Well here you go then. A few humble submitions to post on line. I've even
left you some formatting to do in Dead Victor; aren't I nice. Seriously
though dont have WORD so sent it in this format. Heres a intro to the
stories about why i submitted them

"These suck pretty bad. Tell me how to make them better."


Wasnt What I Expected

It wasn’t what I’d expected, but then I never really expected to die. The
doctors had all told me the news, Explained that I didn’t have long to live,
but I never truly believed I was going to die. Does anyone?

I died almost three weeks ago, three weeks tomorrow. Yeah, you’re shocked
but imagine how I must feel. Dying was painful, the hardest thing I would
ever have to do, but beyond that I cant really remember much. I do recall
one thing though; it’s when I started to hear the music.

I went to my funeral. Morbid curiosity I guess. My brother read a beautiful
eulogy that I had prepared shortly before my death. He then managed to make
me cry one last time as he read out a piece he had prepared himself. My
brother’s a good guy. I wish him all the happiness life has to offer.

I haven’t seen any other dead people. It seems unlikely that I'm the only
ghost in Derby. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted cities in
Britain. Weirder things have happened. My dictating this twenty days after
my death would probably fall into that category, but it does seem unlikely
that I’m the only one.

I’m still here but no one can see or hear me. I can go anywhere I want
anytime. Thing is though, there’s nowhere I want to go. I want to talk to
somebody. It shouldn’t be like this. No Heaven or Hell, no Purgatory. There
should be something.

Okay, there is something. There’s the music. The tempo varies, as does the
volume, but quiet or loud, fast or slow, it’s the only constant I now have.
A personal soundtrack to my insubstantial wonderings. It’s beautiful and
powerful and wonderful and it’s beginning to irritate me.

I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s keeping me up at night. Dead men don’t
sleep. I miss sleeping almost as much as I miss being alive, Hell, maybe
more. I should be thankful for the company but I’m not. I want to breathe
again. Either that or I want God himself (or herself/itself) to appear to
me. I want some answers. I don’t want music; I need judgement.

The music’s getting louder.

I have a thousand questions going through my mind but the one I keep coming
back to is one of the hardest to answer. “Did I make a difference?” I would
like to think so. I didn’t have a great job but it was demanding. I saw a
lot of death as a nurse but never thought I would get to see it from this
side.

I hardly ever went to Church, Christmas and Easter was about all I could
manage, but then I never felt that Church was that important. I’ve always
believed that when you pray God hears, no matter where you are. I never
cursed God when things went wrong so didn’t think to thank him when things
went right. It is a bit of a double standard, accepting the praise but
deflecting the blame. It’s the kind of thing I would do. I wish that I had
prayed more. Maybe God would have been more inclined to remember me.
I tried to make the lives of people I met better. I may even have succeeded
once. I’ve hurt a lot of people as well. I’m sorry for that. I would like to
apologise to each and every one of you. Too late now…

Or maybe it isn’t. It could just be that’s what I'm dictating. A blanket
apology for my many sins and transgressions. I am sorry God, sorry for
breaking nine of your commandments. And I’m sorry to the people I sinned
against. I’m sorry for the things I stole, sorry for committing adultery
against you and basically, I'm sorry for it all.

The music is getting louder.

I guess all that’s left is to apologise for breaking into this office. Sorry
to who ever owns this computer and its Voice recognition program. That I can
use it, that only things without a soul can hear me, is a bad sing. I no
longer have a place in your world.

I'm sure this missive will be regarded as a prank. Don’t really care, I’m
dead. I don’t belong here though I did enjoy it. Thank you but the music is
telling me it’s time to move on. The music is actually in me now, filling
every pore of my corpse. Since I began this epistle the music has permeated
through me.

It’s reached a crescendo.

“Who’s that?”
“I’m Daniel.”
“Are you here to judge me?”
“You have been judged by yourself.”
“Yeah, guess I have.”
“Then it is time for you to come to me.”
“What’s behind the door?”
“Music.”


Dead Victor

You have the right to remain silent.” The police officer threw his captive
against a wall. One of the officers grabbed the captive by the back of the
neck and pushed his face into the harsh brick.
“You have the right to remain in pain.” The cop breathed into the victim’s
ear and then with a fistful of hair, he smashed the victims face against the
bricks.

“Yeah, that’s me. The one with bits of my face ground into the brick work.
Now I’m lying on the floor. I look quite peaceful, don’t I? Even the blood
just looks like movie blood, it cant be real, not that much off it. I’ve had
a bad week. Welcome to my world.”

