250 Words: Sleep tonight

Lay down, my child, in your tiny bed and sleep soundly tonight.  Take your favourite bear under your arm, hold him close, close your tired eyes and drift sweetly away to dance the sandman’s dance in the Kingdom of Nod.

And sleep easily tonight.  Dream not of ghouls and beastly things.  I will pray for protection to surround that delicate head of yours, for angels to keep the dark at bay, to keep you from fearing the darkest corners of your room.  The corners where there is nothing to fear, sweetheart; nothing.  It is only your mind playing tricks that tells you so and in time you will learn to tame it.

Sleep well tonight.  Fall deep from this world, rest up for tomorrow, a big day.  Let the night take the bags of tiredness away from you and replace them with energy renewed; let the night refresh your soul and return you to us as a sprightly infant ready for school.

Sleep happily tonight, dream of your happiest place, adventure with your toys in the magical realm beneath your sheets and beyond the end of your bed where you rule as only a child can.  Awake with memories and stories to share.

And if you should not, run to us and shelter in our arms and our warmth.  Let us protect you from harm, together we can chase the demons away.  Far away we shall send them and return you to that happy dream.

Goodnight.  Sleep tight.  Sweet dreams.

250 Words: Book immersion

I get lost continuously in the worlds created in my mind by the shapes made by ink on paper.  Like Alice crawling down the rabbit hole I enter wonderland after wonderland immersing myself wholly in these strange new worlds.

Even when I have marked and closed the books, my brain carries on, pretending I’m doing something like wandering around a misty moor dressed like it’s more than a hundred years ago or walking the streets of Victorian London dodging pickpockets and shady characters.

I go too far, though, the emotional cost draining me entirely so that it is some time before I can carry on to another book and put myself through the mill again, the issues rolling through my mind and not letting me get on with my own life as I worry about the characters and what will happen to them next.  I even changed my name to Jane hoping Mr Rochester would come to call.

Escaping from Vienna, distanced from my family by space and age, it is probably not surprising I opt for this bubble existence, these escapist fantasies; especially in these beautiful surroundings that cause the mind to dream.  Real life keeps letting me down, after all, while books can’t let me down, they can only transport me to places still full of trials and tribulations, but ones that are normally resolved and don’t drag on with no end in sight.  Even if these worlds do stay with me too long they still complete me.

250 Words Christmas Special: Storeman Norman the Gnome (2)

Now everyone knows that elves make toys for Santa to deliver at the North Pole but few know about the gnomes who look after the stores, employed because this role requires a taller kind of magical folk.  The gnome who runs the store is a particularly tall and well organised Storeman called Norman and this is the story of how he saved this year’s Christmas.

It all happened because of Global Warming (or Climate Change I think the fashionable phrase is nowadays).  The North Pole snows were melting and the resulting ice cold water started to enter the Great Store of Presents (neatly ordered by Norman into the order of delivery from New Zealand to Alaska) at an alarming rate. 

Nothing was stacked on the floor, of course, due to this possibility and because of the wetness spread by various folk coming into the store from outside, however the water was rising darned fast and was soon approaching the bottom shelf!

Quick as a flash, Norman grabbed a pickaxe and began to hammer at the floor through the rising water and was soon encouraging (well, ordering) his workers to join him.  Onward he led them and together the store gnomes dug a trench all the way to the sea, down which drained the floodwaters.  After this they then helped out all of the North Pole folk by linking other flooded buildings to their drainage trench. 

And thus Christmas was saved from “Climate Change” by a clever Storeman Gnome called Norman.

250 Words Christmas Special: Storeman Norman the Gnome (1)

Norman is a the gnome who lives at the North Pole.  He looks after the Great Store of Presents which slowly fills each year as the elves make presents for every child in the world and then empties quickly on Christmas Eve as Santa prepares for his annual run. 

Norman used to be quite a miserable soul, though.  He and his team of gnomes weren’t known about outside of the Arctic.  It was understandable that Santa and the reindeers are so well known but otherwise the elves got all the glory for manufacturing the gifts while the gnomes were completely ignored.  And they did a fine job, Norman thought, sorting and organising all the gifts within the warehouse to help Santa in the delivering (a method copied by Royal Mail among other delivery organisations) and keeping them safe and dry from the elements- they deserved at least a mention from time to time.

One day, Norman was sat on a snowy mound smoking his pipe when a little polar bear walked by, saw Norman and said, “Hello there, why do you look so glum?”  And so Norman told the bear about his gnomes’ lack of fame and the bear sat thoughtfully and said, “Well, I have contacts on the internet; I think I might be able to persuade a young man to help change this situation.”

And with that the little polar bear wandered off and soon began a chain of events that would end in this and part two.

250 Words: Imagined conversations (The new battle)

Rehearsals in my mind for something that hasn't actually started yet.  Something left quickly and unsaid- regret may yet sleep in a bed.

