untitled 'supermarket nightmare' #2

untitled 'supermarket nightmare' #2 novel

2009-09-12T17:51:00.001+01:00

After entering the untitled 'please write my novel for me' competition as part of the original untitled 'supermarket nightmare', I won the chance to continue the story by way of offering to write the most chapters (127) and being the only person to enter.

From Tuesday 28th of August, 2007, until Thursday 14th of February, 2008, I wrote a sequel to the untitled 'supermarket nightmare' novel, called untitled 'supermarket nightmare' #2. I posted one chapter per day, apart from the times when I was 'away', or feeling uninspired. The novel is 127 chapters long. It is just under 34,000 words in length. I cannot write short chapters. In the beginning, I wrote "a sequel, of sorts, to the untitled 'supermarket nightmare'" at the top of the blog. This was a mostly accurate description.

There were three competitions.

1) Name a chapter
2) Write chapter 111 and
3) Please write my novel for me

People entered the competitions.

Links to all of the untitled 'supermarket nightmares' can be found here.

Here is a summary of the main events of the original untitled 'supermarket nightmare' novel:

The protagonist ("_____") works in the Fresh Produce department of a supermarket.
He has just split up with his girlfriend ("Carol").
His Boss issues many confusing and ineffective instructions.
The protagonist spends his days moving bananas, apples and peaches around, but mostly bananas.
He struggles to get over the end of his relationship with his girlfriend.
Staffing problems at the supermarket, due to the non-appearance of one person ("Linda") cause difficulties for the protagonist.
He investigates.
A new girl ("Carmella") captures the protagonist's attention.
He tries to work up the courage to woo her.
His Boss is replaced by a new manager ("The Turtle"), who maintains productivity, morale and discipline through the liberal use of her whip.
The protagonist's housemate ("Ian") disappears.
The new manager declares the Fresh Produce department to be in direct competition with Thornton's and their chocolate fountain.
The new girl invites the protagonist over for dinner.
The protagonist splits up with his ex-girlfriend ("Carol") again, just to make sure.
He goes to the new girl's house for dinner.
They have a nice time.
She reveals that she is leaving soon to return home, to the Philippines.
She encourages him to quit his job.
His housemate reappears.
He decides to quit his job.

*

Here are chapters 1-127 of untitled 'supermarket nightmare' #2:

