It can’t be bloody xmas!
My skin is still all white
Its only 4:15 and already it’s gone night.
There’s no cricket on the airwaves yet
no girls in shorts, no volley net.
It can’t be bloody xmas
There's not one sniff of barbeque,
No sight of presents left in view...
No white wine sparkling in the sun,
No kids in speedos screaming fun.
It can’t be bloody xmas
I’m sitting here in ugg boots
that come up to my knees.
I should be seeking shade
and hunting up a breeze.
It can’t be bloody xmas
All the Santas should reek of sweat
And when I’m sitting down for lunch
my bathers should be wet.
It will only feel like xmas
When the bird is carved and cold
And laid out next to salad
with a glass of amber Gold.
It can’t be bloody xmas,
Its cold, damp, dark and bleak
A quick trip back to paradise
would take a bloody week.
It will only feel like xmas
When the barbie's grilling prawn,
the girls lay barebacked on the lawn,
and mates relax and have a yawn,
while grandmas on their children fawn.
But here,,,,
There is food, and friends, like twenty.
A pretty wife, and years a-plenty
to spend in love and warmth together
no matter in the world, wherever.
It kind of feels like Christmas..
I suppose I could be told,
but still, by any measure,
its far too bloody cold.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Hope Hurts
Some of you may have been made aware of the fact I was voted into the top ten writers in a recent Yorkshire ghost story competition.
It is hard to capture in words the all-encompassing feeling of elation and self-worth, the justification, happiness and pride that swelled up inside when I heard the message on my home phone answering machine. The lovely motherly voice was recorded matter-of-factly, telling me all about the competition , where the final judging was to be and how I could reserve a seat if I wanted to go to the judging night…..
IF I WANTED TO GO!? Of course I wanted to go!
I wanted to take everyone I knew.
The top 10? Me?
I hugged the wife and chortled a bit then I emailed family and friends, the ones who know I write a bit now and then….
I was on facebook when I discovered that Pete had also been nominated. I was amazed. How a-bloody-mazing was that!? That I knew someone else who had been chosen too, then almost immediately I got a little deflated that I was not so special. But in a flash I was happy again that two of us from the Leeds Savage writers group got chosen.
It only took another second for me to think, I wonder how tough the competition was,,, if we both got a mention in the top 10?
I discounted that, Harrogate is renown for it’s great writers and competitive literature competitions. The caliber would be high..
Surely.
There would have been lots of submissions…..
Then Pete wrote that there were 'over 40 respondents', so I felt a bit crap about that, still, at least I was better than 30 other writers……
Oh, bugger it.
I remembered the candidates could be anyone over the age of 15 .....
What if Pete and I were only competing against Miss Prudence’s pock-faced, third form, remedial English class.
But maybe not , the Library competition competitors would be from Harrogate’s wider intelligent demographic.
It will be an interesting night out.
Heck, it’s not every day I’d go to something like this.
Then I thought, it’s a bit of a shit that Pete and I are both in the same boat .
I want to win .
I suppose I don’t care that much if I don’t, but I’d feel a bit weird if Pete won.
But I don’t want Pete not to win.
You know, it would be a bastard either way.
If Pete wins I’ll be pleased for him but I’d wonder if there wouldn’t be some sort of, kind of, discomfort, between us.
If I win I’ll be so chuffed, I know I’ll be a smug pain in the arse.
I’ll try not to be, but, well,,,,
So then I thought, probably best if neither of us win, then we can have a few drinks and dump shit on the competition and judges and share pint or two.
That would be absolutely the best end to the judging night.
So considering all angles, I really hope that,
on the night, that…
I win by a gi-bloody-normous margin,
And Pete doesn’t.
Fuck it, he’ll get over it.
It is hard to capture in words the all-encompassing feeling of elation and self-worth, the justification, happiness and pride that swelled up inside when I heard the message on my home phone answering machine. The lovely motherly voice was recorded matter-of-factly, telling me all about the competition , where the final judging was to be and how I could reserve a seat if I wanted to go to the judging night…..
IF I WANTED TO GO!? Of course I wanted to go!
I wanted to take everyone I knew.
The top 10? Me?
I hugged the wife and chortled a bit then I emailed family and friends, the ones who know I write a bit now and then….
I was on facebook when I discovered that Pete had also been nominated. I was amazed. How a-bloody-mazing was that!? That I knew someone else who had been chosen too, then almost immediately I got a little deflated that I was not so special. But in a flash I was happy again that two of us from the Leeds Savage writers group got chosen.
It only took another second for me to think, I wonder how tough the competition was,,, if we both got a mention in the top 10?
I discounted that, Harrogate is renown for it’s great writers and competitive literature competitions. The caliber would be high..
Surely.
There would have been lots of submissions…..
Then Pete wrote that there were 'over 40 respondents', so I felt a bit crap about that, still, at least I was better than 30 other writers……
Oh, bugger it.
I remembered the candidates could be anyone over the age of 15 .....
What if Pete and I were only competing against Miss Prudence’s pock-faced, third form, remedial English class.
But maybe not , the Library competition competitors would be from Harrogate’s wider intelligent demographic.
It will be an interesting night out.
Heck, it’s not every day I’d go to something like this.
Then I thought, it’s a bit of a shit that Pete and I are both in the same boat .
I want to win .
I suppose I don’t care that much if I don’t, but I’d feel a bit weird if Pete won.
But I don’t want Pete not to win.
You know, it would be a bastard either way.
If Pete wins I’ll be pleased for him but I’d wonder if there wouldn’t be some sort of, kind of, discomfort, between us.
If I win I’ll be so chuffed, I know I’ll be a smug pain in the arse.
I’ll try not to be, but, well,,,,
So then I thought, probably best if neither of us win, then we can have a few drinks and dump shit on the competition and judges and share pint or two.
That would be absolutely the best end to the judging night.
So considering all angles, I really hope that,
on the night, that…
I win by a gi-bloody-normous margin,
And Pete doesn’t.
Fuck it, he’ll get over it.
Pigeon Spit
On understanding the fairer race. ( and using pigeon spit as part of a task)
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally right,
it sings like a choir and pulses with the passion of an orchestra at crescendo. A harmonious choral symphony.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally wrong, a dichotomy grating grates like shit-encrusted swine forcing their intent on nectar-scented hummingbirds.
I was reminded of the disparate nature of long term relationships by a neighbour who dropped in for a coffee and a quick chat.
Okay, to be honest I invited him in and he was too polite to refuse.
This afternoon we fell to talking about his plans for a recent home extension the council had refused….
He went on to discuss the alternative which was to add a window in the existing room, get his wife to move her collection of blue and white, place a small table and make the otherwise dead space usable. He thought however that moving the blue and white was going to be harder than getting council permissions.
A knowing chuckle.
I proposed he remove an internal wall but immediately retracted that as I recalled his wife wanted the separate room provided by that very wall.
“How did you know that? he asked,
“She told me last time we were there. Hadn’t you two talked about that?”
“Well of course we have, but she never said, no.” he mused, “You know, they don’t do they. They allude to agreeing, but in a tone that is not quite totally agreeing. We have to decipher if that means, ‘Perhaps’, or, ‘While I think it’s a reasonable idea I am not wholly convinced about it, so, sure, go ahead and try, its nothing to do with me.' ”
We laughed conspiratorially.
I reflected that I truly understood his dilemma. Many times a week I have to decide if a yes is a ‘Yes’, or if its a... ‘yes – If that’s what you want, dear’, or a... ‘yes – But realise it is your decision and I’ll tell you immediately if its not perfect’, or simply if its a... ‘yes as in NO!’
I, despite years of practice, remain completely without the skill set to determine a yes correctly or if my entreaties or approaches, my cajoling and humour are ever going to be appropriate to her mood from one minute to the next.
I am sure it is a genetic code that makes the female completely unaware that she is constantly sending out totally inconsistent messages. Not just on different days but within sentences, within glances and between breaths.
I do understand that it is the male’s role to allow for mood changes and decipher implied levels of agreement. I understand how, after so many years trying to do that it could logically expected, once in a while at least, I should get it right.
I also understand that when I wrongly interpret a yes, one that she has delivered in a moment of emotive transience, it is entirely my fault.
What I don’t understand is how this delicate, luscious flower-like, creature can instantly become so devastatingly fatal and powerfully demeaning in vitriol, glares and actions.
I mean, really.
Just as well I have a thick skin, coarse hair and smell a bit.
And it is also well that I do not suffer alone, that there is a local pub or place nearby where I can sit and talk with other coarse, smelly, bemused and bewildered lesser life forms. I think there is as much chance of bottling pigeon spit as there is of finding a bloke who has solved the yes conundrum.
Spending time with other smelly Shreks gives a level of balance, a vague surety to life and brings a renewed strength to the tragic male desire. The desire to return to smell the sweet essences of our partners and to try again to elicit the sparkling giggles, the sumptuous embraces and the caring words that make the whole confusion bearable. Dare I say, delightful.
But I doubt if I’ll ever know if she agrees.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally right,
it sings like a choir and pulses with the passion of an orchestra at crescendo. A harmonious choral symphony.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally wrong, a dichotomy grating grates like shit-encrusted swine forcing their intent on nectar-scented hummingbirds.
I was reminded of the disparate nature of long term relationships by a neighbour who dropped in for a coffee and a quick chat.
Okay, to be honest I invited him in and he was too polite to refuse.
This afternoon we fell to talking about his plans for a recent home extension the council had refused….
He went on to discuss the alternative which was to add a window in the existing room, get his wife to move her collection of blue and white, place a small table and make the otherwise dead space usable. He thought however that moving the blue and white was going to be harder than getting council permissions.
A knowing chuckle.
I proposed he remove an internal wall but immediately retracted that as I recalled his wife wanted the separate room provided by that very wall.
“How did you know that? he asked,
“She told me last time we were there. Hadn’t you two talked about that?”
“Well of course we have, but she never said, no.” he mused, “You know, they don’t do they. They allude to agreeing, but in a tone that is not quite totally agreeing. We have to decipher if that means, ‘Perhaps’, or, ‘While I think it’s a reasonable idea I am not wholly convinced about it, so, sure, go ahead and try, its nothing to do with me.' ”
We laughed conspiratorially.
I reflected that I truly understood his dilemma. Many times a week I have to decide if a yes is a ‘Yes’, or if its a... ‘yes – If that’s what you want, dear’, or a... ‘yes – But realise it is your decision and I’ll tell you immediately if its not perfect’, or simply if its a... ‘yes as in NO!’
I, despite years of practice, remain completely without the skill set to determine a yes correctly or if my entreaties or approaches, my cajoling and humour are ever going to be appropriate to her mood from one minute to the next.
I am sure it is a genetic code that makes the female completely unaware that she is constantly sending out totally inconsistent messages. Not just on different days but within sentences, within glances and between breaths.
I do understand that it is the male’s role to allow for mood changes and decipher implied levels of agreement. I understand how, after so many years trying to do that it could logically expected, once in a while at least, I should get it right.
I also understand that when I wrongly interpret a yes, one that she has delivered in a moment of emotive transience, it is entirely my fault.
What I don’t understand is how this delicate, luscious flower-like, creature can instantly become so devastatingly fatal and powerfully demeaning in vitriol, glares and actions.
I mean, really.
Just as well I have a thick skin, coarse hair and smell a bit.
And it is also well that I do not suffer alone, that there is a local pub or place nearby where I can sit and talk with other coarse, smelly, bemused and bewildered lesser life forms. I think there is as much chance of bottling pigeon spit as there is of finding a bloke who has solved the yes conundrum.
Spending time with other smelly Shreks gives a level of balance, a vague surety to life and brings a renewed strength to the tragic male desire. The desire to return to smell the sweet essences of our partners and to try again to elicit the sparkling giggles, the sumptuous embraces and the caring words that make the whole confusion bearable. Dare I say, delightful.
But I doubt if I’ll ever know if she agrees.
yorkshire passion
Yet another competition I entered, in November, describe Yorkshire passion in 200 words..... yeah, right. I didn't get a call.
Yorkshire day.
It starts as a seaside sunrise picks the colours from buildings and cliffs ‘round Staiths.
Behind the Hole of Horcum a steam train chuffs revelers to Whitby
and gliders chase clouds over Sutton Bank.
There rises the sound of furniture formed by the hands of Kilburn carvers.
Heather glows in dales en route to scoffing fat rascals in Bettys
and we jump the clints and grykes at Malham.
From the Hepburns and Moors at YSP
they head to Wensleydale creamery and on towards the brews of Masham .
We smile, a poddy lamb is yet again shooed from Tan Hill’s highest bar
and we recall Bardsey still boasts Britain’s oldest Inn.
Afternoon sunlight blings off Ripley’s classic cars as
famous ice cream melts over lovers’ fingers.
Kids leap the stones at Bolton priory
while grandma sups a Devonshire Arms high tea.
Then a smoky lunch in an ancient pub in Appletreewick,
our dogs lying spent at foot.
That evening, townsfolk chat, singers sing and artists endure
japes from revelers half way through Wetherby’s ten pub crawl.
Finally, city Leeds, come midnight,
the hugs and giggles escape merrily
from theme clad students
stumbling from pubs, to clubs, to dorms,
to bed.
Yorkshire day.
It starts as a seaside sunrise picks the colours from buildings and cliffs ‘round Staiths.
Behind the Hole of Horcum a steam train chuffs revelers to Whitby
and gliders chase clouds over Sutton Bank.
There rises the sound of furniture formed by the hands of Kilburn carvers.
Heather glows in dales en route to scoffing fat rascals in Bettys
and we jump the clints and grykes at Malham.
From the Hepburns and Moors at YSP
they head to Wensleydale creamery and on towards the brews of Masham .
We smile, a poddy lamb is yet again shooed from Tan Hill’s highest bar
and we recall Bardsey still boasts Britain’s oldest Inn.
Afternoon sunlight blings off Ripley’s classic cars as
famous ice cream melts over lovers’ fingers.
Kids leap the stones at Bolton priory
while grandma sups a Devonshire Arms high tea.
Then a smoky lunch in an ancient pub in Appletreewick,
our dogs lying spent at foot.
That evening, townsfolk chat, singers sing and artists endure
japes from revelers half way through Wetherby’s ten pub crawl.
Finally, city Leeds, come midnight,
the hugs and giggles escape merrily
from theme clad students
stumbling from pubs, to clubs, to dorms,
to bed.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Mavis's mistake
Challenge was a pick out of a hat one scenario and one character. I got “Removing wasp nests” and “Mildred the cuddly mallard”.
Once upon a pond,
a long long stream ago,
in a meadow far far away,
there lived a community of field and water creatures,
all of whom were pretty happy with their lot.
In fact they were happy enough so that every year in mid summer they gathered cheerily together and partied in the long grass, eating the ample food the meadow, stream and deep pond provided.
It was such a good place to be that visitors came from afar to stay for months and raise their kids .
Two regular visitors to the pond were Max and Mavis, a pair of migrating mallards. Every year they stopped over, met up with their meadow friends, ate the grass and grubs, laid a couple of eggs, or four, and raised their brood.
There was quite a lot of brooding going on in the meadow at this time of year, not the orgy you may be considering but a zesty thrill did waft enticingly through the meadow and much merriment ensued.
