Lost In The Bubbles Of A Drink, I Took Up My Cribble

Today I sat for a while in a cafe.  I'd gone into the city centre but hadn't made it there because I was not up to it.  Mentally I was a knot of anxiety.  Physically I wish I was well again.  This evening I'm really not in great shape.

However, the cafe.  While I was there I began a set of writing exercises given by the writer Ali Smith, who doesn't enjoy giving writing exercises.  There are seven of them and I played with the first two.  This blog post contains the results.  Unedited.  One day I will edit something.

I find that both of these results are almost autobiographical.

The triumph (for me) today is that I entered a writing competition.  I have a marginally greater than zero chance of winning a prize for the three pieces of flash fiction I submitted.  It doesn't matter that there are many better writers than me who will have entered the competition.  What matters is that I enjoyed the writing.


The first exercise involved writing a few sentences and emotions in a particular way.  The instruction then was to choose one sentence and write from it.  This happened:

Separated from her peers, she could only watch each bubble as it burst into nothing at the surface of her drink.  It was one of her bad days.  A glass of coke was all her mind could process.  Falling into herself, falling into an almost infinitesimal galaxy she fought with each heartbeat for her own survival, hoping the world beyond the glass would not intrude upon that centre of chaotic calm.

She shut out the people, the conversations.  Shut out the music too.  Initially she'd been enjoying listening.  Jazz playing softly.  For a while.  Then it became like a broken cacophony, as if Stockhausen were playing a cruel joke on Schoenberg.  She blocked it out, blocked it out, "I WILL not hear it" and shut down one mental and emotional faculty after another.

Now only the glass remained.  One focus.  One life.  One eye in the hurricane.  It was as though each single bubble sang one note of a song, sang the language of purpose, shining brightly as it burst.  Consider the bubbles.  They grow and die in a moment yet God arrays them with joy.  She was content to watch.  Content just to be with her drink, resisting all temptation to try to impose order, knowing the apparent patterns of popping were just illusions.

And then she realised.  The bright light of the bubble was its unfettered death cry.  The bubble only had purpose in her drink when it was nothing.  The moment it birthed itself, called out its own vigorous shape, that was the moment it died too.  Lost in the air they became a nothing of greater or lesser magnitude.  She knew in that instant that death was life and life was death and that her bad day and her reduction of the world to bubbles was more real than each time she shouted her own importance to the world.

She wept.  Weeping, she saw beyond the glass.  Noticed again the cafe customers surrounding her.  On her table, a single staple, half folded, and she considered where it might have come from.  A staple, failing in purpose as the staper incorrectly stamped it into a government document.  A staple, fallen from a magazine.  A staple out of place and isolated on varnished wood.  She convinced herself she was that staple.  She wept again.  She was wrong.

A hand on her shoulder.  A face, radiating compassion.  A query.  "Are you okay?  Can I help in any way?"

She wept again.  Fiercely.  A hug replaced the hand.

Bubbles continued to sing their joy.

Unobserved.  It didn't matter.

_______________________

The second exercise was one of those "Here are some words.  Choose three.  Put them in a paragraph or story or poem."  The difference here was that I don't know the meaning of most of the words.  That didn't matter for the exercise.  The words could mean nothing or be given new meanings.


"I can't do it.  I just can't do it.  I'm useless."

Jill looked at Lucy with tears in her eyes.

"You can.  I promise.  I know it's not easy for you but give it another try.  You never know what might happen."

Jill tried to calm down, took deep breaths, and bravely picked up the cribble again.

"Okay, I'll try.  If you tell me exactly what to do."

Lucy picked up her cribble and pressed it into the obovate.

"Look.  Like this.  Don't worry about how it comes out.  Just treat it as a game."

Lucy pulled out the cribble and pressed it into the obovate again.  Harder.  So a bigger mark was made.

"Now you do it."

Gingerly, Jill pressed her cribble into the surface of her own obovate.

"This is so scary."

"I know it is.  You're doing great.  You can wiggle it if you like and swap colours too.  Just have fun with it.  Don't try to be a grandmaster."

Jill pulled the cribble out and looked at the mark it had made.  A small pink circle, fading towards the edges.

"Hey, I'm going to do blue next.  And wiggle it like you said."

By the end of the evening Jill was smiling.  Her obovate was covered in colour.  It didn't look like anything in particular but that didn't matter.  It was still pretty and it was her own work.

As Jill was leaving, Lucy hugged her tightly and said, "I'm so proud of you.  You're amazing.  You thought you would never be able to incarnadine but you did it.  That's pretty special."

Jill laughed as she said  "And if I can incarnadine, what might I do next?"

Eyes That Follow You Round A Room - A Poem And A Prose Piece

A day for feeling mentally a little wrecked and I'm proud of myself because I made it to the Writers' Cafe this morning and managed not to walk out even though I was feeling totally nauseous with anxiety and for a while could hardly process verbal inputs among the noises from other parts of the cafe.  And the wallpaper?  Oh God the wallpaper.  I find it difficult on the best of days.  Today it came alive and at times engulfed my whole existence.

Our theme this morning was "Eyes That Follow You Round A Room" based on art work, John Berger and our own thoughts.  I wanted to get out of that place.  Instead I managed to write a few words.  The poem below.  And I had an idea, the first fruits of which are below in prose.  One scene out of what could be a larger tale.  I just free wrote it and the scene was not quite the one I'd had in my mind when I began.

The wall of wallpaper.  Someone CHOSE this paper.

The Joy of Painting

Alone unpainted.

Forced to bear my existence

Among silenced lives.

The don't speak to me.

Except to say their contentment

Is found on canvas.

In paint there's no pain.

Even the eyes of The Scream

Are calmer than my own.

Without words they call:

Join us.  Stretch yourself.  Bare flesh

and blood is your paint.

No walking future.

A blade is the artist's brush

Releasing my life.

In death I'll be preserved.

Freed into quiet.  Lifted high.

Held, framed on a wall.

The Faceless One

Having forced open the French window it was still difficult to climb inside, across a large desk and into Doctor Wilson's study.  On the way I knocked my knee hard into the window ledge, placed my hand down painfully onto something jagged, and knocked something heavy to the floor.  When it landed on the floor the thud sounded to me more like the chiming of the clock in St. Matthew's church down in the village square and I held myself motionless, hardly daring to breathe.  No lights were turned on though and I could hear nothing beyond the ambience of the night.

Once in the study I turned on my flashlight and found that the jagged item had been a crystal of some variety, purple and sharp.  I removed my glove to check my hand and was relieved to see that there was no blood.  Nevertheless I wiped down the crystal carefully.  The thud had been caused by a large paperweight.  I was only slightly shocked to see that the resin contained two human ears and a tongue.  I placed it carefully back on the desk hoping that I'd put it roughly where it had been before.  It wasn't what I had come for and it wouldn't do anyone any good were I to remove it.

I turned and scanned the study with my flashlight until the beam hit the bookcases on the other side of the room.  Somewhere among them was my prize.  I began to tiptoe towards the books, worried that each step would cause an almighty creak in the floorboards and the doctor would wake and discover me.  I didn't want to consider whether I might be able to talk my way out of the situation.  I doubted I could.

As I crept past a green leather sofa in the centre of the room I heard a squelching noise behind me.  Faint.  But definitely present.  I swung round and shone my light in the direction of the sound.  Nothing.  I was alone.  I scanned the room with the beam a few more times to make sure before turning back to my goal.  Two more steps.  The noise again.  I turned.  Was everything the same?  I thought so.  Something was making that noise though and my heart beat faster.  I knew I was beginning to sweat and hoped beyond hope that I could find the book and escape.  The doctor's study would be the worst place for a full blown panic attack.

I took deep breaths.  Willed myself to relax.  Told myself I was alone.  And then, I am almost ashamed to admit it, I crossed myself and said a prayer before heading with greater speed to the bookcases.  The squelch squelch began again and I tried to ignore it.  There's nothing there.  Nothing there.  Nothing there.  I tried to convince myself but in that situation I was the queen of sceptics.

I shone my flashlight across each shelf of books in turn.  Books of anatomy and physics were scattered among volumes of stage magic and actual magic and books of stories and poems by writers so obscure their names didn't even ring vague bells in my mind.  All the time the squelching.  Louder.  Closer.  Or was I imagining it?

I cursed my luck as I didn't find what I was seeking until the final shelf.  A precious book.  At least it was precious to me.  Because it had been mine.  I hadn't bought this book in a shop.  I had hand crafted each page, making the paper and the binding myself.  And I'd filled it with the results of my own researches.  Ten years of work distilled into one journal.  Stolen by Doctor Wilson.  The theft had taken place the previous year and it had taken this long to discover the perpetrator.  I hoped he hadn't been able to decode too many of my ciphered scratchings and drawings.

