The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
Lena smoothed the paper out gently on the flat centre of the steering wheel in front of her. The little sheet of paper was torn from a notebook, a rough edge on one side.
She had spotted it, tucked in beside the gearshift, as she’d been driving, and immediately pulled over to the side of the road to retrieve it.
Robtars
Nutk
Qlfoof
The hieroglyphics DID mean something to someone – they meant something to Ben, to whose unmistakeable hand the squiggles belonged. The rounded letters backed over one another, crashed into each other, fell in a heap over the note-paper lines.
It would be funny if…it were funny.
But without Ben to translate the undecipherable; to race the cart down the supermarket aisles to find the robtars (potatoes?), the nutk (milk, probably), the Qlfoof (catfood, almost certainly); to haul the green bags back to car – well, it wasn’t very funny, really.
A familiar panic engulfed her as she ransacked the paper for clues – there must be an answer to the incomprehensibility her life had become, and where more likely than here in his very own handwriting?
Remembering to take large gulps of air, she folded the little list carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
She leaned far over to check under the seat to see if there was anything else, anything at all, anything that could give her what she needed.
She straightened, combing a lock of unruly hair back with her hand. She placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of her. She carefully checked the rear view mirror behind her, then slid the car into gear.
She would go on.
Monday, 17 January 2011
Sunday, 16 January 2011
The Agent - by Rick
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone. Otherwise why would they be there, why would the paper be all crumpled, and why would it be sitting in my wastepaperbasket. I call them hieroglyphics but technically they may not be. But they look like those little bird pictures, wavy lines, pharaohs sort of turned in profile that you see on Egyptian tombs. Of course I’m not an expert, and it could be some sort of code.
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Message from the bottom drawer (Kerry)
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Chapter 1 – In the beginning there was the word - By Rick
“Religion?”
“You?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m angry”, I replied. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.”
“Network, 1976 with Faye Dunaway and William Holden. Oh that was one of my all time favorites.”, Jim gushed.
“But doesn’t Rick have to kill himself?”, Sharron continued. “Hey maybe that’s how he’s going to start his new religion. He’ll commit suicide on national television. Sorry Rick. That’s already been done. Besides how can you start a new religion if you’re dead?”
“Wait, wait.”, Lumpy leapt in. “That’s where we come in. Jesus didn’t start Christianity, his disciples did. We’ll have to be his disciples after his death. But I don’t know. Bakeranity doesn’t sound like much of a name for a religion. I think we would make pretty cool disciples though. Might work.”
My friends were on a roll. At this moment I’m using the word “friends” guardedly. I guess I should have known better than to start a serious discussion with the Thursday Night Philosophers. As if he was reading my mind, Dennis chimed in with “People, people stop. You’re not taking Rick seriously. He’s more in to Enron Hubbard than Jesus. Maybe it’s going to be Scientology II and he’ll ditch us all and take up with Tom Cruise and Paris Hilton. That’s it isn’t it Rick. This is your way of telling us that it’s over, you’re moving on. We’re not good enough for you anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘anymore’? I’m deadly serious and hold off on the wise-ass for a minute. I’m going to start a new religion. Somebody’s got to and since I thought of it, it’s up to me.” I shut up and downed the rest of my Guinness.
Apparently I’m a lot wittier than I thought. They all burst into hysterical laughter. I think Lumpy came close to pissing himself because he flew off to the john faster than if the waitress had come around with the bill. When he came back the others were still chortling to themselves, except maybe Sharron who was giggling like a silly school girl.
Dennis spoke up first. “For Christ’s sake Rick. Oops. Maybe I should have said for Rick’s sake. Oh no, we’ll need a whole new collection of swear words.” The Four Stooges let go with another round of knee-slapping laughter.
“Done yet?”
They weren’t. My wit set them off even louder. Assholes!
Finally Sharron sobered up, well sort of, and said “C’mon Rick. You’re a devout atheist. How can you be the one to start a new religion?”