Around the middle of the season when all the kittens, pups, pullets and youngsters were generally getting too big and energetic, the meadow dwellers held a huge party. The badgers set about building mud slides and sand pits to play on, the rabbits dug huge tunnels to explore and there were water challenges, hiding, and chasing games. Play fights and races through the meadow and woods were encouraged. The young animals all loved the fun of the party which went on for ages until they were all tired but had grown much bigger and stronger and found they wanted to fend for themselves. All this activity increased the young appetites and their hunger had an impact on the available food supply and, not unusually, competition for the best spots around the pond grew keen.
This year, Mavis had laid just one egg, a disappointment to Max , and to Mavis who thought she must be getting old. It was a big egg though, so they were very excited when it hatched and a large fluffy girl chirped strongly.
They called her Mildred , meaning gentle strength, or Millie as she immediately became known. They proudly swam round the pond and waddled through the meadow showing off Millie while searching out a meal from the depleted stock of grubs and greens.
It was a few weeks before they noticed that Millie wasn’t feathering, but was becoming downier and fluffier every day. Not the usual thing for a mallard chick. The Canada geese fledglings, sporting their new plumage, started to laugh and snigger at Millie, the badger cubs chuckled and the moles and voles around the pond edge made squeaky jokes and teased her. Millie became very unhappy and began to hide away in the reeds. Max and Mavis tried in vein get her to come out and play.
The reed beds where she hid were dense and broke up the sunlight so there was not much food in there. Millie had soon eaten out the few grubs and greens that lived in the reeds. She became very hungry and was tempted to stop hiding but she couldn’t stand the teasing and attention she would get out in the open. To get to the scarce food in the shelter her large beak had become quite hard from hunting in the soil and biting the tough reeds and she had discovered that she could crack beetles and bugs not usually on the mallard menu. One day she found, hung under a matt of reeds, a papery package with what smelt like yummy grubs inside.
She nibbled at the side of it and released a delicious grub, but immediately there was a lot of buzzing noise and many angry bugs flew at Millie and tried to sting her away. The fluff that had caused her so much teasing was so dense that the stings could not get through and, actually, the little flying things were quite delicious too. Millie was a very happy duck as there seemed to be lots of these hanging grub packages and tasty buzzing bugs around.
Away from the reed bed, and as this warm summer played over the meadow, the animals became more and more bothered by the plague of wasps which were making meadow play and hunting very unpleasant. The nests seemed to be everywhere and the stings very painful. Many meadow dwellers began to think that this was no longer a nice place to be. Meadow meetings were held to solve the problem but there seemed to be no answer and the animals were getting scared and hungry, afraid to forage and get stung. The geese had stories of a breed of duck in Africa that hunted wasps but those heroes were far too far away from the meadow to be of any help.
Blissfully unaware, back in her reeds, it wasn’t long before Millie had eaten all the paper packages she could find and had started to waddle around looking for other delicious paper packages. Millie had put on quite a bit of condition from eating delicious grubs and buzzy bugs. The badgers were the first to notice Millie snapping and eating the worrisome wasps and the word soon spread that the cuddly mallard had special powers over these pests.
In no time at all Millie was treated to the deepest of apologies from all the meadow dwellers and was happily shown to where more delicious grub nests were. Millie became popular and started to grow into a fine duckling. Max and Mavis were very happy Millie had made new friends and with lots of nuzzling and preening they said farewell as they once again flew off southbound.
With all her new food and friends, Millie grew very fast and started to fledge into a rather superior form of large mallard with slightly strange patterned feathers. Probably just as well then , that Max had left or he would have noticed the feathers matched a lone, dark gander he and Mavis had flown with for a few days on their last migration south to Africa.
AFTERTHOUGHT,
It turns out that the solution to a problem may not always be that far canard.
Once upon a pond,
a long long stream ago,
in a meadow far far away,
there lived a community of field and water creatures,
all of whom were pretty happy with their lot.
In fact they were happy enough so that every year in mid summer they gathered cheerily together and partied in the long grass, eating the ample food the meadow, stream and deep pond provided.
It was such a good place to be that visitors came from afar to stay for months and raise their kids .
Two regular visitors to the pond were Max and Mavis, a pair of migrating mallards. Every year they stopped over, met up with their meadow friends, ate the grass and grubs, laid a couple of eggs, or four, and raised their brood.
There was quite a lot of brooding going on in the meadow at this time of year, not the orgy you may be considering but a zesty thrill did waft enticingly through the meadow and much merriment ensued.
Around the middle of the season when all the kittens, pups, pullets and youngsters were generally getting too big and energetic, the meadow dwellers held a huge party. The badgers set about building mud slides and sand pits to play on, the rabbits dug huge tunnels to explore and there were water challenges, hiding, and chasing games. Play fights and races through the meadow and woods were encouraged. The young animals all loved the fun of the party which went on for ages until they were all tired but had grown much bigger and stronger and found they wanted to fend for themselves. All this activity increased the young appetites and their hunger had an impact on the available food supply and, not unusually, competition for the best spots around the pond grew keen.
This year, Mavis had laid just one egg, a disappointment to Max , and to Mavis who thought she must be getting old. It was a big egg though, so they were very excited when it hatched and a large fluffy girl chirped strongly.
They called her Mildred , meaning gentle strength, or Millie as she immediately became known. They proudly swam round the pond and waddled through the meadow showing off Millie while searching out a meal from the depleted stock of grubs and greens.
It was a few weeks before they noticed that Millie wasn’t feathering, but was becoming downier and fluffier every day. Not the usual thing for a mallard chick. The Canada geese fledglings, sporting their new plumage, started to laugh and snigger at Millie, the badger cubs chuckled and the moles and voles around the pond edge made squeaky jokes and teased her. Millie became very unhappy and began to hide away in the reeds. Max and Mavis tried in vein get her to come out and play.
The reed beds where she hid were dense and broke up the sunlight so there was not much food in there. Millie had soon eaten out the few grubs and greens that lived in the reeds. She became very hungry and was tempted to stop hiding but she couldn’t stand the teasing and attention she would get out in the open. To get to the scarce food in the shelter her large beak had become quite hard from hunting in the soil and biting the tough reeds and she had discovered that she could crack beetles and bugs not usually on the mallard menu. One day she found, hung under a matt of reeds, a papery package with what smelt like yummy grubs inside.
She nibbled at the side of it and released a delicious grub, but immediately there was a lot of buzzing noise and many angry bugs flew at Millie and tried to sting her away. The fluff that had caused her so much teasing was so dense that the stings could not get through and, actually, the little flying things were quite delicious too. Millie was a very happy duck as there seemed to be lots of these hanging grub packages and tasty buzzing bugs around.
Away from the reed bed, and as this warm summer played over the meadow, the animals became more and more bothered by the plague of wasps which were making meadow play and hunting very unpleasant. The nests seemed to be everywhere and the stings very painful. Many meadow dwellers began to think that this was no longer a nice place to be. Meadow meetings were held to solve the problem but there seemed to be no answer and the animals were getting scared and hungry, afraid to forage and get stung. The geese had stories of a breed of duck in Africa that hunted wasps but those heroes were far too far away from the meadow to be of any help.
In no time at all Millie was treated to the deepest of apologies from all the meadow dwellers and was happily shown to where more delicious grub nests were. Millie became popular and started to grow into a fine duckling. Max and Mavis were very happy Millie had made new friends and with lots of nuzzling and preening they said farewell as they once again flew off southbound.
With all her new food and friends, Millie grew very fast and started to fledge into a rather superior form of large mallard with slightly strange patterned feathers. Probably just as well then , that Max had left or he would have noticed the feathers matched a lone, dark gander he and Mavis had flown with for a few days on their last migration south to Africa.
AFTERTHOUGHT,
It turns out that the solution to a problem may not always be that far canard.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Island or Shirt or Island shirt, perhaps Island mentality - the 2/11 challenge
Island shirt.
The wind rushed up from the shore, whipped through the grasses and rattled their stems against his legs. The granite outcrop, worn and rounded over millennia provided George a comfortable perch from which to survey his territory and from where he could now see Warwick stumbling towards their meeting.
Behind Warwick, the estuary flowed slowly over its bar, flashing diadems of sunlight and a bit further off, George could hear the clank of the lines and stays as his sea-hardened fleet readied itself for the tide.
Down on the harbour front, Angela’s hi-viz coat strobed between the pickets of the fence as she walked towards the post office, he checked his watch, she was late. A smile creased his face with memories of their encounters. She was an aggressive lover that one, she’ll be a good ally now, not the treacherous conspirator he’d feared. He had decided that the best way to secure her allegiance was to groom her in the deviations she hankered after, and to tease her with the promise of illicit riches. He’d known that the recordings of their private performances, if ever leaked, would shame her and the money would bind her. George was confident the double hook of reward and shame would ensure she’d stay loyal.
Ange was the latest addition to his many and varied allegiances on this island. His web of dominion was cumbersome but with all the hooks in place he maintained a tight control of the Island. Through friendships cultured over years, by generous lending, blackmail and the promise of riches, his grip over the island formed a community linked through him in a matrix of obedience.
For this next play, more than any previous, it was imperative he kept air-tight control. Billions of pounds were at stake, and that was just his share of the mega trillions that would flow globally via this unassuming outcrop of rocks and villagers..
When it came to the mob’s attitude to him and to his grandiose scheme, he had succeeded through dogged determination to quash concerns of his ‘Island mentality’. In fact he alone had managed to convince the underworld players that introductions to mind-numbing amounts of Mediterranean wealth could only be done safely, quietly and efficiently through the contacts, ports and financial portals of his home territory.
It had taken just a few words on the ears of the Mediterranean magnates to align their greed to his plans. He’d gained their trust over years of wintering and maintaining their super-yachts in his safe ports. Many a time he had made less than legal arrangements on the quiet for them through his enterprises on this Island. It wasn’t any leap of brilliance to see these people had huge assets locked in Greece and Italy that needed to be shipped, sold or re-homed before the Euro was lost to either the drachma and lira or to Euro puppet governments. George’s genius was recognising that with his island’s brokers, dealers, banks, post and constabulary all under his power, and his nautical capacity, he held a unique solution to a massive logistic problem.
By coordinating the collection of goods and bullion from faceless owners, with the covert distribution to unknown buyers, gross profits were assured. All George needed to do was mediate between the underworld heads of the Russian and Asian markets, and his sellers, the superrich Greek and Italian players, politicians and officials.
It was on the high seas using his combination of non descript fishing boats and high speed, armed and protected superyachts where the master plan had its strength. He would arrange the deals with the owners, sell to the best bidder and do the exchange without either party facing off. What he needed was the trust of both sides and the total control of his island structure, and he had juggled these three elements to perfection.
George was all too aware the risks were high in monetary value as well as in longevity. One sour deal, one identity leak, one gap in secrecy, and fortunes would fall. Mob bosses expect success and are practiced at eradicating life-forms that show any chink of ineptitude. It was because of mob expectations that, at every meeting, George had worn his machismo and certainty like an island shirt at a funeral, flashing his confidence in their faces. It was a false confidence but he delivered it wrapped in such huge temptations their greed washed away doubt. He’d done deals before with these guys but never on this scale, never with so much at stake.
“Shit, George” puffed Warwick, “do we have to meet up here?”
“Quit bitching Rick, you just haff ta get fitter. Did you bring it?”
‘Sure, but I gotta tell ya mate, you’re being a bit too paranoid, meeting up here. No one is ever going to eavesdrop on you, even in town.”
“Don’t you believe it. Trust no-one, that’s my motto.”
“Pfft! I thought it was ‘Own everyone’, any way… This here is the master unit. Warwick held up what looked like a fat smart phone. It’s your full scramble encryption, random password, multi-channel communication hub. Each boat is keyed F and its number, the yachts Y, land based contacts - reversed initials. It uses GPS to map every vessel, zoom for global overview or inch-perfect navigation to pick up points. The guys all love ‘em. We’re all tested and we don’t register so much as a blip on frequency monitors. I got clean scans from our FSB, ASS and MI6 moles. This comms system, George, it’s the fuckin duck’s nuts mate, I’ve outdone myself.”
“Ÿeah, well it’s only what I ordered from you Rick, you’ll get your fair share if its proved in action”.
“So when do we kick off for real then? The lads are itchin’, they’re all set to roll any time you want.”
George smirked, “Time is now Rick, we’ve moved the first lot today, first paid up client, first shipment, it’s already on it’s way out of Piraeus”.
The name Papandreou was the first of the clients George had on his list. The next one off the rank was the more scary Cesare Geronzi, he was on his yacht and leaving Trieste tonight. The stream of high profile names from Ionian and Aegean ports were flooding in.
Every cloud has a silver lining and George was ready to gather every gram of silver from this approaching Euro storm. He gloated at the greed of the corrupt and, slapping Warwick’s shoulder, grabbed the handset and made his first billion dollar call.
The wind rushed up from the shore, whipped through the grasses and rattled their stems against his legs. The granite outcrop, worn and rounded over millennia provided George a comfortable perch from which to survey his territory and from where he could now see Warwick stumbling towards their meeting.
Behind Warwick, the estuary flowed slowly over its bar, flashing diadems of sunlight and a bit further off, George could hear the clank of the lines and stays as his sea-hardened fleet readied itself for the tide.
Down on the harbour front, Angela’s hi-viz coat strobed between the pickets of the fence as she walked towards the post office, he checked his watch, she was late. A smile creased his face with memories of their encounters. She was an aggressive lover that one, she’ll be a good ally now, not the treacherous conspirator he’d feared. He had decided that the best way to secure her allegiance was to groom her in the deviations she hankered after, and to tease her with the promise of illicit riches. He’d known that the recordings of their private performances, if ever leaked, would shame her and the money would bind her. George was confident the double hook of reward and shame would ensure she’d stay loyal.
Ange was the latest addition to his many and varied allegiances on this island. His web of dominion was cumbersome but with all the hooks in place he maintained a tight control of the Island. Through friendships cultured over years, by generous lending, blackmail and the promise of riches, his grip over the island formed a community linked through him in a matrix of obedience.
For this next play, more than any previous, it was imperative he kept air-tight control. Billions of pounds were at stake, and that was just his share of the mega trillions that would flow globally via this unassuming outcrop of rocks and villagers..
When it came to the mob’s attitude to him and to his grandiose scheme, he had succeeded through dogged determination to quash concerns of his ‘Island mentality’. In fact he alone had managed to convince the underworld players that introductions to mind-numbing amounts of Mediterranean wealth could only be done safely, quietly and efficiently through the contacts, ports and financial portals of his home territory.
It had taken just a few words on the ears of the Mediterranean magnates to align their greed to his plans. He’d gained their trust over years of wintering and maintaining their super-yachts in his safe ports. Many a time he had made less than legal arrangements on the quiet for them through his enterprises on this Island. It wasn’t any leap of brilliance to see these people had huge assets locked in Greece and Italy that needed to be shipped, sold or re-homed before the Euro was lost to either the drachma and lira or to Euro puppet governments. George’s genius was recognising that with his island’s brokers, dealers, banks, post and constabulary all under his power, and his nautical capacity, he held a unique solution to a massive logistic problem.
By coordinating the collection of goods and bullion from faceless owners, with the covert distribution to unknown buyers, gross profits were assured. All George needed to do was mediate between the underworld heads of the Russian and Asian markets, and his sellers, the superrich Greek and Italian players, politicians and officials.
