block

type to choose a block

any one you’ve made

ready on my lips

smoke in our thoughts

smoke in our throats

songs for Luciani

Songs for Armanet

you may point and mock

And laugh at those who fade

Too poor for any tips

Salaries with lots of noughts

And those with threadbare coats

Songs for Luciani

Songs for Armanet

Pen

 

 

The pen is still in hand

Between the bitter tides

Life’s battles  are but bland

To sleep to slay to speak to strive

Cut and kill cool the ground

Skip slow and skate kite

In clouds or dreams never planned

How to make it through the night

And Watch the flames fury fanned

Stand and state the fight

Death will come and take its bite

Life is just moments of empty heights

Simple castles built on sand

January’s story

Solenne’s sorrows

January’s story

Trick or treat … Both

She woke up, slowly opening her eyes. The fog and fuzz faded. Up she got, rubbing the crusts out of her eyes. She grabbed a shower and freshened up.

Then she remembered that she’d forgotten to grab her brother’s phone and delete it. She grabbed some knickers and a bra, threw on some clothes and tiptoed to his room. He was, for once, up with the lark. Stomping back to her room, she plugged in her mobile phone and listened to the startling buzzes and beeps of the Twitter twinkles and Facebook feeds. Facebook was for losers nowadays, the new place to be was Instagram or Snapchat, and for the really crazy guys she’d heard rumours of Tinder. She’d never dared download that stuff, she knew she was worth more than quick love, but she understood those who did. Fear was in every pore of her, and there had been some disclosures made by her scumbag brother.

Rolling in, in waves were the photos from last night. She’d have to run the gauntlet of the bullying at school. Could she shrug it off, and say that the mistakes of the past made her the star of today? That sounded like a dogged plan. She glanced at the various feeds. She certainly was being shared around. The cat was out of the bag now. Her phone rang. It was Suzie. She was terse and not exactly avuncular, Suzie was dismayed  and flipped her lid. Suzie was going to call it all off this time.

She plodded downstairs to the kitchen and pushed her breakfast round the crockery. She’d have to set the record straight if she wanted her life to be intertwined with Suzie’s.

At the breakfast table her dad’s cufflinks winked in the weak sunlight, and that was somehow heartening. That something could give a glimmer of hope.

Her brother was looking smug, but Solenne was in bereavement. She put on an outward show of courage and her best balmy outlook face. Dad looked out the window at the birds, Solenne gave her smug brother the middle finger and the “look of death” and she headed out the door.

They were waiting for her at the forecourt of the shops next to the school. All her hopes of riding the storm were snuffed out. They paid scant regard to her pleas for mercy, bustling around her. She summoned up the courage to try to see it through, scuttling her and there like a crab. But it was downright impossible. “Fakes and forgeries” they shouted and called her foreboding names.

 

It was a gruff greeting , as they snatched at her, pushing her over. Kicks came in, grazing her head, before a car arrived, revving up the motor. Someone got out and rescued her, but she didn’t think she deserved it. A stalwart effort by…MIKE.

Later, after a long time crying in the toilets, when she’d calmed down from the various confrontations with “school fools” and had a discussion with the headteacher’s assistant things seemed better. It had taken nearly three days to get there though.

 

Going to school she’d faced stares and sniggers on the bus, and once at school some students thought it was their right to control and correct, comment and cajole. What was worse was that phone call from Suzie. It had nearly broken her when Suzie had told her that she didn’t want to see her for a while, maybe never. “How could she kiss that Mike, and what was she doing vomiting everywhere? Dressed up like that? What was she thinking?” It was clear then, that Suzie had some feelings for her. Just maybe that she’d broken Suzie’s heart a little bit.

Her attempts to set the record straight with Suzie were no better than those she made at school

She cried again. They had tagged her locker and after, a group had just crowded round. Chanting her and Mike’s names, poking, taking selfies. She’d stood there and held her head up high and given her best “so what” pose, but her chin had started to fall. Things started to get ugly, and a tussle started to break out. She was being backed into the corner.

Then, luckily for her teachers came in, calmed it all down, got the photos off the threads, eventually, even deleted them from her brother’s phone. Too little too late. The horse had bolted, locking the doors after was lame. Of course, the photos were shared and shared, until the next idiot’s moment of shame came. That takes time, unless of course you engineer it and help it along.

For a while she’d planned to set something up, so that she too could laugh at another’s woes. But she had decided that she needed Suzie back. How could she do that? That was the plan. She’d hovered on the edge of making a decision about which way to go, but sometimes it was just the person you fell in love with, not the gender. Anyway, she planned to ask Suzie. Tell Suzie. Beg Suzie.

 

What next? Damage limitation. Creating a wall of fog.

She tousled her hair, and grabbed her phone, and searched for an internet scrambler. That would stop any more disclosures.

She duly found one and popped it into the online caddy. It was small enough to fit into a bag, and easy to hide. She’d heard rumours that some teachers had these gadgets in their classrooms, despite their illegality

It was startling how easy it was to find these illegal things. The dark web was perhaps as dangerous as the jungle.

She’d get it delivered to a shop and pick it up there. It would take a few days. That would buy her time to try to see Suzie.

 

She sent a texto to Suzie and hoped to see her. She wanted to stand in front of Suzie or sit with her and tell her that she was in love. It sounded so melodramatic. She was afraid Suzie would laugh at her.

 

She’d picked up the scrambler from that dive of a corner shop. Plugged it in behind the radiators, but it hadn’t taken long before she got caught. Solenne was duly chastised. The scrambler was there, on the coffee table, and it was time for a discussion with her parents, who were dismayed. Again.

 

Back at home , after a harrowing few days, she was working on  a pitch to Suzie.

Suzie loved long walks. They could go rambling. It would give them a chance to be together, to chat away and not fret. Solenne mused about how it would go, picturing it all in her head. Her upbringing had been the solid normal one, where those thoughts of same-sex relationships were not exactly encouraged but tolerated nonetheless.

Her brother was being told off this time. Her dad had been told about the photos. She’d explained that she’d been ill at the cinema. It’d been good to try to rebuild the trust with her parents.

 

Ticking in the back of her mind, though was the mental image of the vicar’s wife drinking the vodka on Sunday. Would she spray it all over the floor, or spit it out like some crazy whale coming up for air?

The catch would be when they came. That would be close to Christmas. She’d have to pour the drinks herself, pouring in lashings of orange juice for the vicar’s wife so the chili in the vodka wouldn’t kill her. But Christmas was nearly here.

