Squigglings of a cold, rainy day

In the empty book, inkings squiggle
growing, curling, filling.
Pick of white in lines of grey
pictures billowing, milling.
Open wide are the empty spaces
wriggling 'round the lengthy laces.
Red on blue and red on black
Red on white a glaring track.

With a rip pull out the old,
Then to tip, write title bold.

I feel like a story. Do you? What shall we write today?
Atmosphere and mystery? Description vs action?
What shall we write today?
I know.
Here.
Try this on for size.

From frigid clouds, rain fell. Blustering wind made instant icicles on the dripping leaves. Birds shivered and huddled together in the bushes for warmth. The ground was mushy and every footstep squelched water out from the mud beneath the crushed grass, making it pour over the tops of well-worn shoes. He couldn't even feel his toes anymore.

In short, to say that it was cold was an understatement. An understatement as far-fetched as a small ant saying an elephant was big. Just like when the trader had told Angus that the coat was a weather-proof. All it was really doing at the moment was impeding his movement and weighing him down. It didn't even cut out the wind. Weather-proof his smelly, muddy sodden socks.

Miserable. That was the word. Miserable. And misery trickled down the back of his neck into his shirt in the form of a particularly cold stream of water. The trees were no shelter on a day like this and with this type of cutting wind, hills were no wind breaker. The air's blustery flights of watery fancy were just as likely to grow in strength when it swerved around the edge of a hill.

Angus pulled a numb hand from a pocket and twitched his nose at the wrinkly skin that made him feel like a prune and reminded him of the time when he was little, he'd been left in the bath tub and forgotten for quite some time. At least the bath had been warm. Angus couldn't even recall what the definition of warmth was right now and his teeth were chattering so loudly that he wasn't sure whether they were trying to talk to him or were determined to chew upon his tongue if he tried to talk. The only positive thing Angus could think of at the moment was the satisfying squelching noise his shoes made every time he picked his foot up or placed it down. The downside of that was when the mud was feeling particularly hungry and tried to keep his shoe to suck on, it made him stick an already mud-soaked foot into even more slimy mud. A gloomy thought laughed in his mind.

"At least something is still amusing you, peabrain."

Great. Now he was talking to himself. By the time he got home, he would be stark, raving mad and probably end up tearing his clothes off and running down the street shrieking, "EUREKA!" And that would be because he had actually found a way out of these hills and re-discovered the existence of his questionably warm house. Half the neighbours would shake their heads. The other half would begin to make the rounds to call up enough men to chase this insane, wild man covered in mud back into the hills; whereupon he'd be back to square one.

Yep. That could happen.

Or by the time he got home, he'd be such a mudball that people would mistake him for a hungry bear that was trying to break into a house. The women would shriek and scream. The children would hide in the cupboards and the men would stick him with all manner of spears, pitchforks, arrows and lastly cut off his head before they realised that his ears weren't high up enough on his head and that he has no hair on his face.

Angus could see that happening too.

Or by the time he found his way home, it'd be near an hundred years later and his little sister Audrey would be an old woman that barely recognised his shrunken, decrepit form...

Angus sneezed. He sneezed again and then gave a massive bellowing sneeze that tore the air from his lungs and his lungs from his body. How he was even still breathing, he did not know.

In catching his breath from the sneezing, he accidentally breathed in some stray water drops that had fallen off the tip of his thin nose or dripped off his sadly plastered hair. So he choked and coughed like a spluttering kettle.

Great. Now he was going to catch pneumonia and die out here in the mud, all forgotten and alone. Then one day, his skeletal remains would be found and they would say, "Here died a caveman," because he had nothing on him except for a broken knife and his stiff, water soaked clothes that were actually chafing at the tender skin around his groin and neck. In which case, the discoverers would assume he was some sort of escaped convict or slave and would place his remains in a museum or laboratory to be scraped and studied.

It was while Angus continued to make up gloomy stories about his demise that he fell through a hole.

Great, he thought and passed out.

