Wednesday 27 February 2013

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (6) Poaching No 2

I knew now the unicorn’s weakness. She clearly loved the new food I’d introduced her to as those oats that had been spilled the week before had since been hungrily snaffled up during the intervening week. The grass where they had fallen had been cleared and marks in the dirt where her lips had eagerly displaced it could still be seen. This keenly noted, I continued with my hands-free poaching attempts, ripping shamelessly from Roald Dahl.


But with no success. The Horse-hair Stopper had little effect. She saw the hair in with the oats and didn’t touch them. Indeed, she spat on them and ground them into the floor in disgust.

So I went for the big one - the Champion plan. I had little choice, really. Grinding horse tranquilisers to dust, I mixed them with the oats and placed the mixture in a pile on the ground. The unicorn was soon lapping it up and finished it off in under a minute.

The effects were soon seen as she began to stagger about all over the clearing before finally laying down in a groggy heap in the sun and falling asleep. I broke cover, pulling a cart behind me to transport her; my heart singing all the more as it was my birthday, this the perfect present; hearing the deep breathing of her sleep.

As I drew close, though, the singing ceased abruptedly. She sprang up and ran off as if she’d just been joking. Maybe I should have used more. 

Tuesday 26 February 2013

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (5) Poaching No 1

I grew up adoring Roald Dahl, so starting with his poaching ideas seemed the most logical place to begin. Though I had scared the unicorn off the week before, I felt the heavy-handed approach could wait another week or two while I attempted to poach her away.


It began with me testing my oats theory with a variation on The Sticky Hat method. I dug a small pit that I lined with a nose bag - the bottom filled with oats and the rim painted with glue. The pit was deep enough so that the unicorn’s eyes would be inside the bag as she ate, like with the chicken in the book.

When she entered the clearing, about three o’clock, it was on the far side from my little trap. She began to graze. Slowly she worked her way across the clearing, chomping away at the grass until she got a couple of feet from the oats and her nostrils started to itch and flicker. Her tongue started to reach out for the taste, new and sweet-smelling. She was drawn in quickly as if on a line and she was soon chewing.

The moment she started to chew, I entered the clearing myself with a rope to use as a leash and began to make my way to her. But, alas, my luck was out. I stepped on a twig and her head popped up out of the hole - nose bag and all, the rim sticking above her eyes as I had hoped.
The desired pheasant effect was not achieved, however. The unicorn did not relax, she shook her head, trying desperately to dislodge the bag and break free.

I stood stock still, feeling a little guilty for causing such distress, and not wanting to get whacked. This way and that she shook her head, her little ears flapping about wildly as the bag went nowhere, stuck snugly around her nuzzle.

Until she suddenly stopped the panic as if realising something and the bag slipped off her face, hitting the ground and spilling the remaining oats. The unicorn then snorted loudly before retreating back to the safety of the forest.

Monday 25 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (9): The Earth God

The Earth God was feeling overworked. As the usual God of the common people he was
the most regularly contacted deity and under constant pressure.

As the commonest he was forever looking up at the greater deities, those with temples and
statues, and wishing he could rest in such a place of silence and tranquility rather than on
the altars of every home in the land, right in the hubbub and chaos of life.

However the Earth God had always been a clumsy fool, unable to sell himself and had
found himself bottom of the heap.

Today he was feeling particularly stressed after another poor harvest had struck and he’d
been thrown out of many homes again. But it was no wonder things went wrong when he
had so many people to attend and so little time in which to do so. And so many complaints
and appeals to deal with as well: it was not for him the simple bliss of specialisation. No,
he was called upon for every problem under the sun. Pregnancy, good crops, wealth,
deliverance from every evil- all these things fell under his remit. No wonder things
occasionally went awry.

Well. They went awry a lot as it happened.

Oh, if only. If only he’d done better as a young one, if only he was less of a bumbler. If
only he had staff. And more sake.

Sunday 24 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (8): Mother Earth, mother of all in This World

As The Chaos that existed in between the First World and This World whirled about her,
Mother stumbled forward across the rock. Broken by the woe she felt and seeing that her
children would have no future in this desolate place, she laid down and became the earth,
giving her body and her form so that her children might have a future.

As she transformed, Mother spread herself out as far as she could, covering whatever rock
she was able to- stretching across valleys and plains alike (even up slopes onto plateaus
where she felt able) and out from where the First World had stood all the way to rivers and
lakes and the sea, nestling around the bottom of mountains and other pieces of rock that
she could not cover.

And then Mother Earth decorated herself. This was something she had always had a
certain flair for, having designed and made most of her own clothes and furniture in the
First World and decorated her and Moon’s chambers. Designs and ideas that were copied
by the woman folk of that place.

Across This World Mother Earth made the plants grow from out of her new form. Grasses,
flowers, trees: all sorts, all colours beautifying and enlivening the brown covering she had
initially given the bare rock.

Then, after the bodies of the dead servants had been given to her, Mother Earth turned
each group of them into the first examples of each and every species that now live upon
This World.

Mother Earth then watched as the demon who had destroyed her love reappeared,
admitted what he had done and wrestled to take control as he had wanted to do in the
First World, his minions fighting as he stood back.