 

It had all begun when  the vicar and his wife, Wendy had come for an amiable visit, tucking into the crackers on the best crockery, flipping the cards they’d been dealt for the dusty middle class  game of bridge. She’d tried to pretent to be ill, but dad had his best cufflinks on and the twinkle was back.The only heartening thing was that Wendy had decided to drink a new cocktail. Solenne had put on her best face. Outwardly, she’d transformed herself into a model schoolgirl,pleats and curls. Inwardly she knew it was all forgery, and fakes, the words hurled at her buy her shool mates echoed in  her mind.Solenne didn’t believe in any of the words purported to be true in the Holy Bible.Well, maybe not all of it.

The evening was suprisingly sultry for the season, and the stress meant that she was sweating from every pore. Waiting for Wendy to drink the Vodka and orange of DEATH.

They all knibbled at knick-knacks and nuts,chatting away about this or that titbit of news.Wendy looked at her watch and said”Oh, Roger, its time to go! One for the road?” Solenne’s dad stood up, before she could cut in to pour the large vodka and small orange. A lavish dose. Solenne’s heart nearly stopped. But Wendy liked it, thanking everyone for a lovely time.

later, she chatted with her dad. Told him everything. How it had all gone wrong. Her dad hugged her, and said “Life is too short to waste, follow your heart”

It was watershed.

She phoned Suzie. They sobbed and spoke for ages.

The next weekend, Suzie grudgingly agreed to go on a ramble , the spells Solenne had cast in her dreams must have worked.. The moors were bleak, but romantic. Solenne gave a muffled apology, shame sinking down into her boots. She was forlorn, and fateful. But Suzie was indulging, and , like a thunderbolt from the blue, turned round and drew Solenne into her arms. Then….

 

 

Tune into next months episode

December’s story

Never make a promise you can’t keep

After all, it was her fault. It had been her idea to get drunk in the dead of night, and then her idea to sneak around buying alcohol with gawky Mike. They’d been caught red handed and their jinks were up. Tears started to well up and it wasn’t a night that she relished. She was a bit shell shocked as she muddled through the hurly burly of the busy evening to the date with the zombie scavenger.

.

How could she stop so low? A date with a living ‘Jabba the Hut’ Even Princess Leia escaped in the film, and she hoped likewise!

She’d wondered what to wear, fretting about a pleated skirt or a twin set, trying to look as much like her mum (and therefore as plain as can be) as she dared. The Hallowe’en plan hadn’t worked, and the disguise would now be slightly more cryptic.

She tried to assess the situation, thinking of what lay ahead. Mike’s breathe, like a dead kipper.

The bulge of his mass. Ripples in his fat. Sweat crawling down his fat neck.

It had become a living nightmare. Maybe Susie had a friend, and they could go as a foursome?

She picked up her mobile, and with a rattle and a squeak phoned up her friend.

She’d already tried the ruse, it ticked in her brain just as she spoke.What a howler. Suzie was the last dwindling hope, her bubbly personality and elegant hairddo. She’d been slushy on the phone, trying all the tricks to persuade Suzie to come, with a friend.

Gushing, she’d sobbed, pleaded and begged, to no avail. Suzie wasn’t allowed to come out. Her wager was lost. And even worse, Suzie wanted to cancel that burger, but then, had said that she might just come out next week.

Solene sat there in her private world. WTF.

So, time to get going.

There was no relent. She stifled her fears, and got her brother out of his room, no mean feat.

He’d been playing computer games for the last three months instead of living.

All the things living people did. Like wash. Go to the toilet. Brush their teeth. Eat food. In his room, green gas hovered above the dirty carpet, and here and there lay mugs and plates, stacked up, mouldy. Was that a dead body? Or a rat? Holy cow.

It seemed a shame to go around pigeonholing her sibling into the “geeks” gang, but the strains had built up , and his other worldly glow, acquired from lack of sunlight , meant he didn’t need to pretend it was Hallowe’en.

 

 

She’d daubed on bit of make up anyway and tried to think of a way to dismount the stead of despair. Best look stunning.

Her brother stifled a yawn. He really was allergic to fresh air. He’d taken a giant tuck box full of twiglets to nibble in the cinema, hiding them in his rucksack. What a dork.!

She needed a drink.

She’d taken a small empty spice pot beforehand, and carefully planned to empty it. She’d been looking for a small enough bottle so that taking a little Dutch courage in the form of dad’s vodka would be unseen.

A small enough bottle was found in the spice rack, and a quick glance around the kitchen to check, she’d very quickly filled it with a well-earned dose of vodka, and slipped it in her bag.

 

.

Later, she’d planned to lace the drinks with it when they went clubbing. If she had to be cuddly with Mike, perhaps vodka would help! She hoped it wouldn’t end in the sticky mess she was now in.

They got on the bus and rumbled to the meeting point, outside the cinema at 10.00. She’d primed herself for the meeting with plenty of perfume and she’d finally decided on the top with nice lacing.

 

They got to the cinema. Dread vented up inside her, disrupting her train of thought. They paid and then went inside the old sandstone cinema. She’d have to be on the same pew as Mike. It made her skin crawl just being in the same universe. And to top it all, her loser brother had been dragged out from his dorm, twiglet tuck box and all.

A plan. What she needed was a plan. She put her brother between her and Mike (Swamp Thing), and sat next to the unassuming young man. He looked sprightly. She waited until the film began.

 

She slurped and burped her way through the giant coke that she’d made Mike buy and held onto the cuddly toy he’d had to buy too. Flittered and flirted with the man next to her just to piss Mike off. But the guy next to her was either oblivious or gay, she thought. Oh well.

The boys crunched through the twiglets, but she hadn’t dared to swig on the vodka. Sometimes, the whirlwind leaves its traces and she didn’t want to have to end up clipping the hedge or worse, playing rounders with the next-door neighbours’ children as a punishment.

 

She couldn’t even remember the film at the end. Mike had insisted on a ‘little peck’ but it turned out to be like kissing the toilet plunger

just after it had been used to unblock the toilets when her dad had eaten a spicy curry.

They all went their separate ways in the end, no club, no drinks, no fun.

 

She threw up on the curb anyway. The kiss of the dementor kicked in.

Her brother, off course had taken a stunning selfie of the “kiss from the black lagoon”

and, being quick with those click mouse fingers from all those gaming hours, quick to take one of the vomit. Siblings are great!

