Room For One On Top

 A slight variant on a classic ghost tale.....

 

‎'Twas late of night and all had bade farewell to day and gone to bed at last,
Whence I looked from my boudoir out upon that night so dark,
And beheld a vision of a bus, that drove about a mist,
And from the back there came a call, the call that came was this...

"Room for one on top"

And with that the bus was started forth, and made to move away
But there came a frightful screaming sound that rings my ears today,
A burst of light and flame tore forth and split the very sky,
But echoing still about the night I heard that haunting cry,

"Room for one on top"

Well, upon the morn I quit my bed, eager for my work,
And forgetful of the night's events, I recoiled with a jerk,
As a bus pulled in to where I stood, with a grinding of the gears,
And I heard the voice of certain death that echoed all my fears,

"Room for one on top"

So I walked to work.

She Wandered Ever Eternally

She wandered ever eternally,
A twilight creature all alone,
Lost in thoughts and memory,
Unheard, unseen, untouched, alone.

Red wine drinking, every night,
Tomato juice at every morn,
She was a terrifying sight,
So alone, and so forlorn.

Sucking beetroot, never necks,
Bloodied wounds, she would not touch,
Her bloodshot eyes were full of specs,
She really wasn't up to much,

Vegula was a vampire strange,
Starving, weakened, but still a scary-un,
Far and near did this vamp range,
Vegula was a vegetarian.

T'was the Night We Call Christmas

Clement Clarke Moore's famous "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" reshaped a little.

This Christmas, as you tuck into turkey in the safety and comfort of your own home, spare a little thought in this festive season of goodwill to all for those whose Christmas will be just another nightmare.

Listen Here

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, Not even a mouse.
The children lay dying, their parents were dead,
There was no pudding, there was no bread.

Their stomachs distended, their eyes just a glaze,
They’d eaten nothing, nothing for days.
There were no presents, wrapped in a bow,
No crackers to pull, no songs about snow,

The water had gone, the medicine too,
the diarrhea had not, though the spasms were few.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bottles were slung, on the floor without care,
And stale cigarette smoke hung on the air

The children were quiet, though not asleep,
Even too frightened to cry or to weep.
The mother lay still, and wondered how long
The family would last, she must be strong.

The husband lay still, a heap on the floor,
Drunk and unconscious, yelling no more.
Frustrations suppressed, anger subdued,
Troubles forgotten, till tomorrow renewed.

No Christmas cards hanging, Just bills overdue,
No job and no future, in the dole queue.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The mother lay silent, eyes open wide.
But though she was breathing, there was no-one in side.

The father lay still, in a dreamless sleep,
But soon he would wake again, only to weep.
The knock on the door, that they’d been waiting to hear,
Had filled their hearts to the brim with despair.

Their world lay in pieces, a couple alone,
The daughter they loved, would never come home,
None of their friends, know what to say,
So they leave them to cope, alone everyday.

A road toll statistic, a common enough death,
A line in the paper, a family bereft.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bombs had all fallen, the night became calm,
And just for a while, no-one did harm.

Even the orphans had fallen asleep,
As images of their parents, danced in their sleep.
A shot echoed somewhere, a cry in the night,
Another dead soldier, to not carry on the fight.

An elderly woman, lies on the floor,
Softly crying, and watching the door.
The moon shining brightly, a ghost in the sky,
Then all of a sudden, a harsh screaming cry.

Bombs crashing, More danger, More Panic, More Killing
Shame on it, Oh stupid, Oh dumber blitzi-krieging.
To the victor, the spoils, to the victor the oils Now dash away, dash away, dash away hope.

And Suicide bombers, light up the sky
And the rest of the world, pretends not to know why.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Out Of Work - Again!

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

I'm good at my work; enjoy my work; actually try hard in my work. And people say I'm one of the best they've had. They said it today. Max, he's my boss - WAS my boss - he reckons I'm about the best worker he's ever had. But now I'm unemployed. Again.

I'm one of the long-term unemployed. I spend most of the year unemployed. Yeah, there are lots who call me a dole bludger so feel free if you like. But I'm not. I just find most employment too difficult. I'm not stupid, but I can't focus on it, you know what I mean? I can't stick at it.

But then, I get the kind of work that fits me like a glove. I like it, and I'm good at it. In fact, I reckon that I'm the best and most of my employers agreed. But they still sacked me.

No, I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't break the law. I'm not a risk to the public. It's never that. It's just that they reckon that I've hit my use-by date.

For about six weeks I'm the bee's knees and they love me. Then, it's good bye, we don't need you any more. Redundant.

So I hang up my Santa suit for another year and wait patiently for November to rock around again. Out of work. Again.