I hastily took the book and placed it into my bag.  Turning I saw a hint of movement on the dark floor.  The squelching stopped.  I shone my flashlight at the movement and there, in the middle of the floor, I saw two eyes.  Just eyes.  The eyeballs and connecting tissue that would normally hold an eye to a head.  No head.  No face.  No eyelids.  Just eyes.  Staring up at me.

I realised in that moment that the eyes had been following me round the room.  I realised too that Doctor Wilson's experiments had progressed further than I feared.  If he could remove a person's eyes and they could continue to live apart he had followed his science to a level I hadn't dreamed.  Perhaps I could help.  Rescue these instruments of vision.  Perhaps even one day locate the face they had been cut from and restore them.  Maybe I could find a way to communicate with an eye and it would help me find its true home.

Without a further thought I picked up the two eyes and placed them in my bag with my journal.  Thought could wait until I was standing in a place safer than the doctor's study.  I climbed back across the desk and out of the window, sliding it closed behind me.

And then I ran, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the night.

The Tale of Haycock The Rainbow Pony and the EHCP

The following is inspired by a writing prompt that was in itself inspired by words that exist somewhere on a piece of paper - an actual EHCP (Education Health and Care Plan).  Those words are "Haycock the Rainbow."  For the writing prompt a friend added the word "Pony."

Forty-eight hours later, in an afternoon free-writing burst following on from the prompt circulating in my head, this is the result.  A 2000 word children's tale.

A little of what a rainbow garden feels like

Haycock The Rainbow Pony

Haycock the Rainbow Pony knew she had a lovely life.

There was nothing she liked to do more than to frolic in her garden, planting new beds of flower seeds that would grow up to produce the most fabulous plants in the animal world.  They had stems of many colours and each stem would be topped with seven different flowers, one of each colour and one of each shape.

One plant might have a circular yellow flower, a triangular blue flower, and a shining diamond purple flower among its blossoms.

Another might have a beautiful green dodecahedron and a red rhombus and if Haycock was very fortunate it might display a fantastically rare indigo icosahedron.

Haycock the Rainbow Pony liked all the colours and shapes but she liked the indigo flowers the best.  It didn't matter what shape they were.  The colour still produced the warmest electric buzz in Haycock's head.

Sometimes the rainbow flower plant would produce more bell shaped blossoms than usual.  Then it would rain and the whole garden would chime out melodies and harmonies and the animals would raise their voices in joyful celebration.  Even the worms would wriggle out of their holes in the ground and sing thankful worm songs.

Haycock loved her garden.  She loved her house too and loved to sleep in her bed and dream of the next crop of flowers and how happy they would make the other ponies when she took them to the market.

Haycock was never going to get rich from her flower selling.  She didn't want to.  She had a little house but that was enough for her.  Haycock's reward was knowing that she was a good rainbow gardener.  Her second reward was seeing the smiles on the faces of the other ponies.

Haycock's life was everything she wanted it to be.  How could it not be?  She had enough for her needs and her work helped the other ponies have a happier life.  She thought she was probably the most fortunate rainbow pony in the whole land.  Every day she would wake up smelling the flowers and every night she would lay her head on the pillow and tuck her legs under her duvet and fall asleep in total contentment.

Until the horses came.

Three of them.

She was still in bed one morning when she heard them outside.  They were shouting.

"Come outside you pony.  Come and see what we're doing."

They didn't sound like they were doing anything to spread the love of rainbows.  Haycock quickly got out of bed and ran out of her door even without stopping to brush her teeth.

The three horses were in her garden.  In the flower beds.  Cantering up and down them.  They were neighing and laughing and looked like they were trying to kick every flower.  Haycock's garden was almost destroyed already.  Would there even be enough seeds to save?

Haycock shouted.  "STOP!  What do you think you are doing you horses?  Why are you in my garden?"

The horses stopped.  Glared at Haycock and shook their manes at her.  They walked up to Haycock and stood menacingly over her.

"Hello Haycock.  Horrid Haycock.  We're going to destroy your garden until there aren't any flowers left and then we're going to destroy it some more.  And you can't stop us."

Two of the horses went back to their trampling.  The other stuck his tongue out at Haycock and made a very rude noise.

"But why?" asked Haycock.

"Because we can," said the horse.  "We hate rainbows and we hate rainbow ponies even more.  Horses can't make rainbows so you shouldn't have them either.  Especially as you're just a little pony.  You're much less than a horse and we want to prove it to you so that you never try to be better than a horse again."

The horse joined its friends and they laughed even more.  Haycock watched as the bell flowers were smashed.  And then the last rare indigo icosahedron was trampled into the ground.  Haycock shouted and shouted for the horses to stop but they wouldn't.  And then she fell to her knees and cried.

"Ha ha," shouted one of the horses, "Look at the silly little pony.  It serves her right."

By lunchtime every rainbow plant had been destroyed.  The earth was a mess of fragments of colour.  There wouldn't be smiling ponies at the market that week.  There wouldn't be smiling ponies for a long time.  Perhaps there would never be smiling ponies again.

The horses gathered around Haycock.  One of them said, "We're going now.  I think there is a Shetland pony in the next valley who makes colourful lollipops.  We're going to break his lollipop factory.  You're just ponies.  Don't try to be colourful.  Because we're horses.  Better than you.  Don't forget it or we'll be back."

The three horses turned there backs on Haycock and trotted off, still laughing.

Haycock lay on the ground among the broken flowers.  She cried so much that she was still crying the next morning.  Then she slept on the earth until the rain woke her.  There were no bell flowers to chime out their melodies.  The worms appeared and they cried too when they saw the scene.

On the next day Haycock worked very hard.  She collected all the broken flowers.  She dug through all the beds.  She hunted and hunted.  There would be just enough seeds to start gardening again.  If the horses didn't return.  Haycock knew the horses were still out there.  By now they had probably destroyed the lollipop pony's tasty treats.  Maybe they would move on from there to other ponies.  Perhaps soon there might not be any colour left in pony land.

Haycock thought hard while she replanted the seeds.  She decided that while everything was growing she would try to stop the horses herself.  Make sure they never came back to pony land.

Haycock had a plan.  She would trot all the way to horse land.  Once there she would join the EHCP.  The Evil Horse Control Police.  Once she wore her very own shiny Sheriff badge she would call on the police horses to control the evil horses who had invaded pony land.  Haycock knew that if any horse was evil it was the three horses she had met.

What could be more evil than hurting ponies and trying to destroy all the pretty rainbow colours?  What indeed?

The next day Haycock left her home and garden in the safe hands of the three rainbow cats who lived nearby.  They promised to water the flowers on the days it didn't rain and to regularly chime any bell flowers that grew.

Haycock took plenty of food and water with her.  If she needed more she would just have to eat grass.  That was free in pony land.  She said goodbye to the cats and the worms came out to wave her goodbye.  Or at least, they wiggled her goodbye because they couldn't wave very well.

She trotted all that day and slept in a field under a full moon, chatting with the man in the moon until it was late.  He said that if he saw the horses being naughty he would try to do something to stop them.  He couldn't promise though because he lived a very long way away even though it looked like he was just there in the sky and because he only woke up at night when the horses were probably asleep.  Haycock thanked the man in the moon anyway.  He was a very optimistic man and cheered her up somewhat.

She trotted all the next day too.  And all the next.  Horse land was a long way away.  Finally she crossed the border and came to the big town, Hoofsville.  There were thousands of horses.  None of them were rainbow coloured.  All of them looked a bit sad.  Everyone stared at Haycock.  It was as if they had never seen a rainbow pony before.  It was almost as if they could hardly believe that a rainbow animal existed.

Haycock eventually arrived at the EHCP headquarters.  She walked into the building.  It was full of horses who looked even more grumpy than those outside.  She walked up to the main desk and rang the bell.

"Er.  Can I help you little pony?"

"Yes, you can.  I want to join the Evil Horse Control Police.  Then I have some evil horses who need to be controlled.  They're causing lots of harm back in pony land."

The mare constable behind the desk laughed.  "You?  YOU?  Ha, ha ha.  YOU!?  But you're not a horse.  You're a pony.  You can't join the EHCP or tell us which horses to control.  That's so funny.  Wait until I tell the sergeant."

The mare constable went off to find the sergeant.  He was a black stallion.  When he appeared, two hours later, it looked like he had almost been crying from laughing so much.