Later he was forced into the Underearth and Mother Earth, alongside the rock beneath
her, has kept him and his followers there as best she can. Continuously she feels the
pricks as he finds ways to try and force his way up and through to the Overearth once
more.

Saturday 23 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (7): Mother and Moon, leaders of the First World

At the start of the First World the people all ruled together. In time, however, many grew
tired of this and two people were chosen to rule, a husband and his wife, and a council
was formed to assist and advise them, each representing different parts of the First
World’s society.

Mother and Moon were the two selected. Brought together by Mother’s twin sister, Venus,
they were seen as the great lovers of the First World and were beloved by all so that no
one sought to replace them. Although there was one man, the husband of Venus and
close friend of Moon, who had been passed over for rule because there was something
about him that people distrusted: he was not even selected for the council.

His jealousy and desire for power would cause him to force Mother and Moon apart, an
event that would destroy the First World. For what he did not know was that as their rule
went on, the pair, without knowing it, had become increasingly linked to the structure of the
First World so that its very existence became dependent on their love.

The end started when that man, who would wreak much havoc in the following years,
had begun to poison Moon’s food with a substance that made the man changeable. His
behaviour began to move in phases, the periods of which were as erratic as his moods.
One day, hour or moment, he might love Mother still but it never lasted and eventually
he would become a ball of hate or indifferent even: sometimes barely recognising her
existence, sometimes not knowing who she was. Such was the cloud that the poison
brought to his mind. This new character pained Mother deep within. Her Moon had
become someone else.

*

The arguments between Mother and Moon begun before The Betrayal and, as they
went on, the servants noticed the stones of the First World begin to move just a little, the
intensity of the movement depending on the ferocity of the argument. Although sometimes
they noticed that the arguments they overheard had no effect at all.

In the meantime Moon’s mind became more addled and he began to be unable to
distinguish between Mother and her twin sister, Venus. Now Venus had noticed this and,
having become estranged from her husband, the man seeking to separate Mother and
Moon for his own ends, and having over time become jealous of the love between Mother
and Moon, Venus saw that she could use these moods in order to destroy their love.

In order to do so she started to dress in Mother’s clothes and enter Moon’s chambers
to visit him when no one else was around so that her identity could not be pointed out.
Quickly the plan began to work and despite having to sometimes bear the brunt of Moon’s
temper, Venus also felt his love on his better days and, unlike her sister, went to bed with
him, with the hope of one day being caught.

And one day she was. Though Moon was confused at the sight of two Mothers before
him, the resulting argument with the angry one was sharp and short and shook the entire
First World, such was the depth and pain of the feeling Mother held within her bosom.
Before she left her naked husband and sister, Mother slapped Moon with such ferocity that
the poison’s hold left him and Moon saw what he had done. And that there was no going
back.

That is when Mother and Moon drew away from one another forever and tore the First
World apart, bringing it to its end.

Friday 22 February 2013

250 Words: Sophia Scholl

We knew about the Jews, the mentally ill, what is happening on every front.  And our conscience wouldnt allow it, wouldnt allow us to sit quiet and obedient.  Bloodshed opened our eyes to the madness we exist in and that we must rise to sweep away. 

We, the youth, must end the old guards day and start again.  Clean the buildings they have tarnished and cultivate the soil they have spoiled. 

We fought with words, with paper and ink.  Using trains and stamps to spread them out and fight the tyranny of fists and guns; the perpetrators of war.

We fought with an idea.  An idea opposed to that which rules us and our people, this faction of symbols and camps, and for a return to a world of freedom and peace.

We fought with our youth, maybe wasting it with foolish acts, but words and vigour were all we had and, underneath the blade, I regret nothing: only pray that our thoughts are preserved from harm and still rain down over Germany, that some root of our movement will remain and flourish.  Somebody, after all, had to make a start.  What we wrote and said is also believed by many others.  They just do not dare express themselves as we did.  Righteousness can only prevail if people are willing.

Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands are awakened and stirred to action?

Es lebe die Freiheit!

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (4) The Unicorn and First “Contact”

She was nothing like the medieval writers had claimed.  No multi-coloured hybrid of lion, horse and buck was she.   The horn was the only part they got right, although there were certainly no elephants to pierce with it!  Neither was she anything like the cartoonish plastic abominations my sisters used to play with.

Though only the size of a pony, she was perfect in proportion, fine and elegant.  A sweet face, thin and a little stubby, jewelled with great blue eyes and crowned with a mane of white hair that formed a ridge down her neck.  Her coat was purest white, a tiny bit shaggy and seemed to shimmer a little whether she was in the shade of the forest or the rain or shine of her clearing. 

I watched her from my little tent on the edge of the clearing all day, just walking around, eating flowers and occasionally jumping about through the airborne rivers of dandelion seeds or chasing the cabbage white butterflies.  And I knew I was right to be here, to want to capture and tame this little angel.