Chapter 1: I will quit today. I will.
Chapter 2: cigarette #2
Chapter 3: 'Cock legs'
Chapter 4: what Linda did
Chapter 5: 7 minutes
Chapter 6: OHP
Chapter 7: time off
Chapter 8: froth
Chapter 9: dinosaur dream
Chapter 10: potato
Chapter 11: cake
Chapter 12: museum piece
Chapter 13: House
Chapter 14: hot air balloon
Chapter 15: message from Carmella
Chapter 16: management tool
Chapter 17: supermarket property
Chapter 18: Denis
Chapter 19: Emily
Chapter 20: Emily, again
Chapter 21: Freddie
Chapter 22: too close
Chapter 23: contents of the folder
Chapter 24: the return
Chapter 25: questions
Chapter 26: goodbye
Chapter 27: dying, a little
Chapter 28: sex dream #5
Chapter 29: banana genetics
Chapter 30: delicatessen
Chapter 31: letter in my pocket
Chapter 32: departure
Chapter 33: Ned Kelly
Chapter 34: more fish, more sea
Chapter 35: Nina
Chapter 36: cigarette #3
Chapter 37: Team Team
Chapter 38: letter to Carmella
Chapter 39: oranges
Chapter 40: dinosaur dream #2
Chapter 41: fruit testing
Chapter 42: in my dreams I watch Emily dance
Chapter 43: hot air balloon #2
Chapter 44: another missing pillowcase
Chapter 45: pillowcase nightmare
Chapter 46: sunlight
Chapter 47: stage bananas
Chapter 48: outbreak
Chapter 49: quarantine
Chapter 50: banana foot and mouth scare
Chapter 51: extract from Sigatoka Fever: everything you need to know about banana foot and mouth disease
Chapter 52: banana bonfire
Chapter 53: new shirt
Chapter 54: sex face
Chapter 55: 6.17 pm
Chapter 56: forgotten grandmother
Chapter 57: furry light
Chapter 58: message from Emily
Chapter 59: the pay-off
Chapter 60: taking charge
Chapter 61: ...before turning the whip on myself
Chapter 62: a tearful confession
Chapter 63: sex dream #6
Chapter 64: clamlife
Chapter 65: 'JOBS'
Chapter 66: plans & subterfuge
Chapter 67: morning light
Chapter 68: overtime
Chapter 69: stocktake
Chapter 70: plans & strategies
Chapter 71: the heist
Chapter 72: reality
Chapter 73: fantasy
Chapter 74: letter from Carmella
Chapter 75: suspect morals
Chapter 76: evidence
Chapter 77: cigarette #4
Chapter 78: recluse
Chapter 79: back to work
Chapter 80: tortoise
Chapter 81: dream of a dragon boat
Chapter 82: new manager #2
Chapter 83: a man of few words
Chapter 84: goddamn you
Chapter 85: manifesto
Chapter 86: a new direction for a new department
Chapter 87: Don Juan lives again
Chapter 88: dark and thinking
Chapter 89: seated stand-up
Chapter 90: the start of the best dinner date in the history of dinner dates
Chapter 91: why 'Cock legs'?
Chapter 92: bananarama
Chapter 93: first time
Chapter 94: dinosaur dream #3
Chapter 95: concertina memo
Chapter 96: sometimes I am asleep but my eyes are open
Chapter 97: things that make me think of Carol
Chapter 98: with Emily (Carol?)
Chapter 99: rearrangement
Chapter 100: bananas x 100
Chapter 101: end of the day
Chapter 102: the challenge
Chapter 103: everything is opposite
Chapter 104: there is no hurry, we shall get there some day
Chapter 105: then the letting go
Chapter 106: letter to Carmella #2
Chapter 107: the _____ identity
Chapter 108: the _____ conundrum
Chapter 109: did I stumble?
Chapter 110: the kingdom
Chapter 111: My Heart Will Go On
Chapter 112: keen eyes and insect asses
Chapter 113: Nivaria
Chapter 114: infringement
Chapter 115: cigarette #5
Chapter 116: gimlets, lifelike
Chapter 117: somehow, I will make everything alright
Chapter 118: memo (Turtle)
Chapter 119: why it is a bad idea to bring bananas on trans-Atlantic flights
Chapter 120: the director, the bishop, the actress and the actress's boyfriend
Chapter 121: questions #2
Chapter 122: miniaturisation
Chapter 123: I am still in love with Carol's knee
Chapter 124: distillation
Chapter 125: dinosaur dream #4
Chapter 126: fresh produce nightmare
Chapter 127: the end

Duck Love

2009-09-11T22:37:00.000+01:00

The grass waves in the breeze, rippling along the edges of the banks

And beaches that encircle the bay.

The brittle spring light reflects from the backs of birds

Skimming low over the water

As they fly across the bay.

At the end of the day, as the evening gloom

Spreads and the moon grows bright,

You arrive with a rustle and a thump,

On the shore of the island in the bay.

Your voice is as soft as your hesitant steps,

Calling out as you pass among us:

I call back and you come close and sit down next to me.

The gravel shifts beneath your body

As you fidget into place.

It always take you a little while to settle,

To become comfortable.

Your movements bring you closer, until I can feel your heat.

As our feathers intermingle,

Your scent fills the front of my head and my chest,

As I breathe you in.

You smell of reeds and rushes,

Of the clear water in the brooks that feed into the bay.

You smell of the air,

You smell like home.

In the dark, beneath the stars, you turn toward me:

“How are the kids?”, you whisper.

I shuffle on the nest, moving the eggs into a more comfortable arrangement,

“They were tapping on the shells earlier.”

“Any day now,” I can hear the pride in your voice.

I tuck my beak beneath my wings and listen to the foxes bark on the mainland.

“Any day”, I murmur.

You cock your head at the sound of the prowling foxes.

“Go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

I watch your head sink to your chest and think of the others who came before you.

Who promised to keep watch, over me,

And our children.

But slept for long enough

To allow the foxes to find us.

I hope you are quicker, and more alert,

And I keep one eye open.

For all of us.

Just to be around someone is enough, sometimes

2009-06-17T22:04:00.007+01:00

What is this?

What is this tickling my whiskers?

Is it a nut? Is it a rimu fruit?

A juicy, sweet, heavenly, rimu fruit?

Could it be a meaty, earthy worm,

Out for a moonlit slither in the forest?

Interesting.

It tickles my whiskers so.

It could be something dangerous,

But I think I would know by now if it was.

