Indigo Roth: February 2013

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Slighted in Italics

The End Is Nigh.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese have been running this a writing challenge throughout February. And today is the final day! Better yet, nobody has murdered either of them; I feel happy and sad all at the same time.

And, kidding aside, thanks to Nicky and Mike for running this circus. I know how much work is involved, and much as I’ve grumbled, I’ve had an amazing month. Ziva gets my vote as winner.

Okay, school’s out now! You can all go home and chill. If you’ve just been reading, thanks for keeping us company. If you’ve been writing, you deserve a medal.

But I hope to see you all here again very soon.

Indigo

I feel thoroughly miserable.

As I slam shut the hatchback on my car, I kinda want it to complain, to object to the load that the car contains. For its hesitation to indicate that the car is too full, that I have too much stuff.

But this is a stupid thought, and Life affords it the disdain it deserves; the hatchback closes smoothly.

It’s September 1998, and the garden is a carpet of crunchy orange leaves. I hear footsteps.

Good morning, Indigo! breezes Bear, as he appears around the hedge and strolls up the driveway, And isn’t it a beautiful day? As if on cue, birds begin to twitter cheerfully in the trees. Frankly, I’m surprised the little devils don’t flutter round my friend's head and land on his outstretched paw, to sing sweetly as he chuckles; Walt Disney would have be proud, I conclude sourly.

Man, I’m in a bad mood today.

Yeah, morning Bear, I mutter. My companion, all seven feet of him, stands next to me and gives me a manly hug; I can sense he’s thinking without looking at him.

Though his dayglo Hawaiian shirt demands some attention.

So, it’s the big day! He indicates the loaded car. It looks like you’re all packed. Are you ready to move house?

Moving house is always a chore.

I hate moving house Bear, I grumble, and look how much my life boils down to!

Bear knows full well what I mean, I’m sure, but he’s tricky; he knows how to get me to talk, I guess. How do you mean?

I wave two-handedly, somewhat despairingly.

My life fits in a car! Bear pats my shoulder reassuringly as I continue, It wasn’t even that difficult to shut it! Seriously, is that all there is?!

His chuckle is dark and throaty. You measure your life by how much volume it takes up? No, that’s not what I meant, and he knows it.

Of course not. I feel I’m lying a little.

Oh, so it’s about how many things you have? That’s not it, is it?

No. Of course not. My tone is defiant, but I’m pretty sure I’m lying now. How can my life fit into one tiny little car, with nothing on the front seats, and no doors squeezed shut?!

That’s good. Because you’re a decent person, right?

I like to think so. Yeah, I guess.

And you have good friends, who appreciate your qualities? I squeeze him back slightly, manfully, tho I’m fairly sure I’ve just been slighted in some way. In italics.

The best. This one’s all true. I feel a little brighter.

And the new house looks amazing. I heard there may even be some badgers in the back garden. I smile; I do adore badgers. Bear has more good news, tho. There will be another lodger there at some point, but the landlord is quite fussy. So I don’t think we’ll get anyone objectionable.

Well, that’s a comfort, too. Uncertainty is next to Uneasiness in my dictionary.

Yeah, I say brightly, It’s going to be great.

Bear turns me and gives me a meaningful look.

Quite so. And believe me, I’ve known you a long time, he cuffs my head gently, and I don’t measure your life by the meagre possessions in this car. You have skills, talents and imagination by the bucketload, and they occupy no space whatsoever.

This is flattering, and somewhat of a smackdown. He’s good at this.

Yes Bear. You’re right. I manage a smile.

The black bear thumps my shoulder enthusiastically.

So, can I drive?

I don’t think twice. Sure, that’d be nice.

Wait, what?!

I realise too late that I've been suckered again.

Never let a bear drive.

We scream off the driveway on two wheels into an adrenaline-fuelled future.

Indigo

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Dissolving Into Cold Sharp Laughter

I have a nasty suspicion we’re all going to write the same entry today.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge during February. And this is day 27! So hey, we’re almost there!

But still, we all like to dream.

My vision is slightly blurred, my voice slurred.

Max and Yavin the badger kneel over me, their faces broadcasting concern. I think we’re in my front room, but I really can’t remember. I don’t recall it spinning this much, certainly.

