Writing

Jamie’s Friend

I’m not very food at finishing stories, so I have a notebook full of started stories. Maybe one day i’ll finish one, but until then, here’s some scribblings I made a few days ago.

 

He wasn’t alone in the dark. He wasn’t really alone in the light of course, but it was different in the dark. His feeling of being constantly with somebody changed from one of content companionship, to the sickly hot dread that accompanied being followed home or being watched.

Jamie wasn’t an ordinary person, he had a friend who made his life a whole lot different to yours or mine. Jamie can’t see his friend, and neither you nor I would even be aware this friend was in the same room as us, but let there be no doubts about the existence of Jamie’s friend. It most definitely exists, which both as wonderful and fascinating as it is terrifying.

Now without having seen it, and only descriptions from third parties of the terrible and wonderful events of Jamie’s life, it would be almost impossible for me to describe Jamie’s friend to you without first telling you Jamie’s story. So here it is Jamie’s story, in print for the first time outside of a classified file.

 

Jamie never knew his parents, if you’d asked him who his parents were he would have told you about Jennifer and Marcus Armstrong, the couple unfortunate enough to love Jamie, but they were not his true parents, nobody knows who Jamie’s real parents are, and there has been a lot of speculation on how much they might have known about their son, or if they too had a similar experience in life.

The first anybody knows of Jamie was a baby found on the doorstop of the Steadleigh council building. Jamie was but a month old when a Janitor found him on his way out of work and called the social services. Nobody really knows what happened to that janitor, though a lot of rumours surround that  night a man stood outside the council building holding a baby, and was never really seen again.

Advertisements
Uncategorized

Indulgent Blogging

There’s this spot I sit in, when I’m waiting between jobs, where I sit, and just wait. It’s a good spot, practically, facing the river, a clearing in a stretch of restaurants and pubs on the river bank. A dozen wooden benches scattered about, direct view of the river, secluded from the street by a small block of flats. A small copse of trees to the left, and the lights and bustle of a beer garden to the right, the theatre a short minute away. But more than that, its beautiful. Beauty is many things to many people, the view of the river, long winding, bustling bridge and traffic and lights to my right, the calmer and darker footpath to the left. At the time of night and year that it was when I wrote this the water is deathly still, and deceptively reflective. The lights too are beautiful, the bridge to my right lit up with coloured floodlights, the shadows creeping up the supports, tips touching the road above. Directly in front of me, on the unlit river sits two or three houseboats, occasional lights flicker on as the occupants move around inside. The lights from the windows casting circles of twisted light on the rippled surface of the river. Also to my right is the many fairy lights strung the length of the walkway by the pub, lights so placed that they genuinely sparkle, creating an artificial warmth on this bitter cold November night. But to me the most beautiful part is the quiet, far away enough from the street to hear nothing but the occasional sound, the place is almost deserted, the pub garden has two men sitting the furthest part away from me, a couple or a lone walker passes by maybe once every few minutes, and each one has a story. A life, and motivations and feelings and a reason to be out walking in this cold dark night. That’s my beautiful.