I’ve been doing a lot of work on my house over the past few months. Sometimes I get the impression the place has a mind of its own and it’s carefully worked out the best way to drive us completely up the wall. Yet we still do it. Home has a hold over us, wherever that home is and whatever condition it’s in.

This is another piece with a first person narrator I want to make real, even if it isn’t human. I think there’s something about stubbornness that is somehow endearing. I’ve tried to get a little of that in here.

See you soon,

-Ollie

Renovation

They took out my fireplace today. Ripped it from my wall like they were picking a scab. They're going to put it on eBay.

For sale, family hearth, rarely used.

It was filthy but they washed it down by the rose bed until it shone like the day it was fitted. The most beautiful fire surround you will ever see. Or not. Looking back now, I suppose it was rather plain. Either way the point is it was mine and now it is not. Now it's going to be transplanted elsewhere and there's a stonking great hole where there was once a heart.

And I'll tell you a secret: it hurt. Deeply. Every moment of it. The stabbing of the crowbar as they rammed it into my softer parts. The crack as my plasterwork split and decades of debris tumbled out onto their dustsheet. Utterly brutal. Like gutting a fish.

It wasn't just the process of prying it free that hurt, though. It was the rejection. They bought me knowing full well what they were getting and then they go and start smashing up the place like they're ready to scrap the whole thing. Every day it gets worse. Muck creeps deeper into all my crevices and the cracks between my open planks are clogged with grit I didn't even know I had.

I dream of vacuum cleaners.

Sometimes I overhear them talking about what they plan to do with me as they huddle in the kitchen cradling their cups of tea poured from a Thermos. I interrupt. All I needed was a lick of paint, I tell them. Fresh carpets would have been enough. Even now, they could get me up to scratch for a fraction of the price without all this. Big picture thinking isn't what it's cracked up to be, I tell them. But they don't listen. All they hear is the creak of floorboards and a rat in the dry wall. Next day they bring in the exterminators.

I don't think we're speaking the same language.

They want to carve out my insides. Scrape my soul back to brick. Pull down my walls to let in some of that damned light I've been trying so damned hard to keep out. It's impossible. They want straight angles. They want silver-backed insulation. They want to plug holes and stop me from breathing. The whole thing is violence. They're ready to break my bones with their sledgehammer plans. I would tremble, if I could.

I know why they're doing it. Too much time spent on Pinterest. Too many boards filled with rooms that don't fit into my dimensions. She has a vision of some other house and she's gone and landed herself with me and now it's his job to make it all work. But he's taken it too far, you see. He's bitten off more than he can chew. He thinks that by ripping down my walls he can plaster over the cracks in theirs. Because any fool and his dog can see that these two are going to age like a flatpack kitchen. Some things aren't made to last and these two are about as strong as wet cardboard. They'll fall apart in months. He's set on the project now, though. Laser focus. Every inch of me measured and blueprinted. And let me tell you, there is no room for deviation in his plans. I'd say steamroller, but this is much, much worse.

I give them five years, tops. Maybe six, depending on how easy I make it for them. And I don't plan to make it easy. Not one bit.

They want to do the kitchen first so I show them all my damp bits, straight away. I know, a bit personal but I say go hard or go home. I flake a little near where they're stood yacking. Drop a little bit of loose paint into the Thermos. Plop. That gets them going. They scratch at the wall, trying to work out how bad it is and, my God, I show them how bad I can be. Over the next week I draw water up through my cavity wall like a straw. I send the wet bubbling through my brickwork, searing through my plaster like lava. It's thoroughly awful of me. Salt coats my walls like frost in winter. He even runs his finger against it one day and licks the tip, pretending he knows what he's doing; as though he might season his soup with a dusting of magnesium sulphate. He's an idiot but somehow she falls for it and then he's spewing forth action plans about how they might fix it while she Google's creative solutions. They check my damp course, but there's nothing wrong with it. Guttering's fine as well. They even get a specialist in for a survey, which comes back with the beautifully helpful line 'there is damp present in the kitchen area' without offering any solutions. It's brilliant. They bicker about that for hours. I let them re-plaster and wait a week or two to let them think they've got me. Then I start pumping the stuff out again. Paint peels like wallpaper, even the specialist stuff made for kitchens. I set blisters popping like the plague. Great chunks tumbling to the tiles every day until they are unable to keep any of their awful food on the sides any more and have to pack it away into cupboards where it moulds away in the dark and becomes inedible within a day.

