Showing posts with label AJ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AJ. Show all posts

Thursday, 2 July 2020

The Muse












L’égérie (The Muse) it said
On a plastic plaque beside the work.
I looked at it (a long time)
But felt no echo in my mind, 
No similarity with mine.
How could this angular thing inspire?
This flat, red multiple thing
With extra heads, but lacking arms
(and charms). I could not see.
Perhaps sculptors need a driving force
More pointed (or with razor's edge)
To guide their hands, their hammers,
Or their welding torches.
We of the words need gentler touch
(I feel). 

Friday, 24 July 2015

The Hidden Folk

Come, child, and tell me, were you looking for the Little People in the woods today? Then sit, and let me explain why that is something you must never do. Once upon a distant time we humans were great friends with the People of Peace and all was well. You must remember that They were here long before us, and all the earth is Theirs, but They tolerated our arrival, despite our lack of grace.  They taught us how to live in harmony with the world and we wanted for nothing, blessed as we were by Their patronage.

After a long while The Others came to trust us and offered us a great boon. They own the earth and all that’s in it, and above all, metal is the prize of the Sidhe, but They honoured us by granting the use of copper. It is magic and holds the power of the sun within in, so we were able to make great and beautiful things, like jewels and mirrors; and the world was a lighter, brighter place as a result.

However, smiths can be devious people and many coveted the Tidy Ones’ magic for themselves. One particularly jealous smith stole secretly into a Yarthkin camp and learned the skill of making a cutting edge; so the very first knife was fashioned. This scared the Gentle Folk and we were made to promise that we would only ever use our tools for good. We could eat with them, and prepare our food; we could build our homes and cut our firewood; but we must never wield one in anger.
   
Of course we didn’t listen, and ere long the smiths were forging longer and longer blades – daggers and swords – to please their feudal masters, and warfare was born.  Camp against camp, town against town, even brother against brother, fought for supremacy, all the while forgetting the source of true power. Then one day the smiths realised that iron will conquer copper and a band set out to steal the last great secret of the Fair Folk.

When the Lords and Ladies learned that Mankind had the Knowledge they were angry, and They cursed us forever: “If bloodshed is what you want, then bloodshed you shall have! Whenever you make a metal edge there will be a price to pay. Forget that at your peril!”  And They disappeared.
From that point They closed the doors of Fae to Humankind and hid their Fair Faces from all but a lucky few who had respected Them well, and who were taken to live in the Beautiful Land. And yet They still hold the power. We must always remember that metal is not ours to use. Whenever we forge it anew, or exchange it, we must make a payment, or the Wee Folk will claim their own price; and that price is usually blood. An axman misses his stroke and loses an arm; a kitchen maid is distracted and cuts her hand; a Feudal lord over-reaches his authority and many die.

We who are left must remember that all power still resides with the Old People. If we want our crops to flourish, if we want our stock to fatten well, if we don’t want our milk to sour or our cheese to spoil, we must still pay our dues. We must never use the word They hate – the one that starts with Faer – and we must honour Them in all our endeavours. Above all we must never go looking for Them, because They will never appear to one who does.


But if you are honourable, and you respect the Good People well, maybe one day you might catch a fleeting glance of one, if They choose to bless you so. But never marry a smith, young lady. Never marry a smith!

*****************
July 2015
Inspired by the Damh the Bard song Iron from Stone. This version differs slightly from his explanation, but it's based on what I was told by my Father.  

Thursday, 23 July 2015

More 55s

See the previous post for an explanation.
*****************************************

Tiring. I tell you it’s tiring. You’d think having nothing to do would make life easy, wouldn’t you? But that’s not the case. Trying to look busy is even worse. I’d much sooner have enough to do so I could get on with it and not have to make up jobs to justify my paycheck. 


 No, I won’t! If you think I’m going to do all of that for you when you never do anything for anyone except yourself and you seem not to know the word “thanks” you have another think coming. You are the most selfish, arrogant leech I ever met!
Well, that’s what I SHOULD have said.


And he was sitting there in the middle of the carpet, stark naked except for the lampshade, and holding a torch in one hand and a copy of the Times in the other. And he was singing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Of course I never worked out what he’d done with the tomatoes.


Fifty five! I’m sure last time I looked I was thirty-something with a great job, the future all ahead of me and ambitions to meet. And before that I was just 19, setting out expectantly in the world. It doesn’t really seem so long since I was starting high school. Where did the time go? 