It was on the high seas using his combination of non descript fishing boats and high speed, armed and protected superyachts where the master plan had its strength. He would arrange the deals with the owners, sell to the best bidder and do the exchange without either party facing off. What he needed was the trust of both sides and the total control of his island structure, and he had juggled these three elements to perfection.
George was all too aware the risks were high in monetary value as well as in longevity. One sour deal, one identity leak, one gap in secrecy, and fortunes would fall. Mob bosses expect success and are practiced at eradicating life-forms that show any chink of ineptitude. It was because of mob expectations that, at every meeting, George had worn his machismo and certainty like an island shirt at a funeral, flashing his confidence in their faces. It was a false confidence but he delivered it wrapped in such huge temptations their greed washed away doubt. He’d done deals before with these guys but never on this scale, never with so much at stake.
“Shit, George” puffed Warwick, “do we have to meet up here?”
“Quit bitching Rick, you just haff ta get fitter. Did you bring it?”
‘Sure, but I gotta tell ya mate, you’re being a bit too paranoid, meeting up here. No one is ever going to eavesdrop on you, even in town.”
“Don’t you believe it. Trust no-one, that’s my motto.”
“Pfft! I thought it was ‘Own everyone’, any way… This here is the master unit. Warwick held up what looked like a fat smart phone. It’s your full scramble encryption, random password, multi-channel communication hub. Each boat is keyed F and its number, the yachts Y, land based contacts - reversed initials. It uses GPS to map every vessel, zoom for global overview or inch-perfect navigation to pick up points. The guys all love ‘em. We’re all tested and we don’t register so much as a blip on frequency monitors. I got clean scans from our FSB, ASS and MI6 moles. This comms system, George, it’s the fuckin duck’s nuts mate, I’ve outdone myself.”
“Ÿeah, well it’s only what I ordered from you Rick, you’ll get your fair share if its proved in action”.
“So when do we kick off for real then? The lads are itchin’, they’re all set to roll any time you want.”
George smirked, “Time is now Rick, we’ve moved the first lot today, first paid up client, first shipment, it’s already on it’s way out of Piraeus”.
The name Papandreou was the first of the clients George had on his list. The next one off the rank was the more scary Cesare Geronzi, he was on his yacht and leaving Trieste tonight. The stream of high profile names from Ionian and Aegean ports were flooding in.
Every cloud has a silver lining and George was ready to gather every gram of silver from this approaching Euro storm. He gloated at the greed of the corrupt and, slapping Warwick’s shoulder, grabbed the handset and made his first billion dollar call.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Undesirable patron - the devil's little helper
In October the Friends of Harrogate Library launched a competition for a Yorkshire ghost story in 800 words. I re-wrote a longer previous piece to fit the word count and made it about a Harrogate pub. I am not presuming an Aussie will be considered but the story did retain it's shiver factor despite being reduced from well over 2000 words. NEWSFLASH!!! It got selected as one in the top 10, judging for top 3, Dec 8th.
Undesirable Patron.
He wasn’t anyone I knew, just a bloke who spent most nights lingering over his scotch watching the regulars come and go. His name was Nick, always wore the same tattered old coat and he owned the pub's battered old table tucked behind the porch door . The smoke-stained ceiling hung low there casting a shadow. The spot sort of suited him, his grey face, stained beard and his ruined teeth. The cold darkness of the alcove did not tempt you to join him, even if you'd wanted to.
Sitting where he did put Nick in easy earshot of pub chat but he never joined in or passed comment. I did see him sometimes smiling grimly but in effect he was like a piece of the furniture really, always there, never noticed.
Anyway, today's the anniversary of the MoD telling me Dad was ‘missing in action’. I was ten at the time but I've never got over the emptiness of those words. Tonight I was again telling the lads everything I knew about Dad’s last mission and they let me talk it out.
As I was leaving, Nick grabbed my arm and said, “I know about your dad”.
The surprise at being gripped so firmly stopped me dead. “Sit down with me , I want to tell you things I know”. His steely grey eyes drilled me into submission.
Nick started to tell me events from my Dad’s mission that only I knew, and he gave bits that were missing from my research. I couldn’t believe how much Nick knew and I demanded to be told.
“I don’t just know about what your dad did, I know that he was not killed, and I know his whereabouts.”
I sat there looking at this dirty creased old man. He was not smiling, not pretending. He was going to tell me about my father.
I wanted to refuse to accept that Dad was alive. But. Of course I wanted to see him. I was angry, I was incredulous, struck dumb, I wanted to reject everything Nick was saying.
I stared back blankly into the steely eyes.
“What do you mean? You know where he's buried?” It was the only rational question my brain would allow.
“No Dave.. I know where he is. Right now”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What would it take for you to believe me?” His pupils coal black and intense.
“I , I don’t know. How can you prove that it’s my dad?”
“Your dad will know of things you did together, things you talked of that only the two of you will remember. It will take no time for you to be certain”
This was crazy. Scary. If dad was alive, why would he have stayed away, left my mum, abandoned us kids? What man who loved his family could do that? Why had Nick never said?
“Your dad was given no choice in his actions; he could not make contact with you. But now, today, I can arrange for you two to meet” I saw a weak smile crack his face, an unnerving, gruesome gape.
“How?”
“Never mind how. What would you do if I could guarantee you could meet your dad again?”
I just stared blankly, silently back at him.
“I need to know how important it is to you and if it is worth my arranging it. The window of opportunity is small, it will pass. I need to know if it is important to you”
“Well of course it’s important, if my dad’s alive. Of course I want to meet him”
“So, what would you do if I could guarantee such a meeting?’ he held that eerie grin.
“I’d do anything” I spat out.
“Great!” He said leaning back and straightening up. He looked much less feeble. “Follow me!”
In a sort of trance I trailed behind him out into the swirling rain beside the heaving traffic on Skipton Road.
Nick’s eyes were sparkling “Come on, just across ‘ road to t‘ social club.”
The traffic careened past in a solid stream of headlights and spray. No sooner had I joined him than with a vice-like hand he pushed me impossibly hard into the path of the speeding bus.
I looked back in horror to see a floating spectral skull with a yawing yellow-toothed grimace where Nick had stood.
“You wanted to meet your maker!” it screeched in hideous laughter at me.
I tried to scramble clear but, even in the slow roll of my demise, the speeding wall of metal would not be escaped.
A world-shattering explosion of pain enveloped my scream of burst existence. I was tumbling, flailing, agony piercing through every part of me.
Then nothing.
Then the merest hint of a tiny spark of light.
Then nothing.
Nick still sits unnoticed at that table in the Skipton, and occasionally people go missing.
Undesirable Patron.
He wasn’t anyone I knew, just a bloke who spent most nights lingering over his scotch watching the regulars come and go. His name was Nick, always wore the same tattered old coat and he owned the pub's battered old table tucked behind the porch door . The smoke-stained ceiling hung low there casting a shadow. The spot sort of suited him, his grey face, stained beard and his ruined teeth. The cold darkness of the alcove did not tempt you to join him, even if you'd wanted to.
Sitting where he did put Nick in easy earshot of pub chat but he never joined in or passed comment. I did see him sometimes smiling grimly but in effect he was like a piece of the furniture really, always there, never noticed.
Anyway, today's the anniversary of the MoD telling me Dad was ‘missing in action’. I was ten at the time but I've never got over the emptiness of those words. Tonight I was again telling the lads everything I knew about Dad’s last mission and they let me talk it out.
As I was leaving, Nick grabbed my arm and said, “I know about your dad”.
The surprise at being gripped so firmly stopped me dead. “Sit down with me , I want to tell you things I know”. His steely grey eyes drilled me into submission.
Nick started to tell me events from my Dad’s mission that only I knew, and he gave bits that were missing from my research. I couldn’t believe how much Nick knew and I demanded to be told.
“I don’t just know about what your dad did, I know that he was not killed, and I know his whereabouts.”
I sat there looking at this dirty creased old man. He was not smiling, not pretending. He was going to tell me about my father.
I wanted to refuse to accept that Dad was alive. But. Of course I wanted to see him. I was angry, I was incredulous, struck dumb, I wanted to reject everything Nick was saying.
I stared back blankly into the steely eyes.
“What do you mean? You know where he's buried?” It was the only rational question my brain would allow.
“No Dave.. I know where he is. Right now”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What would it take for you to believe me?” His pupils coal black and intense.
“I , I don’t know. How can you prove that it’s my dad?”
“Your dad will know of things you did together, things you talked of that only the two of you will remember. It will take no time for you to be certain”
This was crazy. Scary. If dad was alive, why would he have stayed away, left my mum, abandoned us kids? What man who loved his family could do that? Why had Nick never said?
“Your dad was given no choice in his actions; he could not make contact with you. But now, today, I can arrange for you two to meet” I saw a weak smile crack his face, an unnerving, gruesome gape.
“How?”
“Never mind how. What would you do if I could guarantee you could meet your dad again?”
I just stared blankly, silently back at him.
“I need to know how important it is to you and if it is worth my arranging it. The window of opportunity is small, it will pass. I need to know if it is important to you”
“Well of course it’s important, if my dad’s alive. Of course I want to meet him”
“So, what would you do if I could guarantee such a meeting?’ he held that eerie grin.
“I’d do anything” I spat out.
“Great!” He said leaning back and straightening up. He looked much less feeble. “Follow me!”
In a sort of trance I trailed behind him out into the swirling rain beside the heaving traffic on Skipton Road.
Nick’s eyes were sparkling “Come on, just across ‘ road to t‘ social club.”
The traffic careened past in a solid stream of headlights and spray. No sooner had I joined him than with a vice-like hand he pushed me impossibly hard into the path of the speeding bus.
I looked back in horror to see a floating spectral skull with a yawing yellow-toothed grimace where Nick had stood.
“You wanted to meet your maker!” it screeched in hideous laughter at me.
I tried to scramble clear but, even in the slow roll of my demise, the speeding wall of metal would not be escaped.
A world-shattering explosion of pain enveloped my scream of burst existence. I was tumbling, flailing, agony piercing through every part of me.
Then nothing.
Then the merest hint of a tiny spark of light.
Then nothing.
Nick still sits unnoticed at that table in the Skipton, and occasionally people go missing.
Friday, November 4, 2011
create a xmas character in 400 words
Vics, Ste and I decided it would be fun if the savages could describe a new xmas character in a writers challenge and the sketchers could then draw the character from those descriptions.... We will see how this works out, this is my attempt in 367 words.
The legendary Savage xmas fairy.
The name Crystal just sort of felt right on the countenance of the child. As is the way with pixies and fairies, it was presumed that Crystal would grow to fit the name,. Problem is, fairies and pixies use nick-names.
Bubble-on-the-Wind will be Bubs, obviously a flying fairy, and Rustle-of-the-Leaves, Russ, will be a boy with pixie magic.
It was much too late when everyone realised that Crys was a unisex name.
By then, Crys had grown to be half pixie and half fairy with a bit of magic and flight, but not much good at either.
This gender blend was very difficult so Crys said she was a fairy, even if that meant a lumpy flying, bad magic, ugly fairy.
Worse, nothing went well for Crys in the build up to Decembers as she had to constantly prove that jobs could be done by her pixie/fairy body.
So, “Look what I’ve done!” and “What can I do now?” was Crys’s constant whine.
She really got on people’s tits.
To ingratiate herself into Santa’s favour, Crys habitually batted her gapped eyelashes, when presenting a toy or asking “Can I help? Can I help?” The eye-batting was to distract attention from her fat nose and tiny fairy mouth with huge pixie teeth. These features rose out of her blotched face and everyone knew, even with her plucked out beard, Crys was the workshop’s worst fairy.
This only made her try harder to please, and so she got more and more on people’s tits. Her time in Santa’s workshop was naturally brief but it may interest you to learn why Crys is immortalised in legend.
In her most annoying way, on the busiest eve, of the busiest December, she decided to decorate a pine tree for the workshop. She badgered and interrupted everyone, batting her eyes and demanding “Where should I put it?, Where should I put it?, Should I put it here? There? huh?, huh?, huh?”
The legendary Savage xmas fairy.
The name Crystal just sort of felt right on the countenance of the child. As is the way with pixies and fairies, it was presumed that Crystal would grow to fit the name,. Problem is, fairies and pixies use nick-names.
Bubble-on-the-Wind will be Bubs, obviously a flying fairy, and Rustle-of-the-Leaves, Russ, will be a boy with pixie magic.
It was much too late when everyone realised that Crys was a unisex name.
By then, Crys had grown to be half pixie and half fairy with a bit of magic and flight, but not much good at either.
This gender blend was very difficult so Crys said she was a fairy, even if that meant a lumpy flying, bad magic, ugly fairy.
Worse, nothing went well for Crys in the build up to Decembers as she had to constantly prove that jobs could be done by her pixie/fairy body.
So, “Look what I’ve done!” and “What can I do now?” was Crys’s constant whine.
She really got on people’s tits.
To ingratiate herself into Santa’s favour, Crys habitually batted her gapped eyelashes, when presenting a toy or asking “Can I help? Can I help?” The eye-batting was to distract attention from her fat nose and tiny fairy mouth with huge pixie teeth. These features rose out of her blotched face and everyone knew, even with her plucked out beard, Crys was the workshop’s worst fairy.
This only made her try harder to please, and so she got more and more on people’s tits. Her time in Santa’s workshop was naturally brief but it may interest you to learn why Crys is immortalised in legend.
In her most annoying way, on the busiest eve, of the busiest December, she decided to decorate a pine tree for the workshop. She badgered and interrupted everyone, batting her eyes and demanding “Where should I put it?, Where should I put it?, Should I put it here? There? huh?, huh?, huh?”
SO,
In homes every year now The Crystal Fairy gets a pine tree shoved between her legs, as a warning to us all, not to get ugly and be a pain in the arse at xmas.
Monday, October 31, 2011
And then he was very happy
A report to the owners of a guest.
It was a crisp and clear day in late autumn. He felt a certain tension in the air as he left his comfortable cave where his bed and spaces were second nature to him. He had the sense that nothing bad was going to happen but he did feel that the pack leaders were somehow less sure of themselves than normal and that made him just a little less certain.
But that was really only a fleeting imagining as the walk was nice, they were all going down a familiar path and along a place where puddles and water lay temptingly on the ground. There are big bottle boxes here that smell of leader's drinks and make noise when leaders put things in them. All was fun until a loud explosion erupted close by. It scared him, and his pack leaders who immediately pulled him in close, despite the fact that he really wanted to find out what had caused the noise.
He began to think the noise was his fault because the pack leaders immediately took him to the yard where he knew he would get stung, feel bad and throw up. That was what happened last time they took him there.
Thankfully the pack leaders didn’t take him to the yard place. Bit they did take him very close. A big plank moved and there was a cave and a leader he had smelt once or twice before. He relaxed a little now as it was clear that there was no threat and he happily barged into the cave and began exploring. Before he knew it his pack leaders, who had followed him in, were leaving through the same hole and the plank was put back so he couldn’t get to them. No problem he thought, I’ll just got through the other part of the cave and find them.
But no matter how many parts of the cave he went into there was no pack leader to be seen or smelt. Just the smells of this new leader. He was about to go around the cave again when the new leader got his attention, told him to sit and he did that because that is what you do when a leader says sit. Suddenly one of those yummy little bites of food was in the leader’s hand and offered. It seemed it was very good to sit and he relaxed a bit more.
