#couchto80k

(Last one! Thank you Tim Clare, sincerely, I feel more alive thanks to these exercises, I loved it, I love writing now and I won’t stop. You’ve helped me unlock something in myself that gives me such joy, something that doesn’t require anything but my own thoughts, helping me channel and refine them, to see things within myself and in the world in a whole new way with more colour and splendor than I could have imagined. I’m addicted, and I won’t stop until I create something beautiful. I’ve never been much of a creative, but I can feel the artist in me coming out and it’s magical. I owe you one buddy. Thank you so much.)

Timclarepoet.co.uk/couchto80kwritingbootcamp – For anyone interested in getting started with, or refining their writing.

The shelf contained a litany of objects, from the most banal and recognizable: a snow globe, a pair of gardening gloves with dirt-stained fingertips, a cashew nut with a few tiny crumbs - to the most curious and strange: a hollowed out circular piece of wood with a hole in the middle, a purple ring with a thing red ribbon tied around it in a tight knot, and finally, the most curious of all, the book of wonders, as it was titled. If you open the navy blue, glittering book to the first page you’ll notice in bold green lettering a grand warning in ancient text, which when translated reads “Behold, the book of wonders! Creations of the past, present and future, a realm of infinite possibilities contained within. Careful what you wish for!” I found this book by chance one day, in the way all magical things happen to occur. I had been walking through the woods and noticed a clearing in the shape of a heart, when up in the sky there was a formation of red stars dancing around in the shape of an upside-down triangle. The lowest star began to descend, before coming closer and closer, I sheltered from it behind a nearby tree and CRASH!

In the newly formed crater in the centre of the heart, resting upon a beautiful cream-coloured pillow made of a material softer than anything I’d ever felt, was the book. I took the book and placed it in my backpack, along with the pillow, and went home.

Coming home late, I fell asleep upon the pillow, the softness comforting me and sending me to sleep so deeply I did not wake for 14 hours. In my dream, I heard a voice, which told me not to open the book until the 22nd of February, and I heeded it, feeling gratitude and respect to whatever power had bestowed this upon me. I felt that none of this was coincidence. But today, the 22nd of February, I opened it with glee.

The second page, filled me with joy. I cried a stream of tears at the sight, beauty like nothing ever seen in my lifetime. There on the page was a video of me as a young boy, my parents holding my hands on either side of me, swinging me about as we walking through the fairgrounds. Their faces beaming, looking at each other with love, looking at me with the same love, I felt I was in the arms of angels. I turned the page, there I was again, in the future, an old man, surrounded by my friends and loved ones, on my deathbed, but I was not afraid, or scared. Eager to see more, I turned the page again, this time I saw a woman and though I’d never seen her before, I felt a sense of closeness to her, of love and affection like nothing else I’d ever experienced. This was my soulmate, a woman of such warmth and kindness, kissing me on the cheek while I beamed in pure bliss. I wanted this all very badly. The feelings swelling within my heart, making me giddy with anticipation. I turned the page again, and… Nothing. A blank page, albeit for a single line that said “My name is Yves Gallardo, and I wonder…” with a space for me to write.

I retrieved my black ballpoint from my desk, knocking things over in excitement, and returned to the book to write down my thoughts. “I wonder… How I can become as full of life and happiness as the images have shown.”

Martin trudged towards the office, taking the clipboard with the time-sheets out of its holster on the wall, with the bauble-chained pen dangling freely. He scooped it up, and jotted down his hours, rounding the time by 5 minutes on either side. He slipped it back in, making for the locker, and took his hat off, scratching his head roughly, grease covering his fingers. He entered the code, it didn’t open. Odd. He tried again. It refused again. Gritting his teeth, he took his phone out to call his boss.

“Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring- Martin.” The voice on the other end sounded cold but apologetic. A feeling of unease washed over Martin, like the feeling he got standing in the shower at the end of the day, the feeling he had during his relationship when he was finally alone with nothing but his thoughts, no distractions from reality. Everything catching up with him in that moment, the teetering precariousness of his place in life. “Rosey, I can’t get in to my locker.” He said dejectedly, he knew what was about to happen, but played his cards in the hope he got a royal flush, that an asteroid might fall out of the sky and land next to him covered in diamonds. “Yes, I’m sorry to do this to you Martin, but we’ve had to let you go. Surely this isn’t a surprise. Your belongings are in a bag under the desk, and your two weeks severance will go through tomorrow. I wish you all the best.” Martin didn’t know what to say. He fought back tears and sobs and pleaded in desperation “Rosey, please, there’s gotta be something you can do. Why? I need this. Please. Rosey?” The voice on the other end was warmer now, showing a sympathy he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Martin, you’re a good man, you’ll bounce back. You know we can’t keep you on after what happened. There’s no way around this. I’m sorry but I have to go, if you need someone to talk to you can call me, just not now. Goodbye. Click.”

