We will desperately need that when we are no longer protected by the EU. And we are leaving the details of that to a Conservative government who see workers rights, maternity benefits and the rights of children as “red tape and bureaucracy.” The country is being run by a woman who said, in her first PMQs, that there is no such thing as austerity, “it’s called living within our means.”

Brexit will  cause uncertainty, instability in the markets and give Conservative governments Carte blanche to roll back all of those pesky rights that put the needs of people above the profits of shareholders. We desperately need a Labour government to see us through this unprecedented period of change. It beggars belief that the plotters are continuing to undermine the party that they are members of, and cause such disunity when the electorate need them so desperately.

None the less, over the last 24 hours I have personally seen some of Owen Smith’s most vocal supporters say that a party split is inevitable, that they will actively undermine Corbyn at every turn, and that they would rather vote for Theresa May than Jeremy Corbyn. All anonymous accounts of course, so they wont be picked up by Labour's compliance unit. What shocked me the most, was that I’ve even seen Labour councillors say that they would rather vote Tory than unite behind Corbyn. Saying something like that, as a key figure in the labour party,  on a public forum is beyond all reason. It is self defeating in the extreme, and I can only conclude that self interest is far more important to that person than the needs of vulnerable people who urgently need a Labour government.

I’ve stayed quiet on the subject of Tom Watson for now. He wouldn’t have been my first choice for deputy party leader, but I had high hopes for him. As a perpetual fence sitter, he was fairly well placed to unite the different sides of the party, hear both sides and appeal for unity, for the good of the public, who deserve a strong opposition at this time. Instead he decided to launch a bizarre and barely coherent attack on the party membership, through the Guardian newspaper.

In the attack – sorry, interview  - Watson claimed that Trotsky entryists were “twisting the arms” of young Labour supporters to shore up Corbyn’s support in the party. He said:

“ There are some old hands twisting young arms in this process, and I’m under no illusions about what’s going on. They are caucusing and factionalising and putting pressure where they can, and that’s how Trotsky entryists operate.” And added “some “Trots”, who have returned to Labour after being driven out decades ago... certainly don’t have the best interests of the Labour party at heart”

I don’t know how Watson intended this to come across, but he must see that it’s massively insulting to the membership. At 31, I’m a little too old to be classed as a young Labour supporter, and I’ve definitely not had my arm twisted by anyone.  To suggest that any young supporter of Corbyn must have had their arm twisted is insulting to their intelligence. People want Corbyn for his policies, his polite method of debate, and his vision to return the party  to its roots. To suggest that people want socialism because they have been intimidated, are brainwashed cult members or are being influenced by entryists is dismissive in the extreme, and won’t serve Watson well at all.

  So given my age,  I have to assume that, as I’m a new member, Watson must think I’m a Trotskyist. Never mind that 180,000 people joined up as registered supporters and there are barely enough “Trots” in this country to fill a small village hall, (indeed, even Owen Smith could muster up as much support as the SWP, if he gives out free ice cream); we live in a post-fact political landscape, so that doesn’t matter. Watson says I’m a trot, so I must be. I must have been expelled in the 80s, despite being an ova then. I must have been an in utereo hard leftist.

So here we are now. The leadership takeover bid lies in tatters, Owen Smith hasn’t been seen since his disastrous performance in the first hustings debate, his supporters swing between cheerleading the Tories and furious denials that they are losing, the members are having to look into an injunction to prevent their money being misused to fight the High Court and instead of calling for unity, the deputy leader took to a national newspaper to smear the new members of his own party as Trotskyist Entryists and silly children who are being manipulated.

Never a dull moment in the Labour Party! I think I will go and amuse myself by scrolling through the #TrotskyiteTwist  hashtag on twitter.

Tuesday 2 August 2016

It Doesn't Have to Be This Way - Mobilising the Masses

Yesterday, I wrote a piece detailing my view of the current mess the labour party is in, and, to an extent, who I see as responsible for it. The Internet,  newspapers and blogosphere is awash with such pieces at the moment though, so on its own, it’s not particularly useful. It seems you can open just about any paper or click just about any link and read a story that will leave Labour and left voters in a state of despair, bracing ourselves for a generation of hard right, Thatcherite rule.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

So many people are calling for solutions. I have woken up feeling very optimistic today, and so I would like to propose some.

Under Corbyn we have seen the labour party grow into the largest left of centre party in Europe. That is an amazing achievement. It represents hope in politics. It represents the thirst for change. It tells us people are sick of the same old politics and want something new. It could go on to represent a revolution in British politics. We should be immensely proud.

Somewhere along the way though,  Labour politics became unbelievably polarised. We forgot we are in fact a team, fighting against the Tories, their social injustice and austerity. We started yelling at each other across the divide, rival fans of team Corbyn and team Smith. It’s crushingly sad to see and, as I said yesterday, it pushes us toward divisions that are too great to heal, and that annihilate our chances against the Tories.

As a result, when either side make a point, we shout them down. Corbyn supporters point excitedly to the crowds and say “isn’t this amazing?” and are immediately  down with the retort “Crowds don’t win elections.” We scoff and shout back. But we shouldn’t. We should listen.

It is perfectly fair and reasonable to point out that massive crowds at rallies and huge support on social media don’t necessarily translate to votes at the ballot box. After all, we live in a country with an ageing population, whose over 50s overwhelmingly vote conservative. We have lost the majority of Scotland to the SNP. A huge percentage of the under 25s don’t vote. And although we are winning on social media, our message is not translating to MSM, when many people who aren’t generally politically engaged absorb their information prior to  elections. These concerns are valid and we need to take them seriously. The worst thing we could possibly do now is become complacent and over confident.