After an hour or two of watching in wonderment I tentatively stepped out of the tent to see if capture and taming was even necessary.  I stood carefully while she was eating and turned toward me, moving forwards slowly and smoothly, watching her face for signs; she seemed to smile serenely to herself as she chewed thoughtfully.  The moment I began to outstretch my arm to stroke her, her head darted upwards and she looked at me for the first time. 

I froze solid.  Flipped up my hand to gesture safety; friendship.  But she neighed, in fear I think, turned and fled.

It seemed my plans would have to go into action.  I hoped against hope that she would be here every week.

Needless to say she was.

Thursday 21 February 2013

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (3) Getting Started, Part Three: The Waiting Game

I went every weekend and spent hours in various enchanted-looking spots.  I saw fairies and gnomes and elves.  Small trolls and creepily large caterpillars.  Bowtruckles and clabberts and a flobberworm.  Pixies and imps too.  And foxes and badgers and capercaillies - all sorts of creatures.  Even a centaur and (I think!) an acromantula, although at some distance both.  I was probably wrong.  I was waiting for very long periods of time. 

Sat in my shelter, the most girly, flower-covered tent I could find (wearing a mac to match) and doing my best to blend in, I felt like an ornithologist on a nature reserve waiting for the rarest and most beautiful of birds - The Bird.  One all seek but rarely see.  Like, I dunno, a phoenix or something.  A bizarre way to put it, I know, but over the months of waiting that’s how I began to think: as if unicorns didn’t even exist and I was just wasting my time horribly. 

Once started, though, I knew I had to finish - to keep trying new sites, going deeper into the forest and trying every clearing and dense patch alike, crossing off each square on my map until I was able to circle one.

Then the day came.  A clearing like no other - full of snowdrops and daisies and dandelions.  A circular breeze stirring the air and filling it with the latter’s seeds.  A certain sweetness in the air, dew still fresh on the flowers and few tufts of grass springing up between them.  The sun lighting the scene and brightening its colours, it was a warm and sunny summer’s day. 

All the better (a day) for seeing a unicorn for the first time.

Wednesday 20 February 2013

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (2) Getting Started, Part Two: The Forest

The search took a long time. I visited a lot of prospective forests and inspected their every element for what I thought I was looking for.  Yes, it took a while but I managed to find an appropriate forest - the oldest, creepiest, most mysterious in the county. 

All the trees were behemoths with great old trunks metres wide and spotted with lichen.  Enormous roots appeared at the surface for seating.  It reminded me of that abandoned city in Thailand, or is it Cambodia?, in places.

The thick, long boughs of the trees reached out to one another entwining to create a natural roof that shaded the forest floor almost completely.  Yet it was like a tapestry.  Grasses and flowers of all types and colours littered almost all space available to them despite the light only reaching the ground in spots - rays shooting through the canopy here and there like spotlights, creating clearings amazingly clear when sunny, but murky and misty in the rain.

And the feeling there.  Like anything was possible.  Actually anything.  As if you had downed a portion of Felix Felicis.  A sort of euphoria and spookiness drifted over you.  I was happy and excited to be there but also anxious; wary; apprehensive.  A strange place indeed.  Just the sort of place I knew I would find what I was looking for.

Tuesday 19 February 2013

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn: (1) Getting Started, Part One: Ideas

Brainstorming was where it all started.  (Once the decision had been made to go ahead, naturally).  Intense brainstorming; listing the ways I could capture the unicorn, most of which I was forced to use.

I watched Roadrunner cartoons religiously for practical ideas (the plans that might work in the real world and wouldn‘t cause instant death).  I read Danny the Champion of the World and looked into the world of myths and legends too, really did my research: honing ideas from everywhere to meet my needs.  

I went on the internet, asked the opinion of self-professed “experts.”  “Twerps,“ I call them.  As if a unicorn would go for ice cream or that a small child would help.  Some people forget these are wild creatures.  Magical, mayhap, but wild all the same.

Mainly, though, I just sat and thought..  Came up with all the ideas I could dream up.  Even went down into the garage to see what I already had out there that might be useful, allowing different objects to set my mind on fire, letting it run and run.

Once the initial list was formulated I went to a great big hardware store, among other shops, to stock up on ropes and nails and wood and tools and all sorts of the things I would need for the task (and trials) ahead.  And oats.  Lots of oats, of course.  Oooh, and I bought a Transit that would become my centre of operations - converting parts of it into a store - and possible cage - converting the rest into a Unicorn box.

All that was left was the setting.

Sunday 17 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (6): Aphrodite tempts Paris

I know what you want, you man of earth, of blood that rushes down and wants one thing.

And it is not land, useless land, full of people to rule. That is for your father, and after him
your brother and then his sons; but not you.

And it is not war. To fight, that is the lot of your brother also; and of the war pigs of this
land.

Hera and Athena know not what is at your heart, what you yearn for all day while you tend
the sheep in these fields.

You want that apple you hold made flesh, doubled and mounted. And somewhat larger
too, I would wager.

You want long, flowing, soft hair and smooth legs just as soft, and, in between, the sort of
wool that you would rather lay with and spend your days- that is the sort of field you would
like to plough and the sort of country you would like to rule.

Close your eyes and you will see Helen, the most beautiful mortal woman in the world.
Pick me and you shall have her, I can assure you of that. Even though she is married I
assure you that she will be yours, my boy.