Therefore, I must be dangerous to it.

Whatever it is.

Grasp! Peck! Attack!

Peck forcefully!

Peck even more forcefully!

Ah, the perfumed flesh reveals its sweet interior

And bitter seeds: a tawa fruit.

Roaming through the forest,

Which was once draped with the scent of rambling, ambling,

Ground-hugging kakapos,

Yet now there is barely a sniff of another, like me.

I remember a time when we were everywhere,

The only thing to fear were the giant, silent owls

That swooped between the trees.

They could be avoided

By remaining very, very still, and unseen,

And the owl would fly on

Looking for less cautious prey.

But then others appeared,

With four legs, and fur, not feathers,

Pointed claws and sharp, sharp teeth.

They stalked the forest at night among us.

Remaining still and unseen didn't help.

I never heard from a kakapo

Who said they escaped from a newcomer by

Remaining still, and unseen.

In fact, I didn't hear much from anyone after the newcomers arrived.

Sometimes, I catch a scent or hear the boom of another,

Like me.

On the nights when the moon is bright

And the rimu tree is heavy with fruit,

I take to the forest floor,

And boom

Until the noise fills my heart and lungs, rattling my ribs,

Shaking my spine.

I boom until another appears to share the rimu fruit

In the moonlight,

And the world becomes a little less lonely,

For a while.

The horizon draws near

2009-06-15T22:19:00.006+01:00

I am the most beautiful creature

In the entire world.

Don't you agree?

From the big tree in the park,

To the stream that runs behind

Your cousin's house.

In the entire world

There is no one more beautiful than I,

With my grey fur dappled with

Black stripes,

My green eyes,

Long whiskers,

And little black nose,

I am the fastest, the strongest,

The wiliest hunter in the world.

And yet,

You make me wear a collar

That bears a little bell.

Did you not like my gifts?

I brought you everything I could catch,

Once I'd had my fill,

Voles, mice, songbirds, bats,

A present on the mat

Every morning.

Any other cat would be happy with these

Offerings.

But you fasten a collar around my neck

That bears a little bell,

It jingles with my every move.

Now I cannot catch anything, unless it is

Half dead, or so ill

That it tastes too bad to eat,

And believe me,

I've tasted some bad things in my time.

The birds fly and the voles run

As soon as I approach.

The other cats smirk,

Hiding their mouths

Behind their paws.

It makes me think that you don't

Appreciate me

For what I am,

For my beauty.

Until you do,

I may forget where my litter box

Is.

Your shoe collection could become

My new dumping ground.

The chair that your mother gave you

Will be my new

Scratching post,

Until you see,

And appreciate,

Just how beautiful I am,

And take this collar

Off.

I like to play amongst the leaves on the forest floor

2009-06-14T22:47:00.008+01:00

When I look at you, sometimes I see

A black face with white stripes.

Sometimes I see,

A white face with black stripes.

Either way, your eyes are masked in black

Like a 19th century highwayman, or a

Four-legged superhero.

"Power Badger"

Or something.

We rake the ground with our claws

Tearing through the grass and plants,

Digging into the dark earth

Looking for juicy worms.

Sometimes the soil is damp and cool,

And the worms writhe near the surface.

Those nights are good.

As the moon beats down,

We uncover our prey with the barest swipe

Of our paws.

When our bellies are full, we gambol and wrestle,

Your strong body flexing beneath my paws.

On other nights, when it is dark and still,

When the ground is baked and dry,

The worms hide deep underground,

Where it is moist and cool.

On those nights,

We dig through the earth, shifting many

Badgerweights of soil to uncover our prey.

My claws are sharp,

My limbs are strong,

My body burns with energy

As I dig.

There is no one better at digging than me,

Except you, maybe,

"Power Badger".

Nobody's perfect

2009-06-12T18:11:00.011+01:00

My arms are very short.

Very, very short.

I cannot reach my head to scratch,

Unless I bring my head very close to my arm.

However, they are strong,

Surprisingly strong,

Even though others mock me

For being unable to grasp or pull,

Rend or grapple, with my short arms.

Bah!

I tell them,

I could devour you with a single bite,

Or maim you so badly,

That you would not be able to run,

And the second and third bites

Would not be so hurried.

They laugh and caper, dancing away,

Out of reach of my snapping jaws.

I chase and harry but they are too fast,

Too nimble,

For me to catch.

