European Women

I am not European, yes I live in Europe, but I am not European, I am British, this does not qualify, the idea of a European, is a blond haired, blue eyes, Aryan poster boy, with a side parting, struggling to speak English while backpacking around Canada, this is incidentally where I am. Canada

Canada is a lovely place, very atmospheric if not a little dull, for the first week it was exciting but there is only so long a man can carry around a $15 can of bear spray around before the novelty of having it and not using it wears of. I plan in the next couple of days to run into a bear. The job of a park guide is getting a bit repetitive, pointing out all manner of different rocks and trees to parents, taking pictures as their bored children make relentless noise. I actually hope for a bear, I want to know how these tourists would react, I want to know what an eleven year old with a ben 10 t-shirt would do with a bear growling in his face, the bear spray might not be used straight away, It would seem a waste to end such an experience both my viewing pleasure and I’d hate to take the most exciting thing to happen to these bores away from them, they would forever have that anecdote about having a bear nearly maul their face off before the park guide came along, heroically, and blew it’s face off with what looks like a small fire extinguisher.

But this is unlikely to happen I am now down to my final three days of a park guide before I can leave, I’m moving on, going further west deeper into this barren wasteland. I’m starting the journey on Monday morning with a girl I met here; we met while I was guiding her, with a group of other people, probably a few kids a few backpackers from Sweden, I’m not sure, non of them where memorable but she was on her own and we got talking and she showed a keen interest in becoming a guide, but as our interest in this park comes to a mutual close we have decided to go traveling together. I’m looking forward to it.

In my excitement I have forgotten to give you here name, Olga, she’s from Ukraine, now the connotations of the name Olga are not pretty, I’ll admit myself, I used to hear the name Olga and imagine some big boned Russian women with tattoos and an ugly dress and a scarf around here head, this image is hazy, however the rolling pin in her hand and the hairy mole on her cheek are very prominent in my image of what I thought of an ‘Olga’

Olga is not this though she is really rather beautiful, I wont going into the particulars of her beauty but she has the aura of an Abby, a name that’s much more suited to her, but what’s in a name, I often thought it unfair that we get burdened with a name at birth, a title that will follow you around your entire life, and you have no control over it, luckily I’m fond of my name, but if I wasn’t that would be it. I could change it but that goes against the name, changing a name goes against the ideals of having a name it, changing a name is cheating, it takes away whatever identity you have when you can change your name at the drop of a hat.

But since meeting Olga I have learnt that names are meaningless it’s just a name, a way of identifying someone it doesn’t affect whom that person is or where they came from or whether or not I like them.

Chapter 3: in which i try to make this regular activity

well it's probably been a couple of weeks since i posted here, and a lot has happened, i think the main thing i can think of is that i have acquired tickets for Glastonbury 2013, this is very exciting.
i have also watched a few films, Looper, Moonrise Kingdom and Warrior are 3 very good pieces of cinema i was happy to be on such a roll of watching good films after my fiasco of watching the campaign and hot tub time machine. my high was completely ruined by Kevin and Perry go large, possibly the most empty, cold, shallow film i have ever seen, if you haven't seen it, my only advice would be to ignore it at all costs.
anyway i hope now you have a bit more incite into the interesting person that is writing this
but my real reason for being here today is that i have just finished my piece for the writers club on Thursday the weeks words are 'European' and 'Women' oh-la-la i thought, unfortunately i am no E. L. James, not that i know what here work is like but from what i have heard i can only imagine
Watch this space, whoever you are
George Crossland

Average, Chirpy

The pendulum on the clock swung to the left and, as it always did, swung back to the right. Mr Furlong was sat in the living room, the clock on the wall repetitively swaying behind him, the ticking of the clock floated past him, he was numb to the sounds, there was nothing special about today.

He sat, thinking about nothing in particular, the lights dimly making visible, the photo on the wall, a photo from his youth, a photo of what life was once like, of him and his wife stood together outside their home in the country, both of them standing, smiling both unaware of the future, the dim future that awaits them. The photo stared back at him, but he did not notice, the photo was nothing to him, just another permanent fixture in the room that had become a blur to him. On the odd occasions that he did see the picture it would take him a minute or two to recognise the smile that he once wore so elegantly and with pride, he had not felt that smile on his face since his wife, stood at his arm, with the long flowing hair and eyes that burned with the passion of being young and in love, had left him, almost 20 years ago, since then he had remained in his house, alone, waiting, waiting for her to ‘see sense’ and call him. But until that day he would continue to live out the same day, over and over again sitting in his chair, letting his surroundings glaze over him and waiting for the phone to ring, the phone that had now collected 20 years of dust, it had not rung in all this time, whether or not it still worked had not been considered.

The clock continued to tick behind him. And the chime rang for 10:30 A.M. and without the slightest facial expression he rose from his chair and straightened his tie, he walked over to the door and entered the hall, he walked down it at his usual speed, a speed that got slower with every passing year, and over to the front door and when he was within touching distance of the handle the post, as it all ways did, came through the door, he collected it all and sorted through it, binning any junk mail and looking for anything in a hand written envelope, in the hope of a personal letter from his wife, or in fact anyone from his past life, but alas there was just a clear pile left in his hand of bills that he would put on the side and open with his afternoon tea. He left his post and headed back into the room and seated himself in his chair, he sighed with relief to sit back down and as the ticking of the clock began to sway over him again he began to enter his trance like state.

An hour or so past and Mr Furlong had barely moved, his wishful hopelessness still not stirring any emotion on his face when the calm of the tick was broken by a sound, it was a new sound, he felt a strange shiver down his spine, although his face did not contort with the slightest bit of emotion. The sound was getting louder and he finally acknowledged it, he turned to his left and noticed that the phone was ringing, this was new a surprise, a break in his daily routine that had been unbroken for 20 years, he felt his face lift and the photo in front of him became a mirror as his smile and all the hope and joy of youth was replenished to his face, and keeping as calm as possible he checked his tie and hair, an inane task that only came naturally to him, but it calmed him for whatever was waiting for him, he cleared his throat and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’  

Chapter 2: in which I remember i have a blog

today the idea to start a blog happened to me again today, i want to use it as a portfolio to house some of my work (scripts, poems, stories, videos, e.t.c.) but then it occurred to me that i had already done this, more than a year ago, so here it is, the blog is back and to celebrate i shall be adding my last short story. as part of a writers club at my local pub every second Thursday we are given two words with which to make what ever we want, story, poem, whatever, the words are Average and Chirpy...
much love and goodbye for now
George Crossland