And that’s why… that’s why I got drunk... I mumble in conclusion, waving the small square of paper and dissolving into cold, sharp, sobbing laughter.

Max takes the paper and glances at it. He chuckles, Wow, this thing has driven him right to the edge. He hands the tear-off calendar square to Yavin. The engineer nods and reaches for his pipe, fumbling the scrap paper, which slowly spirals down; it’s not as important as what it shows.

Their faces now emanate compassion and mild amusement; we all know I’m going to be fine. If a little hungover.

The page reaches the floor, face up, to show its date.

It’s March 1.

The 30M2DoW Challenge is over.

And that’s why I got drunk.

Indigo

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Not Running Their Way

The end is in sight. Not that I'm excited, or anything.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout February. And Nicky knows how much fun this has been. You all do.

I say we all get together to go and thank them personally.

Bring torches and pitchforks.

The dealer sits comfortably, tho he does his best to look otherwise.

The cards are not running the punters’ way, and as they gather around the blackjack table, they regard Zero Roth with suspicion. The tall, immaculately-dressed man with swift, sure hands has four perfect blackjacks in front of him.

Oh my, I never did see... breathes one, incredulous.

The house wins again.

This is Las Vegas, 1963. Zero is the best dealer in the small, off-strip casino, and while most folk are passing through and accept a bad evening as bad luck, he is slowly gathering a reputation with the regulars.

Damn! barks another, cursing the loss of his final stake for the evening.

And the truth is, Zero is doing his best to make sure the cards don’t run their way. It’s why the more-than-usually-crooked casino employed him; his card-handling skills. Profits from his tables are a full 20% higher than the next-best dealer.

The odds of that outcome are slim at best, less than one in a thousand, I'd guess. This knowledgeable player, an arctic blonde fella from Alaska, then mutters something about dealing from the bottom of the deck. And the mechanic’s grip. And dealing seconds. And card counting. And belly strippers. And other things that Zero is capable of using.

This is crazy, but there are no other dealers on shift right now, he lies easily. Tell you what, how about I deal with one hand?

Seeing that the dealer is right-handed, the Alaskan deadpans, How about you use your left hand, fella? Can you deal with it? And that said, the matter decided, the guy cuts the cards and hands them to Zero.

Zero smiles, and placing his right hand behind him, he seems to fumble the deck slightly, while perfectly executing a one-handed annulment on the cut. His carefully-gathered key cards are still on the bottom of the deck.

Of course, Sir. I’d be happy to.

Indigo

Monday, February 25, 2013

Two Sweet Emulsions

Okay, it’s time for some self love.

Hey, stop giggling at the back there, Dufus!

We few, we happy few, have been working hard. We’re almost there, and we deserve a reward! A treat! Specifically, we all need one of these:

These are the perfect souvenir! WEAR YOUR SCARS WITH PRIDE!

All are available from the Indigo Roth Zazzle shop. There are literally dozens of styles to choose from (tees, sweatshirts, hoodies, vests) and they're easy to create. First, choose either the blue-on-white design or the yellow-on-“dark” design. Then, choose your required style from the 60+ on offer on the bottom right of the sales page. You can also choose from a wide range of colours for the dark design, not just the black and blue shown here.

They're not the cheapest (the price is set by Zazzle, sorry), but if you order before the end of February, you can get 20% off by using the SALEFEBRUARY code on checkout.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge during February. All profits (plus mine for the month) will go to Nicky & Mike’s nominated charity. They’ve not decided on a charity yet, but it will not be cheese related. But only because they can’t find one.

Nicky will be after you with her cattle prod if you don’t buy one.

So, get clicking and start customising.

Max deposits the tray of coffee, sandwiches and cookies on the table.

I figure you need a break, matey.

I sigh – heavily - and drop my pencil onto the leather-topped table. Max is right; I’ve been working very hard this month, and dammit - Yes. Please. - I do deserve a break. We both do. My handwriting, normally smooth and elegant, has reduced to a scrawl under the blowtorch of sleeplessness, and Max’s is no better. Especially the stuff in crayon. That said, he’s completed ten times the amount of design and repair work that I have, just with less sleep and ten times the caffeine.

You know, says my friend, taking his seat and distributing goodies from the tray, it strikes me that most of your readers think that you’re writing fiction.