Just pick me, Paris, and you can live out your fantasies.

Just pick me, she will be yours and you can live out your dreams.

Saturday 16 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (5): Venus, catalyst to The Chaos

When the First World was new, the people populating the place had found it almost
completely formed about them. They were begat into privilege, servants bending to their
every whim. But they still had many decisions to make, still much among them to form and
create. In time their society came together- they elected leaders, discovered immortality,
the wizards came into being…

And they also formed couples. Venus became heavily involved in these processes of love
as the matchmaker of the First World. In this role she brought together all the couples she
could, including introducing her twin sister, Mother, to the man, Moon. After many years
of this, her successes saw the sadness in Venus’s eyes and encouraged her to find a man
for herself. In doing so Venus made the worst choice of all.

The man Venus married was cruel and calculating, caring only for her beauty and using
her only for his own gratification. His real love was for power and finding a way of getting
it. In doing so he would use Venus one last time.

As time wore on Venus grew unhappy in her own coupling while becoming jealous of what
she had given to her sister. A mad bubbling began at her central core which expanded
outward, getting ever closer to her skin until it eventually found the surface turning Venus
from a woman who cared for the love and happiness of others and sought to nurture it,
revel in it even, to one who sought to steal it for herself. To take back the gifts she had
given for herself.

And that is when her husband, the monster who now resides below, stepped forward and
used Venus in the plan that would separate Mother from Moon and destroy the world they
presided over. Later, however, she would gain her chance to give something back.

Friday 15 February 2013

A story from within the non-stationary cupboard

The girl with tired eyes, Abbasa to her friends, had a not-so-secret-here secret: a non-stationary cupboard that could transport twice a day (midnight and 6AM) to a different place each night, having been fixed that way as a gift from The (Wizard’s) Authority after her assistance in bringing to justice the nasty wizard who had turned Abbasa into a rabbit and refused to tell her why and what.

Not wanting to miss a location, Abbasa journeyed every night. This is one such episode. 

One in which she stepped out into a forest. Having by now got used to magic, Abbasa knew in an instant that this place dripped with it, and she smiled that special smile that she only beamed when alone beyond and through her bedroom cupboard.

Always Abbasa seemed to be randomly sent somewhere she was required in some way. After strolling for an hour through the moonlit forest she found the exact location.

On this occasion a Forest Puffin, with feathers of deep greens and browns, its beak featuring a
pattern making it look like a pine cone in all but texture and shape, called down from an evergreen tree, “Can you help with my homework?” Not the most exciting tale, perhaps, but not all are.

Each of the pair learned a lot about nature that night, though, and Abbasa was able to add to her collection of souvenirs with one that would later lead her to her love and to her own destiny.


Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2012.

Thursday 14 February 2013

250 Words: Admission

Suddenly unafraid, I drew myself up a little and leaned forward, stretched out my arms, pushed aside the empty bowl that had contained our dessert and laid my hands, palm up, on the table in front of her.  If you only looked at the hands you would have expected that they were there to be taken, that they were being offered.  My body suggested otherwise, though, as I was far too tense for that.  Maybe I was just less afraid, knowing that I had to make this admission.

Looking into her face I said, "Look at my hands.  The empty, soft and barren palms, the little fingers growing out of them.  Too warm or too cold, I am not sure.  But I know these are not a man's hands.  They aren't worn, haven't seen a thing."  I lowered my head to see them myself, shaking it slightly in shame and conceded, "I have nothing whatsoever to offer you."

I told her, showed her even, because she had a right to know before we continued.

And then her eyes left my face and she looked down too.  Took in the empty valleys unable to support rivers and she saw something else.  The Loire or something, I don't know.  And she smiled, overfilled my hands with hers, brought her eyes up to meet mine and told me that it did not matter, I had plenty to offer her.  "Your hands aren't empty and I don't think they will be for some time."

Wednesday 13 February 2013

Monologue of the abandoned castle (no longer strategic)

I used to stand proudly on two frontiers, my insides gently warmed and tickled by the presence  of people or the boats that could sail right inside me. I used to be important enough for kingly visits, for battles and sieges, for tournaments and festivals.

Now I stand miles behind a fortified wall and the sea long since left me with the silt that blocked my harbour up and retreated beyond the horizon. Now I am visited only by bleating sheep, mocking me further by entering unopposed and wearing crowns of hay.

Once I heard air vibrated by music and voices and the sea: a constant relaxing ebbing, nudging gently at my feet. Now just silence and wind except for the infernal bleating (I am sure the gulls once annoyed me just as much, but now their memory seems only sweet).

And I used to stand proud- did I say that already? My mind’s not as it was- and in a form complete, the way it should be. Each year new parts were planned or built; I was an ever  hanging masterpiece.

And now walls that could repel cannon balls are undermined by roots and pushed through by vines and branches great and small. Each year more of me falls away- the only constant is I’m ever changing.


Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2012.

Tuesday 12 February 2013

250 Words: The two queues

Covered in bloodstains, sand and sweat we left the frontline very weary and dreading the long journey back east to Egypt.  Thankfully, we had a welcome rest in Tripoli first.  Where a very memorable event occurred.

