It's Term Time Again! (Cocktales part 1)

Ahh guys, here we go again - me bombarding you with my creative writing. Feel free to peruse, or not, whatever takes your fancy:

'Pick a type of non-fiction book (atlas, recipe book, guidebook, textbook, dictionary). Use this form to structure a piece of writing about something you have experienced.'

This was inspired by Rebecca West's Excerpts from a Family Medical Dictionary in which the author uses dictionary definitions to frame the story of her mother dying from cancer. Such a powerful book, I would totally recommended.

Here's my (slightly more light-hearted) take on the idea:

 

The Cocktail List

The Bangkok Sling

1 part Jet Lag

1 part Faltering Self Confidence

½ serving of Alleged Experience

A dash of Age Related Social Anxiety

Ok, you’re in. You’ve ordered, it’s fine. Everyone else is sitting with someone but whatever, don’t let that bother you. And you’ve got a book. Get your book out. No wait, no one will chat to someone reading a book – you know that, it’s Backpacker 101. Just sit back and take in the sights, look approachable, friendly. Not too friendly.

Serve over ice in a highball, best garnished with a Malboro Light.

 

The Kuta Vortex

2 parts Necessity

1 part Unsure Approach Tactic

1 part juice of Ill-Advised Hareem Trousers

The chopstick part is over. Right, there’s two there. They look nice, and they’re laughing. They must be funny too. Funny and nice. And they look English, a bit Essex in fact - one of them is wearing those weird fabric shoes that are so popular nowadays. You know they at least speak English, you confirmed that on your recon fly by during your last trip to the bar.

For a more mellow version, serve with a side of Over The Counter By a False Name Tramadol.

 

The Lombok Iced Tea

3 parts Dutch Courage

1 part Desperation

A dash of Time is Ticking

If one of them smoked then I could ask for a light, the text book, perfect ice breaker. But no, healthy bastards. Just think, if you don’t do it now then you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow. You don’t want to spend another night on your own reading in your room do you? Well then. Here we go, one, two three...

Lightly dust brim of glass with some Fraudulently Obtained Pseudoephedrine. Serve on ice.

 

The JP SX - Board Review

Four years in the making, the SX has proven to be one of Swansea-based John ‘JP’ Purton’s most popular models. The boards range from 5’0” to 6’6” and are available in a swallow, square or round tail, depending on personal preference and ability. The board was originally designed for surfers who are competent with performance surfing but are looking for a board which will handle mushy summer waves. It is a board design with versatility in mind, supposedly being able to handle waist high beach breaks up to head and a half high reefs.

 JP is a well-known name not just around the South Wales area, but across the UK and abroad, and John has been making boards for a long time, a very long time, in fact since he was 13. His two sons, Tom and Louis, are now part of his shaping business and since 2002 they have owned and operated their own DSD shaping machine from their Penclawdd workshop.  

They’re known for high performance, good quality boards and honed through years of experience and expertise. JP has some impressive sponsored riders, such as Llantwit local Nathan Phillips, Tom Lowe, Fergal Smith, the Gower’s Gwen Spurlock and Porthcawl’s Chris Seage.  

The true shortboard is experiencing a decline in popularity at the moment, especially in Britain, with many surfers favouring the old school, retro vibes of a fish or the combined qualities of a hybrid shortie. People with full time jobs who don’t live near the sea don’t have the option of surfing every day and want a board that they can just jump on and get waves, that still maintains the responsive snappiness of a shortboard but with the added buoyancy and volume of a larger board.  

So, with this in mind I borrowed a test JP SX (a 6’2” x 19 ½ x 2 ½ squaretail to be exact) from the guys in City Surf in Cardiff city centre and gave it a couple of tries. I surfed it twice at Rest Bay in Porthcawl and once at Ogmore in the Vale, and also once at a secret reef somewhere on the Glamorgan coast.  I tested it in a variety of conditions as well, between hip and shoulder high on the beachies and head high on the reef. 

The SX performed well, its super fun to ride, easily manoeuvrable, responsive and rides well. Contrary to the fuller plan shape, it’s easy to get a good lip smack out of it and works well on the rail to rail. The relaxed rocker contrasts well with the single to double concave towards the tail, meaning that the board is easy to catch waves on yet snappy and sharp. 