I frown. Do you think? It’s not something I had considered before. It’s just a diary at the end of the day.

Max nibbles on a chicken salad roll. Yeah. If you read their comments closely, it’s like they’re congratulating you on some great feat of imagination.

Do I give that impression? Max considers this as he pours the coffee and shovels cane sugar into both, forming two sweet emulsions.

Well, not that I’d noticed. But then, I’m usually there, and I know they’re for real.

I nod sagely, and seek insight in a quadruple-chocolate cookie.

Did you mention this to Bear, King, Abbey and the badgers?

Max shakes his head. Not really. It must be weird to have one’s existence called into question.

I spray coffee. They think the lads are fictional too? This is too much. Max shrugs, wiping coffee from his face.

Could be. It’s hard to tell. He examines a cookie minutely, abstractly. They enjoy your writing, but I think they might just be playing along with the “joke”.

We sit in silence for a moment. Madness. This is very unsettling news to me.

Well yes, he scratches his head, it's a crazy thought. Our lives are one great colourful adventure! So why...?

I nod, finishing his thought.

Why would I waste time and effort just making stuff up?

We ponder this, and find solace in coffee, sandwiches and sugary treats.

Indigo

Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Klonky Moment Passes

This is the final Sunday of the challenge!

What, challenge, you say? Good grief, where have you been?! Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge during February.

It’s not too late to join in.

But run if you can.

Max brings the best folks home for dinner.

It’s last night. I return home as twilight is giving way to chilly dark, laden down with bags from the supermarket. I shout a welcome as I slam the front door, but no reply comes. There are faint voices from the lounge though and, stepping through from the hallway, I find Max standing by the fire with King an Oriental gentleman.

Roth! roars Max, Come in, join us, join us! He’s looking uncommonly smart, with long trousers and everything. King looks as magnificent as ever in his three-piece suit, and his vibrant striped necktie looks suspiciously familiar.

The third of their party, whose long robes and good looks suggest Chinese, detaches himself from the group and extends an aged hand.

Mr. Roth. It’s a pleasure to meet you. We shake hands. My name is Kong Qiu; thank you for welcoming me into your home.

His hand is warm and kind, and I find myself smiling despite my usual reticence with newcomers. It’s my pleasure, Mr. Kong. I indicate Max and King as they head through to the kitchen, presumably to check in on the food I can smell cooking. Are you a diplomat, like Mr. King?

He nods and offers a crookedly cryptic smile. I am an ambassador, of sorts, yes. In my home land, I am known as Kong Fuzi, he frowns momentarily, by those with a far too-high opinion of me.

Humility is endless, I say, pulling the phrase from somewhere; it sounds awkward and pretentious. I scratch my head, searching for conversation at my greying roots. His name sounds familiar; has he been in the news? Kong Fuzi? Does that mean Master Kong? Nope, that still sounds awkward, however correct it is. But the Oriental nods, amused, and the klonky moment passes.

Quite so.

So, how do you come to be here with Max and King today? King doesn’t bring many guests home. I consider why this is, and add thoughtfully, He’s something of a loose cannon in the diplomatic world, I’m told.

Kong nods and checks we are alone.

If I am walking with two other men, each of them will serve as my teacher. He moves to the lounge door and closes it before continuing in a lower tone, I will pick out the good points of the one and imitate them, and the bad points of the other and correct them in myself. He smiles warmly, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

I smile, remembering the phrase. I learned it at my grandmother’s Juno’s knee. She was something of a diplomat to China, and a very wise lady.

That's Confucius. No intellectual self-aggrandisement is intended. Okay, perhaps a little educational vanity is showing. I receive a small nod of acknowledgement. Keen to move along, I indicate the generally untidy state of the lounge. I wish I’d known you were all coming, I’d have straightened the place up a bit.

This received a quiet shake of the head. This feels like a home, Mr. Roth, he shrugs reflectively, Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.

More Confucianism. Curious. Again, his name nags at me.

But there is no time to think. The lounge doors bursts open, and an ebullient Max fills the space.

Dinner. Is. Served!

I wave our philosophical guest through ahead of me, and we enter a dining room that is bursting with delicious smells. The table groans with dishes and lidded wicker containers. It looks amazing, though I note that all of the food is Chinese. And vegetarian.