I walk on, going somewhere

With fewer distractions,

Where I will not be taunted by feats of manual dexterity,

Gripping, grasping, rending, pulling,

And the fashioning of crude tools,

Like hooks.

I roar to the sky,

"If I - Tyrannosaurus Rex -

"Were not here, you would not have,

"Anyone or anything so magnificent,

"Or terrifying, to compare yourself against."

As the echoes of my roar die away,

An itch blossoms behind my eye,

And I have to bend my neck uncomfortably,

And stretch my short arm

To scratch the little itch.

Dance with me in the silvery light

2009-06-11T22:35:00.005+01:00

Would you like to dance with me?

We are both dressed in our tuxedoes,

Black and white from head to toe,

From beak to tail.

Apart from our feet, which are grey,

And the orange flashes on the sides of our heads.

You chatter and squawk in tones that are so dulcet,

So different, from the rest,

Who chatter and squawk in tones that rattle and scrape

In my ears.

We could dance across the ice as the snow falls all around,

Cheek to cheek,

Breast to breast,

Toe to toe,

Wingtip to wingtip.

We could whirl and spin on our claws and our bellies,

And sometimes, on our backs,

Because we can be a little clumsy,
Out of the water.

We could dance until you would look at me in a way

That would say,

"Come now, it is time."

Anyone could see what you mean,

Even if they weren't a penguin themselves.

The snow is cold, the ice is slick,

And we are warm, here,

Pressed together.

Wake up! The morning is here!

2009-06-08T19:43:00.007+01:00

The air is warm

And the fug is thick

In the den.

The white walls

Are whiter than before,

The sun is higher,

And the air that seeps

In is a little fresher.

When I made this den,

Digging into the snow with my paws,

My belly was full of life,

The sky was dark

For most of the day.

I needed to rest,

Somewhere warm,

To see out the winter

Somewhere safe.

But now,

There is not enough room

For all of us, in here.

You are becoming

Boisterous and you need to learn,

Out in the world.

I need to eat,

Or we will all freeze in the night.

I check you over,

My little ones,

One last time,

Before we leave.

Your noses are black

And wet, like your eyes;

Like holes in the ice.

The pads of your paws

Are clean and firm.

Your claws prick like needles

As you bat at me

With your oversized feet.

I clean your fur until you

Gleam and are almost

Indistinguishable

From the walls of our den.

All I can think is

That we must live.

We must leave

This place to live.

I will protect you

From the creatures

That can kill you

With a swipe of a paw,

Without a thought.

I will keep you warm

In the wind and the snow.

I will whisper the secrets

Of the ice in your ears.

As you grow in the world

You will grow in my heart

And the thought of you

Making your way

In the world

Will keep me warm

In the winter night.

Will you navigate the way home?

2009-06-05T21:59:00.007+01:00

We ran together, side by side,

Across the everlasting plains.

I felt the heat from your body

As our flanks bumped together.

Our hooves pounded on the prairie grass as we charged

Along trails that only we remembered,

And you remember them far better than I.

Through summers and winters we roamed the plains,

Watching our children grow, and run along the trails before us.

When the plains began to shrink,

The edges creeping closer every year,

We ran to higher places, where the land is less flat.

In the high mountain meadows,

Our stomachs were full,

Our brown fur curled thick upon our heads and backs.

My hump grew tall and fat between my shoulders.

When the air turned sharp and the sun beat down on the golden grass,

You nuzzled my cheek and told me

I needed to run more.

The snow came quickly burying the grass so deeply

That we did not have the strength to clear it.

You remembered a trail, or the story of a trail,

That will lead us to a place where the mountains are higher

And the air is choked by fumes.

But there would be no snow.

We walked, at the head of the line, along the river,

To a place where there was no snow.

The air was warm and smelt of decay.

The brown grass tastes like sand and makes my stomach ache.

In a little while, our limbs grew tired,

And our coats began to lose their curl.

You look at me, with a rheumy eye, and say,

"We have to go soon.

"This will not last forever.

"We cannot last forever

"In this place."

My heavy head sways in agreement,

And we turn to follow the trail back to the meadow

And hope that the snow is beginning to thaw.

Seawater makes my skin crinkle

2009-06-03T21:54:00.007+01:00

The water laps at our flanks as we roll and wallow

In tropical waters out of sight of land.

You chatter and play with your sisters and girlfriends,

Drawing breath, blasting spray high into the air,

At oblique angles, in patterns of momentary beauty.

