Immunity, Teardrops, An Englishman Walks

Well hello there.

I’ll start with a quick bit of self promotion, and get it out of the way. In the past month or so, I’ve gone from co-running Improvised Comedy workshops and putting on the occasional show, to running a theatre company (B.I.G. – Barcelona Improv Group), organising regular shows, venues, promotion, weekends away, creating a website, AND running Improvised Comedy workshops.

The website is here: www.barcelonaimprovgroup.com , and it’s not finished… but it’s getting there. I’m making a little progress every day.

I spent the afternoon on a train to Sabadell to visit a friend (but let’s call her my financial advisor to make it sound more professional), so I got some bits of flash fiction done, and a haiku, and the themes of each one neatly flows into the next… sort of. So I’ll post them in the order of construction. Don’t be too critical – it’s the first time I’ve really gotten much done in all of hot, sweaty August. My brain doesn’t seem to cope well with the heat.

The first is heavily based on something I wrote once before – I apologise if I posted that, and am now repeating.

Immunity

He’d insisted: “When my son is born, we’re not feeding him that medication every day. What if he spits it up? It’s impractical. We’ll give him the injections – he won’t remember the pain.”
Twenty-four hours after the birth, when the nurse entered with the needle, he tried to leave, but his wife held his hand.
Five minutes later, the father emerged clasping his once-again quiet child. “Your first tears,” he whispered, “I caused your first tears in this world.” And he wept.

Teardrops

He stared at the train window; at the rivulets of rain that ran down the glass, gathering weight from the flecks as it fell. His grandmother slept in the opposite seat, her day smile washed off, leaving an exhausted sadness. Her reflection in the glass was half gone, and raindrop tears ran down her face.

a

An Englishman walks
with head held high in drizzle
and doesn’t get wet

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Eloy

Hello. Won’t go on about the failure of November – suffice it to say the story was like bile congealed into words. I should’ve chosen something much more fun and easygoing as my subject.

November’s a silly month to do this kind of thing anyway. As a result, I’m going to do a self-imposed NaNoWriMo in February. I still have all the encouraging emails that famous authors send out to get you to keep writing. And I didn’t open them. So I’ll open them all in February in the appropriate weeks, and let’s see if I can write a fun and trashy comedy about “Persuasion and Pirates“. Or something.

So. I’ve got a godson! I don’t have any decent photos of him yet, but I’ll get some soon.  He’s the son of my friends Claire and Paulo. I met Claire on my first day in Spain, and Paulo soon after, and we’ve been friends ever since. It’s kind of an unofficial godfatherhood, as they’re not getting Eloy baptised, but I still have the title. Went to see him in hospital when he was less than a day old, the teeny cutey, and came home and wrote this sickly sweet poem, and promptly sent it off to Paulo, who read it to Claire, and she cried, so it reached its target audience. With that in mind, I don’t care if you guys think it’s crap. Although I think the last verse is pretty shoddy.

Me and Eloy

Life

It starts in the soul
(though some disagree),
this brimming and bubbling
feeling of glee.

It climbs up the throat
and reaches your lips,
grabs hold of each corner
and pulls to the tips,

spins up through your brain
and out of your top
and down to your toes
you think it won’t stop

’til all of you’s filled
with a powerful glow
of feeling so strong
it will soon overflow –

a baby is born,
and with this new life,
new life smiles within
both you and your wife.