Standing there, watching his phone screen, he felt lost, betrayed, anger swelling. Martin threw his phone against the wall hard, smashing it into pieces that scattered about as if it were a pinecone. Scratching his head harder now, losing control, digging his nails into his scalp, the pain combining with that of his heart launching him into a frenzy. He picked up a short steel bin from the corner, tipping out the contents to the floor, and marched towards the window pane of the office, smashing it with a satisfying crash. He looked over at the lockers, and got an idea. Jumping through the broken window, his hand planted on the broken glass spread across the office desk on the other side of the now missing window, avoiding the open door, he retrieved his bag, and the bin, this time moving to the door, kicking it off its hinges. He moved towards Ricardo’s locker, and smashed the lock off, the locker swinging open, revealing its contents. The Rolex was there. Resting on Ricardo’s clean, pressed clothes that his doting wife readied for him each day, was the fucking Rolex. He snatched it, put it on, tightening it, and left with the bag.

“You’re pathetic”, came a voice from behind him. Martin turned to look and noticed a well-dressed man with thin round glasses, and a brown leather golf cap with wild grey hair poking out on all sides. Dressed in a warm tweed suit, a black briefcase beside him, he gave off the impression of being a man of science, which and Martin felt disdain, with a hint of intellectual intimidation. “Ticket, sir” said Martin again, the line a habitual reflex, and a veiled warning that courtesy was soon to run out.

Without a word the man reached into his suit jacket retrieving a scrunched up ball of paper, and handed it to Martin. Martin picked at it with his fingers, unfurling it finally, and reading the faded print which said “to win – 8 in race 6, $2.10”. “This is a betting slip” said Martin to the man, deliberately goading the man into ridiculing the obviousness of his statement. The man didn’t oblige him, tilting his head down and looking up at him from above his glasses. Martin stared back. After what felt like ages, Martin broke the silence and said “sir, you need a ticket to ride the train. I’m going to have to escort you from the carriage at the next stop, where you’ll be-“ Martin was cut off from finishing his sentence as the man opened his jacket, revealing the black handle of a snub-nosed pistol. This unassuming character, despite his cheek, was the last person he would have thought to induce this level of fear and doubt within him. “What the fuck is this guy up to?”, he thought, as the man closed his jacket, saying to Martin with an affable voice inconsistent with the intimidation painted on his face “if you insist, I can’t believe I’ve been so reckless!”.

On his way through the train, he noticed a puppy cowering under one of the seats. A brown raggedy mutt, it looked cold and hungry, abandoned, shivering, peeking up at Martin through its’ big brown eyes. Martin looked at him, pitying the poor creature, and kneeled down to fish it out. The puppy bit him on the hand as hard as it could muster, and ran away down the carriage with Martin yelling after it “AHH you little shit!”. He looked at his hand, it had drawn blood, and he didn’t have the money to see a doctor. But he wasn’t mad.

Martin jogged down the carriage looking for the puppy, careful not to alert it any more. Looking out the window he noticed it running around the corner and out of sight through the open corridor of the women’s toilets. He checked his watch, 2:23 am, little chance of anyone being there. Exiting the carriage of the parked train, he jogged up to the corridor, yelling out “HELLO! TRAIN SECURITY, IS ANYONE IN THERE?”. After a few seconds wait to no response he entered, immediately noticing the smell and holding back his breath, inhaling shallowly. “Hello?” he called out again, hearing the puppy let out half a whimper in the cubicle at the end, followed by silence. Martin felt a cold eerie feeling bite his skin, instinctively placing his hand on his side, atop his baton. The cubicle door was closed over, but slightly ajar. He sidled towards it carefully, and knocked.

Martin saw the woman talking on her phone. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, office attire, a wispy frilly blue skirt tightly hugging her bum, an equally frilly white blouse offering a nice view of her heaving bosoms, and black, cloppy, serious shoes, without a hint of ornation. He stared at her, watching her get on the train. She looked sad, and he thought he understood her.

The train rolled away down the track, and with it the thought faded from his mind, being replaced by his duties. He looked at the time, 10:51 am, almost break time. Martin meandered down the second story platform, looking straight ahead, his posture tight and refined, slightly flexing his abs under his uniform. The canteen was staffed by a young snappy dark-haired girl that he’d had more than a few awkward encounters with before. She noticed him approach and quickly made herself busy, fiddling with the coffee machine, avoiding his open-eyed anxious gaze and forced macho demeanor. Martin made it to the counter, standing only slightly expectantly, staring at the menu he’d memorised countless times before. After an uncomfortable wait, he seized the window of her eyes with his and said “hi!” a little too congenially and excitedly. The girl scrunched her face and looked away with officious disdain, “what can I get you” she said, ignoring his name tag. “Can I please get a sausage roll with sauce, and a Farmers Union iced coffee please?”, his stomach turning after the second please. The girl moved to the bain-marie and retrieved the 4 hour old sausage roll with her red rubber gripped tongs and placed it swiftly in a small white paper bag, grease staining it and turning it translucent almost instantly, and placed it on the counter in front of him. “Thanks” said Martin to the girl’s back as she faced the fridge to grab his iced coffee, taking the one front the very front, which he hated knowing it was always warmer than the others. Plopping it on the counter she punched in the numbers, the digital display showing $10:50 in neon green numerals. “Anything else?” she said, resenting the opportunity she was obliged to give him. “Card please” he responded, holding up his card awkwardly with two fingers, and with a wave of the girl’s hand to say “go right ahead” he tapped it, grabbed his food, and left with another “thanks”.

