This is what I wrote after I compiled that list and before I read my book in the pub
In the pub they played 16 horssepower and leonard cohen. woohoo!
The prodigal cowboy
The sad eyes of the gaudy Fiat Punto gazed on through the foggy dawn as he strode away. With a door left wide open, the car looked nervous.
He was not nervous. No worry lines had to fight for attention with the inner-city roadmap that was his face. He’d driven through the night and not seen a single car in the rear view mirror.
He mounted a mossy wall and stood erect, like a signpost. His eyes and lips tightened as he scrutinised the sluggish horizon, but he saw nothing but ash grey skies, soaking into the mouldy green hills like an amateur watercolour landscape. Only when he turned did he see what he had come for, and if it was not what he expected, he did not show it.
His boots hit the mud without a sound and he began pacing the tired grass, which, like everything else, was tarnished with that same charcoal dew. He stepped over the circular foundations of ancient walls, kicked at scabs of sickly lichen, and didn’t even notice the tourist information plaque.
“Looks like some freakin’ Aztec ruin, don’t it?” He hissed into a Dictaphone, which he cradled in his right hand.
Drawn like a magnet to the prospect view, he posed, hands on hips, inhaled the silence and surveyed the whole scene spread before him.
He nodded slowly.
“Must be… hundreds o’ years old,” he informed his right hand.
He scanned the perimeter of the outer wall, which contained the uneven grass and protruding growths of stony shapes.
“Bit… small though, ain’t it?” He added, quietly to himself.
At the heart of the settlement, hollow, repetitive clicks alerted him to the presence of water below. Going down into the ground, he found a stagnant puddle which the obliging drip had announced. He watched the tiny globe form and swell for a moment until the anticipation of its next move became laborious. As he crouched down to inspect the water, a tiny splash touched his toe. He filled a metallic flask with the dark liquid, and sealed it at once.
Around the corner he had to stoop to enter a dim chamber. A little natural light from a grill in the ceiling illuminated the room like a gas lamp. Around him was a dome of misshapen, dribbling, rocks. Opposite where he stood was a fireplace, or perhaps, he thought, an altar. The rocks on all sides seemed to be staring at him, waiting for his next move. He was beginning to raise a hand to his chest when, from the walls, a rattling sound shattered the musty peace of the room and with a sharp cry, he fell backwards.
Quick on the draw, his Dictaphone caught the dying flutter as the robin dipped the low doorway and left him there, arm raised accusingly, clutching the black plastic like a crucifix.
“What the hell am ah doin’ here?” He asked.
From somewhere above, the bobbing heads of fuchsias answered with dry, rustling laughter.
He was soon back in the car where the purr of the engine and the smell of rot welcomed him. He unscrewed the lid of the flask and frowned into a mirror, then set it aside suddenly, taking up his Dictaphone again.
“You know, mah ol’ Grandma said the fairies used t’ dance round circles o’ stone. She… She said they lahked nothin’ more than a good dance.”
Rain began to beat at the windows, leaving specks of black behind; gradually building itself up until static TV screens loomed around him. He placed the mirror on the dashboard and took out a small penknife. He whistled himself a cheery tune, and began to shave; a process which, given his weathered complexion and inadequate tools, always opened up old wounds.
The prodigal cowboy
The sad eyes of the gaudy Fiat Punto gazed on through the foggy dawn as he strode away. With a door left wide open, the car looked nervous.
He was not nervous. No worry lines had to fight for attention with the inner-city roadmap that was his face. He’d driven through the night and not seen a single car in the rear view mirror.
He mounted a mossy wall and stood erect, like a signpost. His eyes and lips tightened as he scrutinised the sluggish horizon, but he saw nothing but ash grey skies, soaking into the mouldy green hills like an amateur watercolour landscape. Only when he turned did he see what he had come for, and if it was not what he expected, he did not show it.
His boots hit the mud without a sound and he began pacing the tired grass, which, like everything else, was tarnished with that same charcoal dew. He stepped over the circular foundations of ancient walls, kicked at scabs of sickly lichen, and didn’t even notice the tourist information plaque.
“Looks like some freakin’ Aztec ruin, don’t it?” He hissed into a Dictaphone, which he cradled in his right hand.
Drawn like a magnet to the prospect view, he posed, hands on hips, inhaled the silence and surveyed the whole scene spread before him.
He nodded slowly.
“Must be… hundreds o’ years old,” he informed his right hand.
He scanned the perimeter of the outer wall, which contained the uneven grass and protruding growths of stony shapes.
“Bit… small though, ain’t it?” He added, quietly to himself.
At the heart of the settlement, hollow, repetitive clicks alerted him to the presence of water below. Going down into the ground, he found a stagnant puddle which the obliging drip had announced. He watched the tiny globe form and swell for a moment until the anticipation of its next move became laborious. As he crouched down to inspect the water, a tiny splash touched his toe. He filled a metallic flask with the dark liquid, and sealed it at once.
Around the corner he had to stoop to enter a dim chamber. A little natural light from a grill in the ceiling illuminated the room like a gas lamp. Around him was a dome of misshapen, dribbling, rocks. Opposite where he stood was a fireplace, or perhaps, he thought, an altar. The rocks on all sides seemed to be staring at him, waiting for his next move. He was beginning to raise a hand to his chest when, from the walls, a rattling sound shattered the musty peace of the room and with a sharp cry, he fell backwards.
Quick on the draw, his Dictaphone caught the dying flutter as the robin dipped the low doorway and left him there, arm raised accusingly, clutching the black plastic like a crucifix.
“What the hell am ah doin’ here?” He asked.
From somewhere above, the bobbing heads of fuchsias answered with dry, rustling laughter.
He was soon back in the car where the purr of the engine and the smell of rot welcomed him. He unscrewed the lid of the flask and frowned into a mirror, then set it aside suddenly, taking up his Dictaphone again.
“You know, mah ol’ Grandma said the fairies used t’ dance round circles o’ stone. She… She said they lahked nothin’ more than a good dance.”
Rain began to beat at the windows, leaving specks of black behind; gradually building itself up until static TV screens loomed around him. He placed the mirror on the dashboard and took out a small penknife. He whistled himself a cheery tune, and began to shave; a process which, given his weathered complexion and inadequate tools, always opened up old wounds.