So how can we turn our movement into a credible electoral force?

I think Corbyn was quite right to say that this leadership election is an opportunity to reach out to new voters, and showcase the best of our party. But we also need to mobilise these huge crowds into a campaign force. Yes, it will be hard to promote our party without the support of the PLP, but there are 500k of us. If we organise,  we can do it.

Many of the people who are inspired by Corbyn have been disengaged from politics, for various reasons, up until now. New members want to help; all labour members want to see Labour in power. They don’t necessarily know how to. It isn’t as simple as haranguing your friends and neighbours to vote labour (although that’s a start). We need guidance.

I would like to see Labour send out campaign packs to members. Give us flash cards with Corbyn’s   policies on, to help us showcase the best of labour. Perhaps tailor them so we can pull out the card that best addresses our neighbour’s and friend’s concerns. The little old lady down the road will probably be more interested in hearing about Corbyn supporters plans to protect her pension and improve  in supported accommodation than his plans to scrap tuition fees. The newly laid off guy next door is going to be far more interested in his policy to create two million manufacturing jobs than his pledge to create a National Education Service. If new members were given simple, tailored policy messages, we would be a lot more effective as a campaign force. We need, at the very least, basic directional ideas of how to campaign for the Labour party. We are legion, but milling around not really knowing what to do isn’t helping.  Labour absolutely  must cash in on the mood of Corbyn supporters and mobilise us to spread the word.

In the meantime, there is still lots we can do to help Labour into power.
We can start pointing to what’s great about our party instead of what divides it. Don’t engage in bickering with members of our own party. It’s ridiculously self defeating, on both sides. If we can’t speak nicely and share ideas on a calm and rational way, then we shouldn’t engage at all.

We can take credit as a party for the times we have forced the conservatives to climb down on some of their most – yes I will use the word – evil policies.

We can cheerlead all the policies that we love under anti-austerity labour.

We can point to ALL the positives.

We should  ignore the badly behaved labour MPs in public, like the naughty toddlers they are,  and pursue due process by writing to party whips and seeking guidance through our CLPs where we think they have gone beyond the pale.

And most of all, and I absolutely cannot stress this enough so I’m actually going to caps lock it (something I never do)

**WE TAKE THE FIGHT TO THE TORIES!**

They are giving us an open goal. Tory failings are too many to list here. The current leadership of the Tory party makes Cruella Deville look cuddly. While we are busy fighting, they are rolling back all our rights and kicking electoral fraud allegations under the carpet. We *need* to shine the spotlight on them.

We might not be able to get MSM onside, but while they are busy trying to make us look like a shouty bunch of protest party student types, it is imperative that we appear reasonable, balanced and open to suggestions to counter that narrative.  Yes it’s insulting. Yes it’s frustrating. But we mustn’t give more fuel to the fire.

We need to get out in our local communities – scary I know- but we have to reach people who don’t get their news from social media. We can volunteer at food banks,  campaign to save our libraries, read to our elderly neighbours. We can help build a positive image of our movement in thousands of small but significant ways.  We are Jeremy Corbyn’s media, and we have to be that offline as well.

I’ve woken up optimistic,  of hope, and excited about what our movement can become if we work together. We should be good at working together for the common good – we’re socialists. It’s what we do.

Let’s get out there and do it.

Monday 1 August 2016

A Month Is A Long Time In Politics

Wow.

Really doesn’t feel like less than two months since the country narrowly voted Brexit, does it? So much has happened in the political landscape of the UK since, it feels like we have crammed at least a year into the last 39 days.

 I’ve not commented at length as yet, because where would you even start? Just last week on twitter I was talking about how UK politics have become so unpredictable that I could throw out any old randomness and have a shot of it being true in a few short weeks. I personally think Boris Johnson training a parrot to attend his boring meetings, and said parrot becoming wildly popular and winning a by election in his own right is not that implausible given that one of the contenders for the Ukip leadership race is a Lithuanian man  who is running on a pro-European ticket. But here we are now, and I, like many left leaning voters, am still trying to make sense of it.

On June 24th we woke up to the cold hard reality that we have voted Brexit by 51% to 49%.  A lot of us expected the likes of Boris Johnson to be smugly grinning all over our TV screens, but instead much of the Leave camp did all they could to avoid being seen , and when  they were spotted in the wild they looked as shell shocked and confused as those of us who expected the country to vote for the status quo. Before breakfast, most of us realised that the Leave camp were not expecting to win, and had absolutely no clue what to do now they had. No one in Westminster had even the slightest notion of a plan. We were making this up as we went along and hoping for the best.

Obviously making things up and hoping for the best is all very well, but the one thing that the markets don’t like is instability. I’ll be the first to admit I have only the haziest knowledge of how stock markets and share indexes and all the other things I mentally categorise as Imaginary Money work, but “uncertainty is bad” is, as I understand it, a concrete fact. So, again by breakfast time the British Pound was worth approximately 2 rusty paperclips and a banana skin. And every time Farage opened his mouth, it dropped still further.

I can only guess that most of the country did as I did; sat and watched TV rolling news and social media in a state of shock, wondering how on earth we had woken up in an episode of Black Mirror.

The Tories fell apart completely. Cameron certainly hadn’t expected to lose the referendum he had called, and didn’t have a plan. Rather than deal with the fallout, he quit, effectively telling the leave camp that it was their mess, so they should clear it up. I felt a twinge of pity for Cameron when he resigned. Being the PM that allowed us to break our ties with Europe (pissing them off mightily in the process, which will make our divorce negotiations somewhat toxic), leading to a possible break up between Scotland and the rest of the UK and causing economic ramifications across the whole continent, the only way to console himself is that at least he will be remembered as more than the man who left his daughter in the pub and allegedly masturbated with a dead pig’s mouth.

