Sitting quietly alone in the corner (sample)

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An imaginative, yet uncelebrated, writer, Martin Friel possesses the ability to convey vivid introspection from his well-crafted characters, which we can readily identify with – perhaps, a little too easily. His stories contain a subtle wit, calming language, but include emotions that swallow the reader into a world of thought-provoking situations.

The themes of isolation and loneliness (even within a group) dominate Martin’s writing and places character after character with dilemmas and circumstances they’re not used to confronting: primarily, dealing with themselves. Martin’s narratives offer an often-humorous insight to singletons at play, and presents their struggles, delights and reasons for living in a manner that yearns for sympathy. But as well as being alone, his descriptive settings for the scenes in which his characters envelop their lives, brings their realities home so much more, and in fine detail.

Look out for more stories by Martin Friel and other authors in the

anthology, Crazy, sexy and cool-er? – featuring 16 exciting short

stories of exuberant imagination – at blankscreenbooks.co.uk

Ever wondered what that guy sitting in corner is up to? It might be something you’d rather read about than to experience with your own eyes. Take a moment to examine the wondrous tales of pain, pleasure and passion – all from the perspectives of people simply sitting there quietly alone in the corner…

UK £2.99FictionA Blank Screen Publishing Publication

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in th

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... Sitting quietly alone in the corner...

An A

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ology: with

Martin

Friel and oth

ersSitting quietly alone in the corner...

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An Anthology:

with stories by

Martin Frieland others

For more books and information, go to: blankscreenbooks.co.uk

For people who haven’t found their way, but are on the right path.

Keep walking...

© Copyright 2010 Martin Friel;

Stephen Armson; Pearse Macintyre; Patris Gordon

The rights of Martin Friel;

Stephen Armson; Pearse Macintyre; Patris Gordon to be identified

as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and

Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this

publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph

of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted

or saved without written permission or in accordance with the

provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person

who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be

liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

Printed in the United Kingdom

Published by Blank Screen Publishing

blankscreenbooks.co.uk

E-mail: [email protected]

ALSO FROM BLANK SCREEN PUBLISHING

Life without Mirrors by Patris Gordon

Crazy, sexy and cool-er? (An anthology)

The Art Family by Jodie Rudge & Patris Gordon

Introduction by Martin Friel 3

House Guest by Martin Friel 5

Tomorrow by Martin Friel 12

Morning, Love by Patris Gordon 20

The Summer Months by Martin Friel 27

As good as it gets by Martin Friel 30

Waiting by Martin Friel 33

Wootton Mount Wind by Stephen Armson 40

£105 for a used pair of pants by Martin Friel 55

My lover doesn’t know me by Martin Friel 61

Nothing had changed, but everything had by Martin Friel 65

The child in childhood by Martin Friel 68

Temping by Pearse Macintyre 71 James Passed On Pasta by Pearse Macintyre 73

What you think ain’t right by Martin Friel 74

It’s a mystery to me by Martin Friel 78

It had been a good night by Martin Friel 80

Contents

Introductionby Martin Friel

It was only when I was asked to write this introduction, I realised I’d never been asked why I wrote stories before, and I couldn’t really come up with an answer.

The initial and pretentious thought was that writing acted as a form of exorcism – a ‘get it down on the page and out of the head’, sort of thing. But then I heard Nietzsche had said something similar so I quickly discarded that theory as wank.

So I thought about it properly, and I came to this (no less pretentious) conclusion: it’s a nice feeling to look back on a story I have just written, with characters living fictional lives in fictional areas doing fictional things. They didn’t exist before I created them – I have given them life and there is great satisfaction in doing that. Let’s face it, as a man I’m never going to give birth so this is the closest I can get to some form of creation.

But I could experience all that (creation) without ever showing them to anyone – the stories could stay in a drawer or on a computer’s hard drive forever and never see the light of day.

But why publish them? That question also got me thinking, and half of the reason I write is something we know as ‘ego’. I want people to tell me they like my creations in much the same way, I suppose, that mothers like their children to be fussed over.

So deep down I’m an egotist with birth envy. That’s why I write.But really, you needn’t bother with all that philosophical babble.

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Sitting quietly alone in the corner...

The mother in me hopes you will like my little creations and treat them well for they are no longer under my protection – they are out there on their own and like any mother, no matter how old they are, I still worry about them. Thanks.