My tummy grumbles it's hunger and disappointment.

Well, this all looks magnificent, I say, scratching my ear reflectively, but I kind’ve had my heart set on a big meaty pizza tonight.

Kong Fuzi chuckles kindly, and slaps me on the back. You’re a schmuck, Roth.

My self-effacing laughter joins his. Did Confucius say that, too?

His eyes catch mine in flight, and hold them easily. He leans closer, the same mischievous smile playing about his lips.

You bet your ass I did.

Max brings the best folks home for dinner.

And sometimes, they come a very long way.

Indigo

Saturday, February 23, 2013

A Frozen Game Of Patience

Well, in stark contrast to this busy-but-wonderful week, I’ve had a lazy-ish day today; family, friends, coffee, good food. And kindness.

I feel spiritually renewed, but sleepy.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge during February.

She’s a kind lady, is Nicky. Crazy as a sack of badgers, but kind.

Last night, I had the strangest dream.

I remember very little about it, other than its end.

The room is dark. I am sitting in a pool of bright light at a wide, wooden table. Its ends melt into the gloom on either side of me. If I rolled a marble to left or right, I would never hear it drop.

My hands rest on the cool wood. Close by, playing cards are frozen in a broken game of Patience.

I have been waiting.

Not long now. They will arrive soon.

And then, slowly emerging from the darkness to the border of the light, they come. Four of them.

A lion, a bear, a badger and a man.

They look at me across the table, uncertain why I am here.

We dreamed you, says the lion. He is golden, imperious.

We dreamed you, says the bear. He is tall, black, deep.

We dreamed you, says the man. I know him.

The badger nods silently. He is coarse, rough, ready.

I don’t understand, I say. Is this the final scene?

The badger leans forward and shakes his bristly head. His voice is cool and clear when it comes, but there is thunder chasing at its heels.

We dreamed you, he says.

We dreamed you so that you would write us.

Indigo

Friday, February 22, 2013

Hanging By A Thread

I tell you what, February is wearing me out.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout this longer-than-it-should-be month.

So, I’ve been running myself ragged. And yes, I know - we've all made sacrifices.

The house is untidy, the squiddrel needs feeding, and - as my mother often observed - there’s not a badger in the house washed.

I'll put some coffee on... EolistBlend, anyone?

The craving burns in him.

He sits in the dim room, cursing the dazzling blades of sunlight that are slicing through the cracks in the curtains, the carpet, his brain. He did too much last night, pushed his body far more than is healthy.

He’s addicted. This need, this compulsion, drives him. He used to survive on one fix a week, but as his appetite increased, so did his need. He feels so weak, so lost, in the indescribable sensations it provides.

The phone lies in his lap, his twitching fingers remembering the call to his supplier.

Anticipating.

The merchandise will be here fast, but not fast enough.

The craving burns in him.

His friends have gone, his money is vanishing fast, and his job hangs by a thread. He always told himself he could handle it, that he would always be the one making the decisions. He would be in charge of his habit.

But he needs it. It has him.

His eyes close, this damned sluggishness claiming him for a few minutes peace. Cold sweat on his brow, his fever consuming him.

The doorbell rings. Finally! His heart sings! Cash gripped in his damp hand, he compulsively stumbles from his threadbare armchair, and lurches to the front door to receive the delivery... an extra large, stuffed-crust meaty pizza with extra sauce, mushrooms and jalapeños.

The craving burns in him.

He really needs to get some Alka Seltzer.

Indigo

Thursday, February 21, 2013

The Ruin Of Their Lives

I was a bad lad yesterday, and posted nothing.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout February.

I am unrepentant.

Tho I did publish The Other Shoe earlier today.

That’s right; I’m bad.

The city was burning.

Though it was night, the sky was lit from the mouth of hell, and the screams of the dying hung desperately to its edge.

Behind her in the ruin of their lives together, her husband and children were gone, lost to this senseless war.

Ahead, the railway line ushered her into the darkness of an unknown future.

This was the last train out of the city, and she was on it.

Indigo

Lost In Heavenly Friction

Well, I suppose I have to write something today.

I can’t just post a picture of shoes. Not even Nicky’s pretty pink ones.