It was then that the new leader opened a big clear plank and led him out into the stinging yard . He was not happy and looked at the leader for help. There seemed to be an understanding as a comforting hug was offered that made him feel a bit safer and before he knew it they were walking around the yard and there were no bitings, and no sick feeling. He felt better and followed back through the open plank.
Suddenly there was a problem, this floor felt funny and didn’t like being walked on as it slipped away under his feet. It took him a little time but with encouragement he trusted his feet and followed further inside to a comfy towel on the floor. There was now time to walk around and find out about the place which he did with great concentration.
Shortly the new leader called out his name and clipped on the lead and they went back to where the big bang happened. The leader threw some noise into the big metal smelly boxes and gave him a pat so that he felt okay. A friend walked up with her small leader and while he and the friend sniffed, said hello and romped a little the leaders exchanged growls and whimpers, as they do. With the new leader giving a pull on his collar, he walked off but was not allowed to leave the new leader’s side which confused him a little but he eventually gave in. Only a short time later he got a pat and was told to go play. He was getting much happier and met lots of friends, some of who he knew and some of who he would recognise by smell. At these meetings there were lots of leader growls and whimpers, always started by a noise ‘horse’ for some reason, and he and his friends got on doing what friends do in the presence of their leaders.
This continued for many interesting smells and friends and lots of noises and walking and trying to remember to stop when the leader stopped to let moving metal boxes go past on wheels. Suddenly he was back in the big green flat place near the water but this leader did not release the clip from his collar. Never mind, there were moles to smell and wet friends to talk to. Climbing up some stairs then stopping for wheeled boxes and up some more stairs there was the plank that moved and a nice long drink put out for him.
The leader started to do boring things and he suddenly felt very tired and fell asleep. When he awoke there was the smell of nice moist food and he was suddenly very hungry. It was very good and with a big long drink he was quite content. The yard looked good now and the glass plank was opened for him to stroll around the nice yard for a while. The slippery floor was not so much of a problem this time and the leaders hands started to look like they needed to be played with. For a little while they were quite a lot of fun to play with but they eventually went away and a sudden and deep snoring sleep started to need to be done. He was quite content. But he occasionally woke to look at the plank.
It seemed like no time at all that another leader came through the plank and he was given a lot of hugs for doing absolutely nothing but they made him feel very good. He felt so good he followed the new leader up the stairs and while she was in a little room he decided he would wait for her up on the big soft flat thing. This created a lot of noise from both leaders and he was bought back down the steps. He stayed awake for a little while to watch the two leaders move some food things around and then move other things around that smelled like the noisy boxes where the big explosion happened. But other than some more hand and foot playing there were no more surprises until the pack leaders he knew the very best arrived at the plank.
And then he was very happy.
October 31, 2011.
Baby-sitting Bentley the Great Dane.
It was a crisp and clear day in late autumn. He felt a certain tension in the air as he left his comfortable cave where his bed and spaces were second nature to him. He had the sense that nothing bad was going to happen but he did feel that the pack leaders were somehow less sure of themselves than normal and that made him just a little less certain.
But that was really only a fleeting imagining as the walk was nice, they were all going down a familiar path and along a place where puddles and water lay temptingly on the ground. There are big bottle boxes here that smell of leader's drinks and make noise when leaders put things in them. All was fun until a loud explosion erupted close by. It scared him, and his pack leaders who immediately pulled him in close, despite the fact that he really wanted to find out what had caused the noise.
He began to think the noise was his fault because the pack leaders immediately took him to the yard where he knew he would get stung, feel bad and throw up. That was what happened last time they took him there.
Thankfully the pack leaders didn’t take him to the yard place. Bit they did take him very close. A big plank moved and there was a cave and a leader he had smelt once or twice before. He relaxed a little now as it was clear that there was no threat and he happily barged into the cave and began exploring. Before he knew it his pack leaders, who had followed him in, were leaving through the same hole and the plank was put back so he couldn’t get to them. No problem he thought, I’ll just got through the other part of the cave and find them.
But no matter how many parts of the cave he went into there was no pack leader to be seen or smelt. Just the smells of this new leader. He was about to go around the cave again when the new leader got his attention, told him to sit and he did that because that is what you do when a leader says sit. Suddenly one of those yummy little bites of food was in the leader’s hand and offered. It seemed it was very good to sit and he relaxed a bit more.
It was then that the new leader opened a big clear plank and led him out into the stinging yard . He was not happy and looked at the leader for help. There seemed to be an understanding as a comforting hug was offered that made him feel a bit safer and before he knew it they were walking around the yard and there were no bitings, and no sick feeling. He felt better and followed back through the open plank.
Suddenly there was a problem, this floor felt funny and didn’t like being walked on as it slipped away under his feet. It took him a little time but with encouragement he trusted his feet and followed further inside to a comfy towel on the floor. There was now time to walk around and find out about the place which he did with great concentration.
Shortly the new leader called out his name and clipped on the lead and they went back to where the big bang happened. The leader threw some noise into the big metal smelly boxes and gave him a pat so that he felt okay. A friend walked up with her small leader and while he and the friend sniffed, said hello and romped a little the leaders exchanged growls and whimpers, as they do. With the new leader giving a pull on his collar, he walked off but was not allowed to leave the new leader’s side which confused him a little but he eventually gave in. Only a short time later he got a pat and was told to go play. He was getting much happier and met lots of friends, some of who he knew and some of who he would recognise by smell. At these meetings there were lots of leader growls and whimpers, always started by a noise ‘horse’ for some reason, and he and his friends got on doing what friends do in the presence of their leaders.
This continued for many interesting smells and friends and lots of noises and walking and trying to remember to stop when the leader stopped to let moving metal boxes go past on wheels. Suddenly he was back in the big green flat place near the water but this leader did not release the clip from his collar. Never mind, there were moles to smell and wet friends to talk to. Climbing up some stairs then stopping for wheeled boxes and up some more stairs there was the plank that moved and a nice long drink put out for him.
The leader started to do boring things and he suddenly felt very tired and fell asleep. When he awoke there was the smell of nice moist food and he was suddenly very hungry. It was very good and with a big long drink he was quite content. The yard looked good now and the glass plank was opened for him to stroll around the nice yard for a while. The slippery floor was not so much of a problem this time and the leaders hands started to look like they needed to be played with. For a little while they were quite a lot of fun to play with but they eventually went away and a sudden and deep snoring sleep started to need to be done. He was quite content. But he occasionally woke to look at the plank.
And then he was very happy.
October 31, 2011.
Baby-sitting Bentley the Great Dane.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Devil's Playground
“It’s 6:45 and time to get up. Bip bip bip.
It’s 6:45 and time to g”
I nudge the phone to shut her up.
Shit, I hate that thing. I chose it because she sounded like Claire on Look North.
You can go right off some people.
I roll over and look through the streaked glass.
Yet another morning of dull.
Getting ready and off for another day of drudgery at the office is so automatic my brain stays asleep right up until I’m reaching for the handrail and the dickhead driver does a pole position start from the bus stop.
I just manage to keep hold of the rail but spin into the disabled space. The grey lining of my navy coat flaps open. No-one should ever see that.
Immediately my vacant brain fills with bile-fueled hatred for everyone there, the driver, the three sniggering schoolgirls, a gormless youth and two sneering suits. A dear old lady looks at me with something between shock and relief, then smirks at me. I hate them all.
A black mist rises through me and double-handed I pull my way upstairs, fighting against the next two jolting gear changes.
Bugger it, my seat at the front window is gone. I instantly hate the girl with her hair all held back in fancy plaiting,, and the old bloke hogging the other corner,, he doesn’t deserve to live.
I know it’s childish but I like to see where I’m going, judge the traffic, pick the line through corners. It gives me something to do. I can’t read in buses.
Using the momentum of the last gear change I grab the top pole and swing around down the aisle.
Then I spot my new vantage point.
Centre seat, back of the bus. Nobody else up here. Just the three of us.
I drop into the elevated perch one micro-second before the driver breaks heavily. I brace myself against the seat in front. I look forward to the camera lens and can sense the driver has checked his screen and timed his breaking to make me fall on my face.
Well, I thwarted him this morning.
A small glimmer of victory pierces my inky mood.
Today will be "The Wednesday" then..
I scope out the bus.
I've practiced taking out the cctv camera but timing is critical for the rest of my plan.
I reach down and make up the hard cylindrical barrel. The silencer is secure.
I breath slowly, gather my thoughts, every detail must be timed to perfection.
The first three shots are critical, timed for just after the stop at five-ways. The driver won’t notice the camera is out for about three minutes, plenty of time for the call.
I go to my trouser pocket, pull out the sim card and swap it over. Good strong signal, I scroll the apps and select voice distort.
I’ll have about two minutes from when I shoot out the camera to make the call, deliver my demands.
My escape route’s researched and by simply reversing my overcoat after ducking down the back lane I can walk back to the office unnoticed.
Before I realise it, the stop at Five-Ways is happening.
Two solid African guys bound up the stairs laughing and take the seats directly behind the girl. I am really pissed off now, but I can adapt, I’m a professional.
Gear change three, Gear change four,
I take out my gun and snap off one quick thud that takes out the cctv, the plastic shatters and the old guy looks up, a clean shot through the top of his head and I’m lined up on the girl, she’s pretty, the bullet through her right temple is gorgeous and I blast the laughing African just behind the ear as he starts to turn.
I am amazed the second guy has managed to spring up and come towards me but my shot left of his nostril drops him like a log.
I get my phone and hit speed dial 1.
The call goes through, without waiting I hit 6. a female says “FirstBus emergency what is the nature.."
“Shut the fuck up. I have the 7:30, bus X98 hostage.
I have disabled the cctv.
I have killed four passengers.
I have two demands.
Demand one. Contact the driver immediately, tell him to stay on route, do not to stop the bus for any reason. Demand two. You will call me back immediately you have done this.
You have forty seconds or I kill another passenger.”
I hang up, sit back in my seat and remove the silencer, re-training the gun on the stairs. From here on in maximum muzzle noise is the preferred option.
I feel the bus swerve nervously and a few seconds later my phone rings, a male voice.
“Hello, is this….”
“Shut the fuck up and listen . You will put the week's payroll into the black case beside the pay clerk's desk. This bus is passing the sub-depot in four minutes, you will contact the driver and tell him to stop and open the doors. You will throw the payroll onto the bus and tell the driver to drive on.”
I hang up, remove the sim card and re-sight my gun to the stairs. Within a minute the top of a head cautiously begins to ascend. One shot into the step above it vanishes the head and ensures my presence is confirmed. A scream rises from below and I click the safety on, sit back and relax.
The depot is visible as we approach and I see Keith running out with my briefcase.
The bus stops and I hear the shout and the case lands on the deck. Immediately the bus takes off.
This is my cue. I stroll confidently to the stairs and pause, a face looks up at me and immediately pulls out of my line of sight. I rush down the stairs and jump into the aisle.
Arming my gun I swing into the disabled space behind the bulkhead and take out the suits that sneered at me. The old bitch and the school kids are dropped before they know what hits them. I break cover from behind the bulkhead just as the CitiSpace sign fills the window.
CitiSpace?
Shit!.. CitiSpace!..
I hit the stop button and race down the aisle.
I fly down the stairs for real this time and quickly take note of the driver.
I notice I am still clutching the rolled-up Metro and embarassed, throw it into the bin.
I smile and as the doors spring open quip “Thanks Anass, go steady on the gear changes tomorrow will you?”
“Hi Mike. Sorry you missed your stop, I didn’t know you were up there. See you tomorrow. Have a good one.”
Strangely this day may be a good one, even if I did miss my stop.
I decide to sit in the centre back seat every day now.
It’s more fun than pretending to drive the bus..
It’s 6:45 and time to g”
I nudge the phone to shut her up.
Shit, I hate that thing. I chose it because she sounded like Claire on Look North.
You can go right off some people.
I roll over and look through the streaked glass.
Yet another morning of dull.
Getting ready and off for another day of drudgery at the office is so automatic my brain stays asleep right up until I’m reaching for the handrail and the dickhead driver does a pole position start from the bus stop.
I just manage to keep hold of the rail but spin into the disabled space. The grey lining of my navy coat flaps open. No-one should ever see that.
Immediately my vacant brain fills with bile-fueled hatred for everyone there, the driver, the three sniggering schoolgirls, a gormless youth and two sneering suits. A dear old lady looks at me with something between shock and relief, then smirks at me. I hate them all.
A black mist rises through me and double-handed I pull my way upstairs, fighting against the next two jolting gear changes.
Bugger it, my seat at the front window is gone. I instantly hate the girl with her hair all held back in fancy plaiting,, and the old bloke hogging the other corner,, he doesn’t deserve to live.
I know it’s childish but I like to see where I’m going, judge the traffic, pick the line through corners. It gives me something to do. I can’t read in buses.
Using the momentum of the last gear change I grab the top pole and swing around down the aisle.
Then I spot my new vantage point.
Centre seat, back of the bus. Nobody else up here. Just the three of us.
I drop into the elevated perch one micro-second before the driver breaks heavily. I brace myself against the seat in front. I look forward to the camera lens and can sense the driver has checked his screen and timed his breaking to make me fall on my face.
Well, I thwarted him this morning.
A small glimmer of victory pierces my inky mood.
Today will be "The Wednesday" then..
I scope out the bus.
I've practiced taking out the cctv camera but timing is critical for the rest of my plan.
I reach down and make up the hard cylindrical barrel. The silencer is secure.
I breath slowly, gather my thoughts, every detail must be timed to perfection.
The first three shots are critical, timed for just after the stop at five-ways. The driver won’t notice the camera is out for about three minutes, plenty of time for the call.
I go to my trouser pocket, pull out the sim card and swap it over. Good strong signal, I scroll the apps and select voice distort.
I’ll have about two minutes from when I shoot out the camera to make the call, deliver my demands.
My escape route’s researched and by simply reversing my overcoat after ducking down the back lane I can walk back to the office unnoticed.
Before I realise it, the stop at Five-Ways is happening.
Two solid African guys bound up the stairs laughing and take the seats directly behind the girl. I am really pissed off now, but I can adapt, I’m a professional.
Gear change three, Gear change four,
I take out my gun and snap off one quick thud that takes out the cctv, the plastic shatters and the old guy looks up, a clean shot through the top of his head and I’m lined up on the girl, she’s pretty, the bullet through her right temple is gorgeous and I blast the laughing African just behind the ear as he starts to turn.
I am amazed the second guy has managed to spring up and come towards me but my shot left of his nostril drops him like a log.
I get my phone and hit speed dial 1.
The call goes through, without waiting I hit 6. a female says “FirstBus emergency what is the nature.."
“Shut the fuck up. I have the 7:30, bus X98 hostage.
I have disabled the cctv.
I have killed four passengers.
I have two demands.
Demand one. Contact the driver immediately, tell him to stay on route, do not to stop the bus for any reason. Demand two. You will call me back immediately you have done this.
You have forty seconds or I kill another passenger.”
I hang up, sit back in my seat and remove the silencer, re-training the gun on the stairs. From here on in maximum muzzle noise is the preferred option.
I feel the bus swerve nervously and a few seconds later my phone rings, a male voice.
“Hello, is this….”
“Shut the fuck up and listen . You will put the week's payroll into the black case beside the pay clerk's desk. This bus is passing the sub-depot in four minutes, you will contact the driver and tell him to stop and open the doors. You will throw the payroll onto the bus and tell the driver to drive on.”
