Incongruity ( Poetry)

Insidious visitor of unknown origin

Look in the mirror and appreciate his goodness.

A child in the field, sinewy flesh suspended by a membrane.

The mother infected with contemporary plague.

Bullet… crack, crack ,crack, live on channel four.

`Turn it over will you, Coronation Street is about to start.`

Orphanages overflowing with silent infant tears.

Unheard of by me.

Are the Charring Cross arches packed again?

Shall I buy that extra loaf at Christmas?

Ignore the screams, suburban home next door.

March in tandem, Tesco bound.

Consider the outcome of sausage and mash,

Or the pork and ham pie.

While she sits with the frayed candle-wick.

The cigarette stained bar emits rather than glows.

Lamplight droops.

Bereaved family, now waiting on the knock.

Soldier son opened deep, incendiary device rooted in kerbside dust.

Dust? I’m sure that’s the remains of this afternoon’s suicide.

Father stares in the mirror,

appreciates his goodness!

Big Society ( Poetry)

Last time we hit the streets, we pulled out all the stops

Catering for the masses, at a time of crisis,

Older victims of the blitz, from small beginnings.

A Postcode lottery?

The butcher the baker and the proverbial candlestick, no longer exists

Stopped…create something new

Something to look forward to.

We can and should all do.

Apple sauce, baked potato, difference to lives

something ironic ,with gas prices so high.

I don’t care for them, but I do like a bit of fish,

Feast for a king.

I love my mother

When did she die again? 

Was it Saturday or Sunday?

My Left Foot

Ohhhh the pain, my poor left foot,
With haste I removed my big work boot,
At work, I'd paced the floors all night,
It left my foot an awfy sight,

I had an appointment with the doc,
I cannily pulled off my left sock,
He cried "jings, crivvens, oh meh goad,
It looked like kill, lying on the road,

X-ray time up at Kings Cross,
My soccer career was at a loss,
I was failing in my fathering role,
My young lads stuck me in the goal,

Now, my left peg is on the mend,
It nearly had me round the bend,
The months of pain are finally through,
And all because of my big shoe!!!

A Pub With No Beer!

What's this I hear?
My local pub has run out of beer!
Surely no?
Eh it's so!

My Aunt Nellie,
Made beer in an old welly!
If the pub would make it's own brew,
Round the block the customers would queue!

I met a man named Jock McGraw,
His home was near the top of the Law!
In his allotment he made some hooch,
Then he gave it to his mangy pooch!

So who needs a pub without booze?
Make your own and you'll never loose!
Ian The Jannie made his own wine,
It smelled funny but tasted fine!

Polar Bear ( Poetry)

Lmmmmmmmmmmm, wrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaa
brrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuuurrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hmmmmmmmmmmm
rrrrrrrrrarrrrrrrghumppppppppphhhhhhhhhh.

Raped (Haiku)

First frost, deep black blood

running short

Should we revert to candlelight?

A Shocking Tale

A Shocking Tale

Our family curse was something of an old running joke - that is, it was, until Dad died.

      I had just turned fourteen. I got a fishing rod for my birthday – but the best thing was that we christened my new rod with a whole day of fishing at the lake – just Dad and me; it was the best day ever. I will always remember it. The fish were biting and we caught enough to feed us for the week. 

I remember the jokes, though I never really understood them at the time:

‘Beware high voltage!’ Mum would say as she indicated a house-hold appliance, such as the hair dryer. Or when Dad went fishing someone would say ‘Don’t catch any electric eels now!’ Or ‘Watch those pylons!’ And of course, Dad was always making jokes himself. He had that laugh in the face of death attitude, which is ultimately what he did, I suppose.

Us kids were kept in the dark. Adults never told us anything directly, but that never stopped us. After the funeral the talk amongst the family was almost always hushed-up if a kid approached or if an eavesdropper was detected. I used to get fed-up being sent away just when things were getting interesting. Gradually though, with a snippet here and an uncensored comment there, the pieces came together. I was like a child detective out of Enid Blyton, only this wasn’t such a jolly jape.

By the time Mum decided I should know the full story I had pretty much figured it out. Isn’t that always the way with parents?

There were revelations: Either Mum didn’t know how brutal Dad had actually been with the old Tink (Dad’s term) or she didn’t want me to know that part of it. To this day we have never spoken about it. Probably never will.

It was Uncle Pete who told me. He had been drinking and felt that I should know; after all, it concerned me. You see, the old hag (Pete’s term) had kindly included me in her curse.

Although it was a shock at the time, what bothered me was not so much the curse, but Dad’s violent behaviour. It was so out of character. Had he really struck this defenceless gypsy woman? What could have provoked him? After all, Dad was known for his generous good nature, his easy humour - Ask any one in the village. I could not reconcile this image of Dad with Uncle Pete’s version of the story.

Years later I heard an even more damning version. Dad had already known this gypsy woman, according to Rolly Barth. Only he called her a gypsy slut and accompanied his drunken speech with a knowing wink and lewd gesture.

Rolly’s reputation as a drunk was closely rivalled by his reputation for fighting. He liked nothing more than a good bar room brawl; it was his idea of recreation. The subsequent charges of assault didn’t bother him in the least. Had I considered that at the time, I might not have thrown my first stupid punch. There again, I was uncontrollably angry.

No prizes for guessing the outcome; no contest. I was lucky to get a couple of punches into his beer-belly. I was also lucky to escape serious injury.

Apparently he went easy on me - because of his friendship with Dad. He made it sound as if they had been close mates back in the army; brothers in arms, that kind of thing. But Dad had never mentioned him, not once, which struck me as odd, to say the least.

When things calmed down Rolly actually shook my hand and offered to buy me a drink. I was so stunned, in every sense, that I accepted. Gradually, though it pained me greatly, I began to also accept some of the things he said about Dad. I always knew there had to be more to it; more to Uncle Pete’s version, anyway. Rolly supplied the missing piece.