If any of my very fond readers wish me to continue or expand upon any story previously touched upon in this blog, please drop me a comment and I will see what I can dredge up from the remains of my teacup that fell in a biscuit tin and got lost amongst the papers surrounding me. And just in case it is unclear, these posts are really solely for my enjoyment and amusement, which means that you can either enjoy them with me or move on and I won't take your desertion to heart. I may cry for a few days, but then I will emerge a caterpillar. Or not. Sharing deepens enjoyment, so do as you will. I will do my best to entertain you whenever I can. Just be patient or poke me a comment/note if you want more in a hurry. I may oblige you with a rendition of the latest radio song - off-key. It's to muffle for.

Don't tell me I am strange. I already know that. They say people aren't fond of crazy these days... but I say people are fond of uniqueness and eccentricity. Even the most down to earth person has their odd moments.

And my colleagues think me too serious.

Whatever.

the cat and the fiddle

The cat sat beneath the window listening to the child inside practising her violin. The violin screeched and yowled, once in a while producing a clear note before descending once more into screeching strings. All the while, the cat sat - not quite cringing. Every now and then it crept forward a few steps and then sat again, as if it were itching to do something about the sound.

Silence.

Finally, the neighbours pulled out their ear plugs and sighed with relief. Today's practice session was over. The little girl carelessly dropped the instrument and bow on her bed and skipped out her bedroom door, her duty to mandatory music lessons done.

Taking a careful look around, the cat crept to the window and squeezed in, sniffing the air for danger. The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted into the room and there was also a hint of the sour odour that denoted the possible presence of mice in the vicinity. The cat had caught them last week and so disregarded any thoughts of mice. Cookies didn't interest it either. It was the violin that it only had eyes for.

With a light leap up onto the bed, the cat purred to the fiddle that was shining in the light and whose wood grains striped the body like a tiger. Patting the violin into a comfortable place, the cat placed a paw over the scroll and plucked at a few strings. The strings twanged sadly and the cat shook its head. The poor thing hadn't even been tuned.

Awkwardly, carefully, the cat nudged at pegs and fine tuning knobs until it was satisfied with the sound. Then picking up the bow in its soft mouth - the bow still taut, the cat drew it across the strings and sighed, wriggling with excitement at the sound. Starting slowly, the cat played until it felt the vibrations buzzing through it head via the bow too much for its jaw to be able to hold on any longer, nevertheless attempting to finish with what it thought was a flourish.

There was a sharp intake of breath and the cat's head snapped up to look at the door. The little girl stood there, a perfect imitation of her mother standing just behind the girl, hands over their mouths. With almost a snarl at being caught like this, the cat snatched up the fiddle, flying out the window after a brief knocking struggle at the window and disappeared into the bushes. Before mother or daughter could free themselves from their amazement, the cat was back and gone again, taking the bow with it.

Mother and daughter rushed to the window, but saw nothing. No cat. No violin. No bow.

They never saw the cat again, but every now and then during a fine spring night, when the neighbourhood cats came out to play, they heard the sound of a fiddle playing and the cats singing with it.

see the stars

In the quiet of the night, I feel the the cool breeze walking. Like soft breath it caresses the sleeping in their dreams. I step outside to escape the dark closed in feeling between the walls of the house. Out here away from the cities and suburbs polluted with noise and light - out here in the quiet bush, I see the stars.

The stars streak across the sky, a spangled banner of light. They dance to tunes I cannot hear, sing songs too distant to be heard. The moon bathes all in pale silver, its soft light catching up the dew, endowing grass and bushes alike with the glow of other worlds. The stars are reflected in each drop, even the night creatures pause to stare. Here the open boundless lands breathe of more than I can bear.

Stories and pictures are spelt out in space, laid out for those with eyes to see. Every day they rest in sunlight, but night brings them out again. They speak of hope within the dark and courage in the face of fear. The stars tell stories of help without delay and victory against all odds, whilst holding back the enveloping black. Fear and darkness like to creep at night, but the stars hold these at bay.

So when at night I cannot sleep and fear tries to come sneaking, outside I stand within the breeze.
I look up and see the stars.

close your eyes

The soft rustling of fabric. A figure with flowing robes, dark as night, rustling by. Seeking. Searching.

Amelie closed her eyes and willed herself not to look. She could fill its intense stare passing over her in the dim room. In the moment, she forgot to breathe and lay as still as her pillows until she felt the figure pass by. She hoped the facility's sensors would pick up the intruder and sound the alarm.

Silence.

Amelie felt its presence fade. It was gone. She let out her breath. How come the sensors didn't pick it up? She was meant to be safe here, but now she knew. No where was safe. She couldn't stay here.

