I’ll start now, it needs to start, I can feel myself saying it. do it now, start. I will. but I’ve been saying that since forever, it was the first thing I remember ever thinking, before feed even, and shit. perhaps not before that, but not far after, it was before the words were there that much I am sure of. I thought start, the essence of start before the word, let’s get started and make a stab of it before it’s too late, there are others who have already started, they’re ahead but that doesn’t matter, they’ll end first. that doesn’t follow, but it feels comforting, that there is an equal length apportioned to all, there’s no logic to it anyway, but I can convince myself of that at least. there are some who never get started, they leave it, as I kept doing, thinking, today is too bright a day to be starting, I’ll do it tomorrow when the weather is lacking instead, I’ll save it until then when I might be in a better position to start. but tomorrow when it rains you have a sudden love of rain instead and the starting gets put back again, you think, it would be better to start out of doors, my mood would be improved by the fresh air. rain and shine you never start and then it’s too late to start, so you forget ever thinking, start. but I’ll start now, whilst I can, whilst there’s still the time, I can’t see the weather from here, that doesn’t matter to me either way, I’ve seen all conditions before, none will affect me, even snow is of no interest. I should start. should I start? yes. maybe I have already, it’s lacking I grant you, but it counts as a start, there was black and now there is white, it has begun, there’s no doubt of that. but it’s weak, so weak, I could have done better, I had more in me than to start like that. I should start again, make a better start of it. what instead? that escapes me, but something, something dramatic, a statement even. has this been a false start then? no. it’s too late now, I’ve started, it’s taken me this long to get one start, a second one, I shudder to think how long I’d be waiting for the words to come, if ever.

but the words don’t matter, I cleared that up I think, all that matters is to start, that’s the important thing, I’ll make do with the one I have. starts are forgettable, it’s the marrow that matters, what’s in the middle. granted, I haven’t got that far yet, but it’s coming, there will be one, after. I feel relaxed, in a better frame of mind now, now that the first words are out of the way, perhaps it’s not such a bad start after all, there have been worse no doubt, many, many, far, far, worse. why then has it taken me so long, it’s far easier than I imagined, from outside. perhaps that was the problem, I thought it would be too hard to actually get over the first hurdle, so I didn’t start. It doesn’t matter, the time that’s passed, I can catch up, contract, shorten, abbreviate, abridge, these are all techniques I have at my disposal. routine makes a mockery of sense anyway, perhaps I could have waited longer after all, it might have been the same, it has been the same for so long already, maybe it always was like this. it is to my advantage now at least, for once I have the upper hand, one day could stand for many, maybe all. just a single hour would do it even, they are all so similar, just one and all this could be done with, it would give you the impression, it would convey. this serves too, I’m doing far better than I imagined I would that’s for certain, giving off the right signals, I’m pointing in the right directions all the time. I’m proud of myself, if that isn’t going too far, I didn’t think I had it in me to work the angles of things. you must, when you’ve started, they don’t want it on a plate, they like to think they’re doing some of the work with you, that you’re stretching them some, you must flatter them with a modicum of intelligence despite the facts, you must work contrary to what you know to be true. I will tell you so much and an imaginative leap will lead you to the conclusion, that will be my mode, only the leap will be little more than a stepping stone away in reality. it matters not, as long as you keep them happy, they must be happy or there’s no point starting, it’s all just so many swirls and squiggles without someone there to watch and engage, it’ll lay dormant. that would be terrible, worse than not starting at all possibly, to be ignored. that’s the most important thing to consider perhaps, I for one hadn’t thought of it before, give them a bone or a carrot, you need them more than they need you, there are others they could choose from if you bore them with too much detail or give away the finer points. the image of icebergs, that should be your inspiration. another told me of it, it made no sense to me either, but I nodded as you must when people share their wisdom and you don’t follow. no matter, keep them interested, tease them if you must, take your clothes off if anyone will be impressed, whatever it takes, the end justifies the means in this case, how often can you say that? Never, except that once. But start, you must, once you’ve finished with me that is, see how I do it, don’t leave halfway through to do your own, it wouldn’t be fair after the advice I’ve given already. listen at me, fair, what am I talking on, scratch that from the record, before it’s too late. it’s too late, I’m my own fool, I’ll ruin it yet, I’m bound to after taking so long. don’t leave yet is all I ask, there’ll be entertainment yet, further down the track, even if you’re not engrossed so far, continue regardless, it might improve, I’m doing all I can to maintain the standards I have set so far, maybe even attempt to make things better.

