a thousand words

This is towards a project of mine, and a photographer-mate. Each image is to have a thousand words (exactly) attached to it, combining realism (i.e. the photo itself) with fantasy (i.e. the narrative). The aim is to create a collection of striking images with thoughtful, humanistic stories. We're aiming for 50. See what you think of the first - all thoughts / comments welcome.

Taking Note

Another night in the Heaven Rock Bar. 12.51 am and the smell of beer. Milton spends half the set eyeing up the cool green-eyed girl at the back, who seems less interested in Smoking Jacket and far more concerned with the faceless jerk she’s texting.

The heady mix of nerves and anticipation - which an hour ago had began to crackle in the back of Milton’s head like ice cubes dropped into soda - are waning, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before a few more punters creep out of the door, and he’s forced to swallow disappointed oxygen with the rest of the band again. Already he can taste it: ten minutes into the future and he’s outside Soho’s finest, tendrils of smoke clawing up his nose and pasting down his bitter throat; talk of ‘almost there’ and ‘better next time’ and other heinous bullshit. Still; all part of the process. Being in a successful rock band takes time and perseverance; better failed rock animal than successful couch potato.

The lights begin to thump in the back of his eyes as their fourth song opens out: a ricochet of drum crashes and tumbled bass notes continue on regardless, as reds and blues splash into his face, dizzying him as he struggles to slice open the song a thrust of plectrum, tiny pinpricks of sweat clustering on his forehead. To his right, he catches sight of a man arguing heatedly with the barman, his greying ponytail forcibly thrown around as he struggles to pitch himself above the noise of Smoking Jacket and what he believes to be the ignorant attitude the member of staff in question. Does the guy realise he’s being a prick? Perhaps he doesn’t care. Milton looks back down at his crisp Les Paul: D7-C#-D-D-C, before offering a cursory glance to the punters, who thankfully seem to be enjoying this one rather more than the last three.

When he looks back, the ponytailed man is sitting on a red-cushioned seat at the bottom-end of the bar, a paradoxical look of self-satisfaction and mild irritance as he sips his newly topped-up brown ale. Yet something about the way the man sips his beer jars with Milton; the fact that he is sidelined and lonely in a bar full of people, perhaps, and an overwhelming sense of loss suddenly surges behind his eyes; for a second they glass over and for a terrible moment he thinks he might actually cry. For some reason, buried deep at the back of his head, the man reminds him of his father.

The urge subsides as quickly as it comes, not least because the chorus is coming up and he’s forced to focus on the tricky bridge leading up to it. The next band up – The Weavers, or something, stand halfway down the bar and to the right, the lead singer thumping his foot to the floor in an insistently off-beat manner; a child drumming their fingers because they can’t go out and play. Noticing, Milton offers a ‘part of the club’ nod and smile, but the singer either doesn’t notice or doesn’t give a shit. A further look to the back reveals the girl with the green eyes has gone too: Voiceless Texts from a Faceless Jerk have won out in the battle for green-eyed affection. Play on, thinks Milton.

In six years and two days’ time, Milton is working in the finance department for a company called Lite Bite. He has a smart, hazel-eyed wife, and a baby boy on the way - although he doesn’t know it yet. Claire will tell him when he’s ready. Occasionally he’ll get his guitar out and reminisce with some of the old hits; although in truth he has forgotten half of it now and the other half is patchy at best. He talks of Smoking Jacket and days at the Heaven Rock Bar after a few too many beers, although he knows Claire is listening out of matrimonial duty rather than any kind of real ardour. He’s happy, although something about the sprawling days of jamming, socialising and playing never really leaves him. Life has mellowed out into an acoustic Cmajor: comforting, regular and strong, but potentially tedious and no way near as exciting as an overdriven D7.