It wasn’t a pretty picture. It was an old story; an angry man and a woman spurned - then curses and recriminations - curses with a small ‘c,’though. Not the Curse, not the incantations that had been invented by careless tongues. Cursing there had been alright, but mostly of the f-ing and c-ing kind. Whether she was described as the gypsy slut, the old hag or the tink, she was, by all accounts, a foul mouthed bitch.

Ok, there was also something about Dad and his first born (me) being fried by electricity, our hearts blasted by a hundred volts! - If you can believe that, in this day and age; archaic nonsense or what?

Dad explained himself; he had refused to let the Gypsies hook up their caravan power cables to our farmhouse generator. Thus he provoked the gypsy’s wrath and deadly curse.

I guess I’ll never really know the true story; or at least the version of it I would have liked to known: Dad’s version. Maybe it’s just as well.

The story would have remained a family joke, had it not been for the manner of Dad’s death and the hysterical claims that his death fulfilled the curse. I checked the Coroner’s report and although Dad had received an electric shock the cause of death was cardiac arrest - heart attack. What’s more, it was a congenital condition and could have happened at any time, according to old Doc Clarkson.

It turned out that I shared Dad’s condition - a major bummer, to say the least! This was the real family curse, as far as I was concerned.   I was advised to avoid strenuous exercise and to generally take thing easy.

Doc asked some routine health questions as well as asking about my occupation. You should have seen the look he gave me when I told him I was an electrician; he looked as if he was having some kind of seizure! He regained his professional calm quickly enough, but obviously he had heard about the curse. I shouldn’t have been surprised; it was typical thinking in our village. You would think that a doctor would know better and yet it was old codgers like him who gave the curse credence.

Anyway, I explained about my choice of profession. As a kid electricity was taboo, but I noticed the frequent visits from Alec the electrician. He had the job of child proofing our house. This was before the current craze of child proofing, mind you. Alec also took care of any electrical jobs. Mum told me that this was her doing; she knew it was stupid, but she did not want Dad taking any risks, not with electricity.

So I got to know Alec the electrician and was fascinated by the taboo subject. Later, when the family relaxed the taboo and even made light of it with the occasional joke, I was able to learn about electricity. Alec even gave me a good science book on the subject. To be honest though, what impressed me the most was the amount of money Alec made out of our fear… and it wasn’t just us; the fear of electricity was pervasive. Alec was coining it in. I wanted some of that.

My opportunity came when Alec complained profusely about all the extra work he was getting in the village. I realised that what he was really complaining about was the extra hassle. When I offered my help he didn’t hesitate – he had it in mind all along, the crafty bastard. We settled it with a hand shake and I became an apprentice electrician the next day. I was seventeen. 

I certainly had my work cut out for me. The whole village seemed to be undergoing a boom of modernising, not just the businesses, either – because with modernisation came that most insidious of modern vices: keeping up with the Joneses. Every one in the village seemed to be competing to improve the basic domestic amenities - which until then had remained unchanged for decades.

One of the few exceptions to this drive for modernisation was, oddly enough, our family home back on the farm. Mum had remained obstinate in the face of change. If anything she had regressed to an earlier age. The old oil lamps came back out. She relied on the wood burning stove and it was with great reluctance that this was eventually replaced with a gas cooker. An electric cooker was never considered, despite my recommendations.

No matter how much I tried to reassure her, Mum was convinced that electricity was the enemy. It was no joke now - that was for sure. She hated my job and was constantly worried that I would come to harm. Rational argument did no good. I just couldn’t get through to her.  

I worried about her too. Those old oil lamps posed a greater danger than electricity in my mind. She thought that I was the unreasonable one; she had used those lamps for years with out any bother. I had to concede that – but she was not getting any younger and I still worried about her doddering about the farm house with oil lamps.

My worst fears were confirmed on that fateful night when I came home late after a stint of overtime. At first I thought it was the chimney smoking. Mum had been using the coal fire a lot recently. Then I noticed that there was nothing coming from the chimney – smoke was billowing out of the back of the house; the kitchen!

The rest is a bit of a blur. I ran to the back of the house and found Mum struggling to put out a fire in the kitchen. The smoke was getting pretty thick by this time and I tried to pull Mum back. We were both coughing. I grabbed a dish towel to cover my mouth but the coughing was getting worse. I started to feel very sick and dizzy. I think Mum caught me. The sudden pain in my chest seemed to explode and I had a dramatic thought - this is it! - Before losing consciousness.

Well, that’s us almost up to date now. My visitors will be here soon. I had to be told what happened next. As far as I was concerned I just woke up in this hospital bed.

Mum told me all about the paramedics; they saved my life – but the bit that she seemed most excited about was how they did it: she wasn’t familiar with their equipment, the charger and the cardiac paddles – but she got that they blasted my heart back to life with electricity!

 ‘Don’t you realise what this means’, she said. She was her old self again; Bright eyed, smiling.

‘You’re free of the curse!’

It was painful to laugh, but I laughed. I had never believed in the curse. But I wasn’t going to argue with her now. She was so happy…and when I get out of here I know what I’m going to do; the memories came back – me and Dad fishing, or as he preferred Angling - good times, good memories…the lake, the woodlands and wildlife. We never did catch much but it didn’t matter. So I will take myself of for a bit of R’n’R, with the old trusty rod that Dad had given me.

I only hope I don’t catch any electric eels!

Storms

Storms

Storms within

Not without

Take your weather

Let it shout

Let it pour

Let it shine

Nature nurtures

Human divine

Creation destruction

Take your weather

Mine it well

Storms a-coming

Break the spell

Take your weather

No cloud of doubt

Climb up high

Figure it out

Clear blue sky

Boy's Toys

Boy’s Toys

‘What you got there?’

Jimmy had pulled a small parcel out of the post bag – from Amazon, predictably. Only it was not the usual flat rectangular package; it was a small box.

