He moved to the Placid Plateau after the war and spent his days looking down and out. Always watching, he'd had enough of taking part.
Friday 28 February 2014
Wednesday 26 February 2014
250 Words: The women in the gallery
The mermaid sat on the beach singing and combing her hair with a melancholy smile. She watched fishermen bring home the catch, tears rolling down her cheeks in the knowledge she could not ever belong.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
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Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
.jpg){kind=link}
And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
Note: As with the last 250 Words, this was inspired by an exhibition of John William Waterhouse paintings at the Royal Academy - in this case, I have linked to the paintings in question within the text itself (though I may not have remembered correctly throughout). It was very hot and overcrowded in the gallery that day, hence the last line.
Monday 24 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 11
"You've never been on a Levitating Lateral Lift!?!" she exclaimed. "Well, no," replied Abbasa, "I'm only 8. I normally walk or get driven."
Saturday 22 February 2014
250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 6
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds sat at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and saw the beauty he’d loved since childhood: the fine softness of the feathers, and the colours and patterns. The elegant, wise look in the beads of eyes. Owls were his favourites, he especially loved to stick his finger into the feathers around the head, marvelling at how far it would go in. That never ceased to amaze him.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand but this was all he did. He would marvel as Rome fell, all the while his wonder mirrored in the faces of his courtiers and senators as they nodded along with all he did, seeing only what was before them as Honorius saw only the wonder of birds. No one would see the savages coming. Rome had become insular and forgotten itself entirely.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and cooed to them. If only he could fly himself, all the way to Greece, Egypt, Spain, Judaea and beyond. That would be amazing. If only his skin were feathers, his bones hollow, if only he knew those secrets of flight that his pets knew. And that of song! To sing, to understand the song. How marvellous it would be. The courtiers agreed. Truly great.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and soon wished he could fly when the Viscigoths arrived.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand but this was all he did. He would marvel as Rome fell, all the while his wonder mirrored in the faces of his courtiers and senators as they nodded along with all he did, seeing only what was before them as Honorius saw only the wonder of birds. No one would see the savages coming. Rome had become insular and forgotten itself entirely.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and cooed to them. If only he could fly himself, all the way to Greece, Egypt, Spain, Judaea and beyond. That would be amazing. If only his skin were feathers, his bones hollow, if only he knew those secrets of flight that his pets knew. And that of song! To sing, to understand the song. How marvellous it would be. The courtiers agreed. Truly great.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and soon wished he could fly when the Viscigoths arrived.
Note: As with the next 250 Words, this was inspired by a John William Waterhouse painting, in this case The Favourites of Emperor Honorius, which I saw at an exhibition at the Royal Academy.
Thursday 20 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 10
He had always been loathe to get emotional at the end of films but throw in a stirring soundtrack made up of a beloved song and he was gone.
Note: Again, my next Tweets gave more information about this:
Last tweet again based on true story. However I have no problem with getting emotional at things. In actual fact I have no choice. :'(
— James Atkinson (@JamesAtkinson81) November 18, 2011
Film: 127 Hours; Song: Festival by Sigur Rós (2nd, stirring, "half").
— James Atkinson (@JamesAtkinson81) November 18, 2011
Tuesday 18 February 2014
250 Words: Historical romance story attempt #2
The artist looked beyond the sketchbook to his model determined to continue with his work. But it was hard. Her beauty, not to mention her nakedness, was somewhat distracting. He was determined, though, to remain professional and ploughed on despite the sweat that was starting to break out on his forehead.
At least she was still, whilst she remained still he could pretend she was merely a picture he was copying, like when a student in London’s art galleries. But then she bit her lip briefly and swallowed and he took in her beautiful neck. He tried to go back to his sketch but found that part complete. Then he heard her breathing and saw her bosom rising and falling, rising and falling and it became too much.
He rose abruptly, startling her. Seeing this he apologised and explained himself and apologised again. “It is no matter,” she said, “I have been thinking a lot while in this pose. Indeed, I have had quite a lot of time to do so in the last few days. And I think of the talks we’ve had before and after my sits and how sweet you are and how desperately I want you between my legs. So why don’t you put your clothes with mine and get over here.”
And so the partnership between artist and muse became sexual and began to flourish from its innocent beginnings of an artist selecting a beautiful model toward a passionate relationship that inspired scores of artworks.
At least she was still, whilst she remained still he could pretend she was merely a picture he was copying, like when a student in London’s art galleries. But then she bit her lip briefly and swallowed and he took in her beautiful neck. He tried to go back to his sketch but found that part complete. Then he heard her breathing and saw her bosom rising and falling, rising and falling and it became too much.