Time flows onwards. The victim groans softly and tries to open his eyes.
The left one has been swollen shut, the whole left side of his face has the
consistency of sandpaper. Finally the right eye opens and the Victim…

“Not Victim, Victor. I’m Victor”

…sees that the police have already left. The victim…

“Victor!”

…elbows himself into a sitting position. He manoeuvres himself so that his
back is leaning against the wall. With some difficulty he reaches into his
pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes. He places one between his split
lips and tries to light it. As he inhales he coughs, the cigarette and blood
spray from Victor’s mouth. His chin sinks onto his chest. A deep breath
sends convulsions through Victor’s body. He takes one more breath, this one
seems easier. Then he stops moving and becomes deathly still.

“Yep, I’m having a bad week. I cant even smoke properly. I still look quite
peaceful, don’t I? Aside from the bruising and the blood, I mean. I should
look peaceful. I just died leaning against that wall. Like I said, I’m
having a bad week.!”

Dawn breaks over Victor’s corpse. He is discovered in the morning as people
head off to work. At first people assume that he is just in a drunken
slumber. It’s almost nine A.M. before someone has the courage to try and
wake him.
As soon as the man in the suit touches Victor’s shoulder he can sense
something wrong. He can sense that he is touching a corpse and is surprised
to find it mildly erotic…

“Steady!”

…He tries to find a pulse, first in the wrist and then in the neck but it is
hopeless. Victor died many hours ago, there is no pulse, no warmth, no life,
so the suit phones the police.
They arrive within half an hour and take the Suit’s statement. The Suit is
able to leave and he smiles slightly, secure in the knowledge that for
today, at least, he is going to be the centre of attention at work. He is
also trying to work out if he has time to go jack off somewhere. He decides
he does.

“Dude, that’s just WRONG. Wrong on soooo many levels.”
The police men cover the body with a blanket. They show respect for the
dead and beat on the living. They are not worried about getting caught. This
isn’t the first time a beating has gone too far. They have impeccable
alibis; each other.
The ambulance arrives and the paramedics remove Victor’s body. One
recognises the face behind the bruises. They used to go to school together.
He feels uncomfortable knowing he cant hide behind professionalism. He knows
this man, he used to bully him…

“Dave? Dave Spelling, is that you? Its me Victor. Hello? Punk ass bitch, you
used to beat me up. What’s the use if hanging around if I cant even haunt my
old enemies. This sucks.”

…Dave shivered uncontrollable. He figured it must be because he knew Victor.
He really felt sorry for the guy. He regretted bullying Victor but at the
time they were just kids and kids can do the meanest things. He said a
silent apology to the corpse…

“No worries, we were just kids. Forget it, I have.”

…and suddenly felt a lot better. He promised that no matter what he would
make sure Victor got justice. He would ensure the guilty men were caught…

“Be careful Dave, those guys are dangerous. Thanks though. It’s nice to know
I will be avenged.”
(Note to
editor, this sentence decreases font size)
…and wouldn’t rest till they were behind bars.

“Thanks!” (Note to editor, v.small font)


Eric's Funeral


I had just finished pouring the last of my petrol over Eric’s body. He
looked so small and lifeless that I couldn't relate him to the beacon of
comfort and happiness he once was.
I lit a cigarette, with a match, and glanced at the church clock. It was
only ten to ten, not quite time for him to burn yet. I carefully pinched the
flame out between forefinger and thumb. I then carefully, but very quickly,
inserted said digits into my mouth and tried to alleviate the burning
sensation by simultaneously sucking and blowing.
I remember thinking two distinct thoughts at the same time. One, always wet
your fingers before you pinch out the flame of a match. Secondly, how weird
it was that he could still hurt me, even though he was lying there, never to
move, or breathe, or smile or talk or…
Never's a long time. Unless your dead in which case it becomes all the time
you’ve not got. Never to laugh or cry, smile or frown. Never to see me
again, or be seen by me.
The church clock told me that two minutes had passed since I lit my
cigarette (and quite seriously burnt my fingers) but already I was smoking
the filter. I flicked it away from me, watching as it sailed onto a bed of
dead leaves. I sighed and walked towards it, stooped down and retrieved it.
Some of the leaves had already begun to smoulder so I spent some time making
sure all signs of the fire was out. Then I walked back to Eric. I looked up
at the church clock and lit another cigarette. It was 9:53. I still had time
to kill.
I thought back through my twenty one years of accumulated knowledge and
experience. Nothing had prepared me for that summers day. None of my
experiences had helped to prepare me for my first brush with death. Then I
thought about the day I met Eric and I smiled for the first time that day.

