merry wanderer of the night

Unsigned gems...

2012-01-26T12:05:00.000Z

I love a good female vocalist anyone from Edith Piaf and Eartha Kitt, right through to Norah Jones and Katie Meluha. So, it is a real pleasure to share the music of two very talented ladies that I have recently come across: Kiersten Holine and Laura Cox.

Both woman are proficient singers, guitarists and song writers.

Laura Cox is from France. Her covers tend to mimic the originals' arrangements closely but are no less impressive for that. Her skills on the guitar are fantastic and she has a strong singing voice. A good example is her cover of the Guns 'n Roses song 'Patience'.

Laura also writes original material and I really enjoy her piece 'Cowboys and Beer', which has a strong southern country feel to it.

Kiersten Holine hails from the United States. Her cover versions are very much her own, she sings her own arrangements and the pieces take on a very unique sound. Here she is singing 'White Blank Page' by Mumford and sons.

She has also written a number of original songs including the track 'Ignoble'.

Both these artists are talented and worth listening to, so go check them out!

Cloak and dagger

2012-01-26T08:48:00.001Z

It's time for Five Sentence Friday courtesy of Lillie Mcferrin Writes:

What it’s all about: Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.

This week: CLANDESTINE

The staccato beat of heels on wood accompanied the tattoo thumping in her chest. Pip looked up from her desk as the danger passed by, she had to be sure she wasn't being watched. Time crawled as she carefully pulled up her sleeve uncovering pale clammy skin. She rotated her arm, facing her palm to the ceiling, to reveal notations in black water-proof ink. She smiled to herself: the exam was in the bag!

So, what do you think? Comments welcome below!

Mute and Monochrome

2012-01-25T17:42:00.000Z

Visit Lillie Mcferrin to view the picture prompt for this post:

James was what some ungracious folk might describe as a hobo, a tramp, a persona non grata, an itinerant wanderer of no fixed abode.

He preferred to think of himself as a fortunate free spirit and so, in the spirit of freedom and fortune, he was rooting through the dustbins of those poor house-bound slaves of society who were residents of Elm Avenue.

"Let's see what we got here" he muttered to himself as he gingerly moved a used tissue to one side.

His eyes roved over vegetable peel and torn packaging and rested on a partially obscured black plastic rectangle. Ever the optimist he fished the object out and was somewhat dismayed but not surprised to discover that it was not the smartphone he had imagined but was in fact an old T.V remote.

"What a load of junk!" he exclaimed as he tossed the offending item onto the street.

Something peculiar happened as the remote hit the ground. James went deaf.

Being an open-minded sort of fellow he picked the control back up and pressed 'mute'. He could hear again. He pressed another button and the colour slowly leached out of his surroundings. He pressed 'pause' and the world stopped around him.

"Bloody hell!" he said as his knees went weak and he sagged to the kerb.

At this point two things passed through James' mind, they were:

1) This is going to be very very useful,

and rather more dangerously,

2) I wonder what the standby button does.

Being a curious fellow James couldn't resist the temptation of seeing what would happen, despite the little voice of concern that piped-up within, and his grimy finger came to rest upon the little red button. He pressed it.

BLACK

As always comments and criticism most welcome below!

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Smile

2012-01-23T15:13:00.002Z

It arms and disarms

home-grown weapon flash to kill

or just set to stun

OSI prompt: Smile

Well, this is my first attempt at OSI prompts and Haikus in 2012.

All comments and constructive criticism welcome!

Battleships

2011-11-20T20:46:00.001Z

A battle of wits

each calls co-ordinates

waits for hit or miss

OSI prompt: 'Seeking'.

Comments most welcome!

Hourglass

2011-11-13T12:52:00.000Z

This week's OSI prompt is 'Hourglass':

Sarah poured forth

descendants more numerous

than all grains of sand

WoW: calling

2011-11-03T23:56:00.000Z

The calling that I have felt so long is there still. I cannot run away and I cannot hide. I have tried over and over throughout the years. Last time I gave up so easily, fear of my own person caused me to flee. Yet still I am here, still my heart aches for you. I have never taken your whisperings lightly; the task you lay before me is great. I know that I can only do this with you. Lead me where you will. Strengthen my bones, do not let me falter, help me to give my all for others. Help me to be poured out. Help me to take joy in the path before me. I trust in you. I will sing my own song. My life is yours.

Not my normal fare I am aware, I will soon return to my normal mix of fiction. Tonight this is my story.

New Blog...

2011-11-02T15:22:00.001Z

Merry Wanderer of the Night has really become something different to what it started out as. In the beginning it was a platform for me to just discuss my random thoughts and opinions on a range of subjects; it has, however, become a blog focusing on writing prompts. There is nothing wrong with this and I do enjoy writing fiction and poems but I do want to write about other things.

The topic that I do like writing about from time to time is theology; i am after all a graduate in that discipline. I very much realise that my readership here may not have any interest in this subject; indeed I have only ever written a couple of posts here that have had a theological theme. So I have started Merry Wanderer of the Way that is to be my place to write on all things spiritual.

So, if you are inclined to read any of it head over to http://merrywandereroftheway.blogspot.com/. If not, stick here for more stories and poems when the mood strikes!

Take care all!

Things that go bump in the night.....

2011-10-30T23:31:00.001Z

This week's FSF prompt is Horror:

© Againstar

Toby lay perfectly still; the moon, picking out his silhouette in marble hues, shines brightly through his window. The things can't see him if he doesn't move. Grasping his ragged teddy tighter he struggles to control his breaths; they can smell fear. He knows they are waiting and are patient. The night is long.

Real danger or imaginary terrror? Whichever answer is the truth it seems that young Toby is in for a horrifying time! Comments, opinions and criticism most welcome!

Dusk's jewel

2011-10-30T12:00:00.001Z

This week's OSI is sunset:

Jewel in dusk's crown

a splendid nanny to the nations

putting all to bed

Shenanigans

2011-10-23T19:35:00.001+01:00

A staccato rhythm of piercing red and blue danced in her vision. Jo barely noticed it; the scene before her made no sense. She clawed at her clothes as tears streamed down her cheeks. It just wasn't supposed to be this way.

She cried out "It was only a game!"

Let me know what you think. To join in click the button below.

Chalice of fire

2011-10-17T14:31:00.003+01:00

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 19 - Sunshine in a cup. Write the words of Emily Dickinson: "Bring me sunshine in a cup" at the top of your page. Set a timer for 5 minutes. Write the first words that come into your head after the prompt. Don't take you pen off the page (or fingers off the keyboard). Stop only when the buzzer rings! Do this exercise over and over if you wish. Write beyond 5 minutes if you like, you can link it up as an extra post.

"Ha! Are you aware of what you are asking for boy?" cried Ra incredulously.

"I want sunshine in a cup" said Kaimbe boldly.

"Helios, Shemesh, Tonatiuh; did you hear what this clod has dared asked of us?" Ra's voice shimmered in the dry air.

The four gods surrounded the young warrior: incandescent and aloof they towered over him, setting the great firmament above ablaze. Kaimbe stood firm and addressed the sun's guardians in an unwavering voice.

"I have travelled far on behalf of my people. Elder Roshi sent me out many months ago to find the place where the earth meets the sky to fill this cup with golden rays. Once I have drunk deeply I will be transformed; only then will we be strong enough to defeat the Great Shadow." As Kaimbe spoke he pulled a large gold chalice from his haversack; it gleamed radiantly in the presence of the deities.

Shemesh began to speak, his voice crackled like flames dancing on kindling.

"Boy, this is no mere tonic you have come to consume. You have asked for liquid fire to burn and purge your very soul. Only the pure of heart can drink the light and not be destroyed. To be refined you must first be broken and forged anew in the very fires of creation, the pain will be exquisitely cruel and the sacrifice you will make will be great. Do not make this decision lightly."

Kaimbe looked up and said "I am ready, I have no choice, I would die for my brothers and sisters."

Tonatiuh began to laugh. He reached down and seized the cup from Kaimbe's hands, as he strode towards a fiery pool his voice rang out:

"You may well do little warrior, you may well do!"

So, what did you think? Comments and constructive criticism most welcome below!

Paper Ark

2011-10-16T23:05:00.001+01:00

This week's OSI prompt is 'paper'.

© Dan

A cellulose ark

containing human wisdom

it fears no black-outs

Comments and feedback most welcome!

Hot Jazz

2011-10-16T22:18:00.000+01:00

"Beat it you hopped-up sap!" said Charlie-boy to the wide-eyed heeler who was trying to dance with the baby vamp he'd had his eye on all night.

The drum was the elephant's eyebrows; the band was playing hot jazz and Charlie-boy couldn't have cared less if a bull had charged in and pinched him that night for being splifficated.

He looked into the smarty's eyes and said "Cash or Check?"

She leaned forward and whispered gently into his ear.

