A wild wind was whipping around the bus station, great lumbering beasts of red arrived and departed, wheezing their way to a stop, waiting for the frozen masses to climb aboard, before lurching off again. But my bus was nowhere to be seen as yet. I shivered, turned the page of book and waited.

A man approached, I removed my earphones and he dutifully waited for my ears to be clear. Then he spoke.

"Douse thylg bluas gao on bouettersee?"

"I'm sorry I don't understand," I replied, with perfect diction.

"Doses buas ga ta buttersee?"

"Sorry?"

"Bootersea ?"

"Oh, Battersea?

"Yes, Bootersea."

"Oh I see, you need to get the 344, it'll be here in two minutes."

"Ah...noot the woon fiv sex?" he said, spying the 156 listed as going to Bootersee, I mean Battersea, as well.

"No, the 156 is very slow, take the 344."

"Ukay."

Then, the 77 turned up. The man pointed to it, as it passed.

"Bootersee?" he said, hopefully. 

"No, the 344, it'll be here in one minute."

"Ukay."

One minute later the 344 turned up. He turned and looked at me, but before he could open his mouth, I said,
 

"Yes, Bootersea, 344."

"Thunk you," he replied.

He was a polite chap.

The History of Wood. That's what they wanted me to write. I met them, Karen and a man who’s name I never heard, in a small bar in Kensington to discuss the reason behind it. We sat down in uncomfortable chairs and ordered coffees and a tea. Me the tea, naturally.

The man started. "Now, The History of Wood, is something the firm is very interested in publishing before the end of the year We've always been very impressed with your ability to churn out good quality books in a short space of time" - the word churn made me wince - "and so when we were approached with this brief and Karen proposed the title The History of Wood we both agreed instantly you were the man for the job."

I nodded approval but was worried by the news that such a bland title brought my services so instantly to mind.

The man continued, "We want it to be educational, yet interesting. The kind of thing someone who knows a lot about wood would still enjoy reading but also a book that someone with no previous wood experience would learn from.” He paused, then, suddenly struck by the thought, “My, there were a lot of woods in that sentence!"

Karen laughed, I gave the appearance of a smile and couldn't deny, as a writer, that it wasn't at least noteworthy.

Karen took over. "The thing is Pete we've been commissioned by a Swedish timber firm to produce this book to mark their centenary. They want something stylish, ornate, something they can give to long standing clients, and we think The History of Wood is a title that will impress them. It's strong, simple, clear; much like wood."

I was inclined to agree but before I had a chance to see if they expected such a reply the man interjected, "It is a good title, Karen...although, having heard it said once or twice out loud,…well, I can't help but wonder if it isn't somewhat, not bland exactly but, perhaps, dull?"

Karen looked a little deflated but did her best to smile, nod, tilt her head to one side as if weighing up his idea, and let the man continue. "Perhaps it should have a word in there that really catches the eye, something like...The Wonderful History of Wood? Nice alliteration of the Ws too don't you think?" He turned to me for support.

I nodded, but could sense Karen's growing unhappiness at the title she had proposed was so swiftly undermined. She went to speak but was once again stopped in her tracks.

"No, now I think about that it's wrong too...the word History in there is the wrong thing, it's too...rigid, sounds like there would be no room for creativity, when what is wood if not a way to be creative?” The corner of Karen’s mouth tentatively rose upwards. The man was not finished though:

“What we need is something that sums up the history of wood but also conjures up notions of art, of joy...something like," he waved his hand around the air, grasping for unseen words in the ether, before he suddenly snapped his fingers and triumphantly proclaimed “The Wondrous Adventure of Wood!”

Karen looked dismayed but had to obey so nodded and said, "Yes, I see what you mean." "Good that's settled then! So, Pete, what do you think: The Wondrous Adventure of Wood? Could be an interesting book?" I smiled, savouring the strangeness of the offering, "The Wondrous Adventure of Wood” I repeated, rolling it over on my tongue, “I'd would love too".