Sometimes life had to be seen stoutly, and the fat had to be pared off from the fun, or we stumble into hard punishments. Helping her dad in the potting shed and mowing the lawn. The list of things that her dad had made her do, and still she was stupid enough to take a nip of vodka and pour into that empty spice bottle.  Her arms still ached from scrubbing the toilets.

Later at home she sneaked into the lounge and took out the spice bottle.

She strapped on her bike light onto her head like a thief in the night

and steadily, she poured the incriminating evidence back into the bottle. She tightened back on the screw cap and stood back to admire her work. This time, she wouldn’t get caught. Yes!

But then she noticed something floating on the surface of the liquid in the vodka  bottle. What was that?

She held the spice bottle up to the beam of light. It hadn’t been emptied at all! What was in it? With dread she turned the bottle to read the label ‘EXTRA STRONG CHILI GARLIC MIX”. Oh NO!

She read, glued to the spot “Guaranteed to be the hottest since 1884” The bottle went on, comparing jokily the spiciness as being “stronger than Chernoble AND Fukishima combined”

It was the one used for dad’s spicy curries. Oh fudge! Perhaps no one would want vodka for a while if she was lucky.

 

She sneaked back upstairs and hoped for the best. But then she remembered the next weekend, the vicar and his wife were coming, and they liked vodka and orange. She buried her head under her pillow and screamed into the mattress….

Tune into next month’s instalment

November’s story

November’s story
Never lie or cheat……
There they were in the kitchen, her father, looking at Mike and her, wide-eyed in disbelief, the
crunch of the salt shaker shards under their feet, cramped in the kitchen.
The microwave sounded the “PING” of death behind.

Mike looked rather non-descript, even a bit podgy as he ploughed rather demurely into his unrehearsed and rather prosaic speech. He began with circumspection, explaining that he had found the bottles as they walked along together, as they were coming back to do some study together. She’d heard better improvisations.
This sounded too vacuous for her father, who after hearing the rendition told them very dismissively of their ill-starred destiny as “dustmen and charlady if they didn’t come clean with the truth”.

It looked as if it was going to be a fiery aftermath.

She still clutched the bottles of alcohol and was getting flustered. The situation was fraught, only one thing to do against her dad’s badgering. They had to get out of the predicament so that her dad harboured no doubts, unless that was just a pipe dream.
The prognosis wasn’t good, as she pictured visions of her father’s retaliation, her scrubbing the toilets clean for the rest of her days.

Mike was matter of fact. He offered no retraction from my dad’s heckles. They may have been beleaguered, but perhaps the decoy could work.
Mike strenuously denied any wrong doing, babbling on about how they’d found the bottles near where the posse of down and outs hung out.

Mike and she had more chance of finding a needle in the haybale, but who knew, perhaps her dad could be mellowed if he didn’t fob them off.
Her dad didn’t buy it. “Hey Newshounds, you’ve had your moment to tell the truth. Here comes the juggernaut”.

Alas, they were slumbering. Their japes had been uncovered. Mike was ordered out, her dad had decreed that the coming of age, swanning around antics were patently finished. No more quirks, their plot was foiled, doom was looming. A throng of problems beckoned. She’d have to knuckle down and pull her socks up.
Her dad had been tipped off about the alcohol by the clean-cut Susie who roguishly had drunk too much with  her. Her dad had found Susie in the bath and wrung the truth out of her in the morning.
The rest of her fun filled life would now be called off.

Mike floundered and wound his winsome way to the door, where he fiddled nervously with the minefield of the door lock, until unexpectedly the door swung open so suddenly that Mike flew out the door, dented the dustbin, bounced off the garden shed and landed headlong in a gooey pile of manure.

Her dad laughed his head off, grabbing the bottles from her grasp. He was gimlet-eyed
now, albeit worried that Mike may have hurt himself, despite the naughtiness he’d been up to. Mike rubbed and scratched, itching to get out of the manure.

Dad barged out into the garden, hosed him off and sent him packing.

“No more singsongs for you, young lady”, shouted her dad, as he waved his finger at her and gave her a good dressing down. She’d be cleaning the house, right town to the doormat, for the rest of her days it seemed. She was gated, grounded and her phone was confiscated.
The tears stung, as did the shame. She’d be the living dead at school if Mike blabbed the truth, and if he didn’t she’d have to go to the cinema with him and watch Mike “the walrus” scoff rancid popcorn.

Like “Feeding time at the zoo.” In her mind pictures of animals ravinously scoffing down their food flashed by.

She needed some life hacks, and quick, or her life would wind up in a siding. But it was that attitude which had ended her up in this mess;
In hindsight they should never have started drinking with Susie or tried to hide the truth with Mike.
When we practice to deceive, what a tangled web we weave. Needless to say, the house was spotless and her days of joy scarce.

Now boyfriends and girlfriends faced heavy vetting by her dad, until dad’s thrall to punishment began to mellow. At school she was beleaguered, but looming on the horizon was Hallowe’en, and the date with Mike.

Of course, Mike was waiting in the background, trying to dovetail his way into the story too, as her dad had told Mike’s folks. He too had faced heavy seas, having to pay back in the aftermath. Even Susie who had been involved in the drunken antics but ‘fessed up, even she had faced retaliation from her parents.

The crocodiles (MIKE) had come, and they would devour the ducklings.(her)
It was time to face the music and ask her dad if she could be released from the chores and consequences of rash decisions. With a glint in his eye, he said “I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young lady”
She nodded and showed the timetable for the cinema. She’d go off to cinema, but …. Her elder brother would be with them, playing gooseberry. Even more shame.

She wanted the ground to swallow her up. She would be the laughing stock.
She phoned Susie and begged her to cook up a compromise. But having been caught red handed, Susie was reluctant to help out. She’d kept a wide berth. What was prominent in her mind was how much fun Susie was to be with, so she apologized to Suzie and organised a meal with her. They’d go for burgers! Suzie was still in her mind, nudging away at the hormones.

Next Mike. Perhaps she could figure a way to get out of the cinema trip. It would be difficult, she thought as she packed away her etchings and got ready for school. The thought of being anywhere near Mike filled her with dread.

She made an effort, and with a heavy heart decided that she would trudge off to the cinema with her elder brother to meet Mike”Swamp Thing.”