Charlie-boy grinned as he grabbed her by the hand, pulled her towards the exit, and said "Let's blow this joint!"

So, did you enjoy your trip back in time to the roaring twenties? Looks like old Charlie-boy is in for a good night, no wonder he is in high spirits. If you need a hand with any of the slang visit: http://home.earthlink.net/~dlarkins/slang-pg.htm

Comments and opinions most welcome below.

From the ashes a phoenix will rise...

2011-10-11T16:53:00.005+01:00

Today I tackled the box.

The box had remained sealed in my wardrobe since last December; it had been deliberately ignored and pushed away.

In the box were all of the remnants of a failed relationship. Many cards and trinkets; celebrating everything from six months of being together through to engagement and everything in-between.

I don't know if watching Eat Pray Love today steeled me for the task but it was time to act. I decided that having carried out enough cremations in the past it was time to perform one last one.

These words and unfulfilled promises I take,

with incense and love, no bitterness remains,

and with burning flame I purify and cleanse them.

They are transformed to dust and ashes;

and are committed to the earth.

Silence

2011-10-10T11:53:00.000+01:00

SILENCE

Flow

2011-10-09T13:46:00.001+01:00

This week's OSI prompt is river:

Portibal (c)

A stone on the bottom

Grows smaller as water flows by

Eventually all will be one.

Bang Bang

2011-10-09T13:10:00.000+01:00

Lillie McFerrin has created a new weekly writing prompt called Five Sentence Friday go to Lillie's blog to check out the task. This week's prompt is Delirious:

The hot lead splurged apart as the soft-nosed .44 slug burst through the clerk's chest. The gunman laughed as his fevered eyes picked out another target. Sweat ran down his brow as he fired the pistol over and over again; the lives of innocents were being snuffed out like cheap candles on a birthday cake. Suddenly there was a clicking sound, an exasperated sigh filled the air, everything went black.

"There's never anything decent on TV, it's all sex and violence these days," said Jim as he pressed the standby button on the remote control.

What did you think? Comments and criticism most welcome!

I Remember...

2011-10-04T11:10:00.001+01:00

This week's WoW is open and so I chose 'I remember':

Imagine a large bowl of lukewarm porridge; not thin and wet like grandma likes but the thick, stodgy, sort that you could stand a spoon up in. The type of porridge that sticks to the roof of your mouth like wallpaper paste. Now imagine that gloopy mass suddenly materialising inside you: a heavy, nauseous, feeling in the pit of your stomach. That is approximately the feeling I felt as the draw on the opposite side of the desk to me was shut with a firm thud and metallic scrape as a key turned in the lock.

To be honest I hadn't really seen that coming. I look back and marvel at my innocent, naive, eighteen year old self and wonder if I really had been that stupid. I mean would you hand over US$10,000 in new notes to a shady looking Brazilian in an ill fitting suit? No, I thought not. Especially not when you are locked in a small office behind two, inch thick, steel doors.

I had thought the taxi driver with the eye patch had seemed a little eager in taking us to that particular travel agent. Gleeful in fact.

The exchange had started out in the normal way. A cashier started to count the money; all was looking good. That was until my shady Brazilian captor appeared, grabbed the money off the desk and beckoned my friend and me to follow him quickly.

Once he had locked our cash in the desk he looked at me and said with a heavy accent,

"A man is coming with Reals, he will be a while, I will get us lunch"

With that he ordered us some hamburgers and began making small talk as best he could. After half an hour or so of forced pleasantry, interspersed with moments of watching the local news on one TV and the CCTV footage on another, he turned to business.

"In England if you have an old dirty bank note can you take it to a bank and change it for a new one?" he said.

"Yes" I replied, stupidly not seeing where this was leading.

"Good. My grandfather, he found a one hundred thousand dollars buried on his land. They are dirty and I want to change them for new ones for him. If I give you five thousand dollars could you take them back to England and get them changed for me? I will pay you." he said.

The penny dropped. The porridge turned to cement. I was now involved with Brazilian black-market money laundering. What should I do? If I said no he might conveniently forget that he had our money in his desk. If I said yes, well, my career as a criminal would get off to a flying start.

"I don't think that I can do that" I replied in the most polite tone that I could muster.

An amused expression crossed his face,

"Ok"

Suddenly the door to his office flew open and someone said something urgently in Portuguese. A red-faced man burst into the room and threw a carrier bag on the desk before disappearing as fast as he had arrived. The Brazilian pulled out a thick wad of Reals and started counting quickly, as he reached R27,000 he scooped them up and put them in a carrier bag. He pulled me up roughly and led us out of the building; he looked furtively up and down the street.

"Be careful" he said as he vanished back inside.

Opinions, comments and criticism welcome below!

Language

2011-10-02T22:27:00.002+01:00

The OSI prompt this week is Language:

Mama,
Dada,
Words are born.

Mummy,
Daddy,
Words grow.

Mother,
Father,
Words mature.

Madre,
Padre,
Words travel.

Mater,
Pater,
Words die.

All thoughts, opinions and criticism are most welcome. Please let me know what you think in the box below!

Sheep!

2011-10-01T23:06:00.000+01:00

When my parish priest asked me to make a sheep to display photographs of a micro-finance project run by an African church, with which we have links, I said "No, problem!" What a wally...

Over the course of the past week I have spent hours creating the aforementioned sheep. Mount-board, card, googly eyes, glue, tape and of course cotton wool balls. Lots and lots of cotton wool balls.

I would like to add that the service is a Harvest Festival service geared towards families with young children; I'm sure I could have made a less comic sheep if I had tried!

CAP in hand...

2011-09-28T21:57:00.000+01:00

I often feel that I do not know what my purpose is in life. I am slowly realising that I cannot worry about unanswerable questions such as: what is my purpose? Life must be lived. That is not to say that we are to live lives of hedonism without considering how we can fulfil the important commandments of loving both God and our neighbours.

I think that we are called to live authentic lives plugged into reality. Be what you want to be. Do what you want to do. Enjoy your short existence. Remember God and remember your neighbour. In this way can a life be lived well.

Is focussing on spiritual things a distraction from living life? Can a person spend too much time contemplating God? I think the answer to that question is both yes and no. I suppose it depends on what you contemplate and how you go about it.

I feel that a balance must be struck between contemplation, prayer and action. The three things compliment each other and should be in proportion to ensure that life remains balanced.

Through prayer we connect. Through contemplation we understand. Through action we do.

Prayer= Communicating with God in our hearts and mind.

Contemplation= Thinking and meditating deeply and reading scripture and other writings.

Action= Working to help others; especially the poor and down-trodden.

Through these three aspects of life I think that we can be fully human and live in the way that we are intended to live. In peace and with love.

WoW- Songbird...

2011-09-27T20:51:00.001+01:00

Write on Wednesday! Hadge- I was going to go for Bowie but who can possibly unravel his best work?

"Come on gentleman it's closing time" said Sammy

He sighed as he herded the last few remaining drunks out onto the street. The irony of the statement he had just made had worn off long ago; Sammy didn't think that a real gentleman had ever crossed over the threshold of the Emerald bar in the club's thirty year history. It was all lowlifes and wasters.

The bolts on the heavy door groaned as he pulled them into position. He flicked a switch and a brilliant white light flooded the basement. The luminescent strips revealed the flaking paintwork and threadbare seating that was normally obscured in a gloomy atmosphere. The poles that ran from a worn stage to the grubby ceiling gleamed; the lithe bodies that squirmed and writhed nightly from them in exchange for dirty notes had gone and left Sammy alone to clear up.

A heavy feeling settled on his broad shoulders as he began the ritual of collecting glasses, wiping tables and cleaning up the remnants of that evenings debauchery. The feeling had got worse night after night. He knew that he had to get away from this place. 'This could be my last chance to be free' he thought to himself as he stacked the glasses into the ageing dishwasher.

Did you guess the song? If you haven't click here to find out. Comments and criticism welcome as always!

***

Hmmm rereading Hadge's prompt:

Hadge says: Take a favorite (or even random play) song and write the story behind the lyrics, not something inspired by the lyric, but the flesh on the bones of the story. It gives lots of scope for interpretative writing. Use the lyrics or theme of a song for a piece of flash fiction (50 to 200 words). To clarify, write your version of the story behind the lyrics in a song

I'm not sure that I have followed the directions really. I think I have just done what not to do! I've written the story inspired by the lyrics. I need to write the story that inspired the lyrics. Maybe I need to rewrite...

Masks

2011-09-26T20:52:00.001+01:00

You sit there
Wrapped up in cerebral folds of grey
Ready to ambush in the silence
The odd thing is
You isn't really you at all
You is a mental construct
All high vis-vests and neurons
No substance
No reality
A cardboard cut out that makes me
Squirm
Agitate
Corrode

Who we are begins with who we perceive ourselves to be and what image we project of ourselves onto other people.