‘Ah, it’s not what you think’ said Jimmy. He removed the bubble rap and held the box up for inspection. Inside the clear plastic container was a model car: a red mini cooper with two white go-faster stripes along the bonnet. There was also a grey remote controller with a long retractable aerial.

‘It’s for the kids’

Jimmy had been buying lots of stuff for his kids since the separation. Bill admired the car.

‘You should test it out’ he said, as he slipped a bookmark into his book and put the book aside.

‘Aye! There should be another one here too…ah, here it is’ this was a white racing car with a fancy spoiler and orange flames along the sides.

‘Cooool!’ said Bill. He liked his cars.

They had to leave the cars charging for an hour before they could properly test them. Time enough to do their rounds; they patrolled the gallery - checking doors and windows. There was always a light left on by someone or a window left open from the day shift.

While Bill and Jimmy patrolled Bert had the cushy job: watching the monitors; this was in deference to his seniority – he was due to retire soon; three months and counting …only he was not counting with happy anticipation. He dreaded retirement. His life was here in the Art Gallery. His life at home was basic, perfunctory, to say the least. Since the death of his wife he lived alone. He never really recovered from her loss. A poor soul by all accounts and yet he found solace at work; here he had a purpose, a place to belong and work mates he could banter with.

Once the rounds were done they could relax; they would not need to do much for the next hour – all being well! Usually the kettle would go on, sandwiches would be unwrapped, micro wave dishes would be poked with a fork, and papers and books would be brought out. But tonight was different; they had toys to play with.

After practicing with the controller and getting the hang of maneuvering the cars Jimmy suggested they have a proper race. Jimmy was the competitive one and a bit of a game geek. He always got the highest scores at Gran Turismo, or any other computer games for that matter.

They improvised a track on the linoleum covered floor; masking tape marked the starting line and the finishing line. This proved too easy and basic for Jimmy; after winning a couple of races he suggested adding some obstacles to the track - to make it difficult.

Over the next week the track became even more difficult, more elaborate; door jams became ramps, empty paper rolls became pipes, a waste paper basket became a roundabout and there were obstacles in the form of staplers and paper punches.

Of course Jimmy still won every race, but Bill seemed to be pressing him, gaining more with each contest. No one minded Jimmy winning, though. They were used to it - at the end of the day it was just a laugh anyway – a mindless distraction – and as is the way with such distractions the novelty was starting to fade.

It probably would have faded away completely and been forgotten - except for Jimmy’s next game innovation. Gallery management had been instructed to increase camera surveillance as a result of a prestigious new exhibit: Jewels of the Raja.  A dozen or so new miniature cameras were installed; most of these were focused on the Jewels collection. However, when the contractors had completed the work there appeared to be a surplus camera. Jimmy dutifully tidied this camera and some of the work debris away into the back of a cleaning cupboard – where it was promptly forgotten about.

Until a few weeks later, when Jimmy put his plan into action; he had chatted to the technician who installed the cameras; picking his brains. The technician had been flattered and enjoyed sharing his knowledge with a like minded geek – thus Jimmy, though appearing casual, had learned how to set-up the cameras with the PC software.

The next time he brought out the cars Bert and Bill were less than enthusiastic. Maybe they were finally getting fed-up with being trounced so decisively. What ever the case, the novelty had passed; even jimmy’s best efforts at cajoling failed to elicit any real interest beyond polite resignation.  

But Jimmy had his ace up his sleeve. ‘Okay guys, watch this!’ he said as he launched the PC software and launched the Mini Cooper down the track.

Bill and Bert did not get what the fuss was about, at first. Then they realized what Jimmy was actually doing: he was concentrating on the monitor – not the car! On the monitor they could see a cars view of the track, like a PC game.

‘Wow!’ they exclaimed. They looked from the monitor to the car, to the car’s remote control – back to the monitor.

‘Cooool!’ said Bill.

The novelty of Jimmy’s innovation did not last very long; mainly because neither Bert nor Bill could master using the monitor and controller. There was no competition for Jimmy. He lost interest. They returned to the old comfortable routine– food, books and banter. The cars were forgotten.

And so they would have remained forgotten - had it not been for a series of seemingly insignificant incidents. A day shift guy called in sick. Jimmy volunteered to cover the shift. He needed the money. That day the gallery had a visit from the new security consultant. He was explaining the special security set-up to the gallery curator. He was obviously trying to impress; he had the smug self assurance of a salesman delivering a rehearsed sales pitch; which, in fact, is what he was essentially doing– even though the sale had already been made. To jimmy it was irritating bullshit; all he heard was ‘Blah de blah...’ ad nauseam! He was trying to ignore the inane spiel when a sentence caught his ear and his imagination; making him almost laugh out loud: ‘…the system is as invulnerable as is humanly possible. A mouse couldn’t get through these lasers.’ The curator laughed at that, so maybe it was a bit tongue-in-cheek. Jimmy laughed inwardly. He visualized a cartoon mouse with a massive wind up key.

That night Jimmy could not sleep; the shift changes were playing havoc with his sleep pattern. He got up, made himself a Horlicks drink; maybe that would do the trick. He picked up the remote, flicked on the TV – flicked channels. Flick, flick, flick; an old favorite film: The Italian Job; he had only missed a bit. He probably would not watch it all, anyway. He fell asleep about half way into the plot; dreamed that he was in a car chase; he was driving a classic mini - being chased by a giant wind-up mouse – only the mouse was not giant in size; he was tiny! He was driving a miniature mini cooper. He flew over a familiar wooden ramp and was blasted by lasers – Star wars fashion. The dream was vivid yet by the morning it was a vague memory – but a memory that nagged at the back of his mind.

On his next night shift Jimmy told Bill and Bert about his dream. He also told them about the security consultant and his comments about the new security system. Bill looked thoughtful. He usually had plenty to say about dreams. Actually he had plenty to say about most subjects. He could quote Dr Freud and Young but he was not convinced by either of their views. He looked at Jimmy with a serious poker face.