I take the deepest breath I can and dive beneath the waves

My flukes in the air, signalling goodbye.

The deep sea beckons, cold and dark,

The place where monsters roam, where I must go.

I will look for you when I return,

Although my eyes are small,

And poorly positioned for seeing what is in front of me.

But I can tell by the way that my clicks and whistles

Bounce off your lithe body, that you have a rare beauty,

That will draw me back from the depths

And keep you in my thoughts as I swim through the ocean.

Here, in the deep, there is no light,

Only what I remember from the surface.

The pressure builds on my ribs, squeezing everything.

I keep swimming into the dark and cold.

I cannot see, my lungs are shrinking,

I keep swimming, and put these things out of my mind.

I am listening, and searching, for monsters to battle, and eat.

But, down here, the monsters of my memory do not appear,

There are only other things, swimming, like me.

Maybe we are all monsters, in the deep.

Back at the surface you dip and dive with your friends

Eating what you can find, tiny cousins of the creatures of the deep,

That live where the water is light.

You cast an eye over the hooks embedded in my flesh,

Remnants of my fights in the dark.

Your clicks and whistles bounce off my scars and wrinkles.

They feel like the gentlest current.

You ask: why do I do it?

Why do I dive?

When life is easier here.

At the surface.

Because I can,

Is the only reply I have to give.

On bad days, crowds make me a little uneasy

2009-06-02T22:12:00.008+01:00

Will you love me?

Will you love me with my enormous ears?

They flap like sails, or

Giant butterfly wings.

Will you love me with my grey and wrinkled skin?

It is so tough and corrugated,

That 'hide' is a better description than 'skin'.

I am worried that your skin,

Much softer and less grey than mine,

Will become chafed,

Or you will get a rash.

Maybe you love my eyelashes -

They are long and thick,

But my eyesight is poor.

Will you mind if I bump into things

Every now and then?

I am nimble on my feet

Despite my size

And my sense of smell is excellent.

I imagine you have not met someone

Who has such a clever and versatile

Nose as I.

I love the way you help me

In potentially awkward social situations,

Like going out with friends,

You let me know

If I am holding my trunk

Incorrectly, or if a tusk

Is about to cause

Something inappropriate.

When we walk together

I want to grasp your tail

With my trunk

And let you lead the way.

But you don't have a tail.

So I take your hand instead.

If it is crowded

I offer to let you ride on my shoulders

Above the people.

Sometimes you accept

And cheer and laugh

With your knees around my neck.

Sometimes you decline,

And you smile, and say:

"We're not in India anymore,

"We're in Connecticut,

"And we do things differently here."

Instead I take your hand

With my trunk

And we walk

Side by side.

Sometimes I feel like climbing trees

2009-06-01T22:41:00.008+01:00

If I could be an animal,

Any animal at all,

I would be a leopard.

My claws would shine

As I climbed the trees

On the plain.

My yellow fangs,

Glinting in the evening light,

Crushing the windpipe

Of my meals for the week.

My burnished coat,

The colour of dry grass,

Adorned with spots

That would change,

Into rosettes,

Depending on how you looked

At me.

But, let's be honest,

You would not see me,

Crouched in the long grass

My green eyes tracking your

Slow and steady steps.

The rosettes on my burnished coat

Change to spots and back

To rosettes, which bleed into one another

Until everything is black.

When you finally saw me,

With my shining claws and yellow fangs,

My green eyes would fix on yours,

My tufted tail would twitch

And you would know

That it was too late.

Before long, we would be sitting in the tree,

Together.

But not forever.

Maybe a week or so.

After then, I would be back in the long grass.

You would be in the tree,

Or around it.

But soon enough, you would return,

Or someone very like you.

You would pass my hiding place

On slow and steady feet,

My green eyes would fix on yours,

And we would share a tender moment,

Once more.

Review of LIGHT BOXES by Shane Jones

2009-05-20T21:36:00.005+01:00

LIGHT BOXES is a fairy tale about a town beset by the neverending month of February. Flight is banned by the mysterious priests, destroying the ability of Thaddeus Lowe and his fellow balloonists to do what they love the most. Children begin to disappear, presumed dead, stolen from their families by the malign month. The villagers band together to fight back against February, starting a war where the weapons are hot water, bees, light boxes, and denial. The relentless march of February claims Thaddeus' daughter, Bianca, his wife, and eventually his mind.