 I don’t think Johnson expected to win either. He expected a narrow Remain vote, and a shot at being the PM who reunites us with Europe. And his mate Gove suddenly wasn’t his mate anymore. Boris bailed as well, and the Tories went into a full leadership battle, each candidate more horrifying than the last.

As a mother of four, in a low income household, all of that was terrifying. Like the markets, I like stability. I like to plan my family finances months ahead so that I can budget in for children’s birthdays, back to school shops, Christmas. Any unexpected expense can throw out a low income household’s budget for months or even years. I needed a sense of stability, but the Tories, the ones who created the uncertainty, were too busy focusing on themselves to worry about the anxiety they had plunged us into.

As a Labour voter though, I was optimistic. We have a party leader who has a strong anti-austerity message, clear ideas about areas in which to invest to get our economy moving again and a very proven record of campaigning for equality and inclusion. Labour would surely, at that moment, ramp up their campaigning for the amazing positives of having a Labour government. They would unite behind their leader and promote a strong anti-austerity message. They could reach out to those who voted Leave as an anti-establishment “sick of the same old politics,” vote, by pointing out that the current leader of the labour party has been fighting the establishment for the rights of workers his whole career. They could show those who defected to Green, or Lib Dem or Ukip, or stopped voting altogether under the Blair years that they were serious about rebuilding Labour into the strong, fair, socialist party it always used to be. They could say that yes, Jeremy Corbyn did acknowledge that the EU has faults. That’s because the EU does have faults, and he tells us the truth about what he thinks. He also heavily acknowledged the EU’s many good points. Being able to see both the good and bad of the situation surely makes him ideally placed to negotiate our relationship with the EU in a way that does the least impact?

As a Labour voter I was optimistic for the first time in a long time. We are going through a period of great social change and Labour were ideally placed to shape it into something that could be good for everyone.

Instead, the PLP decided now was the time to blow the party apart.

 A wave of brutal, live streamed and fully tweeted resignations, on the hour, every hour, all citing the claim that Jeremy Corbyn was “unelectable” as their reason. I thought I knew what unelectable meant. I thought it meant someone uninspiring, who people won’t vote for. I don’t really understand what definition the PLP are working from though. Under Corbyn’s leadership the Labour Party have grown their membership so that they are now the biggest Left of Centre party in Europe. They have won every by-election and Mayoral contest. Thousands of people attend rallies to hear him speak. He is neither uninspiring nor unelectable. Thousands of people are willing to campaign on Labour’s behalf. That all seems positive to me, but apparently it isn’t to the PLP. Those are the wrong  types of voters, you see. No, I don’t get it either.

The PLP put Angela Eagle up as a leadership contender, saying that it wasn’t Jeremy’s personality as such, just his policies were out of touch, and out of date. Eagle herself said that Corbyn’s lukewarm performance and lack of effort put in to the Remain campaign was why she was running against him. She forgot she had said not two weeks before that he had been running up and down the country with the energy of a 25 year old, but not getting the airtime on main stream media. And that his constituency voted much more comfortably to Remain than hers did.

Eagle seemed to have no problem getting herself on TV though, and she passionately put across her policies of being a woman and from the north, and the virtue of  having a mother who was a seamstress. I am fairly sure she meant the sewing kind, not the Pratchett kind.

 Having failed to convince Jeremy Corbyn to resign and just give her the leadership because she is female and she wants it, Eagle launched her actual leadership bid in a lovely chat room set, with a pretty swirly pink union flag with her name scrawled across it as her backdrop. That’s where the Eagle’s launch crash landed though, as just as she was standing opening the floor for questions, all the journalists buggered off to cover Andrea Leadsom dropping out of the Conservative leadership contest, making the terrifying Theresa May PM.

While the labour party hadn’t been looking, the Conservatives had fallen into line. Now more than ever labour needed to put this silliness aside and unite.
But instead, the coup continued.

Angela Eagle, who by this point seemed to just be shouting “but I’m a woman from the north! I should be leader! People are picking on me!” was joined in the race by Owen Smith. No, I hadn’t heard of him either. Angela later dropped out of the race. I felt for her, a bit. I think she really thought the PLP would back her leadership all the way, and she must be very disappointed that they all fell aside.
The once pharmaceutical company lobbyist Owen Smith (who used to praise the virtues of a semi-privatised NHS until quite recently)  is now running on an anti-austerity ticket, and has made noises about renationalising the railways and protecting th3 NHS from privatisation. Yes I know, those are Corbyn’s policies. Yes I know the PLP said Corbyn’s policies were out of touch and out of date and he is a good person but not a good leader. They’ve changed their minds now. Now his policies are good, but it’s his personality they don’t like. He is a bad person, and though as a leader he attracts loads of people to rallies,  inspires a big following despite poor main stream media coverage, those are the wrong type of people, so that proves he can’t lead. Or something.

Having tried and failed to keep Corbyn off the ballot, the PLP are now trying everything they can think of to smear his supporters, twist his words and his record and do maximum damage to the party they claim to love. I don’t understand why they, as Labour MPs, would sabotage the party’s electoral chances at a time when we were best placed to make real positive social change. But thy seem very committed to it.

Unfortunately I fear the unelectable mantra is starting to become a self fulfilling prophecy. Floating voters are not going to be tempted to vote for a party that looks so very divided. I think most people, like me, crave stability. Thanks to the actions of the PLP, Labour isn’t looking too steady right now. While the PLP are busying themselves with all of this in-fighting, the Tories are quietly uniting in their aim to roll back any human rights or workers rights we thought we had, privatise our prisons and our NHS,  and turn our schools into little more than totalitarian, profit run exam factories where primary school aged children are put into isolation at lunch time if their parents are late paying a bill. The PLP are leaving us undefended, and the Conservatives can cut unchecked.

