Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1999

		BELGIN DURMUSH I have been writing short stories in my spare time for the past five years and find that the workshop encourages me continue. I enjoy writing and it is a good contrast to the work I do. THE JOURNEY TIGHTENING MY BELT I feel the effects of my loss of appetite in my shrunken frame. It has started in me and although I have seen it many times before, I find myself unprepared. I run a heavy hand over my face, not recognising the once sturdy face in the rough, bony features now marked by stubble and neglect. I wonder how far I’ll go as I hug the sack I am carrying closer to me. As always the question is forgotten by the time I take my next step. I tread over the shiny black rubbish-bags which fill my path. They are everywhere, abandoned and lost, their sheer bulk slowing me down. My eyes lift to escape the crowded landscape but even as I look into the horizon, I see a black, glossy pool spreading outwards into the distance: an undulating mass of bulging bags which take up my whole vision. My nostrils fill with their overwhelming stench and I find myself reluctant to breathe. I stop and take an involuntary breath, renewing the stench inside myself. With a feeling of disgust I sidle past the bags trying not to touch the misshapen lumps clinging to the hard rock. I look down at one, trying to see past its black crumpled surface. The bag looks old and slumps to the ground like a dying beast. Its contents, settled by time, no longer threaten to spill onto the soil. I watch it for a while and pull the sack in my arms closer to my chest, afraid that I might finally let you fall prey to the perils of the soil, abandoning you as others have been abandoned. I sense your distance and understand that you would rather be somewhere else than here with me. You hope that I continue on my way without disturbing you, allowing you to slide back into your desolate thoughts. What use would you be if I allowed that to happen, if I dumped you here with all the rest of them, lost in a bag, without hope, without purpose? Despite the dusty apparition that you are, I still imagine your slim figure delicately tossing under the burden of having to listen to my thoughts. You shuffle under the tedium of our journey, criticising me with your soft voice; yearning for rest and solitude as you strive to be free of the lifetime companionship which we are destined to share forever. As I walk, the sight of the twilight sky coloured by the setting sun catches my attention. I don’t know why but the sudden idea that darkness is coming fills me with despair. It may be because when I lay my head close to the ground tonight, I will feel the trickling of life into soil. I proceed through the burdened land, ignoring the trembles of my body. The sky has a perverse attraction. Filled with the beauty of light and the dread of night, it draws me to it and fixes me to the ground as I watch it change. I stretch myself towards it as if to grasp its power, but all I feel is the empty, cold air cutting through me like death itself. I think of the almost forgotten fear that death once evoked in me, with warmth. It is now a recluse, banished from sight, who I would welcome again if only to have the assurance that one day this will end. Instead, I think briefly of the ongoing trudge of my journey without its sweet prompt companion and of life itself without a beginning or an end. In the uneven path I take quirky, indecisive steps which irritate you as you bounce up and down in the bag which is now on my back. Clumsily I step on remains as you ask that question again. "Where are we going?" It annoys me that you still want to know after all this time, as if there was a plan or a place. I have lost all sense of where I am going. You ask that question again. "Where are you going?" I take the bag from my back and give it a little shake if only to remind you that you are now a pile of bones and cannot have a say in where I go. You hate the sudden movement and sulk in the bag like a hurt child, closing your thoughts off from me. I am alone again so I shake the bag for comfort. You do not respond, building barriers instead. Your silence brings a startling image of your face to me. The clarity of your pursed lips and your cheeks sucked inwards as a demonstration of the stubbornness which could not be argued with, alarms me as I think back to a time which now seems vague and unreal. You are sitting in the living room, your hands clasped together for comfort. The windows, frosty from the winter chill, are open. "Where are they?" I ask. "What?" you say, avoiding my eyes. Instantly I know. It sags with the weight as you take the sack out of the unlit stove. "What are they doing in there?" "I couldn’t stand the sight of them. A bit here and a bit there!idle and useless. I couldn’t take it!sprawled on the table without bodily attachments, they were just looking at me. When your own legs start making you uncomfortable, then it’s time to shut them away." "Into the stove? What if they were cooked?" "Oh, does it matter? Cooked or frozen, they’re useless to me anyway. I’ll never be back together again, there’s not enough scraps to scrape together to make me complete." "But you must preserve yourself by keeping cool." "But I’m always freezing. It’ll be easier to put me in pickle." "You’re still too big to be kept in a jar." You glare at me for the thoughtless reminder of your impending disintegration, but your tone is quiet. "What I really need is a pot of glue so I could stick myself on things." You are silent again, pondering an unvoiced argument. "It’s not natural to cling onto scraps," you say at last. "We have no control over them. How do we know they won’t get mixed up? Scraps, carried by wind and wasp, just think, human pollination. Hybrid of the future, one giant jigsaw-man." "Giant jigsaw-man?" I say, and, in a moment, you are gone, and your face is just a blur in my mind. The stench in the air is thickening, choking me with the rot that has become a part of it. The clouds block out the moon. My senses are dulled by the smell, the isolation and the