I hang up, remove the sim card and re-sight my gun to the stairs. Within a minute the top of a head cautiously begins to ascend. One shot into the step above it vanishes the head and ensures my presence is confirmed. A scream rises from below and I click the safety on, sit back and relax.
The depot is visible as we approach and I see Keith running out with my briefcase.
The bus stops and I hear the shout and the case lands on the deck. Immediately the bus takes off.
This is my cue. I stroll confidently to the stairs and pause, a face looks up at me and immediately pulls out of my line of sight. I rush down the stairs and jump into the aisle.
Arming my gun I swing into the disabled space behind the bulkhead and take out the suits that sneered at me. The old bitch and the school kids are dropped before they know what hits them. I break cover from behind the bulkhead just as the CitiSpace sign fills the window.
CitiSpace?
Shit!.. CitiSpace!..
I hit the stop button and race down the aisle.
I fly down the stairs for real this time and quickly take note of the driver.
I notice I am still clutching the rolled-up Metro and embarassed, throw it into the bin.
I smile and as the doors spring open quip “Thanks Anass, go steady on the gear changes tomorrow will you?”
“Hi Mike. Sorry you missed your stop, I didn’t know you were up there. See you tomorrow. Have a good one.”
Strangely this day may be a good one, even if I did miss my stop.
I decide to sit in the centre back seat every day now.
It’s more fun than pretending to drive the bus..
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The newspapers said he was the epitome of evil
My unique challenge was to write about 1000 words including the above phrase...and.... I had promised Gail that I would write a furry animal story again..... That would be two challenges then.
Brock Meles.
The day had been warm and the laughter, shouts and obscenities echoing from the day-trippers had died off as the sun dipped below the harvested hills. An occasional clank of boat life drifted down the embankment along with cooking smells wafting on the autumn breeze.
In the fading light Brock shuffled down the burrow to the mouth of the sett and placed his chin on the ground.
Feeling for vibrations through his whiskers he determined there were no more walkers on the towpath now. Out of habit born from caution he lifted his nose to sense what else was happening around the canal above him. There was the oily smell of the floating metal things nearby, a vixen and her kittens were on the prowl on the other side of the water. The beasts that fouled the meadow were all at the far end of the field. As he crouched beneath the brambles tonight he could still faintly smell the old scent of his father who had carved this home and left his marks. Catching his nose too, was a wisp from the marshland bog that had grown nearby and now attracted frogs and newts, a doubtful legacy of Bardo’s foolishness.
Although the growth of the bog worried Brock, it may encourage Millie and Lizzy to bring on their next lot of cubs. This had been a dry season and until the bog formed there had been little food nearby. Now there were worms and frogs aplenty and the berry bushes were providing good crop. More food meant more cubs and more cubs are a reason to dig a further den in the set. Brock was worried about digging here, his father had taught him caution, never to dig too high in the embankment.
Subconsciously Brock instinctively licked at his wound and that reminded him of Bardo returning to the set smelling of clay.
Brock had guessed there was treachery afoot and went out last night looking for the site of Bardo’s industry. He found it not far away, Bardo had started a burrow up the embankment where the sandy soil was quick easy work . It was the confirmation Brock needed, Bardo did want to steal Millie and Lizzy and den their new cubs.
This could never happen.
Bardo's burrow was small but Brock’s fears were confirmed. He found Bardo had dug right up to the clay and water had started to seep through. This was what Brock’s father had warned him about and he quickly began to back-fill the burrow and retreat to the entry intending to collapse it , to scent mark the area, and to teach Bardo, once and for all time, who was head badger.
Bardo however had had other ideas, and following Brock out that night, had crept up and attacked from behind. Bardo was no match for Brock’s 12 kilos and 5 years of fighting skill. By launching the surprise attack though Bardo had managed to tear a strip of flesh from Brock’s shoulder and rip open the sinew of his ear. Brock was already angry and was then merciless enough to guarantee Bardo could never return to the sett again.
A gentle movement now behind Brock broke into his victory reminiscences. With a final check of the air he grunted and let Millie and Lizzy past so they could forage, nosing both of them to check their condition.
He watched as they disappeared into the freshly turned field looking for fresh morsels.
Tonight Brock had decided to take the cubs to the new marsh and teach them how to catch some tasty frogs. With a growl he summonsed the cubs to the entrance and made them wait. Smelling the air and feeling for movement through the earth Brock moved away to ensure the route to the marsh was safe. Other than the acrid smells from the distant village Brock was satisfied they were alone and with a soft grunt he called the cubs to him. With nips and squeals, tumbles and trips the cubs attacked the marshland with enough noise and vibration to scare everything but the slowest of worms into deep cover.
This frog catching lesson was going to take some time.
Brock flattened some reeds down for the cubs to start hunting. They jumped in with glee more at the prospect of the hunt than to stave off hunger as they were still being fed on milk and pre-chewed food.
Despite all the fighting and digging going on at that moment Brock detected a worrying vibration and lifted his head to take a breath. He stood still and took another. Yes, the confirmation was there, that rancid grease and stale flesh smell, wafting around from a position up-wind. He had no idea how close they were and let out a low warning grumble. The cubs dropped to the ground and Millie and Lizzy arrived silently to huddle them all into a tight group. Brock stood tall and again smelt the air.
The sense was closer now although the vibrations had stopped.
He gave a bark to action.
Millie led the way and Lizzy herded the stragglers quickly back to the sett.
Brock followed, checking back constantly.
He dashed through the fence as the ground vibrated from the hunter’s footfalls. Simultaneously the branches overhead splintered and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of soil. A boom sounded and more twigs splintered, a sharp searing pain burnt into his flank and another boom filled the air. Brock dived down the mouth of the sett making sure the others were all deep inside. Immediately he twisted around to bite at the burning hole in his side and with his teeth he grabbed at and bit out a small hard thing. The burning subsided and with his whiskers brushing the wall of the burrow he felt the hunter’s foot vibrations approaching over the field outside.
Fred watched the quarry disappear into the brambles and laughed at Henry, “Ya missed ‘im ya daft bugger!”
“ I hit ‘im but owt but rabbit shot. Tha said nowt ‘bout there being badgers.”
“ Aw shit!" Fred swore as he sunk ankle deep into the marsh. "Fook the badgers, 'Enry, this whole bloody canal’s goin’ to give way!”
~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~
The repairs to the embankment took six months and the badger protection group lost their battle to prevent baiting. But hopefully, what with all the protesters picketing about Tuberculosis, the smelly, noisy machinery bought in to dam the canal and the workers sent to re-build the embankment, I really hope Brock and the girls moved out long before the baits were laid. I doubt Brock's kind will ever again live around Gargrave since the newspapers said he was the epitome of evil, spreading disease and threatening to flood the village.
Brock Meles.
The day had been warm and the laughter, shouts and obscenities echoing from the day-trippers had died off as the sun dipped below the harvested hills. An occasional clank of boat life drifted down the embankment along with cooking smells wafting on the autumn breeze.
In the fading light Brock shuffled down the burrow to the mouth of the sett and placed his chin on the ground.
Although the growth of the bog worried Brock, it may encourage Millie and Lizzy to bring on their next lot of cubs. This had been a dry season and until the bog formed there had been little food nearby. Now there were worms and frogs aplenty and the berry bushes were providing good crop. More food meant more cubs and more cubs are a reason to dig a further den in the set. Brock was worried about digging here, his father had taught him caution, never to dig too high in the embankment.
Subconsciously Brock instinctively licked at his wound and that reminded him of Bardo returning to the set smelling of clay.
Brock had guessed there was treachery afoot and went out last night looking for the site of Bardo’s industry. He found it not far away, Bardo had started a burrow up the embankment where the sandy soil was quick easy work . It was the confirmation Brock needed, Bardo did want to steal Millie and Lizzy and den their new cubs.
This could never happen.
Bardo's burrow was small but Brock’s fears were confirmed. He found Bardo had dug right up to the clay and water had started to seep through. This was what Brock’s father had warned him about and he quickly began to back-fill the burrow and retreat to the entry intending to collapse it , to scent mark the area, and to teach Bardo, once and for all time, who was head badger.
Bardo however had had other ideas, and following Brock out that night, had crept up and attacked from behind. Bardo was no match for Brock’s 12 kilos and 5 years of fighting skill. By launching the surprise attack though Bardo had managed to tear a strip of flesh from Brock’s shoulder and rip open the sinew of his ear. Brock was already angry and was then merciless enough to guarantee Bardo could never return to the sett again.
He watched as they disappeared into the freshly turned field looking for fresh morsels.
Tonight Brock had decided to take the cubs to the new marsh and teach them how to catch some tasty frogs. With a growl he summonsed the cubs to the entrance and made them wait. Smelling the air and feeling for movement through the earth Brock moved away to ensure the route to the marsh was safe. Other than the acrid smells from the distant village Brock was satisfied they were alone and with a soft grunt he called the cubs to him. With nips and squeals, tumbles and trips the cubs attacked the marshland with enough noise and vibration to scare everything but the slowest of worms into deep cover.
This frog catching lesson was going to take some time.
Despite all the fighting and digging going on at that moment Brock detected a worrying vibration and lifted his head to take a breath. He stood still and took another. Yes, the confirmation was there, that rancid grease and stale flesh smell, wafting around from a position up-wind. He had no idea how close they were and let out a low warning grumble. The cubs dropped to the ground and Millie and Lizzy arrived silently to huddle them all into a tight group. Brock stood tall and again smelt the air.
The sense was closer now although the vibrations had stopped.
He gave a bark to action.
Millie led the way and Lizzy herded the stragglers quickly back to the sett.
Brock followed, checking back constantly.
He dashed through the fence as the ground vibrated from the hunter’s footfalls. Simultaneously the branches overhead splintered and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of soil. A boom sounded and more twigs splintered, a sharp searing pain burnt into his flank and another boom filled the air. Brock dived down the mouth of the sett making sure the others were all deep inside. Immediately he twisted around to bite at the burning hole in his side and with his teeth he grabbed at and bit out a small hard thing. The burning subsided and with his whiskers brushing the wall of the burrow he felt the hunter’s foot vibrations approaching over the field outside.
Fred watched the quarry disappear into the brambles and laughed at Henry, “Ya missed ‘im ya daft bugger!”
“ I hit ‘im but owt but rabbit shot. Tha said nowt ‘bout there being badgers.”
“ Aw shit!" Fred swore as he sunk ankle deep into the marsh. "Fook the badgers, 'Enry, this whole bloody canal’s goin’ to give way!”
~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~
The repairs to the embankment took six months and the badger protection group lost their battle to prevent baiting. But hopefully, what with all the protesters picketing about Tuberculosis, the smelly, noisy machinery bought in to dam the canal and the workers sent to re-build the embankment, I really hope Brock and the girls moved out long before the baits were laid. I doubt Brock's kind will ever again live around Gargrave since the newspapers said he was the epitome of evil, spreading disease and threatening to flood the village.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Action Hero
To write about a hero, an action hero or write a script about an action hero.. I chose the Arab Spring conflicts as a backdrop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He kicked me hard, once more re-arranging me like some baggage loose on the pounding truck bed. Unsupported now, my head bounced constantly on the ridged steel in stabs of searing pain. Cable ties locked my wrists to my ankles and the sharp plastic sawed into my flesh with every crash of the suspension. I lay in stinking waves of my own piss, bile and blood. As near as I could figure it, from the fading light that seeped into my blindfold, we had been smashing through this rough terrain for a couple of hours. I had guessed they were dispossessed Tuareg fighters by the veiled faces of the men and the open anger on the clear dark skin of the warrior girl’s face holding the AK47. She had held it in practiced steady aim at my heart as her partner dragged me roughly out from the back of our car.
We'd thought we had made it too. Fourteen hours driving cautiously through the dessert, bribing or cajoling at roadblocks and avoiding the wrecks of a confused regime change. The Algerian border was half an hour behind us and Emile and François had been singing in the front seat. We'd rounded another cutting, this time to be confronted with a burnt out tourist bus blocking the passage. Spotting movement behind the wreckage Emile had immediately jammed the car into reverse and tried to swing it around, but a battered Toyota shot out of the gap and blocked his retreat. Immediately we were looking at the wrong end of well used artillery and no escape or excuse was going to work. Francois had been killed as soon as he reached for his weapon, an act of reflex more than intent. Probably reflex on both sides, but Francois, my protector for the last two years was no more. A rough bag had been shoved over my head blinding and stifling me as I was pushed onto the back of the truck and cruelly bound. That was probably about four hours ago and the only words I had ever heard were a brutish, “no talk” followed by what felt like a rifle butt to the back of my head. I was now wishing for the welcome of unconsciousness, which regrettably came to me in only short bursts.
~ / ~
My eyes scratch open and I come around, my world has stopped moving.
I have no idea where I am, what place I have been taken to or why I have been captured.
My bindings have been cut but there is almost no movement in my fingers and I am unable to stand.
I lay on a sand-covered cement floor in a stale room with a barred window and one steel door, alone.
An aridness beyond description racks my throat. I can't swallow for the dryness of my tongue.
A dry paste coats my mouth and I am sick to my gut..
And there is no noise. None. Not in the distance or nearby, no wind, no voices, no machinery, no sound other than the heartbeat in my ears and the roar of my breath.
I stop breathing, trying to hear anything. I have never experienced such silence and my breath when I exhale catches painfully in my chest, I am in very poor shape.
An old bulk food can lays propped in the corner and I manage to slide and push myself towards it . There is water, and a pink plastic dish floating in it. I fumble for the dish but pull back not wanting to foul the water with the filth I can see on my hand.
I am sick with thirst. My mind is snapped into clarity by the need to figure a way to save the water and get myself a drink.
Right now there is nothing more important. Bringing the backs of my hands together I grab and dip the relatively clean cloth of my shirting, sufficiently damping it to wipe some of the crud from my hands. This excruciating action brings some life to my fingers.
I can grasp the dish and I take a small cautious sip. It is water, stale but clear water. I take one mouthful and wash it around my mouth slowly allowing it to leak down my dust-filled throat . It may well gag me to drink fast and my ribs could not stand a cough.
The slow, wet ecstasy is all consuming,
I feel the water penetrating parched crevasses and a wave of relief flows through me.
I take another mouthful and luxuriate in the sensation, but I catch myself, cautious to limit my intake as I have so little of this water.
I use my damp shirt to wipe at my wounds a bit more, the activity brings more movement to my fingers but not to my feet. I can however now crawl and move around a bit on my knees. A horse gallops up the wall next to me and I realise I am hallucinating.
I crawl over, take another mouthful of water from my pink cup and lie back...
I am a strategist not a fighter, I am not built for this, all the time I've spent behind the battle lines I have had protectors, guys that could drink lead and shit ammunition. Francois had been the latest in a series of these guys the agency had moved onto me. Over the past two years we had been in some worrying places but Francois had managed to keep me insulated from the immediate dangers, he had won my confidence. The man had a presence that demanded respect and attention, he'd possessed a physique and the sickly charm of a matinee idol, effective in securing the pleasures he sought.
Emile was of a similar cut and was to be his replacement, He was scheduled to take over when we reached Algiers. God only knew what had happened to Emile back at the ambush, I had not heard another shot so I could only imagine his fate.
I had had little time to get to know Emile.
To be effective he and I would have had to have come to understand each other very well indeed.
Correct decisions have to be made instantly in our world, but like today, decisions may not always be the right ones.