So the state of the Labour party is very grim right now. Mainly, I think, because of the actions of the 172 (although some are, I think, more culpable than others). But I do have some hope.

Sarah Champion has already come back into the fold, which is fantastic. She is a veryour strong politician and does a lot of good, and it’s brilliant to have her back in the shadow cabinet, fighting for the most vulnerable.

We have seen some very promising, fresh new talent rising to the shadow front bench. I greatly admire Angela Rayner, I think Clive Lewiswill go far and Richard Burgon is one of the best orators I have ever seen. I will be very surprised if he doesn’t become party leader one day.

The road to the leadership election will be a long one, and I think we are likely to be exhausted by the end, by bitter insults on both sides, accusations of bullying and threats, smears on Corbyn supporters and probably Owen Smith supporters too, if we can find some that haven’t just turned up because they heard there will be free ice cream.

One way or another, Labour has to unite after this.  I don’t see how the can do it unless they unite behind Corbyn (as he is clearly the leader that the party members overwhelmingly want). I don’t see the 171 doing that. I wish I could see it. I don’t want the party to split, although I’ve heard there has been talk of it, and that Smith is refused to say he is against it. It would be sad to see the PLP flounce off in a huff. I think Labour would recover, and hopefully by the next general election, but it would still be another wound the party doesn’t need.
 My ideal would be that those members of the PLP who can work with the leader to bring about the electoral choice the party members desperately want, stay and team up with the fresh new talent we have seen hit the ground running and work admirably to pick up the slack the PLP so unceremoniously dropped. If they don’t feel able to do that, and be part of a broad church, left platform perhaps a different party would be more suited to them.

Given that 40 days ago I couldn’t have begun to predict the state we would be in today,  I don’t feel able to foresee the outcome of the leadership election. My gut says Corbyn will win. Hopefully then we can put this petty squabbling, (which Corbyn himself has refused to indulge in, showing remarkable dignity in my opinion) aside and get on with turning this massive new movement into a credible force to rival the Conservatives at the next election.

We need a Labour government more than ever. I have hope we can still achieve it at the next election. And the main reason I still have hope is that through all this drama, Corbyn, aided by McDonnell, Thornberry,  Skinner, Rayner, Burgon, Lewis and the rest of the Labour team who have refused to join the coup attempt have been calmly getting on with their jobs and trying to ensure a better UK  for the many, not just the few.

I’m with them.

Saturday 9 July 2016

Don't Bring Me Flowers

Don’t bring me flowers
That fill my life with sweet perfume,
And cheer my heart with colour,
And bring a smile to my lips,
But wither and wilt
And die away in days
Reminding me that all things pass,
Even the most perfect rose
Will one day fade.
No don’t bring me flowers my love,
Bring me seeds,
Bring me bulbs.
Give me future flowers,
That keep returning every year,
Bringing my memories with them.
Don't bring me flowers.
Bring me seeds my love,
And stay with me,
To watch them grow.

Friday 24 June 2016

We've Never Had It So Good.

Shit, my head is banging. I didn’t think I was that drunk last night, but it feels like someone came in the night and replaced my tongue with a sock full of sand. I can’t even remember the election result, let alone getting home and going to bed. Maybe I fell asleep before it was announced. That would be embarrassing at work thank God I’m on annual leave.
I never really should have agreed to go to the works election party night. I don’t know what Tim, our manager, was thinking when he organised it. He’d seen the divide in the coffee room whenever the conversation came around to the hot political topic of the day. Nick and I had almost come to blows on more than one occasion. The whole team in a confined space with alcohol and the live election results? Great idea. I tried to make an excuse about previous plans, but Tim pulled me aside when our break was over and strongly suggested I reconsider.
“Craig, mate” he said in that cringey ‘hey, we’re all friends here’ way that makes my skin crawl. “Just come along, eh? Show willing. “
“I’m really not sure it’s a very good-“
“It’s just, I really want to recommend you for promotion.” He looked at me expectantly “but you aren’t really much of a joiner. I mean, Jason runs the football team, and Nick organises the Christmas party. A few extra curricular things might help keep you in the running.”
I sighed, long and loud and pointedly, but he had me over a barrel and he knew it. I needed that promotion. Our pay has been frozen the last three years running, but my rent hasn’t.  Here I am, a single man with a steady job, struggling to make rent on a bedsit. You can’t tell me that’s right.
My final clear memory of  last night is making what I thought at the time was a passionate and well thought out speech about the dangers of the rhetoric surrounding the election campaign on all sides. I was disheartened, although unsurprised, when Nick let out a massive burp, hitting me in the face with a rancid puff of stale beer and pork scratchings, before announcing;
“Well yeah, but the problem is, people can’t talk about the real problems in the country without being called racists.”
I sighed irritably- he clearly hadn’t listened to a word I’d said.
“That’s precisely my point.” I said “The real problems you talk about are caused by chronic underfunding by successive governments. It’s deliberate mismanagement, to justify privatisation. Nothing to do with immigration.”
“More people means more pressure on services” he insisted “it stands to reason.”
I snorted decisively; as if Nick had any capacity to reason. He simply regurgitated what he read in the angry tabloids.
“We have an ageing population,” I reiterated tiredly. “We need immigration. Who looks after your old mum while you’re at work?” I knew the answer of course - just as I knew what his response would be.
“Mums carers do a grand job of course,” he said, “but there’s plenty of British that could do it just as well. And they get the training for it, don’t they? All paid for by us, and then they take the skills we give them and sod off home.”
“Ungrateful, that’s what it is,” Carl chimed in. “After all we do for them.”
“Yeah, how dare they,” I said sarcastically. “Coming over here, looking after our old people and paying taxes. Going back home before they become a burden on our health and social care services. Bloody cheek.” But my sarcasm was lost on Carl, who seemed to think I’d had some kind of ‘road to Damascus’ style conversion to his point of view.
“They only swarm over here because of our welfare system,” Carl said, nursing the very end of his pint without quite finishing it. He was adept at making sure he was just finishing his drink as someone else was getting another a round in. “We’re too nice for our own good.”
“True that” said Nick, as Carl and Jason nodded vigorously. “They take all this benefit money in and give it away to their families abroad. We give ‘em all too much. No incentive to work, like.”
I despair, I really do.
“What I don’t understand,” Jason announced, “is where it all stops? We ain’t got enough jobs for all these people. Locals can’t find no work, because the foreigners accept lower wages. You can live like kings in their countries for pennies, can’t you? So they put up with it and we get the rough end of the stick.”
“How is them getting shafted giving you a rough deal? “ I snarled, trying to keep my temper. “You’re angry at the wrong people, Jase. You should be angry with the bosses paying slave wages, not the people so desperate they’ll take them.”
“Well it’s all less jobs for the locals, ain’t iIt? “ Jason retorted. “More of us scraping by on the dole because they take our jobs. Our Mickey is on the job seekers.  It’s barely enough to live on, and that’s a fact.”
I had to get up and go to the bar at that point, before I lost it completely. How can you even argue with people who think the benefits system is at once too generous and not generous enough, that foreigners take our jobs while living a life of luxury on unemployment benefits?