It amused her , making up stupid nicknames for such a lame jerk. But then, she realised, she’d have to go and do this. What horrors awaited her, that Hallowe’en night? Trick? or Treat!

Tune into next month’s story to find out more! 

October’s story

3rd person

Never get drunk.

Her teachers had always drilled into her that the yardstick of success was passing exams, but these days success was getting out of bed, combing her ruffled hair and going to lessons. Once in the English lesson, she would observe the fawning and sycophantic teacher’s pets brown nose their way to deferential deceit. In her head, she was in fits of giggles as she scribbled madly down the notes from the lesson that the teacher had whisked off.

They looked like runes, she was still a bit dizzy from those cocktails. This morning she was nursing a rather painful hangover, and she wasn’t exactly tickled pink to be learning the finer details of the dusty tome they were studying. She ran her tongue around the furred enamel of her unbrushed teeth.

Her breath stank like tidal waste, flies almost buzzing round her head. She’d spat on the way to school, flopped down on the chair, all at sea, head dizzy and ashen-faced. She was non-plussed to be here and her eyes were fuzzy and hazy.

She tried to snap out of her vagaries. It wasn’t like her to cluck-around, but she was so fed up with school that with a friend they’d raided her father’s drinks cabinet and now she was in a bit of a predicament. Her stomach was churning and she’d have to be careful not to retch on her outfit.

She felt that her studies were unravelling around her, like the hem on an old pair of jeans. She should have chickened-out when it came to the second bottle of whisky, but buoyant with drink, they’d soothed their woes, dipping their lips into glass after glass before finally hurling their angst at the moon. They’d drained the first bottle before midnight, and then they’d tackled the second

They’d hit the hay at goodness only knows when, rather worse for wear and her friend had slept in the bath!

She was rather startled at herself, these binges were what the lesser girls indulged in. She’d seen their bloated faces, seen them mingling together, holding on to each other, cuddling drastically after a drinking session, complaining of their plight. That wasn’t her trip.

A wry thought came to her as she realized that she’d become like them, a bawdy stinker. Her dad would have a coronary if he found out about the missing whisky. She’d have to find a student in upper 6th to buy her a bottle.

Mike! He was a real muggings.

The next day she made the momentous decisions. She’d have to look stunning in that strapless outfit, and forget about the niceties.

Dolled up yet prissy. Shed got ready that morning, slapping on the war paint. She headed down the gangway that connected the classes, and saw Mike. He was slimy, signet ring and all, even with impaired vision you wouldn’t want to be inflicted with him. She prayed for a reprieve, looking at his chubby body, a living blob.

He looked and smelled as if he lived in the shanties, rambling on about his latest hobby, trains. Her stomach began to subdue and she explained and cajoled Mike into the plan. It would slaughter her reputation, and now, standing on the landing, the whole school seemed to crowd in on her. She searched in her handbag for the money, fidgeting against the serrated keys and almost slashing her outfit as she dipped in her purse to find the money for this seemingly unworkable solution. Her father’s credit card… Yes!

Mike agreed to buy the whiskey as she proffered her dad’s card. He was blissful, but the billing would be hard. She was mollified, but Mike wanted her to go on a date with him in exchange. He was going to try to bask in the moment of glory. Imagine! A hard working student even being in the same room as him.

 

She was at the portals of hell. Her life was on a rollercoaster and she pondered how to wing this situation. She couldn’t chicken out. She pined for the student that she once was, serious, hardworking, hovering at the edge of A-grades. Why had she agreed to get drunk with that girl? What a wretched situation. Perhaps she was besotted with her, with the freedom or perhaps she was crying wolf.

She agreed to the date, but on her terms. It would be on Halloween night, at the cinema, to see a horror movie. Like that she could go in disguise and no one would recognize her.

Lunch break came. Mike and her slipped out through the hole in the hedge and headed to the off -license. Bought the drinks and sneaked back to her house, hoping to replace the stolen bottles. They open the door to her house and tiptoed into the kitchen. Mike broke the salt-cellars as they headed through the kitchen and they’d started to argue, too busy to see that they startled her dad, who was waiting for his lunch to go “ping” in the microwave.

 

“THIS is going to take some explaining”, she thought, as she stood in front of her dad, in her best strapless dress, looking like a top model, holding two bottles of strong liquor, (bought with daddy’s stolen credit card!) with the ugliest boy in school. And that’s what her father thought too as he…….

Tune in next month to find out what happens next.

 

The Scarecrow

Andy was a farmer. Worked the land, hands hard, worn with work, face like a wedding cake left out in the rain, year in and out, ploughed the chocolate sillions , planted the crops, kept the wildlife in the copse and out of the fields. Burly, broad, thickset, tall, dressed in the wear of work. This years’s crop was planned, soldiers in the field, left,right,left, when it was ripe it would blow in the wind, waves of crops crashing against the copse and picket fences around his land. Corn, wheat, barley,oats, planted to the horizons, hedgerows and ditches breaking the landscape into a patchwork of farms and farmers. In the rural zone, neighbours where close but far, in that strange village way, where everyone knew your business before you but not your character or dreams. Harvests were his livelyhood, and Andy tried to control what he could. The weather came, its rain and sun, hail and frosts, and there was little to do but plant three fields early and three fields late, and three fields in the middle. This made the work hard, and in good years he’d harvest three times and bad years once or twice, and in the worst not at all.

So every February , along with the other farmers, into the copse they would go to cut branches or collect fallen wood and fashion the staves and crosses to make the frames for the scarecrows. A kind of competition with the county. Farmers would spend the evenings sewing corn sacks or seed sacks together, a few would wander round the local villages with barrows , ringing the bell for the rag and bone, and of course collecting old clothes for a few coins. In the parishes, children grew ,people died and so clothes were either passed on to kith and kin or sold for scraps to the paper mill, or, when really worth nothing, sold to the farmer for his scarecrows. But the competition every year meant that sometimes farmers would pay a premium if the harvest had been good, or, if someone died with no kith or kin, a scarecrow or two would, rarely, be decked out in crinoline and bonnets , or Sunday bests , the splash of exotic in the landscape of humdrum.

So it was that Andy blustered and swore, hammered and painted his way through the scarecrows, creating as many as he could before sewing began.

He thought that ten would be enough, and with the rags and scraps he’d fashioned nine now, one more to go. He’d nailed the struts to make a cross structure and all he needed now was some clothes. Old Bert next door might have a few scraps. But when he’d trotted the 5 miles to next door, Bert wasn’t answering the door. Bert was a loner, a hot and cold .