I was going to start somewhere else, that was my plan, I’ll start there now instead. it is a story I was told once, an older man told it me and advised me to keep it in memory, if ever I was asked for a tale by someone it would be more than adequate, it would meet any benchmark that had been set. I thought I’d include it, at the start and get it out of the way, I for one do not think it such a fine story, there are better ones no doubt, but I don’t know them, not yet, so I am stuck only with this one. I do not know much of stories anyway, it’s possible I am a bad judge, it could be the best story ever told, but I think that unlikely, that I would be in possession of such a work. it has a moral I think, he said there was one in any case, but he never told me what it was, it’ll come to me at the end no doubt, it is a long time since I heard it myself. I’ll begin.

there was a boy once, he was young, perhaps only seven years of age, that is how I see him at the start. we’ll call it seven, I know him well enough for it not to matter too much, there is a relationship between us, it allows for a certain license. He was a bright boy, so very sharp but something of an idiot at times too, people were always taking advantage of him, he was a gullible, swallowed any old nonsense he was told if you were convincing enough. maybe he wasn’t such a bright boy after all then, he certainly doesn’t sound so sharp now, the emphasis was weighted wrongly, I have painted an unfair picture, there is too much opposition. let's start over. he was a normal boy rather, who was taken in in the normal ways boys of his age were, a sensitive boy. better, much closer to the way of things, how I see them, and that’s what matters, here. he lived at a house with two brothers and a father, the mother had left, I forget why, there was a reason for it, there always is. she was dead I think, yes, she had died earlier, that fills the spot. they rubbed along without her, the father was sad because he missed his wife, but the thought of his children made him forget, from time to time, they were his comfort. sometimes they were not enough for him though, I'm afraid to say, but they all tried to carry on the same, pretending that it made no difference when it did. heartache built a secret home in their house. that is poetic, but I’ll let it stand all the same. stet.

one day there was a knock at the door, the boy’s father answered it and found a gypsy waiting. she was old, older than the boy had ever seen a person. he was young remember, later he saw many more old people, you can’t escape bumping into death at every corner when you get older yourself, even the mirror catches you unawares and you find yourself jumping back on occasion. but back then the oldest person he knew was his father, who was not even yet middle-aged.

you have three children, said the old woman at the door and looked at the boy’s father.

I hope you don’t expect me to give you money for telling me something anyone with a pair of eyes in their head could see, said the father.

the boy’s brothers were playing by the door, they were all in clear sight, that much is true, it wasn’t a great insight on her behalf.

if you’re expecting money you’ll feel my toe up your rectum, now bugger off. the boy’s father was having a bad morning, he had been dreaming of his wife the night before, it left him in a bad mood when she was not there in the morning. he was not one who was easily parted from his money either, he didn’t appreciate people knocking on his door expecting payment for services unrendered, his patience wasn’t of a size you’d call huge.

one more could have been out though, couldn’t it? she said, how was I to know that this was all? the father didn’t like the old woman’s tone, but she carried on anyway. that was just a starter, she said, she had cracks all over her face, I can tell you all sorts of things, I have powers.

powers is it? said the father, I’ll show you powers in a minute.

one of those three there is going to bring you a heartful of sorrow in times to come, said the old woman, he’ll bring you nothing but badness and sadness.

any idea which? said the father, looking at the three boys, I’ll let you have him right now for free, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing already, more than my fair share I’d say, I’m about ready to break right down the middle it’s so painful so I am.

nope, said the old woman, just have to wait and see what comes down the path.

that’s all well and good, isn’t it? said the father, I’ll tell you what, I’ll come and pay up when I find out which one it is, how about that? and then he slammed the door right in the old woman’s nasty face, he didn’t even get an address so he could find her as he said he would.

the boy couldn’t stop crying after that, he was so sure it’d be him that would be the one to cause all the problems, he tried to hold it in, but all there was were tears in him. the whole world tasted salty and bitter all of a sudden.

shut up, said the boy’s father, or do you want to prove that old bitch right after all?

the boy said no, but he noticed that his dad was looking at him funny already, there was a gleam in his eye that said if there’s so much as an ounce of truth in what she said, he’ll be the one that brings more misery into this sorry house of ours, there’s too much thinking in that one for his own good.

of course the boy went onto badness after that. maybe that is the moral, that if people tell you what you are then you have to follow what they say. it doesn’t seem like a good moral though, it depends on who’s doing the telling I suppose. I’d rather the boy had been the hero, instead of sending his father in search of the grave years early with his bad behaviour. I forget what it was that the boy did exactly, he didn’t seem the type to go around committing heinous acts, he seemed to have a certain innocence at the start, but then you can never tell, don’t trust first impressions they do say, maybe that is the moral instead.

no, wait, I have ended too soon, it returns to me now, I think I was getting too excited about the start, it had a modern feel to it, I was too self-congratulatory, failing to build the bridge to the end. the end? I hadn’t thought of that, perhaps we shan’t have one of those, not here, not this time, it doesn’t seem appropriate. I’m not a huge fan of ends anyway, trying to wrap things up neatly in a parcel, I’ve never seen an end in my life, not a real one, who knows where these things end in truth? not I. there’s only one end and that isn’t coming into it, not so soon after I’ve started, that will wait for another start, a second start perhaps, then an end, that will be a sadder tale, I’m not sure I’m ready for it yet. I’ll try a device instead, I’ll make do with the boy’s end, that will serve as my own, there are similarities I’m sure they’ve been noticed. like when you ask the opinion of another and frame the question on behalf of a friend, that may be how things are with us. I don’t know, not for certain, this story was told to me by someone entirely different, maybe there is a notoriety now.