"Close your eyes and count to ten," she whispered to herself the same instructions her mother had taught her. "Stay still or you'll not fend/ the hunger that walks in the dark/ seeking Fleeters with teeth to mark."

Just in case it came back, Amelie stayed close to the floor and the dark shadows of her room walls.

One step.
Freeze.
Another slow step.
Freeze.

And on she crept until she had reached the door. Then standing behind the door, so that it would hide her if she opened it, Amelie pulled the door open and stood as still as a statue, eyes squeezed shut.

It was back.

A flutter of robes. A cold breeze trickled under the door and up Amelie's trouser legs, tickling her nose. She could not sneeze. Not now. Not here.

Doors banging and the tread of footsteps further down the hall echoed, carrying the murmur of voices.

Amelie could feel its presence. As thick and heavy as leather, turning toward the interruption. It slid away toward the noise.

An explosive sneeze.

Crouched in the same position the sneeze had left her, Amelie prayed. Eyes still tightly shut. It breezed the door aside and fluttered above her head, feeling for something closer to the ceiling. It was so close, she could feel the rippling hum of its muscles working. The stillness that sat within its arms descended about her and she could feel the fabric of its hands brushing first her hair, then her shoulders and then her legs. It was all around. Enveloping her.

The voices and footsteps came closer and Amelie could feel its indecision. It didn't know it had found her yet and it wanted to be certain of the thing it was feeling, but it didn't want the humans to see it. It's one eye was bent heavily upon her, trying to see the reflection only Skeeter and Fleeter eyes could give.

Don't drip. Don't drip. Amelie told her sweat. Don't drip. You'll give me away.


The people drawing near made up the creature's mind for it. It would come back later. It flowed up and into an air vent to hide and return later.

"Can you smell that?" asked one of the humans, sniffing the air.
"No. What?"
"That dusty, musty sort of smell."
"Oh. That. I thought it was just because the place needed some extra cleaning."
"Hmm. I'll tell Tran. Make sure it gets done. This place is older than the rest of the building."

Their voices passed by and faded. Amelie slipped out behind them, hoping It wasn't still watching. If It was here, it would eventually find her if she didn't get out quickly. The place was too small and enclosed.

The Deeker sat in the dark, dreaming of better days when Fleeters and Skeeters had been so abundant that every day was a feast. Now there was only one left and it knew it. Only one meal left before it was doomed to starve to death like all the others of its kind. A pity eating humans made it sick. There were plenty of those around.

tight pants

The lady glared from her waiting seat. She was late by 45minutes and I had been finishing up some business before calling her into the consulting room, making her wait maybe 5 minutes. I wasn't sure, because I was rushing to get around to her and didn't even stop to have a look at the clock. She wore a loose tunic and very tight tights that cut into the flesh about the knees, causing the skin to bulge out like an extra appendage.

"You made me wait," she spat, a little spray of saliva landing in my eye. Tapping her wrist, she said, "Do you know what time it is?"

"I'm sorry," I said, trying not to take an obvious breath and wipe the spit off my face, "but you were late and I was trying to get something I'd started finished before calling you in. Just come right this way."

"I was late? So? You people sit on your arses all day doing nothing. I have sore legs and have to walk all the way across the road from the car park to get here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," The distance from the car park across the road to the clinic was maybe 30 metres away. I really didn't want to show her into the room now, but gestured for her to go in and take a seat anyway, "but I wouldn't count seeing 18 patients a day as nothing. Now, you've said you have sore legs. Is that the reason you wanted to see me today?"

"No," she sneered. "I came because I had nothing else to do, but to hobble around and wait for you. I have multiple medical problems, but you people can never seem to do anything about them."

"There's a lot we don't know about the body yet. In any case, would you like to describe your problems for me to see if I can help you then?"

"What I need," the lady declared, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand, which was then wiped upon the chair she was sitting on, "is a massage right now. One that will last at least 2 hours and loosen up all the tight muscles from here to here," she indicated from the base of her neck to her feet. "Shall I take my clothes off now?"

"The maximum time one of these appointments can go for is half an hour and I am a doctor, not a masseur." I was beginning to feel somewhat irked and was starting to feel my hands itch with the need to slap her as if she were a rude child. "Why don't you describe your problems for me and then I will have a better idea of how I can help you?"