Martin woke up, the sound of the default ringtone on his LG flip-phone chanting “LIFE IS GOOD! LALALALALALALA!” priming him for the bitterness he’d inexorably and inevitably feel throughout the day. He fumbled and found the button that silenced it, pressing awkwardly and denting his fingertip in slight pain. Checking the battery, realising he’d forgotten to charge it, he pocketed it, and lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting reality catch up with him again. The ceiling fan whirred above him casting hypnotic and disorienting shadows across the room, over and over.

Martin thought about the dream he’d had, there was an assembly at his school. He was standing in front of the crowd, faces zoomed into focus one after the other as if he were standing in front of them, mean snickers, scowls, and whispers, putting him on edge. Clearing his throat he attempted to speak, the lump in his throat standing in the way of his voice, refusing to move. He opened his mouth, and attempted to force out his voice, singing: “I-i-it’s a beautiful… Liiiiiieeeyyyyy”. The faces shot into focus once again, he noticed the girls teeheeing and cringing at the sight, the boys shaking their heads and letting loose a cacophony of ughhhh’s, the teachers doing their best to control the rowdy crowd. He continued with a strained, albeit quieter and less confident: “It’s a perfect to….NIIIIIIGHT OHHhhh..”, his voice betraying him, his throat tightening, his mind racing and chastising him for the ego, the sheer gall of thinking he had any talent, that this was going to turn out well. The laughing was audible from all around the amphitheater, and it grew, and grew, into a demonic hurricane of laughing skulls clattering their jaws in vile enjoyment and schadenfreude at his humiliation. He started shaking, sweat soaking his school shirt, resembling a soggy overused bed-sheet. He launched his hands up to cover his face, the sound swelling and ringing through his ears. He pissed his pants. And then he woke.

Martin shook his head, nothing like this event had never happened to him, but he’d imagined when he was younger that if he only took a risk, put himself out there and explored his talent and enjoyment of singing, perhaps he could have made it. This dream was like a kick in the balls of his resentment, taking him down a peg, telling him “this is where you belong”.

He moved to get out of bed, keen to shake off this nightmare, and noticed the warm patch under his ass and back. “For fuck sake” he said as he looked down at the situation. He’d pissed himself alright. A long night of drinking tends to let loose all kinds of torrents, thoughts, feelings, regrets, and sometimes piss. He got out of bed, ripped the sheet off, as well as the mattress protector, and balled them up, tossing the piss-soaked wad into the wash basket. Trundling to the bathroom, he ripped open the cabinet and found a vitamin sachet, which he promptly tore open, pouring the contents into his mouth. Sticking his head under the sink for a gulp of water, he swished the concoction around, before gulping with an exhausted gasp. His mouth hung open as he stared into the mirror, gooey spit dribbling down, which he slurped back up, collecting more with his tongue, before spitting out a decent-sized loogie that missed the sink and clung to the tap. “I’m never drinking again” he began to think, before disregarding the thought completely as an overdone platitude, turning to the shower.

1: Jerked from his dream, Martin woke up, the sound of the default ringtone on his LG flip-phone chanting “LIFE IS GOOD! LALALALALALALA!” priming him for the bitterness he’d inexorably and inevitably feel throughout the day. He fumbled and found the button that silenced it, pressing awkwardly and denting his fingertip in slight pain. Checking the battery, realising he’d forgotten to charge it, he pocketed it, and lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting reality catch up with him again.

2: Staring out over the balcony, Martin noticed a woman talking on her phone. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, office attire, a wispy frilly blue skirt tightly hugging her bum, an equally frilly white blouse offering a nice view of her plump tits, and black, cloppy, serious shoes, without a hint of ornation. He stared at her, watching her get on the train. She looked sad, and he thought he understood her.

3. On his way through the train, he noticed a puppy cowering under one of the seats. A brown raggedy mutt, it looked cold and hungry, abandoned, shivering and whimpering. Martin looked and noticed it peeking up at him through its’ big brown eyes. Pitying the poor creature, he kneeled down to fish it out. "Come here little fella" he said gently, but betraying him the puppy bit down hard on his hand, growling, before running away down the carriage. Martin yelled after it “AHH you little shit!”, and looked at his hand. It drew blood, and he knew he didn’t have the money to see a doctor. But he wasn’t mad.

4. “You’re pathetic”, came a voice from behind him. Martin turned to look and noticed a well-dressed old man with thin round glasses, and a brown leather golf cap with wild grey hair poking out on all sides. Dressed in a warm tweed suit, a black briefcase beside him, he gave off the impression of being a man of science, which gave Martin feelings of disdain, and a hint of intellectual intimidation. “Ticket, sir” said Martin again, the line a habitual reflex, and a veiled warning that courtesy was soon to run out.