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
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Thursday, 20 January 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
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
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
Monday, 17 January 2011
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
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
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