#ernest smith

[germanpostwarmodern]

House (1959) built for himself in Winnipeg, Canada, by Ernest Smith of Smith Carter Searle Associates

[chantssecrets]

Jean Genet is a piece of digital artwork by Ernest Smith, 2019.

[zaynmalikupdates]

Ernest Smith, a co-writer on Tightrope, talking about how the song came to be on his Instagram - 16.1.2021

[keeptalkingtomyself]

[reveriesevenik]

The Boy Who Fell Through the Underground

Ernest T Smith liked his name quite a lot, so it was with very thinly veiled irritation that he endured all manner of taunts that used his name like a weapon against him.

If he wasn't being called “Ear-nest” for the way his bowl cut made his large ears appear to stick out even more than they already did, he was being told that his last name was not, in fact his last name.

“It's Chan, right? Or Ding-Dong or somethin’. Whatever it is, it’s not Smith, so stop lying to everyone already. Where are you really from?” someone, probably Randy Welch, who delighted in telling everyone how his father employed nearly a quarter of the people in London and was therefore more important than nearly everyone else at school, would jeer.  

The cocky boy was far more popular than scrawny, dark-haired Ernest, with his Young-King-Arthur looks and his wealthy family, and it was obvious that he relished his status. Randy even wore a gaudy, jewel-encrusted necklace on a thick chain to school every day and bragged that it had been in his family for generations.

“Ding-Dong isn’t even an Asian name,” Ernest would reply, “but I hear that’s what they used to call your mother back before she had you.”

His brain was always a few steps ahead of his feet, which was why he often found himself at the wrong end of a fist soon afterwards.  

It wasn’t that Ernest didn’t have friends, but he was prone to alienating the few he had by saying something cruelly witty before he realized that it was probably a bad idea to say it.  It didn’t help that he was literally one of the only students at his private, all-boys school, whose parents hadn’t paid through the nose to get him in.  He wasn’t a stellar student, but he wasn’t a dropout either, which meant that he was worse than either of these things.

He was, unfortunately, unremarkable, except for one very important thing.

Ernest Smith could sometimes see the future.

Luckily, it didn’t happen every day, a mercy for which Ernest was rather thankful. It was disorienting to find himself randomly shoved face-first into the future for a few moments before being dragged back into the present, which usually ended up with him tripping on something or having an awkward conversation with someone who wouldn’t take “randomly popped out to look at the future for a bit, but I’m back now” as an explanation. Episodes of future sight felt a lot like being pushed underwater in a fast-moving river, and he had to struggle to keep himself focused on what he was seeing enough to figure out what was going on.

Secondly, it rarely provided useful information.  Though Ernest was fairly thankful that he wasn’t left with infuriating, vaguely worded prophecies after one of his “episodes,” his forays into the future were not exactly inspiring.  He could see very clearly what would be served for lunch and which line was the shortest at the snack bar, but since he always brought his lunch from home, he never really needed to use the information for himself.  He could see what people would be wearing the next day or the day after, but beyond a few bets he made (which dried up after he won more than once), that information hadn’t exactly yielded positive results either.

And so, Ernest just tried to ignore his so-called “gift” and refrained from telling anyone about it.  His mother had at least an inkling about it, for he’d brought it up when he was much younger, but he’d spent a lot of time convincing her that he had grown out of it (though, really, how does one “grow out” of seeing the future?). It was, he decided, a ridiculous explanation, but his parents seemed relieved at the lie.

As he grew older, Ernest was finding that lies often worked quite a lot better than the truth when it came to parents. Selective truths made up the rest of it. It seemed that cruel truths of the world were simply too much for the grown ups of the world, and Ernest wasn't about to upset them, not when they had the power to make his life miserable.

Seemingly unrelated to the obnoxious episodes of being pushed randomly into the future, Ernest also had recurring dreams about glossy black wings and the scent of mint as someone with a gruff voice whispered something unintelligible to him.  It was an oddly soothing dream that he looked forward to having, though he certainly didn’t have much love for any of the garbage-stealing corvids that made a mess of the rubbish bins around the city, and he hadn't smelled the scent of real mint since the summer before, when he’d gone to the country to visit family.

It was on a fairly forgettable Friday that Ernest made the first terrible decision in a series of terrible decisions that would change his life forever.

It was his first class of the day and he slipped into his seat only to feel something cold and slimy underneath him. He jerked out of his seat and fell to the floor with a scream that echoed through the classroom.