However, on the smallest day when the waves were around hip high, I found it incredibly hard to maintain any speed and found myself sinking wave after wave. Despite the 6’2” length and elevated volume, I still found it hard to surf in the conditions and would have been better off with a retro fish style board, of course this would mean compromising the manoeuvrability. The SX is said to work in waist high beach breaks and above, but I’d say that this was the absolute limit for this board.

In the reef break it went really well – easy to keep the speed up and was really easy to catch waves on. The board definitely benefited from the added punch of the reef and I had a super fun surf, it feels a lot thinner than it actually is and even I got some good spray off my top turns.

Me surfing a different board, on a different day...

I would buy this board to add to my quiver as a good all-rounder, volume for the smaller days and concave for the bigger days yet maintaining responsiveness throughout. Although I wouldn’t go throwing away my retro fish or high performance shortboard just yet, as where this board seems to work well in the middle of the spectrum, it isn’t prepared for the extremes on either end. Saying that, the SX’s fat older brother the SX5, with its 5 fin set up and wider deck, would be perfect for the smaller, weaker waves. Or even the RX5, which is in the same family and yet again has a wider plan shape, and is more akin to an original 80s thruster.  

In a nutshell, I would buy this board. I want this board. It’s a good addition to any quiver.

Are Kindles killing books?

Does the Kindle Spell the End for Books in Print?

In a nutshell, no. I don't that the Kindle and Kindle-like products will render books obsolete, but I do believe that there is a market for each. While many use both, normally books at home and a Kindle for travelling, I, on the other hand, stand firmly with the rest of the bibliophiles.

"Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators," says Stephen Fry, and I am inclined to agree. What works for one person does not for another. Many favour the compact, lightweight, technologically adept Kindle, but others feels that you can't ever replace the smell and feel of a proper book.

I also feel that Kindles take some of the fun out of reading. Just the other day I was getting to the end of Joseph Heller's amazing book Catch 22 on the train to Bath, when the man next to me turned and asked if I had ever read it before. I replied in the negative. "You should" he said, "it's completely different the second time around, it changed my life." The revelation and the ensuing conversation would not have been possible if I had been reading it on a Kindle.

And for those who loving reading, surely being able to recognise and remark on the book of a fellow commuter is special. Plus, you get to internally judge them on their choice of tome, which is also fun. In cases such as these, the Kindle is denying us the feeling of camaraderie when you see someone a quarter of the way into a book you love, wondering if they'll adore it as much as you do. Who knows what these Kindle folk are reading? No wonder Fifty Shades of Grey became a bestseller when no one can see the cover.

"But it's so light and easy to travel with," they cry, and I of all people should see the benefit in this. I've spent years backpacking, often weighed down with three or more novels and a guidebook. When asked why I don't get a Kindle to make life easier, I can come up with numerous reasons. The first is that I like to pass books on or swap them with other travellers, the knowledge that it's been passed through countless pairs of hands all over the world is a warming one indeed. Plus, when you're on your own, it can be a great way to meet people. See/offer a book, start a conversation and hey presto, you may have just found yourself a new travel buddy. All through a book.


The second reason is that I like the fact that I'm pushed out of my comfort zone when faced with a hostel bookshelf full of completely bizarre titles. Because of this I've read some amazing books which I would never have picked up otherwise, such as Jose Saramango's Blindness, and some others which I wouldn't pick up again, like the book adaptation of Total Recall and some questionable romance novels.

Of course Kindles have their plus points. Many of the classics are free, you can store a load of books for a lazy holiday and have a novel in your hand within seconds, and it sure would make my university reading lists a lot cheaper.

But at the end of the day call me old fashioned, technophobic, stubborn, I can never, ever see myself buying a Kindle. And there are many like me - those whose houses are stacked with row upon row of books but wouldn't have it any other way.

Where do you stand?

The Endless Winter - Review

Top professional Cornish surfers Mark ‘Igor’ Harris and Mitch Corbett are on a mission, a mission to discover the roots of surfing in the UK. Along the way they meet the iconic locals who went on to become legends and get to grips with what makes British surfing so special. The product of this journey is ‘The Endless Winter’, and what a journey it is.

“We wanted to make a film that British surfers could be proud of,” says producer Matt Crocker who, along with James Dean, is responsible for the movie.  And that they have done. The film is both interesting and informative, avoiding the Cornwall-heavy bias of many British surf films by including many spots such as the Gower, Brighton and Thurso East.

 

 

The film’s tagline is ‘A very British surf movie’, and it certainly goes to fill a gap in a market oversaturated with footage of warm water barrels in exotic locations. British surfing has evolved on its own terms and in its own time and the resulting eccentric characters and hardcore surfing community is covered well. 