However, all is not as it appears. Mysterious figures are glimpsed through holes in the sky. Moss spreads with a terrifying quickness, covering walls and doors and animals, choking everything it touches. Benign and malign events befall the villagers on a regular basis. "February" is not only the bleakest month of the northern winter, but a godlike being who treats the town and its inhabitants like his personal playthings. Bianca is not dead, but living in tunnels beneath the town with the other missing children, preparing for the final war effort against February. Thaddeus regains his mind for long enough to take the battle to February in an attempt to bring Spring to the town.

The writing manages to be both spare and dense at the same time, fusing traditional styles into something modern and exciting, and imparting a wealth of imagery over the course of each 200-word chapter. The initial barrage of imagery is a little off-putting, but the story soon comes to the fore, flowing from beauty to horror with seamless ease: a mother paints colourful balloons on her daughter's arms to remind her of flight; a member of the resistance cuts his wrists in the middle of the streets only for dead vines to pour forth from his wounds. The archetypal characters are limited in their development, but emotional involvement in their plight is difficult to avoid, as they respond to the terrors of winter with touching humanity. At times it is like Shane Jones has taken all the amazing sights and sounds you could experience in a year, distilled them into something highly narcotic, and injected the solution directly into your eyeballs.

The plot of LIGHT BOXES twists around and through itself, like scrambling tendrils wrapping around the limbs of a beech tree. I'm still unsure about the true meaning after repeated readings, as the writing reveals something new each time, like looking into the depths of a gemstone. Ultimately, the theme of love comes to the fore, and the lengths people will go to to demonstrate their love for each other. Despite its slight frame and understated looks, LIGHT BOXES is full of power, humour and heart.

A long story

2008-12-01T04:18:00.000Z

RAFT-BUILDING FOR BEGINNERS

In November 2008, I wrote a 30-chapter story about, among other things, a market fair, fortune telling, raft-building, changing seasons, and balloon flying. I published one chapter a day, from 1st November to the 30th.

Chapters:

1

2008-11-30T10:55:00.001Z

The balloon skims over the tree tops, and I run the stuttering burner to lift the gondola over gables and rooftops. The gusting wind pulls the balloon from side to side as I try to steer and look out for the marker you have made. There is a clearing ahead, opposite a townhouse set back slightly from the road, and on the grass there is something circular: concentric rings of blue and yellow around a large red dot. That must be it! Struggling with the wind and the tattered balloon, I vent the hot air, letting it sink towards the ground and the target. The gondola crashes through the treetops, and I hold on tightly, one hand on the burner and one on the edge of the basket.

A dark-haired figure emerges from the house, looking up at the balloon, and then running to the edge of the grass and waving at me.

The balloon drops groundward, dipping suddenly, the gondola skidding across the grass and tipping forward as the envelope deflates and covers the clearing in a whispering rush of purple.

I struggle out of the gondola, my knees jarred from the impact; I can hear you calling.

I say your name.

The balloon fabric covers the clearing. Part of it is moving.

I call your name and climb under the fabric to reach you. I can hear you, but I can't see you, everything is purple.

Your voice gets louder, and a hand finds mine as I burrow beneath the deflated balloon. It is you. You are here. Breathing, warm, real, you are here, your face flushed with a dazzling smile. You are here, I am here, we are together. As our lips find each other and our arms enfold us beneath the purple canopy, my heart takes flight into the sky above.

2

2008-11-29T22:55:00.000Z

The thin air rushes through my clothes, barely pausing to travel around my flesh and bones, almost like it is passing straight through me. The wind, from the east, is a blessing. It pushes the balloon along, the gondola tapering behind the envelope in the slipstream. I use the gas sparingly to maintain altitude. The sea rushes beneath me, a steel grey expanse of ever-renewing mountains.

Sometimes I stare down for too long, transfixed by cruising whales or chugging container ships, or just by the sea itself. The balloon drifts lower and lower until my reverie is broken, maybe by the squawk of a seabird - an albatross or gull or petrel - and I fire the burner once more, climbing back to a safer altitude.

I eat bananas and Kendal Mint Cake and drink tea from a flask and tots of whisky to keep me warm.

Sometimes I doze. After taking the balloon as high as I possibly can, I let it drift, and slip into sleep for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I awake, panicked, and run the burner again both for altitude and for warmth.

I think of the sound of your voice and the colour of your eyes. A warmth splinters through me at the touch of your heart and mind. I wonder how it is possible to miss someone as much as this after only two days.