Everyone that we know is merely a construction in our mind of who we think they are.

Unlocking the door

2011-09-23T20:22:00.001+01:00

Do not lock away your love...
Image © SmokedSalmon

I have harboured a dangerous love in my heart of late. It is a covetous love that has fuelled the fire of frustration and a burning desire deep within the chasms of my being. It has spoon-fed me negative thoughts and sparked feelings in me that have bound and tethered my soul.

St. Paul wrote that love does not insist on its own way. Love must never be self-serving and should never lead to jealousy or anger.

I, for one, already know the sacrifice that must be made for love. To love someone completely you have to let them be free from the selfish passions that emanate from your heart and threaten to ensnare and choke them.

Yes, there is a great risk in loving another! They might spread their wings and soar up and away never to return to you.

But to keep a person locked in your heart is to be like the man who traps a wild animal. He puts it in a sturdy cage and admires it from afar. Night and day he tends to its needs but to his dismay the creature slowly loses its potency and splendour; the animal withdraws into itself and wastes away. By seeking to contain and fix that which he held dear the man stifled and destroyed it instead.

So, heeding this story; I open the door, tear down the walls and remove the nets that have threatened to strangle you.

I stand here and offer you my heart as a dwelling place. It is without condition and you are free to come and go as you please.

You are too great to contain.

Bread

2011-09-19T00:36:00.002+01:00

This weeks OSI prompt is Betrayal

You promised me bread

But instead gave me a stone

How am I to live?

Mary

2011-09-19T00:07:00.000+01:00

Well this weeks prompt was:

On Wednesdays Exercise 15 - Give yourself some time to notice the people around you. The people who may cross your path each day. The lady in front of you at the supermarket, the man who helps the school kids cross the road, a neighbour, a waitress in a cafe, a librarian, anyone at all. Choose one person, someone you don't know, and this person will become the basis of the week's writing exercise. Describe this person as you see them, describe their surroundings. Then imagine a problem, create conflict for this person. Describe the conflict. Describe how your character deals with the problem. The conflict might resolve itself, it might not. It is up to you. Perhaps, the lady in the supermarket has forgotten her wallet. Does she bursts into tears? Maybe the librarian finds a lost child. The aim is to show how your character responds to conflict and in the process, reveal something about that character. Tell us their story.

The seat was shabby. The chintz fabric had worn threadbareon the arms and the cushions sagged at the back. The chair wasn’t in muchbetter condition than the woman that currently occupied it.

“David!” she whispered in tissue paper tones.

Silence greeted her.

“David, I need you!”

A white plastic clock ticked loudly from its position on thewall.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” Her voice momentarily gainedstrength before tearing apart.

Tears flowed down her craggy features. They ran throughlines, engraved by grief, and flowed into furrows that time had carved into hermottled skin. Her small egg-shell body shuddered with each sob. Why wouldn’t heanswer? The question was a mantra etched into her mind.

David didn’t reply. He never did. It wasn’t that he didn’tcare for Mary; rather it was that being dead was a bit of a hindrance when itcame to comforting the living. Thankfully his condition meant that he never sawthe effect that his death had on his wife, he didn’t see her slow decline intodementia and he hadn’t watched her fade into the ghost that she had now become.

I must confess that I have cheated and used the first part of a piece of flash fiction that I wrote a couple of weeks ago, which you can read in full here if you want to see how the story is resolved.

The inspiration comes from my Nan's recent spell in hospital and her current time being spent convalescing in a nursing home. Thankfully she is in possession of most of her faculties but there are many old people for whom this is a reality.

As usual comments most welcome!

Funky clock!

2011-09-18T11:43:00.001+01:00

In a cafe in Brighton and saw this really cool clock on a shelf!

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Mario and an imbecile abroad...

2011-09-17T09:58:00.000+01:00

I have a friend that I have know nearly all my life and last year he went travelling around South America for six months. Even now over a year later you often hear the words "It's like when I was travelling in..." and it has become a little bit of an in-joke. He also, being a non-wine drinker prior to travel, developed a taste for Chilean wine and likes to extol its virtues.

Also, he is in love with Nintendo, computer games and Mario. At the time he went travelling he had just had the green mushroom from Mario tattooed on his forearm. He now has the red on the other and wants to get the other power-up symbols.

Being a bit of a cheeky sod I animated a couple of photos of him to make two short videos:

and

I am by no means an artist, animator or film maker but thought these were a bit of fun!

He found them amusing; his girlfriend got a bit angry because one of the pictures was one of hers and I have been expressly forbidden to use material copyrighted to her to take the piss out of Jamie!

The lambs

2011-09-14T17:37:00.000+01:00

This weeks F3 prompt is 'music':

Callous shod fingers danced across the strings of a violin. A bitter wind whipped the jacket-less quartet as they hopped from one note to the next. Their jig had lasted an hour so far and Moszek knew that many more would pass before he could rest. As it waltzed across the fingerboard his hand wrought melodies and chords that combined with his fellow musicians' work in great harmony.

He didn't mind the pain that crept into his joints after hours of playing; nor did he let the jealous words of those pitiful non-musicians that muttered at night upset him. His craft was his salvation and for the umpteenth time that week he thanked God for the gift that had sustained him so far.

As the band filled the crisp air with gaiety Moszek's father strode briskly into his mind.

***

"F Major" said a sour faced man.

A young ruddy faced boy wearily played the sequence of notes for the 5th time that day; he knew that when he reached the end another order would be issued.

"G Major, Moszek!" his teacher commanded.

The boy lowered his diminutive violin and looked up at the stern face that towered over him. "But father..." he began to say.

"But father nothing! Do you think Mozart whined to his father? Do you think Bach made excuses to his master? No, of course they didn't. Now, continue with the exercise," came the firm reply.

The child clamped the instrument between his shoulder and chin and began to walk his digits slowly and carefully up and down the neck. The familiar colours burst gently in his ears.

"Good. Remember practice makes...?"

"Perfect father" said Moszek solemnly.

He continued to scale the mountain before him as his mentor listened in critical silence.

***

A wrong note shook him out of his reverie and pulled him back into the present.

"Concentrate!" He admonished himself under his breath. Each performance had to be precise; there was no room for error here.

An unwelcome sound reached Moszek's ears. A mechanical noise; wheels spinning on metal rails, the hiss of steam and the throbbing of an engine. Another train pulled into the siding pulling cargo laden carriages behind it.

Will this never stop? The futile thought crossed Moszek's mind once again.

Guards slid the heavy doors of the carriages open and let out the lambs. They emerged into the harsh sunlight blinking and shivering as they stumbled from their confinement.

Moszek glanced across the frozen ground and looked away quickly as his eyes met with a new member of his captive audience. Never look at them; he knew that, it was one of the first things you learnt here.

Us and them.

The thought seared through his brain like a hot bullet. Guilt washed over him but it could not wash him clean. How long had he thought of himself as being separate from the others? The realisation pained him deeply but perversely it also gave him hope. Hope that he would be a part of the remnant.

A voice, not unlike that of his father's in days gone by, arrested the thoughts that cartwheeled through his mind.

"Men to the left. Women and Children to the right!" it shouted.

To the strains of Vivaldi's 'Spring'; the newest arrivals to Auschwitz began to drift into separate lines. In subdued innocence and ignorance they shuffled on to die.

Moszek looked intently at his feet and played.

After my previous post (click here) I started to read more about the horrors of the holocaust and discovered some strange things.

Music was a very big part of concentration camps. The SS used it often as a means of degrading those imprisoned in the camps and those imprisoned used it as a method of defiance.

Moszek Oestereich is completely fictional but his experience is not.

Musicians were given a lighter work load by the SS and the non-musical prisoners often resented this fact. Guilt also was something that surviving musicians often struggled with after the war. Music was used to try to keep the charade that death was not imminent alive amongst the new arrivals to the camp; it made them easier to direct and control

To read about the various ways that music featured in camp life; from resistance songs through to the official Auschwitz orchestra that played for visiting dignitaries click here.

Feedback and constructive criticism is most welcome below.

1984- Rewritten!

2011-09-12T00:20:00.000+01:00

Write on Wednesday Exercise 14 - TheMighty Mighty Rewrite...

Zanni: I did a workshop with literaryauthor Mj Hyland, who teachers Masters in CreativeWriting at Manchester University. She asked us to choose our favourite book,take the first paragraph and then write our own content into the paragraph,keeping the structure, tone, language etc. It's really helpful!

For this exercise I have chosen 1984 by George Orwell.It is a book that I consider to be extremely well written and conceived of.

The original opening paragraph is as follows:

ITWAS a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. WinstonSmith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind,slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansion, though not quicklyenough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

I have decided to go about this exercise in a few waysas I have no real idea of what I’m meant to be doing.

1) Merelychanging selected words keeping the text identical otherwise.