I am unstoppable.

Then it's time to turn to the bathroom, where I hide my pipework in all the most annoying of places. I even manage to sneak one in behind a board already soft with rot. The carpenter catches an edge of the thing and it bursts open and drowns the place in the most penetrating of lukewarm waters I can muster.

It drives them crazy. They're ready to crumble. Any little thing starts an argument. Late deliveries, misplaced furniture, even leaving the TV remote in the wrong place. Because they have a TV now. I avoided it for years even before the old dear died, but I suppose it's inevitable these days so now they've gone and stuck one up in the living room. Flatscreen. One of those ones that looks like a picture frame when they're not watching it. To be fair, it's probably the least offensive thing they've done so far. They change the image on it every couple of days. Adds a bit of variety, I suppose. Keeps it fresh.

But the rest of the place is as ghastly as they are. They have this hideous penchant for dark colours. Place looks like a cellar even with the lights on. No idea how they can read in that light. Because, sweet mercy, they are always reading. Books everywhere. Put up a couple of new bookcases to house them all. When they first dragged in the boxes I thought they were joking but they somehow found space. Every single nook. It's the only time they are quiet, actually, when they're reading.

The leak in the roof's gone. When did they get around to that?

On a Tuesday I crack a window, side to side like bad luck. By the next Monday they have the double glazers in. I try to get in their way, but these guys are professionals. Even with all my organic angles, they get the frames in place before the rain sets in. At least they're not using cowboys.

They're getting better at this.

They have friends over for a house warming so I make sure the boiler's out of action. The place is stone cold by early evening but it's too late to call it off. They think about plugging in a couple of portable heaters and so I clog the toilet for good measure and by then people are arriving. It's majestic. Honestly. Couples stand around shivering in their coats, full of shit, but then they start to laugh and joke about it, the whole lot of them, and even I can't do anything against that much hot air. They warm themselves with whiskey until, good grief, they open all the doors to cool down and I'm just about ready to give up.

They still argue after. The two of them. Who gets to do the washing up. Who has to unclog the loo. Honestly, they're not going to last. No way.

The new fireplace is fitted now. A modern one. Electric. No soot. No risk of gas. I don't know. I don't like it. But it's better than nothing. At least they're doing something to repair the damage.

Now, don't think they're starting to win me around. No chance. If they can't love me for who I am then they don't deserve any respite. I'm not letting up. Not slowing down. I've got plans. Big plans. Bigger than theirs. They're busy trying to make me something I'm not but they can't scratch the surface of what I've got in store for them.

Still, it is actually quite a nice fireplace. Not the same, classic design as the old one but it does seem good quality. I'll give them that. It will certainly outlast them. They're doomed to failure, as always. She is starting to mellow out a little, though. Starting to come to terms with the fact that what she's got with me is what she's got. And as for him... well, he's kinda the same, really. Still poking at everything he can, trying to figure out my mysteries. He'll never learn that what I've got is fathomless. He'll still be thinking about my angles on his death bed.

It's a pity, really. I mean, I can see they are nice enough on their own, but it's the combo of them both that is exhausting. One feeds off the other in some unending cycling of nothing. It must be truly awful, being them. Almost makes me feel bad for them.

I'm thinking about falling down entirely. Crushing them both. A proper disaster of an ending for it all. I could. I think it would be easy. Pretty much. They've done a lot of structural work - steel beams and additional supports - but I think I could get around it all. Find some crack somewhere and just open up. Could be a killer ending for the whole thing. I don't know. I'll think about it.

They're away this week, anyway. Gone off on holiday. Don't know where. Don't care. They can do what they want, where they want as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I'd be perfectly happy if they never came back. Stayed away forever. Found some other place to live.