‘Well, it looks like you are going to have to beat the new system’ his serious expression was replaced with a mischievous grin.

‘What?’

‘Your unconscious mind sees the new system as a challenge, like one of the PC games that you need to beat’

‘Really…?’ Jimmy looked doubtful; was bill taking the piss? It was hard to tell sometimes.

‘Don’t worry’ said Bert, coming to his rescue ‘he’s just kiddin’.

‘Am I?’ said Bill.

There followed a long discussion. The upshot of this convoluted conversation was a suggestion – from Bill – that they should theoretically test the new system for vulnerabilities! He was thinking about what became known as the mouse scenario.

They kicked ideas about for the next week. It became a game; Jimmy and Bert would come up with ideas and Bill would shoot them down, one after another – nope, won’t work; where’s your alibi? You’re caught on camera! How do you get the loot out of the premises? Can it be hidden? No, we can’t use the security codes…

By the second week the ideas were getting more and more outrageous. But strangely, Bill had less and less objections. He liked creative thinking.

Then one evening Jimmy and Bert delivered their latest brainchild and waited for Bill’s verdict. There was an expectant silence; which was prolonged while Bill ‘hummed and hawed’, as he thoughtfully stroked his chin.

‘Come on!’ said Jimmy, losing patience; surely Bill was deliberately hamming it up!

But Bill was not to be rushed. He was enjoying the moment.

‘You know…yes, it might - I think …it just might … work!’ 

They looked at one another in amazement - speechless. Jimmy broke the spell with an emphatic ‘Yeeessss!’ as he jabbed an air punch.

On this note of exaltation they continued the discussion; getting down to detail now.

The next night there seemed to be an unspoken agreement; they dropped the subject of the previous nights. No one seemed to want to bring it up, anyway. Now that it had moved from hypothetical to possible there was an uncomfortable silence; maybe they shouldn’t have talk about it in the first place – maybe it was wrong.

It was Bert, surprisingly, who broke the ice. He only had a month to go now – until he retired. ‘Once I’m gone’ he said ‘the plan won’t work’.

‘Yeah, but at least we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that it could have…’ said Bill.

‘I’d loved to have see that smug security bastards face if his system-’

‘There’s no point in thinking like that!’ this from Bert.

‘I know, I know…but wouldn’t it be fuckin cool’

The talk continued in this manner. Eventually the conversation came round to a crucial point - one that had not been factored into the purely hypothetical discussions; how to dispose of the hypothetical loot? They joked about Ebay and Fences - It seemed like a final stumbling block.

Then Bill spoke up like a character out of the God Father;  

‘I know some people…who know people…who might be interested.’  

Both Bert and Jimmy were stunned into silence. Jimmy recovered his wits first.

‘Fuckinhell! You can’t be serious! You know some people…’

‘Yeah’

‘Talk about a dark horse…’

The next surprise came from Bert. ‘You can count me in.’ he almost sounded apologetic.

‘No-fuckin-way! I don’t believe this…you’ve only got a month to retire!’

‘Yeah, exactly!’

Well, the rest was history after that. Bill, Bert and Jimmy executed their ingenious plan to steal the Jewels of the raja – and because they had air tight alibis (thanks to some clever camera staging) and were canny enough to leave the money from the loot untouched, they remained above suspicion. Bert, of course, retired and was completely miserable. Bill and Jimmy continued to work at the gallery for another year, after which time it was agreed that they could carefully start to use some of the money.  

This was a big mistake as the police continued to monitor their finances. Fortunately for Bill and Jimmy they were on holiday by the time the police decided to apprehend them. Due to a tip off they were able to stage a disappearing act. It took the authorities over ten years to catch them. In that time they live the good life, the life of luxury.

Bert was charged and in due course imprisoned for his part in the caper. But the authorities could not get much on him, or from him. Bert had not even touched the money.  The authorities were working on the theory that there had to be other accomplices. But they still had no idea how the robbery was perpetrated.

Bert was terrified of prison; he had nightmares about being the bitch to some muscle-bound psychopath. As it turned out his cell mate was a model prisoner, a likeable rogue type, a con artist actually, who had a passion for books. Needless to say they got on like a house on fire.

Of course, the prison had its share of hardened criminals; a charming medley of crooks, murderers, and rapists. But thankfully Bert’s reputation for having pulled-off the crime of the century worked like a protective charm – even the more violent offenders seemed to have a respectful and protective attitude towards him. He was their criminal celebrity; he was part of the criminal fraternity.

So Bert settled into prison life. He was surprised after a while to realize that he was really quite happy here; happier in fact, than he had been when he retired and lived alone.  

He felt like he was doing time before; merely going through the motions of life. But now that he was serving time he felt that he had a purpose, a place to belong, and prison mates he could banter with. It all felt oddly familiar.

Then there was Linda, she had contacted him through the outreach program. He looked forward to her letters. They had exchanged many letters over the last few months. There had been a couple of blacked out sentences in his letters. But the most recent one was special; it had a photo of Linda enclosed – not entirely what he had expected, but not bad.

One day there was a package along with the usual letters from Linda. But he new it was not from Linda. He guessed that the censoring desk would have checked the parcel. They probably got a laugh; they would not see any harm.

‘What you got there?’ asked his cell mate.

He held the parcel up for inspection.

‘Let me show you.’

The Earth

The quake struck and the earth shook!
New cracks and ancient fissures!
Tsunamis and collapsing buildings!
When one shudder can bring civilisation to it's knees,
Do we own the earth or does it own us?

Hitchhikers

They were two final year French students who decided to take a road trip down the length of South America.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but not today!  An hour ago their camper van had broken down and here they were, on the Lima to Santiago Highway, almost 2,000 kilometres from Lima or Santiago.