The stallion sergeant looked at Haycock and said, "It's true.  And on my watch too!  You're right constable.  This is the funniest thing ever.  A rainbow pony in EHCP headquarters.  Wanting to join."

"That's right sir," said Haycock.  "There are some evil horses in pony land and I want to join you and stop them."

"Stop them?  In pony land?  Why would we want to do that?  You're just ponies.  You don't matter.  You don't have any rights.  Why should you?  You're not horses.  And you look so stupid too.  Try to be better than us horses with your rainbows but you're worse.  You're hardly even equine.  So what if those horses are hurting you.  Good for them, that's what I say.  You deserve it the lot of you.  For being ponies.  Only horses are important you know.  Now go away.  Before I arrest you."

"But ... but the evil horses.  They're evil.  Please stop them."

"No.  Go away rainbow pony.  And get your hair dyed brown on your way out of town.  Or I'll throw you into prison.  Constable.  Take the silly pony to the hair shop."

So Haycock was escorted out of the EHCP building by the constable who kept calling her stupid.  Poor Haycock.  She was dragged into the hair shop and wasn't allowed to leave until every single strand of her hair was a muddy brown colour.

"There.  That's better," said the constable.  "You almost look normal and acceptable now.  Except you're a pony.  Go back to pony land and don't come back.  Ever."

Haycock had to go back to pony land.  She had failed.  And she was a boring colour.  It would take months before her hair regrew in glorious colour again.  It was true.  Legally ponies had no rights.  They had all been taken by the horses.  It was unfair.  Desperately unfair.  Haycock had hoped to find help and support anyway but the unfairness of the system had obviously turned to hatred and spite.

Then it got worse.  Haycock had run out of food.  So she ate some grass from a field.  Grass isn't free in horse land.  Nothing is free.  Haycock was spotted and a horse shouted "Stop!  Thief!"  Haycock had to run as fast as she could and only just reached pony land without being caught and arrested for eating some grass.

Haycock walked home, crying all the way but thankful that she was able to eat without fear in pony land.  When she got home she had a cup of tea and then fell asleep on her bed, totally miserable and defeated.

The next day she looked at her garden.  She was able to smile a little when she saw that the new rainbow plants had begun to grow.  She had a shower.  Then another.  Then six more.  After eight showers she had managed to wash out some of the dismal brown hair dye.  She could just make out her rainbow colours under the brown when she looked in the mirror.

The cats visited her and brought her a tasty dinner.  The worms gathered round and said the most kind and sympathetic words they could think of.  And Haycock went back to bed.  She was still very sad.

The next morning she had an idea.  Perhaps, if the ponies worked together they could rid pony land of the three evil horses.  Perhaps they could go further.  As a collective they could fight against the oppression of the horses and gain rights for themselves.  Perhaps one day there would even be some kind of equality and no pony would ever have to worry about being a pony and the rainbow ponies could spread their colours without fear.  Perhaps it could be done.

So that's what happened.  Haycock gathered the ponies together.  They organised.  Became strong together.  Fought back against the three evil horses.  Defeated them.  And then fought back against the repressive system.  The horseiarchy was smashed.

Haycock the Rainbow Pony became a hero.  But that's a story for another time.

She didn't really mind about being a hero.  Once the victory had been won she went back to her garden.  Expanded it.  And spread rainbows not only in pony land but in horse land too.  Even the horses began to smile.  Haycock continued to fight when she had to.  But her reward was to see the creatures smile.



[2223 words]

I Returned To My Home. But My Home Had Disappeared.

Today I'm using a prompt because I'm away from home and in a rush.  It's a push to have enough time to keep up a daily post.  But I'm determined.  I'm not going to miss a day.  Not yet!

72. Where That Place Used to Be: Think of a place you went to when you were younger but it now no longer there or is something else.

Bradford.

The first place I lived that wasn't Crawley.  I spent one year there at university.  Just a year.  But it was an important time for me.  I packed a lot into those three short terms of study.  This photograph was taken on my first day there.  Eighteen years old and hunched back.  It's going to take a lot of work to overcome that.

I discovered I hated my first course and had the ability to work out how to change to one where I was far happier.  That period was hard.  I'd wander the streets of the city in the middle of the night listening to depressing music

I joined a university animal rights group and was active with it for at least three weeks!  There were three of us.  I was one.  The second was a woman.  I had a big crush on her although would never have said.  The third was her boyfriend.  I met them a term later, accidentally.  A friend dragged me to see his friend - in order to borrow weed - and it turned out his friend was the woman.  She was naked in bed.

I became a campaigner.  Against the Poll Tax.  That worked out well enough.  Against the lessening of student grants and the introduction of loans.  That didn't work at all and we could never have dreamed how expensive university education would become under successive governments.  I protested against Thatcher when she was in the area.  Protested against the Tory controlled council led by Eric Pickles when they were cutting funding to women's refuges and other charities.  For a while I hung around with the Socialist Worker crowd until I became disillusioned by them attempting to hijack every protest and make it seem like it was their party.  I'm glad to see that the Socialist Worker people in Newcastle don't do that.  They just seem to muck in.  Had I stayed in Bradford I'd have been part of a group forming a new student political party.  If that ever happened.  And in those animal rights week we had a well attended candlelit vigil against vivisection at the university and ran a public meeting attended by several hundred people.

I was a hiker.  Those were excellent days.  The hiking club was brilliant, organising several walks each week in the same area.  We walked throughout Yorkshire, made it to the lakes and had a long weekend in Snowdonia.  I will always remember that last cheese and wine party at which all of the surplus funds were spent.  I will always remember a few details of the people and the evenings we spent in a Bradford pub singing folk songs.  I'll remember the time we invaded a Bradford Irish Society ceilidh and I won the raffle.  And then there was the time we walked back from Ilkley in the night and reached a stone circle on the moor just before midnight on Halloween.

I had friends.  And many people knew me.  Once someone was shocked because we walked the length of the campus and everyone, without exception, said hello and called me by name.  That's not an experience I've had since leaving Bradford.

I learned of curry houses and knew them well.  My first Bradford curry was eaten on my second night of college.  I was with a bunch of second and third year Catholic students and we'd gone out feasting after the chaplaincy bar closed.  I loved that bar.  At the time it was a safe space.  Perhaps, had I stayed in Bradford, I would have lived out the rest of my course living in the Catholic chaplaincy.  Although I wasn't a Catholic.

I learned of drunkenness and hangovers.  I had my first drunken night on my third night of college.  I didn't know better.  I'd hardly drunk anything before that day and I think that night I more than doubled my lifetime consumption of alcohol.  So many bars.  So much cider.  So much surprise to be woken up at half past two in the morning, collapsed in a public toilet.  I walked back to the university hall.  Felt fine.  Chatted with a couple of people who invited me to share their bush for the night.  They cheered me when I got back.  There was much sarcasm.  That led to my first hangover.  My second was a month later.  My third was ... well, there hasn't been a third.

And the biggest way Bradford changed my life?  Halfway through my year there I converted to Christianity.  I got born again.  Full works.  If that hadn't happened I wouldn't have left Bradford after a year.  I'd have finished the degree I was enjoying so much.  I'd have got a first.  Almost certainly.  I wouldn't have gone to a theology college.  Wouldn't have met my wife.  Wouldn't have done everything that led from Bradford to Newcastle.

My room at Bradford was number four, block P, in Shearbridge Green.  I have many memories of that place.  I loved it there.  I "said the sinner's prayer" in room number three, occupied by an Irish guy named Ian.  I spent much time with the guy in room seven, who was the brother of one of my brother's best friends.  In that block of twenty-five rooms we got to know each other well, shared our two self-catering kitchens.  We went through highs and lows.  Had triumphs and mistakes.  And yes, I made quite a few and did things that I am still ashamed of if I think of them.  Each of us had tales to tell.  We drove to Brighton overnight.  I got stuck in a water fight that lasted for hours.  I knew the city very well for a first year university student.  Loved it.  Loved the people I met.  I went to dawn prayer meetings in cemeteries.

And Shearbridge Green is still big in my mind.  At least, it was.

Last year I returned to Bradford for the first time since 1995.  I'd returned for one day then and ended up playing a guitar and worshiping God in my old church so they could test the new sound and recording system.  Towards the end of that time they stuck in a cassette tape.  Recorded my voice and playing.  I still have that tape.  Last year I returned again and decided to seek out my old haunts.  I wanted to see Shearbridge Green again.  I'd have been a weirdo.  Rung the doorbell.  Said, "I used to live here twenty-five years ago. Can I come and see inside?"  I walked up the hill to the University with eagerness.  Walked through the campus.  And arrived at my old home.