“So this will be a religion without a God. Maybe religion isn’t the right word but I’m not sure what else to call it. What we need is something for people like us, something like a church where people can gather together and get inspired and talk about important things.”
“A religion without a God. Let me sit with that a bit. But doesn’t a religion need some sort of faith in something, some sort of moral code or belief?” she added.
“Look I haven’t thought too much of this out yet, but yes of course it needs a moral code. I’m not sure about a faith or a belief. Those notions go along more with a superpowerful being so whatever we come up with, it would have to be something a bit more realistic.”
The yokels quieted down a bit and actually looked as if they were thinking about what Sharron and I were saying. Lumpy broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘a bit more realistic’, and what do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Realistic means real Lumpy. You know, things like a glass of beer or a Porsche. Not some notions that come out of the beyond that people are supposed to take seriously. And by ‘we’ I mean us, the Thursday Night Philosophers. From time to time you four show signs of having IQs that get into 3 digits.” I was still smarting and needed to jab and poke a bit more. Nobody cared, nobody bit.
Dennis was next. “Ok RB, so you’re serious and we should start a new religion. Can you enlighten us as to where this out-of-left-field bombshell came from? You’re a software analyst, not a theologian. What has you thinking about religion at all?”
“Good question Den. Here let me show you what got by blood boiling.” I pulled out a newspaper article that I had saved from this morning’s paper and unfolded it onto the table. The headline sneered out at us.
Faithless are coarse, uncaring and without purpose, says Cardinal Snelling
“I saw this headline as I was drinking my breakfast coffee and went ballistic. I’m still not sure why I reacted so strongly but I did. I read the whole article a few times and every time I did I got angrier. It was as if the headline ended with ‘And I’m talking about you Rick Baker.’ I reacted so personally to it and yes Jim, I was just like what’s his name in Network who suddenly snapped and yelled out the windows that he just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m aware of how irrational this all sounds. I mean it’s just a newspaper article about what some Roman Catholic high and mighty said and it’s not like it hasn’t been said before. But somehow I got what he was saying and it insulted me. It insulted me to the heart of my being and I spent the whole day thinking about it instead of working. I downloaded the full text of his speech just to make sure it wasn’t some exaggerated misquote intended to get people like me to write letters to the editor. And it’s what he said and worse. I brooded all day and then tonight it all came out.”
“I think what got to me was that this spook-worshipper is serious. He really does think that about the faithless of the world. Read through the article. Wherever you find the word ‘faithless’ or ‘secularist’ or whatever, substitute the word ‘Jew’. Would he have dared to say that in public? Wouldn’t the media have been all over him in an instant and pulverized him in their editorials and commentaries? Yet I scoured the internet, watched some of the TV newscasts before coming here and other papers and not a word of condemnation or ever mild criticism from anywhere.”
“Amigos he’s attacking us. He’s saying that we are ‘coarse, uncaring and without purpose’. Or look here, that we have‘… nothing but fear to distract themselves from the fact that without God the universe has no objective purpose or meaning. Nothing beyond the constructs they confect to cover the abyss’. I still don’t know why I got so bloody outraged but I did. All bullshitting aside, you guys are not coarse, uncaring and without purpose. We’ve been meeting almost every Thursday for 17 years now – I worked it out – and we’ve covered pretty much every topic I can think of from the profound to the ridiculous so I think I know you. The man is an idiot or a liar or both and we are the target of his abuse.”
I stopped speaking to catch my breath and cool down a bit. “Maureen another round here”, I said as our server went by.
Nobody spoke. I could see that no one was bored or had tuned out. Something I said had touched a chord although I didn’t know yet which one. As Maureen set our drinks down, Lumpy broke the silence. “Rick we all really got how pissed off you are at this. And I think I can speak for the others if I say that we get that this Snelling is really putting us down. But an angry reaction to something isn’t enough to start up a religion or whatever you want to call it. Have you really got something more in mind or is this just a well-deserved rant and a good night’s sleep will settle you down? Where do you see this going?”
