J Bov Explodes Rhetorically


Contraband

A part of Justin knew he’d been spending far too much time down here.

There’s a part of you that becomes accustomed to the low light, even to the smell, but you never fully adjust to the sense of dread kicked out by the dank, narrow streets in the Ciphers.

This would be Justin’s fourth venture to the squalid, labyrinthine sub-city that stretched under modern London. Gouged, scraped and built into the ruins and pits of the old city, it was condemned as England’s shame; London’s blight; a rotting in the foundations of the glorious glass and chrome capital above.

Justin kept his gaze to the ground and hurried on, past tiny one-room squats housing whole families, past food stalls selling dubious meats, past dead-eyed prostitutes and their shark-toothed pimps. There was one place he was trying to get to. One person he had to see.

He’d heard about it from a… well, not a friend per se, but a boy at school.

“Man,” this boy had begun, “this place in the Ciphers, man. They got what you need. The good stuff.”

Justin had nodded, excitement and fear in equal measures making his chest tight. He had noted the directions down in his Pad™ and thanked the boy, then he had never spoken to him again.

He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and ducked down one of the hundreds of identical alleys. He knew this was the one. His previous ventures here had taught him the way so well he could probably navigate it with his eyes closed.

He pushed aside the threadbare curtain hanging over the door and spied the proprietor of the now familiar establishment. A squat, withered elderly woman, her face hardened by long years in the awful underworld. There was nonetheless an almost disarming kindness in her eyes.

“Justin.” She wheezed. “Back so soon?”

Justin nodded, scratching his arm.

“You want the same as last time, yes?” She asked him quietly.

He nodded again, almost frantic.

“I’ll see to that.” She bent with a groan to look under the counter and continued rambling.

“It’s good. But you know that. Can’t get it in the Over-City no more. You know that too.”

She arose finally with a small oblong wrapped in cloth. Justin eyed it with something approaching lust, his fists clenched by his sides as he stepped forwards.

“Now,” as he went to grasp it she whipped it away, a cruel taunt, Justin thought, “You don’t let nobody Upsides know I give you this, right?”

Justin knew the drill, he just kept nodding and staring at the object of his desires.

She finally passed the block to him and gestured to the curtain behind her.

“You got an hour. Then you’re gone.” She intoned as he rushed into the back room.

He found his favourite corner, thankfully unoccupied, and sat in the old, worn leather chair he had adopted as his own.

His hands trembled as he unwrapped the cloth covering slowly, almost ritualistically, and breathed a sigh of relief as he uncovered exactly what he had wanted, what he had needed.

A soft chuckle broke him from his rapture as he glanced across the rather large room to another corner to spot a wrinkled old man almost giggling.

“Hello, Mr. Harris, reading Wodehouse again?” Justin ventured, with a smile.

“Justin! I didn’t notice you coming in.” Mr. Harris hefted the book on his lap so Justin could see the cover. It was Wodehouse indeed.

Justin returned his attention to his own business. He lovingly traced the inlaid words on the object he held.

“On The Road, by Jack Kerouac” he breathed reverently.

Out beyond the curtain he heard the old woman greet a new customer.

“Ah welcome dear. Tell me, how did you hear about the library?”



For Every Day Is Sunday

Ever get that feeling that life is just a procession of Sundays?

Nothing happens on a Sunday, but you always notice when it rolls around.

Maybe because you have a hangover; I don’t drink right now so I don’t know. Maybe it’s the one day you get off work a week; I don’t work right now so I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the sheer electric boredom of a day when nothing ever occurs. One way or another Sunday sticks in your mind like a twisting knife every week.

Perhaps we should do something about it. Perhaps we should designate Sunday to be our ‘Do Something Fun’ day.

Go for a stroll. Call up your friends, maintain a constant beverage intake and play card games for hours. Put on a silly hat and write gentle diatribes about inconsequential things like days of the week. Paint something.

Or maybe we can all sit about on our own, watching documentaries about Pink Floyd and listening to Portishead. Either way is good, I suppose, there’s really no objective way to say which activity is better.

Still, when Sunday rolls around I always find myself loath to do anything.

Then again, it’s not like if I was doing something I would be doing something. Something worthwhile, that is.

But what’s ‘worthwhile’? Good question. No answer. I suppose I could be doing something productive, but since the only productive thing I actually do is write it looks like I’ve got that covered, after a fashion. Except this isn’t worthwhile.

I’m only going to put it on the internet and watch it like a hawk. I should buckle down and get something off to My World Is Clouds for the second issue.

Sunday. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday everyday forever and ever and for all of time.

I need a cup of tea.



[Removed, For Now]

There was a story here.

It’s gone now.

I’ve taken it down here because I’ve submitted it somewhere else and I’d prefer it not to clash.

If you didn’t get a chance to read it here, sorry. Maybe you can again in the near future. Or maybe somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere else.

If you’d really, REALLY like to read it just ask me. I’ve got the manuscript knocking about on my computer still.

Fingers crossed I never put it back up here. That would mean good news.

J Bov.