Alt. life:

What’s going on here then?

Good question… I’m afraid I’ve never been altogether sure! Broadly speaking, I’m not one for standing still and change isn’t something that particularly bothers me – consequently I feel that my blog should reflect that and be capable of accommodating a degree of diversity and change.

This page is an attempt to capture that feeling. It’s very much experimental and isn’t terribly structured or formulaic I’m afraid – think of it as a sort of scrapbook. You will find it a little grubby and unwashed behind the ears at times.

What goes here? – Stuff that doesn’t fit so easily within the main bloggage… writing that’s unrelated to sl or, for that matter, rl – perhaps a touch of rampant fiction.  Short stories, maybe even just random notes intended to provoke the imagination – often a little more edgy or darker than what you might be used to from the everyday sweet and innocent me. 

The truth is, this is an unstructured and evolving space that will change on a whim, and if you like it, hate it or want to add your own critique, thoughts or observations, please feel free.

Only the most recent addition will feature on this page. To see previous works, please visit the Alt. life: Archive page.

Seren. x

altlife

04 December 2022

What’s going on here then?

Good question… I’m afraid I’ve never been altogether sure! Broadly speaking, I’m not one for standing still and change isn’t something that particularly bothers me – consequently I feel that my blog should reflect that and be capable of accommodating a degree of diversity and change.

This page is an attempt to capture that feeling. It’s very much experimental and isn’t terribly structured or formulaic I’m afraid – think of it as a sort of scrapbook. You will find it a little grubby and unwashed behind the ears at times.

What goes here? – Stuff that doesn’t fit so easily within the main bloggage… writing that’s unrelated to sl or, for that matter, rl – perhaps a touch of rampant fiction.  Short stories, maybe even just random notes intended to provoke the imagination – often a little more edgy or darker than what you might be used to from the everyday sweet and innocent me. 

The truth is, this is an unstructured and evolving space that will change on a whim, and if you like it, hate it or want to add your own critique, thoughts or observations, please feel free.

Only the most recent addition will feature on this page. To see previous works, please visit the Alt. life: Archive page.

Seren. x

altlife

04 December 2022

He comes knocking at least once a week, sometimes more. Death, that is.

Always the same question, “Is Jack in?”

And, for some reason, he never is.

“No, he’s out on a job”, or “he’s gone off fishing with his mates for the day”, “Down the pub”, or “You just missed him, he’s gone out to do the shopping. Why don’t you come in for a cuppa and wait for him to get back, although he might be a while, you know what those queues are like down Lidl’s!”

Maybe he doesn’t – I don’t know where Death would do his shopping, Waitrose probably.

Then he gives me that irritated, frustrated look; well I think that’s what it is, hard to tell when it’s just an empty skull, but he comes across as irritated and frustrated. Then he pulls out his pocket watch, big, old-fashioned thing, and shakes his head. “I can’t stop, on a tight schedule”. I guess he’s like those delivery drivers: So busy he has to pee in a bottle ‘cause he doesn’t have time to stop.

Does Death ever have to pee? I don’t even know if he has the equipment! Maybe I’ll ask him next time, or do you think that’ll come across as a bit rude and personal, like when I asked the girl who delivers the post about her sex life? Wasn’t appreciated!

So instead, I generally ask if he wants me to tell Jack he called, and he always says “No!” in that deep, sombre voice of his. He’d be good doing those charity water ads on the telly, perfect voice for it: Can just hear him now, “Anish has to walk 20 miles every day to drink from a puddle”. Yeah, he’d be good at that.

Anyway, off he goes until next time – wish the Jehovah’s were as easy to get shot of! – And when Jack gets back, I always tell him anyway. I figure if Death doesn’t ever seem know when Jack’s going to be home, he’s not going to know if I’ve been spilling the beans that he’s been calling again. Stands to reason.

He does try to catch us out sometimes. Turning up late at night, knocking on the front door. We just ignore him and turn the telly up – I mean, anyone knocking on your door that time of night is going to be up to no good, or the cops – but I do know, the cops do raids in the morning, when you’re still in bed, with their Big Red Key and loads of shouting, that’s what the Interceptors on TV do anyway. Besides, we’re not growing cannabis in the attic or anything, so it’s not going to be the cops. I suppose it could be Amazon, but not anymore, we go to the dropbox now, ‘cause we were never in when they tried to deliver, and Mrs Jones next door always swore blind they never left our parcels with her. We don’t speak to her anymore!

So, late night knocking is going to be Death, and he can bugger off that time of night, come around at a reasonable time, like normal folk, instead. He never tries it in the morning, which is a shame, ‘cause Jack’s always in, first-thing. It’s probably because he’s been up half the night, keeping us up late, hammering on our door! Serves him right.

I don’t know what Death wants with Jack, perhaps he needs some building work done, or a garden clearing, but if that’s the case, why so persistent? It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of odd-job men around that he can pester instead. Jack swears he doesn’t owe him money or anything, so it can’t be that. I did think maybe he’s an old mate of Jack’s from school, but Jack says no, and besides, looking at the state of the guy, I can’t imagine them being in the same year together, or even in the same century! Or maybe, he’s just had a hard life.

Mrs Jones, next door, is a right old curtain-twitcher, always checking out who’s calling; and back when we were still talking to her she told us that Death was a wrong-un, always poking around in other people’s business and causing them grief. She said he was best avoided and was bad news – Just look at what happened to her Terry, she said; and on the same day Death came calling for him. Well, I don’t know what she was on about, her Terry was a numpty: Thought it was a good idea to unclog the petrol mower while it was still running. Nasty. She had the lawn paved over with the life insurance money. Anyway, she warned us off him – Death, not Terry – not that I took much notice of her, interfering old witch!

Oddly enough, turns out she was a witch, a proper one. It was in the papers, and everything – ‘Coven in Suburbia’, was the headline in the local rag. Scandalous, it was; all that naked dancing under the full moon, in the back garden! Jack said he knew all about it, said he got a proper eyeful one night when he was closing the curtains… A full moon, for sure!

Anyhow, whatever she has to say about Death, we’re not that bothered. If the last few years have been anything to go by, he’s never going to catch Jack when he’s in, so whatever he’s about is just going to have to wait.

And, we’re both getting on a bit. Who knows? If doesn’t catch Jack in sometime soon, well, what with his dicky heart and everything…

Death might not get to see him, at all!

2 Responses to Alt. life:

  1. Carol H Tucker says:

    very poignant attempt to get into the mind that is wandering away….

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