Back in the Heaven Rock, the clock is ticking and Milton is running out of time. Thirty seconds ‘til the end and the soundman’s waving his hands in desperation at a set that’s now thirty four seconds over. It’s Smoking Jacket’s last gig here and they no longer care about set timings or not pissing off the next band. Especially when it’s The Weavers. In fact, a small but dedicated puddle of customers are dancing with abandon round the stage, and the band are damned if they’re going to finish on time when this is the best reaction they’ve had for months. Milton can see the lead singer of The Weavers - matchstick appearance and a sour lemon-slice mouth – gesticulating wildly at the soundman, presumably telling him to cut the power. Despite his misgivings, the soundman clearly has no intention of doing this, and the bolied-egg look of rage and frustration building up in the front-man’s face causes Milton to play commandingly and with renewed zest; wry smile and ‘fuck you’ forming on his lips.

The crowd are bubbling up now - jumping and frothing around; arms flailing, wild looks in eyes and electric connectivity surging between bodies. This is the moment Milton’s been waiting for: life in experienced D7; majestic, fresh and wild.

And so, in amongst angry front-men, thoughts of green-eyed girls and greying pony-tails; beer, stale smoke and an over-time song-five, Milton hurls out the final signature riff as the rest of the band drive home the ending of the set to beautiful fruition. Slowly lifting his Les Paul towards his head, Milton stares out in heady defiance, smiles, and lets the chords and the crowds have it.

You and I - A monologue by Dan Thomas

*This was written the other day, as a short piece for a 'TenFour Theatre' competition, entitled 'A Night of New Stories.' No specification, other than the fact it had to include, or make reference to, the date of April 14th. Here's my slant on it.*


A 5-minute ‘love story’ between the speaker and the audience; a mentally ‘interactive’ monologue set on ‘A Night of New Stories’, April 14th 2011. The speaker is a mid 30s male; he carries an air of mystery about him yet speaks genuinely, from the heart. Think of a human ‘David Tennant as Doctor Who’ type of character. No props; only eye contact with the audience and varying emotion in his voice.

You and I
A monologue by Dan Thomas

(Striding, enthusiastic) Yes, I remember it well. April 14th 2011. I was stood here. No; no, right... here (Moves to a different part of stage with microphone; scans audience). Yes. And you were just sat there... waiting. Looking at me. Searching for somethi– ... it’s all coming back. I remember this...

(Thoughtful, finger in the air) I was stood here talking, working out what was going on and slowly - slowly - it was beginning to dawn on you too. I could almost see that change in your face; the furrow of your brow, the slight uncomfortable shift in your seat. Yes – exactly that. Even that slight smile; that cringe of cold comprehension. ‘Here he goes.’

And then just when it seemed to be going well... I don’t know why, but I paused (pauses for ten seconds, scans audience, voiceless). (Slower, more emotion) And you didn’t know what to do. I mean, what could you do? You probably felt abandoned; awkward; voiceless. For a moment, anyway. But so did I. (Thoughtful) You see - we’re more alike than you might think; you and I.

Yes. I told you a little of my life – the strange twists and turns that had led me here today, and although part of you thought it mawkish sentiment, a small part of you was glad I’d opened myself up and revealed a little more. Human instinct.

And as I looked at you, I understood how hard it must have been for you, too. Emotional tar. The gnawing stress of it all. The carnage of Yesterday. You wanted escapism: pretty and perfect. And here was me telling you about my problems. Selfish, really.

But you see, you still didn’t understand. Not fully. Why was I here? Was I reaching out to you, or were you reaching out to me in some way? Mind games. (Spiteful, almost) Mind games. Madness! (Thoughtful) But part of you liked it; you secretly understood what I was doing and you couldn’t help but be drawn in, ever so slightly. And I liked that, too.

I knew, instinctively, that you wanted to speak up. (Shouting) Talk to me. (Measured) But you couldn’t. Something – some reason – stopped you. And I’m glad it did. I knew, then, that I could speak to you in a way I could never have done otherwise. And you knew it too.