It was difficult to imagine a more remote place than this.  In every direction was only arid ground, it seemed like rain had never fallen on this rugged plain.   To the South were some snow capped mountains which gave the illusion of water somewhere in this hostile environment.

Carole, the younger of the two, kicked the wheel of their van savagely, cursing their bad luck.  Martine sat at the side of the road, drinking the last few gulps from their water bottle.  It had been hours since they had seen another vehicle and they hadn't passed a sizeable town since the day before yesterday!

Both girls being in a bad mood, they mutually decided not to talk to each other for a while.   The only sound they could hear apart from the hissing of steam from their knackered van was the sound of a buzzard high overhead.   Martine threw her empty water bottle at the bird in impotent fury; it missed by at least half a mile and thudded to the ground.

But suddenly they looked at each other!  The sound was distant and very faint at first, but soon unmistakable.  There was a car approaching!

The old banger finally came into sight; it was almost as ancient as the man driving it.   The car looked like an old American Chevrolet.  The driver was a very elderly man, dishevelled with a chequered shirt and crumpled old tie, wearing what had been a white panama hat but was now so dirty that it looked like a brown panama hat. 

The two girls looked at each other.   They couldn't imagine a stranger person to hitch a lift from.  But then other choices were in short supply today.

Martine flagged down the car, almost finding herself splattered over the bonnet as it slowly came to a halt. Perhaps the old man's reflexes were not what they had been, or maybe he just didn't give a damn!  But the car did come to a halt.  The car did not need air conditioning; it had no glass in half the windows.

Martine asked the wizened old man if he was travelling south.  There was a moments pause before he nodded slightly, indicating that he was.  She then plucked up the courage to ask if he would take them along.  Again there was a pause before the old man nodded his head slightly.  It was not an encouraging reception, but they had only two choices.   Get in the car, or wait here, wherever ‘here’ was.

After a moments hesitation they decided to get in the car, but both sitting in the back.  The wizened old man put his foot on the pedal and after a jolt they slowly drove off.

After a long wait at the roadside it was a relief to be moving again.  However the relief soon turned to mild exasperation as a long protracted silence ensued.  Clearly the old man was not much of a conversationalist. Being in a car with a silent stranger was not the most pleasant of experiences.

Martine tried to break the silence, stuck to the dashboard was a small effigy of a catholic saint.   Martine asked the old man which saint it was?  He looked at her in the rear view mirror; he had empty grey eyes which met hers only for a moment, before he looked down again.   He gave no reply only adjusting the statue on the dashboard slightly.  That was very unnerving, knowing that the man had understood the question but chose not to answer. He had not uttered a word since they got in the car.  In fact he had not uttered a word at all.

Martine noticed that the old man had tattoos on his old wrinkly arm. Perhaps they were related to the military? They all looked quite menacing, one was a serpent coiled round a bloody dagger. Another showed a human skull with a snake emerging from the eye socket.  She didn’t recognise them, but they were surely very old, because he was very old. 

A tattooed and silent old man, it seemed quite eerie.  But then he was taking them where they wanted to go.  But was he?  They had no way of telling for sure.  This countryside all looked the same.  South American desert scrubland, miles of arid ground, the occasional bush, but no other signs of life. Even the buzzard had disappeared. There also seemed to be no other traffic on this road.   Perhaps they had taken the wrong road miles back and were now lost in the immensity of the continent? They had taken the choice to get into the car; it had seemed like the only choice at the time.

It was very hot today and stuffy in the car, Carole was fighting hard not to dose off.  For a few minutes her eyelids grew too heavy and she fell asleep.  At first she wavered between being half asleep and awake, then finally she drifted off into sleep. It was not a very pleasant sleep.  She woke up with a jerk after having a particularly unpleasant dream.   She had dreamt that the old man had suddenly turned around grinning, reaching under his seat and producing a bloody knife, like the one displayed in his tattoo.

However when she woke she found that the car had stopped.

They were at a tiny and grubby roadside garage, just a couple of ramshackle buildings in the middle of nowhere.  But the first signs of human habitation they had seen for many miles.    Carole looked round, quite concerned.  Where was Martine? And where was the strange old man?

Carole quickly exited the vehicle, slamming the door behind her and went into the garage.  It was a cramped little cantina that doubled up as some kind of general store.  The shelves were sparsely stocked with stuff that looked out of date ten years ago.   The only person she could see was a rather fat behind the counter.  He wore an old straw hat and a string vest that was several sizes too small for him.  He was also smoking a cigar the odour of which seemed to resemble old socks. 

Carole went over to the counter and asked the man if she had seen the occupants of the car, another French girl and a wizened old man?  Unlike the old man, this fat shopkeeper was only too happy to speak; apparently he did not need to stop to breathe.  Pidgin English flowed from his mouth in streams; the challenge would be to get him to stop talking.

The old man was harmless it seemed.  He had been a soldier in Peru in the struggle against the Shining Path, a revolutionary/ terrorist movement.  The old man had been badly injured in a bomb-blast and now could neither speak nor hear.  Carole breathed a huge sigh of relief.  It seemed as if the old man was quite harmless, they had clearly misjudged the old fellow, judging him by appearance alone.

So Carole asked where were Martine and the old man?  Surely now they should thank the old man and apologise to him for their excessive suspicion.

The fat man, whose name was Carlos laughed.  He threw his head back and emitted a torrent of laughter that made his huge belly shake up and down.  That was where the problem lay it seemed………..

Although the old man was harmless……………Carlos did not possess such innocence.

 He lit up another cigar, puffing a little wisp of grey smoke into Carole’s face. 

‘Your companions were here!’   He said with a laugh……………..’but now………………..!’.    He laughed again, a hideous primeval laugh that made Carole’s skin crawl. 

Had she run out of choices?

The Monk's Tale

The fish were still leaping but time was running out. The salmon had nearly made it back to their roots. The splashing again and again was unnerving him. He crouched there, as he had before, regretful but sad. The others had talked but no answer was found,….. what was fuelling the grief, the hate, his passion?