IT WAS alight crisp day in April, and the clocks were chiming thirteen. Winston Smith,his chin buried into his chest in an attempt to elude the loathsome gale, slidbriskly through the translucent gates of Victory Mansion, though not brisklyenough to inhibit a maelstrom of granular filth from flowing along with him.

2)Keeping the meaning but playing around with the paragraph a bit.

The clockswere announcing the thirteenth hour as Winston Smith, tucking his jaw into thewarmth of his chest in a vain attempt to ward off the sharp spring breeze, hurriedtowards Victory Mansion. As he glided through the glass doors he wasn’t fastenough to stop a vortex of gritty dirt from dusting the hall.

3) Icouldn’t pass up on using 1984’s famous NewSpeak now could I?

Undarkunwarm Aprilday clocks hit thirteen. Winston Smith face covered ungoodwind walked speedwise VicMan cleardoor . No walked doubleplus-speedwise unbig unclean followed.

I think that the original will always be best, Orwell was brilliant with using the right words at the right time which means that any rewrite will be a pale shadow. This exercise made me realise how great that opening paragraph is. The words 'gritty dust' were perfect and I could not find an adequate way of conveying the same thing. As always, my lovely readers, constructive criticism and comments welcome below!

***

After Gill's (InkPaperPen) comment below I have attempted a fourth version!

4) Completely different content!

IT WAS a misty oyster-grey October morning. Swirling ethereal clouds clung to Jedediah Brown causing him to shrug nonchalantly to no one in particular. As he scurried down the gloomy alleyway he couldn't shake the curious feeling that he was being watched.

Ok, that'll have to do!

Notebooks

2011-09-11T11:46:00.003+01:00

This week's OSI poetry prompt is: Notebook. Here is my attempt at a poem...

Captured thoughts in shades of green
glistening ink that dries
like dew on grass

Seeds sown in a fertile field
of dreams and desires
waiting to grow

Ploughed paper will yield great pearls
and treasure I shall reap
when harvest comes

As always constructive criticism, thoughts and opinions most welcome!

(Please bear in mind that I am very new to the whole 'poetry scene'!)

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822 murdered each day for five years...

2011-09-09T14:43:00.000+01:00

Today I finished reading the book Schindler's List (originally released as Schindler's Ark). I knew the rudimentary facts about the life of Oscar Schindler from having watched the film adaptation of the novel whilst I was at secondary school.

Electric Fence at Auschwitz by Tony Dowson

I shan't recount the brave deeds that Oscar took part in; I shall let you discover that for yourselves and I do urge you to read about this remarkable man.

Neither shall I describe the cruelty and pain that the holocaust routinely carried out on Jews and other persecuted groups. The horrors that the SS inflicted are well documented.

What struck me was the sheer number of people that were affected. Josef Stalin is oft quoted as saying:

One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic...

In many respects this is true. We as human beings just cannot compute that number of people on any meaningful level.

It is difficult to find a definitive number for the amount of people that were murdered by the Nazi regime during WWII. A figure of 1.5 million people is sometimes put out for Auschwitz alone between 1940-1945.

That works out at 300,000 a year. That means an average of 822 people a day were murdered and disposed of in Auschwitz. Think of how many people you have on your Facebook account listed as friends; probably not even half of that daily figure...

The other thing that stands out for me was the cremations of the dead. Having worked as a crematorium technician I am very well acquainted with the process of this method of disposal. In a modern crematorium with 3 machines working you can cremate about 16 bodies properly in one day.

The smell, sights, and sounds must have been hellish as rushed, incomplete, cremations were botched in order to try to stem the tide of corpses.

Truly shocking.

Scribe

2011-09-07T10:12:00.001+01:00

This morning I am left wondering where we would be if Shakespeare and Donne had relied upon Google Scribe the new blogging aid. Would meditation XVI have been penned as we know it or would we be contemplating the fact that 'no man is an Islington'? Might Juliet have uttered from the balcony 'Romeo, Romeo where have you put the car keys?'

Kuntal Loya, a software engineer at blogger, writes:

Hello Bloggers! Do you ever find yourself writing slowly, staring at a blinking cursor or looking for words to express yourself? Today we are happy to announce the availability of the text suggestions and autocomplete feature of Google Scribe, which is graduating from Google Labs and can now be found in Blogger in Draft.
Google Scribe helps you write more efficiently by suggesting common words and phrases as you type. Google Scribe supports Arabic, Dutch, English, French, German, Hungarian, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish and Swedish. The language is automatically detected using the text in the post.

Once again I am reminded of Monty Python's life of Brian:

Brian: Please, please, please listen! I've got one or two things to say.
The Crowd: Tell us! Tell us both of them!
Brian: Look, you've got it all wrong! You don't NEED to follow ME, You don't NEED to follow ANYBODY! You've got to think for your selves! You're ALL individuals!
The Crowd: Yes! We're all individuals!
Brian: You're all different!
The Crowd: Yes, we ARE all different!
Man in crowd: I'm not...
The Crowd: Shh!

Writing is about expression. It is about communicating ideas, feelings and stories; things that cannot be understood by a computer. By using software like scribe a person will limit their own thinking and creative development and the web will become increasingly dominated by even more banal drivel.

Or have I got it wrong? Will software like scribe aid smoother post writing and remove writer's block once and for all. Will technically aided prose and poetry shine like a beacon and fill us all with radiant joy?

What do you think; comments and opinions welcome below.

your love is like...

2011-09-06T23:23:00.000+01:00

I don't really write poetry. I came across One single impression which provides weekly poetry prompts. This weeks was weeds. Here is my attempt; I'm not sure if it is a bona fide poem!

You wrap around me love
presence like tendrils
fresh and strong

You bind my heart dear
being like creepers
fast and subtle

You embrace my soul sweet
essence like bindweed
fertile and smooth

I am choking.

Feedback most welcome in the comments section below!

Eulogy

2011-09-06T15:05:00.002+01:00

The seat was shabby. The chintz fabric had worn threadbare on the arms and the cushions sagged at the back. The chair wasn’t in much better condition than the woman that currently occupied it.

“David!” she whispered in tissue paper tones.

Silence greeted her.

“David, I need you!”

A white plastic clock ticked loudly from its position on the wall.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” Her voice momentarily gained strength before tearing apart.

Tears flowed down her craggy features. They ran through lines, engraved by grief, and flowed into furrows that time had carved into her mottled skin. Her small egg-shell body shuddered with each sob. Why wouldn’t he answer? The question was a mantra etched into her mind.

David didn’t reply. He never did. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Mary; rather it was that being dead was a bit of a hindrance when it came to comforting the living. Thankfully his condition meant that he never saw the effect that his death had on his wife, he didn’t see her slow decline into dementia and he hadn’t watched her fade into the ghost that she had now become.

The rattling sound of a trolley clattered through the air. It stopped at Mrs Cooper’s door.

“Got some dinner for you love” said a young uniformed girl as she brought a tray into the room. She set the meal down and trundled back out the door.

Mary stared at the plate of microwaved macaroni and cheese in front of her through rheumy, pale blue, eyes. A thought danced just beyond her reach; if only she could remember what she was supposed to do with shiny utensils that sat alongside the dish.

Forty one minutes later the blonde carer returned to clear up the tray. “Are you not hungry again Mary?” She asked.

Grey gossamer wisps trembled as she shook her head and watched as the food was cleared away; maybe tomorrow, she thought, I might remember what to do. The girl plumped Mary’s pillows, refilled her glass of water and switched on the TV. As the theme tune to Emmerdale blared from the speakers the rickety trolley jangled back to the kitchens; it was almost as full as when it left.

One Tuesday afternoon, in the autumn, the trolley clanged into the room but Mary was no longer there. Instead a shaky, silver-haired, gentleman had taken her place. He too would be misunderstood.

***

“I didn’t have the privilege of meeting Mary and therefore I never knew her” intoned the hospital chaplain “so it would be quite remiss of me to speak about her life as though I did. I am indebted to Arden Vale rest home for painting a picture of the Mary that you knew and loved.”

Father James looked down wearily from the lectern. Sitting in the chapel in front of him were three people; all were there out of duty not love. The funeral director was perched at the back of the chapel a polished sombre expression balanced carefully on his plump visage. A social worker, sensibly dressed and professionally postured, stared respectfully into the middle distance. Thoughts of that night’s date were flitting across his mind. The last of the dearly beloved gathered that morning was the blonde girl from the home; she came sans trolley.

“Born in 1929” the minister continued the charade in a cheery voice “Mary married David in 1952, they had no children but led a happy life until David’s heart attack twenty one years ago. She was a quiet, sensitive, soul and she never missed an episode of Emmerdale in the time that you knew her.”

The social worker coughed, the blonde girl’s leg twitched, and everyone ignored the droning fly that hummed around the room.

Five minutes later as they left to the strains of a familiar television theme tune Father James tried not to think about the point of it all.