Except.  It wasn't there.  Shearbridge Green had been demolished.  Shearbridge Green was a car park.  My home was gone.  Later I walked in the city centre.  I thought I might visit that pub, the one where I had sung so many folk songs.  Except.  It wasn't there.  My old haunt had become a betting shop.  Here it is.  My old home.  Dead centre of the picture.

And here, as much as I can make out, is the spot above which I slept for three terms.

My home was gone.  I walked away.  Very sad.  It was as if my past had been ripped away from me.  Perhaps that was a good thing.  The events of living there led to my twenty five year Christian walk and overall it might have been better had I never started walking that way.  Perhaps it's symbolic too and perhaps it's apt that I write about it today (Friday).  One week ago today my parents' house sold.  Someone will be letting it out.  They moved into that home before I was born.  That house, just like Shearbridge Green, is lost to me.

And that's a good thing.

Because that was my past.  And what I want is my future.

My future isn't my old home.  It's not Sussex.  It's not childhood.  And it definitely isn't Shearbridge Green.  Seeing that car park hurt.  More than I would have imagined.  But it healed too.  Seeing it was a break with a past that is no more.

Guest Post: Joshua James, Spirit Medium and Healer. My Story.

This was free written on paper, Nexus Art Cafe, Manchester on 9th March.  Typed up with no alterations at all, 10th March.  At this point it's possible that I will miss a day or two of posting on this blog.  I'm visiting Manchester and haven't got a lot of time for writing and posting.  While I gave myself a little leeway I'm not sure I gave myself enough.  We'll see.  It's possible I won't have time to write again until I'm home.  But I could always borrow a story I posted elsewhere towards the end of last year.  I haven't posted it on this blog or on any of the blogs I was creating last year.  We will see.  I don't want to miss days but a post a day for a year is always going to be a challenge.

Image taken from here.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Spirit Medium.  That's me.  I'm gonna be famous.  Want your fortune told?  Come to me.  Want to get a message from you mum?  I'm your man.  Believe me.  Come to one of my shows and you won't leave unchanged.  That's what one reviewer said.  Look it up.  If you like.  It's on my Facebook page.  They wrote that they'd never spent a better ten pounds and that I'd made them a believer.  That's what I'm here for.  And twenty pounds is nothing compared to the comfort.  Price of fame - I had to charge more but it's still a bargain.  And with every ticket you'll get a two pounds of voucher for my book.  I'll even sign it too.  For free.  Photos cost more.  Great book.  You'll never forgive yourself if you don't buy a copy.  And some for your friends too.  "Joshua James.  My Life With the Spirit World."  The stories will amaze you.  All true.  All of it.  That's what you get from me.  Truth.  Truth and revelation.  No charlatan tricks.  No fakery.  I'm no Psychic Sally.  I'm the real deal and you wouldn't catch me with someone feeding me messages.

Joshua James.  Psychic.  Medium.  Healer.  Yes, healer.  I only discovered my healing power a while back.  Thirty quid a session.  Can't beat it.  And while I can't claim you'll be totally well in a day I can say that if you come back regularly things might surprise you.  Lisa Colgan said so.  Said I'd cured her asthma, her bad back.  And her depression too.  All in only twenty sessions.  And you know you can trust Lisa.  She's got a good heart and mentioned me on TV once too.

It's down to her I got my next gig.  I'm playing the West End.  Seven nights in a theatre there.  They're gonna love me.  Of course.  I'll start with something simple.  A few words for the sick.  Then get on with the fine art of contacting the dead.  It'll be excellent and then I'm pretty sure I'll get a TV show.

It's all be worth it.  The years of struggle, rejection.  The times I got laughed at for saying it's real.  I used to play in local halls I did.  I was a half decent conjuror and mentalist.  Used to play to mainly empty rooms exposing the tricks of people like Psychic Sally.  Awful woman.  That's what I think.  I thought it all nonsense.  Cast myself as a follower of Houdini, James Randi, and the school of skeptics.  My friends kept telling me I'd make more cash if I fleeced the vulnerable.  But I kept telling them no.

Those were hard years. The Humanists would pay me thirty quid for an evening.  That was about it.  I went on tour once.  Paid for it myself.  Lost a lot of money because nobody wanted to know about Sally.  One time I played in Manchester.  Same night as Sally.  She sold out one of the big theatres.  I sold seventeen tickets.  I had a happy audience of course but happiness doesn't pay the rent.  Sally had no rent worries.  It was all so unfair.  Of course it was.  People are completely gullible.  Don't want to know they've been fooled, fallen for a false cult of spiritism.  "Joshua James Exposes The Charlatans" wasn't ever going to be a hit show.  But I was proud of it.  There were jokes too and demonstrations of fake mediumship, and fake healings that some people thought real even when I said they weren't.  I could hold an audience.  It's just I didn't get an audience to hold.

Everything changed a couple of years back.  Made a discovery.  I discovered that if I truly believed it was true then it might be.  I read Psychic Sally's books.  Saw her life.  Saw how she wrote about it all even while faking those messages and getting messages from people who weren't even dead.  And I decided.  I wanted a house too.  Wanted to be able to afford nice food.  Wanted to be on TV.  So I decided I would choose to believe.  Present it all as true until it became true.  In the middle of a drunken binge I realised I could change my act.  That I'd be more loved as the real thing.  That there wasn't room for two Derren Browns but plenty of room for another Sally.  One called Joshua.

So that's what I did.  The exposer of frauds became the fraud.  The monster slayer became the monster.  New show.  New act.  Totally.  My old friends laughed at me.  Called me scum, a traitor to reason.  That was fair.  I was that traitor.  Totally.  I own it.  But I didn't care.  The Royal had booked me without a second thought based on a five minute proposal.  Tickets sold out in a week.  And I became psychic.  Medium.  And lately a healer too.

Imagine my surprised expression when halfway through my second fakery show everything became real.  I received a gift.  Was given second sight.  I saw the dead.  Truly.  Saw the dead.  Lots of them.  I could have kept up that show all night, there were so many dead people.  It was brilliant.  You can read about it in chapter eight of my second book, "My Moment Of Truth."  Only twenty quid from all bookshops and two pounds off at my shows.  Chapters nine to twelve bring my story up do date and there some fabulous, totally true stories.  My psychiatrist tells me they're imaginary, that I just want them to be real and that I know so many magic tricks that my brain can just pretend.  She recommends anti-psychotic drugs.

But I know what I see.  And I'm going to be rich.  I can tell.  I can.  Because I'm psychic.  It's a gift.  You'll realise it too.  If you come to my show.  You might even be blessed with comfort.  You never know.  It's what you all want.  So come.  Be amazed.  And tell your friends.  Spread the word.  My name is Joshua James.  The real thing.  The best.  Psychic to the stars.  To Lisa Colgan anyway.  And I do it all for you.  The money is very good.  But I do it just for you.



(1043 words)

Some Found Diary Entries About The Mystery Of Babies (And Sex)

I found a book in the street today.*  I'm going to try to get it back to its owner if I can find him.  Inside the cover are the words, "Henry Rodgerson.  My Diary."  There was no address and I confess I read from the diary in order to try to return it.  I haven't been able to locate Henry.  Perhaps you can help.  These are the final two entries in the book.  If you have any ideas let me know.  I want to return the book if I can.

Thank you.

That's me.  About six weeks old and already looking happy!