*Sigh. So I carried on. I told you of my fear of rejection. The hidden tears of a bullied Child. The growing awkwardness as a Youth. The reluctant acceptance of an Adult. I told you about how I’d loved and swore I’d never love again; old clichés peppered with new garnish. But it was all true, I swear, it was all true. And for a moment I saw that glint in your eyes again; I knew you’d felt the same way too, at times.

That guilt at never being quite enough. Not enough for the one person that mattered, anyway. The continual critical contempt; the fear of rejection; the lonely worry that, ‘what if what I do, doesn’t count?’

(Slow) What if what I do, doesn’t count? (pause for five seconds). And then I was afraid I’d gone too far... pushed and pushed it too much and why oh why on the 14th of April 2011 did I have to bring it up for God’s sakes?

And I sat down and looked at you (sits down on stage, glances at audience).

And I saw in your eyes that part of you wanted to reach out and shake me out of it. And part of you forgave me because you understood a little more now. You saw in me what I saw in you. And then I remembered why I was here in the first place, and I leapt up (leaps to feet, re-energised) and said, ‘Forget about it. None of that matters!’ (Laughs)

And I reached my hand out towards you (reaches out hand) and told you to smile. Smile. Stop being afraid and smile at me. And you did. Almost.

And I told you that we should forget what was and what may be and just to concentrate on today. This hour, this minute, this very second of today. Now (maintains eye-contact with audience; pause).

And on April the 14th, 2011, for just one tiny second of one little; exceptional day, we shared something.

(Begins to walk away) And as I began to walk away, I told you something that up until that moment I hadn’t considered: (Stops) I’ll miss you. (Walks back to stand; places microphone back in holster) And although you didn’t say it; and I’ll not really know whether you thought it or not, I looked at you one last time and said,

‘Don’t worry; until the next April 14th, 2011.’

I guess I’ll see you - then.

Optimist meets Pessimist

Another poem from the archives. Which one are you?

Pessimist was waiting,
Bored as could be;
Sat alone,
on his own,
With no one but he.

Optimist was working,
Filling her time;
Serving drinks,
making links,
Doing just fine.

By per chance,
Optimist saw pessimist:
Love was begun,
And Pessimist was optimist.

And so from then on,
Magic was made;
Optimist made love,
and Pessimist got
laid.

Though they were opposites,
They part of the same;
Thus bore a baby,
and Realist was his name.

And so Pessimist’s view
is that the birth was a fix;
Whilst Optimist argues
it was God’s little tricks.

But as for Realist, now he just sees
That he’s simply the conclusion
of the two
polarities.

Discussing creativity; links with educational leadership

I am currently studying a course in Leadership and Management, towards my (eventual - hopefully!) masters. As part of the course I've been required to write an on-going journal and set of notes, discussing various leadership ideas etc. This one's all about individuals' originality and creativity, something of which as an English teacher I try to constantly promote, and as I person I wholeheartedly enjoy. Here's my thoughts.

Creativity is a fascinating area of research and discussion, both from a professional teaching point of view, and as a prospective leader. As a student myself I always gravitated towards the more creative arts: I always found drama, English and music to be the most rewarding as they were centred on expression and ideas. Indeed, I found an inherent freedom in these as they weren’t always ‘right’ answers (as in Science or Maths), only ideas and unique ways of expressing these; this I found exhilarating. In fact, I remember being somewhat annoyed as I went into my GCSEs that my English essays were marked by a set criteria; to me that seemed to go completely against the point of ‘English’ in the first place. I wanted my essays to be marked on individual and creative merit, not simply on whether I’d stuck a semi-colon in there and capitalised my pronouns.

As an English teacher, much of my practise is centred on this principle: I encourage the sharing of ideas; I often have short role-play and hot-seating starters and I encourage pupils to be as creative as they can in their writing. I try to emphasise creativity first, with the ‘ticking the right boxes’ second. In a way, I guess I want them to share the passion I have for creative expression and freedom. I believe English can encapsulate creativity in a way that some other subjects simply cannot: language itself can be seen as a ‘living organism’ - constantly changing and evolving, and I think being able to capture creative and original thought and cement it into words is one of the most valuable tools a person can have.