In the centre of the city I was somewhat surprised to see a branch of Barclay's Bank.  A most unexpected mark of home.  Locals taking selling egg and chips I was used to but the blue eagle was a first.

Outside it formed a queue of troops clearly eager to take advantage and withdraw some money with which to have some fun.  And Lord did they deserve it!  Stranded beyond that anti-tank ditch I think we all felt it could have been over for us.  Many others we saw get put in the bag or shot down- some even ground into the sand under tank tracks.  But all that was behind us and we were back in a respite situation, free to relax.

I couldn't help noticing, though, a curious expression on the faces of the men outside the bank.  And the way they were shuffling about from foot to foot impatiently like children outside a sweet shop.  All were nervous and excited; none wore the expression of men who were soon to drink.  I didn't need to ponder the reason why for long as many of them kept glancing furtively across the road where a second queue led each man to the brothel area and the embrace of something unavailable in the frontline.

Monday 11 February 2013

Lairs, cells and memories

Comfortable as a rug or a blanket, lined in fur to lean against, or on, and snuggle; or
run your fingers through like a lover’s hair or a shaggy dog. A perfect spiral or circle
held in your hand- an arch, your hand underneath feeling skin. All kisses.

A space to dream in, to stare and see, not what is in front of you but pictures
imagined or remembered. Coloured spheres storing everything to snatch from the air
and view.

:A cottage near the beach, a walk through the hills or lakes- a swim in cool waters,
the first bite of a crisp apple, cries of joy.

:A warren, a set, a nest.

:Her room, his room, their bed. A car, a park-

slides,

swings,

roundabouts.

Cold and impenetrable, high above cliffs: a fortress, a castle foreboding, unfeeling,
unobtainable, visible, untouchable. There but not there, a mirage- a museum
of yourself locked in cases or fenced off behind doors. Locked doors, traps set.
Pictures on bubbles that will erase with the burst. Discomfort, entrapment, tears,
pain, fear. Alive but dead. Imagined. Ink or graphite on a page, pixels on a screen.
Lying still not daring to move because of War of the Worlds. Scared within a duvet,
gasping for breath. Laid bare: people laughing. Waiting forever. Never trying. Self-
imposed. Scratching.

Vital. Every one.
All and both.

Every inch,
Every cell, fibre.

“They got a skin and they put me in it”

“I need my memories. They are my documents.”

“They got a skin and they put me in it”

“I need my memories. They are my documents.”

Sunday 10 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (4): Odin’s Raven Magic

He sits on his throne in Asgard eagerly awaiting their arrival and the knowledge they will
bring of thought and memory throughout the nine worlds. The old man is tired from the
wild hunt but remains alert for the day’s news, is kept alert by the evening breeze that
brushes his face and by the never ceasing awe he feels for the view gained from his
perch.

They start as dots on the horizon and develop slowly into the two beautiful black birds they
are. The brothers Huginn and Munnin arrive home in the red light of the sunset, perch on
the mighty shoulders of Odin and whisper all the information they have gathered that day.

He thanks them when they are done, takes seed from his pocket and lets the ravens take
their much needed reward as he ruminates on what he has learned, glancing around and
looking toward the areas from where the news has come.

But, as ever, his inner gaze returns to Mimir’s well and the knowledge he gained there.
His one eye weeps at the thought of Ragnarok, the end. And how, though his son would
return to rule the new world, they were to miss one another as Odin’s world and time
passed.

Odin’s famous rage builds at the thought and he shoos his magic ravens away before
storming down to his armoury and kitting out for another night of wild and violent hunting,
thundering through the sky to try and escape his own knowledge of the fate that will befall
him.

Saturday 9 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (3): Mercury, the first champion of the New World

Mercury was born during The Chaos that existed between the destruction of the First
World and the formation of This World. As a child he was therefore one of The First, that
group of people who were the first to populate This World.

As a child Mercury watched The First come together and organise their new home with the
help of Jupiter and some of The Six. He also watched, helpless, as he who would divide
reappeared and the first cracks began to appear.

By the time Mercury was fully grown the first bickering had occurred and turned slowly to
division before escalating all the way to war. For which the young man signed up.

As Mercury trained to join his kin on the battlefield, his training sergeant saw something in
him that was missing from his fellow recruits- a light, a glow, in his eyes that the sergeant
felt predicted a future that would never fully be separated from battle.

In the field Mercury was no shirker. He could always be found close to the heat of it,
moving fluidly and always proving his worth. And it was mostly under his influence that the
forces of Jupiter began to turn the tide of the First War. Hence he was crowned as This
World’s first champion, an honour created for him and one that made him fiercely proud.

Incredibly important was Mercury in every battle he fought; though, of course, it was the
actions of Mars that would win the war. A fact often cited as the reason Mercury later
disappeared- that he had snapped under the weight of his own pride and fled from all
people. Others suggested that he had grown tired of the work he had left the army for-
certainly, at that time, there wasn’t that much threat to convoys, after all. And not many
places for them to travel between, either.