Yes, he and Bert would set the world to rights in the local in over a tankard of stale weak warm ale, or argue about where his land began and ended. So it was in the country, at the edge of wealth, boom or bust.

Wooden Poles

Paul was standing outside the family saloon, a dirty cheap car, where family arguments took place. As usual his parents were busy blaming each other’s parents for the situations they found themselves in, as if responsibility was somehow genetic. Wagging fingers and raised voices, shedding tears and misunderstanding, things said in anger that would echo in their ears for decades, blown down those dusty roads , the crumpled crisp packets of our dreams , falling out of family saloon cars , blown by anger, fueled by emotion, crisp packets crumpled in our hands, frowns crumpled on our faces.
So Paul watched, turned, looked at the floor, the sky, the knot-hole in the fence, and then he saw, through the hole, the man sitting at the edge of the kerb, through the keyhole, knot hole. Grey trousers, white shirt, chest bobbing sobbing, weeping, ruffling his hair and wondering, what thoughts flitted through his mind. Paul reached in his packet, for a sweet, or something to cheer up the man, something to forget the heat, the row, the shame. He found a bank note, a gift from a relative, the one they’d seen, smelt–of-wee-whiskered lady, skin paper thin veins like a road map, stretched by years, slipped him a note and winked, she’d known what age does to us all and that we’d never be cool once bladder control had gone. Poked it through the hole, and said to the sobbing man “Here, take this”. He stood up shaking his head, weeping, sobbing, shaking, seeping. Took the money, wrote a name, poked it back, and fled.

NANOWRIMO attempt

It was autumn, mist and dew fall, mushrooms and harvests, Hallowe’en and ghost stories whispered round the fireside, set in the settle, fire flames flickering the shadows on the faces, the sparks dancing on the flame tips, warm mug of ale in hand.

Claiming what was his, since the beginning, he stalked, hidden, silent, stealth wrapped in a shroud.

It wasn’t for nothing that the leaves turned their reddest at Hallowe’en. The blood of his victims, blown in the air sprinkled around like confetti at a spring wedding.

He’d been driving his new car down straight roads and windy roads for eons. The car was always new, shiny, always the latest model. In the beginning, it was a horse, then a cart, then a chariot, a carriage, a car. Something with wheels which gathered the souls of those wandering lost in the world. He’d driven most roads in the world, pathways for pilgrims, motorways for trucks, racks that clung to mountainsides and tree-lined avenues leading to palaces, roads sunk deep from foot fall and worn down to the chalky gnarls of root balls, leaf lined, still, echoing the past, desert roads, pillars of red sandstone, and eerie calls in the sky.

Stories of the phantom hitchhiker or the escaped convict, the white lady or the highwayman, the horse and coaches and the lost traveler all came from him.

He’d followed fashioned, clothes, wigs, coats hats, furs and clubs, used coins from every part of history and all corners of the world, passed  kings and peasants, white lines on busy roads and wooded glades.

Here he was, sandglass timer in hand, knocking his bony finger on the door. The lonely inn, on the Pilgrims way, high up on the hills, wooded, welcoming, the sign creaking from the posts and brackets, swinging slowly like a hanged man in the breeze.

He thought back now, and knocked on the oak door. The door was carved, weather worn and intricate, heavy on its hinges. The door opened, huge, welcoming. He strode in to the room, the fireplace huge, warm, the door shut behind. Other travelers sat, world-weary, road weary, on benches, heads in bowls of soup , minds echoing a busy day’s trade , travel, work or play. There was a monk, a musician, a tinker with his wares, the washerwoman, the inn keeper and his wife, small children running round, rosy-cheeked and bare-legged, even  bottomed for the youngest, the innkeeper’s wife laughed, her red cheeks and long hair, big breasted  under her dress, the inn keeper looking on at his family bliss and strife, both wrapped up in that moment , beer ready to be served, food ready to be cooked. He settled down , the fog from outside swept away by the fire, the cold which gnawed toes dissipating into the stars, and swept his robe from the soldiers, and looked, and began his tale. The others looked on, sops dripping from tankards, food on forks, coins in hand, or beads, or bible, grease on cheek, froth on lip.

Each would spin a yarn that night, a yarn to save their soul.

The travelers’ tales wove through the night , a tapestry to keep the night away, this All Hallow’s Eve.

The guests looked around the room, stone walled, cracks and dust, pictures and tapestries,wooden flored, the table heavy and solid, laden with ware, plates and cutlery at the ready. Who would sart their tale first? The tinker , confident, gleam I his eye, glint in his pocket sprang up, in front of the fire, shadows dancing and wove his magic spell, all around hung on his every word, his leather trousers, waistcoat and tunic, collar-less, a small bell hung from his hat, glistening in the firelight. Hush settled down over the inn as the story progressed.The innkeeper strode over to the door, letting in the last of the locals and locking the door with bolt and key. His wife gathered the children clung them all three to her bosomand took them to be washed, clean, ready for bed. The busy time had come, and she wold have to put the children to bed, clean, and come down to serve the clients food and drink.The latch rattled in the wind as the tinker told his tale.

The Tinker’s tale
The tinker started, watching the audience, judging their attention, spinning his yarn