***

This story was inspired by seeing people in the hospital where my Nan currently is and by my time spent working as a crematorium technician. I saw plenty of funerals that happened like the one in this story.

Comments most welcome below! :)

Versatile blogger award!

2011-09-05T11:17:00.001+01:00

Sarah Mac @ People don't eat enough fudge bestowed upon me a versatile blogger award; thank you Sarah!

There are some rules to this award:

There are rules for winning this award, and they are as follows: 1) Thank the blogger who awarded you and link back to them. 2) Share 7 things about yourself. 3) Pass the award along to 15 other newly discovered blogs.

Well, the first has been dealt with so I guess it's onto seven things about me.

1) I don't like bananas, dessicated coconut or almond flavouring.
2) I am a fully qualified crematorium technician. (I don't work as one any more though.)
3) I am somewhat indecisive.
4) It took me three attempts to pass my driving test.
5) My favourite instrument is the guitar.
6) I prefer cats to dogs,
7) I like hugs!

One liners

2011-09-05T10:59:00.002+01:00

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 13 - A Great One Liner...This week you need to come up with one good line to describe a part of your day. It can be 'real life' or fiction. But it must tell us 'who did what'. It has to be an amazing line, like a tiny little paper plane that must travel a big distance (figuratively speaking) with only a few folds ... Every word in that line must earn its place, or be cut as excess baggage. Let's get thinking about each sentence as though every word counts, like working one group of muscles to show how much weight they can carry.

Here are three different one liners:

1) As I tore through the cobalt and titanium dappled canvas I pulled the cord and prayed.

2) "Falling from grace is easy; all you have to do is stumble and let gravity take over" he muttered with his head bowed low.

3) Mishka looked down at the thin gold band that gleamed on the table and wept bitterly for lost love.

Chasing the dragon.

2011-09-03T23:03:00.003+01:00

"Some children are lost before they have even started living. Some children are a throw-away commodity like a burger box that’s left to blow down the street in the wind and rain... I want clever stories that don’t rely on tales of abuse or overt violence but that give an insight into the world of our lost children. I like to be kept guessing and I like endings that don’t spell everything out. Be descriptive and write realistic dialogue from your home town. Make this piece of writing the best you've ever created; do this for the lost children." So said this weeks prompt on F3; donations are being made to children's charities.

A metallic crackle shimmered in the air as Kayleigh unrolled a sheet of tin foil. The dim yellow light of a single bare bulb glinted off its surface as she tore it into rectangles.

“Giv’us a fag Gav” she told a young unkempt man sitting on a hard wooden chair on the other side of the small sparsely furnished bedsit.

“What about please? You’re so fuckin’ rude” he muttered.

“Please!” she said as she glared at him.

Gavin threw a half empty packet of cigarettes onto the bed on which the young greasy haired teenage girl was spread over.

“Cheers” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

With slender grubby fingers she slowly pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and sucked deeply. She put the glowing white stick into an ashtray and a blue-grey plume drifted lazily from it, billowed, and danced in the air.

Whilst she was passing the tin foil through the hot flame of a lighter Gavin walked across the threadbare, stained, carpet and sat down next to her on the bed. Taking one of the rectangles of shiny material he formed a tube rolling it around an un-smoked fag.

“Did you speak to Danny ‘bout that cleaning job?’ Gavin asked.

“No” grunted Kayleigh as she formed another cylinder out of foil.

“Why not you knob-head?” he spat as an irritated look passed across his face.

“Why do ya think? I get more money from benefits than I’d earn cleanin’ someone’s crap all night don’t I?” she said.

Gav rolled his eyes. Lazy cow he thought whilst pulling a small battered tin out of his jean’s pocket. The buzz of a vibrating phone disturbed his thoughts and he took a smartphone from the other pocket and read the message that had just arrived.

“Oh crap!” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” Kayleigh asked.

“It’s Ed, he’s been in a fight, he wants me to go round his house”, a worried look settled on his dull features.

“Your dumb-ass bruvva is always gettin’ into fights. Why do you have to go now? It’s late and I wanted to spend the evenin’ with you.”

“I’m sorry but I gotta go round and see if he’s alright” he replied.

Kayleigh looked mutinous as he stood up.

“Have this” he said, throwing the tin into her lap to placate her anger.

“Well don’t be long” she said in a sulking tone.

Gavin pulled on a faded sweater and left the lacklustre room.

“God why am I wiv ‘im?” she said out loud to herself.

She prised the lid off of the little brass box to reveal a small plastic bag that contained a black tar like substance. Taking a small piece from the bag she laid it onto a sheet of foil and held it in front of her. She remembered the first time she had tried heroin and it brought a faint smile to her lips. She swore that she would never inject the stuff, she wasn’t a dirty smack-head, but she figured there wasn’t any harm in chasing the dragon.

Positioning one of the hollow silver tubes between her lips she waved a flame beneath the opiate on the foil. The mass turned into a liquid and she inclined the sheet, deftly and skilfully, to keep the black stream moving; to keep it liquid. Using the silver cylinder protruding from her mouth Kayleigh followed the heroin and inhaled the vapour deeply.

The drug entered her blood stream causing a familiar feeling to wash over her; her skin flushed and her mouth felt dry. Fleetingly the thought entered her head that the sensation seemed stronger than usual. Gav must have scored some stronger gear. As the minutes ticked by a soporific wave washed over her body and she became comfortably numb.

Drifting away in her mind something resonated in her fading consciousness.

As her eyes closed the sound of a hungry baby, asleep and quiet till now, filled the room. It’s cries emanating from a cot in the corner of the shabby room went unanswered.

As always constructive criticism most welcome! Did I surprise or shock you? Did you think that it was only the teenage mother that was the 'lost child' or did you see the twist of the baby coming?

Echoes (My first attempt at a short story)

2011-08-30T18:06:00.006+01:00

Last week I quite literally stumbled upon a Flash Fiction blog called F3, which offers a weekly prompt to help get ideas flowing for, well, Flash Fiction.

This weeks was:

We have covered a lot of different kinds of tales here at F3, sci-fi, crime, noir, western, etc., but the one that has been overlooked is the classic war story. Wars have been fought since the dawn of time for various reasons, from getting rich to finding a mate or to defend the glorious cause. This week let’s delve into a war story of your very own. Is it told by the general, the foot soldier,the medic, or the poor unfortunate victim who suddenly finds it in his back yard? Let’s see what we can shell out.

Cripes! This could be a challenge. I have never sat down and written a short story before. Not one that begins and ends and has a middle and everything! I have attempted it; please let me know what you think!

The scarf is made of a coarse, mustard yellow, wool that has been hand knitted into a rough and unattractive garment. Marjory Taylor holds it tenderly in her hands. The material, as scratchy as it has ever been, rubs against her finger tips as she slowly brings it up to her face, she inhales deeply, the fibres tickle her nose as a familiar scent unpicks a memory from long ago.

"Happy birthday mother!" yelled a gangly boy as he burst awkwardly into the warm, rustic, kitchen. His eyes, a piercing azure, seemed to radiate a youthful enthusiasm as he lolloped across the stone slabs.

"Thank you dear" she replied warmly; "Oh, what's this? For me?" she said as a hastily wrapped parcel was thrust in her direction by his scrawny, tanned, arms. The brown paper and string looked familiar to her, if she wasn't mistaken; it was identical to that which was used by the butcher in town that Jack worked for on a Saturday morning.

She held the packet up in front of her face and squeezed it slowly, a rustling sound danced in the air as the paper crinkled, it sounded fresh and crisp and for some unknown reason reminded her of a tall glass of cool apple juice on a warm summer's day.

Her eyes twinkled as she exclaimed, "Well, it doesn't feel like pork chops!"

Jack frowned. "Aren't you going to open it?" His voice, still that of a child, sounded tense.

Marjory smiled at her son and slowly pulled on a loose end of string that hung from the present like a mouse's tail. Her tugging caused the knot to unravel gently and she could feel anticipation and anxiety oozing from Jack. It was the first time that he had been able to choose a present and pay for it using his own, hard earned, money to give to her for her birthday. Her insides felt warm and light and she fought against the tears that were threatening to burst forth; she didn't want him to think that she was upset.

Jack watched as the paper was pulled back; he studied her face as she lifted the gift from its wrappings, he stared intently as a small voice in his head wondered if she liked it.

"It's wonderful" she said, her eyes glistening in the light of the soft sun that streamed through the window.

"Really?"

"Yes, really" She meant it too. Although she wouldn't have chosen the mustard wool or plain design, his act of love had transformed it into a garment more splendid than even Joseph's magnificent coat.

The old oak clock on the wall chimed pulling Marjory from her reverie of times past. Winding the scarf twice around her neck to protect her from the chill of the blustery October wind outside she makes her way down a tired hallway and heaves the heavy main door open. She sets off. A bare field runs adjacent to her house; glancing at the stubble that remains of the reaped crop a picture of the land in warmer times springs into her mind as she walks alongside the hedgerow.

