The Alley

The old woman stands up.
‘Lets go for a walk,’ she says.
‘It looks like we are all headed for destruction,’ says Prochorus as they walk. ‘And I have to do something about that. Well, I could put it off, but if I keep doing that eventually I’ll run out of time, or I’ll just stop caring about it.’
‘Well, why don’t you just kill yourself and be done with the fear?’ says the old lady as they wait for the lights to change so they can cross the road.
‘Are you serious?’
The lights change and they begin to cross.
‘I’m not saying it would be a good idea to kill yourself. Just asking why you in particular don’t kill yourself, and not have to worry about it all.’
‘Because … um … I’m not sure that’d get me out of it.’
‘Mmm?’
‘I don’t think dying’s the end of it. It doesn’t seem right for it to end at that.’
‘Everything dies.’
‘I know. But if I died today, I wouldn’t know what would come next. And that bothers me.’
‘Hmm. So why aren’t you doing anything? Not doing anything about the problems isn’t much different to causing them. It might as well be the same thing.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ says Prochorus as he looks around. ‘Where are we? I don’t think I’ve seen this part of town before.’
They are in a narrow, stone-paved alleyway. Not a lot of light reaches their path. Rusted pipes stick out of the walls, as though attempting to obstruct their way. Water trickles from faults in the pipes, providing moisture for the moss and fungi that grow between the bricks and the paving stones.
‘We’re travelling,’ says the old lady as she ducks beneath a dripping pipe.
Prochorus follows her.
‘I think you know what to do,’ says the old lady. ‘You need to get away from that idea that you’re the most important person in the world; that you should do whatever feels best. You need to live for something better, the kind of life you were made for. You need to get back to your source.’
‘How?’
‘Follow the clues.’
‘What clues?’
‘You know the clues. You’ve been collecting them. In your book of clues and hints.’
‘Wha… How did you know I called it that?’
‘You wrote it on the front.’
‘Oh. Yeah. I did.’
‘Anyway, you need to keep heading towards the door.’
‘What door?’
‘You can’t see it yet, but there’s the clues. When you get to the door, use the intercom and you’ll get told what to do next. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be back later to see how you’re going. Goodbye, and fare well.’
‘How do I get out through?’ asked Prochorus.
The old lady is gone. The author has removed her.
Prochorus hurries along the alley, squeezing past pipes, ducking under cables and jumping over puddles.
Prochorus sees that there is a lot more light up ahead. It seems that the alley turns at a right angle. This new section of the alley seems considerably wider. Three figures stand at the turn. Annelida, Angryblocks and Disfriction. As Prochorus gets closer, he sees that behind his friends is a rather wide opening in the wall. It seems to go in the same direction that Prochorus has been travelling.
‘What are you all doing here?’ asks Prochorus. ‘Do yous want to come and find the door as well?’
‘The door?’ says Angryblocks.
‘We’ve come to take you back home,’ says Disfriction, gesturing round the corner, along the wider alley. ‘We’re worried about ya.’
‘That’s not the way I want to go,’ says Prochorus. ‘I’m not coming. Not yet. This is more important. Got to break the cycle. We might’ve been born into it, but it won’t make any difference if we just accept that. It just ends in death and misery. It’s turning the place into some sort of hell.’
‘So you think we should just give up on getting anywhere in the world?’ says Angryblocks.
‘If that’s how you want to see it, yeah. It must seem like I’m not looking for much, but I reckon it’ll be more worthwhile than what I was trying to get. Plus it’s actually attainable. And not just for me, for anyone.’
‘So what is it you’re trying to get?’ asks Annelida, narrowing her eyes.
‘I’m looking to use my life to work for stuff that won’t deteriorate or lose its value or have to be replaced. Stuff in the afterlife. Stuff that’ll last for ever.’
‘Where’d you hear about this stuff?’ asks Disfriction.
‘I looked for it. There’s clues everywhere. And I put them in my book.’
‘Clues?’
‘Yeah. In art and the news and ancient scriptures and feathers.’
‘Feathers?’ says Angryblocks. “What a waste of time. Give me that.’
‘No.’
‘So are ya coming back?’ asks Disfriction.
‘Not yet.’
‘Come on,’ says Angryblocks. ‘We’ll go back without him. We can’t help him unless he wants to be helped.’
‘What if… What if he’s right though?’ murmurs Annelida.
‘Are you serious? You want to follow this idiot? Come on, let’s go home.’
‘No,’ says Prochorus. ‘Come with me. Have a look at the book. Heaps of people have died so we can know about this and start reversing the destruction.’
‘Okay,’ says Annelida, biting her lip. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Lets go,’ Angryblocks says to Disfriction.
‘Um, nah. I’m gunna wait here for a while.’
Angryblocks storms off down the wider alley.


writing, novel, alley

The Next Bit

Prochorus is out walking the streets again. He looks through his notebook as he walks. There is a newspaper article about a park being bulldozed so office blocks could be built. There is a story he’s photocopied from a magazine about a bullying in primary schools. There are photos of stickers and posters, with slogans like ‘Kill your television’, ‘The truth will set you free’, ‘Make toast, not war’ and ‘Why are you buying your food from a tobacco company?’
He sits down at the same bench where he waits for the tram home from work.
The old lady is sitting there again. Maybe she never left?
‘Alright,’ he says. ‘I’ve had a good, long think about it. I think you’re right.’


