Sister ship to Ground Control

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Often I’ll write the end of a story before I’ve written the middle. You can know how things will end up, even if you don’t know how you’ll get there. They always begin with knowing where to start…

I died suddenly and for no apparent reason.

Picard and Guinan

You don’t notice it. It turns out quantum theory is right: Your life carries on, but in an instant you’re transported to an alternative universe, before you even realise you left the last one. Both still exist.

In the old life, people mourn (or celebrate) your death. In the new one you created, you carry on, but you’re in a different physical form. In the old place, they can’t see you.

It takes a while to get used to, when you’re shouting in people’s faces and they don’t know you’re there. Invisible and mute, I can only write from the place I found myself in. I’m on board a spacecraft.

They’ve been here for a while, and there are people I know here. Friends I lost on the streets, still walking around the corridors because they remain in others’ memories. And my auntie, looking very well and with her own quarters, because I often think of her. She counsels the others, who all know her because I wrote about her. Our stories are similar: We were prisoners on Earth, when those who chose to govern chose also to clean the planet.

Like abduction by aliens, the dehumanising machinery employed by the government’s social cleansing agenda first renders you entitled to the human right you were originally denied by making you ill. It’s confusing because it makes no sense in a human mind, and when that preys on mental health, it can kill you. It’s by design, but the human memory never dies.

I starved, I froze, and I forgot to breathe. I had no-one to talk to on Earth, which is why I hitched a ride with my auntie on the sister ship, to take a break, to see things from above. You can only do that if you rise up, and if you have someone up there already, they can help, for as long as they’re not forgotten.

I’d been brain-dead for some time, since the government murdered me. They couldn’t kill what was in my heart. I knew I’d been keeping a secret, and it would be a coroner who got to tell everyone that, in writing. But as I tried to explain what was on my mind, my auntie said something which pressed on my chest.

If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

We’re not gone until we’re forgotten. As long as there are stars in the sky, I know there are other people who can look up at them and know we’re still connected, wherever we are. Keep watching the skies and you might see a shooting star, only passing you by if you were paying attention.

The story’s not over, but this is one way it ends for many here who are unable to write home. I thought I’d finish the stories, in case they didn’t get a chance to write the rest.

Some endings are already written, as they write their own beginning and start again.

When God was a chicken

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Lately I’ve been spending time with Lenny, the chicken which hatched from a Campbell’s soup can painted by Andy Warhol. I’ve been accused of making Len up, as though the cure for my social anxiety was all in my mind. In any case, we’ve been touring the places I know. We’ve been out in my village, and anyone who saw us will know we’re real.

poulet3_0

As Helen (as she turned out to be) had grown restless in the studio, we first visited the local charity shops. As an assistance chicken, she was allowed in, which eased a burden of pressure on me. Len could choose her own toys, which she did by pecking and clawing at various pieces of plastic tat. She also took an interest in the books, vigorously headbutting a children’s bible. It was a win-win for me: Money to charity, and a happy self-educating chicken to boot.

Len was keen to return home with her toys and book, but we still had shopping to do. As we walked through the village, she was tugging at her lead in various directions she considered to be toward home (she was no pigeon). The zebra crossing on the high street contained poultry for much of the afternoon, as we crossed repeatedly from one side to the other.

Eventually we made it to the supermarket, where I stocked up on food for us both. Len stayed close, perhaps sensing my relief that this was the last stop and we’d be home soon.

Back at the studio, I unpacked the shopping while Len made a bed with her toys and started leafing through her children’s bible. I asked her if there was anything she fancied for dinner, and she headbutted an open page in her book. It was Jesus and the feeding of the 5000. I made us fish finger sandwiches.

While I was cooking, Len read some more of her bible. As I was putting our sandwiches together, I heard a tapping on my typewriter. Craning my head around the doorway, I saw Len at the desk, on this very laptop. I saved what she typed:

I am God.”

Maybe my chicken couldn’t speak to me directly, but she’d found a way to communicate. I had to reply:

What makes you say that?”

My family are dead. I am the only one left.”

Who were your family?”

Those in the supermarket, the Indian, the Chinese and the kebab shop.”

No wonder we’d crossed the road so many times. Thankfully there isn’t a KFC in the village, and Deliveroo don’t deliver(oo).

I am God.”

How do I know?”

I couldn’t ask for proof besides her survival outside the local food outlets, because that would deny faith. Even though I’m an atheist, I at least had a chicken for company. My chicken – imaginary or not – had helped me overcome my social anxiety.

You’ll never know,” she wrote, “my beautiful typewriter.”

Why?”

But there was no reply. My chicken had disproved herself, because I’d asked.

As an atheist, I don’t pray to any false deity made in man’s image, but Lenny the chicken will forever live in my mind.

Kentucky friedKentucky fried | Protect me from what I want (Michel Koven Blog)

© Steve Laker, 2019

 

No empty bench at Sainsbury’s

POETRY

I write poems for the people, I write prose for myself, and I write for everyone. Sometimes I write in one form about writing in another. Poetry is often made of shared memories…

Monkey Black heart Sid and Nancy

Words © Steve Laker.