Sir Ken Robinson’s speech on creativity wonderfully captures this ideal; he very articulately illustrates how important creativity is within children is, saying controversially that we ‘educate children out of creativity.’ In many ways I believe he is right, although this is somewhat of a sweeping statement.

Firstly, (broadly speaking) I think that we do educate children out of creativity; as teachers, much of our practise is taken up with ensuring that pupils ‘tick the right boxes’ in order to achieve their grades: we teach them that ‘this’ will earn them a low mark, and ‘that’ will earn them a higher mark: in doing so we limit the freedom of choice and therefore impede their creativity. I completely agree that this can have a detrimental effect: pupils with a wildly-creative and original mind may over time ‘learn’ by rote that they must tame this in order to get the grades. Clearly this should be addressed.

Yet I do not whole-heartedly agree with this statement. I think that suggesting creativity supersedes academic ‘control’ is wrong and misleading. Yes, many hugely influential people within their fields (Mozart, Newton, Einstein, for example) demonstrated natural creativity and originality from an early age, but I would argue that creativity alone did not make them influential or successful at all. Surely channelling their creativity through their own academic control is what allowed them to do so. Newton’s taking of an apple falling on his head and applying this to the laws of gravity was clearly an act of creative genius. Yet had he not studied and understood the basic scientific principles then surely he would not have been able to successfully channel this creativity into anything relevant or useful. Newton used his creative and scientific prowess to arrive at such an analogy: without both, either would have been left redundant.

In the classroom, therefore, I think that creativity and control are equally important: it is no good having creativity without control, in the same way that it is of little use having control without creativity. In English, I feel that this is a fine ‘juggling act’; I am constantly aware as a teacher that I should neither discourage pupils’ creativity nor their overall control.

I think that it is a fact of life that people must learn to ‘tick the boxes’ – there is always a ‘standard’ by which organisations and people operate; an order of control and hierarchy by which we are judged. Sadly those who are truly creative and original - those who shun the ‘box-ticking’ of society - are often seen as (at best) eccentric and (at worst) insane.
I therefore believe that as teachers and professionals we are right - to a certain extent – to ‘educate people out of creativity’, because creativity is rarely worth anything unless it can be applied to the logic and convention already in trend. In fact, it can indeed become detrimental to success, recognition and achievement. We must all learn to channel our ideas into useful application.

Likewise, Sir Ken Robinson also goes on to say that ‘children are not afraid to be wrong’ and that if ‘we’re not afraid to be wrong, we’ll never be original.’ I do fundamentally agree with this principle, although anyone teaching a Year 9 class will know that children are actually quite afraid to be wrong (or indeed, right) when in front of their peers. Originality, then, is often about speaking your mind despite the prevailing crowd; this ideal perhaps defines many notable leaders and their actions also.

A large degree of leadership research seems to centre on the notion of ‘transactional’ verses ‘transformational leadership: the difference between identifying and maintaining the ‘status quo’ within a group of individuals (transactional) and inspiring and stimulating them (transformational); to me, this seems a perfect analogy between the notions of ‘control’ and ‘creativity.’

I believe transformational leadership is a more ‘creative’ style of leading: the idea of treating each person within your team as an individual; motivating, inspiring and challenging them; putting forward new ideas and acting as an inspirational vector (Bass 1994) seems to closely align with the notion of creativity and originality. Whereas transactional leadership, on the other hand (that is, rewarding good behaviour and punishing negative action, ensuring that the job is done correctly and taking corrective action if necessary), strikes me as being very much a ‘controlling’ type of leadership: systematic and methodical.

I therefore believe that whilst transformational leadership might well be seen as more of an ‘ideal’ leadership style (certainly one which I am personally more interested in), that maintaining an element of transactional leadership is also a necessity in order to be an effective leader; just as creativity may be weakened by lack of academic control, so too - I believe – can a transformational leader be weakened without a solid grounding in a ‘transactional’ foundation and understanding.