Lumpy aka Morris Glickman was our token theist, a lapsed Jew who hadn’t been to a synagogue since his Bar Mitzvah. He was also a very successful lawyer and our adjudicator when our discussions got heated.
“Lumpy I’m not sure. I’ve never felt like this before and I just have this sense that this is important to me and it’s not going to go away. Not ever.”
“So let me put this on the table. I’ll go away until next Thursday night and think about all of this. I’ll write a few things down and bring them to our next session. If what I say grabs all four of you, we can spend the night talking about it. But it has to be all four. If even one of you is hesitant we’ll drop it for the TNPs. Then I’ll go over what ever I come up with and bring that back for next week. And we’ll keep doing this until I either run out of steam or one of you votes nay.”
Lumpy drained his glass and stood up. “Ok Scheherazade. I’m in. Lady, gentleman. I’m calling it a night. Rick I await next week with dare I say piqued enthusiasm.”
“Yeah that’s it for me too people.” Jim said. “Next week for sure RB. I’m with Lumpy.”
“Me too.” Sharron and Den chimed in together.
As they filed out I sat there wondering what in hell I had done. As Maureen brought the bill over, I realized that they stiffed me for the tab!
“See you next week Dudes.” I thought to myself.
“You?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m angry”, I replied. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.”
“Network, 1976 with Faye Dunaway and William Holden. Oh that was one of my all time favorites.”, Jim gushed.
“But doesn’t Rick have to kill himself?”, Sharron continued. “Hey maybe that’s how he’s going to start his new religion. He’ll commit suicide on national television. Sorry Rick. That’s already been done. Besides how can you start a new religion if you’re dead?”
“Wait, wait.”, Lumpy leapt in. “That’s where we come in. Jesus didn’t start Christianity, his disciples did. We’ll have to be his disciples after his death. But I don’t know. Bakeranity doesn’t sound like much of a name for a religion. I think we would make pretty cool disciples though. Might work.”
My friends were on a roll. At this moment I’m using the word “friends” guardedly. I guess I should have known better than to start a serious discussion with the Thursday Night Philosophers. As if he was reading my mind, Dennis chimed in with “People, people stop. You’re not taking Rick seriously. He’s more in to Enron Hubbard than Jesus. Maybe it’s going to be Scientology II and he’ll ditch us all and take up with Tom Cruise and Paris Hilton. That’s it isn’t it Rick. This is your way of telling us that it’s over, you’re moving on. We’re not good enough for you anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘anymore’? I’m deadly serious and hold off on the wise-ass for a minute. I’m going to start a new religion. Somebody’s got to and since I thought of it, it’s up to me.” I shut up and downed the rest of my Guinness.
Apparently I’m a lot wittier than I thought. They all burst into hysterical laughter. I think Lumpy came close to pissing himself because he flew off to the john faster than if the waitress had come around with the bill. When he came back the others were still chortling to themselves, except maybe Sharron who was giggling like a silly school girl.
Dennis spoke up first. “For Christ’s sake Rick. Oops. Maybe I should have said for Rick’s sake. Oh no, we’ll need a whole new collection of swear words.” The Four Stooges let go with another round of knee-slapping laughter.
“Done yet?”
They weren’t. My wit set them off even louder. Assholes!
Finally Sharron sobered up, well sort of, and said “C’mon Rick. You’re a devout atheist. How can you be the one to start a new religion?”
“So this will be a religion without a God. Maybe religion isn’t the right word but I’m not sure what else to call it. What we need is something for people like us, something like a church where people can gather together and get inspired and talk about important things.”
“A religion without a God. Let me sit with that a bit. But doesn’t a religion need some sort of faith in something, some sort of moral code or belief?” she added.
“Look I haven’t thought too much of this out yet, but yes of course it needs a moral code. I’m not sure about a faith or a belief. Those notions go along more with a superpowerful being so whatever we come up with, it would have to be something a bit more realistic.”
