Evenin’

My name is Gary Morton and I’m a writer from Glasgow. I will be sharing my various literary endeavours with all you delicious people. I intend to write honest, uncompromising stuff  and I really hope you like it. This is my first upload and it is a short story entitled ‘It’s Just Like Eating Razorblade Sandwiches’. It’s about the dark underbelly of unrequited love, jealousy and contempt that can develop in the perpetual purgatory of a dysfunctional long-term relationship, or as John Updike calls it ‘the slow creeping onset of decay’ (or words to that effect, I’m too lazy to look up quotations).

Enjoy……if that is the right word to use.

Thanks for your time,
G.

Part 1

It’s Just Like Eating Razorblade Sandwiches

So, I guess that pretentious poets and so-called writers and endless hopeless romantics have tried to capture the essence of those ‘three-magic-little-words’ for centuries and I still don’t think they have fully achieved it, no matter how hard they try. No matter how many thousands of other grandiose and beautifully constructed epiphanies they throw at it, no matter how many countless marble epitaphs that have been carved in clumsy remembrance of a lost loved one, with words etched in searing gold which attempt to represent and confine these four little indecipherable symbols within definable boundaries, no matter how many sickly, soaring fantasies they concoct in rhyme and iambic pentameter (although he probably came closest), in futile, inky letters or drops of rich fresh blood on paper and on glowing computer screens, littered with glittering impassioned pleas and sorrowful and desolate cries that they send up into the cold, unforgiving night air in a perpetual quest for meaning (so I don’t know why I’m bothering, I’m just filling in the dry, echoing hours really) just one, two, three words, those fvcking little words that can be so profound and carry so much. They can’t possibly carry all that significance on their little short printed or spoken spines. Is it possible that such powerful emotions can be communicated in this way, with tongues and oxygen and lips and muscles: they can’t adhere to the idealistic romantic notions that we carry around inside our heads and desperately claw at with bleeding, cracked nails?

Can they?

Through all of this perpetual, crushing chaos my eager little fingers have continued to repeatedly pitter patter on plastic buttons and nothing has changed in the world which has continued to breathe and eat and get married and recycle and get divorced and have kids and default on a mortgage and consume and fvck and touch and ejaculate up the walls and bleed everywhere and get cancer and survive cancer and donate to help cancer and give to the poor and avoid charity workers in the street and nearly think about voting in elections and thinking about being apathetic and fallen in love and cheated on their lovers and being cheated on and fallen out of love and ended relationships and committed suicide and watched infuriatingly boring, uneventful football games and gone to funerals and got a new job and moved on and been bitter and full of despair and arranged company picnics and go to dinner dances and fight and kill and torture and stalk and maim and dismember and disembowel and digest and rape and murder and cut.

Just like any other day.