A creative and inspirational leader might well be original and challenging, but they will fail to gain respect and authority without being able to ‘tick the boxes’ and demonstrate they can maintain the ‘status quo’ within a school setting. Truly transformational leaders, then, must encompass both practises; two seemingly contrasting notions but nevertheless equally-weighted ideas.

Acknowledging and pursing both should be seen to be a more preferential - and an ultimately more successful - means of educational leadership, therefore.

Ken Robinson's speech: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iG9CE55wbtY&feature=related

Propagandic Potato

From the archive, written when I was about 18 I think. At the time I couldn't believe a humble potato could cause such a disastrous effect. Bad taste? Certainly. Enjoy.

Unlike many of its vegetable cousins,
The Potato has a unique attribute
In that besides being fodder for the average man,
It also bears the extraordinary leaning
Towards genocidal tendency.

Shocking but true,
The once-perceived ‘thicky’ of the vegetable species,
Has in recent years demonstrated its more masterful,
Homeopathic nature.

True to form,
The potato struck the Irish race in 1937,
And with one fell swoop,
Killed over four million innocent.

This blight on man by the,
Mere Potato, can be seen as catastrophic;
Staple diet for millions suddenly spiralling into
Potato warfare is not something the average man would like to see.

Indeed, due to such occurrences,
The Potato has since been charged with gross miss conduct and has faced life imprisonment;
Banished overseas for its high carbonate nature and total lack of remorse.

Lady’s and gentlemen, be afraid not of the Potato,
But think only this:
That where there be potato there be trouble,
But where there justice, there be McCain's.

Ant

Again, another from the archive. It's about the big and small things in life.

ant

and like an ant,
Small yet innately complex,
You inspire.

and when you speak,
Do you command in a way Generals would only dream of?

and when you dream,
Do you dream of being the first to find the leaf,
Or conquering cities of earth, too?

Does an ant know it is an ant?
Surely it knows it is not a tree.
Or maybe, it knows that it is the tree.

and like an ant,
You inspire.



and like a fractal,
You are awesome.

Materialistic Humpty

Wrote this way back when I was about 18. Short and sweet.

Materialistic Humpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall,
Humpy Dumpty had a great fall.

All the kings’ horses and all the kings’ men,
Claimed the wall as their own and sold exclusive rights of his death to a local tabloid.

Eclipsed

Here's a poem I wrote a couple of summers ago. This was actually for a country-wide 'Vintage-Inns' competition - the poem had to mention one of their summer ales. In this I chose 'Sunchaser' which instantly made me think of an eclipse. Won the local heat with it - yay!

The seconds tripped off of frowns,
The waiting masses saturated in anticipation for the event that was yet to occur

The air seemed to condense; asphyxiate
Taking hold of their contemplation and twisting it,
Wringing out every last drop; breathlessness and heavy to the last

Some stood up:
A silent salute to what might happen next



And then it did

A waterfall of adrenaline;
Light burrowing amongst the dark at the Badgers Sett,
A menagerie of sound and colour and heat escaping into the void of the sky above

Backs straightened, more rose as if magnetised by the two disks
Impossibly Majestic as they were;
Two Gods of the solar system drawing swords for battle,
Feverish in their existence and total in their awesomeness

A drawing of breath,
A collective gasp
As the red-blooded predator was slowly devoured
in front of their eyes

For a solitary moment, the Icy God seemed to smile at them;
Delirious in its victory,
Hollow in its guilt



And then it was over

A creek of light whispered out, tumbling down
Onto the patrons below,
Expelling the drama of the last few minutes into one breathless relief

For now, it was finished
But for how long?

No one knew when the Sunchaser would be back.

Flash fiction - Reciprocity.

