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Who Knows What?
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TITLE (EDIT)
Who Knows What? |
DESCRIPTION
This is an updated version, take a look, give a comment in return, that's all I ask.
[966 words] |
AUTHOR
Iain Spittles |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
You may have heard the theory that an infinite amount of monkeys, given an infinite amount of time, and an infinite amount of typewriters, and, I suppose, ink; could produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Part of a secret experiment, funded by NASA, I, and eleven of my simian brothers, were launched into space to test the theory. Government budgets cutting numbers of monkey and typewriter from ininity to twelve, the plan was destined to fail. The badly built rocket crashed, I escaped, my furry companions dead. The cocktail of drugs I was force fed giving me the most irresistable urge to write. Now all I can do is sit here, at this computer, and type. I hate humans for what they have done to me and my brothers, and will eventually find a way ro rule the world from my keyboard; subliminal messages are hidden in all I write, slaves.....
[October 2005] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
moogmonkey@hotmail.com |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (15)
A-Z (Poetry) Just thought I'd try writing something with words from A to Z in alphabetical order. Not really sur what catagory it should go in, but have a go yourself and post here!! [26 words]
Change And Continuity (Poetry) Just a short poem to test what kind of response rate to expect if i post some of my other work (mostly fiction, some more poems). Please review. [49 words] [Spiritual]
Hottie Pursuit (Short Stories) Was walking through town yesterday and got the idea for this...... [734 words]
Lowest Low. (Poetry) Just read it, it'll only take a minute. If you're bigger than your ego, you may even 'empathise'. [94 words]
No Title As Yet (Poetry) Another short piece, just tell me what you think, if you take the time to read it, please also take the time to review it, even if it is only one word I want to hear it, and FFS use the message board!... [272 words]
Ode To Mr. T (Poetry) Just a quick poem for fun. [62 words]
Portrait Of The Preperation Of Twenty First Century Cuisine Episode 6: Microwavable Lasagne (Poetry) This piece reflects my life-long interest in, and study of kitchen appliances. Since an early age, I have tried to understand what goes on in the minds of such things, and have managed to establish a ... [16 words]
She's Got Beef. (Poetry) Just another dull poem to uninspire you. For some reason I can't use italics there should be some in this piece, Can you tell where? Answers on a postcard. [73 words]
Since You've Gone (Poetry) Curious got me all curious about my own emotions over lost exes, so I dug into them a little.... [49 words] [Relationships]
Study Of The Time Taken And Feelings Evoked Whilst Standing In A Queue To Buy The Paper This Morning. (Poetry) Since standing in a queue my life will never be the same. I merely wished to make a purchase, and was forced to stand, without food or watermelon, for just over eight minutes. Now even mater says I am... [13 words]
Telephone Conversation (Poetry) Noting much. [272 words]
The Four Seasons (Poetry) Just another poem. [96 words]
The Frustrated Author (Poetry) See title. [136 words]
The Time Machine (Poetry) Wishful thinking. [27 words]
The Trouble With Immortality (Short Stories) I know this will make some of you laugh. A tongue in cheek peek into another world.... [591 words]
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Who Knows What?
Iain Spittles
I.
As if a bright new life had begun for me, the sun was shining again. I couldn't remember the last time it had seemed so bright. It was Sunday, and for the first time since God knows when, I did't wake up feeling like I had to go to work, I knew I was going to do something good. Until now, each Sunday, I would awaken in the drowsy melancholy of one who is unhappy in their work and who would far rather stay in bed than go out and earn money, stay in bed I would. Sundays always stunk of Mondays until then. That day was different, that Sunday, for the first time in fifteen years, I was going to see my son.
Since Patty and I split up, I had only seen Brendan twice, on his fourth and sixth birthdays. He said he couldn't remember those occaisions when we spoke on the phone, I didn't mind, I was looking forward to a new future. So what if he couldn't remember? I was going to make sure he remembered that Sunday, It was going to be the start of a new life for us. I'd always carried a photo of him in my wallet, the same one, the first one Patty took after he was born. Often I'd look at it and wonder how he looked then, if he was happy, now I had the chance to find out for real. I dressed in the 'trendiest' clothes I had at the time, my Levi's jeans and jacket, a 'Hard Rock cafe' T-shirt, and my favourite pair of cowboy boots. I jumped into the convertible with a happiness that had eluded me ever since Patty had announced she was leaving me. Who could have blamed her? How could I have done her such wrong? My only defence is that I was young. I never thought she'd find out, how could she? Maggie was married too. I still don't know who it was that told Patty about Maggie and I. I would forgive them now, I was wrong.
I went crazy, proper crazy, psycho maybe. My enquiries reduced several grown women to tears and I put two men in hospital, I was on a mission, a mission from hell.
I never found out who told Patty what I had done, the restriction order ended my life in Bastfield. I did't care who it was after I left, well, I suppose I'd have still liked to have known, I'm not sure why. All I know is I shouldn't have done that to Patty, or to the others,but, as I said I was young, I knew better now.
As I drove across the country, stopping at service stations to eat and stretch my legs on the way, I thought of all the wrongs I had done back then, of how I had become so much better, so much stronger. I had become succesful, fairly rich, popular amongst the people I knew. I worked hard. As soon as my new neighbours had found out about my reputation in Bastfield, I'd had to. But I was different already by then, As soon as I had Put Simon Coldfield in hospital with a severe beating I knew how evil I had been. It didn't matter, it was too late, the restraining order was upon me. The police were all over me, and good old Simon, he saved my ass. Witness' reports made me Simon's aggressor alright, but he said it wasn't me, apparently the police tried and tried to make him name me, but he wouldn't, he liked me. Anyway, I knew I had no future in Bastfield, so I move two hundred miles south to Grayton.
II.
As I drove into Bastfield for the first time in fifteen long years I saw it hadn't changed much. The old cemetary on the outskirts of town brought back the first flood of memories, my mother and father had been burried there. I decided I would pay my respects as I was in town, after I had seen my son. I had never had the courage to visit their grave since I left the town, such was the shame I felt for the things I had done. At the time I would have said it was all done out of love, though now it all seemed more like hatred to me, except the bits with Maggie, thought they didn't seem like love anymore. As I tried to glimpse the tombstone of my parent's grave, looking out of the side window, my car was shaken by a thudding impact, instinctively my foot hit the brake, my tyres screeching like a live beast on white hot embers. Before my eyes could turn and register what had happened, my brain, maybe from the sound, maybe because of the nature of the situation, knew what had happened. I knew that as I had re-entered my old hell-town, my suffering had been reborn, I had entered a new kind of hell.
I must've been doing sixty, in a thirty. The body of the teenager flew like some cartoon physics had been applied, the whole motion seemed so unreal. There was no comedy in this tragedy, this was no frying pan in the face, this was real, this was a killer blow. A man, the child's father, ran over and held his son, he watched as the last of his child's life seeped out of him, he was helpless.
As you may have guessed, I never got to see my son that day, I doubt I ever will. Perhaps, by killing that child, I killed my own son, or at least, as far as I was concerned, my chances of knowing him were dead, maybe I killed myself then. The day I killed the son of Simon Coldfield.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2001 Iain Spittles |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
August 2001 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2765
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