“Dusk, dusty and cool, mists swirled up from out of the ground, rising in tendrils, as weird plants from the cold ground. Stumbling and scratched, in the wood, once full of bird’s song and sunbeams, light sunlit and dappled dauphin, now lost its backdrop for a sameness, a grey cooking paper background, stumps littered in the billowing fog. The lights of the village, eyes glowing in the fog swirled in and out of view. Salty and burnt from tears, cheeks, whipped by the wind or by sorrow and fear, burned by time and weather, seemed to shrink into his face, hiding from that which was out here. The path seemed difficult to follow, and the lantern spluttered and waved, a ship tossing in the seas of sorrow. Diving into his coat, shrugging and shivering through crisp leaves and branches, the lights blazed and he grabbed a cool iron latch. Creaking like a coffin, the hinges rolled past each other, fear crisped from his forehead to his toes, electric, refreshing. Around the table plates and glasses were to be found, as if a meal had been interrupted. Half eaten, abandoned. The candles blazed brightly. So many lit in a time of poverty meant a signal, or fear. He blew out some, keeping only a few so as to make it through the night. He closed the door, swinging fast, and the the terror hit him full in the stomach as he saw the feet swinging in the rafters, pair after pair, flittering in the candle light. He turned, and there behind was a glinting smile of a dead man, pinned to the door speared, gored, as if in mid joke.
He blew out the lantern, and shivered. Hunting round he found the slosh of a canteen full of oil, refilled the lantern and cut down the dead. Too many hours walk from a neighbor and out here, in the muffled middle of no-where, the law was all too often ignored or even openly flaunted. The inhabitants of the inn, for that was where he was, had no documents or even money. A thief, or highwayman had taken everything. Kicking open the door to the stables, dust climbing, sticking in his throat. A sole horse was left, the rest had been taken. It shivered in the night, shining with sweat. That meant a rider had just tied it up, but who?
Blood swimming its scent into every pore, into the nose and throat, as pulling and heaving with the last efforts of tiredness, he dragged the poor souls to the garden. Perhaps the beasts of the woods would feast on the corpses, wild dogs and foxes and badgers and other more dangerous beasts, bears or even wolves would creep out now, exploring nature’s larder. A shovel, a spade, rolled up the sleeves, relit the lantern, its smell bringing the blood to nostrils, and dug. He buried the dead, hoping not to join them. Then, crept back, barred the windows and doors, lit a roaring fire and sat in a chair, holding a garden fork in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Daylight came. A traveler knocked on the door, then pushed down the latch. He took a step back, not daring to believe, the husk in the chair, life sucked, face full of fear, sorrow, lines etched by acid, smoke smoldering in the fireplace, and the dead swinging from the rafters, the dead smiling man pinned to the door. A husk! Perhaps some crazy butterfly had hatched from that! Stumbling in fear, blood pumping in his temples, he ran, ran, ran, until his very soul turned white with fear. The sound of his body, dropping dead into the undergrowth hidden wafted through the woods and his corpse was grabbed by the very roots, for the tavern lived off nature’s bounty, whatever form it came in.”

The guests gulped down morsels of food and quaffs of beer, wine. Crumbs swept off, they stood up, applauded, sure the tinker’s tale was enough. The tinker, glint in his eye and sweat on his brow sat, knowing he’d set the scene. But he also knew now he’d have to sit and listen to the tales, was his good enough to save his soul?

The monk fingered hs beads,he was dressed in a brown habit, a chord around his waist. He was hearty, stout, and ready for his yarn. He began, as the visitor looked on,judging each tale, sharpening his blade. He thumped down the bible and addressed the crowd.

The Monk’s tale

“Trickling down his back, shivering, shining in the half light, with a clickty-click, the thief tried to pick the lock on the book. After climbing, walking, scratching his way to the hidden cave, there it was, the ultimate lifelong prize.

Years of research and of searching, reading, looking, hoping to believe and the thief knew the dangers hidden here. The cave of death. A sip of water from the flask, steady shaking hands. Concentrating now, his brow frowning, he faced the last test, opening the book. Only those with a heart truly blackened with adventure would survive.

He’d done all sorts of rituals before, but this one would be the best.

Candle wax dribbled here and there, making its sculptures on the table. The thief paused, gulping in air, hope, and luck. “Pop” and the locket swung open, and he clasped the book, ready to open it. He spoke the words of the curse, and finally opened the book.

He read the first lines, laughing, he’d survived.

Then, roaring, came the owner, hidden in the pages.

“You will be the lock of the book now” said the voice “And doomed to guard a legend from no-one”

The thief screamed. He was turning into metal. Searing up his arms, through his very veins, metal came, and held him in its grasp. He became the lock, bent, clicked onto the book’s spine. A warning for all thieves and adventurers. Even with a blackened heart, if it is not yours, don’t take it.”

A sigh went round the table. The audience breathed out, more food and drink were ordered, smile and cheers went up, shouts of “more!more” from the locals. A solid story, as good as the tinker’s. Judging who would be the visitor’s fare would take skill.

The musician picked up his violin,sprang notes and jigged, jumped and placed his violin on the crumb laden table. He bowed to the audience and began.

The musician’s tale

“ He took another handful of fibers, and pushed my way up through this wall. Dark, warm, moist this twilight world. Sure seems hot and cramped in this zone!; How did he get here?, You ask. Well it’s a simple story.

He met her in that bar near the World War II bunker, green eyes, body to dribble over, red haired and heavy breasted and he’s just a man, his brain’s in his pants!

 

They talked for hours, seemed to touch, to connect. He couldn’t explain it, she just seemed to read his mind. She was in the bar, but he’d never seen her before, despite her claim of being a regular. They’d sat down in the corner, background music, that orange lighting so common in those joints, the table sticky from drink, the busy world blurred passed them as they flirted, listened, eyes flitting from face to chest to leg to hair, scanning her, wanting her. She looked at him as if she wanted to drink his soul, to taste the flesh. God she was hot, long haired, and ready. He drank another whisky, Dutch courage, sank deeper into the sofa. She had other ideas and grabbed his wrist, pulled him up. “Let’s go back to my place” She‘d whispered softly, sexually, in his ears. Her hot, full lips brushed his ear; she even nibbled it as she said those words.

By then he was hot. He wanted her. He wanted to do stuff with her that you don’t write about! They’d almost run back to her place, stopping only at the pharmacy for condoms. He could see her nipples now, hard, round, firm. There was no mistaking that night, after months of loneliness, he’d found a woman who was funny, interesting and hot. He was going to get some action, he hoped he wouldn’t disappoint. “She wanted me!” he thought. Gosh.

He was a bit flustered, so slowly they started, a drink before, and then upstairs. No hurriedly flinging clothes everywhere, they still talked, caressing each other, slowly. By now he was throbbing in his pants, holy smokes!

She’d asked for that thing that certain girls love so much, and he went down, between her thighs, and gave her pleasure. She was going crazy, and then, he fell.

Looking back now, it must have been that last drink, or a trap in the bed or the floor. He must have passed out, as he woke up here, on this sheer wall, with only these fibers to grasp as he pushes up through this huge warm carpet-like surface. There doesn’t seem to be any floor, nor any ceiling, but it sure is warm in this place.

The world seems strange, as he looks at his claws, and find a place to suckle the blood from the surface of the wall.

Looks like that witch turned him into a pubic louse !”