writing, novel

The Start

Prochorus is sitting on a bench by the road. There’s a notebook in his lap. He’s waiting for a tram.
A heavy weight hangs between his shoulders and his soul. An anchor.
People hurry past Prochorus as he sits on the bench. But it doesn’t seem right to put it that way. He is surrounded by the people, the traffic, the cables strung overhead, the towers of images, the distant clouds. But all of it seems distant.
Prochorus looks through the notebook. It is his book of clues and hints. Things that have been niggling away at the back of his mind. Photographs, newspaper clippings, scribbled ideas, scraps of photocopied records. A feather. A map. A dry leaf.
He slumps.
‘What do I do?’
The old woman sitting next to Prochorus suggests several options. He does not find them particularly helpful.

Prochorus hasn’t planned to tell Annelida and Angryblocks about his botherment. But when they turn up for dinner he finds it hard keeping silent. As they eat he finds that keeping silent only gets him more bothered. They deserve to know.
He tells them.
‘I’m worried.’
Annelida’s eyes widen.
‘What about?’
Prochorus sighs.
‘Seems like the whole world’s … in this … cycle of destruction.’
Angryblocks raises his eyebrows.
‘What’re ya talkin’ about?’
‘Well… We’ve just been trying to get as much stuff as well can, whatever it takes, and when we get sick of something we just chuck it out or store it away somewhere in case we need it one day. We basically do whatever feels good for us, or whatever keeps us safe and comfortable for the moment. We send soldiers to other countries so they can blow each other up, and maybe get us a good deal on petrol. It’s a destructive cycle, and we’re all contributing to it! How long till all the stuff we need to live gets ruined or used up? There’s got to be some way of breaking the cycle.’
‘Ahh… finished?’ says Angryblocks.
‘Finished?’ says Prochorus. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
Annelida reaches across the dinner table and puts her hand on Prochorus’ wrist.
‘You shouldn’t get so worked up about it, mate.’
‘Beer, Prochorus?’ says Angryblocks.
‘Nah thanks,’ says Prochorus. ‘Not now.’
‘You’ll feel better. It’ll help ya not worry so much.’
‘Nah.’
Prochorus stares at the wall.
Annelida looks at her watch.
‘I gotta go.’
‘What time is it?’ asks Angryblocks.
‘Nine.’
‘Mmm. I’d better go too.’

Prochorus lies in bed. He is counting sheep, just as much to distract himself as to try and get to sleep.
‘Argh,’ he says.
He gets up out of bed. He finds his camera and puts it in his pocket. He leaves his apartment and takes the elevator up to the roof of his building.
He gets out of the elevator and walks out into the cold.
The air is still tonight. He can’t see the stars. The moon’s glow is barely visible behind the clouds.
Prochorus gets back into the elevator. The elevator takes him back down. He passes the floor he lives on. The elevator stops at the ground floor.
Prochorus gets out of the elevator. He heads through the lobby and back out into the cold.
He trudges through the streets of the city floor. There aren’t many people around. A taxi goes past every now and then.
After walking the streets for some time, Prochorus makes his way along between towering car-parks of Flintage Lane, toward Tubing Place. He peers around the corner into Tubing Place. The walls of tubing place are covered in layer upon layer of home-made stickers, monochrome posters with peeling corners, stencil art, felt-tip pen tags, aerosol murals, photocopied cut-outs of cartoon characters.
There is nobody in the lane. Prochorus ventures in. He takes out his camera. He is in his pyjamas.

Prochorus is back at his aparentment. He is at the computer, looking through the photos he as taken.
The photo shows part of a concert poster. In the margin of a the poster, someone has scribbled:

It’s not working
It’s a joke
We’ve all been tricked

Prochorus prints out this photo. He opens his notebook to the first empty page and writes the date at the top. He sticks the photo in with sticky tape.

It could be ten in the morning. Prochorus is in bed. He is almost asleep. His phone rings.
Prochorus says, ‘Argh.’
He opens his eyes. He reaches for his phone find it on top of the chest of drawers beside his bed.
It’s Angryblocks.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi Prochorus, just thought I should call and see if you’re any better since last night, maybe?’
‘Nah. Think I’m worse.’
‘Oh. That’s a pity.’
‘I’m gunna do something about it though. I’m gunna find a new system. And if I can’t find one, maybe I’ll make one up.’
‘Um, yeah. Okay. See ya, mate.’
Angryblocks hangs up. He puts his phone down on the café table.
‘He’s fooped the loot,’ he says.
‘Weird,’ says Annelida.
Disfriction has a confused look on her face.
‘What’s going on with him?’
‘Dunno,’ says Angryblocks. ‘Keeps going on about how we’re wrecking the world or something. Was saying something about some new system.’
‘Okay,’ says Disfriction.


writing, novel, street art