The product of an over-active imagination, a more realistic part of your mind telling you to stop thinking about it, to shut the FUCK UP!

Rehearsals in daydreams for something that may yet happen.  That job interview mentality- rolling situations around to better enable answers to questions and aid conversations that might occur.

The product of too much thinking; and certainly nothing intellectual.  Just dreams to get you through the day.  You haven’t actually made a move yet, remember, not received an answer.

Rehearsals for the future, whatever it may hold.  Whether now, or much later, imagined conversations may yet hold me in good stead.

The product of no guts, no balls, no brains for real life and of too much time alone.  Your a coaster, a dreamer, a fuckwit.  Words unsaid are less than pointless, are vessels that won’t ever be filled.

Rehearsals of hope, then.  Readying oneself so that when it comes it doesn’t slip through your fingers.

The product of dumb hope- remember that phrase?: you’ve avoided writing about it for years; and you know full well that if you stand about on the boundary for years you’ll only miss the ball hit straight at you.

Well, maybe, yeah.

Exactly.  And have you even looked at the pictures.  She would never go for you.

I can still dream, can’t I?

Yeah, whatever.  Fucking idiot.

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Note: The part of the title in brackets refers to something I wrote much earlier than this (May 2009) - in fact there are a few references to earlier teenage ramblings, of which , as I said, is a throwback to the one below.  Also, though, it all sounds depressing I fondly remember writing the above while laughing at having started to make a breakthrough from my shier self - one that ultimately ended up with meeting my wife.  Oh, and never fear - there will be a Christmas story over the next two days!

The Battle

I’ll ask her out tomorrow.

No you fucking won’t.

I will. I’m strong enough.

You aren’t. You spineless freak.

I am.. I will, she’ll say yes too.

No she won’t, why would she?

‘Cause she likes me… I’ve heard.

You don’t even know.

I do.. the looks she gives me..

As if to say- I’ve never seen such an ugly freak.

No it’s something else.. in her eyes.

No, it’s repulsion, horror- remember, I see it too.

Is it?

Yes. She hates you. All women do.

It’s not as if you’re good looking or anything.

True, I best not bother, then.

Exactly, save yourself the pain.

Yeah, your right.

I know.

28/12/1999

250 Words: One line

One line smudged by dots across the treeless landscape.  Gassed and left upon the dust to become one with it.  Hate breeds death once more and the earth weeps.  The need for control falls upon a people like a fist onto a desk and changes everything.

One line trudges.  One line displaced.  One line shuffles onward with heavy feet like stones working through the mud.  Behind lies everything.  Everything has passed.  Ahead lies anything. Anything is now desirable.  And, in one line, they are not alone.  And perhaps that will be the key. 

For where there is life there is hope.  Even displaced to foreign lands one line, huddled and massed, can carry on in hope of return to a land healed and regrown.  To return to homes abandoned and dilapidated, to be restored and renewed to a former glory of civilisation whose lungs were asphyxiated. 

One line drawn around them, imprisoning in one lump the survivors.  New homes that would be alien to anyone.  Reliant on the care of others.  Where there is life there is hope.  A forced migration is unwelcome but it is better than death.  Survival is the finest form of resistance.  If, as one line, they can survive then the mustachioed man has not won, cannot win.

Yet one line lives on in limbo.  Unable to really live until their lives are restored.  Hope there may be, alone they are not, but without outside help they are stuck in makeshift homes in a foreign land.

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Note: Inspired by an art exhibition held at the Imperial War Museum in 2008 called Displaced by the artist Osman Ahmed which is reported on here and here with videos here.

250 Words: Regret sleeps in a tent

A whole night time of chances having passed by, regret sleeps in a tent.  Maybe she wasn’t interested, maybe she was too young (the latter something his friend had no problem with).  Whatever.  Not so much as the merest contact came to be.  And so regret sleeps in a tent.

They saw their friends make out, left them to it.  Then walked through the campsite, talked, met some guy smoking, spoke to him (he longed for the fucker to fuck off, nice as he was), then came back and sat in her tent doing the same- just talking.  Neither made a move.  And so regret slept in a tent.

Or so the idea runs.  Maybe he was regretful as he lay his head down, most of the night having gone by and the Red Hot Chili Peppers a distant memory.  But what really started the regret happened the morning after:

Having packed up, her and her friends started the walk away, never to be seen again.  Thirty seconds or so away she suddenly shouted back her opinion of him.  Being reasonably clueless he simply shouted back, “Thanks,” and began to pack up his own monkeys and parrots.

Maybe the regret ultimately came later but the memory of that regret will forever sleep in a blue tent on an August night in 2001- only to unzip and exit the door when a monumental enough event occurs to wipe away the memory of regret for not leaning in and taking a chance.