Still, no point collapsing if they're not even here.

I think I'll wait until they come back. Lull them into a false sense of security. Give them lovely moment of coming home to a place they know is their's and their's alone and then, SPLAT. Yeah. Although, maybe not at first. They'll need to unpack. And there's bound to be a load of washing to get through as well. And, to be fair, work's been a bit crazy for them both of late so maybe I should give them a week or two before I start the bricks moving. Really make them think everything's going to alright before I end it all. Serve them right, and all that.

It is quite cold without them, really. Heating's on minimum, just to stop the pipes from freezing. It shouldn't bother me, I know. I*'m as cold blooded as they come. Still. I hope they come back soon. Not that I miss them. Not like that. It's just, now they've been around for a little while, you start to get used to it and so when they're not here... well. Cold is cold and that's all very well but... more and more, I'm starting to think the place could do with a little bit of warmth in it, you know?

Hey there honey bears,

Welcome to episode 2. Gravity - a story about breaking free.

Another original fiction brought to you on schedule. Honestly, that’s a miracle and one that may not be repeated moving forward. Enjoy it while you can.

I’m playing around with a strong narrative voice again with this one. Less action, more feeling - loading it up until it goes pop. Let me know how it goes.

Thanks for reading.

This is BadFiction.

Gravity

You come with your own gravity. Plates circle around you in the kitchen, bumping against the cabinets. Spoons tinkle against forks mid-air. The kettle tugs at its cord, still plugged in at the wall. When you walk through doorways, hinges creak. Door slam behind you. Plaster cracks. Bricks tremble, threating to pull themselves from the mortar.

And when you go outside...

...the

world

tilts. People stagger in the street. Cars strain to pull away, stinking the air with the smell of hot clutch. Airplanes adjust their angle of approach. Plumb lines sway, no longer plumb. Oceans lend you their tides.

You don't notice, of course. For you, it's all just background noise. Always has been. When you were young, your mother taught you that the things in your way were only put there so you could move them. She told you to lift with your hips, your thighs and the places between them. Immovable objects could be shunted out of your way if you could only move the world. Haunted by her own glass ceilings, she taught you to bend them to your will, bulging through like a soap bubble, rising, stretching the unwritten rules until they broke and all their tiny pieces fell into your orbit - an sea of shards impossible to cross (unharmed).

I am so scared of you.

I love you, of course. Don't doubt that. But sometimes at night I lay there trying to sleep and our pictures are pulled from the walls and the covers slip to your side and I have to keep on yanking them back and it's ridiculous and I'm laying there thinking how the hell did I get myself into all this and I only mean it as a joke and it's only ever a joke but you see I've been really struggling to find an answer as to why I'm still here and to be honest I'm just so cold.

I'm cold.

And I know you've got this whole thing going on and I'm glad for you - I really am - and I want you to do well in it, honestly I do, but I'm just not sure that the only place I want to be is in your orbit. I'm hanging on your outer rim when I don't even know we belong in the same galaxy.

We go to parties and nobody sees me. You meet my friends and now they are your friends, smiling politely, tip of the head, before they get dragged back into the Everything That Is You and, my god, I just want to be warm again.

I ask if we can go home and you look at me like the world is ending.

Maybe things could get better. Maybe you could teach me to be like you and then we could bask in each others orbit like twin stars. But here's the thing: I'm not a star. I don't know what I am. I just got pulled in and now here I am: floating with the rest of it.

When we get home, I pack a bag.

I want to tell you all of this. I want to be honest and open and everything a couple should be but it's hard to tell the truth to a god when they're so used to worship. Walls buckle where you walk. Earth trembles. And I keep on shaking.

One day you will kill me. I'm sure of it. Nothing can survive this sort of pressure for long.

I wait until first light before I go downstairs. The kitchen is a wreck, as always. Broken plates scatter the floor. Knives lay balanced on the edge of counter tops where your gravity dropped them and for a moment I wonder what on Earth you'll do without me.