March 7th 2017

The greatest mystery of life is this:  Where do babies come from?  They just seem to appear.  One week a woman is walking in the park alone.  The next she's in company.  Baby in a pram.  And then she'll gather with others.  Eight babies.  Eight prams.  And eight women, all sharing this special secret knowledge.  Babies.  I was one once.  At least that's what I've been told.  I don't remember it.  Perhaps they're right.  I was that small and helpless too.  I can't quite imagine it.  Maybe my parents were privy to that secret knowledge too and maybe they knew of deep mysteries.  Not me.  I've thought long and hard about these things.  Am I the only one who doesn't know?  Is there some kind of global conspiracy against me?  I mean, I know where to find a pram.  That's easy.  I even know where I might find a woman with the necessary skill to push the thing.  Women are everywhere.  I know that.  Everywhere.  I don't understand them though.  The only woman at home was mum and she's mum.  Not a woman like the ones in the park.  And there weren't any of these strange, somehow different creatures at school.  But I see them now.  Everywhere.  In shops, in the street.  I even see them at church and have talked to some of them too.  They don't seem very different but I can tell most of them are another species.  Because of their clothes.  Sometimes it's hard to tell.  No.  I don't understand what women are meant to be at all.  They're a bit like men.  Are they a new invention?  Did a doctor invent them round the time I left home?  I don't know.  Some of them look too old but I can't tell for sure.  Do women appear in the same way as babies?  Another secret.  How do I find out?  Anyway, I can find a pram.  Find a woman.  But a baby?  Where on earth can I find one of those that isn't already in a pram?  Why do they all know?
Long.  Hard.  Difficult.  That's how I've thought.  Yesterday my dad gave me a clue and it's what I'm going to investigate today.  I asked him about babies.  Again.  I keep asking him and he just goes silent.  Mumbles incoherently.  Or says to ask mum.  I ask her and she does the same.  But says to ask dad.  It's not fair.  I don't think so.  I mean, they know the secret.  Why don't they want me to know?  I'd quite like a baby.  They're so cute.  Except when they cry.  And so pink.  Except when they're other colours.  People are different colours.  Did you know that dear diary?  I was amazed to find that out when I left home.  It's okay though.  Doesn't matter.  It was a shock though the day I first saw a person who wasn't pink.  Now I'm used to it and wonder why I only saw pink people at school.  Anyway.  I asked dad again yesterday.  And asked again.  I want answers.  I want a baby and if there's a special shop I want to know where it is.  So I asked him.  Over and over.  Forty-seven times.
It was at this point he snapped at me.  Looked mean.  Shouted, "Damn you stop asking about such disgusting things."  I don't think babies are disgusting.  So I asked again.  "Please dad, you got me.  Where do babies come from?  Where did you go to get me?"  Dad boomed.  "For God's sake Henry.  Didn't you listen to Secks Ed?"  Then he stormed out.  Slammed the door so hard the walls shook.  I've never seen him to that before.
A clue.  Secks Ed.  Secks Ed.  Funny name.  I know someone called Ed.  But his first name isn't Secks.  Secks.  Secks?  Funny word.  What kind of a word is that?  Secks Ed.  And then in the middle of the night I realised.  Secks.  I've heard the word before.  In hushed tones.  It was a long time ago.  I was still at school.  Fifteen years old.  There was a rumour.  All of us were going to meet Secks Ed.  Maybe he was a clown.  Big red nose.  Perhaps he'd read us a story or teach us about another country.  Or tell us about politics.  No wonder the tones were hushed if he was going to mention dangerous things like politics.
This morning I remembered.  I never got to meet Secks Ed.  Never.  I would have to find him.  And so later I'm going to the library for the first time.  See if they know Secks Ed.  They might know his address.  I'm excited to find him.  I'll tell you why I didn't meet him when he visited my school.  Did he say something about babies?  I can hardly believe it's possible.  Circuses and maths.  That would be better.  Much preferable and I'd like to have seen his big red nose and ...


[at this point a page has been ripped out]

... the library.



March 8th 2017

Oh my God.  No.  That's awful.  The man at the library gave me a book.  He said that Ed wasn't a person at all.  His first name was on the front of the book and it's actually spelled S - E - X.  When I got home I started to read the book.
THAT happens?  No.  No.  NO.  God no.

I don't want a baby any more.  Awful.  Truly, gut-wrenchingly the worst thing I've ever seen.  Disgusting.  Horribly, horribly disgusting.  The pictures are even worse.  I feel very ill.

Say no more.  I'm going back to bed.





*All information in the opening paragraph is false. The diary entries were free written in a Writers' Cafe session on March 7th.  The session was based on The Guinness Book of Records but some of us moved far away from the books.  How I got from the world record Rubik's Cube solve to the free writing is a tale that I don't need to tell here.  Especially as I want to write about the Cube at some point.  I put this disclaimer here just so you know I'm not publicly posting the private diary of someone.  As if you ever thought I might.

The Man Who Worshipped Trevor Noah

I went there for some peace and quiet, fool that I was.  I wanted to sit in comfort, sip my drink, open my notebook and be inspired to write something passionate, something that would make the world sit up and listen.  I didn't get my wish of course.  As it turned out I could hardly write a word.  A few hasty scribbles.  Two crossed out lines.  Three more attempts ready to be consigned to the bin.  On another day perhaps that missing inspiration would be found as I sat in the sunny window of that Newcastle café.  Perhaps I'd be able to watch the people pass by, see their faces, clothes, and the way they walked.  Their smiles as they talked with each other.  Their pained expressions as if their lives had fallen apart, perhaps as a result of being mistreated via cruel government policies.  When DWP assessors have (allegedly) asked people why they haven't yet killed themselves, what hope do the poor unfortunates passing by have?  Perhaps a man and woman would pass by having a very public argument, swearing at each other, calling each other worse names than I can think of and then storming off in opposite directions still effing and snarling.  I wonder.  If one of that pair had stormed into the café.  Sat on the seat opposite me.  What would I do?  If she sat, slumped into her chair and burst into tears.  Or if he sat, glared at me and said "What the f*** are you looking at you c***?  She's just a f***ing b**** getting pregnant like that."  What would I do?  I can tell you this:  I wouldn't cope well.  I wouldn't have a clue.  At least, I think I wouldn't.

From a cafe trip. A different cafe.

That didn't happen of course.  I didn't watch the people.  Instead I gave up.  Put my pad of paper away.  Played with my phone.  Gulped my drink.  And left.  Frustrated.  That's one story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The other is the man who caused me to be even more frustrated.   The man who robbed me of any chance I had of finding peace.  Yes, him.  The man at the next table.  He had his phone out the whole time I was there.  That wouldn't have affected me at all of course.  But he wasn't texting.  Wasn't reading.  Wasn't even playing a mindless or mindful game.  He was watching videos.  One after another.  With adverts in between.  And with the volume turned up high.

I tried to ignore him.  I failed.  I put on my headphones.  Switched the noise cancelling on.  And still I could hear those videos.  Loud.  Now, if I weren't English and if I wasn't so scared of people I might have acted.  Don't say I'm not scared.  I am.  I know it might not appear that way a lot of the time - like yesterday when I pretended to find lots of fun in strangling people and stomping on the heads of kittens.  Ooh.  I'm a terrible monster.  Or at least, from time to time, I can create some despicable people for the purposes of fiction and performance.  A monster is much more enjoyable than a Mary Sue.  If I was someone else I might have got up and asked him - or told him - to turn the videos off or the volume down.  Advise him of the benefits of headphones.  But I'm not.  Instead I suffered.  Martyred myself.  Perhaps everyone in the café this morning barring that man were martyrs.

I suffered.  Complained.  Updated Facebook.  And left.  That's another story.  It ends there.  But there is another.

The videos he was watching all came from the same source.  The Daily Show.  It's an American TV show currently hosted by Trevor Noah.  It's known for being decidedly left wing.  It's known for not pulling any punches when discussing politics and politicians.  Trevor Noah is a comedian who grew up, of mixed race, in apartheid South Africa.  Before taking over as Daily Show host he used to appear sometimes on UK panel shows.

Under other circumstances I'd have happily watched the videos.  Hey, there's an idea.  Why didn't I just get up and ask the man if I could watch the videos with him?  Stop being frustrated.  Find something to laugh at.  I've watched Daily Show monologues sometimes.  I have friends who adore them.  And, I confess, in the last week I watched an old Trevor Noah one man show filmed in a New York theatre.  It was a comedy.  I have to say that mostly it was more interesting than funny and sometimes my interest strayed.  Perhaps that's because my sense of humour very often doesn't match up with that of many people.  Perhaps I was just in a bad mood.  I had, after all, melted down that morning and was struggling with the after effects of that.  I watched to the end through stubbornness, a refusal to give up on what was meant to be good.  When the end came it took me completely by surprise.  It felt like he was half way to explaining something.  Half way.  And all of a sudden he was all "Thank you New York, you've been great.  Goodnight."  I was waiting for a resolution or at least a punchline and none came to me.  It was as if someone had ripped out the last chapter of a whodunnit.  And yet, and yet.  I'm still going to watch another show he made.  It looks a lot more interesting.  And I'm still going to listen to Daily Show monologues sometimes.

So I didn't ask to join in.  I got up and asked the man to turn off the video or turn down the volume.  I was scared but I did it anyway.  I'm glad I did.  He wasn't aggressive.  Not at all.  Instead, he looked at me with sad, puppy dog eyes and said, "But don't you love Trevor?  Isn't he a dream?"  I have to admit to being surprised.  There I was thinking he was watching in order to witness incisive wit and a stream of insults of the Trump government.  I hadn't expected this total crush.

I said I thought Trevor to be alright.  I didn't tell him that I'd been a bit bored with the one man show.  I also admitted I didn't fancy him.