Flash fiction is a story condensed down (usually under 300 words) which still retains its 'usual' narrative conventions (e.g protagonist, evolution of an idea, etc) only much, much tighter. Here's my attempt at one. Thought the concept might prove interesting, let me know your thoughts either way. Dan


Reciprocity

because I’m not taking about cars or money or cheap fags, for God’s sake. I’m talking about you. Don’t you get it? Anyway, I know you’re curious because I can see it on your face. Peering in like that: preaching your letterbox voyeurism. You just can’t help yourself, can you? Studying me. Give me a smile. You. I’m talking to you. And yet you won’t - someone might be around; they wouldn’t understand. Would they? Problem is that now you don’t know whether you’re reading me or I’m reading you. I’m not sure I do anymore... Things just seem to go round and round I just can’t figure it out. I need you to help me understand. I know you don’t just yet and that’s really the problem: perhaps you will next time. Why are you staring at me like that? I know part of you wants to leave and I understand, really I do. I wanted to, too. But you’ll find it gets easier. C’mon, you didn’t expect it to be easy the first time, did you? And there’s that look again: stop it. You’re making me shy. Relax; relax. Better. Anyway, I knew this would happen

11th Hour - A short story

11th Hour

Maxwell Lace slouched back, reclining restlessly into his proud leather chair. Would the ceaseless rain ever stop? He sighed, kicking his feet up onto his desk and twisting body into something which resembled comfortable. In front of him, his laptop continued to blink and mutter back at him, offering little real use other than the light it was currently throwing into the night of the office.

Max’s heavy eyes began to glaze over as a seed of colour; perfect, dreamlike, began to grow in his mind. It was the same daydream he always had around now: endless countryside spilt in all directions, pots of tea and the smell of dirty earth running through his hands. Earnest simplicity.

“Coming inside?” she’d say to him, the girl with the soft blonde tresses, stroking his shoulder gently as he prized the last earthy spud.

“Just a minute,” he’d say, smiling towards her, before resting back onto the grass and arching into the sunlight, “Just a few more minutes.” Maxwell smiled to himself; he knew however many times he idolised this particular fantasy, he would never make it inside. He never did. He always seemed so content at this moment that he never dared to dream up the next part.

The metallic ticking of the office clock sliced cruelly into his daydream, causing Max to jerk upwards and kick an assortment of stationary off his desk. He cursed loudly to himself, kneeled down and slowly began to pick up the pens, clips and files from the worn-in red carpet. Was life always like this? How long had it been now, he thought. Ten, twelve years? He’d lost count. He knew he’d made several million in that time. Servant to his own success; holed in a 12th floor office, religiously shooting his laptop icy stares and having school-boy escapist fantasies. Pathetic, he considered.

Twinge tapping at his spine, Max stood and arched his back, over stretching until the comforting crack of several vertebrae caused him to shudder slightly. Momentarily relieved, he walked slowly towards one of the office’s numerous shutter windows and peered out into the darkness, hands resting on the sill. Rain pattered down relentlessly; beads of miserable wax seeming to mock every part of Max’s daydream.

His warm breath crystallised against the cold glass for a few fractured seconds, spelling out a wretched thought which he’d wanted desperately to keep inside. Somehow instinctively, Maxwell Lace knew what he had yet to do.

Deliberately and methodically, he unclasped the two shutter locks, heaving up the heavy glass window and simultaneously allowing a cold blast of miserable rain and air to jettison his face.

Unrepentant, he hauled his slight frame onto the sill, wobbled and smiled.

* * *

Zidana hurried past a blur of scattered faces, the smell of sickly incense desperately clinging to her nostrils. Beggars, sellers and tourists littered her path as she hastily clamoured her way through the souks, her daughter’s clammy body cradled firmly to her chest. A buzz of noise littered her ears, fading in and out of introspective silence and filtering out much of Yalda’s cries in the process.