He rose abruptly, startling her. Seeing this he apologised and explained himself and apologised again. “It is no matter,” she said, “I have been thinking a lot while in this pose. Indeed, I have had quite a lot of time to do so in the last few days. And I think of the talks we’ve had before and after my sits and how sweet you are and how desperately I want you between my legs. So why don’t you put your clothes with mine and get over here.”
And so the partnership between artist and muse became sexual and began to flourish from its innocent beginnings of an artist selecting a beautiful model toward a passionate relationship that inspired scores of artworks.
Sunday 16 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 9
The paint on the ground at the park's entrance read, "DOGS". I could see people beyond but; signs are rules we must obey so I walked away.
Note: My next Tweet read: "Last tweet based on a true story. Well: the sign exists but I saw it on the way out of the park (read square/gardens) so it didn't happen." Helpful, I know. It happened in Northampton Square, London.
Friday 14 February 2014
250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 5
Terence walked down the road wondering about the weirdness of the day that had just passed.
He’d woken as normal at 6.52 but, abnormally, a white rabbit sat at the end of his bed and spoke to him. “Don’t follow me to wonderland but see the fat man at Dreamland before lunch.”
So Terence went to Dreamland as it was his day off and he had nothing else to do. A fat man manning a hot dog stall greeted him like an old friend and gave Terence a ticket for the Scenic Railway. “A very special ticket indeed,” he announced.
So Terence rode the railway and as the car went down one of the dips he was transported to another world, one beyond Margate, where, like in Oz, everyone wore coloured specs to distort reality, but here it was blue because that was the despotic king’s favourite colour.
Soon after arrival Terence was arrested as an illegal immigrant and jailed. The white rabbit, now blue, told him he must kill the king at his trial. Which Terence obviously did because by now he was so bewildered by everything that it made sense to kill.
So a death sentence was passed, “The only way back,” whispered his fat, familiar, executioner and, as the axe passed through his neck, Terence saw the world of blue change to the multicolour of the street he lived on.
So Terence walked down the road wondering about the weirdness of the day that had just passed.
He’d woken as normal at 6.52 but, abnormally, a white rabbit sat at the end of his bed and spoke to him. “Don’t follow me to wonderland but see the fat man at Dreamland before lunch.”
So Terence went to Dreamland as it was his day off and he had nothing else to do. A fat man manning a hot dog stall greeted him like an old friend and gave Terence a ticket for the Scenic Railway. “A very special ticket indeed,” he announced.
So Terence rode the railway and as the car went down one of the dips he was transported to another world, one beyond Margate, where, like in Oz, everyone wore coloured specs to distort reality, but here it was blue because that was the despotic king’s favourite colour.
Soon after arrival Terence was arrested as an illegal immigrant and jailed. The white rabbit, now blue, told him he must kill the king at his trial. Which Terence obviously did because by now he was so bewildered by everything that it made sense to kill.
So a death sentence was passed, “The only way back,” whispered his fat, familiar, executioner and, as the axe passed through his neck, Terence saw the world of blue change to the multicolour of the street he lived on.
So Terence walked down the road wondering about the weirdness of the day that had just passed.
Wednesday 12 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 8
Rabbie the Robot doesn't just tell you the time. He also tells tales and amusing anecdotes. In your imagination.
Monday 10 February 2014
250 Words: Tales from the City: Blood donor
Don’t ask me how I knew. I’ve no idea- guess the knowledge was just there. Maybe because I’d never been ill. Maybe I was born with a God complex. Maybe it was just a childish notion because I could do nothing else.
It was my cousin I first saved. She was ill, terminally, with leukaemia and, somehow I knew my blood could save her (even though my marrow had failed). And so I learned what to do on the ‘net, stole a syringe and donated my blood.
Since then I’ve become more obsessed with this power, first donating like a normal to help randoms before slowly escalating to my final state (via a doomed period as a nurse)- a pro beggar and a prowler, finding my way into hospitals at night and spending my time healing all sicknesses present.
I lived on the streets to keep from the law, sleeping and earning in the day, my face becoming that of a down and out, a nothing. Soon no one knew me and I couldn’t be found.
Not that the authorities cared. They knew what I was doing all along but never sought me out. Unlike some of the others, I never appeared in the papers.
And so, known as the Angel of Life, I continued to stalk the hospitals of the country, occasionally returning to cities to cleanse anew. But always in the back of my mind frustrated I could not go further. That is until the government intercepted me.
It was my cousin I first saved. She was ill, terminally, with leukaemia and, somehow I knew my blood could save her (even though my marrow had failed). And so I learned what to do on the ‘net, stole a syringe and donated my blood.
Since then I’ve become more obsessed with this power, first donating like a normal to help randoms before slowly escalating to my final state (via a doomed period as a nurse)- a pro beggar and a prowler, finding my way into hospitals at night and spending my time healing all sicknesses present.