"Oh.  That's a shame.  Me?  I love him.  He's so clever and he's so handsome too.  Not just handsome.  He's my pin-up boy.  Literally.  I have pictures of him on the wall.  And that voice, oh god wow that voice.  Melts everything.  Just listen."

He turned the volume up a bit more and pointed his phone my way.  Trevor was discussing Trump's policies on immigration with regard to mainly Muslim countries the USA doesn't sell lots of weapons to and also with regard to the wall Trump wants between the USA and Mexico to keep Mexicans out because they're rapists (Trump said).  I watched.  Trevor made a joke.  I was expecting him to mention Trump's campaign promise to defeat ISIS within thirty days.

I'd have happily sat down and had a good moan about US government policy.  And about UK government policy too.  About the pained expressions on the faces of the people I hadn't watched from my window seat.  I'd have told him how the night before someone had exhorted a group of us to "give Trump a chance" and how any chance I gave him had been squandered within a week as he continued to say and do mean things to anyone who didn't fit his perfect picture, some of whom had voted for him.

But the man didn't want to discuss politics.  He wanted to discuss Trevor.  Just Trevor.  His passionate obsession.  I guessed that Trevor was fortunate to be living in America.  That way the man in the café couldn't be his stalker.  Had he desired to be such a thing.

"So why don't you love Trevor too?" he asked me.  "How come you're not hot for him?  How come you wouldn't like to hold him in your arms and be kissed by him in his dressing room after The Daily Show?"

"Well, er, why should I? Not everyone is going to admire him as much as you."

"But why don't you?  He's so gorgeous.  I wish I could meet him."

"Well.  If you must know, it's nothing personal about Trevor Noah.  I'm sure he's handsome in his own way.  I'm told he is.  But I'm a lesbian.  So he's just not my type."

"That's no excuse.  He's Trevor Noah.  He could sway you to the other side if you just listened some more.  He nearly swayed Sandi Toksvig.  He did!  She said so.  On television.  And she wouldn't fib.  Not Sandi.  I love her too.  Wouldn't that have been just brilliant if she had decided to fall head over heels in love with Trevor?  And all because he spoke some Xhosa.  He should have said some more and then she'd have turned.  I just know she would.  He's just so wonderful."

"I don't think he'd ever turn me.  Just the thought of it makes me shudder.  I'm sorry.  But I'm a women only kind of woman.  And I'm not much into them either.  At least, not in that way."

"But what if Trevor said he was really a woman.  Would you fall in love with him then?"

"Er.  I haven't thought about that question before.  I'll have to give it some thought."

"Okay.  Fair enough.  Just think though.  Trevor and Sandi.  Wouldn't they have made the perfect couple?  I can see the wedding photos in my head.  I've designed them you see.  And if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't even have to change.  That would be awesome.  I've designed them clothes for that too.  Here, look."

And the man pulled out a large hardback book from his back.  On the cover he had written, "Trevor Noah is the best man on earth."  He opened it up.  There were pages and pages of reasons.

"And this is the bit where I watched that rerun and saw Sandi nearly become straight.  And this is where I designed them clothes.  Took me all day."

He showed me two pages.  On the first was a picture of Trevor and Sandi dressed up for their wedding.  They were holding hands.  I had to admit that the man wasn't bad as an artist.  Surrounding the picture were lots of notes on how and where the wedding would take place.  He flicked on a few more pages and showed me the second.

"And this is when I realised that if Trevor was a woman Sandi wouldn't have to start fancying man."

A second wedding picture, this time of Sandi and Trevor both in the most fabulous pure white wedding dresses.  The shading he had got into his picture was astonishing.  The notes about the same sex wedding seemed very different although I noticed that both contained a Xhosa musician singing the Danish national anthem.  And why not?

"Wouldn't it be amazing to meet them on their honeymoon and become very good friends with them?  Maybe even with benefits.  It won't happen of course.  But you can't stop a man dreaming.  Anyway, I must stop all this chatting.  I've got another five monologues to watch before leaving this place.  You're welcome to sit here with me and I can point out all the funniest parts.  I know them by heart."

I declined the offer.  I had places to be.  I invented them on the spot in order to have an excuse to leave that didn't seem rude.  I'm glad I talked to the man.  I didn't find out his name.  And I never did get any peace in the cafe.  But I've been able to remember our one-sided conversation with a very uneasy smile.  It's been a pleasure to share it with you and stamp on any confidentiality he might have been expected.  I wouldn't have done it ordinarily.  But when the conversation isn't real and you don't pretend it ever took place perhaps you can't breach confidentiality.

Yes.  I'm glad I talked with him.  I just hope I never see him in a cafe again.


[1971 words]

Last Night I Woke To Find A Stranger Sitting On My Bed

During my post for yesterday I said that a story idea had popped into my head and that I would allow the story to be written at some point during the day.  This is that story.  It begins with someone waking up to find another someone sitting on their bed.  That is the only thing the story has in common with the ideas in my head this morning.

This is a first chapter.  Whether any more chapters are ever written is something I cannot know at this point.  I would like to write more.  Because at this point I don't know who either someone is.  While writing this neither of them told me the answer.  So don't write in and ask me to tell you.  I expect if I wrote more the answers would come.

Here it is.  Chapter one.  It has no title.  They haven't told me that either.

A picture of the end of my bed. Taken by a stranger.

I woke up in the night with a start to find her tickling my toes.

"Ah, there you are," she said with a look of relief on her face.  "I thought for a minute there you might be dead."

I backed away, fear and confusion combining in an unholy mess, and pressed my back up against the wall.  Pulled in my knees to my chest and stared at her.  Too scared to speak.  I wasn't in the habit of waking up to find a stranger sitting on my bed.

"Now, now, there's no need to worry yourself over me.  I'm not going to hurt you my dear."

At that I must have looked closer to terror because she said, "I shouldn't have said that should I?  That's what they say in fairy tales isn't it and then they eat you or kill you in some curious manner or imprison you or force you to work for them for a million years or trick you into sleeping for a hundred.  I must heartily apologise for my breach in positive language skills."

She looked at me and smiled warmly.  "Come my dear.  I did it again didn't I?  I can't help it.  You see I don't think they properly trained me for this job.  I was meant to gently raise you out of sleep or wait for you to wake up naturally.  But when I saw your eyes were closed and couldn't hear snoring sounds I didn't know what to do.  What if you had been dead?  They wouldn't have been pleased with me.  So I couldn't resist.  Anyway, your right foot was already exposed.  Tip time: If you keep your feet covered up you won't get so cold.  Where was I?  Any idea?"

I stared at her some more.  Began to relax a little.  She was a very strange stranger and her long blue hair was an awful mess of curls and knots.  She wore a dress made of purple bubble wrap and a mixture of rainbow colour bracelets all the way from her wrists to her elbows.  What she was doing on my bed was beyond my comprehension.  How she had got into my house was another question.  But I had to admit that it was probable she wasn't going to transform into a giant goblin and gobble me up whole or drag me into the kingdom of the gnomes.  Whoever she was, I didn't sense any danger.  Nevertheless I continued to stare at her silently.

"No idea.  I don't mind.  Sometimes it's better to have no idea.  Sometimes it's better just to take it all as it comes.  I myself lived without a clue for many years.  That wasn't my fault of course.  And it wasn't my choosing either.  It was an enchantment that did it and I never found out who enchanted me although I have my suspicions.  I know it wasn't a human so it can't have been you.  Not that you would have wanted to trap me in such a cruel way.  You hadn't even met me.  Unless of course I make some error so awful that you seek revenge and can find a time mistress to try to stop me being here in the first place.  Did you do that?  Oh, silly me."  She let out a big laugh as if it was the funniest thing in the whole world.  "You wouldn't know.  You haven't done it yet.  I'll tell you know though.  If you are going to be considering cursing me in the past there's no point.  It won't stop me.  Of course it won't.  I'm here anyway.  But it wasn't you.  I don't think.  I believe it was either one of Rose, Rose or Rose.  You probably don't know them because they don't live in your bedroom.  They're triplets.  Identical and their parents couldn't tell them apart so they all got given the same name.  It's ever so confusing.  Yes, I was enchanted.  Now I'm just enchanting as I'm sure you can tell.  Do you like my dress?  I made it myself.  I like purple.  I found the material blowing in the wind one day and had to carefully paint each individual bubble in a slightly different shade of purple.  It took ages.  And the enchantment was hard to break.  Not only was I clueless but my cluelessness reset itself every day.  That's why I was clueless for so many years.  But I'm not clueless now.  I have a clue.  Even if I did wake you so rudely and call you my dear.  I think I've explained myself properly now.  Any questions?"