I was five, maybe six and I was very ill. Unfortunately nobody could work
out why. I was sent to an isolation word, quarantined at the age of five. I
had no one for comfort, except an old black and white television with only
two working channels. I wasn’t even allowed to see my family just in case I
was contagious. I tried to escape six time within the first hour. Then they
locked the door. With hindsight its safe to say they probably should have
checked the window. I was found, walking down a dual carriageway in my
pyjamas at eleven pm. When asked what I was doing I replied,
“Looking for my family.
The police found me first. Once again, with the benefit of hindsight, this
was a good thing. The night holds untold horrors for a five year old boy,
they can see monsters in every shadow and fear every unknown sight, smell
and sound.
The night also holds untold terrors for the parents of a five year old boy.
Their horrors are real, they exist. The rapists, paedophiles and killers.
They hide in every shadow. Yes, it was lucky the police found me first or
this story would have been a lot different. Shorter for one thing. The
police found me first so I just have this one to tell.
I was taken back to the ward where a gaggle of nurses (or is the collective
noun for nurses a murder?) took it in turns to alternatively console and
berate me.
Then I spotted my father and padded over to him. He stood waiting for me to
reach him, his hair bushy and unkempt, his clothes dirty and creased. Yep,
that was my dad.
I was put back in my cell and dad started to talk to me in the tone that I
would learn to hate, then learn to love. The tone of concern, of love and of
something else I couldn’t quite place until recently. It was also the voice
of a man who had an incredible burden on his shoulders, a burden he gladly
accepted and gladly carried but still, I was a burden. All children are.
He told me I wasn’t allowed out for good reason. He tried to explain things
but I didn’t care, wasn’t really listening. I was just happy to be back with
him after our forced separation. I told him I didn’t want him to ever leave
me again. He laughed at that and predicted the future.
“There will be a time when you try to get as far away from me as possible.
I thought about this statement for a few minutes weighing up in my mind.
Then I answered with a defiant
“Never. And you’ll never leave me.” I’m was crying at that point. I used to
cry all the bloody time but in this I believed I was crying for good
reason. I knew I was right and the thought of ever losing my father was a
blow my fragile young mind could not comprehend. I waited for him to dispel
my fears, waited for the comfort he would bring. He smiled and said
“Yes I will.”
I looked up at him with tearful, reproachful eyes. It must have killed him
to say what he said next. H e could have just lied, made me feel better and
stopped the tears but he told me the truth. I don’t think he ever lied to
me. Well maybe about father Christmas, the Easter bunny stuff like that but
not about anything that really mattered. This was the most serious
conversation I had ever been involved in and I didn’t even know it. He
continued speaking.
“Yes, I will leave you, one day, may it be a long, long time from now but I
will leave you. This cannot be changed, no more then you could change what
you had for breakfast this morning. It is just the way of the world.” I was
about to voice protest when he said
”Just listen. One day I will leave you. My dad left this world so that there
would be room in it for you. One day I shall leave this place so that there
will be room in the world for your son. “
“Fine,” I said, “I wont have children, I don’t want them.”
“Listen son, one day I shall be gone. I hope and pray I will be here for
some time to come yet, but for when I'm gone and when you are feeling
lonely, well I’ve got you a new friend.”
He reached into a plastic carrier bag that I hadn’t even noticed before now
and produced Eric. Just a normal plain old Teddy bead.
“Say hello to Eric.” I dutifully did as instructed.
I didn’t leave that room for six days. I’ve always found the best friends
are the ones who can’t talk back, cant argue or disagree. Eric was the best.
When I left the hospital the only thing I took with me was Eric and some
vague memories about my dad telling me he would one day having to go
somewhere.
Eric saw me through my chicken pox a few months later. He saw me through my
parents divorce at the age of 14. he comforted me through the loss of my
first love at the age of 15.
It didn’t matter what the world did to me, their was nothing I could go
through that Eric couldn't make better. Bullies, fights, scrapes and all the
shitty bits of childhood, he made better. And yeah, even some of my
adolescence. So what? Eric helped me through it all. Yeah he was a teddy
bear but he was the best fucking teddy bear in the world.
I guess you’re a bit confused as to why I’m about to incinerate him.
Its complicated.