Igor and Mitch come across as genuinely nice guys and connect well with those they are interviewing, such as surfing icons Pete ‘PJ’ Jones, Spencer Hargraves and Nigel Semmens. They reveal what UK surfing was like at its birth, such as the ridiculousness of surfing in a woolly jumper in January, whilst tackling more sensitive issues, such as the suicide of promising young surfer Nigel Veitch who dived off the cliffs at Tynemouth after losing his sponsor. The story is handled well and goes to show that getting British surfers on the map, not to mention the rankings, was not all plain sailing.

 Memorable scenes include when Igor and Mitch join ‘The Muddy Brothers’ by surfing the Severn Bore tidal wave in total darkness, and the section on Sennen’s legendary Skewjack Surf Camp. The film also reveals some surprising facts, such as surfing’s link to Agatha Christie, King Edward 8^th and Captain James Cook, as well as the effect of the World Wars on the surfing community.  

It’s had a positive reception, it won Best British Film at the 2012 London Surf/Film Festival and enjoyed outdoor premiers all over the UK.  The soundtrack isn’t bad either; featuring the obvious, but still good, Devonshire surfer Ben Howard as well as others, such as The Fairport Convention and the imaginatively named Hotel Flamingo (I’d never heard of them either). It also includes black and white film footage as well as animations, courtesy of Simon Ball.

But there are problems. The in-water footage leaves a lot to desired, it’s shaky and unsteady and a couple of times during the Badlands section it even gets jammed into the sand, leaving viewers with an invigorating few seconds of Cornish seaweed. The film could have also done with some more footage of women surfers and groms, of which Britain has many, and excellent ones at that.

 

However, my main bugbear is that the production team are not surfers. Let me reiterate that, these guys don’t surf. In fact, in ‘The Making Of’ section, they admit that they found it hard when filming to anticipate the surfers’ next move on the wave, their lack of knowledge being so. It seems strange to have outsiders documenting and commenting on a community which is so notoriously insular and close-knit. Those of us who were not lucky enough to grow up surfing know how intimidating it can be at the beginning– the language, rules, hierarchy, etiquette, not to mention the sometimes aggressive localism. The well-worn idiom of ‘Only a surfer knows the feeling’ seems to be tested by this DVD.  

But they do make any effort to stick to just the main spots and don’t reveal any that viewers wouldn’t know about already. I wonder how much of that decision was based on the surfers’ code rather than the risk of getting their windscreen waxed or face the backlash from revealing a secret spot. Plus, when they approached and met the featured local surfers, who are legends in the surfing world, I wonder if they had the same deep-set respect and admiration that a surfer would have.  

On the flip side, it means that even those who are not surfers can understand, appreciate and be inspired by the film. And along with the 30 minutes of extras, the film is definitely worth a watch. It really does encapsulate what makes British surfing unique, the history and evolution surfing in the UK, and the fact that the never ending search for the perfect wave has been with us from the very beginning.

The Endless Winter trailer

5 Reasons Why You Should Go Travelling

I'm now writing for gkbc Academy which is a volunteer blog. You are assigned a subject and write a piece for a company or website, adhering to the word count and and including the chosen keywords. Your work is edited and critiqued by professionals and then published online. It's pretty good.

I was asked to write two pieces, both of which discuss a certain statement, to check the standard of my writing before acceptance. Here's my first:

5 Reasons You Should Go Travelling

I try to convince everyone I meet to go travelling; shop assistants, hairdressers, random people I've sidled up to in the pub after one too many ciders. And, I really believe it.

Granted travelling, especially backpacking, is not for everyone. But if you've ever though about it but doubted you could, then I will try to convince you. Here are five of the many reasons I could list why you should go travelling:



Semana Santa in Antigua, Guatemala

1)   It helps you grow

 Yes, we've all heard it, the Gap Yah staple: "I really found myself at sunrise on a beach in Thailand." Pretentiousness aside, this is really what happens. Travelling changes you, it makes you more accepting of other people, opens your eyes to new cultures and teaches you to appreciate what you have. As twee as that sounds, it's difficult to feel hard done by when you see how some other people live.

