Neurotic Literature James Lark

A sneak preview of what lies in store in the long-awaited second season of Neurotic Literature, dropping soon!

It is surprising how much discomfort people are prepared to put up with when the cause it out of sight: surveys suggest that three in four men don't go to the doctor when suffering pain or illness, even when it might be life threatening. Arthur Westrip was very much one of the three-in-four men.
 
Perhaps if he had been in possession of a partner, somebody in a position to nag him or at least to see how painful the skin behind his ears had looked from the start, he would have gone to the doctor sooner. But he did not have a partner and he was, he had to admit, pretty unlikely to get one now that his condition was visible, and pretty gross at that.
 
Fortunately, Arthur's overbearing sister is on hand, and a visit to the doctor is, in this narrative at least, a predictable inevitability. What that visit reveals, though, is far from predictable, and when Arthur finds out what is actually happening to him, a whole new world opens up - a world of opportunity, an exciting social life, maybe even the long-hoped-for partner.
 
Not to mention a very different kind of pain.
 
A story about dry skin and self-loathing, relationships and family... and the things people say in cold blood.
 

Had it been a continuous noise, that would not have been a problem. Lucy could have gone to sleep with a constant rumble, or a low hum, or even a regular trickle of water. But it wasn’t any of those things. Or rather, it was all of them, but mixed up and unpredictable, as though the radiator was trying to say something.
 
Even the way the radiator looked was frightening. It was a huge old thing crouching at the side of the room; not the unassuming rectangular kind they’d had in the old house, but a giant, iron skeleton, all ridges and angles. It was painted in a sickly creamy grey, the colour of hospitals, and the paint was flaking, like dead skin, exposing dark patches like raw meat underneath. 
 
The only thing that was perhaps even more frightening than the radiator was the prospect of going downstairs again to tell Mummy and Richard about the noise it was making. Because Richard was definitely beginning to lose his temper with her.
 
But at some point soon, Lucy was going to need to confront at least one of them.
 
A ghost story of sorts, in which (as in all of the best ghost stories) the people who are still alive are probably scarier than the dead ones. As are the inanimate objects that were never supposed to be alive in the first place.

We all have them. Those memories which resurface again and again, the petty resentments that every adult clings onto, which rankle with the same vibrancy each time we relive them.
 
But what if, instead of merely reliving them, we could change them?
 
George Goode has been given the opportunity to try. To go back and fix the things he said, or left unsaid, as well as the things he did or didn't do that he wishes he hadn't, or indeed, had. And what possible reason could anyone have to turn down such a chance? Apart, of course, from the rather steep cost, not to mention the weight of cultural and religious suspicion of demons which tends to scream at every bone in your body to walk away quickly without looking back.
 
But demons are just fallen angels, aren't they? Consider this: here is a chance for George to right wrongs, mend mistakes, to be a better person. As well as potentially to have quite a lot more sex than he managed to on his first attempt at life.
 
It seems like a pretty good deal at any price.
 
But when you deal with the devil, things are not always what they seem...

A long time ago, it was made out of paper. Patterned paper or coloured paper. And it was put on walls.
 
It didn't sound like anything. You saw it, but you didn't hear it. Of course, that was very distracting, but it was a long time ago and the people were primitive.
 
As for sounds, they had to make those themselves, with things carved from wood, or made from metal. Even with their voices.
 
It is common knowledge that, before wallpaper (or rather, when wallpaper was merely paper stuck on walls) people were unhappy much of the time. The regulation of emotions with constant sound is one of the great breakthroughs of modern times.
 
So why do you feel so nostalgic for that past you never knew, and why does your body refuse to be regulated?

Alice Jenkins was not having an unusually trying day, though the litany of things she generally had to deal with might elicit more than a little sympathy. After all, apart from handling her own busy lifestyle, she also had to organise the lives of her three children and husband. Many people will have experienced similar burdens.

Not many people, however, will be able to identify quite so easily with what happened next. Because, whatever the reason, this is the story of the day things went very differently for Alice. Not to mention, for her children.

Whether you sympathise or even empathise with Alice’s eventual course of action will very likely depend upon your own situation and experiences - and probably on the kind of person you are and whether you are normally inclined to show understanding towards somebody who takes what can only be described as The Most Extreme Route Available. I suspect that a lot of you will find her actions difficult to forgive. In which case, you will be in much the same situation as her husband, Ian.

That said, the person who ought to be blamed for the things that happened on this fateful day is, I reckon, a much more divisive question.

In any case, extreme actions lead to extreme consequences, and whatever else happens, somebody is going to end up with an awful lot of cleaning to do.

CONTENT WARNING: this story does very much what it says on the tin and, for all that it is wildly allegorical and patently absurd, if you think you might be upset by it you should approach with caution. It is not suitable bedtime story material.