Martin

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House Guestby Martin Friel

Some see isolation as a virtue – an environment where they can just be, contemplate and remove themselves from the chaos of modern life. Not me. You can only have so much

isolation before it becomes debilitating. I’ve had too much of it. Just like the alcoholic or the junkie, when you have too much of what you thrive on, you become dependent on it and with that dependence comes a feverish control on your life.

I’ve had enough of it. Tired of sitting in pubs on my own. Tired of eating dinner alone. Tired of going to bed alone. But when you have spent so much time alone, you forget how to interact with the others – they don’t understand you and you don’t understand them and so a cycle of intense loneliness occurs. I now craved that interaction with others. I needed it.

Before I wanted to be left alone and left to my own devices, but I now wanted to feel the presence of others; feel their warmth and their understanding. Was I too far gone for that? But it seemed there was light at the end of the tunnel after all as I had finally found a friend. He may have taken some persuading but Richard finally came round and was willing to share his life with me.

Ah, Richard. My friend, my best friend, my only friend. I was forced to make this one work as the prospect of perpetual loneliness was just too much to accept. A lifetime of furtive encounters was

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too depressing to even contemplate – I wanted interaction and I wanted it to be permanent. No longer would I be sated by brief encounters where satisfaction was guaranteed by a fleeting moment only to be followed by the shame of the lonely and the desperate. I wanted my slice of real life and if I had to take it, I would – at any cost.

I met this Richard, this saviour, by accident. Sitting in my local, alone, as I always did, I was confronted by the individual that was destined to fill my emotional and, ultimately, physical void.

“Quiet,” he said as he sat opposite me.I ignored it at first, wincing, not used to people making the first

contact.“Is it usually so quiet in here?” he asked.There was no way I could ignore him. Taking a breath, I looked

up and saw Richard sitting before me – sallow, crop-haired and smiling. I tried to figure out what was wrong with him. Was he simple? No, he looked all there. Was he on the make? He didn’t appear to be the hustling type. I know that narrow-eyed, shifty type and he just didn’t fit the bill.

But what was it? What did he want? I couldn’t figure it out so I ran with it, I ran with him.

“Not bad for a Tuesday night,” I said, without emotion.“Bit shit though, isn’t it?” he asked.I was shocked at this. Who the fuck was this guy to come in to

my pub and talk it down like it was some kind of spit and sawdust joint? A large chunk of my life revolved around this place and this guy behaved like he could just stroll in and talk shit about it.

“Well, there’s worse around here and if you don’t like it then perhaps you should move on?” I said with what I hoped was venom.

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He looked startled. I felt good inside – I had stopped him in his tracks, the ignorant bastard.

“Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.I gave him the dirtiest look I could muster.“Listen,” he said. “I’ve just got a horrible habit of speaking my

mind. It gets me in all kinds of shit. Let’s start again. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I studied him for a second, unsure of how to respond. First, he had been a bit of a prick. Second, I just wasn’t sure how to respond, all part of my problem.

“Fine. Let’s just forget it,” I answered, returning to my pint and paper.

There was silence for a couple of minutes and then he piped up again: “So, what do you do?”

I put down my paper with an exaggerated sigh. “I work in research accumulation,” I replied.

“Call centre,” he said casually.I thought about contesting this but he was right. Essentially, I did

work in a call centre – market research – and I told him so.“Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “We all got to pay the rent.”

He explained that he was a postman, not his dream job but it got him by.

“It’s what we do with the rest of our lives that counts,” he said with some authority.

I was starting to warm to this man.He drained his glass. “You fancy another?” he asked.I was a bit taken aback but through my awkwardness, I muttered

an affirmative.It carried on like this for the rest of the night. We bought each

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other drinks, chatted, argued and then came back together again. I couldn’t believe it. Every time he went to the toilet or out for a cigarette, I assumed he wouldn’t come back but return he did. I couldn’t believe what was happening – I was actually conversing with, integrating with and indulging another human. I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right but he kept coming back throughout the night. I thought best not to ask too many questions and just roll with it as this was the best and most fruitful human contact I had had for years.

This miracle continued until the interfering cow behind the bar called time. I was crushed. I really didn’t want this to end; I didn’t want my time with Richard to end, ever.

To my utter surprise and delight, Richard said that he had nothing on the next day and suggested we get some beer and continue drinking.

“No can do at my flat,” he said, “but how about yours?”I was about to reply immediately “Yes!” but then I thought about

the state of my flat. No one but me had been there for about three years and I couldn’t remember what a clean flat should look like.

