This was one of the trickiest of the very difficult writing challenges set me by poet-presenter Ian McMillan and the producers at Radio 3’s The Verb.
They asked me to write a reversible story — one that worked just as well if you read it last line to first. Rather than the mirrored letters in a palindrome (‘Mr. Owl ate my metal worm’), this works with complete sentences.
What I ended up writing — for broadcast in November 2007 — is a story that isn’t complete until it has been read both forwards and backwards, which is how I print it here.
Again, I’d encourage you to have a go at this challenge. I enjoyed it a lot, and remember on a couple of occasions reading the story to a live audience. That’s great, because you see and hear them recognising the novelty of familiar lines.
A few hints: Because it might get you into logical trouble to write, ‘She went up the stairs,’ you have to find a way around that. Here, I say, ‘The stairs were dirty.’
Similarly, ‘She opened and closed the office door behind her’ is far more flexible than ‘She went into the office’.
ANNA
(A REVERSIBLE STORY)
He muttered a few words that might have been a prayer and then strolled away from the grave.
It was a dull afternoon, not unpleasant, the sun hanging yellow in a dove grey sky.
The bus took him near to where he needed to go.
His apartment, after all that had happened, felt strange to him – as if someone else should be living there.
He had a shower before putting on his best black suit.
A text came through on his cellphone: ‘It is time.’
He waited.
In the kitchen, he made himself an espresso – taking fifteen minutes about doing so.
It was time, definitely – time to act.
The key clanged in the deadlock of his front door.
He went through his pockets to make sure he still had everything he needed.
Then he took the lift.
Outside the apartment block, he lit a cigarette.
The metro, when he got on, was extremely crowded, which was odd for this time of the day.
He read a newspaper, so as to be less conspicuous.
People in the station rushed past him.
He looked around, cautiously.
Then he made his escape.
So young – he had not expected her to be so young.
He checked the photograph once more.
On the steps of the University, students sat and discussed whatever students discuss – he had no idea; he had never been a student.
The main entrance hall was completely empty.
Swiftly, he made his way.
So far, it was going surprisingly well.
Accompanied by a Moroccan cleaner, who would not remember him later when quizzed by the police, he took the elevator.
The door to her office creaked as it opened and closed behind him.
She sat in the chair, facing the window, completely still.
He put his arms around her neck and embraced her, more than embraced her – squeezed hard, for a long time.
She was unresponsive.
‘Thanks for the welcome,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said. ‘Why did you come?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘It’s her you should see, not me,’ she said.
There was a long pause.
The girl bent down and reached into her purse, producing a photograph.
‘This is what you want,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘She died last week.’
‘Really?’
‘They buried her beside her mother.’
‘Not unusual.’
‘I’ve had enough of all this,’ the young woman said.
‘Here,’ he said, and handed her a folded bundle of high-denomination notes.
‘The usual, I suppose,’ she said.
He spoke her name, quietly, tenderly.
Her office door closed behind him.
On the street in front of the university, he checked the photograph.
Something about this didn’t feel right.
For a change, he took a taxi.
A week had passed since the last time he saw his contact.
The concierge hadn’t done a very good job of dusting the hallway of his building.
The stairs were dirty.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror: no change, as far as he could see.
For a while, he lay on the bed.
He tried to relax.
It wasn’t working.
He breathed deeply.
She was dead, he knew – the woman he loved was dead.
Everything had changed.
Everything had changed.
She was dead, he knew – the woman he loved was dead.
He breathed deeply.
It wasn’t working.
He tried to relax.
For a while, he lay on the bed.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror: no change, as far as he could see.
The stairs were dirty.
The concierge hadn’t done a very good job of dusting the hallway of his building.
A week had passed since the last time he saw his contact.
For a change, he took a taxi.
Something about this didn’t feel right.
On the street in front of the university, he checked the photograph.
Her office door closed behind him.
He spoke her name, quietly, tenderly.
‘The usual, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Here,’ he said, and handed her a folded bundle of high-denomination notes.
‘I’ve had enough of all this,’ the young woman said.
‘Not unusual.’
‘They buried her beside her mother.’
‘Really?’
‘She died last week.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘This is what you want,’ she said.
The girl bent down and reached into her purse, producing a photograph.
There was a long pause.
‘It’s her you should see, not me,’ she said.
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said. ‘Why did you come?’
‘Thanks for the welcome,’ he said.
She was unresponsive.
He put his arms around her neck and embraced her, more than embraced her – squeezed hard, for a long time.
She sat in the chair, facing the window, completely still.
The door to her office creaked as it opened and closed behind him.
Accompanied by a Moroccan cleaner, who would not remember him later when quizzed by the police, he took the elevator.
So far, it was going surprisingly well.
Swiftly, he made his way.
The main entrance hall was completely empty.
On the steps of the University, students sat and discussed whatever students discuss – he had no idea; he had never been a student.
He checked the photograph once more.
So young – he had not expected her to be so young.
Then he made his escape.
He looked around, cautiously.
People in the station rushed past him.
He read a newspaper, so as to be less conspicuous.
The metro, when he got on, was extremely crowded, which was odd for this time of the day.
Outside the apartment block, he lit a cigarette.
Then he took the lift.
He went through his pockets to make sure he still had everything he needed.
The key clanged in the lock of his front door.
It was time, definitely – time to act.
In the kitchen, he made himself an espresso – taking fifteen minutes about doing so.
He waited.
A text came through on his cellphone: ‘It is time.’
He had a shower before putting on his best black suit.
His apartment, after all that had happened, felt strange to him – as if someone else should be living there.
The bus took him near to where he needed to go.
It was a dull afternoon, not unpleasant, the sun hanging yellow in a dove grey sky.
He muttered a few words that might have been a prayer and then strolled away from the grave.
Image: from Getty. Unknown maker, American.
Brian Bilston's 'Refugees' poem is another good example: https://brianbilston.com/2016/03/23/refugees/
Great idea! I wrote this: https://open.substack.com/pub/speculativism/p/the-house-of-dreams-and-nightmares?r=6x7tz&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web