It was born from another time, a carefree time, youthful and before the brotherhood and habit had won his life. The place was Glen Roy, nestled in a valley, and the time, half a century earlier when the village was all he knew. It was all she knew too, the village and him, Athole.
They were young and together.

His home with his father was central and well known within the community, his father, being of senior rank within the church. Forrester was their name, descended from a long line of woodlanders until his father had broken the line and chosen another path. The church, made up of self important elders whom at the best of times were unruly, deeply bonded and ran the village and surrounding areas with a rod of iron.
Fear was their greatest weapon.

She was far removed from the village to a point, living on its edge beside Breckles Wood with her grandmother. Rowan was their family name and they had very little input to the village, living a solitary existence, trading occasionally in herbs, fortune telling and curing illnesses. A close knit family, they had always been,
Witches they were always believed to have been….

It was autumn time, cold, leafy and wet. Sickness was common at this time and recovery was slow, if at all. Amongst others, mostly the elderly, Athole had grown weak, was smitten with something and of the age of only 13 was young enough for a painful recovery. Forrester senior was portly and warm hearted who loved his grub and made the most of his time at the table.

He was growing concerned as the boy failed to shake off the illness and tried various remedies to cut it short to no avail. His mind was at war, use his faith, which had failed him so far, or venture up to Breckles wood?

This act would defy the sect and would almost certainly cause no end of troubles for his family and his position within. But it must be......all else had failed.

His fellow elders, two in particular, one being Smithy, an odd shaped being, somewhat of a strange character, a musical man with a strong godly way. The other being Strachan, another artistic man, talented but with daydreaming tendencies. Another kindly soul who kept himself busy with aspiring enterprises.

These were his closest allies.

Forrester had made his mind up, and with the help of  Smithy and Strachan, they ventured up to the woods to seek the witches help. The boy would need carried, horses deemed too noisy. Covered in head to toe in warmth, the journey alone could finish him off.

It was a god fearing night, wind ravaged the valley and torrential rain soaked the travellers and bogged down the footpaths….was this the church calling, maybe warning??

Thump thump Strachan pounded the door. It creaked open and they were allowed in without a true welcome.

“What do you want from us?, why are you here?” the Rowans asked.
“My son” Forrester pleaded, help him if you can.

“He’s smitten, I can see”, croaked Rowan, “leave us now, return around midnight”

The elders left and battled back to reality.

The child was laid out and with candles alight and various odours and flame flashes, they began…

"I banish the smitten with the power of fire. So mote it be."

"I banish the smitten with the power of Earth. So mote it be."

“I banish the smitten with the power of Water. So mote it be."

"I banish the smitten with the power of Wind. So mote it be."

Over and over again……

With this pentagram I do lay,

Protection here both night and day,

And to the one who should not touch,

Let the fingers burn and twitch,

I now invoke the law of three:

This is my will, so mote it be!!

The hours dissolved and the door banged, the elders were back.
“Take him, he is ready and watch over him, time will tell, be patient, please be patient” she murmured as they left.
Forrester grasped her hand, “I won’t forget”……

They returned, and the hours turned to days, then weeks and the illness grew, until death’s door had arrived. Word was out in the village what had gone on and the church was up in arms and ready to take control. An outspoken man, McWelsh, a tall poetic man, understanding in nature but strict within the walls of the Church and its principals. He had many contacts even out-with the village and moved in many circles. The events had possessed him and he had false revenge in his thoughts.
Hell had arrived for the Rowans.

The witch-hunt had began….

“Drown the witches, Burn the witches” were the chants as the mob had climbed the valley to the Woods, mayhem would follow…..

The cottage was razed to the ground, the Rowans dragged to the river, manacled and man handled, hair ripped, clothing stripped!!
There, the “Ducking Stool” awaited.

One whole day it lasted, over and over and over again, the drowning was one thing but the perishingly cold water was usually the killer…the mob, being in such a psychotic frenzy, there could only be one outcome…

And that it was, two limp lifeless bodies lay on the rivers edge by twilight.

Forrester, Strachan and Smithy knew of what had happened but had made no appearance, hiding from the baying mob, clever or cowards, would they have made a difference?

The following morning, the healing began. Within days Athole had awoken and was back in the world of the living. He grew stronger and stronger and fully recovered.

One day, soon after, he discovered the truth……

He walked from the village that following dawn……....

The Bird in the Golden Cage

“Good morning folk!!!!!” I roared into the microphone, which was in turn passed out to listening ears of my audience. “It’s another beautiful day with temperatures in the twenties. White fluffy clouds and songbirds all over the sky singing their songs of joy! Let’s start with “Another Day in Paradise” by the inimical Phil Collins.”

The sweet voice of Phil drifted through the air, brightening people’s lives and making everything a little more bearable.

As the song finished I sprang into action. “It’s Dave Millar, the D.J. with the silver tongue. We’ll be ploughing through some raves from the grave, some hits from the past and some melodic melodies. We will have a phone - in and you can tell me all your thoughts on a topic I will give to you after this hit by Cilla Black; “Anyone who had a Heart!””

“Anyone who had a heart, would look at me and know that I loved themmmmmm…..!” I crooned along, totally ruining the song for any fan. The old ones were the great ones, I always thought. Memories of the past, golden summers running along golden beaches, endless days and gallons of ice cream. Watch it, I thought to myself, reminiscing is a trait of the old.

And so the morning rolled on with song after ballad after anthem and time passed.

“Ok people, today’s topic for the ‘talky talky phone – in  debate’ is, mmmmmmm.” I deliberated, I thought that I had a good one but imagining some of the phone calls I decided to aim a little higher, not too high just a bit more mentally demanding.