darkness, that soon I feel I am walking in an untenable void, afraid to put a foot forward in case I fall out into open, bottomless space. The only things available to me are the sounds of creatures in the dark. I do not recognise their cries but perhaps they are lost like me and groan only to seek comfort. I too would groan like them but am afraid to add to the ghostly sounds which scare me now and would scare me even more if I recognised something in them as mine. It is time to lie down and wait for the light, for my footsteps are becoming shakier. I stretch out beside the deteriorating matter from which I would like to escape, and watch with terrible eyes. Some of the bags have split and one in particular reveals a being that was once there, now shredded into a pulp of fine dust, except for a hand which has somehow escaped the elements of erosion. I look at it and sense an imperceptible motion in this dry white hand. I hear life seeping into the soil. A low mumble fills my ears and I sense a presence which I cannot see, draining away, whispering its demise. I turn away and look up at the eerie unlit sky hanging over me like an invisible giant. I wait, manacled to the ground by the insane cries reverberating across the land. In your absence I fell into a dream that I could not face. I was lost in a familiar place, struggling to lift myself out of a pit with a hundred others who were not there. The air was rank, suffocating me, pressing on my face like a demon’s breath. When I awoke, my nightmare was clearer, cleansed in daylight it seemed different but I recognised it for what it was. My face is pressed into the soil, breathing in the essence of my nightmare. I get up. My feet shuffle unsteadily looking for a place to rest. The sweat from my face cools instantly in the rank breeze. Weak from the restlessness of a tortuous night I want to lie down to search for some composure, but cannot face that terror again so soon. I shake the dirt off my coat and move slowly in a direction which I can only hope will lead me out of this place, but the truth is I am not even sure if it is the same direction from which I came. The landscape is filled with little bubble bags peeking up at me. In the distance they are glossy and shine almost pleasantly in the morning sun. I move, wiping the sleep from my eyes. You are silent, leaving me to face my fears alone. I trudge the path, out of breath, anxious to be away from all this but my legs are heavy. I move anyway but it is not so easy. It surrounds me still, rubbish spewed at my feet and beyond. A wasp buzzes in my ear and irritates me with its persistence. I do not want to swat it for it reminds me of myself, roaming the land of deteriorating scraps. It clings to me then hovers around my head. It sits on my cheek, contented for a short while, then lifts itself off again seeking a better place to settle. As soon as it settles, it lifts itself again on its incessant search for the inexplicable. A sudden hostility overwhelms me as I see that it thrives in this wasteland whereas I am swallowed into it. I swat the wasp, envious of its easy release. As it hurtles to the ground, others rise from nowhere and gather around my head, dancing the dance of the swarm, waiting for shreds of flesh to fall down onto the waiting grave. My hands flap around my ears but I have no effect on them. I stop. What is the use? The air is rank, that is what attracts them. I crouch to the ground and pick up a bag, soggy and weighed down by lumps of earth. I release it from its crevice and shake the contents free. The fresh smell of rot attracts the roaming flies and I am rid of them. The journey continues. I stomp ahead, heavy footed, determined. I hear you without listening as you ask again "Where are we going?" It is the first time that I have heard you since last night, but despite this you withdraw again, seeking rest, unwilling to converse with me. The evening is near again, casting a shadow over the deterioration that is still around me. It seems that I have made no progress even after all this time. Everything is in the same rotten state no matter how far I go. It doesn’t add meaning to it knowing that I am a part of it all. In their little black plastic bags, they lie littering the landscape with their absence. I too will perish in the same way, fully aware, breaking into pieces as I watch my own demise and witness my disintegration. You are what I will become whilst my presence taunts you with what you can never be again. In the distance I see a house. I do not want to go there. I am afraid that I will find someone else like me. My curiosity gets the better of me. What if I find someone who has survived the tear and tedium of time? As I near the house I see a figure. He is dumping a rubbish bag outside his door. Immediately, it reminds me of myself and how you wanted the same thing. He is whistling as he lugs the heavy bag, heavier than it should be. It seems that he has not waited long; the body is still solid matter. Perhaps it is just a few belongings that he has packed? I do not know, all I know is that he is whistling a flighty tune which strikes me as odd considering the mournful task he is performing. I get nearer. He still has not noticed me. His tune is light and happy. At last he sees me and greets me like an old friend with a broad smile on his face. "At last I am free." Are his words to me, as if he is continuing a conversation which we had already started. "Free?" "You know, no more rubbish to put up with. It’s all neatly packed into this bag." He looks at me, waiting for a reaction, as if it is truth itself that will fall from my mouth. I cannot reply. "These bags are strong, they make them to last. They have to don’t they, or we’d be out of the bag and up to our necks in armpits and legs." he throws a little laugh. He looks at me again, the once boyish features burdened by age. "Pass me that string will you?" he points at my feet. "It’s terrible." I mumble, at last. "No, it’s fine really, it’ll hold the remains." "No, I mean for them, it must be terrible." He turns away and fidgets with the bag, spurred into action by my words. "You