2)   If you don't, you will always regret it

That's always a thing that people says, "I really wish I had travelled in my youth", but you never (well, hardly ever) hear anyone say, "Wow, I really wish I hadn't travelled so much and got myself a proper job earlier." Don't let not travelling be something which will hang over you. On my travels I've met fellow backpackers of all different ages, straight from school right up to those who have just retired and are getting out there. It's never too late.

Awesome sloth in the cloud forests of Panama

3)   It's easy

When I talk to people about travelling, they often says, "That sounds amazing, I wish I could do that." Well, you know what? You can. There isn't some secret handshake which you have to learn. Anyone can travel. Yes, even you. Save up, book a flight and plan. And once you've booked, you have to commit. It's that easy. Sure, it doesn't seem that way when you're stuck at  abus station where no one speaks English, or trying to sort out a visa at a border in the middle of nowhere. But remember that the hard times will be a funny story in a few months. Which brings me to my next point...

4)  Memories

Sure, my friends roll their eyes when I start an anecdote with; "This one time, in...." But, it's hard not to. Whilst travelling I've experienced things which I will remember forever, like sitting on a Mayan temple in the jungle watching the sunrise, or celebrating my 27th birthday at a snake feast in Hanoi. I'll have plenty of things to tell the Grandkids about.


An orphanage in Cambodia

5)   The people you meet along the way

Be it the locals or fellow backpackers, those you meet along the way colour your travels in a way which you will never expect or forget. Some you will know fleetingly, others you'll stay in contact with for years to come, but when you think back to a place you've travelled, the people who were with you are synonymous with your memory of that place. It is them who make up your experience.



St. Augustine once said, "The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page." And if that doesn't convince or inspire you, I don't know what will. So, of you're thinking about it, ever considered it or entertained the thought for just a moment, my advice is to just do it. You won't regret it.

Trekking in Chiang Mai - Thailand

NYE 2008 - Rhythm and Vines Fesitval, Gisborne, New Zealand



x

The Mayfly - Assessment Short Story.

Long time no see!

So, assessment time is upon is again and I chose to write a steampunk, alternate history love story.

In class we looked at China Mieville's novel The City and the City in which the city in question is split into two cities occupying the same space but not acknowledging eachother. It's a bit hard to explain, here's the wiki.

So, I chose to write about a city which is divided not politically but temporally, meaning that the characters experience time at different speeds with each group ignorant of those who move faster than them. In fact, one group experiences time so slowly, that they only live for one of our days. SImilar to the fact that we know trees get bigger but we never see them actually grow, because it's too slow for us to acknowledge. Hmm, maybe you should just read it, let me know what you think:

 

The Mayfly

She was falling to the ground, her hair out in front of her like ribbons, her eyes locked on mine. I had touched her and she could see me.

She was looking right at me.

I should have moved, hidden, but her gaze held me petrified.  I watched her tumble, I stood by and saw her skirt begin to billow out in front of her. They moved around her, the others, the rumbling rocks. No one had noticed her yet.

But I had.

This one that I had been watching my whole life, who my Elder and his Elder had watched before me, and theirs before that. She was ours, our girl, our reason. My life revolved around her, around this moment. I saw the sign and I had acted, I had reached out and touched her.

 And now she could see me.

She had packed her bags, was carrying her luggage. She had taken her pictures off the wall and her trinkets off the shelf, she wasn’t planning on returning. Before my Elder passed, he told me that he had seen her book her ticket, that she was going to leave and we’d have to go with her.

We were bound to her.

I had watched her leave her house and followed her here, to this place which is full of them, the Dwellers. Their different shapes and sizes, colours and shadows. I looked on, as I do every day, as she took one ponderous step after another, surrounded by those who are like her yet not quite the same.  Their deliberate movements, their thundering speech. They moved around her but did not see what I saw.

She shone among them.

I’ve seen her grow. Spent an age watching her brush her hair or tie her laces. I know all her secrets, the Automon Spider she carries with her that’s been broken for years yet can’t bear to throw away, her grandmother’s engagement ring that she lost and didn’t tell anyone about. I know where it is of course, it had rolled between the floorboards and fell through a crack. It sits there still. She had looked for it for hours.

My Elder told me about the time she had fallen from a wheeler and broken her leg, she had screws in there now. His Elder had seen her trip when she was smaller, bite her lip and draw blood. If you looked closely you could still see the scar there now. She hated it, but for me it linked me to my Elder-Line, they had witnessed the event and I could still see the evidence. It tied me to them.