I roll over in bed, half opening one eye against the stabbing white morning light, groping about on the bedside table for my phone. I can check the election result online , it might jog my memory about last night. I better check I didn’t drunk- dial my ex too.
My phone is switched off, which is kinda weird. I never switch it off, the first thing I do when I wake up every morning is look at the news online. I must have let the battery die. I plug it in and hold the power button until the screen lights up, then swing my feet out of bed. Judging by the taste in the back of my throat, last night involved kebabs. I need coffee.

I go for a pee while the kettle is boiling, then stare at myself in the mirror for a minute. No one has shaved off my eyebrows or drawn a cock on my face or anything. Maybe I wasn’t that pissed. I look old today though.
I finish making the coffee, dumping the last of the milk into it before carrying it back to bed. I can’t be bothered to fold the sheets and wrestle with the rusted mechanism to turn the mattress into a sofa yet. I pick up my phone and press the twitter icon.
The loading sign fills my screen for a moment and then a dialogue box pops up. ‘Access denied’. It has never said that before.
I press Facebook icon instead and again get the same message; ‘access denied’. I try both my browsers with the same result. It must be a network problem.
I sit and drink my coffee in silence. I haven’t really got room for a TV here, not unless I got rid of the bookcase. I really want to see the election results; it’s annoying me that I don’t know. It would almost undoubtedly be the centre right party that used to be the centre left party. The country were too annoyed by the right wing party that used to be the centre right party who had been in charge over the last term, surely. The people had endured cut after cut, to public services, benefits, pensions, schools. They wouldn’t be so blinded by mainstream media as to vote them in for more of the same. I itched to be reading analysis, getting involved on the comment boards, finding out about all the key players in the new cabinet.
I fire off a quick text to my brother asking what the election result was.
“Pride In Britain, of course” he replied. He thinks he’s really funny, my brother. A right little comedian.  Pride In Britain are barely a party, really, just a group of angry bigots who shout about “taking the country back” and “putting a halt to the eradication of British culture” and burble like idiots when asked to explain what that actually meant. If they got a single seat I’ll eat my hat.
I pull on jeans and a light jumper and search increasingly frantically for my wallet before finding it in the rumpled bedsheets. I even still have a few crumpled notes in there.  I thought I’d be skint after last night’s skin full. I grab my sunglasses against the bright May glare and head out to the corner shop.
Our street is fairly quiet, but that’s not unusual for a Friday morning. The old man next door bids me a cheery “good morning” as he hoses his car down and I raise a hand in greeting. My mouth is still feeling a bit too acrid for speaking just now, and I know if I engage him any more than that I will end up standing there for the next half an hour hearing about the state of the potholes in the high street, how long it takes to get a doctors appointment at the local surgery, and the entire minutes of the save the library campaign’s last meeting. Not that I don’t want to save the library of course, but I’d rather do that when my head has stopped pounding and the nausea has passed. I need this hangover to hurry up and clear, I’m meant to be driving up to the coast this afternoon. Nice bit of camping, get away from it all for my annual leave.
A girl in a black niqab  comes out of the newsagents just as I’m going in, so I step aside to let her pass.
“Thanks” she says, and I can see her smile in her intricately painted eyes. I see her most days, and most days I tell myself that next time, I’ll ask her name.
“Morning Mr Singh” I call out cheerily, then stop dead.
The news rack is a sea of red, white and blue. Tabloids scream “Britain is Great Again”, “A New Dawn in British Pride” and “Pride In Britain”. Broadsheets announce “Unprecedented Landslide Hands Pride In Britain Easy Victory”. Simon Dovesly’s smug grin is plastered over the front of every newspaper.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I say out loud.
“Had you not heard?” Mr Singh asks.
“No, problems with my Internet,” I say. I turn and see he has chosen to wear a union flag turban today. Whether he is nailing his colours to the mast, or quietly poking fun, I can’t tell. “I thought my brother was joking when he said Pride In Britain won the election.”
“Can you believe it?” says Singh “They won every single constituency. “
“That can’t be right.”
“It’s what the papers are saying. And it’s all over the TV.”
He reaches over and turns the volume of his tiny portable TV set up. Dovesly is halfway through his speech, spittle flying out of the corners of his mouth.
“The establishment were against us from the start! “ he rages onscreen, “we had to fight the leftist media all the way. But we won every constituency.  We showed them what Britain really wants. We’re tired of unchecked migration. We’ve had enough of our free speech being criminalised as racist. We’re sick of so called human rights laws dictating how we treat our prisoners. Britain has voted to take back control.”
“Is this a wind up?” I say. “Are there hidden cameras or something?”
“I wish.” Singh sighs, shutting the sound back off again. “It’s a definite worry.”
“I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about mate,” I say. “You’ve lived here what, 30 years?”
“I was born not far from here. I’m as British as chips in curry sauce.” He smiles. “Still. Worrying that so many people voted them in.”
“Every constituency though? Are the electoral commission looking into that?”
“If they are, I’ve not heard anything about it,” he says. “What can I get you?”
“One of every paper you’ve got please,” I say, going to grab a can of  fizz and a sausage roll, along with the milk I came in for.
“Even ‘That Rag Which Shall Not be Named’?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
“Please. Internet withdrawals. Need to know what the enemy is saying.”
He rings up the papers and the drink, and asks if I want them tomorrow too.
“No thanks mate. I’m away for a few days. Camping. Hoping when I get back I will find out this has all been a misunderstanding.”
“We can hope,” he says as he gives me my change. “Hope the weather holds out for you.”
I put the coppers  in the charity box and head back out into the sunshine.