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” I said, “but it’s probably really messy.”“I’m sure it’s fine. Look, it’s not the décor I am after,” he

whispered.We got a taxi and headed back to mine via the off licence where

we picked up a bottle of cheap rum and equally cheaper Coke. I had a feeling that everything about this night was going to be cheap but we got back to the house and Richard settled down and put on some music while I mixed the drinks. I mixed them strong.

We chatted through the music, the drinks and the night. I was revelling in this but as the night wore on, I started to feel low. I

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got more drunk and I realised Richard would eventually leave and I would be left here once again, alone. Things started to get foggy around this point but I remembered Richard getting up to leave and I think there was an argument but that’s about it. Everything else was guesswork.

Regardless of the details, it was three weeks after the fact and Richard was still here – he’d never left.

I was leaving another soul-destroying day at work behind but there were certain forces working in my favour. It was Friday, I’d been paid and I was going to see Richard. I had an unfamiliar feeling within me; I was almost happy, light-hearted and light-footed. It was easy to understand this, though: Richard – he had changed everything. He had changed my life. I could think only of him as the train pulsed through the subterranean bloodlines of the city, taking me homeward; taking me home to Richard.

The first person I saw when I walked through the door of my house was Miss McPherson. Miss, not Mrs. Never make that mistake. She acted as an unofficial warden for the building, putting her nose into everybody else’s business under the guise of serving the community. Her pinched features always put me on the defensive.

“Evening, Dennis. Have you done anything about that smell yet?” she wheezed.

She had been at me about this ‘smell’ for about a week now.“No, but I have all weekend to figure it out, Miss McPherson. It’s

probably a dead pigeon in the loft,” I assured her.She gave me a look that said she had no faith in me or my

abilities to get to the root of the ‘problem’. I ignored that and moved on upstairs as she watched me through the crack of her

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door. I couldn’t give a shit about her – all I could think about was Richard and what we would do tonight.

When I got back into my little sanctuary, there was no sign of him but I knew he was in the flat – I could feel his presence. I played the game for a couple of minutes, calling his name as I wandered around the house. I knew there would be no response but I enjoyed the charade. Eventually, satiated, I went through to the living room and threw my suit jacket on the couch. I took my trousers off, too but kept my vest and pants on.

The first board was always the hardest to lift but once I got that up, the rest usually followed. Once I had removed three of the floorboards, I looked down and using my lighter, I could just make out his form. Richard was still there! I was surprised by my own surprise. Where did I think he would go? All the same, it was always great to see him where he belonged.

I hadn’t seen him for a week and this was always the hard part – the reintroduction. I grabbed his ankles and dragged him through the gap. Although I was half expecting it, I was still shocked to see the maggots that had made their home in and on him. I brushed off as many as I could and pulled him through to the bathroom where I rolled him into the bath. I ran the water and let the heat and soap remove the dirt and, I wished, the decay from his skin.

Once I had given him a good clean, all over, I pulled Richard out of the drained bath and dried him off. I went to the bedroom and took a clean set of pants and vest, straight from the packet, dressed him and sat him down on the couch next to me and got prepared for an evening of television.

He hadn’t touched any of his dinner but I wasn’t too upset, under the circumstances. I was just glad to be with him and that he was

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happy to be with me. Once dinner was finished, we settled down to some reality television as the darkness gathered around us and our minds. Reality television. There was something ironic in that but it was my reality.

During the adverts I looked over at Richard ready to adore him but I was stopped in my tracks. His right cheek was sagging. Not sagging like an old woman but slipping off its frame. This hit me like a ton of bricks – it brought the reality of my situation home. Richard may have been with me but he was never truly with me. This was a mirage or maybe an illusion, one I had enjoyed while it lasted but the reality of it hit me in the guts.

I heard a knock at the door. I ignored it, mesmerised by Richard’s face and his now-obvious decline. I clambered on to his body. He slipped down the couch but I got off, repositioned him and then, got back on. I held him tight and moved his cold, clammy head next to my own.

Holding him and ignoring his smell, I understood that the end was drawing near. It was the height of summer and all things were subject to natural cycles, even Richard. I felt a cold fluid seep on to my cheek but I embraced it and continued to hold and caress him.

“It may not be right but it feels right to me,” I whispered in his ear as we rocked back and forth beneath the unnatural, flickering light of the television. Despite the smell, I thought quietly how lucky I was to have found a friend like Richard.

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Sitting quietly alone in the corner (sample)

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