55s

These are from a challenge I used to take part in that required exactly 55 words on any topic.
Various dates
**********************

There were good things and bad things for Brenda about the accident. Although her belongings escaped damage when the car went out of control, she now faced a big problem with future transport. She would just have to find another shopping trolley to carry her life around in. It was tough being a bag lady.


“Please sit down.”
“No. Mummy doesn’t make us sit down.”
“I’m sure she does. Sit down!”
“Don’t have to.”
“If you don’t sit down you won’t get ice cream.”
“You’re mean.”
“People are getting annoyed with you.”
”Don’t care what people think. Mummy wouldn’t care about people.”
“Mummy never cared about anything much. Including us.”


Bernard hated management speak, but even more he loathed when he did all the work and colleagues took the credit.
So he devised a plan.
The next time one of the smarmy sales requested his ‘strategic input’ he returned totally wrong data.
“I think that’s what they call ‘low hanging fruit’,” he chuckled to himself.


It had been a long and tiring hearing. The coroner said it was impossible to tell why the death happened, and so he had to return a verdict of misadventure. The evidence said he’d been cleaning his gun when it went off and shot him in the face.  But we all know what that means.


Do not feed the birds, the sign said. Flying pests are a health hazard and you could face a fine of up to £5000. But the gulls could catch chips in flight. And Mary could not resist watching their aerobatics.  Besides, they would have trouble finding £5000 from her anyway. Let them try to sue!


Dianne sat paralysed with fear until the light faded, legs drawn up into her chair so the beast couldn’t reach her. Unable to see where the terrifying animal might be, she remained until rescue arrived.
It did not help her temper when her friend laughed out loud: “It’s a tomato top - not a spider!”


Dan had heard all the superstitions from his old grandma but he ignored them.  Shoes on the table, horseshoes upside down, red and white flowers in the same vase. All supposedly portended death – but he couldn’t see it. He didn’t see the bus coming as he stepped under a ladder to cross the road either.


Will’s motorbike wasn’t very powerful, but he dreamed of winning races just as soon as he was old enough to ride a big machine. He regularly practised his victory salute in readiness for the day.
At the inquest the lorry driver said Will could not have swerved because he had his hands in the air.


It had been a near thing. He reached out to grab her hand as she slipped off the kerb, right in front of the car, but couldn’t catch hold. It was only because the driver was a professional that he managed to miss her.  It was almost impossible to believe.
But trains can’t swerve.


“Stupid man,” thought Billy ‘the Dip’ Jackson. The bloke didn’t have a clue. He’d been the perfect mark – clearly a tourist and carrying cash in his back pocket. Billy counted out the notes until he came to the last sheet and read: “Enjoy your moment of gloating. They’re fakes. And I’ve now got your wallet.”


He dressed casually and his general impression suggested tweed. His outfits gave off a sort of browny-green aura, as if he had been carved from a part of the landscape, and they had the kind of texture that conjured up pictures of moorland and bracken. Sometimes I swear I could hear grouse calling around him


There really was no option, she thought as she plunged in the sharp knife. It had to be disposed of completely.
She watched the blood ooze away from the serrations along the edge and smiled.  She was good at this. There would be absolutely nothing left when she had finished.
Doreen just adored blue steak!


Helen took a deep breath and prepared to explain it again. Her fiancé was looking at her with a strange expression: slightly confused and slightly annoyed.
“This has nothing to do with women’s lib and equality. I’m just not going to take your name when we’re married.
“I refuse to be known as Helen Highwater!”


Jim looked at the tiny packet on the table in front of him that held so much hope. It was hard to believe that his future might rely on it. Now he was unemployed he might starve if he could not make the seeds grow. He pushed them into the soil and crossed his fingers.


Dad coughed and sat back with a worried look.
He enjoyed the turkey, perfectly roasted and surrounded with beautifully browned potatoes, parsnips, sausages, cranberry sauce and herby stuffing.
Then came the dreamy pudding, with brandied flames and a choice of rum butter or cream.
But nobody warned him about the sixpence – and he’d swallowed it!

There was something furtive in the way he moved through the house, edging carefully around furniture, stepping noiselessly. The woman was oblivious to his approach, peeling vegetables at the sink as he crept behind her. Then he made his move. 
“Surprise! Happy birthday Darling,” he announced, as he produced a bouquet from behind his back. 

Wedding

It was a wedding and everyone was supposed to be happy, weren’t they? But she knew
the real truth behind all of it. She knew what the guy was really like – but would she tell? She’d hurt a lot of people if she did.

