The Year My Tears Failed

By Alex Burrett

Five short stories and five poems from internationally published author Alex Burrett.
For Alex Burrett, 2015 was both literally and metaphorically, "The year my tears failed". Literally – in that he was diagnosed with a medical condition that is treated with artificial tears. His own tears are incapable of properly lubricating his eyeballs. Metaphorically – in that the literary shrieks of pain this collection fell on deaf ears. Each was entered into a completion. Not one won. Or was shortlisted.
Is this the worst introduction to a year’s work ever written? Burrett hopes so. Because that will mean he has won a prize... of sorts. Anyway. He's proud of these short stories and poems. They explore big ideas. This collection is ideal for someone who likes big picture thinking. And words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Burrett
• Release date: Jan 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311201614

Alex Burrett

Alex Burrett lives in London, where he works in advertising. This is his first collection of stories.

Book preview

The Year My Tears Failed

by Alex Burrett

Copyright Alex Burrett 2016

Publisher Fedw

Smashwords Edition

Dedicated to Scarlett, Morgan, Mitchell, Lauren and Gorse.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the endeavour of this author.

Cover image original artwork owned by Alex Burrett.

A note from the author

2015 was both literally and metaphorically the ‘year my tears failed’.

Literally – in that I have been diagnosed with a medical condition that is treated with artificial tears. My own tears are incapable of properly lubricating my eyeballs.

At night I have to place a large drop of artificial tears into my right eye. If I don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll wake with an open wound in my cornea that runs the width my eyeball. This stings. A lot.

Metaphorically – in that the literary shrieks of pain this collection fell on deaf ears. Each was entered into a completion. Not one won. Or was shortlisted.

Is this the worst introduction to a year’s work ever written? I hope so. Because that will mean I have won a prize… of sorts.

Anyway. I like these short stories and poems. I’m proud of them. So here they are. Please write a review if you read them.

INDEX

Short Stories

50,000 Lambs

Advertising Heaven

The Tense Past

More than a Mole

Ůlf

Poems

Toys us are

Make heavy chains

Ticking toxin

What stuff are we?

To Palestine *

About the Author

50,000 lambs

Killing isn’t difficult. Anyone can kill. You could kill. You might need a car or something like that if you haven’t got the martial training. The method is a detail. A technical detail – a measure of weapon availability and capability. People get over how you do it. On the whole. At the end, what matters is… are they dead or aren’t they?

To hell with people who say it’s a moral decision. If it was down to morality, hardly anybody would kill. It’s morally wrong to take somebody else’s life. Period. Self-defence? Unless it’s a panic-driven accident, you don’t need to kill. That last smash with a hammer over a burglar’s bonce – that final few seconds pressing down on the windpipe of your decade-long tormentor – that trembling squeezing of the trigger when your husband or wife is sleeping… that’s intentional killing. And you know what, give me control of your life and I’ll turn you into a killer. You don’t abstain from killing because you’re morally superior; you abstain from killing because it’s in your interests to do so.

That’s not me. I took a decision years ago that I’d happily kill. Not happily in the sense of take pleasure from – but happily in the sense of willingly do so without complaint. I took the Queen’s shilling. I promised to do what was asked of me when push came to shove. I signed on the dotted line. I joined the Forces.

Vietnam aside, soldiers are rarely criticised for doing their duty. The general public accepts that someone has to spill blood on their behalf. And the public generally appreciates the brave individuals who put their lives on the line to protect the status quo. To defend the principles of whatever social philosophy shapes civil society. To risk life and limb. To fight. And, although you probably rarely think about it, that kind of activity shapes a man. Out there on the battlefield it’s kill or be killed. Politicians deal with the fallout when shit happens. My job was to make sure it happened to others. The enemy.

This is pretty deep stuff. But I can’t help myself. I’m sat in the most picturesque spot in the world. And I’ve always been a deep thinker. Civvies tend to think that people like me are simple. A lot might be. I’m not. I read. Not right wing, celebrity-obsessed snoozepapers. Literature. Particularly poetry. I was reading poetry anthologies when my teenage friends were chasing skirt. Sex might stimulate the body. But only art stimulates the mind.

I’m perched on a ragged shoulder of the Wye Valley. One of the reasons I come here is because of Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey. The abbey’s a few miles up river. Wordsworth could have sat here as he took a break from lonely wandering. I’m convinced of that. Plus it’s stunning and awe-inspiring. Aunty Anita reckons the word picturesque was created for this mystical, bendy stretch of river and cliffs and forests and wood-fired cottages. The Victorians came here to take carriage rides and fresh air. Über fresh air. They rode down cobble roads that twisted through the dappled, deciduous woods. They stopped for rustic lunches of dense bread and salty ham. They bought scenic watercolours from adequate local watercolourists. And they turned to one another and said, How terribly picturesque. Because the word that was invented to describe their destination, perfectly described their destination.

Nothing’s changed.

I’m sat at the top of an expanse of 300-foot limestone cliffs. They were quarried by the Victorians – proving we humans have always been comfortable with both celebrating something and destroying it at the same time. I can see a mile and a bit upriver, a little less downriver. The Wye is old here. It bends left and right like the