3

2008-11-29T22:36:00.001Z

The gas jet roars, heating the air in the envelope and inflating the balloon to its full extent. The day is clear and cold with a slim breeze blowing from the east. My case, packed the night before, fits snugly into the corner of the gondola, counterbalanced by ballast. I check everything again: the gas canisters, the bunsen burner; the straps securing the envelope to the gondola.

I study the directions you gave to me: over the city, heading south and west, where there are as many trees as there are houses; look for the open ground and the marker. I'll know when I see it.

I re-fold the directions and slip them into my inside pocket.

The envelope is ready. It is fully inflated. The balloon tugs at its moorings, straining to get up and away.

My mouth is dry. I pull my hat down over my ears as far as it will go and flex my hands within my gloves.

I check everything one final time:

Hat: yes.
Gloves: yes.
Scarf: yes.
Winter coat: yes.
Case: yes.
Compass: yes.
Manual on hot air ballooning: yes.

I take a deep breath and cast off. The balloon rises serenely into the sky.

4

2008-11-29T22:19:00.001Z

The market fair is winding down. Some of the stallholders have left already, only those who are keen to sell remain, their voices ringing out above the fading hubbub. Dusk gathers beneath the trees and between the tents, spreading through the fair into the spaces left by the departing market-goers.

We stand together beneath a willow tree, it's branches draped around us, as we stand together our bodies pressed together from thighs to lips. My arms encircle your waist, your hips are warm beneath the black velvet of your skirt, and your heart beats against my chest.

"This is the last time we'll see each other."

Your dark eyes are tinted with sadness.

"Maybe the market will be back next year."

The feathers in your hair droop slightly. I feel the urge to hold onto you for as long as I can and never let go.

"But we'll be together in a couple of days; everything is ready."

"I know. But I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too."

I lean forward and kiss you, a kiss full of urgency and longing. You look into my eyes the whole time. Squeezing my hand, you walk away between the hanging willow branches, and disappear into the dusk.

5

2008-11-26T23:59:00.001Z

The fallen leaves cover the ground outside your house. In the morning, when the sun is shining, you bundle yourself up in coat, hat, scarf and gloves and begin clearing the grass. By the time the sun is at its highest, just riding above the treetops, the leaves are raked to one side revealing the verdant grass beneath.

You stand still for a while, gauging the direction of the wind, drifting lazily from the East. In the garage you find cans of paint, blue and red and yellow; rattling the cans into life you spray a large red circle on the grass, and surround it with ever larger concentric rings of blue and yellow until the markings are twenty feet across.

Standing in the middle of the circle, you look up into the afternoon sky and imagine what you look like from above, encircled by the rings you have painted.

6

2008-11-26T22:23:00.000Z

"I need some fabric, something strong, yet light and smooth. Red, if you can find it, about a kilometre of it."

"I'll see what I can do."

We gather straps, rope, a huge wicker basket, gas canisters, the biggest bunsen burner we can find, and pile everything together in the park opposite my house. You dash off in search of fabric, disappearing between the trees, your heels flashing in the afternoon sunlight.

I set about constructing the gondola, securing the straps to the corners, and mounting the gas canisters and bunsen burner in the centre of the basket. You return, walking between the trees, leaning forward as you drag something large and purple along behind you.

You drop the fabric by the basket with a whispering rustle and dust off your hands.

"I couldn't find red. Will purple do?"

7

2008-11-25T22:51:00.001Z

Sitting in the middle of my bed, I bury my fingers into my armpits in an attempt to defrost them. Trickles of icy water run from my hair down the back of my shirt. A shivering starts in my stomach, shaking its way up my ribs to my shoulders and into my jaw, making my teeth clatter together like ivory castanets.

I should take a shower, or a bath, or get into bed, or my sleeping bag, or something. I need to warm up, I need my feet and hands to stop feeling like they have been dipped in dry ice. It feels like all the warmth has been sucked out of my armpits and dissipated by my chilly fingers. I close my eyes and imagine what you would say, if you were here:

"Come on, you need to get warm, you won't do yourself any favours by sitting there. Let's get in the shower."

You gently pull me to my feet. Slipping out of your clothes, you stand before me as I fumble my way out of mine, then smile, take my hand and we get in the shower. After a while, when the cold has left my body and we are both clean, we tarry a little longer to warm each other through and drive the chill from our bones.