The wind played gently with the ripened heads of wheat. The crop was golden and mirrored the thick, wavy, hair on Jack's scalp. Marjory watched him from the kitchen window as she marvelled at how much he'd grown in the seven summers since his birth. She loved seeing him play with max, his Collie. As Jack's laughter mingled with the dog's playful barking she thanked God for her son.

A stinging sensation pinches Marjory's ears; she's marching steadily up the hill but the breeze is bitter and she curses herself for not wearing her fluffy, cream, hat.

"Stupid woman! You'd forget your own head" she mutters to herself.

Her knees are aching now as she nears the apex of the hill. She breathes deeply and a damp, earthy, autumnal smell accompanies each lungful of crisp air. She sits, as she does every week, on a rotting tree stump. Whilst she rests the sound of flapping wings catches her attention, a magpie lands on the worn track in front of her and begins to hop in small circular patterns.

"One for sorrow!" she exclaims loudly, as if remembering some long forgotten dream. The startled bird flies off; its cry pierces the air.

Marjory trembles as she pulls herself to her feet. Her doctor had pleaded with her to use her stick; "rubbish" she had told him when he had implied that she wouldn't be able to get very far without it soon. I'm no spring chicken, she had thought, but a stick, ha! As long as she could still remember, that was the important thing.

As she traipses along the dirt track, she remembers the beginning, the event that has lead her to the path she is on, the path to her boy.

A cry, primal, guttural and raw filled the small room. A visceral agony threatened to rip Marjory apart. She gasped for air; how could a child cause this much pain? Pearlescent, salty, rivers burned down her cheeks as nauseas waves peaked and troughed; they tossed her about in an unrelenting maelstrom. She thought that she was prepared for this; she had talked to the other mothers, why had they not made her realise how much that this would hurt? She clutched a piece of paper tightly in her hand.

The deep throbbing noise of an engine faded into the distance. Through blurry eyes she looked at the paper that the sergeant had just delivered. She read the message again. The words seared into her consciousness. She couldn't understand it, she had thought the worse was over. Yes, he had been badly wounded but he was alive and safe in the hospital. How could he be dead? The soldier had told her it was a chest infection, before he had made his escape from the house, and left her broken. Didn't the doctors know how to fight germs? Everything became black as she passed out.

As she enters the churchyard the lych-gate creaks in protest as she forces it open. She treads familiar ground as she seeks out her son, Jack. His grave is neat and tidy; she couldn't bear to see weeds tarnishing her precious boy. She gazes at the inscription on the smooth, white, stone:

Jack Taylor
18.04.1926-21.08.1944
'Loved forever'

"Hello Jack" she whispers.

Not quite a straight war story but its one none the less.

All constructive criticism welcome! please leave in the comment section below :)

The fight!

2011-08-28T20:54:00.006+01:00

This weeks post for WoW was a tricky one for me as I wasn't really sure what to write about. In the end I decided upon a period of my life in 2005 during which I suffered from panic attacks and was generally unwell in my mind. Thankfully, after a few months I managed to return to 'normal' and haven't had any more attacks since then. The time made me realise that in some ways the only thing that we have to be afraid of in life is ourselves. This week I have recorded myself reading the piece; the image is one I took of a candle last December, I had to have a static image to use WMV to upload the audio!

L'enfer c'est les autres: Sartre was fucking wrong about that. You can avoid other people. Ignore the phone. Shut the door. You can even turn off the lights and lay on the floor until they get sick of waiting. No, the truth is; L'enfer c'est moi.

Descartes, good old René, he was closer to the truth. I think therefore I am. That clever bastard knew; it's all in the mind. The dividing line between heaven and hell, war and peace, joy and misery, between beauty and the God-damned stinking beast is all stuffed between the ears.

Think you're in control? Try again. Conscious thoughts, they're just the tip of the iceberg baby! There's a whole legion in the deep just waiting to hijack your life. One moment you're Jekyll, the next, well, let's just say you can't hide from who's coming for you.

Can you hear it? Shrill and mocking, dancing round and around and around:

I'll play games with your heart and I'll screw with your head,

you cannot escape and you cannot play dead;

you cannot resist me, nor can you fight,

for I will come looking in the dead of the night!

Don't say I didn't warn you.

As usual, comments most welcome! Do you think the piece conveyed a sense of 'not quite normal-ness'?

Charge!

2011-08-25T11:42:00.000+01:00

When I visited the Tank Museum at Bovrington I never expected to take part in the demonstration. I am the 'soldier' on the far left.

Write on Wednesday: Walk

2011-08-24T17:26:00.003+01:00

This is a write on Wednesday post; to join in the fun, follow the link in the sidebar on the Right!

"We are now arriving at Bournemouth interchange where we will be taking a forty-five minute comfort break" said the driver.

A collective sigh filled the coach as we pulled into the station. Plastic bags crackled in anticipation. Buckles clunked and muscles tensed as we slowed.

Driver turned drover and like cattle we shuffled up the gangway;
a saccharin ache accompanied my steps. Left, right, left, right, bitter, sweet.

The concourse was grey and, like the small cafe situated upon it, lacked ambition. Drivers caught up with gossip. Travelers eye-balled each other. Some smoked as though their deaths depended on it. I went to buy coffee.

The cafe was plain and simple, as were the staff:

"Anything else, darlin'?" asked the attendant.

"No thanks" I replied, mentally adding ducky.

As I drank the hot liquid I watched and wondered. Who was the dishevelled man and why did he cough so bad? Was the old lady in the mauve sweater nervous as she travelled alone? Where were the two cider drinking lads going?

I drained the last dregs from the polystyrene cup and made my way back to the coach. Left, right, left, right...

___________________________________________

I have just written this on the coach on my phone. I haven't seen anyone else's yet so I hope I'm on track. Comments and criticisms welcome below!

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All that glitters.... part 3.

2011-08-19T13:57:00.005+01:00

Please read here and here first, if you haven't already, to catch up with the story from the beginning:

Augustus watched the two men talking with a weary detachment. It certainly wasn't the most exciting thing to have happened in the last two thousand years since his face was struck onto the silver shekel from which he viewed the world.

The scene playing out before him did, however, remind him of a conversation he had witnessed not so very long after he had been minted. He looked back to that moonlit night:

"Thirty shekels! What's the catch Malachi?" exclaimed the merchant.

"No catch" came the temple official's hasty reply.

"Come on, any fool can see that field is only worth ten shekels and Caiaphas is no fool!"

"Look do you want the money or not?" said Malachi, the colour rising in his cheeks.

"First tell me why you are willing to pay me three times the land's value. I don't want to find myself owing you lot any favours later on down the line."

"Ok Marcus, but you must give me your word that this conversation will stay between us" Malachi's voice hushed; "Caiaphas is most anxious that this matter should remain discreet."

"Fine, you have my word, now level with me" urged Marcus.

"The money was paid to an informant to deliver a particularly seditious rebel over to the Roman guard. The governor has acquiesced to our demand for him to be put to death. In light of this news the informant suddenly found a conscience and returned the money to us."

"But that still doesn't explained the generous offer on the field!" interrupted Marcus.

"If you would let me finish" said Malachi; "As you may be aware our law will not permit us to keep the silver, we have, therefore, decided to purchase your field to provide burial plots for the poor."

"Ah! So you want me to take blood money off of your hands?" exclaimed Marcus.

"One million dollars." The American's voice jolted Augustus from his reminiscing.

One million dollars! I wonder if that Brit will accept the offer he thought as he watched through the polished glass.

Did this come as a surprise? Did telling the story from the coin's point of view work? Thoughts and constructive criticism most welcome in the comments section below! Last section of the story coming soon!

All that glitters.... part 2.

2011-08-17T20:07:00.001+01:00

Well, I never intended to write any more to the story (Read the first part here). However, a number of you seem very eager to know what happens; so this afternoon I jotted down the next part. Enjoy:

Yeah, I know you wanna know if that hobnob accepted my offer. Slow down partner, you're gonna have to wait. See, I wanna talk about how I ended up in this God-damned situation in the first place.

Go find a coin and hold it in your hand, it don't matter what it is: Dollar, Pound; it could be a damned Rupee for all I care. Feel the coolness of the metal, the ridges of the design. Thing is, they ain't no more than a bit of metal rolled flat, cut out and stamped with a picture. Agree?

Well, if you believe that, you my friend are crazier than my uncle Joe and he was a few steers short of a full herd; if you catch my drift.

Sure thing, those every day discs have a certain appeal on a purely aesthetic level. I also gotta admit that they can be even more attractive from an economic point of view; I mean, collect enough of 'em and some folk'll do just about anythin' to take 'em off your hands. Thing is, those critters are just missin' the point.