However upsetting the cries were, they offered Zi a kind of twisted maternal comfort: she was still okay, albeit in pain, at least. If only she’d checked Yalda’s clothes before she’d hastily dressed her; if only she hadn’t been in such a hurry. If only, if only. The scorpion wasn’t looking for prey, but had simply found it; Yalda’s gandora happened to be the perfect hiding place for such a coincidence.

“Please - someone help me – she’s been stung,” Zi cried, stumbling into another tangle of Marrakesh souk, “Why aren’t you listening – my daughter’s been stung!”

The buzz of commotion abated only slightly; in turn eyes bowed downwards and breaths became hushed. A cold fire of anger and hatred burst through Zi’s veins as each of the market faces turned away, ambivalent dominos shamefully falling one by one. “I don’t know what to do – why won’t you help? she cried. Zidana stopped. “Why won’t you help me?”

For a split second, the entire market place seemed to stop in her mind. A silence, contemplative and uneasy, crept out from her ears and relentlessly waterfalled out, engulfing the passageways and people around her and soaking them in a spray of white noise. She stood absolutely still, Yalda clutched to her body; stereo heartbeats and short, shallow breaths.

It hadn’t always been this way. Only a few years ago Ilias had owned a thriving stall here in Marrakesh. They’d enjoyed a reasonable living and certainly would never have been caught short by a wayward scorpion. Still, she’d never have believed Ilias would have left the way he did either; gone without so much of a note. What had happened to him? Perhaps he’d finally tired of her awkward ways; charming lovers’ quirks turned sour into rancid resentment. Perhaps he’d really left her for another, as he so often suggested when they’d argued for hours on end. Perhaps he was dead.

Perhaps he was dead.

A solitary tear ran down Zidana’s face, soaking into the dusty ground as the souk suddenly ricocheted back into action before her eyes.

“Excuse me, dear,” a hushed voice swallowed, “Can I help?”

* * *

Jonas knelt awkwardly on the grass, his aging bulk seeming to rebel entirely against his wishes. His chequered shirt spilt out over the sides of his jeans, accentuating his paunch more than he would have liked. He yawned and looked up, immediately regretting it as the full force of the sun blasted him in the eyes.

Squinting repeatedly and trying to ignore the white haze now shrouding his vision, Jonas heaved himself onto his knees and stared at the patch of dry earth in front of him. Nearly there, he thought. Trowel in hand, he plunged it into the dirt, scattering dusty crumbs everywhere as he repeatedly dug and furrowed for the Last One.

“You bugger,” Jonas smiled a curse as he caught sight of the final potato, the khaki dome winking at him. He let out a sigh. Beads of sweat dripped off his head, running stream-like down his temples and at last moistening his greying beard. Wiping his arm and shirt across his face, he bent over, hands poised, ready to pull the last spud from its cocoon.

“Jonas, dear. Jonas?” Jonas hauled himself round to catch sight of Louisa, his wife of 40 years; white-blonde hair and always that loving, indomitable smile, edging towards him from the back of the house. “Jonas – you can’t still be at it, you silly old fool,” she grinned, a hint of frustration glinting in the back of her eyes. “Honestly, what happened to that big powerful man I married, eh?” She’d paused now, stood a just few feet over Jonas’s splayed position, hands on hips in a gentle but mocking fashion.

“Nearly there. The last one’s within sight!” Jonas beamed back, “Just give us another few minutes.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what you always say. The pot’s on anyhow – I expect you don’t want cold tea?” Louisa’s brow wrinkled slightly as she looked back at her husband.

“Honestly, I’ll be there in two minutes,” he assured. And with that, Louisa turned and slowly headed back towards the house, leaving Jonas alone amongst the earth and pollen once more.

She was right. He wasn’t in his prime anymore. Years of hard labour had chipped back any bulky bravado he once had; a rusty mind and a disobedient gait had worked their force for too long now. How had he allowed it to get to him? Jonas rifled his hand through the freshly-dug dirt, moist soil catching under his nails as he considered the notion.