The yokels quieted down a bit and actually looked as if they were thinking about what Sharron and I were saying. Lumpy broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘a bit more realistic’, and what do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Realistic means real Lumpy. You know, things like a glass of beer or a Porsche. Not some notions that come out of the beyond that people are supposed to take seriously. And by ‘we’ I mean us, the Thursday Night Philosophers. From time to time you four show signs of having IQs that get into 3 digits.” I was still smarting and needed to jab and poke a bit more. Nobody cared, nobody bit.
Dennis was next. “Ok RB, so you’re serious and we should start a new religion. Can you enlighten us as to where this out-of-left-field bombshell came from? You’re a software analyst, not a theologian. What has you thinking about religion at all?”
“Good question Den. Here let me show you what got by blood boiling.” I pulled out a newspaper article that I had saved from this morning’s paper and unfolded it onto the table. The headline sneered out at us.
Faithless are coarse, uncaring and without purpose, says Cardinal Snelling
“I saw this headline as I was drinking my breakfast coffee and went ballistic. I’m still not sure why I reacted so strongly but I did. I read the whole article a few times and every time I did I got angrier. It was as if the headline ended with ‘And I’m talking about you Rick Baker.’ I reacted so personally to it and yes Jim, I was just like what’s his name in Network who suddenly snapped and yelled out the windows that he just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m aware of how irrational this all sounds. I mean it’s just a newspaper article about what some Roman Catholic high and mighty said and it’s not like it hasn’t been said before. But somehow I got what he was saying and it insulted me. It insulted me to the heart of my being and I spent the whole day thinking about it instead of working. I downloaded the full text of his speech just to make sure it wasn’t some exaggerated misquote intended to get people like me to write letters to the editor. And it’s what he said and worse. I brooded all day and then tonight it all came out.”
“I think what got to me was that this spook-worshipper is serious. He really does think that about the faithless of the world. Read through the article. Wherever you find the word ‘faithless’ or ‘secularist’ or whatever, substitute the word ‘Jew’. Would he have dared to say that in public? Wouldn’t the media have been all over him in an instant and pulverized him in their editorials and commentaries? Yet I scoured the internet, watched some of the TV newscasts before coming here and other papers and not a word of condemnation or ever mild criticism from anywhere.”
“Amigos he’s attacking us. He’s saying that we are ‘coarse, uncaring and without purpose’. Or look here, that we have‘… nothing but fear to distract themselves from the fact that without God the universe has no objective purpose or meaning. Nothing beyond the constructs they confect to cover the abyss’. I still don’t know why I got so bloody outraged but I did. All bullshitting aside, you guys are not coarse, uncaring and without purpose. We’ve been meeting almost every Thursday for 17 years now – I worked it out – and we’ve covered pretty much every topic I can think of from the profound to the ridiculous so I think I know you. The man is an idiot or a liar or both and we are the target of his abuse.”
I stopped speaking to catch my breath and cool down a bit. “Maureen another round here”, I said as our server went by.
Nobody spoke. I could see that no one was bored or had tuned out. Something I said had touched a chord although I didn’t know yet which one. As Maureen set our drinks down, Lumpy broke the silence. “Rick we all really got how pissed off you are at this. And I think I can speak for the others if I say that we get that this Snelling is really putting us down. But an angry reaction to something isn’t enough to start up a religion or whatever you want to call it. Have you really got something more in mind or is this just a well-deserved rant and a good night’s sleep will settle you down? Where do you see this going?”
Lumpy aka Morris Glickman was our token theist, a lapsed Jew who hadn’t been to a synagogue since his Bar Mitzvah. He was also a very successful lawyer and our adjudicator when our discussions got heated.
“Lumpy I’m not sure. I’ve never felt like this before and I just have this sense that this is important to me and it’s not going to go away. Not ever.”
“So let me put this on the table. I’ll go away until next Thursday night and think about all of this. I’ll write a few things down and bring them to our next session. If what I say grabs all four of you, we can spend the night talking about it. But it has to be all four. If even one of you is hesitant we’ll drop it for the TNPs. Then I’ll go over what ever I come up with and bring that back for next week. And we’ll keep doing this until I either run out of steam or one of you votes nay.”