Wrong decisions can be fatal in our line of work.
Emile was a chisel jawed athlete and from what I had seen, and unlike Francois, Emile was a ladies man. He exuded a hungry sexuality.
Before our departure from Sirt, I had wondered if I could ever completely rely on Emile to stay focused on my safety as his primary role.
I had begun to warm to him during our escape though.
While Francois had shielded and escorted me, Emile proved his abilities, dispatching four guards bare handed and silently to their eternal futures. He had pulled the bent bodywork free from the wheels of our escape vehicle using brute force and I was thinking he was one of that breed of near immortals.
Strange then.
It would have taken a lot for the Tuareg to contain him, and I sat considering...
What could have happened to him,
I had heard no struggle no shouting no shot. I ponder and my own pains surge.
It is deathly quiet here…… .......... .........
Author's note...(This story may continue at a later date….. I think it has some legs…. Emile could rescue the narrator. I think a really unlikely yet endearing name for the narrator could be Tristram Boddington-Fforbes, it would force him to use a pseudonym, say, my personal favourite Max West, there would be international intrigue, spy scandals, regime influencing, sex stories and victories in battles through the Arab nations, but all the time there will be a growing reliance on Emile,,,,, but with a niggling, uncomfortable, underlying unresolved distrust……)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He kicked me hard, once more re-arranging me like some baggage loose on the pounding truck bed. Unsupported now, my head bounced constantly on the ridged steel in stabs of searing pain. Cable ties locked my wrists to my ankles and the sharp plastic sawed into my flesh with every crash of the suspension. I lay in stinking waves of my own piss, bile and blood. As near as I could figure it, from the fading light that seeped into my blindfold, we had been smashing through this rough terrain for a couple of hours. I had guessed they were dispossessed Tuareg fighters by the veiled faces of the men and the open anger on the clear dark skin of the warrior girl’s face holding the AK47. She had held it in practiced steady aim at my heart as her partner dragged me roughly out from the back of our car.
We'd thought we had made it too. Fourteen hours driving cautiously through the dessert, bribing or cajoling at roadblocks and avoiding the wrecks of a confused regime change. The Algerian border was half an hour behind us and Emile and François had been singing in the front seat. We'd rounded another cutting, this time to be confronted with a burnt out tourist bus blocking the passage. Spotting movement behind the wreckage Emile had immediately jammed the car into reverse and tried to swing it around, but a battered Toyota shot out of the gap and blocked his retreat. Immediately we were looking at the wrong end of well used artillery and no escape or excuse was going to work. Francois had been killed as soon as he reached for his weapon, an act of reflex more than intent. Probably reflex on both sides, but Francois, my protector for the last two years was no more. A rough bag had been shoved over my head blinding and stifling me as I was pushed onto the back of the truck and cruelly bound. That was probably about four hours ago and the only words I had ever heard were a brutish, “no talk” followed by what felt like a rifle butt to the back of my head. I was now wishing for the welcome of unconsciousness, which regrettably came to me in only short bursts.
~ / ~
My eyes scratch open and I come around, my world has stopped moving.
I have no idea where I am, what place I have been taken to or why I have been captured.
My bindings have been cut but there is almost no movement in my fingers and I am unable to stand.
I lay on a sand-covered cement floor in a stale room with a barred window and one steel door, alone.
An aridness beyond description racks my throat. I can't swallow for the dryness of my tongue.
A dry paste coats my mouth and I am sick to my gut..
And there is no noise. None. Not in the distance or nearby, no wind, no voices, no machinery, no sound other than the heartbeat in my ears and the roar of my breath.
I stop breathing, trying to hear anything. I have never experienced such silence and my breath when I exhale catches painfully in my chest, I am in very poor shape.
An old bulk food can lays propped in the corner and I manage to slide and push myself towards it . There is water, and a pink plastic dish floating in it. I fumble for the dish but pull back not wanting to foul the water with the filth I can see on my hand.
I am sick with thirst. My mind is snapped into clarity by the need to figure a way to save the water and get myself a drink.
Right now there is nothing more important. Bringing the backs of my hands together I grab and dip the relatively clean cloth of my shirting, sufficiently damping it to wipe some of the crud from my hands. This excruciating action brings some life to my fingers.
I can grasp the dish and I take a small cautious sip. It is water, stale but clear water. I take one mouthful and wash it around my mouth slowly allowing it to leak down my dust-filled throat . It may well gag me to drink fast and my ribs could not stand a cough.
The slow, wet ecstasy is all consuming,
I feel the water penetrating parched crevasses and a wave of relief flows through me.
I take another mouthful and luxuriate in the sensation, but I catch myself, cautious to limit my intake as I have so little of this water.
I use my damp shirt to wipe at my wounds a bit more, the activity brings more movement to my fingers but not to my feet. I can however now crawl and move around a bit on my knees. A horse gallops up the wall next to me and I realise I am hallucinating.
I crawl over, take another mouthful of water from my pink cup and lie back...
I am a strategist not a fighter, I am not built for this, all the time I've spent behind the battle lines I have had protectors, guys that could drink lead and shit ammunition. Francois had been the latest in a series of these guys the agency had moved onto me. Over the past two years we had been in some worrying places but Francois had managed to keep me insulated from the immediate dangers, he had won my confidence. The man had a presence that demanded respect and attention, he'd possessed a physique and the sickly charm of a matinee idol, effective in securing the pleasures he sought.
Emile was of a similar cut and was to be his replacement, He was scheduled to take over when we reached Algiers. God only knew what had happened to Emile back at the ambush, I had not heard another shot so I could only imagine his fate.
I had had little time to get to know Emile.
To be effective he and I would have had to have come to understand each other very well indeed.
Correct decisions have to be made instantly in our world, but like today, decisions may not always be the right ones.
Wrong decisions can be fatal in our line of work.
Emile was a chisel jawed athlete and from what I had seen, and unlike Francois, Emile was a ladies man. He exuded a hungry sexuality.
Before our departure from Sirt, I had wondered if I could ever completely rely on Emile to stay focused on my safety as his primary role.
I had begun to warm to him during our escape though.
While Francois had shielded and escorted me, Emile proved his abilities, dispatching four guards bare handed and silently to their eternal futures. He had pulled the bent bodywork free from the wheels of our escape vehicle using brute force and I was thinking he was one of that breed of near immortals.
Strange then.
It would have taken a lot for the Tuareg to contain him, and I sat considering...
What could have happened to him,
I had heard no struggle no shouting no shot. I ponder and my own pains surge.
It is deathly quiet here…… .......... .........
Author's note...(This story may continue at a later date….. I think it has some legs…. Emile could rescue the narrator. I think a really unlikely yet endearing name for the narrator could be Tristram Boddington-Fforbes, it would force him to use a pseudonym, say, my personal favourite Max West, there would be international intrigue, spy scandals, regime influencing, sex stories and victories in battles through the Arab nations, but all the time there will be a growing reliance on Emile,,,,, but with a niggling, uncomfortable, underlying unresolved distrust……)
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Components of interconnectedness
The task this week was to let one of the Savage sketcher's works act as muse for a story in a thousand words.
Artemesia looked on as her father scraped the remaining hair from Paquita’s white hide and she secretly wiped away another tear.
Artemesia had been weeping on and off ever since she discovered Paquita laying cold and still when she had gone to milk her. It was hard to accept the absence, she would miss Paquita’s warmth in the mornings, her calm in the evenings. Her goaty friend would no longer stand and listen patiently to her troubles and wonderings as she was milked. It was even tougher to watch on now as dad showed her how Paquita’s passing was to be honoured. She had observed the harvesting of meat they could eat, she had gathered up the hair for yarn that would be made from her last shearing, and as usual, but especially this time Artemesia was a key part of the hide tanning and softening. So many uses can be had from this fine skin. Yet despite the honour, more tears came.
~/~
Stood on the hillside, Montez watched exhausted as his dad grasped the smooth hardwood handle and took grip of the axe, wielding it cleanly into the cleft Montez had chopped behind the face cut. With just four final and mighty strikes his dad felled the massive tree safely away from them and onto level ground. Montez knew how much work was required from this day forward but he was enjoying the work now, knowing he had selected a fine solid tree. This trunk would provide him and his dad much tightly grained timber with which they would make many beautiful things.
~/~
Enrique trudged painfully along the village street towards his shop regretting a night spent on the blanco tequila in Garibaldi plaza. Working in his little abattoir may earn him a living but it wasn’t a good one. Today at least he would be doing light work, although to be honest, separating offal for its different uses was not the most pleasant of jobs. As if any job in his line of work were pleasant. Enrique’s morning-after stomach crawled at the thought of stripping and cleaning the stench from bowel sections but he did have customers for the gut and his brother always wanted some of the best lengths..
~/~
Akiro became more and more pleased as he thumbed through the text on his blackberry. This Keith fellow sounded like he had played a bit and from what he was saying, it looked like he knew his stuff. Last weekend at Whitelocks, Peggy and Andrew had agreed to invite him in and hopefully the new guy would fit to their style. Akiro was determined to prove his parents wrong about his life choice, as strange as they thought it was.
~/~
It had been almost eight weeks now but Artemesia had kept track of which hide was Paquita’s and today she made sure she was the one who removed it from it’s tanning frame. It may not really have been the case but she was sure Paquita’s calm beauty still shone from this skin that she now rinsed and caressed. The hide certainly had benefited from the care Artemesia had lavished on it. Smooth, even and flexible it was almost transparent and would be a high priced sample for the buyers at the village market. Artemasia intended to hold out for as many pesos as she could to honour her goat friend’s spirit.
Montez was shaping some chair legs in the sunshine as she walked past his shop and she smiled at him when he caught her eye. ‘Beautiful day for a beautiful senorita” he grinned.
Artemesia blushed slightly but stopped to look at his work. “you make lovely things”
“I thank you pretty lady, but this beauty is already in the wood, I just let it come out”.
She looked up from the items he had crafted and Montez was staring at her.
She felt the heat rise in her face again.
“What is that you have there?” he asked.
“It is Paquita’s hide, I am wanting to sell it today” she said as she held it closer to her chest.
“May I see it? If it is better than your best I may be able to save you the walk to market!”. Reluctantly Artemasia released her hold and allowed Montez to assess her handiwork.
“Oh, senorita,” smiled Montez, “This is a very fine hide. May I buy it from you?”
“Make sure he gives you a good price!” Called out Enrique from inside the doorway “he tries to pay cheap for my stuff so you make sure you drive a hard bargain senorita”.
~/~
Akiro and Peggy were the first to arrive at the lock-up and having rolled the door up started sweeping out the usual grot and rodent droppings before opening the boxes and setting up the amp and mics. Andrew strolled in about ten minutes later and immediately plugged in his base to run off the new riff he’d been working up. They discussed some chords and Peggy layered some viola plucks and notes over it. Akiro tried a melody and the riff slowly gained shape. Keith stood watching unobserved for a moment from the door. He had not considered that a Japanese guy would be a rasta-man, that had made him pause rather than walk straight in as he normally would have. Anyway it gave him the chance to see how tight they sounded and he was pleased the bass player was delivering a crisp edge that the music needed.
“Hi” called the viola player once she'd spotted him standing there.
“You must be Keith” Akiro said, “Come in, glad you could make it”. Introductions were exchanged and as Andrew shook his hand he eyed the conga drum.
“Can I have a look at your quinto” he asked. “Where did you get it?” and they fell to discussing makers and skins until Akiro and Peggy chipped in and the afternoon rolled away into a bit of jamming and a few beers.
At around nine that night the three original members were laying around in Peg’s flat. Andrew, getting up for another can said “Well, I reckon the bloke’s going to fit in okay”.
“I loved the drum, Andy.” said Peggy, ‘it sounds so beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s some shit Mexican make, never heard of it, but that skin was magic wasn’t it? And a good gut binding, body hand carved. Buggered how they do it for the price.”
“Yeah, all good." Interrupted akiro, "But if he does come and join us on Saturday we’re going to have to set up a stand for him, he doesn’t know our stuff”.
“That’ll be okay Akiro-san, Andy can lead him along for a while.”
“Yeah, I’ll stand behind him, we’ll work it out, no probs.” ......
This sketch was chosen and I selected one component of the drawing to build my story around.
Interconnected COMPONENTS
Artemesia had been weeping on and off ever since she discovered Paquita laying cold and still when she had gone to milk her. It was hard to accept the absence, she would miss Paquita’s warmth in the mornings, her calm in the evenings. Her goaty friend would no longer stand and listen patiently to her troubles and wonderings as she was milked. It was even tougher to watch on now as dad showed her how Paquita’s passing was to be honoured. She had observed the harvesting of meat they could eat, she had gathered up the hair for yarn that would be made from her last shearing, and as usual, but especially this time Artemesia was a key part of the hide tanning and softening. So many uses can be had from this fine skin. Yet despite the honour, more tears came.
~/~
Stood on the hillside, Montez watched exhausted as his dad grasped the smooth hardwood handle and took grip of the axe, wielding it cleanly into the cleft Montez had chopped behind the face cut. With just four final and mighty strikes his dad felled the massive tree safely away from them and onto level ground. Montez knew how much work was required from this day forward but he was enjoying the work now, knowing he had selected a fine solid tree. This trunk would provide him and his dad much tightly grained timber with which they would make many beautiful things.
~/~
Enrique trudged painfully along the village street towards his shop regretting a night spent on the blanco tequila in Garibaldi plaza. Working in his little abattoir may earn him a living but it wasn’t a good one. Today at least he would be doing light work, although to be honest, separating offal for its different uses was not the most pleasant of jobs. As if any job in his line of work were pleasant. Enrique’s morning-after stomach crawled at the thought of stripping and cleaning the stench from bowel sections but he did have customers for the gut and his brother always wanted some of the best lengths..
~/~
Akiro became more and more pleased as he thumbed through the text on his blackberry. This Keith fellow sounded like he had played a bit and from what he was saying, it looked like he knew his stuff. Last weekend at Whitelocks, Peggy and Andrew had agreed to invite him in and hopefully the new guy would fit to their style. Akiro was determined to prove his parents wrong about his life choice, as strange as they thought it was.
~/~
It had been almost eight weeks now but Artemesia had kept track of which hide was Paquita’s and today she made sure she was the one who removed it from it’s tanning frame. It may not really have been the case but she was sure Paquita’s calm beauty still shone from this skin that she now rinsed and caressed. The hide certainly had benefited from the care Artemesia had lavished on it. Smooth, even and flexible it was almost transparent and would be a high priced sample for the buyers at the village market. Artemasia intended to hold out for as many pesos as she could to honour her goat friend’s spirit.
Montez was shaping some chair legs in the sunshine as she walked past his shop and she smiled at him when he caught her eye. ‘Beautiful day for a beautiful senorita” he grinned.
Artemesia blushed slightly but stopped to look at his work. “you make lovely things”
“I thank you pretty lady, but this beauty is already in the wood, I just let it come out”.
She looked up from the items he had crafted and Montez was staring at her.
She felt the heat rise in her face again.
“What is that you have there?” he asked.
“It is Paquita’s hide, I am wanting to sell it today” she said as she held it closer to her chest.
“May I see it? If it is better than your best I may be able to save you the walk to market!”. Reluctantly Artemasia released her hold and allowed Montez to assess her handiwork.
“Oh, senorita,” smiled Montez, “This is a very fine hide. May I buy it from you?”