Tankards hit the table, jaws dropped, some laughed, some were shocked, the innkeeper’s wife blushed and poured more wine, the audience clamoured for more. People were cherry cheeked from the fire as another log was placed on the hearth. Time seemed to be still, the evening young, more time for stories yet!. Drinks came, and the inn was full, oone daring to leave till the last stories had been told, or the innkeeper opened the door for the night.

The innkeeper busily washed and dried glasses and plates, his wife busy too, cleaning tables, collecting bills, checking the children. The audience had settled down with their drinks, eager for more stories. They turned to lok at the humble washerwoman. Old, wrinked, bent double with work, she smiled toothlessly, held a glass in her hand and said “listen my lovelies to the death of Christmas”

The washerwoman’s tale

“The glitter flew through the sky, sparkling ,reflecting in his brown eyes, open in pure joy, the landscape in its muffled costume, bounded by skeletal trees. Soon, gloved,wrapped and ready to go, rolling the snow into that character from his imagination, he’d be here, throwing, ducking and rolling, and after, toasting his toes against the roaring fire he’d made before, back home.

 

Winter’s joy, bounding in his heart, the wealth of family, friends, the joy of giving, receiving, the fellowship of people, churchyard, tombstones topped with white wigs, the sky open wide, yes, he was there,even if the scene was half imagination, half from the whisky in the brown bag. He sat, in the graveyard,echoing back the 60 years, before age ran its tracks through his face, thinking about success and failure, love and loss, beard stiff and frozen, hat from the charity bag, clothes worn and stiff, tied up, Christmas parcel,with string. The last sips would make sure of it, he’d envelope himself , searching for the solution in the bottom of the bottle, like a child searching for the age of their friends etched in the glass mold of their drink glass at lunch time.Holly and ivy, mistletoe were all around this scene, in this winter’s graveyard, where one more lonely man would be found, eyes froze,wide, empty, beard stiff as death itself, lost, forgotten and excluded, enemy to himself, worn low through failure, sipped through to the whisky of the soul. The animals dare to move in, the crows and the magpies, rattling over their Christmas lunch, pulling his fingers like crackers, wearing his clothes like party hats.

 

Buried in absence, forgotten.”

A short tale, but worthy, the locals said to each other. She may be a simple washer woman, but she held us in her palm! More drinks were ordered and then, the innkeeper sat , and began his tale

The Innkeeper’s story

“The streets were dangerous, busy, and full of traffic buzzing around: here and there were market stalls, packed together, selling fruit, vegetables. Tarpaulins of faded colours hung over head, bleached by the sky. People walked by, talking, shopping, lively, busy. The roads were poor quality, pot hole filled and full of debris. A 3 legged dog ran, or rather limped out from the sun, seeking the shade, underneath the stalls. Brightly coloured buses, built nearly 70 years ago chugged in the streets. They had slogans painted on them, often religious ones, such as “God is strength” but those buses were rusting their way to heaven. Everthing happened in the street as those metal cabs and wooden clad trailers, full of smiling faces thundered past. People bought, sold, lived, and died. There a man urinated, and over there a baby was born.
How ridiculous they were, the man and his son, on the scooter. Riding tandem, weaving through the traffic, past the people selling honey, rum, mangoes, pineapples, goats, everything you could imagine and more. They weaved past one- handed beggars, their faces grey with fear, their withered hands and stumped arms, the look of hunger in their eyes.
It was easy to escape the beggars. The man pulled on the scooters throttle, but not too fast. These streets were more bomb craters than tarmacked avenues. They weren’t trying to escape the beggars, or the market, but the zombies.
The zombies were on their scent. The boy pointed and the man aimed his scooter at a large deserted building. They could hide up in there. The boy and the man shut the doors and windows they could find, and hid inside the metal building, boiling in the sun. The sun hammered down on the corrugated roof, and so the boy and his father looked for a cool spot. They found the longest corridor, and secured their zone. They opened the doors, one by one, into the long empty dusty offices, looking for barriers, weapons. The last door swung open, they found the janitor’s supply niche full of chemicals and cleaning equipment.
There was a sink. Water.
They splashed themselves with dizziness and glee! Cool, fresh, the water trickled over them as they splashed, cooling down. A moment of pleasure in the heat and fear.
Banging started outside, on the metal walls. It seemed to freeze the water to their skin.
The zombies were closing in, that was sure.
The boy and the man, startled from their daydream, hid under the sink. The tap was running, water dripped over the sink, onto the floor. They watched in the shadows. The zombies staggered past, down the corridor, one by one, their shadows creeping across the wall. The zombies could hear heartbeats, the boy had told his father. But the gushing of the tap drowned out the heartbeat, and the water dripping down hid their body heat; Shivering in the damp, hardly daring to breath, eyes bulging with fear, sweat foaming in their fearful skin. The zombies continued their crazy goose step. The man looked around; here were some cleaning chemicals; that could be useful. But how could you kill something already dead?
In their search for a safe place, the man and boy had become boxed in. The father looked into the eyes of his son. He could see fear, dread, and love. They were crouching; the zombies would kill them if they found them. He scrabbled, looking for a solution, and found a tin. An insecticide bomb!
The pulled off their t shirts, and wrapped them round their faces, trying to cover their mouths from the gas, and then the man pulled the bomb safety clip and threw it into the corridor. Smoke poured out, filling the zone. The boy took his father’s hand, and they ran, pushing at zombies in the smoke, running into the shadows, and out of the building. Haiti had certainly come to life. Outside, they slammed the door, trapping the zombies. They climbed on the scooter and headed for the hotel and then the airport. At the hotel, they grabbed their stuff, paid the bill, and left.
They got to the airport, and took the next plane out, to Miami. It didn’t matter about the cost or the destination, they just fled! They just hoped the pilot wasn’t a zombie.”

The bar buzzed, cheered. The innkeeper walked back throu the hatch to the bar, cosed it and served the next round of ales, wines and spirits. His wife sttod now, young, smiling, her hair hanging  down, her apron glistening fro work, standing by the fire, looking at the pictures and the guests. She began her tale.

The inkeeper’s wife’s story

“It was a still, short, hard knock night, when the bells of the church, the old church in my village started to ring out.They were chiming, through the cloudless sky, through the star filled night, through the crisp coldness in the air.They woke me from my slumber.

I opened the window, and breathed in the cool autumnal air. The moon was in its last quarter, in the sky, and I stumbled to the bathroom.