Lumpy drained his glass and stood up. “Ok Scheherazade. I’m in. Lady, gentleman. I’m calling it a night. Rick I await next week with dare I say piqued enthusiasm.”
“Yeah that’s it for me too people.” Jim said. “Next week for sure RB. I’m with Lumpy.”
“Me too.” Sharron and Den chimed in together.
As they filed out I sat there wondering what in hell I had done. As Maureen brought the bill over, I realized that they stiffed me for the tab!
“See you next week Dudes.” I thought to myself.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Erica Jong is wrong... by Peta
“If you don’t risk anything, you risk more.”
God knows what she was thinking when she came out with this pearl of wisdom. And what the hell was I thinking when I followed this advice??? Erica Jong has a lot to answer for. Shame she didn’t think to follow on with advice that could be useful to us poor idiots who went down this path and now find themself, in a dark dank basement, with their hands tied tightly behind their backs, and their bladder about to pop it is so full with no relief in sight. And that’s just a few of my current problems. Add to that the splitting headache I have as a result of being thwacked over the head with a piece of four by two, the blood trickling down the side of my head from the wound and the bloody annoying itch in my groin that I cannot scratch. I think this officially falls into the category of “a bad day at the office”!
This PI lark used to be fun once upon a time but things have changed. The punters definitely have more street smarts these days and they are onto you like a shot if you slip up. And you can’t trust a bloody snitch any more – well, could you ever really? Probably not but at least you knew pretty well how to play ‘em. Jimmy Little used to be reliable. But now his old lady is in the slammer for B&E, his taste for the good life leads him astray. At least that’s what I figure got me here. He played both sides and gave me up for a few bucks. When we met over a beer just a day or so ago, he told me unequivocally that the job was going down tonight. So I stake out this crappy joint all night waiting for some action. My client has paid me pretty well (and in advance if the truth be known) to get some hard evidence, photos even, of the blokes involved in the heist. He doesn’t like being taken for a ride, no sirree. Word on the street was that this mob were going to do over his store and take the lot, everything. Unisured as he is, Mr Taylor was not happy with that prospect.
Enter good old Phil, PI extraordinaire. “No problem Mr Taylor, I can take care of that for you like a charm.” Ha! After a mind numbing couple of hours squatting in the bushes, they jump me. Who, I don’t know. One minute I am planning my next great seduction of Julie Filmore to pass the time and the next thing I’m here bound up like a Christmas turkey waiting to go in the oven, no escape route in sight. A fine predicament.
God knows what she was thinking when she came out with this pearl of wisdom. And what the hell was I thinking when I followed this advice??? Erica Jong has a lot to answer for. Shame she didn’t think to follow on with advice that could be useful to us poor idiots who went down this path and now find themself, in a dark dank basement, with their hands tied tightly behind their backs, and their bladder about to pop it is so full with no relief in sight. And that’s just a few of my current problems. Add to that the splitting headache I have as a result of being thwacked over the head with a piece of four by two, the blood trickling down the side of my head from the wound and the bloody annoying itch in my groin that I cannot scratch. I think this officially falls into the category of “a bad day at the office”!
This PI lark used to be fun once upon a time but things have changed. The punters definitely have more street smarts these days and they are onto you like a shot if you slip up. And you can’t trust a bloody snitch any more – well, could you ever really? Probably not but at least you knew pretty well how to play ‘em. Jimmy Little used to be reliable. But now his old lady is in the slammer for B&E, his taste for the good life leads him astray. At least that’s what I figure got me here. He played both sides and gave me up for a few bucks. When we met over a beer just a day or so ago, he told me unequivocally that the job was going down tonight. So I stake out this crappy joint all night waiting for some action. My client has paid me pretty well (and in advance if the truth be known) to get some hard evidence, photos even, of the blokes involved in the heist. He doesn’t like being taken for a ride, no sirree. Word on the street was that this mob were going to do over his store and take the lot, everything. Unisured as he is, Mr Taylor was not happy with that prospect.