It was a cold Friday evening. I braced against the biting Atlantic winds whipping up in the streets of the city. Work had been grim and it wasn't until past 7.30 that I had manged to escape and I was looking forward to a night in, far away from the realities of the world. Ten minutes from home, freezing cold, Sarah phoned me. She asked me to buy her a watermelon. Why? I asked. I fancy some melon tonight, she said. So, having walked off my route for another ten minutes or so I found a deli selling melon. The bags in the shop were not strong enough to cope with the weight of the thing so I was forced to carry it by hand, exposing my skin to the cold, while drawing looks from those I passed.

Eventually I made, it like an Iceman of the Arctic with my fingers rigid and my cheeks a rare shade of blue, and slumped into the warmth of the elevator, all the way to the 23rd floor. As I stepped through the door I noticed Sarah putting on her coat, and grabbing her car keys. I was perturbed to see this, having just tramped through the streets of the city with her melon, and asked her where she was going. She said a man had been in a car accident and had terrible spine injuries, so a specialist was needed. I stood there, not sure what to do, and before I could say a word she had kissed me on the check and left.

I walked into the kitchen and put the melon on the chopping board. I stared at it. This green giant of tough skin and fleshy insides, the psychedelic pattern scrawled around its protective hide, rocking gently under its own mass. I opened the fridge and realised it wouldn’t fit. I took a knife and started to cut it down into six slices. Each one a wide arc of the melon, dipping from the tip at the edge into the slope of red fruit, before rising to the corresponding tip on the other side. After I had placed five of them in the fridge, each one wrapped tightly in clingfilm, I decided I was owed a piece of melon, for my good, unprompted work. I started to munch my way through the melon, savouring its moist, juicy taste, enjoying the sensation of the juices rolling down my chin. I opened a bottle of wine that Sarah had got out, but never got around to opening, so took a the bottle-opener from the draw – one of those with two arms by the side that act as levers to remove the cork - and having opened it replaced the cork and the bottle-opener on the sideboard. I drank two glasses in 10 minutes and started on a third, numbing the boredom of the week with alcohol.

Soon I had finished the melon, right down to the very edge of its skin and with so much liquid in my body suddenly realised I needed the bathroom. Afterwards, while washing my hands, I noticed my red stained lips in the mirror staring back at me. It was funny to note the similarity they now bore to the melon, dipping and rising in the same way, marked with the vibrant red of the melon’s interior. I smiled broadly, goofing around, laughing at the sight of myself. A thought entered my head and I went to the kitchen where the melon skin was still sitting on the sideboard. I grabbed it and returned to the bathroom, holding it up against my lips, creating the illusion of a huge, clownish grin. The combination of alcohol, the boredom of being alone on a Friday night, and the frustration of another bad week at work seemed to combine to draw out a strange, reckless creativity in me.

I laughed at the sight of myself and enjoyed the stupidity of it all. I went back to the kitchen and placed the melon on the sideboard, next to the bottle opener. It was then that the second idea hit me. With the bottle opener positioned below the melon skin, with its “arms” in the upright position from when I had opened the wine, there was distinct resemblance to a parachutist, with the melon as the parachute. It wasn’t hard to imagine the ropes connecting it all together and then, in my strange state, I decided I would go further than just imagining it and actually make it; perhaps Sarah would have thought it cute, quirky, charming. I don’t know. I pierced a hole at either end of the melon with a skewer and threaded a small piece of string through at either end before tying it around the bottle-opener. It took no more than two minutes, but all the time I was seized by a manic desire to complete the task. Once done I held the tips of the melon, letting the bottle opener fall down and its weight tighten the strings, and admired the likeness I had created. I remember thinking ‘I bet no one in the history of New York has ever done this before’.

As soon as this thought had filtered through my slightly drunk mind I  suddenly felt very conscious of the oddness of what I was doing. A 27-year-old man making contraptions from food and utensils while Sarah was off trying to save a man's life. I placed the melon and the parachutist down on the side board and looked at my watch. By now it was getting on for 10 and I remembered the highlights of the game would be on now so went to the living room and forgot about the melon. Not long after settling down on the sofa I started drifting in and out of sleep and so, before it was too late, I hauled myself to bed. Lying in the darkness, waiting for sleep to overtake me, a text from Sarah came through saying she’d be back in the morning, about 7.30, and was staying at the hospital overnight. At the end she just put, “I lost him”.

