Contributor: Paul Tristram
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There was a man up a tree; he was laying down upon a branch, about twenty foot up, with his arms and legs wrapped around the branch and his left cheek was pressed against the rough tree bark. “I’m never going down there again!” he whispered to himself as he turned his head around so that his right cheek was now pressed against the branch. He opened his eyes and cringed, for he could see the lights of the town which was situated a mile or two off to the left hand side.
“You Bastards!” he half shouted at the lights.
“You’re all a bunch of fucking wankers, walking around bumping into each other, sleeping with each other’s partners, beating each other’s children, eating each other’s food, prying loose each other’s secrets. I hate you all, you’re all as strange as aliens to me, even my own fucking family are strangers to me, what do they know about me, eh? what do any of you know about me? you’re all just a load of backstabbing cunts!"
"I wish death to one and all, money? what the fuck is that all about? You can keep your dirty money; stick it up your greedy collective arses. Your lies are just verbal tampons plugging up the holes in this farce of a society, can’t you all see that you were born to be used? yes that’s right, BORN TO BE USED!"
"You should all be shot, I saw the milkman coming out of next door the other day, he was wearing a big smile and doing the zip up in his trousers, I mean for Christ Sake! you can’t even trust your milkman nowadays, as soon as you leave the house he’s up your misses. Of course after you’ve finished worrying about the milkman you’ve got the coalman to worry about, then the postman, then the gasman, then the electric man, then the rent man and on and on.....dear me?"
"Why are you all taking part in this mess? why doesn’t anyone stand up and shout ‘ENOUGH!’ hasn’t anyone got the common-sense to refuse to make a fool out of themselves? But I am making my stand, oh yes, right up here in this fucking tree, I shall not be coming down, oh no, they will find me in a few days frozen to this branch. That will fucking teach them, they just won’t be able to understand, it will confuse them all and maybe then they’ll start thinking? Yeah I can just see them now, after they’ve taken my body down off of this branch, they’ll all go home and when each of them is alone they’ll think of me and wonder why? They’ll be sitting on the toilet or taking a bath or driving to work or whatever else they might be doing and they’ll think of me, ‘Do You All Hear Me, You Bastards, I Said You’ll All Think Of Me!"
With that he fell out of the tree and knocked himself unconscious. He awoke in the morning and the first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes was a grazing cow about three foot away from him. He rose to his feet and looked about himself. All he could see was more grass and more grazing cows, he could no longer see the town as he was no longer up in the tree but he set off in that direction anyway.
As he walked up the main road past the butchers shop. Mr. Jones the ironmonger came across the street to speak to him,
“Hello Stan, are you off home?” asked Mr. Jones with a friendly smile.
“Yes!” answered Stan simply, with his head hung down, trying to hide his reddening face and frightened eyes.
“Well, tell your mother I’ve finished her blackberry tart and I’ll pop the dish around after work!” explained Mr. Jones with another friendly smile.
“OK!” replied Stan and off up the street he walked.
He never made it home; he was hit by Mr. Smith’s coal lorry as he turned into Denever Road. It seems that Mr. Smith had spent too long fucking Mr. Jones, the ironmonger's wife and was late with the deliveries, so unfortunately he mounted the pavement as he took the corner out of Denever Road and hit Stan who just happened to be turning the corner at the same time.
He didn’t die straight away but he did not live to see the hospital either. His last words were spoken in the ambulance, he just kept on repeating the same thing over and over again.
“Born To Be Used!”
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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
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- -
There was a man up a tree; he was laying down upon a branch, about twenty foot up, with his arms and legs wrapped around the branch and his left cheek was pressed against the rough tree bark. “I’m never going down there again!” he whispered to himself as he turned his head around so that his right cheek was now pressed against the branch. He opened his eyes and cringed, for he could see the lights of the town which was situated a mile or two off to the left hand side.
“You Bastards!” he half shouted at the lights.
“You’re all a bunch of fucking wankers, walking around bumping into each other, sleeping with each other’s partners, beating each other’s children, eating each other’s food, prying loose each other’s secrets. I hate you all, you’re all as strange as aliens to me, even my own fucking family are strangers to me, what do they know about me, eh? what do any of you know about me? you’re all just a load of backstabbing cunts!"
"I wish death to one and all, money? what the fuck is that all about? You can keep your dirty money; stick it up your greedy collective arses. Your lies are just verbal tampons plugging up the holes in this farce of a society, can’t you all see that you were born to be used? yes that’s right, BORN TO BE USED!"
"You should all be shot, I saw the milkman coming out of next door the other day, he was wearing a big smile and doing the zip up in his trousers, I mean for Christ Sake! you can’t even trust your milkman nowadays, as soon as you leave the house he’s up your misses. Of course after you’ve finished worrying about the milkman you’ve got the coalman to worry about, then the postman, then the gasman, then the electric man, then the rent man and on and on.....dear me?"
"Why are you all taking part in this mess? why doesn’t anyone stand up and shout ‘ENOUGH!’ hasn’t anyone got the common-sense to refuse to make a fool out of themselves? But I am making my stand, oh yes, right up here in this fucking tree, I shall not be coming down, oh no, they will find me in a few days frozen to this branch. That will fucking teach them, they just won’t be able to understand, it will confuse them all and maybe then they’ll start thinking? Yeah I can just see them now, after they’ve taken my body down off of this branch, they’ll all go home and when each of them is alone they’ll think of me and wonder why? They’ll be sitting on the toilet or taking a bath or driving to work or whatever else they might be doing and they’ll think of me, ‘Do You All Hear Me, You Bastards, I Said You’ll All Think Of Me!"
With that he fell out of the tree and knocked himself unconscious. He awoke in the morning and the first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes was a grazing cow about three foot away from him. He rose to his feet and looked about himself. All he could see was more grass and more grazing cows, he could no longer see the town as he was no longer up in the tree but he set off in that direction anyway.
As he walked up the main road past the butchers shop. Mr. Jones the ironmonger came across the street to speak to him,
“Hello Stan, are you off home?” asked Mr. Jones with a friendly smile.
“Yes!” answered Stan simply, with his head hung down, trying to hide his reddening face and frightened eyes.
“Well, tell your mother I’ve finished her blackberry tart and I’ll pop the dish around after work!” explained Mr. Jones with another friendly smile.
“OK!” replied Stan and off up the street he walked.
He never made it home; he was hit by Mr. Smith’s coal lorry as he turned into Denever Road. It seems that Mr. Smith had spent too long fucking Mr. Jones, the ironmonger's wife and was late with the deliveries, so unfortunately he mounted the pavement as he took the corner out of Denever Road and hit Stan who just happened to be turning the corner at the same time.
He didn’t die straight away but he did not live to see the hospital either. His last words were spoken in the ambulance, he just kept on repeating the same thing over and over again.
“Born To Be Used!”
- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
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Paul Tristram