The vicar was saying: “Speak now, or forever hold your peace…..”

August 2012

It's a riot

Smashing and burning
and looting and storming.
Charging around
and breaking into the Pound
Shop to steal
useless things with no real
value. The mob is making its feelings clear
and armed police in riot gear
are fighting back.
Society’s cracked.
And no-one hears a small
voice in the darkness among it all

crying ‘help!’

August 2011

Impress me

You want to impress me?  Bring me flowers. Not boring roses but bright daffodils. Clove-scented pinks. Feed me well. French bread, salty butter, crisp salad leaves. Fresh crab and a bottle of bone dry Chablis. Follow it with a good blue cheese; Roquefort with pears, and a glass of fine port. Read me Walt Whitman. 

June 2011

Remote

There are hundreds of channels on my new TV service, Internet access through my television, movies on demand and even a place where I can showcase photographs.  I can programme it to record favourites and watch them back while it records two more stations at the same time. 


If only I could understand the remote. 

June 2011

Social Not-working


 The carefully crafted message was designed not to exceed the maximum 140 characters.  She planned to post it simultaneously to all of her social networking sites so she would know exactly what time everyone could see it.  That way she would know how long it took everyone to respond.  She opened the dashboard on her computer, copied the text and pasted it into the window. One last check:

Life is just too much for me so I have decided to take an overdose of pills and white wine and watch the sunset for the last time. Goodbye 

Then she hit send.


And the words went unread by all the 263 people who called themselves her friends.  

June 2011

Shoreline

Shoreline.
Unsure line
Lapping waves
Draw a line in the sand:
Here and no further.
Erased by the next tide
High tide
A tide in the affairs of man.
Time and tide wait for none.
A time for change
A change of mind.
Leaving on the new tide.
New journey
New horizons
New shores.
Shoreline.

July 2011

More like Monday

Earlier today I thought
"It's Friday!"
But I was wrong.
When realised that it is
Only Tuesday
I almost cried,
And now I feel
More like Monday.


May 2011

Antivivisection

“Don’t be stupid”, the man in the white coat said, “They’re just dumb animals. They don’t matter and they can’t possibly understand what we’re doing to them.”

But  X19108 was born in the laboratory and had seen his mother, his sister and friends suffer at this man’s hands. And he’d learned how a hypodermic worked. 

August 2011

Online dating

Keely was flattered when Mike asked to be her friend online. He’d seen her photo and thought she was pretty. Yeah, yeah, she could hear teachers and her mum warning her about strangers, but he wasn’t a stranger was he? She’d seen his photo. But she wondered why his dad had come to meet her.

June 2011


How low?

‘Just how low can you get?’ Susan yelled as she stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

Martin called after her: ‘I’m a limbo dancer, what did you expect?’

August 2011

Beachcomber

Eliza was a beachcomber - not that she made a living out of it or anything (nor was she like that weird old man who lived in half a wrecked boat at the shore).  She would walk along the sand as the tide went out and pick up the jetsam that was stranded there, imagining how it had been lost.

She never picked up pebbles or a sea shell. She was only interested in the abandoned, manufactured items. She would take her finds back to her tiny flat in the middle of town and arrange them on ledges and bookcases and shelves around the walls. Then she would sit and look happily at her treasures, while she talked to the spirits of their previous owners.

When the building collapsed, the inquest jury agreed that the structure was never intended to hold such a weight of junk and the old woman’s eccentricity had contributed to her death.  Her neighbours agreed it was an outrage that no-one had done anything about it before.


The old man watched from his half-boat as the merpeople returned to the sea with their recovered possessions, then he headed up to the church on the cliff where he was the only mourner at Eliza’s funeral.  


June 2011
***************

A while back I used to take part in a challenge to use three given words in a short story.  The three in this case were her, outrage and seashell. 

Haiku - The gentle art of word folding

Haiku poetry
has seventeen syllables
in three short lines

I have never tried,
Though I write many poems,
to do a haiku.

Karate neither.
Although some origami
brings me great leisure.

****
17 syllables arranged 5, 7, 5

June 2011

Friend

friend [fRend] n person for whom one feels affection and whom one knows intimately.

FB friend [faisbuk fRend] n someone who has met somebody you walked past three years ago.

Fat slasher

“Perfect disguise”, Amanda said to her reflection in the cheval mirror. “No-one will recognise you.” The wig made her head look like a coconut and the mouth was a delightful touch. She gnashed her teeth and pulled back her lips, gurning at herself to get a better look. Yellow and crooked: what they call ‘English teeth’ in the US. Then, of course, there was the fat suit.