I lived on the streets to keep from the law, sleeping and earning in the day, my face becoming that of a down and out, a nothing. Soon no one knew me and I couldn’t be found.
Not that the authorities cared. They knew what I was doing all along but never sought me out. Unlike some of the others, I never appeared in the papers.
And so, known as the Angel of Life, I continued to stalk the hospitals of the country, occasionally returning to cities to cleanse anew. But always in the back of my mind frustrated I could not go further. That is until the government intercepted me.
Saturday 8 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 7
The Headmaster could plainly see the guilt on the faces before him but couldn't help but respect this lot. They were really very clever.
Thursday 6 February 2014
250 Words: Tikkun olam
“Lend us a hand, friend, as we pick through this rubble here. As we find the pieces so we can put them in some semblance of order so as we might fix them together again.
“What happened? Time, friend. And man. Or his actions over time I should say. Not nature this catastrophe but minds and hands that think and thump and lead us here to this scene. This world in pieces.
“How can we reassemble it? Well that, friend, is the question. That is the heart of the problem. That is why we are here, why we do what we do. Because we don’t know how, our ideas so far have not given fruit, or nothing that doesn’t soon rot anew. Onward ever the struggle!”
“Perhaps you are looking at the problem from the wrong angle, mate. Perhaps it is not these pieces that are broken- not the world physically- perhaps it is the people you need to look at. Maybe that’s what it all means.
“I mean, mate, you say man did this yet you are here with the pieces, at the end product rather than at the root. Perhaps that’s your problem. You’re looking only at a fraction of the picture rather than the whole piece. Or the whole gallery of pieces, perhaps.
“Maybe you need to unite all of the peoples, like the UN but better, rather than focussing on this community that only beats itself up. Or something along those lines. Something with more scope.”
“What happened? Time, friend. And man. Or his actions over time I should say. Not nature this catastrophe but minds and hands that think and thump and lead us here to this scene. This world in pieces.
“How can we reassemble it? Well that, friend, is the question. That is the heart of the problem. That is why we are here, why we do what we do. Because we don’t know how, our ideas so far have not given fruit, or nothing that doesn’t soon rot anew. Onward ever the struggle!”
“Perhaps you are looking at the problem from the wrong angle, mate. Perhaps it is not these pieces that are broken- not the world physically- perhaps it is the people you need to look at. Maybe that’s what it all means.
“I mean, mate, you say man did this yet you are here with the pieces, at the end product rather than at the root. Perhaps that’s your problem. You’re looking only at a fraction of the picture rather than the whole piece. Or the whole gallery of pieces, perhaps.
“Maybe you need to unite all of the peoples, like the UN but better, rather than focussing on this community that only beats itself up. Or something along those lines. Something with more scope.”
Note: I wrote this after watching the film, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist during which Norah talks about the Hebrew phrase, Tikkun olam, meaning "repairing the world."
Tuesday 4 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 6
The Burning of the Collection had a valuable cathartic effect. The more painful memory balls could start to be archived, a fresh start made.
Sunday 2 February 2014
250 Words: Moth on the underground
The guiding lights are awfully confusing tonight; so long and thin and quite impossible to navigate by. I keep going wrong, swooping here and there and flying forward and back like a demented thing (not unlike some of the humans I can see). And it got suddenly so bright and then so stuffy after the cool breeze I’d felt before this shining area appeared before me and I was so sure this would be the way. Now its too much like day for my liking, I feel like I should be finding a spot to nod off but my body clock says otherwise. It’s all too confusing tonight, too much for one little moth.
*
Hey there little fella, how’d you get so far underground? Work your way from light to light along the tunnels, did ya? Dazzled and perplexed into the carriage, huh? You chaps are funny things, continually flying into lights like they’re food or you’re besotted or something. And you look funny, too- furry, ugly-beautiful creatures of the night. Mad as hatters you are. And bloody annoying buggers come bedtime.
*
The moth that had boarded at East Finchley found cool air once more at Morden but got confused further by the lights of south London. “It’s just one headache after another,” he thought as he flew around and around each light, never quite knowing where he was. “Oh dear, if only I lived in the country like my cousin,” he sighed as flew up toward another streetlamp’s light.
*
Hey there little fella, how’d you get so far underground? Work your way from light to light along the tunnels, did ya? Dazzled and perplexed into the carriage, huh? You chaps are funny things, continually flying into lights like they’re food or you’re besotted or something. And you look funny, too- furry, ugly-beautiful creatures of the night. Mad as hatters you are. And bloody annoying buggers come bedtime.
*
The moth that had boarded at East Finchley found cool air once more at Morden but got confused further by the lights of south London. “It’s just one headache after another,” he thought as he flew around and around each light, never quite knowing where he was. “Oh dear, if only I lived in the country like my cousin,” he sighed as flew up toward another streetlamp’s light.
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