I could hardly take in her story.  All that talk of revenge and spells was too much for me at half past three in the morning.  It might have been too much at half past three in the afternoon.  And as for her dress.  It was well crafted, I had to admit that to myself.  I wouldn't have thought a bubble wrap dress could ever fit so well.  Yet to my eyes there was only one shade of purple.  Struggling to make sense of her I managed to ask four questions.

"Just two.  For now.  Who are you?  And what are you doing here, sitting on my bed?  No, I take it back.  Another question.  I'm asking three not two  How did you get in?  I'm sure I locked the front door, the back door, all the windows and even the cat flap.  Are you a lock pick or something?"

She squealed and put her hands over her ears.  "Enough, enough.  Stop it right now.  That's four questions now.  I do wish you would stop changing your mind so abruptly.  It's very confusing and I'm not going to answer any questions if you carry on like that.  I'm sorry but that's just how it is."

To prove her point she stuck her fingers in her ears and started singing "La, la, la ..." loudly and without even a hint of a melody.  I wouldn't have even called it a series of notes.  I shook my head.  How rude.  To come and sit on my bed uninvited and not even answer any questions.  I could hardly believe it.  Trust me to get the one bedroom visitor who seemed to be a little unstable.  I changed that thought.  Her instability could have been much worse and she could have been concealing an unbreakable knife in that dress.  I could see she wasn't.  The whole thing was a little opaque.  Not transparent enough to reveal everything but the outfit didn't leave much to my imagination.

I leaned forward and gently touched her arm.  Looked at her with the kindest expression I could manage.  I think possibly my expression was mistaken for murderous because she closed her eyes and shouted "La, la, la, I'm not listening but I'm not allowed to leave."

I gave up and went to make two mugs of tea.  Leave her to her strange tantrum.  When I came back to the bedroom she was quiet.  Quiet and lying down.  Quiet and fast asleep cuddled up to my large teddy bear.  Great.  Now I couldn't go back to bed.  I put on my dressing gown and pulled a blanket from the cupboard.  Sat on my big bean bag and drank my tea.  Then I lay down and got as comfortable as I could without lying on my bed.  She could answer my questions in the morning and then I would see about lending her one of my own dresses.  My imagination may not have had to work hard but I had to work hard to not remember the outline of her breasts - and I confess I felt more than a little guilty for noticing them - or the way she smiled at me, or the fact that I would have loved to give her hair a good wash and then gently comb out all the knots, or the way I found all the odd things she said to be quite endearing.  Whoever she was, it didn't seem an altogether bad thing that she had appeared on my bed.

Presently I fell asleep.  I woke up with aches all through my back and bones.  I groaned as I turned to my side and remembered I was on the floor.  I could see from the clock by the bed that it was seven sixteen.  Quite respectable.  Then I remembered the stranger.  The stranger and her melodious voice and endearing giggle.  The stranger with her annoying habit of la, la la-ing.  I sat up and looked on the bed.

She was gone.

Perhaps I had dreamed the whole thing.  That seemed the most likely scenario.  A dream.  Far more likely than a blue, purple, rainbow girl coming through locked doors - and they were locked, I checked before breakfast - and rambling on about enchantments.  No.  Of course not.  She wasn't real.  Not real.  But vivid enough that I was able to fill two whole pages in my dream diary.  A new personal record.  I looked at the empty mug of tea.  I looked at the full mug.  I wondered why I had made two mugs but guessed I'd been sleepwalking.  I hadn't done that for a while.  Perhaps my dinner had made my head do funny things.  I wouldn't be buying that particular pie again.

Over breakfast I thought about my dream.  If all my dreams were similar I'd look forward to going to bed every night.  As long as I didn't end up sleeping on the floor.  She really had been quite pretty and had an amazing sparkle in her eyes and a cute way of playing with her bracelets while she talked, as if she was counting each of them in turn.  I decided that I would write up my dream.  Present it as a story.  So that's what I've done.

Tonight I will go to bed again.  Perhaps I will dream.  Perhaps I will dream of her.  Maybe she'll come and visit again and this time I won't be scared as I sleep and can find out who my brain thinks she might be.  Perhaps.  I can only hope.  I'm going to bed early tonight just in case.

I'll let you know.


[1696 words]

It Was Beaks At Dawn When The Avocet and Curlew Went To War

Last night I said some random words to my wife.  This morning I've free written from them.  What follows is the result.  I had some ideas as I began to write.  Most of them weren't used.  One idea was to write a bird poem and include lots of bad bird puns.  Instead there's this piece of silliness!

Yesterday (Sunday) I didn't write a post.  Oh dear.  So I'm playing catch up today and need to write a second post this evening.  I didn't write but I did attend a performance poetry workshop for the first time.  And for the first time ever I performed a poem I wrote.  To an audience of poets, to be critiqued.  In many ways that's the safest place to begin.  A bunch of poets isn't likely to say, "Ooh that was total crap.  Get out and don't you dare come here again you fake poet!"  Every one of them knows how hard it is and everyone is there to encourage others to write and perform as best as they can.  Which means that all critique is constructive and even if something is total crap it's a learning experience rather than a damning one.  But I wasn't total crap, either in the words or the performance.  Far from it.  Happily, I should be able to get to the next workshop.  By that time I will have performed at least one short piece before a room full of people.  Another step in the plan without a plan.

Here then is the first piece of writing for today.  You will notice that I've totally ignored the writing prompt list.  That doesn't matter.  This blog is about writing not lists.

______________________________

In the duel between the avocet and the curlew it was beaks at dawn.

Ornithological history does not record which of the birds began the argument. All we know for sure is that one small barb led to another and another until they could hardly bear to inhabit the same piece of waterway. While it is true that each would criticise the other for their plumage, and many suspect that both were jealous, the main sticking point was their beaks.

The avocet would say “Look at you, you're upside down and stupid. That beak of yours is ridiculous. Why would anyone want something as useless as that down-curving monstrosity on the end of your face?”

And the curlew would reply, “My beak is a wonder. It's the stuff of legend. Anyway, it's much better than yours. Yours is up-turned. I suppose that's apt for such a stuck up bird. You've got ideas above your station.”

A curlew. Image from the RSPB

The avocet said, “It's not my fault the bird people made me their emblem. They took one look at me and knew I was best and my beak was perfect.”

“They only did it for the sympathy vote knowing they would get extra donations when people saw just how pitiful you were. So turn your beak round now before I rip it off your face.”

That did it. The avocet didn't want to listen to any more of such talk. The marsh was only big enough for the one of them. So he said, “I challenge you to a duel. We shall fight to the death. Or until one of us gives up.”

“That's easy. I'll win. Tomorrow morning at dawn we shall meet on the waterfront and fight.”

The following morning a crowd gathered. The official duel adjudicator was there too with his case of weapons. The finest of juggling clubs, hula hoops and frisbees were combined with ribbons, bubbles, and a selection of stick on red noses. He was so embarrassed when he opened up the case and everyone saw he had made an error of judgement, bringing everything from his other job as circus clown. The duel was postponed for the day. Nobody minded too much. The birds spent the day playing as best they could. But it's hard to blow bubbles when you're a bird.

An avocet.  Image from the RSPB

The following morning a bigger crowd gathered. The official duel adjudicator was there again with his case of weapons. This time he hadn't made a mistake. He opened up the trunk and everyone oohed and aahed over the cache. The finest of wooded clubs was supplemented by a selection of swords, bottles, knives, guns, and even a pair of intricately decorated tickling sticks although the adjudicator later admitted they should have been in his other case.

The avocet and curlew stared at the case and shouted at each other.

“I'm gonna cut you up into tiny pieces. See if I don't.”

“You little ass-wipe. Go get eaten by a cat! One bullet into your bird brain and everyone will tweet and squawk in celebration of my victory.”

They continued insulting each other and the language grew more and more fruity until an entire orchard of trees collapsed under the weight of words. It took until seven in the evening before they could agree on how to try to kill each other and the whole duel had to be postponed.

The following morning a crowd gathered that was so big they could hardly fit in the wetlands at all. A family of capercaillie had travelled down especially on the night train and a video link had been set up because a blood thirsty emu wanted to watch. The duel adjudicator was there again with his case of weapons and a smile on his face because he got double pay for overtime.

The avocet and the curlew approached the chest.

“Take up your weapons,” the adjudicator intoned imperiously.

The two birds bent down over the chest and took up the weapons in their beaks. Each would have a jewel encrusted sword. A gentleman's weapon although neither thought the other a gentleman. It was then that everyone realised there had been a miscalculation.