She talked about her multiple medical conditions from top to toe in a high, indignant voice, stating more than once that the government owed her a massage at least once a fortnight. Why the government owed her anything at all, I could not work out, as she had never had a job before in her entire life. She concluded with, "... all I really have is knee pain and if you refuse to give me a massage, then what use are you?"

And with that she flounced out of the consulting room, declaring loudly to the other patients in the waiting room that they were wasting their time in seeing me. I watched her go with a sigh of relief, hoping I would never have to see her again. One of my other patients, a regular with terminal cancer, chortled from her corner where she was steadily knitting.

"Maybe if she weren't wearing such tight pants she wouldn't be such a tight arse today."

I tended to agree.

(Please note that the characters in this story are entirely fictional and any resemblance they may bear to anyone in real life are entirely coincidental.)

hamburgers

Hamburgers, hamburgers, everywhere and not a one I can eat.

There are t-shirts and shoes and ties covered with them. Felt hats, sun glasses, pocket watches and stockinged socks, but not one that is edible. There are wooden carvings and marble statues, cast iron designs and still there's none to eat. Rings, accessories and all sorts of things, but there's not a cheesy whiff.

You'd think that at a hamburger convention, they would be selling burgers in their thousands to adoring and hungry fans. But no. Despite the few walking burger costumes and hamburglars, the only food here belongs in a health food shop. Nuts and fruits and salads to boot, there's nothing edible here. Not a greasy chip or even an oily fry, I'm so hungry I think I could die.

Where are the sweet halves of sesame buns, the squirts of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise? Where are the pickles, onion slices and meaty patties, oozing juicy fatness? Where are the stacks of processed cheeses made expressly for fast food chains? There's nothing here. I'll have to go. This is not the place for me. No gourmet pickings. No hamburgers feasts. No gorging 'til I'm bloated. There's not even a eating contest. This is no fun.

I've learnt my lesson. Next time, I'll know. There's not a chance I'll come again. Hamburger conventions are for string-bean sized health freaks who dream of being as round and healthy as me. I practised for this size and have daily eaten my weight in burgers. If no one else appreciates it, I'll not stay around for them to stare.

Hamburger, hamburgers, everywhere and not one that I can eat.

what neccesity does such language beckon

Narrator:
Olde Ben, a wandering bard, searches for an apprentice to whom he can pass on his knowledge and happens upon a small village. Noting by his appearance, where his trade lies, a crowd forms around him while he sings. After a few songs, he stops for a drink.

Olde Ben to his audience declares:
Answer me in verity my partition to thee-ward,
Is it not truth, thou art a grandiloquent steward?
For fame of such a notion hath fallen upon ripe ears
Deliver succinctly I pray thee, is such delight shared?
Many a crooked look befall those whom brandish such vernacular
Numerous words painted through pictures spectacular.
Or hast mine own enthusiasm laid wait to ensnare,
To prove for such things only myself dare to care?

Young girl rubs head and mumbles:
Oh goodness… I think I understand about 3% of that…

Narrator:
Olde Ben seeks the speaker of the reply, not having heard it clearly, shading his eyes with his hand. The crowd shuffles, mutters and ripples in amusement when...

Distant answer from back of crowd:
In verity I believe that by such language doth thou seek
To burgeon pride in one of mind to break unto one meek
Doth thou know not in such gails have I shared
The fall, the pun, the spooner, run
All these, Steward, I have cared.
Snare thy ears and pare thine eyes
For this notion, forsooth I've sought my lyres
And before the dawn is lightly done
Have words painted throughout the byres.

Narrator:
Unknown to Olde Ben, at the back of the crowd is a small group of people who are the town's regular entertainment. They are not amused with the competition as the town will not let them play with a visitor in town.

Olde Ben beckons:
Come hither, Friend, from distant place
Where eye light cannot see
And join me presently on creaking stage
I'll not charge thee a fee.

Distant reply:
Nay.
But thou wilt onward journey
For florists have we here
And no further need of spectaculars
Have we for those with ornate vernacular.

Narrator:
Crowd applauds as verbatim flies. There is nothing better than a good display in vocabulary than a good argument; and nothing so entertaining as a fight within one's home ground when you know the home team is poised to win.