Grandad

"Hello Grandad. How are you today?"

'Grandad' just grunted. He always grunted. He was known by all the nurses at Bide-a-Wee Rest Home For Retired Gentle Folk to be their grumpiest resident. He never spoke to them at all - he just grunted. It was just his way. They said.

Mr Ernest Brown was actually not grumpy by nature. In fact, those who knew him found him to be very friendly, extremely witty, and the sort of man who was everybody's mate. That was the experience of those who knew him.

But the nurses did not know him. Which is why they called him 'Grandad'. And why he grunted back at them.

He was no grandad. He wasnt even a father. He wasnt even married - had never been married. He had not been engaged, or even had a girlfriend. And he was certainly no grandad.

Had the nurses read his records, had they talked to other residents of Bide-a-Wee, had they even talked to the Social Services who had placed him there, then they would have perhaps known a little bit more about him - known perhaps that he had a name, known that he was no grandad. But they did none of these things. They simply came to work, called him Grandad, and went home. None the wiser.

And things would have gone on that way if it wasnt for a little girl called Gina.

Gina had no family. She had been in a number of foster homes after her parents were killed when she was only a couple of months old. For some reason things had never worked out and she had spent most of her small life - about six years - being shunted from one home to another. She was alone.

At the time of the story, she was living with a good family called the Robinsons, but the years of instability had brought about a type of isolation - perhaps it was a protection. Although they cared for her, and tried to show love for her, she remained unaffected. She was alone.

One day Mrs Robinson called in to see her mother who lived at Bide-a-Wee. Her mother was feeling poorly and it was very much an emergency trip. There had been no time to organise a sitter for Gina, so Mrs Robinson had brought the girl with her.

And so it was that while Mrs Robinson sat by her mother's bed, holding her hand, Gina wandered away unnoticed, through the halls and relaxation areas of Bide-a-Wee, past the dining rooms, and ultimately to a small enclave in an out-of-the-way spot, favoured by one Mr Ernest Brown.

"Hello" said Gina.

"Hello" said Mr Ernest Brown

"Are you a prisoner here?" asked Gina.

"I suppose I am" answered Mr Ernest Brown.

"What did you do wrong?" asked Gina.

"I got old" said Mr Ernest Brown. But there was a trinkle in his eye.

Gina looked at him solemly, and he regarded her thoughtfully. She had big brown eyes and a face that held the sort of seriousness that takes most people a lifetime to gain. She had a story to tell, and one far beyond her years. It was a story of childhood lost, but not of adulthood gained. He smiled at her.

"Have you got any children?" she asked.

"No." said Mr Ernest Brown. "I never had a wife, so I never had any children."

"Are you all alone then?" she asked. It was more of a statement than a question though. She knew he was alone, had been alone all his life. In him she recognised a kindred spirit.

"Yes" he said. "Always have been, guess I always will be".

Unbidden, she climbed onto his lap. He winced at the pain as his arthritic legs struck out in protest at the unexpected weight, but he said nothing.

"Can we be friends?" she asked. "I don't have a friend".

He looked down at the little face looking deeply into his. He didn't have a choice, and he didn't want one.

"Yes" he said. "That would be nice," He paused, then continued "as long as you don't call me Grandad".

I thought I'd just ...

I thought I'd write a poem
But I couldn't make it rhyme,
I thought I'd write a novel,
But I didn't have the time.
I tinkered with a tune,
But I couldn't write a verse,
Then I wrote this ditty,
And things got slightly worse...

The Heros

It had been a long journey - many days in fact. As time had passed, they had become more and more irritated with each other. Armstrong, with his strong-arm personality was as domineering as Buzz was with his incessant humming. But the pale green globe lured them on in the darkness of sheer space and they knew that they would ultimately reach it or perish in the attempt.

And it had been a journey not without risk. The launch had always been the most dangerous part and had been nerve racking. If they'd lost speed or been even a single degree out - they'd have fallen into the darkness of space and to certain death. The angles - the trajectory - had to be spot on. It all had to be planned to the nth degree and implemented with mathematical precision. And it had been.

They had orbited their target globe several times before the final approach. The brightly lit side was chosen so that they could set down safely. Great holes and craters offered both promise and threat, but the time for deliberation had passed and anyhow, it really didn't matter where they landed so long as they landed safely.

Some back home had labelled it a luna-tic plan and said they were aiming for the stars. Yet others called it a stellar journey. But everyone knew that - regardless of the outcome - they would go down in history as adventurers and heros. The first to ever try to reach that great globe of green cheese in the blackness.