I check my Internet connection while walking home. It still reads ‘Access denied’. That’s just weird. I’ll have to complain to the network provider.
I fold up the bed  when I get in, opening up the space a little. The fizz has cleared my head a little. I leaf through the papers while eating the sausage roll. Everyone of them, even the usually fairly left wing Daily Voice, was framing this as a victory of ‘common sense’ and ‘free speech’ over ‘restrictive human rights legislation’ and ‘political correctness gone too far’. I couldn’t finish my breakfast. How did we get to this stage? Voting in a fascist, nationalist party in this day and age?
I remember, suddenly, sitting with my friend Giles last November,  drinking the good cider and putting the world to rights.
“I don’t understand how people like Hitler even get into power,” I had said. “How can people be so stupid?”
“Well,  fascism doesn’t come in, in jack boots,  kicking down doors. It comes in wearing a suit, calling you brother,” he’d said sagely.
“That’s a bit deep.”
“Ah well, I’m quoting some clever bugger,” he said. “Point is, it never starts out with transportations and labour camps. It starts with dividing people. It starts with blame.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and try the Internet again. It still says ‘Access denied.’
I write a quick text to  Giles:. ‘Dropping off grid for a week or two. Fancy a drink when I’m back?’
I get one back almost instantly:. ‘Don’t blame you – world gone mad!  Bastards must have cheated election. Drink sounds good. Text me when you’re back. Having some Internet issues so not on emails just now. Speak soon.’
It feels weird, just sitting in the bedsit, not doing much. I leaf through the newspapers again, feeling panic rising in my belly once more. I thought we had said no more to this sort of thing back in the 40s.
I pack a bag and head out to the car, unable to just sit and read the hatred anymore. I’m fairly certain I’m sober enough to drive now. Might as well miss the weekend traffic.
The open road calms me a little. This is modern Britain,  not 1930s Germany.  We don’t stand for that sort of thing, we never have. There will be an investigation, I’m sure. They must have cheated. Our country is a tolerant nation. There’s no way a fascist party got in, in every constituency by playing fair. It’ll all be sorted out. It might even be sorted by the time I get home. Today will fade into obscurity as a weird little blip in British history. We’ll laugh about it.
My history teacher’s voice echoes across the years.
“Where you have economic instability, extremism thrives.”
Things had been bad recently – I mean, we’d had a recession. We are on our way out of it, but everyone is feeling the pinch. Things aren’t that bad though,  not yet. It takes more than a bit of belt tightening to turn the people of this country into fascists. Everything would sort itself out.

