Writing

Truth Wizard, monologue performed by Rachel Denning, The Nell of Old Drury, 3–5 October 2011

I’ve always been good with people. Okay – ha ha. Not good with people. But… good judge of character; I can tell if someone’s messing or trying to rip me off. People say it’s a gift – turns out it is. This is how it went – just me in a bare white room, sat at a desk, looking at videos of people talking. One question. Are they lying: yes or no? On the telly with music and people speaking over it looks like it only took five minutes but it were well over two hours and colder than a witches’ tit in there – just me hitting that button, yes or no. When they let me out I could tell they were excited. Ha ha, they tried to play it cool but they forgot the whole point of me was I’d know.

The Valuta Bar, April 2011

HARRY: Does he know you’re here?

ANNA: Who?

HARRY: Viktor.

ANNA: Well… He’s not… No.

HARRY: Because you coming like this, charming though it is to meet you, begs the question why not ask Daddy? He ever tell you why he left Poland?

ANNA: No, not as… But I’ve read about things back then. How it was under the Iron Curtain. I think maybe he spoke out or… something.

HARRY: Your father the hero.

ANNA: He’s never come out and said but… it would be so like him. He’s so brave.

HARRY: Really?

ANNA: I mean you must know. You knew him…

HARRY: Alas, I was never privileged to see Viktor’s heroism in action.

ANNA: The thing is. Dad’s not well. Really not well. Hospice now. They say days.

HARRY: I’d say less.

ANNA: He keeps calling out in Polish and I don’t really… He never… There’s a name. Jolanta. Over and over and over. Jolanta. I thought if I knew who… I just want to help… So he can find… Peace.

HARRY: And of course you’re a disinterested party.

ANNA: Do you know who she is? Because if not I’ll stop wasting your evening and go be with my father.

HARRY: Patience! First let’s discuss my fee.

Snakes and Apples, published in Mslexia, April 2007.

I sometimes think that keeping a garden must be the greatest gift you can ever give your future self. And the greatest act of faith.

It’s November now; there was a hard frost this morning and when I went outside the grass crackled and broke beneath my boots like spun sugar. The earth clawed at my fork and the cold bruised my hands as I packed the ground with bulbs.

All I see now is black earth and dead leaves. I have to imagine the first green shoots nudging the soil aside in February, that sudden shift when winter seems to loosen.

But I’ll never see it. I don’t even now who will.

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Astronomy for Beginners, published in The New Writer, November/December 2006

It’s been 11 days now. Nobody says it yet, but they think she’s already dead.

At first it was just a short news story tucked away at the end of the programme. I would have missed it if it weren’t for the photograph, a slightly blurred picture, her face in profile. I recognized it immediately, with that heightened awareness one has for something already seen.

Mr Hitchcock Blonde, published in Litro, no.29, November 2006.

Hugo wakes with a kick and a gasp, his blood thudding. Vapour trails of a dream thread through his mind but dissolve before he can catch the taste. Outside a breeze shivers through the branches of the cherry tree. Beside him Eve’sbreath is soft and serene, untold sights fluttering behind her closed eyes. Hugo inhales and holds the air down for a slow count before breathing out, then sneaks another look at Eve to check that she is really asleep: she has not moved.

Under the duvet Hugo curls the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist until the bones grate together. Now his fingers are digging into the softer flesh, pushing past the tendons. He feels a pulse fluttering wildly.

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