“Irony, which today’s chat will be all about. And listen everyone, irony is not what you build bridges and ships out of. It is a figure of speech in which what you say is the opposite of what you mean or it can also be an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected. It’s like me saying to someone, “great party!” when it is actually a flop! Or a fire engine catching fire. You know what I mean ……! Now, lets have a bit of music before the first call. How about Good News Week by Hedgehoppers Anonymous?”

The phones remained silent. Had I tried to be too highbrow? I wondered. Should I have gone for something that had been hashed and rehashed, but was safe? I was on the point of changing the topic for ‘Your favourite film’ when a light shone on one of the telephones on my desk.

“You are through to Dave Millar, the D.J. with the silver tongue. What do you want to share with us?”

I could hear breathing on the other end of the phone, so I knew there was someone there.

“Yes, yes! Do you want to say something?” I shouted into the silent void.

“Is this irony thing like a joke or something?” the voice hissed.

“No,” I replied. It is supposed to be the very opposite of the situation!” I cried, exasperated.

“Oh, I see,” said the caller. “It’s like me calling a black cat, white?”

“No, it is more subtle than that.” I could see this situation deteriorating fast.

“Let’s play a record and then take up the thread afterwards? Eh? Here’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” by Leonard Cohen?”

I wracked my brain. How could I pull the potatoes out of the fire and save the situation? There had to be a solution.

Leonard moaned to a close and suddenly I had dead air.

“Well that was good wasn’t it?” I quickly said into the microphone.

“Is that you using the irony thing? asked my pesky caller. “It was pretty depressing.”

“No, well yes if you happen not to like Leonard Cohen. Personally I like him.” I interjected a bit testily.

“Well professor,” the caller laughed. “How about you giving your listening public a personal example of this, what did you call it? Irony”

I had been out manoeuvred. Damn it, I was in control! I thought angrily.

“Right you got it…..what’s your name?” I shouted.

The voice deepened and for a moment it sounded echoey.

“You must know your Bible, professor. My name is Legion for we are many.”

“Very funny. OK I’ll call you Leg for short. Is that OK?” I would show the bugger.

“OK with us prof,” came the reply.

“Well, I used to work for Radio KLS and had a very popular evening show. The audience was in the thousands and I was invited to attend civic functions, garden parties and shows. My salary was in the thousands and I drove a very expensive car.

I lived in a very expensive neighbourhood in a five bedroomed villa complete with swimming pool. Life was good and to quote a song, the living was easy.”

Leg chuckled. “So what happened? How come you got kicked out of Eden?”

“There is always some flaw in the most expensive diamond, a worm in the rosy apple, the …”

“Ok prof,” interrupted Leg. “We get the picture, get on with the story!”

“First some music, Madonna singing “Like a Virgin”,” I had to stay in command of my audience. I was no puppet awaiting the pull of the strings.

As the music faded there arose an expectant hush. Tangible like the expectant silence as a film or play starts.

“Jessica was my wife. I had married her after my twenty first birthday and for a few years we lived happily. Sharing everything, experiencing together the joy of two people being one entity. She spoilt me and I ruined her. I bought her jewellery, cars and took her on holidays. Nothing was too good for her in my eyes.

Then, KLS hit problems and several of my co workers had to be laid off. I was forced to take a severe cut in my salary, but I held onto my job, although my work load increased. I had to fill in slots that my late colleagues had hosted. I was up early in the morning and often staggered in late at night totally exhausted.

Our bank balance was firmly in the red and my salary just about put food on the table.”

Leg grunted. “It sounds like you hit rock bottom prof. How did your wife take it?”

I made out I hadn’t heard his question and decided to set the mood. “A song from Richard Marx, “Hazard”.” A lovely ballad with words that bit into the soul.

It was easy to tell the story. Easy to drop back into the hell which our idyllic marriage had become.

“Unfortunately, my loving wife became a shopaholic,” I admitted brazenly to my audience. “My fault, mea culpa, I had introduced her to ‘the good life’ and she had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I begged her not to go shopping. I pleaded with her to attend therapy. We did not have the funds, but she was soon running up accounts in shops. She called it retail therapy and said that it was the only thing that filled my absence at home. I was trapped in my own Catch – 22. To stop my wife spending, I had to be home. Yet to earn money I had to be at work!”

I looked around the studio with the tape machines and the CD drives and wondered where reality stopped and fantasy began. I was recounting the tale of a failure – me, to an audience of avid listeners. I felt as if I was reliving a soap opera.

The electrifying sounds of Visage’s “Fade to Grey” heralded the continuation of the recounting of my shame.

“Finally, I decided to kill her. Yes, this may sound drastic but I could see me ending up spending the rest of my natural life paying for her shopping sprees. It was her mental aberration and nothing or no one was going to stop it peaceably. I hated her. I detested her for the misery that she had caused us. But I had to be clever and not get caught!

I planned for the perfect murder. One where I would appear totally innocent and have a watertight alibi.”

I picked up a CD, it was Barbra Streisand’s “Guilty”. It suited the mood and gave me a chance to sort out my thoughts. Barry Gibb’s deep voice gave the piece a sacred rendering. A kind of crying out of the soul to a higher entity for forgiveness and understanding.

“We’re back folks, so it’s on with the tale of woe.

 I decided that my strongest chance would be supplied by something that I knew inside out. Music was to be my alibi. My job, as its cradle. The one would strengthen and support the other. The plan was, I considered, foolproof.

I was to make up a tape recording of music and my chatter and have it running for two hours. During this time I would leave, carry out the dastardly deed and be back to the radio station before the tape finished. For all intents and purpose it would sound as if I had never left. That was the theory…..

That day I put the tape on the player and after setting my watch, pushed the start button. Instantly my inane chatter filled the air and with a final look round the studio, I made my getaway.

The streets were quiet as I made my way home. It was early afternoon and the evening rush home hadn’t started yet. I pulled into my drive and switching of the car engine got out and approached the front door. I unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. The house was as silent as the grave as I went from room to room looking for Jessica. Eventually I established that she was not there and I turned my attention to what lay about.”