I relax and switch on the radio. Most channels seem to just be playing static, but the National Broadcast Channel is working. A calm toned female newsreader is talking about the new regime.
“Pride In Britain have vowed to tackle these issues head on, however, unveiling plans to counter non domestic extremism with a firm hand. In a statement, Deputy Leader Sara Polacki confirmed that the party intend to give the police added powers to stop and search those suspected of crimes relating to terrorism. She also confirmed that there will be a general curfew in place, from 7pm until 7am, for the duration of the national emergency. A full list of exempted occupations are available at-“
I turn the tuning  nob in disgust, searching for music. Anything to make the world make sense again. The radio searches through fuzz, eventually settling on a talkshow.
“-and it’s about time we showed those bully boys in the establishment whose boss,” the caller raged.
“So you think that vote is the electorate effectively giving two fingers to traditional politics?”
“I think we’ve just had enough of stuffed shirts telling us what to think,” the caller yelled. “Pride In Britain is just what our country needs.”
I hit the off switch in disgust. I can’t listen to that Little Englander crap. I drive the rest of the way to the campsite in a pensive silence.
The next twelve days are good for me. With my phone still not connecting to the Internet, I quickly started to feel like I am the only person on the planet. I go fishing in the cool, clear lake. I sit in the dappled shade and listen to bird song. I drink good bourbon while staring at the fire. I read my favourite books. Somewhere between the rolling green hills and the soaring blue sky, I find peace. If this is the calm before the storm, I will enjoy it.
I fantasise about staying out there, avoiding everyone forever. How easy it could be to just walk out of society, refuse to participate. But real life calls. I’ve only got two days of annual leave left.
I switch my phone on again and text Giles.
‘Are you around for a drink today?’
I reflexively try the Internet again while I wait for an answer, but it says the same message; ‘access denied’. I think I’m slightly relieved. I’m not quite ready to break the silence of this place with full on Internet chatter and noise.  My phone chirps.
‘Sure. Come to the house.’ Giles’ text reply.
I pack up my few possessions and head to the car. Giles is the ideal person to ease back into being social with. He is measured, thoughtful, a true voice of reason in an increasingly turbulent world. I’ve always looked up to him. He will help me make sense of things.
I don’t listen to the radio on the way home, preferring instead to wear the comfortable silence a little longer.
I park in the familiar drive and knock on Giles’ front door. He opens it quickly, a large, unnatural grin on his face. His left arm and hand are bandaged in a sling.
“So nice to see you, do come in,” he says formally, the strange smile barely moving. “Can I offer you some tea?”
I have known Giles for nearly thirty years. He knows I don’t drink tea.
“You know I drink coffee,” I say.
“Oh no!” Giles says, “A proper English man drinks tea.”
I’m not sure if Giles is joking or not. This isn’t his usual humour. Why is he pulling that awful rictus grin?
“What did you do to your arm?”
Giles looks down at his splinted arm as if noticing it for the first time.
“Do you know, I’m not sure I recall,” he says, limping toward the kitchen. “How was your holiday?”
“So good. Didn’t see another soul all week.” I say. “So what’s been happening? How’s the first fortnight under Pride In Britain gone?”
“Oh it’s been absolutely super.” He grins. “We’ve never had it so good. Just what the country needed.”
I burst into uproarious laughter, but Giles doesn’t join in. My guffaws subside to chuckles and peter out to nothing. Giles continues to stare, his eyes blank, that terrible grin fixed to his face like a mask.
“Giles, what are you talking about? Did the result get overturned or something? “
“Of course not, who would dream of such a thing? It’s a real people’s victory!” Giles voice gives no hint of sarcasm. “We’ve finally triumphed against a system where we weren’t free to voice our concerns about immigration without being labelled racist, we-“
“Giles, I know you don’t think this, what’s going on?” I snap. I’m starting to get really scared.
“I’ve woken up I suppose,” Giles says. “Pride In Britain are doing a brilliant job. Inflation has gone up a tiny bit, sure, but it’s short term.”
“You are literally writing a book on countering the rise of fascism. It’s been your life’s work this last decade, Giles.”
“No, no my dear you are quite mistaken,” He says. “My book is on the importance of cultural cohesion, and the civil duty of citizens to obey the law.”
I’m so confused. My head starts to spin. This isn’t Giles. He might look like Giles, but he’s wearing Giles like a mask. This isn’t my friend.
“Giles, would it be okay if I went and used your bathroom for a while? I’ve been camping, I need to freshen up.”
“Of course, of course. You’ll be wanting a shave too I should think. Under the anti-terrorism act, all full or partial face coverings are prohibited. Anything more than two day stubble might get you into trouble.” He says it cheerfully, as if that’s no problem at all. “There are disposable razors in the cabinet.”

I run the tap and stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. I should be trying to rationalise this, or  be panicking, or something. Instead I am numb. I can’t begin to work out what could possibly have happened to Giles to have changed him so deeply. I owe it to him to at least try to work out what has happened.
When I go down, my face feeling oddly bare now it is clean shaven, Giles has set out some tiny cucumber sandwiches, a plate of biscuits, and a pretty porcelain tea set on the coffee table. It is like an American parody of Englishness. His face is still stuck in that puppet-like grin.
“So what have you been up to these last couple of weeks?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light, conversational. “And how’s Brendan?”
“Brendan...Brendan...” Giles murmurs, as if he has no recollection of his fiancée, who he has been living with this last year. “Oh you mean the degenerate boy who I tried to help? Disappeared. You can’t help some people. He was a rubbish lodger.”
Is this what’s happened to him?  Brendan has flounced off after a fight and Giles has had a breakdown?
“Anyway, brilliant news. I met someone.”
“Oh! Already? I...well, who’s the lucky guy?”
“Her name is Cynthia. Beautiful thing. I met her at the education centre.” He takes a sip of his tea. This can’t be happening. Giles has never had an interest in women. “She can trace her lineage back six generations you know. On both sides.”
“I...sorry, where did you say you met her?” I don’t know what to say. This is really scaring me now. Adrenaline is thudding through me. I can’t believe I’m scared of Giles. But I want to run.
“The education centre. I went there to get my Internet license you see. I was allowed to stay a while. Something about my Internet postings. I got the full residential.”
“The full residential?” I think I’m going to be sick.
“Yes, Craig.  The full package.” I can’t stop staring at that fixed smile. Has it been done surgically? It shouldn’t be possible to smile like that while speaking. “I kept getting the access denied message when I tried to log on. Got myself down the education centre quick – if you keep logging on when you’ve been told your access is denied, you can get in trouble. So I went to apply for a license, and got told I was on the VIP list. Stayed for a good week, I think. It was all such a blur. Lots of telly. Relaxing with the tabloids. So many pretty girls there. There were classes I think ... and spa treatments? It was so relaxing, I can’t really remember.” He takes another dainty sip of tea. It dribbles out of the upturned corners of his mouth.
“Do you know,” he says looking at me square in the eye, his fixed grin at once tortured and comedic, “I’ve not been able to stop smiling since.”
“I really should be getting on,” I say.
“Of course. You don’t want to have to break curfew. Can’t very well go back to work with broken fingers, can you?” He laughs manically. I try to join in.
“You’re a good patriot, and a good friend, Craig. See you soon.”
I drive away as quick as I can, feeling like I’m being chased, even though I know I’m not.  Bile rises in my throat. Giles just called me a good patriot - the man who, despite his denials, has spent the last decade working on a book called “Evil and The Nature of Nationalism.”
I pull into my street and idly wonder what has become of the girl with the intricately painted eyes. Out of sheer habit more than anything I pop into Mr Singh for a can of fizz and a sausage roll to take home. I’m going to sleep in my own bed and hope it all makes more sense when I wake up.
“Afternoon Mr – oh. Where’s Mr Singh?” I say to the red haired, plump woman behind the counter. She turns to face me and my blood freezes. Her face is contorted into a fixed, unnatural grin.
“Oh, he relocated,” she said dreamily, then dropped her voice to a stage whisper that easily carried as far as her sing song speaking voice. “They’re happier among their own kind, y’know.”
I back away a bit, grab my can of pop. I want to run, but I try to keep calm to, avoid spooking her. I put it on the counter with a rumpled ten pound note.
“Would you like the paper?”
“Sure, I’ll grab a Daily Voice if you’ve got one.”
“That’s not funny,.” she snaps, here voice stern, her face still smiling. “This is a respectable, grateful establishment. We are proud to only stock Britain’s News here. We’d never be caught selling anything else! We know we’ve never had it so good.”
“Sorry.  My mistake, I-”
“Good day,.” she says pointedly through her smile, her eyes furious. She thrusts 25pence change into my hand. I’m not going to argue. I grab my can and the paper and get out of there, virtually sprinting home.