At the back of his mind, buried under a dust of memories and random, ambling moments, a long-forgotten speck of a half-forgotten thought resurfaced. You never wanted this. Jonas jerked back in surprise at the truth. He considered it a minute. In truth, he’d always dreamed of the city life: of frenetics, glass tower blocks and coffee-surging digital highs. Money, power and everything in between. Acquisition. He’d been denied the chance. In his mind, he no-longer remembered how or why; all he knew was that he could have done it and should have taken it.

Instead, he’d settled for the quiet life: long walks and idle chats. Immensely comforting yet at the same time spectacularly, heartbreakingly dull. Pathetic, he considered. Jonas arched back, the caustic sun hitting him powerfully in the face as he shook the thought back to the depths of his mind once more. Why did he always want what he couldn’t have?

Anxiety, followed by a sorrowful rotting agony, thumped in Jonas’ chest. And again. The pain, first mistaken by Jonas as bitter self-pity, burnt like molten fire as it boiled its way from the centre of his chest and deep into his arms. The pain spread, thicker and heavier than before, seeming to pull his ribcage inwards and in on itself; cold, hard agony reverberating off every sickly cell in his body.

With a crash, Jonas collapsed backwards, his body thudding effortlessly into the swaying summer grass as the heart attack took full hold. Eyes bloodshot and glazed, Jonas forced every last breath from his lungs as he desperately clung onto life.

“Louisa!”

In the distance the newly-painted cottage, mottled cream and aloof, began to blur in Jonas’ vision. Saliva wept from his mouth as his ribcage smashed in on itself again, obliterating the previous pain into little tiny pieces.

“Louisa-!”

Out of the corner of one blurred and narrowing eye, Jonas thought he saw the proud reflection of a patio door sway open. He thought, too, that he caught sight of an elderly woman with white-blonde hair rush out of the pristine cream cottage and run in his direction. Although he couldn’t be sure.

*

Chris Parker sat hunched over his laptop, scrunched fist propping up his tired head. The dizzying artificial light was starting to make him feel ill, and he lent back in his chair with a huff. Bored again.

The more he sprang from one thing to another, desperately trying to fire up interest, the more his concentration seemed to wane even further. Chris was aware of the irony of the situation, but couldn’t even be bothered to consider it, so instead reached for the expectant glass on the side and gulped down another wash of Coke.

Cool, sugary bubbles glided down his gullet. He loved the way they’d somehow make their way back up to his nostrils in a few seconds and burst out sensation.

Chris peered back at the screen in front of him. Curious, he thought, how dotted pixels of primary colour could appear to have lives so much more fulfilling than his own. Hardly seemed fair. He rubbed his eyes feverously until the dull ache just under the ridges of his sockets began to wane.

Bleary-eyed, he scanned the plastic casing on the floor, thrown down in excitement just a few days ago, when the concept was new and offered him infinitely more promise.

“11th Hour,” he read, “Moments you master.” He considered the slogan a minute. Was he really a master? Their master? Usually, he simply let the events of the game play out, preferring to watch and re-watch the pre-programmed moments reach fruition; a cathartic ensemble of other’s lives dripping away. They weren’t real – what did it matter?

Scanning his eyes back on the computer screen, Chris drew his attention back into the game. On the top left, Maxwell Lace teetered almost uncontrollably on the window sill, a rush of wind and rain doing little to hide the raw tears and shame stinging down his face; on the right, Jonas lay in the wet grass, unsure if Louisa really had heard him or if it was all part of a senile mind he longed to be rid of. Below, in a wider screen, Zidana clutched her child to her body, shaking slightly and considering whether the offer of help was to be trusted, or would serve only to deepen her heartbreak further.

“11th Hour,” Chris mused with a smile to himself, gazing over the three moments unfolding in front of him and waiting for each to play out to perfection.

And then, for no particular reason he could think of, he did something quite different.

He put down his Coke, lent in, and clicked on one of the screens.

*

11th Hour, by Dan Thomas