The key is on its shelf tied down with string so it doesn't float away. I cut it free and turn it in the lock, half expecting you to burst into the room, eyes blazing, sending the crockery flying. But it turns without a sound.

I should leave you a note. But I'm not sure I really want the evidence. Better to make it a clean break. Better to slink away like a coward. Better to creep into the sunlight, where the warmth kisses my skin like a lover.

I turn back to our house. Our home. You're still in there, tucked up in bed, snug as a bug. And I'm not. Soon you'll wake and the world will start revolving around you again. But I won't be there.

I wonder how you'll take it. You could tear down the street if you wanted. Or you might not even notice - my absence nothing more than a mote in the void. I don't know what you'll do.

But the thing is, with any luck, I never will.

Dear reader/listener,

Welcome to the new season of BadFiction, the podcast where I read you short little pieces from the back places of my brain. Last season was a little messy, but I think I’ve worked out how to run things now. No guarentee it will be run smoothly, but that’s what we’re aiming for.

This is the first episode. I hope you like it.

If you enjoy this story, you can buy me a coffee at www.buymeacoffee.com/olliefrancis or you can become a regular supporter on Patreon, where I currently have precisely zero supporters as of September 2024, so, hey, come be my first Patreon, why not? I'm also releasing more long form fiction there so you can get semi-regular instalments of my novel Futuredebt as a thank you. It's a story about love, fate, the most boring sort of time travel I could think of and one woman raging against the dying of the light. Basically it's about what to do if you know the future: embrace it or fight it? You can take a look at www.patreon.com/olliefrancis .

But for now, I just want to say thank you for tuning in to this new season. Hopefully I can learn from my mistakes and make this one a good one. And I really want to get better at this, so if there's anything you think I could be doing differently, let me know. I'm here to grow.

I've rattled on for long enough. I promised you a story, so here it is.

This is BadFiction.

Good Girl

Chord around his fingers, tight so she won't run. He knows he doesn't need to. He's trained her well. He could walk to the other side of the commons and she wouldn't move a muscle until he told her. Still, his fingers pinch at the rope, unwilling to let go.

Part of it is just for show, he tells himself. If he is seen, he doesn't want anyone to worry. He wants them to see he's got a tight grip on the lead. Nobody in any danger, not that there was any risk of danger in the first place. Not from her. She's a big softie, really. Just wants cuddles and walks. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Timid as anything when the cars hurl themselves past on the main road. Not that he takes her near the main road anymore. Too many people driving past not minding their own business. Too many things in the news, stupid stories about stupid owners who didn't know what to do or how to look after the animals proper. Idiots. They probably never even fed them right. Ruined it for everybody else. Not like him. No. Not like him. He's been on it since day one - since the second he got her, measuring out her servings to the gram on a set of bathroom scales. Not that the scales measured to the gram. Not that exact. But most folk just pour it out until the bowl's full, refilling the thing whenever it empties. You could give them a heart attack doing that. Totally wrong. People like that shouldn't be allowed to own a dog. Not like him. Not like him at all. No, he looked after her proper. He knew what he was doing. *Knows* what he's doing. Not that that will matter much longer.

Her bowl's in a carrier bag by his side now, along with a sack of dry mix. It's just to make her feel comfortable. In the new place Wherever that ends up. A part of him needs to know. But he doesn't have a clue. It was part of the deal. He wasn't to know. Not allowed, they said. Stupid. He could just follow them, if he really wanted to, and find out that way. He's fast on his bike. Got an electric motor fitted a couple of months ago so he's been buzzing around all over on it. He knows the shortcuts round here as well. Could probably keep up with them dead easy, even if they was in a car. Probably. If he wanted to. So it's stupid they wont tell him.