His training sergeant, though. He always had suspicions created by that burning in
Mercury’s eyes. And if he’d lived to see Mercury return in another form he would have
seen himself proved correct.

Friday 8 February 2013

250 Words: Improv, aka Ramblings

Lamby the lamb lived by the sea but 100 metres above it in a beautiful green field that ended abruptly at the top of a white cliff.  The young lamb dreamed of getting her hooves wet on the beach far below the pastures it lived on, of running about in the surf and seeing if her woolly middle would help her float in deeper waters.  

Through long days and nights Lamby would dream of sailing out to sea on a raft, its mast flying a flag bearing the picture of a sheep.  Across the world Lamby would sail, meeting sheep in other lands and having adventures in ports and coves, fighting the pirate sheep dogs that longed to control the movement of the sheep herds but couldn’t because Lamby stood bravely in the way.

Alas, though, what can one little sheep do but plunge to her death in the attempt when there is no path from the field to the beach.  And so Lamby grew sad and old because there is no hope in life.  Year after year Lamby was given to the rams and gave birth to many young lambs who dreamed too of the beach below the field.  The closest they ever got was the chemical dip they were routinely forced into.  

Instead, like Lamby, they saw out their days becoming more and more weary each time their coat was roughly hewn.  Their eyes clouding until the inevitable finally occurred and they succumbed to the coldest of air.

Wednesday 6 February 2013

250 Words: Edited excerpt from My Experience of Corduroy Girl

I remember it like yesterday; can watch it on the back of my eyelids like a film.  After all, it’s not every day that an event (whether disaster, accident or evil interlude) occurs that brings you a superhero.  Because, in reality, superheroes do not confine themselves to a particular city or town.  Hence they are “super.”  Really, Superman is a bit lame to commit himself to Metropolis and Batman selfish to never leave Gotham.  These are but strong men, not super.

In actual fact, superheroes will go wherever they are called.  Will go to where the problem they are required to solve actually is.  And they will do this until such a time as they can retire and go back to a normal life.  

My superhero encounter, of course, took place during the time of the “Material Superheroes.”  For those who are too young, they came after the “Underwear Heroes” and before the “Eye Colour Super-People;” long before such abominations as the “Credit Card Wonders” and the bloody “Coffee Shop Kids.”  How the latter ever worked, exactly, I’ll never know.  

No, the “Material Superheroes” were the Real McCoy, the old sort of hero, before they began to seek fame and become all conceited and superior.  Then, as now, though, the origins of the superheroes was a mystery.  All that was known was that, when it was time for a new set of heroes to be chosen, they just appeared.  And that they are well looked after while they are superheroes.  

Tuesday 5 February 2013

250 Words: The Portobello Bragg

Have you not heard of the Portobello Bragg, pet?  Well, little one, first I must explain my shushed voice.  You must never speak too loudly of what is said in these parts to be a sprite from Norway, for we do not know precisely what it is.  It’s a mystery in these parts.  Oh, yes.  A mystery that stalks the Black Fells and plays its pranks in our town.

What we do know, though, is the mischief the devil causes here.  If your bread or meat is misplaced you can be sure the Bragg was to blame.  Just last week, Old Granny Bland's leg of ham disappeared from her kitchen.  And so she knew it were the Bragg in disguise, playing tricks on us Portobello folk.

And if you are ever travelling across those Fells at night, you should be wary of any donkeys that meet you on the paths.  An ass is a favourite form of the bragg.  Oh, yes.  Once aboard he will rock you to sleep and then have his fun, tossing you high into the air so that nettles will cushion your fall.

Mind you, the Bragg does have its uses.  If you are related to a witch, our Bragg won‘t mind you.  That's how we know the landlady of The Black Horse is a witch.  A mysterious donkey brought her husband safely home across the Fells and right to his door.  Oh yes, pet, you must beware of the Portobello Bragg: a mischievous beast, indeed.

Monday 4 February 2013

The Strawberry Thief and the Song Boy

“It was an ideal job for me, strawberry picking, as it allowed me to do most of what
I’d have spent the summer doing in my bedroom but with the added bonuses of pay,
exercise and sunshine. It also meant that I could enjoy the weather and not grow
fatter, so that, hopefully, I would not be completely ignored by the girls when I went
back to Uni.

“It was perfect- I could work while listening to music, then read graphic novels at
breaks and on the train. And it meant I could do these things in almost complete
isolation and not be bothered by my younger siblings or my meddling mother as I
would be if I were at home. In the field I was alone with whatever music I fancied
listening to. And this to me was absolute bliss.

“I wasn’t so keen on strawberries at the time. I’d never been especially bothered by
them growing up and had made the mistake of eating an entire can on my Duke of
Edinburgh before downing the juice and feeling very sick indeed. An episode that
had put me off them completely and meant I was in no danger of eating away at my
earnings before I was even given them.

“I got the job down to a fine art, working along each row, carefully removing the
strawberries and filling the punnets, my hands moving in time to whatever tune I was
listening to, speeding up and slowing down with the tempo, my hands always being
careful not to squeeze the berries too hard and squish them.