The next morning, with a cold, clear light pouring in through the windows, I woke up at 7.04. I lay in bed for a few minutes, listening to the city’s gentle hum below before I was roused from my drowsy state by the shrill tone of my phone ringing. I looked at the screen and saw it was a call from my brother, Nathan. He spoke quickly, Can you look after Dylan for the morning? I have to go back to work for an hour or so. I sighed, exasperated. What else could I say? Of course he can stay, when will he be over? Well, he said sheepishly, I'm outside now in the car. I gave a wry grin and told him I’d buzz him in. I put on my dressing gown and went to the lobby, watching the elevator climb until it reached the 23rd floor and out stepped my nephew, his blonde hair full of curls, his backpack slung haphazardly across one shoulder. Nathan was nowhere to be seen. Typical.

How are you Dylan? I asked, through sleep and a minor hangover. Good thanks Uncle Dan he responded. We went through the door to the apartment and, as we headed towards the kitchen, the phone rang again. I told Dylan to go and get himself a drink and a biscuit and headed to the phone, vibrating its way across the bedside table. Hi Sarah. Hi Dan. How are you? Not good, was a tough one last night, really bad accident. I'm sorry to hear that, I replied. She spoke again: Look I’m just around the corner, do we need anything, milk, coffee, tea? I thought about telling her to get something for Dylan, a magazine, or some juice, but she’d only have got annoyed and why do that to her over the phone after the night she’d had? I told her no, we didn't need anything. She said she’d be there in two minutes and I hung up. I stood there, inert, staring at nothing, as if I was trying to recall something that had to be done, or something I had forgotten. I heard Dylan laughing, which brought me around to the world again, and then I heard a short, sharp scraping noise. I stood there for five seconds more – suddenly highly conscious of being alive – and felt the tingle of a cold, autumnal air rushing around my legs. I put the thoughts together and realised what was happening. I ran, but was too late.

I skidded into the kitchen just in time to see Dylan completing a strong, confident throwing action that sent the parachute-bottle opener sailing into the air, clear of the balcony’s edge and into the empty sky. I scrambled to the edge and peered down. Dylan didn’t even come to look but wandered off, bouncing in to one of the walls as he went. I watched the object fall, hurtling to its terminal velocity. Across my mind flashed something I had heard about penny's dropped from the Eiffel Tower having the force to kill someone. I felt sick. I lost sight of the melon's green canopy against the colours of the street and then there was silence, punctuated by the light eddy swirling around the balcony. I stood and listened. For two minutes nothing happened. Perhaps it had just hit the pavement. Perhaps it was okay. Then the sirens started. Drawing louder towards the street below, until there they were, directly beneath, parked up on the pavement, a crowd clearly visible.

Dylan was in the living room watching cartoons. I went to the bathroom and threw water over my face, trying to calm down Then I went to the bedroom and picked up my phone and called Sarah to tell her what had happened, to ask if she perhaps could tell me what was happening down there. It rang through and went to her voicemail. I felt so sick. I phoned again. Nothing. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I rang again, and this time a man answered. Hello? I said, Is Sarah there? The man replied. Can I ask who you are sir? I’m Sarah's fiancee. Somehow I knew what he was going to say next, it was the way he had used the word sir. He spoke: Sir, this is Officer Brown of the NYPD, I’ve got some bad news.

I threw up all over the bed

---

It turned out the tip of the corkscrew had pierced directly through her skull. Four people needed therapy after what they witnessed.  And that’s what happened. Each stupid, individual action exactly as it occurred: each pointless when considered on its own but, when placed in the sequence I have just relayed to you, crucial to the outcome of the story

‘Mr Smith, thank you. No further questions your honour.'

Thought I'd see what this was like...will probably use it as a place to post longer pieces, maybe even some creative writing, as it seems like a nicer page to look at then Blogger, don't you think.