You remember Nicky, right? Her and CheesyMike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout February.

So I’d best write something. No pictures of shoes.

They really are very pretty, mind.

Friends keep me sane.

Their actual efficacy in this respect is debatable I’m told, but for me, it’s a fact to say that without them, I’d be a wreck.

For example, take Max. We’ve been friends since we attended St. Mungo’s Boarding School back in the Seventies, and he’s been a rock in all that time. And occasionally a tree. And sometimes the Pope; that was an odd fortnight. But mostly, he’s been a rock.

I knock quietly on Abbey’s open back door and with a brief halloo, I enter her kitchen. I always marvel; as neighbours, we have identical houses, but they couldn’t be more different. Take this kitchen; it’s a neat and scrupulously clean affair, with dazzling work surfaces, immaculate appliances, and vibrant fresh flowers standing on a gingham-clothed table.

Mine is a little more relaxed and male, even when I have company.

I’ve not seen Abbey for a day or two, and I’m just checking in, making sure she’s okay; it’s what friends do. And I’m relieved to hear bright laughter coming from inside the house, and again I offer up a shout of welcome.

The laughter stops, and I hear a clear, happy voice.

Through here, Indigo!

It’s Abbey. I smile. I’ve only known her for a couple of years, but my neighbour and I have become close friends. She’s like a sister somehow, a warm and supporting presence under any circumstances. In return, she seems to enjoy being my neighbour, and will drop by for tea (and bring home-made savouries and cake) most days. It’s lovely.

I follow the signature scent on sunflowers through to the front room, and peep round the door.

Abbey is there, sitting on her pretty floral sofa. Again, I’m struck by how lovely her own version of our front room is. But only momentarily; she has company. My neighbour, freshly blonde, is fussing the ears of a magnificent Siberian tiger who sits like a big happy dog on her bare feet. His back leg and tail twitch appreciatively.

Sitting next to her on the sofa, gently stroking the back of the tiger is a pretty brunette with a thoughtful, inward smile. Her dark hair tumbles loosely, almost touching her knees as she bends to fuss the big cat.

It’s Ziva. I smile. I’ve only known her for six months, but it seems like longer. She’s strong and determined and focused, and a source of encouragement and kicks in the arse when I need one. In return, she seems to like my stupid jokes, occasional words of wisdom and, as my literary agent and occasional muse, she seems to like my writing.

I had no idea the two of them knew each other.

Somehow this makes me nervous.

Indigo! they chorus and laugh, waving. Their hands touch briefly, and they exchange a smile.

Hey Abbey. Hey Z. I say, my smile a little crazed. The tiger looks up at me, expectantly. And hey, to…

This is Tiger, he's with me. says Ziva. It's a statement, not an explanation; it doesn't invite further questions.

He’s so beautiful, cooes Abbey, and on cue, the big cat rolls onto his back and offer his tummy, hopefully; my neighbour does not disappoint him.

Well, this is a nice surprise, I say, uncertain; I hope it doesn’t show. I had no idea you two knew each other. Nope, I definitely sound worried.

Abbey smiles warmly. Ziva dropped by to introduce herself as she was in the neighbourhood, but you were out.

Out? I’ve not been out today.

Yes, I dropped by after lunch yesterday, says Ziva, as insightful as ever, I would have headed home after coffee, but I was having such a lovely time getting to know Abbey, she touches Abbey’s knee, and then that charming Mr. King came home from the Embassy and insisted on taking us out for dinner.

He’s sweet that way, a real gentleman, interjects Abbey, appreciatively. She’s soft on the lion; they’ve dated on and off for some time now.

You’re not kidding, whispers Ziva, and he’s so handsome!

That gorgeous mane!

And that beautiful silk tie!

Well, it was probably one of Indigo’s.

Yeah, Roth always looks so smart in them, but King? she cracks a mischievous smile, Yum! You know? The pair laugh like old friends, not-quite-oblivious to me.

Oh good grief, big cats will be the death of me.

I cough politely.

Tiger rolls again, lost in heavenly friction.

Friends like Abbey and Ziva keep me sane.

As individuals, I feel so lucky to know them both. So much so, that I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And as I see them together, I’m pretty sure I just heard it.

Indigo