I knew every line on her face, every mark, scar and freckle. I knew her routines, that she didn’t like strawberries, that she secretly wished she could be a little taller, and that one time she had cut herself just to see what it would feel like. In her almanacs I had read about the first boy she had loved, the one she kept a picture of in her diary. He didn’t know, she never told him.

He didn’t deserve her.

Others had begun to notice she was falling, I saw their eyes pivot toward her. The girl all in red, a battered suitcase in each hand, tipping back on her heels. A lamplighter over near the clacker stand had seen her, he made as if to go to her and break her fall. He wouldn’t make it in time though. Neither would the woman with the cages of bronze birds, little gems and beads lining their wings, clicking and whirring, their tiny eyes lit green. Souls made from cogs and springs.

And through all of this she watched me, her eyes crinkled in confusion. Or in fear.

I looked down at her tickets, the ones I had taken from her hand, embossed and perforated and gold around the edges. There were words on them, a language we didn’t understand. I had panicked, I had had to stop her getting on that airship, it wasn’t the way for her. I had felt it, the premonition, the foreboding feeling, I saw a flash and that had confirmed it.  I was taught to rely on my instincts and it had been my time to act.

I looked up at the airship, creaking on its ropes, the bunting tethered to the ground undulated in the breeze. There was a band on the boarding platform, their brass buttons shone in the noon sun. Above, the propellers cut lazy circles from the heavy summer air and the steering bellows wheezed laboriously. The light glinted off the domed observation windows and mottled on the side sails, it was hard to look right at it.

Everything seemed so perfect.

There were Dwellers up there, hundreds of them, hanging their heads over the railing and waving, smiling and laughing, shouting and singing. I watched the streamers spiral, the confetti rain down around the Dweller crowd. I could have plucked it right out of the air if I had wanted to, but instead I let it fall to my feet, to become muddied in the cobbled puddles.

 

When I looked at her again, she was nearing horizontal, her back straight and her body stiff. The woman with the birds had opened her mouth and was booming, the lamplighter had dropped his torch and was midflight, other Dwellers were turning to look. A sea of moving faces under feathers and hats.

 Yet still she fell.

Then, her eyes left mine and began to roll up into her head.  Through her eyelashes I could see the white crescents, her blinking drummed a rhythm. I saw a tear scribe a smooth arc down her cheek, one and then another. She stayed like this until she hit the floor. They were almost to her, to try and catch her as she fell, to cushion the impact.

But the only one who could have caught her was me.

Her head cracked against the cobbles with a shattering blow, rebounding twice.  The thud was deafening, her neck snapped back and forth, her ringlets uncoiling. A suitcase burst open, her belongings airborne in a leaden parabola. Out tumbled the Spider, its internal cogs and defunct springs flying, catching the sun as it smashed into the ground, it’s visceral mechanics skittering away.

They were beginning to crowd around her, I needed to move. I slipped in between them as they circled her, leaned in over her, concern on their faces. Through their legs I could see her body lift and contort, her jaw bulging as her teeth churned against each other, her hands balled into fists. I saw her tendons tightening in her neck and forearms, the muscles contracting and twisting. The Dwellers around her looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

She hadn’t done this before, it would have been recorded, written down in her almanacs. I had studied them over and over again and there was nothing like that in there. I knew everything about her yet never expected anything like this.

There must have been a reason, or is all this for nothing, a leap of faith into a bottomless pit. I had felt so sure that it had been the time. I glanced wildly around me.

It has to be something around here, somewhere.

I looked up and I saw it, there was smoke coming from the airship. Only the smallest bit at the moment, not enough for them to realise. Wispy spirals too slight to notice, reaching tendrils that gradually bloomed from white to grey to black. A glow permeated the fabric, it was alight inside. There was no explosion, or warning, just a slow creep of illumination, a lumbering blaze, the shuffling death.

I stood transfixed. A butterfly ambled lethargically past me, I could feel the whirring vibrations of its metal wings as it passed.

This was it.

I looked at her again. She lay still, someone was putting a coat under her head. Her eyes were open, but dull and glazed over, staring straight up. The bird woman was holding her hand, her other lay on her forehead. A man in a tall hat had pulled over a talker, the boy looked over their shoulders in concern as the man shouted into the speaking tube, his other finger jammed into his free ear. Another man had begun to take off his jacket.

The smoke had begun to turn black, spiralling skyward. Before long the plumes were haemorrhaging through the breach, the ribs of the ships structure were already beginning to show.  The flames were spreading, the internal luminosity growing in size and intensity. As I watched, a lone piece of ash pirouetted through my gaze, I let it come to rest on my upturned palm, it was still alight.