Pausing melodramatically I broke the mood.

“Next bit of music is a request. Leg, do you or any of the ‘many’ want anything special played?” I waited expectantly.

“Prof,” came the reply. “Can’t you just get on with the story? We’re all dying (emphasis on ‘the dying’) to hear the end.”

“What sort of D.J. would I be if I didn’t play some music? Come on what can I titillate your ears with? Z.Z. Topps? Barry Manilow? The choice is yours.” I felt as if a million ears had tuned to my show.

“Ok Prof, Jimmy here would like to hear some Frank Sinatra. Have you got any of his recordings?” Leg growled.

“Uuhhhhh! I am afraid Frank Sinatra is not a favourite of mine, Leg. What about Enya?” I spluttered, caught out for a moment.

“Whatever prof, but what you got against Sinatra? In my book he’s a fair singer”

The sweet voice of Enya echoed around the studio and out into the airwaves. I was once again transported back to my past. A summer day, a light breeze and a beautiful girl on my arm.

Eventually “Orinoco Flow” faded off into silence and for a brief second I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a precipice.

“The denouement or for ‘non profs’, the end game. Dave Millar’s plea for understanding.

As I had said, the house was empty, the bird had flown, but not without leaving me a message. A pile of shopping bags full of clothes lay on the settee and I knew that my dear wife Jessica had been on another of her shopping sprees. I felt my temper rising. I was ready for the deed. She had pushed all the right buttons.

The dining room table was set for one and a note sat propped up against the tomato ketchup.

“I have left your tea next to the sink” the note read. I looked into the kitchen and saw four potatoes (unpeeled), a tin of corned beef (unopened) and a pile of peapods (unshucked).

“We should never have married,” the note continued. “We are totally incompatible and you make my life a misery. I tried to ignore your penny pinching ways by going shopping but realised that you would only blow a gasket ….again. So I left the pretty things that I bought and I’m leaving you ….forever.” I could not believe my eyes. The bitch! I ripped up the note into a hundred pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

I couldn’t stand it any more; I rushed out the door and made my way back to the studio. My sweet wife had outsmarted me, I had planned her permanent demise carefully and everything had turned cone shaped. I fumed and smacked my forehead with my hand. I had never been so angry.

Halfway back I decided to check with my alibi. I turned the radio on and tuned it to KLS. Frank Sinatra had just starting singing and I hummed along as I made my way back. I would find Jessica, even if it took a lifetime and I would make her sorry for ruining my life. No one made a fool of Dave Millar as she would find out.

“Regrets I’ve had a few

But then again too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption”

 Frank Sinatra’s melodious voice sang on.

“I planned each charted course

Each careful step along the byway

And more, much more than this……”

I prepared to deliver Sinatra’s line in my own out of tune voice.

“I did it my way..way..way..way..way..way”

The bloody tape had stuck and it sounded if Frank had developed a very bad stutter.

I pushed my foot down on the accelerator and raced back to the studio. I eventually snapped the radio off as the repeating word started sounding accusatory.

I eventually drove through the gates and as I did I turned the radio back on to see if my gaff had been discovered. The dulcet tones of one of our junior D.J.’s voice literally poured honey like from my speakers.

“Hi there KLS folks, this is Cindy Sweeter. I’ve taken over from Dave while he is absent. I’m sure he’ll be back in a while.”

I hoped so too, but doubted it  and this was confirmed when I stepped into KLS’s foyer to find the radio manager, Ben Beasley  waiting for me with two burly security men. I was fired on the spot and was escorted to the door by the guards.”

“Ok prof,” Leg said over the telephone line. “Where does the ironic bit come in?”

“Don’t you want a bit of music first?” I suggested. “A few verses of some ballad to increase the tension.”

“Prof!” growled Leg threateningly. “Get on with it……!”

“Well, after a few days I began to think Jessica’s departure had been the best thing to happen. No more shopping sprees. I got my redundancy money and I got a little from the Social. I had decided to sell the house to try and reduce the bills that Jessica had run up, when I received a phone call from Jessica’s mother. She had not heard from her daughter for a while and wondered if everything was alright. She gasped when I told her Jessica had left me and asked where she had gone. I of course could tell her nothing and so it was a tearful mother in law I said goodbye to.

A day later Jessica’s father called at the house and demanded to know where his daughter was. He had driven a couple of hundred miles to get there and he wanted answers!

After that things went from bad to worse. Jessica’s parents brought the police in and I had to give them a statement. They canvassed my neighbours and learnt about our verbal battles that were loud enough for the whole street to hear. People gossiped and speculated that with the police involved I had to have done away with my wife. No one had seen her since that day she had left me and soon the police had obtained a warrant to search the house and garden with cadaver dogs. They found nothing, but I was taken into custody.

The one thing that completely weakened my defence was that blasted tape I had made. It was to be my alibi and ironically,(I emphasised the word for my listening public) it was that which proved my undoing. Rather than proving that I was in one place rather than another, the tape proved that I was elsewhere when I should have been in the studio. The police regarded it as prime evidence of my guilt.

I employed a lawyer to plead my case but even with no body, the prosecution proved to the jury that I was guilty.

And that gentlemen, is why I am now your D.J. at San Quentin Prison and will be here for all my natural life. Imprisoned not by guilt but irony!”

There was a hush as I paused and then the silence broke and I was beset by telephone call after telephone call from my fellow prisoners, who too, were innocent and had been trapped by irony.

As I took the last call and answered the last plea for understanding I played the last record for the day – “Mad World” sung by Gary Jules. The words made sense so I realised I wasn’t completely sane or whatever the definition of sane is. I picked up the microphone and delivered my epilogue.

“Good night my princes, this Dave Millar your D.J. signing off for the night.

 Irony was today’s theme and whatever happened to me and how it panned out, I think it all comes down to being let down by Jessica ………………………..and Frankie!