8

2008-11-23T19:07:00.002Z

The moon shines wanly upon the rickety ladder, a rime of frost glistering on the rungs, frame and on my clothes and hands. My hair, once wet, is now stiff and frozen. My teeth chatter between lips that are now numb and thick. I look from side to side, and down into the darkness, trying to spot the slide you are building. Everything is dark and cold and empty.

My head nods as I drift off to sleep.

"Hello?"

Someone is shouting.

"Hello?"

Someone is shouting. Maybe they are in my dream.

"Hello? Are you there?"

The voice is clear and confident, intelligent and exciting.

"Hi!"

It is your voice. I force my eyes open, my lashes sticking together with their covering of ice. I can't see you. There is no one ahead of me, no construction, no slide.

"Wooohoo!"

I look to the right. Silhouetted against the waning moon, I can see a figure waving from the top of what looks like the biggest garden slide in existence. I stretch my cold arms in the air and wave back.

"We missed!"

Your laughter rings out across the gulf between us.

"Fail!"

The laughter shakes my ribcage and warms my stomach and lungs. The warmth spreads through my body, reaching to my hands and feet, and tingling in my fingers and toes.

"Let's try your balloon idea tomorrow!"

I wave to you and begin to clamber down the ladder, the cold rungs slippery beneath my feet. You wave to me, sit down on the slide, and push off into the night.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Your voice reverberates in my ears and through my chest long after you disappear from view.

9

2008-11-22T23:55:00.000Z

Building the ladder takes all day. In the morning I hammer planks and batons into a framework that resembles the supports for a demented rollercoaster. Over lunch I sit and think about very little while drinking tea and eating a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich.

In the early afternoon I fit rungs to the ladder, climbing higher and extending the ladder as I go. I carry materials, rungs and nails and emergency batons in a pack strapped to my shoulders. Condensation settles out of the clouds, sticking my hair to my forehead and making the ladder slick and cold.

At 3pm I stop and have another sandwich, dangling my feet between the rungs of the ladder. The ladder sways drunkenly, even when the wind isn't blowing. A pair of crows land on the ladder, croaking to each other in low voices, and eyeing the crusts of my sandwich. Laying the crusts on a rung below my feet, I turn around, and go back to work. The crows caw to each other as they flap heavily into the afternoon air.

The air grows colder the higher I get. My pack lightens as the materials are used up. The moon rises as I nail the last rung into place. Sitting on the end of the ladder, swaying in the night, I swing my feet and wait.

10

2008-11-21T23:54:00.001Z

"What are you thinking?"

"I have a few ideas, mostly about flying."

"I thought we could build another raft, or a boat, maybe."

"The tides have to be right, we could be waiting until spring until I can sail."

"Oh."

"I've been thinking about balloons: hot air balloons."

"Really? That's exciting. We could fly together, over the hills and the river.

"Yes!"

"I've been thinking about a slide and a ladder."

"How would that work?"

"You would build a ladder, from your side, a long ladder reaching up into the clouds and over the sea. The ladder just needs to go into the west. Up high and into the west."

"How would I get down?"

"I would build a slide, up into the sky, to meet your ladder from the other side. We'll join the ladder and the slide, and then glide down together, to my house."

11

2008-11-20T23:33:00.000Z

I go through my belongings, selecting what I will need for the journey ahead, and returning the rest to the wardrobe. Donning my green winter coat, multi-coloured woollen scarf, grey hat with red stripes, and black gloves, I venture out into still afternoon, the streets as cold and empty as a cave. I walk around, stamping some heat into my feet, and rubbing my hands together until they begin to warm.

I stroll through the park, past the church and the leaning gravestones, my mind devoid of thoughts. Reaching a bench, I stop and sit, the wooden planks cold beneath me. The half moon sits high in the sky, peeking through a gap between a yellowing, half-naked sycamore, and a glossy holly tree.

A faint roar reaches my ears, and a red hot air balloon drifts slowly into view, silent once more. The burner flares again, filling the envelope with hot air, lifting the balloon into the evening sky. I can just make out the people in the gondola, a couple, arm in arm, and the pilot, working the controls. The balloon drifts for a while, and then flares again, floating away behind the trees, out of my line of sight.

An idea begins to form in my mind. I check the time. Thursday. I walk home, briskly, my thoughts filled with burning gas, wicker baskets, and an unlimited amount of red material, silken and soft to the touch.