The church clock read 10:01. I was late but he would have expected it. It
probably would have astonished him that I was only a minute late. I lit my
third cigarette in ten minutes, which was excessive even for me, with
another match. I held the match flame down until my fingers got burnt again,
then I dropped it onto Eric’s body.
Nothing happened. The match fluttered out before it was even half way down.
I sighed, thinking about how the world just had no sense of the dramatic.
I took the box of matches out of my pocket, lit a match and put it to the
heads of all the others and they all ignited together. A genie, we used to
call it. I dropped the genie onto Eric and made a wish.
Eric burned and as I stared into the flames I remembered the last time I saw
my father.

I'm not sure if its the same for every son or daughter but for me my father
was an awesome man. A man who at 5’4 could look down on anyone by subtly
patronising them. A man who would move a mountain, for me if I asked him to,
pebble by pebble. A man who would do anything for anybody without ever
letting them take advantage. A hugely strong man.
Then the cancer came. He could still make the Doctors feel small and
belittled, which was no small feat considering all Doctors share the
misconception that they are first cousins to God, but he couldn’t move the
mountains anymore. The nurses adored him because he was who he was.
They never knew him as I did, when he was in his prime, when he could reach
up to the night time sky and pluck the stars from it one by one. They never
saw him move a mountain. He was a man to walk the world with and it pains me
that we never did. We had holidays, of course we did, but it was never just
him and me. Well not often though I cherish the memories of just the two of
us. Selfish, I know, but I don’t care.
I’m not doing him justice, not nearly doing him credit. I can’t describe the
way he could, despite the fact we were surrounded by people, make me believe
it was just the two of us alone in that room, on this planet and in this
universe for eternity. He could make it seem like we would be alone,
together for eternity.
I'm thankful for that and also for the fact that if I tried my best,
applied myself completely, then he wouldn’t even entertain the notion of
being disappointed, no matter what the results were. Something, maybe the
only thing, he had in common with my mother. Of course I always tried my
hardest (well, alright, not always) because the thought of having him
disappointed in me was just too damn scary.
I had been visiting my father in hospital every day for a couple of weeks.
It was near the end of his life, just before he fulfilled a promise he had
made to a five year old boy, and everyone knew it but me. I kept believing
(and part of my still believes) that he would move one last mountain and
beat the cancer.
We would sit and talk, meaningless words where nothing of importance was
said. The important thing was to just talk. I told him about my dreams, my
hopes for the futures and confessed my fears. On the last day I brought with
me a plastic bag. During a lull in the conversation he asked me what was in
it the bag. I produced, with an exaggerated flourish the most dirty, smelly
teddy bear in the world.
I started to speak,
“You gave this to a scared little boy to make his stay in hospital better,
slightly more bearable. I figured, just as he kept me company, Eric could
keep you company, so you wont be alone when I leave.”
He made some dismissive comments, something along the line of a man my age
still having a teddy bear but took him anyway. It must have been a trick of
the light but for a split second I could have sworn that I saw a tear
falling down his cheek.
Then we hugged and I said “See you.” Cause I never say goodbye. Goodbye is
to final, it’s forever. He told me he loved me and I knew he did but it was
nice to hear. He had never been scared too show his emotions.

I remember a Christmas eve several years ago when we had gone to midnight
mass. During one of the hymns I tapped him on the shoulder and asked
“All right?”
“Yes.” He replied.
“That’s the manly way of saying I love you.” I whispered. He nodded once,
slowly and continued to sing. Then, as the hymn finished, and the church
descended into silence I felt a tap on my arm and my father’s voice echoed
around the church.
“All right?” everyone heard him tell me.

My father died the night I gave him Eric. I knew he was dead when a nurse
intercepted me and I wasn’t allowed to go through and see him. I was given a
shoe box and a note. I read the note. Here it is word for word.

“I’m dead. I'm dead and I'm not spending eternity with this smelly, dirty
thing, but thank you for not letting me die alone.
I remember you once telling me that you set your ambitions sky high so that
you don’t feel a fool when you fail to achieve them. That was the only time
you ever disappointed me my son.
From now on I want you to set your ambitions sky high so that you feel like
a God when you achieve them. I see great things for you. Move those
mountains for me, for us, pebble by pebble if you have too.

Undying love

Dad

P.S. Thank you for being my son.

Inside the church my fathers body was being burnt. As I stood over Eric I
gave my fathers eulogy in six words.
“Thank you for being my dad.” It said it all really.

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