can’t mean that. What about us? Do you know what I’ve had to endure all this time? It’s like I was a prisoner in my own home. I knew there wasn’t much longer to go after she started to fall apart!and what a relief that was, like the end of a long sentence." "It’ll happen to you one day! don’t you think about that?" "I will never be that bad. In the end she was flaking so much it was a pleasant distraction when whole limbs started to fall out - it was good to see chunks instead of scales and skin. I mean, I sat in the same room and thought I was in a snowstorm. At least with arms and legs you know where you stand." He chuckles at his own joke. "Do you still sense her thoughts?" "Oh yes, how can I not. She makes sure I know how bored she is. She’s already complaining of having nothing to look at. This is the same person who has spent all her life watching her life go by and now she thinks she’s got nothing to look at!She says the bag’s too tight, it’s too smelly, there’s nothing to nibble. You name it she’s got a complaint about it. She wants me in there with her that’s what she wants. Nothing else will satisfy her. This is what I’ve had to put up with all this time. It’s been too long, I don’t know anymore. She tries whatever she can to make me stay, but I can’t do it anymore." His fatigue seeps into me and a memory flickers before me. You stand there, sipping your tea. Doleful eyes look up at me. Seeing your eyes so clearly startles me for a second, but my thoughts are broken by his voice. "I am a reasonable person but I think she expects me to take her out of the bag and out for a stroll or something. There must be at least a thousand pieces of her. Which bit of her is her, I mean really her. If I miss a bit, she’ll blame me for forgetting a vital part, like a nail or a chipped tooth. She does not feel like a complete woman without all her bits." He pauses, whistles a tune as if to clear a blockage and continues. "No, I’ve been waiting far too long. I mean time has been dragging, it does that when you’re waiting for the next bit to fall off. She fell apart quite soon, she was too fragile, that was her problem. Got worn away too easily. And those brittle bones, well, they will break won’t they, and once that happens you pick up the pieces or shovel them into a corner. She hated that, being shovelled into the corner of the room, but if you fall to pieces you have to learn to assemble yourself any way you can. It took a long time. She became so fragile I was afraid to touch her, so I left her in the corner nattering to herself." As he speaks I watch him tie a rope around the bag, then another rope, tighter around the first, as if he fears that she will escape. He continues, remembering that he hasn’t said all that he needs to. I prop myself against a wooden stump and prepare myself for his life story. "I remember when it started to get bad," he begins, warming to a story of life and misadventure. "Sitting in her chair she complained of a sore bottom, and that was the first thing that fell apart, which is when she really got ugly. You could almost say with precision that the bottom really fell out in this case. Can you imagine that? Trying to look appealing without a bottom? She would sit there, sunk from the middle like a deflated rubber doll, boneless arms and legs dangling to the floor, and she would purse her lips at me. I pretended not to notice most of the time but she grunted and tried to pull me towards her, but of cause her arms were useless, she just flapped about looking even more grotesque than she would have done had she grown another head. She was like a sack. Funny isn’t it? Now she’s a sack in a bag." "You’re leaving aren’t you?" I interrupt him abruptly, tired of his flippancy. "Why shouldn’t I? I have nothing to feel guilty about. I’ve done more than my bit. She’s only a miserable bag of bones. It’s bad now. She wants me to show her where her leg is or where I’ve put her nose because she wants to smell her food!" He pauses as if suddenly struck by the thought. "She actually tries to smell her food when she has nothing to smell it with. Do you understand? She won’t give up. She thinks nothing has changed! that she still has the ability to think and feel, but the best she can do is try and remember how to, and it’s difficult when you’re scattered around the living room." He draws a deep breath and sinks his fist into the soil. "When she has completely turned to dust she’ll have nothing. She won’t give up. She will still want answers and I don’t want to be the one to try and explain to her that there is nothing of her left anymore. I don’t want to be the one to pick up the pieces." For the first time I sense his sadness but I am unable to respond to him with any kindness. "At least she hasn’t given up. She doesn’t want to lie in the soil and rot. Why do you think I carry my wife in this bag when she would rather wither into the ground and close her mind to me. I’m the one who keeps her alive, and she hates me for it, reminding her of her loss." My words are harsh and like chisels chip away at his hard shell, weakening his resolve. He stands before me ragged and crumpled, his face shrivelled with disbelief at this sudden realisation of what I carry with me. "You lug pieces of skin and bone on your back?" he cries, disgusted. I move towards him but he recoils onto the safety of his doorstep, dropping the bag he had taken such care with, onto a hard rock. The side of the bag splits and an elbow pops out near his feet. I look closely into his face, now lined with worry, but fail to recognise that he is the same the man I had been talking to. The smile of before has left no trace of ever having been there. Instead, he looks haggard and worn and I notice his fragility. "You’re not as free as you think," I say as I strap the bag that clings tightly to me over my shoulder. "I see it happening to you," I walk away before he has time to reply. A dim figure, silhouetted by the frame of the door, looks back at me, his hands clenched tightly. He kneels down and ties a knot around the bag at his feet, and then another, securing the bag before his escape.