“Make sure he gives you a good price!” Called out Enrique from inside the doorway “he tries to pay cheap for my stuff so you make sure you drive a hard bargain senorita”.
~/~
Akiro and Peggy were the first to arrive at the lock-up and having rolled the door up started sweeping out the usual grot and rodent droppings before opening the boxes and setting up the amp and mics. Andrew strolled in about ten minutes later and immediately plugged in his base to run off the new riff he’d been working up. They discussed some chords and Peggy layered some viola plucks and notes over it. Akiro tried a melody and the riff slowly gained shape. Keith stood watching unobserved for a moment from the door. He had not considered that a Japanese guy would be a rasta-man, that had made him pause rather than walk straight in as he normally would have. Anyway it gave him the chance to see how tight they sounded and he was pleased the bass player was delivering a crisp edge that the music needed.
“Hi” called the viola player once she'd spotted him standing there.
“You must be Keith” Akiro said, “Come in, glad you could make it”. Introductions were exchanged and as Andrew shook his hand he eyed the conga drum.
“Can I have a look at your quinto” he asked. “Where did you get it?” and they fell to discussing makers and skins until Akiro and Peggy chipped in and the afternoon rolled away into a bit of jamming and a few beers.
At around nine that night the three original members were laying around in Peg’s flat. Andrew, getting up for another can said “Well, I reckon the bloke’s going to fit in okay”.
“I loved the drum, Andy.” said Peggy, ‘it sounds so beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s some shit Mexican make, never heard of it, but that skin was magic wasn’t it? And a good gut binding, body hand carved. Buggered how they do it for the price.”
“Yeah, all good." Interrupted akiro, "But if he does come and join us on Saturday we’re going to have to set up a stand for him, he doesn’t know our stuff”.
“That’ll be okay Akiro-san, Andy can lead him along for a while.”
“Yeah, I’ll stand behind him, we’ll work it out, no probs.” ......
Thursday, August 18, 2011
An almost invisible life
Task was to write about invisible in 1000 words.
A long time ago, in a county far away from where he later lived, Max was born into a commune of Hunter Gatherers, as they liked to be known. The famers and townsfolk referred to the commune dwellers as thieves, whores and dope-heads but Max would live for some time before he understood the difference.
Max was an unassuming boy with no outstanding physical features. It was hard to distinguish him from any of the other children being parented by the group. I mention this group parenting because years ago the group decided that all children should be raised equally by all members, with mothers sharing their nurturing to any child requiring a feed and all the males sharing care and providing authority over all children. Every child was expected to be given equal affection and support by the members of the group, to promote a sense of peace, protection and communal love. This group parenting was decided at a council of the originators because it had soon become apparent, from the open satisfaction enjoyed by all members, that no-one in the group could ever be certain which coupling had fathered which child. The system had worked well and no one ever thought to change it.
As an observer I guess I could say it allowed the members of the group to relinquish individual responsibility over specific children and gave barren members both the pleasure and the duty of parenting. It is beyond me to make any criticism of the structure given its continued and mainly successful longevity.
But I was talking about Max, I have been researching his development with some interest. Max was never a troublesome child nor was he adventurous or slow witted. Like many of the children, Max was content. Content to be fed, content to do as he was directed and content with the comforts he received when hurt or upset. Some of the children found cause to seek more attention by performing brave or clever acts and so they became known as individuals but mostly the kids all grew up together and slowly became members of the commune. I guess it is a comfortable way to live in a sort of a heard protectorate, but I must not bring my social values to what is clearly a close and caring community.
There were high minded and well educated individuals in the commune who as part of their contribution willingly educated the young ones not only in the way of the commune but, in a surprising nod to awareness and responsibility, they also taught the kids the skills of literacy and numeracy. In fact the level of education has allowed many of the children to pass institutional exams and to gain real world certificates. Max, to his due, was a moderate student who achieved passes but did not excel or fail in any particular field. I remark on this purely because of the unlikely basis from which these achievements are obtained and, honestly, it flies in the face of my logic.
It will not be a surprise to you though, if I say that in time Max’s hormones developed and his dissatisfaction and rebellion slowly rose above the platitudes and calming words of the elders of the commune. I would like to say that this disobedience within the commune was seen as a mark distinguishing Max as an individual, but the group had seen it all before and knew in time Max would either calm down , or if he left, would return, as so many offspring had done in the past. If he didn’t come back that was fine too. It was an ordinary part of the commune experience and Max was allowed the space to make his decisions with the gentle guidance of the commune ringing in his ears. Not unlike many before him, Max decided to leave the commune and find work and experiences in the outside world. Well, not in the outside world nearby, because the farmers and towns folk were not all that accommodating. By now Max had understood the difference between hunter gatherer and stalker thief. It is my presumption though that while he knew the disparity he saw no ethical difference. I say this because of his general lack of observance to common law from the moment he left the commune. I make reference here to his early fare evasion and petty theft.
It must be said that these minor crimes did not earn him any special attention from the authorities and permanent records of his early years were not retained against his name. I presume Max either became wiser in avoiding consequences or very cleverly avoided being observed in suspect activities. I do know he established a home with a girlfriend who was employed in a semi professional role and that he for some years sought benefits but also held a number of part-time jobs in hotels, betting shops and as a builder’s labourer on major sites around Leeds. There is no record of his marriage and Max’s name does not appear on the birth records of the children his partner bore. In fact if you were planning a life of insignificance and low profile you could not do much better than to match Max’s seemingly practiced triviality.
That may seem to you to be a strange comment, but of course you are unaware that I am referring to the Holbeck Hacker. It has taken me seven years to link the back street slaughters of all seventy two victims and to find the one common link that directed me to Max. A simple hg scrawled in the victim’s blood next to every eviscerated corpse. That, and the fact that every victim had used a cash machine and all items of value were removed post mortem had led police to focus on known thugs with the initials or connections to any pseudonym of H.G.
Max Kristofferson of course was never a suspect as he was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the society in which he hunted and gathered. (hg)
The End.
A long time ago, in a county far away from where he later lived, Max was born into a commune of Hunter Gatherers, as they liked to be known. The famers and townsfolk referred to the commune dwellers as thieves, whores and dope-heads but Max would live for some time before he understood the difference.
Max was an unassuming boy with no outstanding physical features. It was hard to distinguish him from any of the other children being parented by the group. I mention this group parenting because years ago the group decided that all children should be raised equally by all members, with mothers sharing their nurturing to any child requiring a feed and all the males sharing care and providing authority over all children. Every child was expected to be given equal affection and support by the members of the group, to promote a sense of peace, protection and communal love. This group parenting was decided at a council of the originators because it had soon become apparent, from the open satisfaction enjoyed by all members, that no-one in the group could ever be certain which coupling had fathered which child. The system had worked well and no one ever thought to change it.
As an observer I guess I could say it allowed the members of the group to relinquish individual responsibility over specific children and gave barren members both the pleasure and the duty of parenting. It is beyond me to make any criticism of the structure given its continued and mainly successful longevity.
But I was talking about Max, I have been researching his development with some interest. Max was never a troublesome child nor was he adventurous or slow witted. Like many of the children, Max was content. Content to be fed, content to do as he was directed and content with the comforts he received when hurt or upset. Some of the children found cause to seek more attention by performing brave or clever acts and so they became known as individuals but mostly the kids all grew up together and slowly became members of the commune. I guess it is a comfortable way to live in a sort of a heard protectorate, but I must not bring my social values to what is clearly a close and caring community.
There were high minded and well educated individuals in the commune who as part of their contribution willingly educated the young ones not only in the way of the commune but, in a surprising nod to awareness and responsibility, they also taught the kids the skills of literacy and numeracy. In fact the level of education has allowed many of the children to pass institutional exams and to gain real world certificates. Max, to his due, was a moderate student who achieved passes but did not excel or fail in any particular field. I remark on this purely because of the unlikely basis from which these achievements are obtained and, honestly, it flies in the face of my logic.
It will not be a surprise to you though, if I say that in time Max’s hormones developed and his dissatisfaction and rebellion slowly rose above the platitudes and calming words of the elders of the commune. I would like to say that this disobedience within the commune was seen as a mark distinguishing Max as an individual, but the group had seen it all before and knew in time Max would either calm down , or if he left, would return, as so many offspring had done in the past. If he didn’t come back that was fine too. It was an ordinary part of the commune experience and Max was allowed the space to make his decisions with the gentle guidance of the commune ringing in his ears. Not unlike many before him, Max decided to leave the commune and find work and experiences in the outside world. Well, not in the outside world nearby, because the farmers and towns folk were not all that accommodating. By now Max had understood the difference between hunter gatherer and stalker thief. It is my presumption though that while he knew the disparity he saw no ethical difference. I say this because of his general lack of observance to common law from the moment he left the commune. I make reference here to his early fare evasion and petty theft.
It must be said that these minor crimes did not earn him any special attention from the authorities and permanent records of his early years were not retained against his name. I presume Max either became wiser in avoiding consequences or very cleverly avoided being observed in suspect activities. I do know he established a home with a girlfriend who was employed in a semi professional role and that he for some years sought benefits but also held a number of part-time jobs in hotels, betting shops and as a builder’s labourer on major sites around Leeds. There is no record of his marriage and Max’s name does not appear on the birth records of the children his partner bore. In fact if you were planning a life of insignificance and low profile you could not do much better than to match Max’s seemingly practiced triviality.
That may seem to you to be a strange comment, but of course you are unaware that I am referring to the Holbeck Hacker. It has taken me seven years to link the back street slaughters of all seventy two victims and to find the one common link that directed me to Max. A simple hg scrawled in the victim’s blood next to every eviscerated corpse. That, and the fact that every victim had used a cash machine and all items of value were removed post mortem had led police to focus on known thugs with the initials or connections to any pseudonym of H.G.
Max Kristofferson of course was never a suspect as he was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the society in which he hunted and gathered. (hg)
The End.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Magazine
July 25 meeting was to write something about magazine.
I had fun writing this, I hope you enjoy trying to follow it.
The view and the heavy curtains were good reasons for choosing this hotel, that and its rear lane access and easily disabled cctv. The drapes shield me as I scan the roadway outside again, I'm checking doorways, corners, and café seats for bystanders. The long window allows me a wide range of sight and I check that my movements do not betray the stillness of the drapes. I glance back across the bed as I hear people walk down the corridor outside the room. A crack of sunlight from the gap in the curtains cuts a diagonal line across the disheveled sheets and I recall the knowing smile the maid gave me when I tipped her well and requested no room service.
That was yesterday and thankfully, as I look down on the street my cover doesn’t seem to have been compromised. As a reward for my escape I gently tear the cellophane off my last Puro dÓro and catch its thick spicy scent. I drop into the armchair by the window kicking off my shoes and anticipate the bitter chocolate taste and the warm leather smell I know will come as I draw slowly back.
My glance falls again on the beautiful shapes laid bare on the bed. Deathly still now, spent and cold. Not ever to be co-joined again, just grey-blue forms, bereft of their heat and void of their urgent energies, I am deprived forever of their tactile activity. I see them as used and now useless but I note they retain a fragrance from the oils I rubbed over them. From their recent activity they still exude the wondrous odors I anticipated initially. I must be rid of them. I regret the decay they will suffer when abandoned and I chide myself for becoming attached to them. Without thinking, I blow a ring and stream of smoke over their lifeless shapes and that line of sunlight cuts whitely between them, highlighting the depressions their dead weight makes in the bedding.
Tonight I will bind each of them separately and dispose of them individually, one well-weighted will be drowned in the deepest channel of the river, heavy enough so the spring flow will not dislodge it. The other will be slid down the ventilator of a mine shaft many miles from here as I leave this city for the last time. And that will be the end of all of this. No witnesses, no vacuous media idolatry.
I rise and check the footpaths, benches and shop-front awnings again, still no stooges, no one undercover, I am calming by the minute.
There are seven hours before the curfew is lifted and I can leave this room. The view in here however is unsettling, I throw the bedclothes over, not wanting to keep looking at them.
Today was always going to end like this, from the moment Ashif introduced them to me this morning. I knew they would be ideal and I was excited at the prospect of using them in ways I could never do in my own country. I guessed by just looking at them they would enjoy being used. I had rebuked myself for imbuing them with desires similar to mine but I owned them now and they would serve me as I wanted. Ashif gave me some clear warnings which I ignored and he left me alone with them in this room. I stripped them bare and ran my fingers over their every curve and treasure, teasing the tension in them and enjoying immensely the coupling and re-coupling. It took a few hours but I was confident, when needed, they would respond to my every touch and that the urgency, fear and darkness would only enhance the experience.
I had felt ready then, I knew Hakem was leaving at dusk for the private meeting venue and I had ensured the event site was all scoped out.
When dusk eventually came and in the the fading light I grabbed at them perhaps too enthusiastically and with thick woolen coats as disguise headed out into the chill, greying evening. The weather thankfully had turned sour, the wind was driving thin icy rain horizontal through the city canyons and it ensured the stragglers looked down to the pavement and not at me or at what I was gripping. The battered and overflowing rubbish skip was blocking the entrance to the alley just as I had left it, leaving space to get by and providing excellent cover. Without checking for observers I calmly turned into the alley, released them to rest against the wall within easy reach and I un-chocked the skip allowing it to roll forward and block the alley. The first of the police escort bikes crawled past and with flashing lights and loudhailers cleared the sidewalks and stopped all traffic coming from my right.
I was shielded from view and the landings overhead provided protection from the rain, an ideal sniper nest. The angle of the skip gave me a clear view across the intersection and I could see Ashif was parked up and ready to create the diversion. Satisfied that civilian casualties would be minimized I turned to look at my treasures still shrouded in their coat and leaning against the wall. Did I imagine it or were they actually anticipating the slaughter that lay ahead? No time for that sort of thinking. I flung the coat off them and briefly marveled at their raw beauty. Grabbing one in each hand I first released the safety, opened the gate and crashed the magazine into the stock, checking that the first cartridge slid cleanly into the breech. My timing was perfect, the main police escort had crested the hill and Ashif immediately pulled left into the intersection and deployed his water and smoke release. A grinding noise screamed from the truck’s engine and Ashif jumped out, threw up the cab and wildly gesticulating, he made a convincing show of exposing the smoking engine as the source of his problem. The cavalcade had no option but to turn right in front of me and I commenced.
The first six cartridges were incendiary into the fuel tanks of the lead and tailing bikes creating a flaming barrier around my target. The next six were armor piercing and I dispatched the driver and backup in each vehicle. The convoy, now immobilized in the middle of the intersection had stopped Hakem’s limo adjacent to Ashif’s now abandoned truck and it was time for me to leave as well. The explosive force from the truck which evaporated Hakem’s Mercedes would have blasted my battered skip back into the alley but I had retreated in time and was well clear.
My return via the hotel’s rear lane was undetected and my return into my room was well within time for me to respond to the emergency procedures the hotel instigated. I had thrown the magnificent weapon and its empty magazine on the bed where they now lay under the covers and had begun my long and systematic checking of the street outside looking for secret police or for any of Hakem's minions who would be intent on finding me. I took another look down the street, all clear still. I returned to my cigar.
The End.
The following is an email I wrote when I first heard the topic was Magazine upon returning from holiday. I wanted to record it here as I may write some stories based on the ideas I had then.
Magazine?