“I first noticed her while listening to Mogwai. It must have been during the build-up
because it was her singing that I noticed. I pressed pause but didn’t dare look up in
case she noticed and stopped. Instead I listened to her voice, not beautiful exactly,
nor perfect, but happy and assured, as it wandered across and filled my ears. She
was singing a repetitive tune that changed slightly each time and this intrigued me
enough that I removed my earphones in order to hear this impromptu concert all the
better.

“After a few minutes, however, she stopped. In my disappointment I couldn’t help
but look up and over at her.

“Before me was this really pretty girl that I’d somehow missed up until then. ‘Far too
pretty for me,’ was my first thought. There were, after all, more attractive (and more
confident) guys on the farm, who’d been going around without tops on. I figured they
would have more chance with her. Certainly they were more likely to talk to her.

“She had short red hair framing her face that had gone pink in the sun. And she was
wearing a top that was cream and decorated with brown v-shaped speckles- a song
bird, for sure.

“She was also wearing a cheeky smile. No doubt at the thought of what she was
about to do as it was replaced by the smug look of a cat slurping away at its cream
once she had picked a strawberry and placed it on her tongue. Her eyes became
wide as she chewed it slowly while placing a few more strawberries in her punnet.
Then she closed her eyes, a smile spreading across her face as she swallowed.

“Well I was hooked. My usually high productivity ceased altogether as I watched this
beautiful thief stealing (from herself partly) as she earned, grinning as she did so.

“Gradually I started to pick again, my head bobbing up and down watching her eat
one or two more strawberries, a faraway dreamy look appearing on her face.

“I was taking no care at all with my picking now, missing lots of strawberries
altogether and bruising many of those I did pick, my grip becoming careless and
heavy.

“My professionalism and my summer plans fell apart as I stared shamelessly at this
beguiling young woman while hoping that I might turn into a strawberry in her path
and be lucky enough to feel her touch, teeth and tongue against my body. I was
desperate to be consumed by her. The thought itself consumed me as I zoned out
completely and entered a dream involving her that was soon shattered when she
spoke to me.”


*

“It was the perfect summer job for me. I could lose myself in a field and indulge my
love of strawberries.

“I still remember my first one. I was about three or four and we were at my
grandparents' house for the day. While exploring their cottage I entered the kitchen
where my grandmother was preparing some strawberry involving dessert, I can’t
remember which. What I can remember is my inquisitive podgy little toddler face
looking up as my grandmother said, 'Cook’s perks,' and her hand came down from
on high and fed me my first round red ruby.

“The taste was amazing- the first sweet thing I can remember eating. And it was
naughty- a snack like this before dinner was forbidden and the two things combined
made me a fan for life. So much so I later started to dye my hair the same colour.

“I’d already seen him; we had all seen him sat on his own at breaks reading comics,
listening to his music while working, never looking up. It was like he thought he was
the only person on the farm. Mind you, I don’t suppose I was much different while
working- generally on my own soaking in weather and the surroundings, singing to
myself and popping the occasional berry in my mouth that would take me back to
stealing from punnets in the fridge over the years.

“Anyway, I’d seen this strange guy about the farm keeping himself to himself and
thought nothing more about him. I was initially more interested in these some of the
other guys who were working there. They were rather attractive but a bit loud and I
didn’t like the way they leered at me and the other girls, so I left them for other girls
to chase.

“Then one day I noticed that the quiet guy was picking opposite me and working with
ruthless efficiency as he listened to his music, filling his punnets with the crop while
resisting the lot! ‘Very strange indeed,’ I thought, before carrying on and forgetting he
was even there.

“Until, as I was singing to myself to pass the time, I spotted him removing his
earphones and hanging them over the collar of his blue and green striped t-shirt. I
didn’t dare look up at him or falter in my song in case he was doing what I thought he
might be and was listening in, as absurd as it seemed. Certainly he wasn’t looking at
me, probably his battries had died, I thought and carried on a little, singing the tune
I’d been making up as I went along and was repeating as I ran out of ideas, probably
a bit differently each time because I can’t sing.

“Thinking he must be getting bored if he was listening and becoming a bit self-
conscious because from the glance or two I took it looked like he was, the usual look
of musical concentration being present on his face, I stopped singing thinking he
would go back to his music.

“But he didn’t. He began watching me instead. At first I quite liked it- I mean, it’s
always nice for someone to notice you. And it was especially nice to be getting the
attention of a guy who never seemed to notice anyone at all; ever. Plus I didn’t think
he was bad looking or anything so I smiled a happy little smile at the situation while
enjoying one of the farm’s supreme strawberries.

“Then he kept on watching, his expression changing until he started to resemble a
salivating dog- his mouth open and his tongue almost hanging out! He looked like a
dopey idiot- a moron, actually, if I’m honest.

“Before too long it felt like he was boring two holes through my head and he was
making me feel the same way those other lads had- like I was a cheap commodity
that he was simply picturing naked and that that was all he cared for. And I’d been
hoping he was better than that.

“Quickly it got to a point where I had to say something.”


*

“Can I help you with anything?” Jane asked in her best stern lady voice.