They began to scream.

 

From my vantage point I could see it all. He who attended her, the Sleeper in red. I had been watching him from the beginning, from my very birth. From the moment I felt the sliding warmth engender me, I became it and it became me.

As a child I had followed him, from that other part of town. The part with the spirals and bridges, and the towers that sit so close to one another and the lights that live inside, behind the coloured glass. They are like me, but different. They glow through metal, harnessed, enslaved, ready to be used again and again, trapped by those who live through the darkness, when the Mother-Sun has gone, the ones who live forever, through countless cycles.

He was down there in the crowd, among them, surrounded by them, the Sleepers. He was going to follow her onto the ship, the one which was packed full of them. They put so much faith in these things, these objects and technologies. They didn’t see what I see, the near misses, the imperceptible wear and tear. They lived too slow for that.

 

I knew it was going to happen, of course, I had watched the air change and the gas leak. It was lighter than the air around it, I watched it escape and then float away, dissipating into the blue. It was so obvious, to me. I had been watching the cogs and pulleys and cams and pistons, I had seen them ever so slightly skip a beat, or change rhythm, move a little off course, misfire.

They never notice, of course.

I had seen the charge begin to build up, the minute spark which would trigger all this. I knew there and then that the time to act was upon me. I had looked over the side, seen him next to her, they were going to climb the tower, pass the band and then board. He needed to be saved and I was ready to do it.

I had watched him until he slowly rotated his head in my direction, before gathering myself and sending out a charge. Nothing too obvious, just a flash, a reflection perhaps, or a spark. A message.

He had seen.

I had floated down for a closer look, to make sure. This close, I could see the panic in his eyes and etched across his face. I watched him begin to circle her, to search her for a way to intercept, a way to change her life-course without her noticing.

By the time I had drifted back up to the ship, the leak had doubled in intensity. I could see the pressure of it as it forced its way through the puncture holes. I could see the air moving with the rising temperature, shimmering ripples of combustion. I could feel its energy, the static in the air, I watched the dancing phosphoresce as it converged across the fabric.

I looked down at him, he was reaching tentatively toward her. I sailed down to them. His hand moving toward hers, carefully as not to touch her unnecessarily. He was going to take the paper tickets which she held pinched between her thumb and forefinger, her others curled around the handle of a case. I watched him for a while as his fingers edged closer and closer towards hers, I was envious of their proximity.

They were almost touching.

I wanted to be part of it, I wanted to feel him like he felt her.

He who made me shine.

I wanted to know what they’d have when they made contact, when he reached to her and they touched. I wanted to share in it, take away its intimacy.

And so, when he was just closing in on her, ready to swipe the tickets out of her hand, I held out my hand and lightly placed it over theirs.

The surge of energy pulsed through me, it hammered at the inside of my chest and jolted down my back. I retreated instantly through the static crackle, electricity flickering on my fingertips

I had bridged the gap.

 I had completed the circuit.

 

I woke up to the sounds of running footsteps. I didn’t understand where I was. My head was pounding, a dull, thudding pain. I could hear voices, screaming. There was something falling from the sky, bits of black paper, a cloud of dust perhaps, I could feel it settling on my face. There was someone holding my hand, a woman. I moved my eyes to look at her, she didn’t see me. She was gazing up at something.

I squeezed her hand, the woman looked down at me.

“She’s awake. You’re ok, just had a fall. Do you think you can walk, we have to move.” There was an edge to her voice.

I nodded, I felt sick. She pulled on my arm and helped me to my feet, slipped her arm around me and under my shoulder.

I could hear the horns of the emergency wheelers, there was something happening.  

“What’s -“

“Don’t try to speak right now, we need to move out of the square,” she began to shuffle me forwards, my head was spinning.

“Why?”

“There’s been an accident.”

I remembered that I had been going to the airship, today was the day that I was leaving for the Islands.  And there was something else...

There were people running everywhere, they bumped into us as they tried to get in or out of the square. I didn’t understand what was happening. My head was still aching, my vision blurry.

There were people crying, shouting. There was a tinge to the air, a taste. I could feel heat pressing through my summer dress and onto my back.

Burning.

I stopped and swung around.  There, suspended from what was once the boarding tower, hung the twisted girders of the airship, like the skeletal remains of some giant insect swathed in fire. I gasped, the scene was like something from the Centre War. Black smoke billowed out of the wreck, diluting the midday sun. There was death in the air.