She sniffs at his leg. There's treats in his pocket and she knows it. Always does. Sometimes she nibbles at his joggers, trying to get at them. She's made holes in them, dumb thing. Can smell 'em. Likes the ones in the purple packet most. Beef. And she knows how to get 'em. She knows she's got be a good girl. Proper still. Proper quiet. That's what he's taught her. Never says boo to a goose, she don't, even when them cyclists from Greenacre come screaming down the path too fast every time they're out on a walk, she never even flinches. And it's good for them that she don't. She could have any of them off them bikes in a moment if she wanted and they know it. You'd think they'd have learned their lesson after what happened. But now they have something to prove. That's why they still do it. Why they come so close like that. They're testing her. Which really means they're testing him. But he's trained her good since then. They go round the corner and ride out of sight, hollering like animals, and she just sits there. Then he gives her a treat. If she's been a good girl. Which she always is. Every time, now.

He twists the rope. Should of worn gloves. His fingers are already white, like undercooked sausages. He swaps hands and buries his fingers into her neck, where the skin's always warmest. She loves it when he does that. It's her favourite place for a tickle. He should tell them that, when they get here. They should know that sort of thing. And the sort of things she don't like as much. Not that she would do anything dangerous if they did it wrong. Soft as a puppy. Totally, totally harmless. Not even a fly.

He kicks at a stone and it bounds across the tarmac.

That's what makes the whole thing so unfair. Not a fly. Just a big puppy.

He ruffles her head and she licks his fingers. Harmless, see? Just a big softy. Gets scared in the storms. Doesn't like the wind on the estate. Cuddles up close when it rains. Big softy. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Not a fly.

He flinches at the sound of the van pulling into the car park. White. Unmarked. For a second he's worried it might be the coppers. Ban came in last night so technically he's an unlicenced owner. And there's a real crackdown. First day 'n all. Pig's 'll be out looking to make an example of someone like him. but the guys who climb out of it don't look nothing like coppers. Still, meeting in a place like this, out in the open, like, makes it a bit obvious if someone was watching. Doesn't make much sense in his mind. But that's what they said. Maybe he was glad - yeah, he was glad in a way. Didn't want them to know where he lived. Not because he's worried. Nah, mate. It's just that he doesn't know them. Friend of a friend of a friend. Y'know?

He stands there with her as they open up the back and then he has to hand over the lead. No handshake. Don't even seem to notice him, to be honest. Just take the lead and pull her up into the van. No conversation. Nothing. Could have tied her to a lamppost and it wouldn't have made no difference. It's a bit weird. He's used to talking. He tries talking. They grunt. Don't even look at him. Why won't they look at him? Is that a bad sign? Or is it a good one? He don't know. Maybe it's best to make as little contact as possible. Just in case. Not that he would tell anyone. Not that there's much to tell. Friend of a friend knows someone who's take her. Meet 'em here, 2pm.

It's quarter past.

He feels weird about this. It don't feel right. But he knows that it's better than the alternative. He don't want that for her. A cold death on a slab somewhere. No. No, this is better. This is better.

They shut the doors on her. No rear window for her to look through. Or him. That's it. Not even a last look. He wonders if he should ask them to open up, just for a second, so he can say goodbye, proper like. But then they're thanking him with a wave of their hand and in they get, engine still running, and then (slight rev on the grass to get back over the path and onto the road) they're away.

It's cold out. His fingers still feel the rope around them, cutting into them, but there's nowhere to warm them now.

He stuffs them in his pockets.

It's time to go home.

https://www.dogstrust.org.uk/dog-advice/life-with-your-dog/at-home/american-bully-xl

You can give one-off support at www.buymeacoffee.com/olliefrancis

You can become a regular supporter at www.patreon.com/olliefrancis

All background music and audio effects were taken from the YouTube Audio Library. They were:

East West by John Patitucci

No.8 Requiem by Esther Abrami

Where in Literally by pATCHES

Entangled Life by Lish Grooves

Everything else was written, made and messed around by Ollie Francis, who is me.

You should stop reading these notes now. Honestly, there are more interesting things to do with your life. I mean, I'm really enjoying writing them but I have no idea why. Anyway, if you do read this leave a comment. I don't think I have a comments section, so maybe just write it on the back of your hand. Up to you. You never know, it could end up a nice conversation starter if someone asks you about it.