Bill was taken aback, thinking, as so many guys had before while girl-watching, that
she had not seen what he was doing. Somewhere within his head Bill decided to
just deflect attention to her wrong-doing and asked, “Wouldn’t you rather have those
with cream?” while gesturing to a strawberry she had picked but not placed in a
punnet or her mouth.

And then he winked. A very quick wink, hardly noticeable in fact. He wasn’t sure
why and he would have started to panic but the deflection seemed to be working
as she was answering his question, even if her voice was still a bit curt, “I’m not
bothered. It’s enough of a treat to be eating them straight off the plant. And,
anyway, I like them with nothing on. No cream or sugar required, thank you.”

Then silence. Neither were sure what to do or say. The still summer day
surrounded them and seemed to suffocate where, shortly before, it had breathed life
into them both. Individually their minds raced, desperately seeking for something to

say.

Bill hoped Jane wouldn’t remember why she had initially spoken. But now that she
had conversed with this mysterious boy, however, (and about her great love too)
she wasn’t so bothered and would have been happy to chat if he would just say
something. Anything goddamnit. Maybe he hadn’t been worth knowing all along,
maybe he was just as vacant as the other lads working on the farm.

“Yes- they are rather good aren’t they?” Bill lied and he took a large strawberry in his
fingers, removed the stem and popped the entire thing in his mouth.

Jane perked up at this- “Yes! Sooo much better than the tasteless crap they
sell through the winter- this is where it’s at,” she said, gesturing around, “This is
strawberry heaven!”

“Hmmm,” he nodded in agreement, this strawberry tasting better than any he had
previously eaten, the juices pleasantly filling his mouth, surrounding his tongue and
coating it in flavour. Bill swallowed and wondered why he hadn’t been doing this all
along.

“Like summer concentrated into fruit,” he added, unsure quite where that had come
from before seeing her smile and becoming pleased that some sort of inner instinct
had taken over.

“It is! That’s what strawberries are precisely. They are summer, they encapsulate
the season, they’re the perfect accompaniment to a summer’s day, the way nature
intended, a gift from Mother Nature herself,” she rambled very quickly, jumping from
thought to thought while becoming more and more excitable.

And louder too. A distant supervisor yelled at them to get back to work and the pair,
looking a little sheepish, did so, occasionally glancing up at one another as they went
about the work that had unexpectedly brought them together, smiling in unison when
they did so.


*

“It was Bill that started it. I thought he might go back to his music but he began to
hum a song that was in the charts at the time. Which surprised me as he seemed
like someone who would take no notice of the charts and popular music.”

“I’m not sure exactly where I’d heard it- probably an advert. I certainly didn’t know
who it was by. The tune just popped into my head and I started to hum it. She
smiled her lovely broad smile and joined in.”

“I did. And we whiled away the afternoon singing different pop tunes together as we
picked strawberries, treating ourselves to one every so often.”

“Then we chatted on the way home and got to know each other a bit, didn’t we?”

“Yes. And that was the start of our first summer together.”

Sunday 3 February 2013

Myths of our Solar System (2): Another boring day and lousy night in the life of Ra

At the entrance to the world, in the far east, Ra appears and is glad that it is day again.
“At least the day is easy-going,” he thinks and enjoys his favourite part: bathing in the
cool dawn waters of the Red Sea. Afterwards, he eats his fill of seed and worms, the only
things his falcon mouth can process. Once full, he is ready for all that is to come.

Then he returns once more to his grand boat, prepared for another day’s work by the
priests of the east, and Ra sets sail for another day’s speedy administration. He devotes
one twelfth of the day to each of the twelve provinces- quickly flying over checking and
sorting, checking and sorting.

And it’s all so boring, the same routine paperwork to fill in and pass on to the relevant local
authorities. Anything exciting that is occurring gets dealt with by other Gods- those with
more time on their hands. All Ra gets is the bureaucracy - the least taxing part, allowing
him to keep as fresh as possible for the hell that forms each night. Yet it is also absorbing
enough to keep his mind off that hell, keeping him from getting too depressed and killing
himself. As are and do the views he gets of Egypt. These he never tires of. They seem to
make it all worthwhile.

At the end of each day, Ra lands in the far west and is attended to by his priests there.
Each day they make a new suit of armour and new weapons, fitting Ra out with these
before he draws a deep breath from the cold dusk air and enters the underworld once
more.

And then battle to return to the east begins afresh. A long and weary battle against the
forces of Apep that Ra has to come through alive each night for the next day to begin and
for the world to continue.

He fights hard every night against many thousands of opponents, felling all with his mighty
swords, hacking limbs, slicing throats, stabbing chests and running through thoraxes until
ankle deep in blood. Until he loses his swords and has to use a mix of stolen weapons
and bare hands.

On and on Ra has to force his way until he almost becomes too weary to continue- at
which point the exit will come into view and, renewed, Ra fights on until he feels the
dawn’s breeze against his face as he passes through to the start of the next day, relieved
to have made it once more.

Then and only then can he remove his bust-up armour and relax again, safe in the cooling
waters of the Red Sea, his wounds and aching muscles healed by it, allowing him to face
another boring day and lousy night.