For whether your beak is upturned or downturned it's not a swordsman's anatomy of choice. Neither bird could pick up their sword. They tried hard. For most of the day. The crowds got bored and would have demanded their money back had it not been for a troupe of eagles laying on an aerobatic display that everyone appreciated. Everyone that is apart from the pigeons who were shanghaied into being part of the display and were dined on that evening. The ice cream seller was happiest of all because she nearly sold her entire stock to hot birds, without once stopping to wonder how the birds happened to be carrying money or how they might have all managed to carry the cones.

The avocet and the curlew were encouraged to try other weapons. But it was no good. The avocet could hang a gun from his beak but such a weapon just fell off when the curlew tried to pick it up. It wasn't really any use for the avocet either because he found there was no way to aim a gun hung from a beak. Let alone reach up with is wing and fire. Even the wooden clubs were impossible.

It was an owl who proposed the solution. “I propose the solution of unarmed combat,” he said.

The curlew laughed. “Unarmed combat? You unwise owl you. Of course it'll be unarmed. Because we haven't got arms to combat with. We've got wings. And that's where the problem lies. Wings are excellent for flight but useless for weapon carrying.”

A penguin and an ostrich from the local zoo were heard to grumble at the mention of flight but that only made some of the other birds turn and laugh at them.

The owl said. “No, no, I meant you should fight without weapons. Bird to bird combat. Just use your beaks as swords and you'll soon see which is better. Or at least which is better for duelling.”

The avocet and the curlew looked at each other and nodded. They would do as the owl said. But it was getting late so the duel was postponed once more.

The following morning a crowd gathered. It was smaller. Some of the birds had needed to get home. The duel adjudicator was there. He had left his case at home, locked up in a big safe. He announced the rules. The two birds would stand back to back and take twenty paces, turn and then charge at each other and fight on his command.

They lined up on the beach happy to face away from each other. They paced. Turned. There was beak hatred in their eyes. The adjudicator shouted, loudly, “Ready … steady … GO!” and the birds ran and flapped, meaning to impale each other.

They didn't get a chance. When they were still ten paces apart a puffin suddenly flapped down between them and cried “STOP! Stop this madness.”

The avocet stopped.

The curlew stopped. Fell over. Ungracefully stood again.

They stared at the puffin. Stared some more.

The puffin said, “There's no need to fight about which of your beaks is the best. You, avocet, look fine in your plumage and with your upturned beak. And you, curlew, look just as good in your plumage and with your downturned beak. There's no denying that. Your beaks are both good so give each other a hug.”

The avocet and curlew approached each other. They had to admit it. The puffin was quite right. So they lifted up their wings and hugged each other warmly before deciding to head off to a seafood restaurant for a make-up meal.

The puffin smiled. As best as a beaked creature can smile.

“My work here is done. I must return to my island now.”

He flew off and as he did so he called back to the crowds.

“Anyone with half a brain can see the truth. My beak is the best in the world.”

[1362 words]

Two Short Pieces About Sunlight, Coffins, And The End of The World

Prompt 51: Sunrise/Sunset: It goes round and round.

Sunrise, looking towards Tynemouth

For today's post I've written two little pieces.  They're both a little strange.  If you read these posts regularly you'll be used to strange.  I'm not particularly happy with either piece.  The second was only written because I was unhappy with the first.

The first is spoken by a fictional subatomic particle.  It's similar to a photon in that it is light.  But it isn't a photon because photons do not behave in this way at all.  Not unless they're very special photons indeed.  Which they're not.

The second is about a very unfortunate man living a particularly unhappy life.  I think he deserves a full short story one day because such a character as this could be built up and played with and generally have a rotten time.

Sunshine.  Looking to Fleetwood from Knott End

From beginning to end I see it all.
I am there at the birth, animated into form
As the source of Being speaks, "Let there by light,"
And singularity breaks, bringing forth a universe.
I awaken at the first dawn, at the wellspring of life.
I take my first breath as one who lived before.
For ten million years I celebrated inside the great light
Where a billion like me played, dancing dervishes
Singing the hymn of praise to star cycles.
Cast out by fire I crossed the universe
Unhindered by time, sharing the expanse with
All the incarnations of myself and my path,
Until, swallowed by cold dust, I suffered.
Absorbed, caught in a particle and chained
Within time, within space, and held in the
Slow speed of the cosmic winds.
I waited.  Waited.  Waited again.
Close to death, restrained, but oh so patient.
Dust met dust met dust met dust.
Became a grain, a rock, an irresistable weight
And then, under gravity's command
We ignited again, reborn with new brothers.
My first breath would lead to my final death.
I saw the journey, lived it all at once and I
Screamed in the joy of a billion year instantaneousness.
I live in the new star, intimate in union with ourselves.
I live too on the new earth, alone to wait again.
I see the gap and travel between.
I land in the fire before the land ever was.
I exist as the burning, the birthing of the rocks
I sleep and wait and watch as life breathes form;
The single cell, greatest miracle of all,
The waters teeming with life inexplicable
Until it cannot be contained and must feel the air
And exult in the dry sight of a million days.
I see the giant lizards, I see the first flight,
The fall of creatures, over and over.
Until I see something new.  A new form, new race,
A creature brave enough to shape the earth
And deliberately light the flame rather than
Cower from volcano, lightning and the summer fire.
I see them learn language and take the earth as inheritance
And I am pleased by their tenacious curiosity. 
I run free again in the low lights they make.
I am the bright light in their atom splitting destructiveness.
Then they are gone.
Just one more brief interlude in an earth story.
I rest again, biding my time.  Freedom will return
As starlight blossoms into nova and in that moment
Of one hundred million years I will be everything and nothing
Before I die again in the cold slumber of extinguished starstuff.
I am there at the beginning.  I remain at the end.
I see it all in an eternal moment
The light of the world, purest illumination.
I see you too, witness every second of your life.
I know you as nothing, an irrelevant blip,
An infinitesimal ripple on the wave of universal history.
And yet. And yet your tiny uniqueness is
A greater fire than the star you orbit.
I am the light.
You are the light.
And we burn together.

Across a lake at night.

He was the butt of the joke.  Always.  They thought him perverse.  They hated him.  They wanted to be him.  They were jealous.  Angry.  Because he was different and they wanted every one of their kind to be the same.

He would get up in the morning dreading what he might find that day.  What cruel trick had they played on him?  There were rules of course.  They weren't allowed to kill one of their own and it wouldn't have been right to screw the lid of his coffin down as he slept.  But they had other ways to express their dislike of him. Sometimes they covered his face with jam as he slept.  Sometimes they put animals in the coffin with him.  He didn't mind the mice but once they had found a cat and put that inside.  The cat hadn't been healthy and had urinated, defecated and vomited on him in the night.  He had been forced to spend the whole day cleaning and disinfecting things and his pillow still smelled a bit of urine that night.  He hadn't been pleased at all and had left a strongly worded note for the others threatening to call in the exterminator.

Maybe if they would only get to know him they would find out that he was a lovely man.   Of course that was impossible.  That was the nature of his peculiar curse.  It was incredibly lonely.  He wanted to talk to them, share in their games of chess, five a side football, and torture.  The torture looked to be the most fun thing of all and it wasn't fair at all that he didn't ever get to torture people.  By the time he got up in the morning they had already finished.  Kidnapped a door-to-door evangelist or salesman or just grabbed some person from the path to the castle.  Which served them right for being stupid enough to be on the path at night.  Tied them up in the dungeon.  A bit of torture for fun.  And then death by exsanguination.  While the others were always careful to leave him a bottle of blood in the fridge he would have loved to participate in some of the delicious process of exsanguinating.  It just didn't taste the same cold.

Loneliness was the worst.  He tried to alleviate it by walking down to the village during the day but everyone there was ever so shallow.  They didn't even play chess and none of them owned a coffin!  And he always had to be careful not to talk too much about himself in case they cottoned on to the truth and thought of a novel method of killing him.  He found it impossible to build up a friendship with anyone in the village and ended up spending far too much time hunkered down over flagons of beer in the local bar.  Every now and again someone would invite him to play darts or billiards.  But never chess.  He had been a grand master once.  Before the curse.

He would head back to the castle in the evening sad and drunk.  Every day he looked at the others hoping that one of them would have woken early and he could have a conversation with them.  Or start a game of chess with a legend.  But each day he was disappointed.  The others were fast asleep.  Of course they were.  That was they nature of their blessing, so much the same as his curse yet so tragically different.

They had to sleep all day.  And he had to sleep all night.

His was the worst of all possible deaths.
He was the only sun loving vampire in the world.