What they're missin' is that every one of those tokens tells a story. Some of those stories are more interestin' than others, and, on the odd occasion, the tale attached is a real humdinger!

You see, real collectors; they don't just pick up any old coins or pens or God-damned bits of fluff. No, real collectors, well, they just like a good story. The coin under that glass. The one that miserable limey is guardin', well, hot-damn, that, good buddy, has a mighty fine tale to tell!

Interested to know the tale? Follow me to be sure to find out :) Comments as always most welcome!

All that glitters....

2011-08-15T13:58:00.004+01:00

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 10 - A Gift of Serendipity... Take Felicity's Word of the Week. Write it at the top of your page. Set your timer for 5 minutes. Write the first words that come into your head after the Word of the Week. Stop writing when the buzzer rings. (I must admit I usually take a couple of attempts before I have anything worth posting! - Adam)

Felicity's Word of the Week is...

Piqued:
A state of vexation caused by a perceived slight or indignity; a feeling of wounded pride.tr.v. piqued, piqu·ing, piques

1. To cause to feel resentment or indignation.
2. To provoke; arouse: The portrait piqued her curiosity.
3. To pride (oneself): He piqued himself on his stylish attire.

I can't believe my eyes! I've found it after all these years of searching! The missing piece in my collection is just out of reach. All that stands between us is a man in a Savile Row suit with matching clipped vowels and a snobbish attitude.

"How much do you want for it, name your price." I ask.

"Oh, I am afraid that is not for sale sir"

He actually smirked as he said it. The bastard actually smirked. The stuck up English son of a gun.

"Look, I'm a very rich man"

"Sir, you do realise how rare this is? It is our pride and joy. You can offer me all the dollars you have on you but I still cannot sell it" His accent seemed to rub in the indignity of the situation.

It's teasing me from beneath the glass. At this moment I know how Tantalus must have felt stretching out for those damned grapes. Except this ain't about no measly fruit. I'm gonna have to bring out the big guns.

I stared that miserable limey right in the eyes and said:

"One million dollars"

So, comments and opinions are welcome as usual. Did this pique your curiosity?

To take part in Write on Wednesday please click on the link on the right hand side bar. if you want to read my previous WoW pieces please click here.

Lizzie and James, the finale...

2011-08-14T22:05:00.001+01:00

This is the conclusion to my write on Wednesday piece. Please read here and here before you begin. As usual constructive criticism and opinions are most welcome!

James drained his mug and set it down on the small table beside his chair.

"Do you want more beer?" asked Lizzie

James eyed her suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. I just thought you might want some more, that's all"

"Yeah. I will then" he replied.

Lizzie walked across the room and picked up the earthenware vessel; as she returned to small kitchen area James stared at the poker resting on the grate of the glowing fire. He picked it up and began to agitate the burning embers.The metal felt warm in his hand and as he stirred the coals the anger inside him began to flare.

The mug, now full, came to rest on the table. As she straightened up she saw a strange look in James' eye; he rose up out of the chair and advanced on her, the poker heavy in his hand.

He hit her.

James stared at Lizzie; a crimson tide flowed onto the floor, he was finally free. The poker fell to the stone floor with a clatter. He stumbled back to his chair and sank into its familiar curves; a strange chill coursed through his body as he cradled the mug in his hands. He drank deeply.

As she faded into eternal unconsciousness, Lizzie saw him slake his thirst. However, she never saw the arsenic take its terrible effect.

Too many fingers, not enough moon.

2011-08-12T15:57:00.002+01:00

To speak of a unified Christian faith or of harmony of Christian beliefs and understandings is ultimately futile. Many, Christians and non-Christians alike, might believe that there is one true faith, or rather, one true expression of faith and that those who do not tread that narrow path are not a part of the body of Christ. It is quite evident from the divisions among the Church that a multitude of doctrine exists within the Christian fellowship worldwide.

Ultimately the problems arise from different foci of faith between the denominations. Some focus on the bible: extolling its authority. Others champion tradition. Yet still others look to reason and try to use rational arguments to prove the existence of God. Some rely on the revelation of God through personal contact with Jesus or the stirrings of the Holy Spirit. Each of these points in turn leads to different styles of worship, evangelism and mission. So to whom should we listen?

That is a question that I have been asking myself recently. My own personal opinion is that there is no 'true' expression of faith nor is there a Christian group who hold exclusively the 'true' way to be a Christian. In many ways Monty Python's Brian got it right when he said "You've got to think for yourselves! You're ALL individuals!"

I like the Buddhist metaphor: When the sage points to the moon the idiot looks at his finger!
Scripture, tradition, reason, revelation, preaching, art, music, dance, worship, doctrine, liturgy, ethics, teachings: these are all fingers. It is all too easy to get caught up in them and miss the splendour to which they point.

The really BIG problem of course is that when we do realise that we've been looking at the fingers we then don't look at what they are actually pointing to.

Another good Buddhist sentiment is: "If you find the Buddha, slay him". In the same way, I would like to say: "If you find the Christ, slay him". By this I mean that if we believe that we have captured God in an image/concept/feeling within ourselves than all we are really worshipping is a god of our own construction. An idol.

The journey towards God is lifelong; the biggest mistake we can make in our lives is to believe that we are there. Our beliefs, prayers, patterns of worship must always evolve as we earnestly seek Him.

To that end I want to look again at my own faith and beliefs and once again be renewed.

James

2011-08-11T19:31:00.001+01:00

Please read this post first.

The cool beer did little to dampen the coals of anger that smouldered deep within him. He drew the the cup of salvation to his lips, drinking deeply, welcoming the sweet veil that descended over him.

He couldn't understand how things could change so much. Once she had promised life. Now she gave death: she withered his dreams, his ambitions, his hope. It hadn't seemed so bad at first, he had loved her; it was different then.

James Bartlett stared across the sparsely furnished room at Lizzie; her hair hung like dirty straw spilling from a manger. Her presence stifled his soul, like bind weed creeping forth, day by day. Had she always sapped his spirit? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that he had to break free from her clutch. He was willing to risk the hangman's noose.

He leaned forward, grabbed a poker and stirred the dying embers of the fire; coaxing warmth into the cold room.

Tonight, he thought, tonight I will make my escape.

How does this piece change your view of Lizzie and James? Do the two pieces work as reflections of each other or do they appear too similar in a dull way?

Please leave your observations in the comments below.

Lastly, I will be finishing the story of Lizzie and James soon. To be sure to catch it sign up to follow me or receive posts through RSS! :) (The final instalment can be found here: http://merrywandererofthenight.blogspot.com/2011/08/lizzie-and-james-finale.html)

email from Simon Kirby MP regarding riots

2011-08-09T15:45:00.004+01:00

Because I have been in contact with my MP Simon Kirby I am on a mailing list and often get things in my inbox; this was sent this afternoon regarding the riots and possible incursion into Brighton:

Dear Mr Ransom

I wanted to write to you given the unsettling scenes we have seen in the past few days following the civil unrest that has been taking part in London and other parts of the country.

People should be in no doubt, that the Government will do everything necessary to restore order to Britain's streets and to make them safe for law abiding citizens. We have a vigorous Parliament and many ways in which people can make their views known. Rioting and looting are never an acceptable mechanism of protest.

I feel huge sympathy for the families who've suffered, innocent people who've been burned out of their houses and to businesses who have seen their premises smashed, their products looted and their livelihoods potentially ruined. I also feel for all those who live in fear because of these appalling scenes that we've seen on the streets of our country. People should be in no doubt that we are on the side of the law abiding people who are appalled by what has happened in their own communities.

What has been happening is criminality pure and simple. It has to be confronted and defeated. We are on the side of the law abiding people who are appalled by what has happens in their own communities.

Police officers have shown incredible bravery confronting the thugs. It is clear we need more police on our streets and more robust police action. Leave within the Metropolitan Police has been cancelled and 16,000 police will be on the streets of London tonight. Already 450 people have been arrested and we will make sure that court procedures and processes are speeded up. The Government has a very clear message for those who are responsible for this wrongdoing and criminality - you will feel the full force of the law. If you are old enough to commit these crimes, you are old enough to face the punishment.

I am writing to our own local Police Superintendent to ensure that contingency planning is in place in case there are any copycat incidents in Brighton.

I was very pleased to see that Parliament will be recalled for a day on Thursday. This is an important step. The Prime Minister will make a statement and a debate will be held so that the House can come together in condemnation of these crimes and stand together in determination to rebuild these communities.

I hope this is helpful.

Kind regards,

Simon Kirby MP

Opinions or views on this post? Leave them in the comment section below!

________________________________

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Think with character...

2011-08-08T09:17:00.009+01:00

Fifteen glacial years of misery had weathered her face and her soul. A tortuous dull ache: bilious, bitter and black grew in the pit of her stomach. It hadn't seemed so bad at first, she had loved him: it was different then. In the beginning was the word and the word was passion. The word was excitement. A future of happiness beckoned: calling her to his side. She had never noticed the harpies' wings circling, waiting, to swoop and to steal away her hope: her life.