.......Located deep underground and safe within the fortifications , piles of rough edged wooden cases, copper covered walls and floors, round brass nail heads securing the soft metal in quilted squares behind pyramid rows of stacked lead projectiles, canvas load-bags full of chain and scrap, the reek of saltpeter and black powder, wax water-proofing soft to the finger's touch, a maze of dark dry corridors whispering the impending disaster of one small spark, one flare of flame or one minuscule act of clumsiness. that would obliterate this entire magazine...
OR, perhaps..... a crowded street, the hard click of a full magazine crashing 30 rounds into it's breech so quickly that their ejected predecessors have not yet reached the ground , the staccato pops of not so distant light armoury echoing off the pitted and graffitied walls of another downtown slumlord's empire.... the innocent public standing stunned or scattering for cover in the classic pattern of mass panic so often seen since the police cut backs.....
NO?... .... maybe a fiction piece on an immoral media giant with the police and politicians in his pocket, secrets, scandal and threatened global financial meltdown should his share prices plummet, no, too far fetched. maybe I'll just go along and listen..
From all of that the story that did emerge above was probably triggered (pun) by the second idea but I wonder now if the idea wasn't better than the story it spored.
I had fun writing this, I hope you enjoy trying to follow it.
The view and the heavy curtains were good reasons for choosing this hotel, that and its rear lane access and easily disabled cctv. The drapes shield me as I scan the roadway outside again, I'm checking doorways, corners, and café seats for bystanders. The long window allows me a wide range of sight and I check that my movements do not betray the stillness of the drapes. I glance back across the bed as I hear people walk down the corridor outside the room. A crack of sunlight from the gap in the curtains cuts a diagonal line across the disheveled sheets and I recall the knowing smile the maid gave me when I tipped her well and requested no room service.
That was yesterday and thankfully, as I look down on the street my cover doesn’t seem to have been compromised. As a reward for my escape I gently tear the cellophane off my last Puro dÓro and catch its thick spicy scent. I drop into the armchair by the window kicking off my shoes and anticipate the bitter chocolate taste and the warm leather smell I know will come as I draw slowly back.
My glance falls again on the beautiful shapes laid bare on the bed. Deathly still now, spent and cold. Not ever to be co-joined again, just grey-blue forms, bereft of their heat and void of their urgent energies, I am deprived forever of their tactile activity. I see them as used and now useless but I note they retain a fragrance from the oils I rubbed over them. From their recent activity they still exude the wondrous odors I anticipated initially. I must be rid of them. I regret the decay they will suffer when abandoned and I chide myself for becoming attached to them. Without thinking, I blow a ring and stream of smoke over their lifeless shapes and that line of sunlight cuts whitely between them, highlighting the depressions their dead weight makes in the bedding.
Tonight I will bind each of them separately and dispose of them individually, one well-weighted will be drowned in the deepest channel of the river, heavy enough so the spring flow will not dislodge it. The other will be slid down the ventilator of a mine shaft many miles from here as I leave this city for the last time. And that will be the end of all of this. No witnesses, no vacuous media idolatry.
I rise and check the footpaths, benches and shop-front awnings again, still no stooges, no one undercover, I am calming by the minute.
There are seven hours before the curfew is lifted and I can leave this room. The view in here however is unsettling, I throw the bedclothes over, not wanting to keep looking at them.
Today was always going to end like this, from the moment Ashif introduced them to me this morning. I knew they would be ideal and I was excited at the prospect of using them in ways I could never do in my own country. I guessed by just looking at them they would enjoy being used. I had rebuked myself for imbuing them with desires similar to mine but I owned them now and they would serve me as I wanted. Ashif gave me some clear warnings which I ignored and he left me alone with them in this room. I stripped them bare and ran my fingers over their every curve and treasure, teasing the tension in them and enjoying immensely the coupling and re-coupling. It took a few hours but I was confident, when needed, they would respond to my every touch and that the urgency, fear and darkness would only enhance the experience.
I had felt ready then, I knew Hakem was leaving at dusk for the private meeting venue and I had ensured the event site was all scoped out.
When dusk eventually came and in the the fading light I grabbed at them perhaps too enthusiastically and with thick woolen coats as disguise headed out into the chill, greying evening. The weather thankfully had turned sour, the wind was driving thin icy rain horizontal through the city canyons and it ensured the stragglers looked down to the pavement and not at me or at what I was gripping. The battered and overflowing rubbish skip was blocking the entrance to the alley just as I had left it, leaving space to get by and providing excellent cover. Without checking for observers I calmly turned into the alley, released them to rest against the wall within easy reach and I un-chocked the skip allowing it to roll forward and block the alley. The first of the police escort bikes crawled past and with flashing lights and loudhailers cleared the sidewalks and stopped all traffic coming from my right.
I was shielded from view and the landings overhead provided protection from the rain, an ideal sniper nest. The angle of the skip gave me a clear view across the intersection and I could see Ashif was parked up and ready to create the diversion. Satisfied that civilian casualties would be minimized I turned to look at my treasures still shrouded in their coat and leaning against the wall. Did I imagine it or were they actually anticipating the slaughter that lay ahead? No time for that sort of thinking. I flung the coat off them and briefly marveled at their raw beauty. Grabbing one in each hand I first released the safety, opened the gate and crashed the magazine into the stock, checking that the first cartridge slid cleanly into the breech. My timing was perfect, the main police escort had crested the hill and Ashif immediately pulled left into the intersection and deployed his water and smoke release. A grinding noise screamed from the truck’s engine and Ashif jumped out, threw up the cab and wildly gesticulating, he made a convincing show of exposing the smoking engine as the source of his problem. The cavalcade had no option but to turn right in front of me and I commenced.
The first six cartridges were incendiary into the fuel tanks of the lead and tailing bikes creating a flaming barrier around my target. The next six were armor piercing and I dispatched the driver and backup in each vehicle. The convoy, now immobilized in the middle of the intersection had stopped Hakem’s limo adjacent to Ashif’s now abandoned truck and it was time for me to leave as well. The explosive force from the truck which evaporated Hakem’s Mercedes would have blasted my battered skip back into the alley but I had retreated in time and was well clear.
My return via the hotel’s rear lane was undetected and my return into my room was well within time for me to respond to the emergency procedures the hotel instigated. I had thrown the magnificent weapon and its empty magazine on the bed where they now lay under the covers and had begun my long and systematic checking of the street outside looking for secret police or for any of Hakem's minions who would be intent on finding me. I took another look down the street, all clear still. I returned to my cigar.
The End.
The following is an email I wrote when I first heard the topic was Magazine upon returning from holiday. I wanted to record it here as I may write some stories based on the ideas I had then.
Magazine?
.......Located deep underground and safe within the fortifications , piles of rough edged wooden cases, copper covered walls and floors, round brass nail heads securing the soft metal in quilted squares behind pyramid rows of stacked lead projectiles, canvas load-bags full of chain and scrap, the reek of saltpeter and black powder, wax water-proofing soft to the finger's touch, a maze of dark dry corridors whispering the impending disaster of one small spark, one flare of flame or one minuscule act of clumsiness. that would obliterate this entire magazine...
OR, perhaps..... a crowded street, the hard click of a full magazine crashing 30 rounds into it's breech so quickly that their ejected predecessors have not yet reached the ground , the staccato pops of not so distant light armoury echoing off the pitted and graffitied walls of another downtown slumlord's empire.... the innocent public standing stunned or scattering for cover in the classic pattern of mass panic so often seen since the police cut backs.....
NO?... .... maybe a fiction piece on an immoral media giant with the police and politicians in his pocket, secrets, scandal and threatened global financial meltdown should his share prices plummet, no, too far fetched. maybe I'll just go along and listen..
From all of that the story that did emerge above was probably triggered (pun) by the second idea but I wonder now if the idea wasn't better than the story it spored.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
beer, cathederals,prams and redundancy scare
THE FOLLOWING ENTRY SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE TO MY WETHERBY ADVENTURES BLOG BUT ENDED UP HERE THRU PLAIN SILLINESS. So here it stays as i don't know how to move it.
June was the month to remember. And I'll start this blog of with some words rather than the usual photo.
Sure, summer has arrived and is pleasant partly because of the beer festivals that continue to amuse us and the many community days that happen.
I try to ensure these pages concentrate on the good times we have from Wetherby and I hope you read them as such but life is life and things do crop up that are less than pleasant, I just choose not to capture them on these pages for perpetuity.
The most rememberable thing of June however was that Gail's employer announced REDUNDANCIES for their mobile radiographers (Gail) would be rolled out over two weeks. There will now be half the mobile vans and the mobile staff will number 47, down from 150. The stress we lived with for those days was intense and the relief most exquisite when Gail was told that because she could lead days on DEXA vans she was spared from the cut this time.
We so need her employment as without it we have no work visa and must leave the UK. From reviewing these pages you could guess WE DON'T WANT TO GOOOOO!
Just the thought of leaving Wetherby is enough to make us cry right now, we have made many good friends and our life is quite quite pleasant. So the good news is that we stay, for now. In February we apply to Her Majesty for our permanent residency (we have studied, sat for and passed the living in the UK test necessary to be able to apply for the permanent leave to remain here) and hopefully our fortunes will become more secure.
But that is quite enough of the dire side of life.
Let's talk beer festivals.
We have been to three, Boston Spa, Wetherby and Clifford. Photos follow of Wetherby's and Clifford's as I didn't take the camera to Boston Spa. All were great days, different but similar enough to equally classify as great days. Boston Spa and Clifford finished with a Thai restaurant meal for many and the Wetherby one Gail and I ended up walking back from Rob and Angela's house very early the next morning.
The shots here are of the Wetherby Beer Festival.
There was a band of kids from the local school doing up to the minute gunge rock and pop covers who were only bearable because of their enthusiasm. No the blokes below were not them , These were a loose gathering of ex-hippies who all happened to all know some of the same tunes from the 60's and 70's. They were great in fact and by far more suited to the casual sampling of 30 odd local brewed ales.
You can see the back of Gail's head here, we met up with Kim Danby (Gail's colleague) and her sister Tessa, also back of head shot, and opposite Gail is Rob Guest and Angela's back of head. We were quite lucky to secure a table just out of the screaming cry of the grunge boys and while I acknowledge the photo does not capture the mood or the faces, we did enjoy the spot and the day.
The Wetherby Beer festival is advertised as being family friendly and the bouncy castles etc prove it.
I think this is the best shot I have taken of the ales being pulled , there are usually about 30 local brewed ales a few ciders, a perry or two and some rather scrappy wines. A pint costs 2 pound 40p a half pint half that. All beer festivals are run to earn funds for local causes so you feel like you are doing good as you progress to feeling gooder and gooder.
Inside the hall with the beer and the band all got a bit close and crowded,
So we commandeered the gazebo while a few hundred others sought the shade of trees or lounged on the lawn. I this shot are my legs, tom the dog, Rob, James Emma, eddie the dog and Angela's knees.
But..... Just so you don't think all we do is drink ale, we also go to cultural things and stuff. This was a fine art auction which we didn't buy anything from but there were Dali's, Picasso's, Ruben's and other cleffa painters and drawers.
This one below was purported to be an Andy Warhol, but we didn't like it either. By and large the works did not sell well with many passed in and some selling for little money. You really have to know what you are buying with this stuff so we didn't.
Of course we live on the Wharfe river, or the River Wharfe to be correct about it. This time of year the water gets a lot of use, there is the annual raft race where sometimes the teams finish the course.
There is the annual Pram race in support of the care flight helicopter service which rescues accident victims and received no government funding so we try to help them out in Wetherby.
There is usually a rock band playing out of the back of a soft sided semi-trailer
And the River is always spectacular, see the heron in this shot?
Not in anyway to seek forgiveness we went to Beverly Minster, about an hour or so south of Wetherby. A Minster is a teaching church and Beverly was quite the destination for pilgrims a few hundred years ago. http://beverleyminster.org.uk/ will tell you all you want to know about it's Gothic and pre Gothic history.
We were taken up into the rafters to see how it was built. The man powered walking wheel crane is the only operating medieval one in the world or western Europe or England I didn't pay attention. Today it is used not to lift stones and roofing timbers but the boss above the organ so tourists like us can look and see down . It is a fantastic and rare experience for which we are really grateful the church man took the time and enthusiasm to explain to us.
This is the gilded boss the wheel lifted up, it's about two meters across.
And this is the view down through the hole it opens looking down 80 foot or so to the top of the huge church organ and prayer space.
While walking trough the roof space you get to look out through the huge sectioned windows at the top of the spires. This one looks over the old first and second world war air fields and into many of the slivers of ancient glass, people have etched their names and drawn images of air planes of the ages. From bi-planes to the shuttle with early jets and recent fighters all featuring. Most interesting.
This is a rose from our bush in the back garden. I only include it because the picture turned out so good.
Also in our back yard.
And a great shot Gail took of a couple of young blokes angling in the Wharfe just below the bridge into town.
And because I have to Gail says here is the furry animal shot for June. (it and the Clifford beer festival actually were in early July but who cares really.)
June was the month to remember. And I'll start this blog of with some words rather than the usual photo.
Sure, summer has arrived and is pleasant partly because of the beer festivals that continue to amuse us and the many community days that happen.
I try to ensure these pages concentrate on the good times we have from Wetherby and I hope you read them as such but life is life and things do crop up that are less than pleasant, I just choose not to capture them on these pages for perpetuity.
The most rememberable thing of June however was that Gail's employer announced REDUNDANCIES for their mobile radiographers (Gail) would be rolled out over two weeks. There will now be half the mobile vans and the mobile staff will number 47, down from 150. The stress we lived with for those days was intense and the relief most exquisite when Gail was told that because she could lead days on DEXA vans she was spared from the cut this time.
We so need her employment as without it we have no work visa and must leave the UK. From reviewing these pages you could guess WE DON'T WANT TO GOOOOO!
Just the thought of leaving Wetherby is enough to make us cry right now, we have made many good friends and our life is quite quite pleasant. So the good news is that we stay, for now. In February we apply to Her Majesty for our permanent residency (we have studied, sat for and passed the living in the UK test necessary to be able to apply for the permanent leave to remain here) and hopefully our fortunes will become more secure.
But that is quite enough of the dire side of life.
Let's talk beer festivals.
We have been to three, Boston Spa, Wetherby and Clifford. Photos follow of Wetherby's and Clifford's as I didn't take the camera to Boston Spa. All were great days, different but similar enough to equally classify as great days. Boston Spa and Clifford finished with a Thai restaurant meal for many and the Wetherby one Gail and I ended up walking back from Rob and Angela's house very early the next morning.
The shots here are of the Wetherby Beer Festival.
There was a band of kids from the local school doing up to the minute gunge rock and pop covers who were only bearable because of their enthusiasm. No the blokes below were not them , These were a loose gathering of ex-hippies who all happened to all know some of the same tunes from the 60's and 70's. They were great in fact and by far more suited to the casual sampling of 30 odd local brewed ales.
Clifford Beer Festival fell on a near 30 degree heat wave day so the community hall was full to overflowing in the great weather and hundreds of folk turned up for a great bit of sampling and endless talk as well as a bit of music.
The shot below has nothing to do with festivals but is our local pub, The Muse. It's a short walk from home, has nice clientele, good food and a fine selection of locally brewed ales.
We also went to a Leeds open art event where young artists get to show their gear and seek reactions from the public. Here I am taking to Rob in front of his works, he uses veneers and slivers of film to create shapes. We are going to take delivery of the dog in the bottom left of frame.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)