Enter good old Phil, PI extraordinaire. “No problem Mr Taylor, I can take care of that for you like a charm.” Ha! After a mind numbing couple of hours squatting in the bushes, they jump me. Who, I don’t know. One minute I am planning my next great seduction of Julie Filmore to pass the time and the next thing I’m here bound up like a Christmas turkey waiting to go in the oven, no escape route in sight. A fine predicament.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
A new beginning by Peta
The fabric she had chosen was fine and soft but she couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding. Ruth held the fabric against her cheek. It felt like the skin of a baby but her reflection was disappointing. She wasn’t sure about the colour. She knew she had promised to go with yellow. Bright canary yellow - a new beginning, Jeremy had said, like the rising sun on a new day. Cheery. The polar opposite of how she felt. But there was no going back. She knew that.
Ruth struggled to pull the tired old shift over her head. She just had no energy for this. Her arms were trapped in the sleeves. She struggled to free them to no avail and dropped to the floor, overcome. She had been so controlled through the whole ordeal. Trying to be strong for everyone, including Jeremy not that he needed it. He had accepted the inevitability of his condition easily, too easily in fact. Just once if he could have yelled or screamed at the injustice of it all, maybe she could have too. But no. Jeremy soldiered on like he always did, right up to his last rasping breath. So Ruth had promised herself she would not break down. She must remain strong. It’s was what Jeremy expected. But now in an instant, it was all too much to bear.
The tears started, slowly at first, then a torrent. Her body collapsed, landing heavily in a heap on the floor of the cubicle. Her shoulders heaved, her breathing was ragged. Sinewy arms remained trapped sticking up to the ceiling. She shrunk within herself and bawled.
“Madam, are you alright. Do you need help?”
Ruth held her breath but could not respond. She heard the saleswoman retreat.
Her back found the wall and she rested against it. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Her feet popped out from under her bottom. Sore knees relieved, as she stretched them out across the carpet, synthetic threads stung her delicate skin.
Her bra was soaked from the waterfall as the tears continued to cascade over her belly, down to her knickers. She felt ridiculous and exhausted.
Ruth caught herself in the mirror. My god how awful she looked. Her once plump and joyous face was skeletal, her cheeks sunken and cave like. Deep dark ridges underlined her eyes. All colour had drained from her face. She looked deeply disturbed yet somehow comical, her hunched up arms above her head still caught in her cheap and nasty dress, bony elbows sticking out at all angles. Jeremy would be mortified if he could see her now. How undignified. But, Ruth thought, he will not see me now or ever again.
Pull yourself together woman and get on with it. The sooner this is done and over with, you can get out of here.
Ruth took a deep breath. Her body relaxed. Her arms slipped out of their straightjacket, the shift falling to her side on the mottled carpet floor. Dragging herself to her feet unsteadily, she eyed the yellow frock hanging on the back of the door. It was quite lovely and definitely met the criteria Jeremy had specified.
OK she said to herself let’s get on with it. Carefully she drew the silky garment over her head and shuffled her arms through the holes. The straps settled on her bony shoulders. The fabric floated down over her breasts, stomach then hips and settled snugly around her. There was no mistaking it was made to measure. The transformation was unbelievable. Ruth was mesmerised by the vision before her. The sad sullen face was uplifted. The yellow created an aura impossible to describe. Despite herself, Ruth smiled. Her face enlivened and her smile broadened. Her reflection laughed back at her. And she knew that Jeremy knew this was how it would be. All at once a surreal calmness settled over her. She felt strangely stronger, cleansed. This would be a new beginning.