And so now they had landed and landed safely. And with the dignity that such an occasion warrants, carefully explored the surface. And ate the surface. Most importantly, ate the surface. The launch from the top shelf onto the reject cheese bin had been carried out perfectly and Armstrong Rat together with Buzz Mouse were entitled to gorge themselves.

A small cheddar for mouse, a large cheese for rat-kind.

Egypt uncovers 4500 year old tomb

....... and the seal shall be broken ..... sekkara...... and (shall) come the birth of death..... beast unknown..... and darkness shall break the light.....

A Good Imagination ...

It's hard to know where to draw the line. Do writers actually become their characters? Are feelings and emotions based in fantasy, or in the writers experience? Being schizophrenic essentially means not being able to tell fantasy from reality. But how many of us haven't cried at a sad film, or cheered when the hero beat the villain? How much of our life is actually imagination - how much is real and how much is fantasy? And where, and when do we draw the line?

I like winter - all those dark nights. You see, in the shadows of the night can be found the best mysteries.

But that has nothing to do with the problem at hand which is : what to cook for dinner? Perhaps braised steak, I thought, as I opened the cupboard door to hang up my overcoat. A huge bloody-eyed vampire loomed out at me with teeth bared. Yes, steaks would be nice.

In the kitchen, I opened the freezer and the fur-lined claw of an abominable snow man struck wildly at me. Damn. Only a frozen chicken and some of that terrible vegetable protein muck : Soylent Green. Yuk. I had a thought and checked the fridge - cold sausages I'd fried the day before! OK then, sausages it is.

A good imagination. That's what everyone has always said about me. A good imagination. I guess that's true. I know the things I see are only just that - imagination. They are not like hallucinations because I choose to imagine what I do. Life would be pretty dull without them.

As I was chopping up the sausages, I accidentally sliced off several fingers of a zombie who had sidled up to me. I put the sausages into a casserole dish with a little gravy. I may have added a little too much pepper because a banshee sneezed and fell off the top of the cupboard.

Having a good imagination is a very powerful tool. It certainly helps me get through the day which, I must admit, would be pretty mundane and boring otherwise.

I switched on the oven and roasted alive a couple of fairies who had been perched on the element. Almost at the same time, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a pterodactyl swoop down and steal one of the sausage slices but of course I was wrong. It was an alien spacecraft.

Mushrooms. Always good eating. I'd throw them in with the chopped sausages. I opened the larder door and took three or four large musshies, brushing off a couple of gnomes in the process. On my way back to the bench I bumped into the invisible man. I hadn't noticed him there before. I picked up the carving knife. Yes, I'll chop the mushies and add them to the sausages and gravy - a great addition to my hotchpotch hot pot! I checked the larder but apart from some rosemary, thyme, a small green gremlin and a packet of oregano, I couldn't really think of anything else to add.

Of course, I'd forgotten something. 'Taters' - potatoes. I should have peeled some but I couldn't be bothered. I took a small tin from the larder, opened it and emptied the contents (minus the 'juice') onto my chopping board. I roughly cut them into quarters and put them in with the sausages.

I turned and tossed the knife into the sink, unwittingly sticking the masked rapist in the heart in the process. I set the microwave for 2 minutes - everything was already cooked, they just needed heating up. I stepped over the warm corpse and waved aside a vulture that was trying to perch on my mixer tap. I'd leave the washing up for later.

Took out a plate ready for dinner. It was my favourite. I called it my 'John the Baptist' plate because it had a stain on it like a head. Or perhaps it was just the pattern.

The radiation alert on my mini nuclear reactor went 'ping' and then said 'Enjoy Your Meal'. I got a red tea towel out of the draw and flicked it at the bull that, true to form, came rushing towards me. I opened the microwave and took out the hot pot which smelt delicious and turning back to the bench fell over the corpse on the floor. The hotpot went everywhere.

There was a corpse on the floor.

There actually was a corpse on the floor. A real one. With a mask. And a carving knife sticking out of him. And he was covered in potatoes.

And sausages.

Aunty's Present

A cautionary tale with a spin...

It was a nice present. I expect. Hard to say for sure when the Aunt you never see sends you something you can’t explain.

It was carved out of wood and included just a tiny slip of paper saying ‘RANG A BOOMER’. Years ago, she sent me a computer club – it was padded and used for hitting the computer as a joke. With me being dyslexic, the computer always seems to need a good thump! Good old Aunty. I figured this was obviously similar - a telephone banger!

So, later when I called my friend and I got the digits mixed up, I gave the phone a satisfying whack with the boomer. They were right about the ‘boom’. I’d smashed the phone to pieces!

Angrily, I took the wooden phone-boomer thing to the rubbish dump and threw it as hard as I could.

And that's when it hit me.