Amanda knew from bitter, adolescent experience that the best way to stop people from seeing you was to be overweight. She had suffered a long time to learn that lesson. All through her teens she had been the butt of the jokes, left out of invitations and spurned by her peers, just because she had a weight problem. Behind the size she was actually quite attractive but they never knew because they never looked. They deemed her invisible. Talk about the elephant in the room!

But when she reached twenty one she inherited some money and used it to change her image and her identity. Not because she was unhappy with herself, but because she realised by then she would have to play by ‘their’ rules to win their game. And she had won. Her face appeared nightly on TV as a respected anchor-woman on a national news programme. Every one of her old tormentors could see her now. She was relishing her triumph and planned to crown it with a visit to each of them to point out the error of their old ways.

Hence the disguise: the wig, the fake teeth and the fat suit made her look exactly like she did at school. That was the point. She wanted to make sure they knew who was responsible as she murdered them, one by one. It was the perfect disguise for the perfect crime. Only the victims could identify her and they did not live to tell tales. She had even been captured on security cameras a few times and earned herself the nickname of The Fat Slasher but no-one linked the obese image with the svelte news reader. She knew she would never be caught. She just had to remember not to laugh when she reported the latest killing to her eager viewers.

August 2011

Epic fail

Called on geeky Simon last weekend – or Sly as he calls himself. He was always a nerd at school, and he’s no better now, even though he can see thirty coming. He tried quitting home at nineteen but couldn’t maintain his lifestyle, so the hesher was back at his parents’ place before he hit twenty one, living his übergeek ways and missing out on any kind of girl action. He says “LOL. why should I pay to get my laundry done?” You can get that from the way he smells.

Anyhoo. I wanted to reprogram Sly. Thing is, he’s superstitious: avoids green; touches wood; salutes magpies; the whole heap. Worst of all, he’s afraid of thirteens, and especially Fridays with that date. It’s called friggatriskaidekaphobia; he told me. He knows all his phobias personally. 

As he opened the door he said: “What’s up bro?” He talks like that a lot. Like he’s seventeen and living in the ‘hood. Then he noticed the ladder. I’d propped it over the door hoping he’d step outside and walk under it but, no luck.

“Leave it out, bro’. Epic fail. You should not diss my belief system like that.  Show me some respec’.” He gets his street cultures confused at times.

“Belief system?” I spat, ignoring his slang salad.  “That’s no belief system, it’s hooey. The only person round here showing disrespect is you, scruffy n00b. Why don’t you bling yourself up and come down to the pub?”

He looked tempted but something held him back. “We’d have to check out before midnight. I can’t be there on the thirteenth.”

“Whatcha mean, the thirteenth?”

“Tomorrow, Saturday the thirteenth.” He looked at me as if I was vacant, so I decided to throw my best punch.

“Sly. Today’s the thirteenth. You know?”

It wasn’t the thirteenth. I only said it for a joke, but his eyes opened out like searchlights as he muttered, without a hint of his usual attitude, “You mean I went to work on Friday the thirteenth? Oh shit.” Then he sort of belched and his eyes rolled up. He tipped backwards like a felled tree and I heard a crack as his head met the floor.

“Simon. SLY!” I yelled, and knelt down to check him over. He wasn’t breathing.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh HELP!” I hollered, grateful his mother was in the house. Then I started mouth to mouth.

That belch had been a vurp because I tasted vomit as I put my mouth over his. His mother called an ambulance, but I had to stick with the paramedic act and eat his puke till they arrived. It was gross.


Huge relief: he was breathing on his own by the time they got him to hospital. When he came round I admitted I’d been joshing and it backfired. He was OK about it, considering. He recovered with no harm, except for one thing: now he’s afraid of Friday the twelfth too.


June 2011

Another from the three word Wednesday challenge, The three words are highlighted in bold type. 

Cyberspace is dead

Cyberspace is dead. We already poisoned the real world so that trees and birds and animals and plants and bugs are fading from existence, leaving only bacteria to thrive in a barren wasteland. Now we have overcrowded the aether and our thoughts are ever tighter packed in the web-o-verse. Increasing blank pages and 404 errors were warning signs of disaster and the Internet is finally full to bursting. No email, no blog, no social networking, no games, no newsreel, no instant bookings in faraway hotels. Just the black screen of death. So, this is how it ends.


Or maybe I forgot to charge my laptop again.


May 2011