Everyone stared and a few people began to point and laugh. Ernest turned his head to see that someone had piled his chair with cold, slimy noodles.

Shame colored his cheeks as he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“Thought you'd appreciate a bit of chow fun this morning! You should thank me, Chinaman!” Randy jeered, his cronies surrounding him like an assortment of particularly dim rocks.

Ernest muttered something angrily under his breath just in time for the surly biology teacher to enter the classroom.

“Mr. Welch!” Professor Mungin growled, looming over the suddenly very contrite boy. “Bullying students again are we?  You will clean up this mess and apologize to Mr. Smith. Then, I think that you and I shall take a little stroll down to speak with the Headmaster.”

Randy looked a bit panicked at that, but he appeared to think of something quickly enough and his expression turned smug.

“Oh, Ernest knows that it was just a joke. Harmless fun, right Ernest?”

The way he said it promised dire things if Ernest did not agree.

“No. Not right,” Ernest replied bitterly, wincing at the twinge of pain in his tailbone. “He was just laughing about having done it.”

“Is that so?”  Professor Mungin glared angrily at Randy, who was not even bothering to disguise the look of utter hatred on his face.

Ernest knew it was a mistake the moment he heard the door to the classroom close. The rough, rock-faced boys gave him the sort of look that made his breath hitch with fear. One drew his finger across his neck and then added, as though Ernest couldn't have understood the obvious meaning of the gesture, “Yer dead, Smith.”

Randy didn't return to class with the teacher and Ernest sank even further down in his seat, which, though it had been wiped down, was still cold against his somewhat soggy trousers.

He dreaded the end of the day.

“Oi!”  The voice was sharp and full of undone violence.

Ernest did not turn back. He ran.

He could barely hear anything over the roar of the blood in his ears, but from the chorus of shouts behind him, he knew he was in trouble. Ernest had short legs, but he also wasn't very tall. Normally, these two things were the respective banes of his existence. It was hard to get other blokes to take him seriously when he was nearly a head shorter. Being small and sleight was a boon, however, when running away from a group of murderous thugs in a crowded, bustling city.

Ernest flew into the street and sidestepped a lorry just as it barreled on through the intersection without even slowing down. As he landed on  bus flew by behind him at breakneck speed and he could hear his pursuers swearing over the cough of exhaust that escaped the giant beast of a vehicle as it braked to turn into a bus stop. Ernest ran ahead and ducked down behind a large dumpster.

Sure enough, the group of angry thugs ran by, and when he was sure they'd gone, he quickly took off in the opposite direction.

He’d made it all the way past the turnstiles and was standing near one of the support beams near the subway platform when he someone grabbed his shoulder and pushed him...hard. Ernest let out a shout and half-stumbled towards the end of the platform. He finally caught himself and turned, only to find himself face to face with a furious Randy Welch.

“Come back here, you slanty-” Randy let out a noise somewhat like a balloon being deflated as Ernest headbutted him in the stomach.

“Leave! Me! Alone!” Ernest ground out as Randy grabbed his arms and began to push back against him, his mouth a comical “O” of pain as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Just you wait ‘til my friend Freddy gets here,” Randy gasped out, his fingers curling around Ernest’s arms like steel beams. “He doesn’t like your sort.” He snarled. “Half-breeds.”

Ernest only had a moment to turn his head before Randy spat on his cheek, the warm, thick sensation filling Ernest with a deep, unsettling desire to fight and flee at the same time.  His blood boiled in his ears as he began to struggle like a caged animal against the stronger, bigger boy’s grip.  Ernest felt as though he was looking down a long, dark tunnel, his only desire to hurt Randy until he let go and then get away.

There was a whistling sound in the distance as policemen ran down the platform, but it might as well have been a million miles away.  The rumbling and hot hiss of air as an approaching train filled the stagnant underground station, but Ernest was focused only on one thing.

Get away. Get away. Getawaygetawaygetaway.

Ernest clawed frantically at Randy’s chest and his fingers hooked around something cold and solid.

The pendant on Randy’s stupid necklace.

“-are you crazy-” Randy was shouting something else, but Ernest pulled in the opposite direction blindly, his mind only coming back to him the moment his right foot hit empty air.

There was a horrible metallic snapping noise as the chain snapped and Ernest fell backwards, his head turning to see a bright light growing brighter in his eyes until he couldn’t see anything at all.

There was a scream, and Ernest wondered vaguely if it was his own, but then, with a blast of heat and light, his forehead slammed against something hard and then he didn’t wonder anything at all.