The sun.

 I remembered. I had seen something, someone, a man.

“Oh Gods, look,” she held her hand out to point, I followed her gaze. There were people jumping from the remains of the ship, a last ditch attempt to escape the engulfing inferno. Some of them were on fire.

A man, a man who had seen me as I fell. A man who was different. A man who moved so fast.

“We have to get out of here,” she said and began pulling at my arm. But I wanted to stay, I wanted to help. I felt...connected to it somehow.

Two wheelermen pushed past me holding a stretcher. The indistinguishable figure on it held its arms up rigidly, the burns so tight around the elbows that they would not bend, charred skin hanging like second sleeves. It was one of the lucky ones, the square was strewn with bodies, pulled out of the wreckage, already dead or deemed without hope, left to go quietly. The wretched meek, scratching pathetically on Death’s door.  

 Yes. I had seen a man, I didn’t recognise him but I knew him. He had been there when I had fainted. I looked for him in the crowd, I’d never find him now.

The airship was now completely in flames, the wood and fabric providing the perfect fuel. The air was filled with ash, it was hard to breathe, many had tied scarves around their faces. The smell of charcoal and burning flesh hung heavy in the air. I tried not to think about it.

 “Come on,” I said to the woman as I tore a strip off my dress and tying it around my mouth. With a sigh she did the same. We pushed further into the square, the heat was almost unbearable even here. We started circling the bodies, checking for signs of life. There weren’t many, most of them had been burnt beyond recognition, their clothes singed and black. This one must have been a child, the rigour mortis bending it into the foetal position it had so recently come from. And here a woman, she still had patches of long blonde hair. I went to move on.

 

Wait. Movement. She was moving.

I bent down, put my cheek near her scorched face, no breath. She moved again, it was under her clothes, I unknotted the fabric at the front of her dress and out shot a tiny hand, clean and perfect.

There was a heaving screech, I looked up. The tower was beginning to collapse. I pulled out the child and ran.

                                                           x

 

Counterfactual History

This piece is based on counter-factual history, which is described by some lovely person at Wikipedia as this:

'Counterfactual history, also sometimes referred to as virtual history, is a form of historiography that attempts to answer "what if" questions known as counterfactuals. It seeks to explore history and historical incidents by means of extrapolating a timeline in which certain key historical events did not happen or had an outcome which was different from that which did in fact occur. It has produced a book genre which is variously called alternative history, speculative history, counterfactual history, or hypothetical history.'
 

It is seen in novels such as Resistance by Owen Sheers, or Fatherland by Robert Harris. Both of these texts are focused around the idea of the Allies losing the Second World War, and the Nazis invading Britain.
Fatherland is on my to-read pile, but  I really enjoyed Resistance.

So, reluctantly sticking with the 'Scott of the Antarctic' theme (my lecturer seems to love it), here's my counter-factual take on the disembarking of the Terra Nova.


We built this city on rock and coal.

Evans looked over the edge of the observation platform, they were almost ready to go. The pile of the supplies on the tethering tower had dwindled, been successfully stowed somewhere aboard ship. The ponies had been difficult. As everyone knows, ponies are notoriously malfooted when it comes to ladders. Even the specialised, extra wide rung one which had been gifted to them. They were settled now though, he could hear them beneath deck, contented snuffling and nosing their hay. He wondered if ponies had a fear of heights. He hoped not.

From up here the crowd just looked like a sea of hats, all fancy and colourful with feathers and flowers. The noon sun prevented anyone from looking up for too long, he liked it that way. They’d shield their eyes with one hand, and wave with the other. He didn’t wave back though. He could see Scott down there too, checking the ropes, making the final adjustments, looking over the hydrogen tanks.

He reached out over the railing and hooked his finger over a string of bunting and pulled it back. When released it made a satisfying twanging sound. A seagull at the other end of the rope squawked as it wobbled to a standstill. Evans looked at the seagull, the seagull looked at him. Then, with the slight narrowing of his eyes and a flourish of the tail, the seagull pooped. Evans watched it sail down and then splash onto a lady’s hat. She didn’t even notice.

The crowd roared beneath him and the band struck up. He saw Scott begin to climb the ladder. Evans slipped on his flying goggles and the engine spluttered into life. He cracked a smile and waved disconsolately as the propellers began to turn.