After relief came thought. Auto pilot off. Why were those bells still ringing? I wandered downstairs, into the kitchen. I glanced at the clock, and thought about changing the battery. It had been stuck on a quarter to six for three weeks now.I glanced at the grandfather clock, always wound , ready to chime. 24 past 5 in the morning, Nanna would say five and twenty past. Still the bells were ringing! Why ?

I’d been in the fog of wake for a dozen or so minutes, those bells were still ringing. Curiosity got the better of me , and I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes and tied my laces. I hadn’t showered, so I looked scruffy. It was late October, and the daylight hadn’t really started to filter through . I slipped on a jacket, and headed out the door. I headed out to the village.

I didn’t get too far before I met Claude. He was the neighbor. I blurted out a greeting, and asked what was going on.

Claude shrugged. He’d been woken too, obviously. Together we walked up the main street. “The bells woke me” he complained.

Claude looked at me as if that was so evidently the case, as if he was stating the obvious, but the situation was so strange it needed saying, as if we were in a dream.

Claude lit his pipe.The rest of the walk to the church was conducted in silent billows of Claude’s powerful tobacco. The bells were still ringing when we got to the church, even though the church clock usually only chimed on the hour and its quarters, ringing out a chime for each hour. On the quarters and on the half it would ring once, and the hour it would ring once for each hour, so 4 times meant four o’clock.

I wondered how long the bells had been ringing. By now, most of the village had been woken up by the church bells. The village seemed to conglomerate around the church, petering out into the Loire Valley countryside

The church door was open, and there were a few other villagers standing , wide-eyed, by the church porch. I saw our friend, Pascal, he was staggering back from the phone booth in the village square. “The police are coming” he said. “Make sure everyone stays out of the church’.

Now I started to really come to my senses. What would require the presence of the police? I thought. Claude grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes, and then nodded towards the church, afraid. We both turned our heads towards the church doorway, and I felt a shiver down my spine, and goosebumps, something scary was silhouetted through the doorway, we very quickly saw the scene. It burned onto our eyelids, and the smell of death hung in the air. A body hung on the bell ropes, counter balanced by a pew. That was the village priest, ringing out death on this Hallowe’en night”

The regulars smiled, and were happy. Everyone had told a story. The visitor looked and pointed to the bench. A man lay their sleeping, he’d been there all evening. He stood, red eyed, and drunk, shabilly dressed and stubbled faced, wobbled and stammered. Th regulars looked on, worried now. This was the unexpected turn , the twist in the tai. Would the drunkard spin a tale worth his soul?

The drunkard began “The visitor is the key to many myths, legends and stories, I shall scare you all with one such tale!

The drunkard’s tale

“The hitchhiker was a fallen woman, a prostitute from Rochester, escaping her pimp, pregnant and drudged down, faded and jaded. She’s gathered up her belongings, picked the pockets of clients and tourists, sold her heroin and her works, and crept out that Halloween night. She’d walked miles from Rochester to Bluebell hill, hoping for a lift, holding her thumb out, walking through mists, running to a new life.

She walked up the hill, to the crest, near the standing stones, clouded in mist. She’d been young, now she felt old, tired, desperate. Strung out and lost.

The lights of the traffic danced, the fog billowed, she struggled on to the pub on the top of the hill. In she walked, and the locals looked on, much as tonight, and told her the story of the hitchhiker. On the hill was aghost, seen from time to time. Some said it was a road accident, others that it was linked to Kits Coty or Countless stones  or the White Horse stone, all local Neolithic monuments on the hill. Others said the story was just urban myths. The  story went that a woman who was a bride to be had been killed in an accident, or a young girl , others said it was a boy running from school, yet others said there was a coach and horses, each regular had a version ready.

The girl listened, warming up in the pub, her drink untouched. The regulars continued with the tales.

Very often people think they’ve had an accident on the hill, they swear blind they’ve hit someone with their car, and when they stop to check, there is no damage to their car and no body to be seen.

“They go to the police and tell them, and when they come back, there is nothing to be seen. One man even wrapped a blanked around a body, and when they came back, there was nothing. Another thought he’d picked up a hitchhicker, and when he got to the address asked by the hitchhiker, she was gone. He rings the door anyway, to find people who say “she’s been dead for years” and close th door”

Another local pipes in : “There were many pubs on the hill, as horses would tire going up and down and needed changing, and each has its story, this inn’s speciality is the coach and horses. Originally the pub had a horn to blow, and the others had a bell to ring when horses left as the road only takes one horse and car at a time, so to warn they would do this, but only after the tragic accident which cost the lives of two coachmen and their passengers. Locals say they can hear the horses pounding down the hill, the iron sticking the cobbles, the reigns jangling, the coachmen pulling, the post dogs barking, the babies and women screaming and crying, the moonlight shining in the dead horses eyeballs, but there is nothing there”. Everyone was looking at the local, spinning his yarn. He stopped, pale, scanning the pub. The table was empty, the chair empty, the drink untouched.The Ghost had been and gone.”

People gasped, and turned to look.The customers turned and looked at each other, finishing the dregs of their drinks, wiping the crumbs from face and cloths. The visitor had gone, even though the pub was barred shut. The landlord stood, slid open the bolts and opened the door to the night. Each had saved their soul. road

Summer in Angers

Golden flecks glisten and shimmer on broken ripples and waves, lapping splashing, swishing past sludging or rushing and burbling, timeless in its memory, silent but full, what history has it seen?

Whispering through airy trees, rustling eerie leaves, screeching swifts make their nets in golden clouds, black specks in the summer sky, fleeting past the aspens and planes found on the weed winding reed bound river bank. Angers, its dusty alleys and bourgeoisie houses, burnt out council estates and green parks, the supermarkets and specialist stores a Ying and Yang molded together.

We chase that elusive wind called success when all the time it is in us. Thinking that what others think of us is important when in reality it is what we think of ourselves that counts. Oh to be alive, in the summertime, with the wind in our hair. Those moments picking fruit, strawberry picking or gooseberries, making jam with mum, or with Tom, when winter seems so far away.

Spotted along the Loire, those monuments abandoned millennia ago, standing mightily ivy and moss covered, huge dolmens or menhirs, splitting the landscape or marking territory, or aiding communication, or religious spots, marking death or long forgotten gods.

What it means to be human? To leave those marks, make mistakes, love, lose, create and change,  even die. Pass on the knowledge, or watch it get lost in the mists of time, in the long grass of history, leaving questions and conundrums for the future.