I fumble with my keys at my front door. It will be good to be back home. I can shut the door on the world. Work out what to do next.
“You there! What’s that book you’ve got there?” an authoritative voice demands. I turn, and see three men, dressed in camouflage, looking serious.
“Sorry?”
“Sticking out of your bag, there?” The middle one strides forward and grabs at my backpack. My book is indeed sticking out of my bag.
“Isn’t this book on the banned list?” he says, grabbing it out of my bag. “Incitement against the British people”
“It’s Orwell,” I say. “He was English-“
“He was a traitor,” the soldier says. “Are you a traitor?”
“What? Of course I’m not a-”
But then there was a flash of white light and stabbing pain as someone hit me over the head. The world went suddenly dark as I was hooded. I tried not to panic but they were drawing a string around my throat.
The world went black.

Saturday 26 March 2016

Craving You

First published in my old notebook April 20, 2014

Craving you

I have been craving you for weeks. I know we are bad for each other, that's why I have been so strict with myself, refused to see you. I have been so good, but I don't know how much longer I can deny myself.

It has been building like a thunderstorm, the need for you, for so long now.  Your scent, your taste on my tongue, the two of us melting into each other, becoming one. You are all I think of at my desk at work, pounding the treadmill at the gym, sitting in traffic. I need you, I want you so much, every cell in my body is calling to you.

I see you with that girl on the bus and something inside me snaps. I can't deny myself, deprive myself of you any longer. I need you. I want you. I'll have you tonight. Oh, I can't wait until tonight! I've got to have you now.

My heart is racing as I reach for you, my fingertips trembling as they caress your familiar contours. I pull you close to me, take a deep breath and inhale your delicious scent. My mouth waters in anticipation and I hold back just a moment more, knowing I am committed now. I will have you and I will hate myself for it tomorrow. It is too late to stop it. I don't even care. I just want to devour you.

I rip off your wrapping and shovel you in. Sod the diet. You, Chocolate, are well worth it.

Monday 14 March 2016

Sixteen sixteen word love stories

I'm playing around a lot with micro fiction at the moment (a much longer piece is on its way) so I thought I would share some with you. I love the challenge of trying to write very short stories. Some of these may become longer stories one day (I think Protection has potential.)

Sixteen Sixteen Word Love Stories
By Victoria Pearson


Accidentally in Love

He showed her the things he loved and piece by piece she fell for his soul.

Fairy Walk

We walked into the woods on a mundane Monday. When we walked out, everything had changed.


Lost

Saw his dream girl in a crowd. Spent his life searching for her. Never found her.

The most painful cliché

“I love you” she said, “but I’m not in love with you anymore.”
My world shattered.

Growing apart

I try to hold her hand, but she pulls it away. My little girl, growing up.

Unrequited

I loved her uncontrollably, an untameable passion that ignited my soul. She didn’t know my name.


Secret

His name was tattooed on a secret spot of her soul; indelible, defining, and slightly sore.

Sacrifice

“Love makes you vulnerable to destruction,” she warned.
“Your kisses are worth the pain,” he replied.

Rebound

The tree shed leaves like tears, mourning for his lost love, Summer. Autumn could never compare.

The Siren Stole His Soul

I felt myself slipping away as we danced. With her final kiss she stole my name.

Break Down Her Walls

The most persistent battering rams couldn’t breach her defences. Respect and loving words did with ease.

Unspoken

He loved her, but it he kept it to himself.
She loved him, but she never said.

Mad Love

“Love or madness,” she shrugged, “symptoms are the same.”
“Please don’t let it end either way.”

Perfect Imperfections

“I am mad, bad, broken. You should stay away.”
“Your darkness is true beauty to me.”

Protection

I watch my son call another man “Daddy.”
Being a Guardian Angel is a heavy burden.

A life, Encapsulated

They met, blushed, danced, wished, kissed, lusted,  laughed, loved, married,  grew old, died, and were missed.