Ruth struggled to pull the tired old shift over her head. She just had no energy for this. Her arms were trapped in the sleeves. She struggled to free them to no avail and dropped to the floor, overcome. She had been so controlled through the whole ordeal. Trying to be strong for everyone, including Jeremy not that he needed it. He had accepted the inevitability of his condition easily, too easily in fact. Just once if he could have yelled or screamed at the injustice of it all, maybe she could have too. But no. Jeremy soldiered on like he always did, right up to his last rasping breath. So Ruth had promised herself she would not break down. She must remain strong. It’s was what Jeremy expected. But now in an instant, it was all too much to bear.
The tears started, slowly at first, then a torrent. Her body collapsed, landing heavily in a heap on the floor of the cubicle. Her shoulders heaved, her breathing was ragged. Sinewy arms remained trapped sticking up to the ceiling. She shrunk within herself and bawled.
“Madam, are you alright. Do you need help?”
Ruth held her breath but could not respond. She heard the saleswoman retreat.
Her back found the wall and she rested against it. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Her feet popped out from under her bottom. Sore knees relieved, as she stretched them out across the carpet, synthetic threads stung her delicate skin.
Her bra was soaked from the waterfall as the tears continued to cascade over her belly, down to her knickers. She felt ridiculous and exhausted.
Ruth caught herself in the mirror. My god how awful she looked. Her once plump and joyous face was skeletal, her cheeks sunken and cave like. Deep dark ridges underlined her eyes. All colour had drained from her face. She looked deeply disturbed yet somehow comical, her hunched up arms above her head still caught in her cheap and nasty dress, bony elbows sticking out at all angles. Jeremy would be mortified if he could see her now. How undignified. But, Ruth thought, he will not see me now or ever again.
Pull yourself together woman and get on with it. The sooner this is done and over with, you can get out of here.
Ruth took a deep breath. Her body relaxed. Her arms slipped out of their straightjacket, the shift falling to her side on the mottled carpet floor. Dragging herself to her feet unsteadily, she eyed the yellow frock hanging on the back of the door. It was quite lovely and definitely met the criteria Jeremy had specified.
OK she said to herself let’s get on with it. Carefully she drew the silky garment over her head and shuffled her arms through the holes. The straps settled on her bony shoulders. The fabric floated down over her breasts, stomach then hips and settled snugly around her. There was no mistaking it was made to measure. The transformation was unbelievable. Ruth was mesmerised by the vision before her. The sad sullen face was uplifted. The yellow created an aura impossible to describe. Despite herself, Ruth smiled. Her face enlivened and her smile broadened. Her reflection laughed back at her. And she knew that Jeremy knew this was how it would be. All at once a surreal calmness settled over her. She felt strangely stronger, cleansed. This would be a new beginning.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Death of a Tree by Gordon
Death of a Tree
The saw cut true
The high back cut
And purring sounds
Abound around
The axe hit hard
The sound was crisp
An echo rang back
With a hardened crack
Again and again
The strike was deep
The chips flew high
And the scarf was nigh
The blows were hard
The wood wound back
But the handle clasped
Each with a gasp
A creak was heard
The blow was quick
A creak again
An upward strain
Which way to fall
Not yet we tell
But soon a tremor in the stem
Has all say their last Amen
A path was cut
Through the air
The green leaves waved
And a shadow heaved
The crash came soon
With crushing blow
Death was swift
And none could lift
As one life ends
Others begin
Nature is cruel
Yet never unkind
Gordon MacAulay
1 November 2010
The saw cut true
The high back cut
And purring sounds
Abound around
The axe hit hard
The sound was crisp
An echo rang back
With a hardened crack
Again and again
The strike was deep
The chips flew high
And the scarf was nigh
The blows were hard
The wood wound back
But the handle clasped
Each with a gasp
A creak was heard
The blow was quick
A creak again
An upward strain
Which way to fall
Not yet we tell
But soon a tremor in the stem
Has all say their last Amen
A path was cut
Through the air
The green leaves waved
And a shadow heaved
The crash came soon
With crushing blow
Death was swift
And none could lift
As one life ends
Others begin
Nature is cruel
Yet never unkind
Gordon MacAulay
1 November 2010
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