the boy cried for a long time after the old woman left, many years in fact in his bedroom, all the time he was thinking about the old gypsy woman and how she said one of the brothers would have no luck in the world and rain down suffering on the family. I think his brothers never thought of the incident ever again, they were both far more easy going and their memories weren’t as retentive, they had less trust in gypsies and the like, not the imagination for that kind of thing. but not the boy, he thought of nothing else day and night, it was an obsession he couldn’t shake, his mind was set on one course only. every face he saw had the old woman’s cracks superimposed on to it, she seemed to be everywhere at once and always before his eyes, there was no escape, she came in his dreams too and told him how he’d amount to nothing, always with that ridged, unironed face. at school he would sit behind his desk and cower, not daring to raise his hand, knowing that his answers would be wrong whether he said the right word or not. he couldn’t start, things were always going to be bad with him, the seed had been sown, the dice cast, it was inevitable. he sat and wished the world away, that he might not be the one that led misery to his father’s door, all that mattered was to prevent that. the whole world ignored him and spurned him, even though he was a bright boy as I said, he had the brains, but he was condemned for his cowering, no one ever asked him what was wrong, and if they had have he wouldn’t have told them. at the end of school he still hadn’t started even, so he decided not to start at all, that the best thing for everyone would be if he left home, took on a cheap flat and boarded himself in to stop the arrival of the sorrow that was winging its way closer every day, he could feel the wings beating a path towards him with every breath he took. oh, those beaks and wings, he was defenceless, not once did he think which direction they were coming from, they would arrive from all directions he was sure, like a blanket over his head. such a sensitive soul, the soul of a saint in fact, delicate as a new idea almost.

he waited for years in the room, many moons passed over his head, and still nothing had happened. he thought what a fantastic stab he was making of it by not starting, keeping the misery in the distance, he saw it squatting on the horizon, always waiting to strike and yet he wouldn’t give it a chance. oh, how he congratulated himself with backslaps, how wise I am, he thought, to have stopped the misfortune in its tracks, truly I have been the best of sons to my father who has already had to withstand more than any man should have to in one lifetime.

then it came to him one day, how he could stop the waiting and start, there was a way yet to prove everyone wrong about him being the vessel of ill tiding. it was foolheadedness no doubt, but he had been alone for a long time, sometimes he spoke to himself out loud, not that there’s a thing wrong with that in itself, only often he didn’t know he was doing it. there was only one way to start and stop the desolation in its tracks, it was all down to the old gypsy woman, he said, it was her that had cursed him with this affliction, if he could get rid of her he could start after all, there was still time left to start if he wanted to, it wasn’t too late after all. what if she was dead already, she had been old even then, and time had done its marching since, stretched its legs and sprinted at times? no, the boy knew she was alive, he could feel her breathing down his neck even now, he decided to find her, his course was set and the wind was in his sails.

there was a knock at his door, the first knock on the door for as long as he had lived there, he’d not told his father or brothers where he was living, they presumed him dead, his father was weeping even then for the loss of his son and his wife. what have I done to deserve this crashing misery on my head, thought his father, there is nothing but unfairness running things behind the scenes, unfairness and meanness. why one would think that all there is in this world is suffering and the thought ‘endure’. but the boy knew not of his father’s pain there was no contact, it was impossible for him to know.

the boy answered his door, it creaked, it had remained closed for so long, and it was the old gypsy woman, not looking a day older than before, the same cracks all over her face as the last occasion they had met, it was no coincidence the boy thought.

well, I’ve come for what’s mine, she said, it’s time to get it out of the way isn’t it, this business won’t work itself out on its own, will it?

she seemed to ask a lot of questions for someone who knew all the answers.

I suppose not, said the boy, you’d better come in. how did you know where I was?

sorrow always knows which door to come knocking on, she said, she had a way with words, she always knew what it was she was supposed to say.

he hit her on the head and she fell down dead. it was badness and wickedness he knew, but it had come looking for him and there was only one way to deal with it. he threw the body in a river and went home to his dad and brothers. no one ever said anything about the missing old woman, those in her intimate circle knew what had happened, she’d told them it would, but it couldn’t be helped, there were no recriminations.

it seems a sad story, of the boy who killed an old woman, I have no doubt missed out some important part, maybe one of the brothers had a long search in vain for him before his return, I forget, or the old woman was particularly evil before the end and deserved it, I don’t know, it’s only the main part that sticks. the brothers and father were very pleased to see him after all those years anyway.

my son, said the father, I thought you’d gone forever, what joy this is for an old man you would not believe.

and the brothers smiled and patted him on the back to make sure he was really there. where have you been? they all asked, all this time and never a word.

and the boy told them he had had to go away to work through some problems, that there had been darkness looming on his path but now the way was brightly lit. they were sad to hear he’d had problems, but relieved that he’d worked everything out. they all hugged, the father cried, only this time it was because he was so happy.

but what will you do now, they said?

I’ll start, he said, now I’ll make a start. I’ll start.