Lizzie Bartlett looked across the stark room at her husband; his sallow skin and bloated face reminded her of a toad. James sat there rooted to his chair, nursing a mug of beer, drinking until a blessed oblivion swept over him. Had he always been so slovenly? She couldn't remember. All Lizzie knew was that she craved freedom and that there was only one way out. The vows she had made had bound her to him until death dissolved their earthly union.

Each passing day drove her closer to asylum, closer to the brink. Each sunset the encroaching dark veil mirrored the blackness within; each sunrise mocked her.

Tonight; she thought. Tonight, I will make my escape.

If you would like to take part in WoW follow the link in the sidebar of this blog. Constructive criticism welcome! Do you think Lizzie is believable? Did the brevity of description still allow you to visualise her?

The next instalment can be found here: http://merrywandererofthenight.blogspot.com/2011/08/james.html

Do not be afraid...

2011-08-04T14:07:00.002+01:00

Last year I experienced the break up of my engagement which in turn ended a four and a half year long relationship. For the first three months after the break-up I lived with my ex-fiancée's mother in order to save money to rent a flat; unorthodox but it worked. However, after trying to stick it out in Cornwall I eventually made the difficult decision to leave my job and return to Brighton to start afresh.

During this time I started a blog called 'Do not be afraid...' it fulfilled the purpose of allowing me to express my hurt and thoughts and feelings. The posts happened spontaneously; each one was written in one go and posted without editing. I used a smartphone and would sometimes wake up in the night and have to write something and post it immediately.

For administrative ease I have decided to merge that blog with this one. As you may realise, if you read my profile, I am a serial blog starter and finisher and have had many incarnations since 2004! All of the posts that featured there are available under the label Do not be afraid...

My favourite post is probably Jesus wept.

Sabotaj: The update

2011-08-01T12:18:00.003+01:00

A while back I posted about a small world food grocer that had closed leaving an empty building in a prime spot in Brighton. What happened: Sainsburys won....

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The clock winked....

2011-08-01T10:41:00.000+01:00

The grandfather clock embodied Old Father Time; his face shone and his hands moved faithfully. Each second that passed he waved goodbye to the present and welcomed the future into the hall. He had a spring in his step, considering his age, and a pendulum beat strong in his chest.

Year after year he kept up the pace until one April fool's at precisely 07:21 he winked at the man who looked in his eyes and held his breath. He found that a curious thing happened. His hands did not move yet time still went on; it hadn't slowed to treacle at his command. The man walked away and the birds outside sang; the clock stood in bemused silence.

It was then that he realised that he was a slave; measuring not dispensing as he'd always thought. At that moment his heart broke with the pain: time stopped.

This was my first effort for Write on Wednesday; I thought I'd get it done early otherwise I might never do it! If you would like to take part in WoW follow the link in the sidebar of this blog.

Small glass of white wine: £12,500!

2011-07-31T16:47:00.003+01:00

I don't know much about wine; I know that I prefer red to white and that is about all. However, when I saw a story about a particular bottle of two hundred year old white from France my curiosity was piqued.

Château d'Yquem is, apparently, a very fine sweet white wine produced in the Gironde region of Southern Bordeaux and it seems that the 1811 vintage was a particularly fine one indeed.

This particular year brought about a glut of comet vintage wine due to the Flaugergues comet passing overhead and it marked optimal growing conditions for the region and a reversal of the poor quality of wine that had been produced in the opening decade of the nineteenth century.

The 1811 Château d'Yquem has previously been awarded a perfect 100% score in 1996 by the wine expert Robert Parker who praised its remarkable longevity. So, when a bottle came up for sale in auction at the Ritz in London there was a considerable amount of interest among connoisseurs.

The auctioneer's gavel came down at a staggering £75,000! This makes it a record breaker. It was bought by a private collector, Christian Vanneque, who plans to open it and share it with family and friends in 6 years time to celebrate his 50th anniversary of working in Paris. Until then it will remain on display behind bullet-proof glass in a temperature controlled cabinet in the SIP Sunset Grill in Bali.

All I can say is: I hope that the bottle isn't corked!

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No Fate...

2011-07-19T17:45:00.001+01:00

"The future's not set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves"

These words are spoken by John Connor in the film Terminator 2: Judgement day; for some reason the words 'no fate but what we make' stuck in my head when I first watched the film when I was around twelve years old. They popped into my head today and got me thinking further about our life choices.

With freedom comes the ability to choose and with the ability to choose the necessity of making decisions follows. Previous life choices and, maybe more influentially, external factors beyond our control furnish us with the doors through which we can walk. We can try to affect the choices we might be able to make by actively steering ourselves towards private goals and ambitions, however, we cannot navigate with any real precision. We are tossed about by the decisions of others: recession, war, prejudice, media, weather, politics, fashion and a million and one other factors combine to form a unique set of circumstances that determine the options that we have in each and every moment in the journey of our lives.

When those options are presented to us we can assess them; weigh them up against our hopes and dreams and choose which path to take. But, wait, who are we? Are we not just the product of our upbringing and circumstances? In that case who did the choosing? Given the choice between doors A, B and C would we always choose a particular door? If we would than does that mean that our ability to choose is a mere illusion?

These questions have haunted humanity for millennia and I very much doubt a unanimous conclusion will ever be reached.

There is a story, which I have paraphrased, that Saul Smilansky recalls in his paper 'Free Will And The "Turn Around" Argument':

There is a criminal standing in the dock before a judge who is about to pass sentence on the him. The soon-to-be-convict launches a passionate plea, saying:

"Your Honour, I am not to blame for my actions, I've had a hard life. I come from a long line of thieves and grew up having to steal to provide food for my family. So, you see, I just couldn't help it."

The judge peered down his nose at the man in the dock and soberly replied:

"I have taken into consideration your genetic make-up and your environment and their influence on your life choices. However, I come from a long line of members of the Judiciary and spent my youth being forced to learn about the law. Therefore, I have no choice but to sentence you to 10 years in prison."

This tale illustrates the fact that the claim that one cannot be held accountable for ones actions due to their nature and nurture can be turned upon itself in order to absolve any person of their actions. In doing this the validity of the argument is negated; if we all claimed to be unaccountable for our actions and therefore beyond reproach it would leave us living in some kind of macabre stage production in which we all dance to a predetermined tune.

The theologian in me can't help but wonder where God appears in this argument: though I think I'll leave that for another day!

Twit; who?

2011-07-16T19:37:00.008+01:00

Lying perpendicular to the floor whilst balancing precariously on a random object no longer cuts the mustard it would seem. After the death of an Australian and even worse, a photo of Gordan Ramsey engaging in the practice, planking is "officially dead" claimed the Metro newspaper yesterday. What has replaced it? Owling, of course!

Owling, rather unsurprisingly, involves imitating the wizarding world's favourite form of letter carrying raptor whilst perching on something interesting. As with planking; the more outlandish the setting the better!

However, this doesn't strike me as being a new craze at all: Simon Stylites surely started the phenomenon over 1500 years ago; his time of 39 years on top of a pillar will take some beating!

Kampai!

2011-07-15T11:07:00.005+01:00

Wow, this young girl sure has great enthusiasm and knowledge about the traditional Japanese rice wine Sake! As a certified expert on the drink she is often approached to dispense her wisdom on pairing it with tasty treats and gourmet delicacies. Talking about a dish containing the snapper fish she says; "if we assume that the snapper is from the sea off the island of Sado I recommend a Sake called Kinsuru from Sado."

The sumptuous absurdity of this story is the fact that the girl has supposedly never tasted Sake as, at ten years old, she is a decade shy of the legal drinking age in Japan. Surely a purely theoretical knowledge of the tastes and complexities of the alcohol cannot substitute for an experienced palate when it comes to matching the beverage with food?

Actually, strike that cynical question off of the record, people are happy with her advice and she has a passion and goal in life that transcends her youth. I hope that she succeeds in her vocation and that her first sip of Sake tastes as good as she says it will!

So, let us raise a glass and wish her well: 'Kampai!'

Discernment

2011-05-07T18:22:00.000+01:00

O Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going,
I do not see the road ahead of me,
I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,
And the fact that I think
I am following Your will
Does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe
That the desire to please You
Does in fact please You.
And I hope I have that desire
In all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything
Apart from that desire to please You.

And I know that if I do this
You will lead me by the right road,
Though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore I will trust You always
Though I may seem to be lost
And in the shadow of death.
I will not fear,

For You are ever with me,
And You will never leave me
To make my journey alone.

Source: Thomas Merton, Pax Christi, Benet Press, Erie, PA.

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Paths

2011-05-01T23:19:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I will provide a path to follow that is hidden and secret; other times it will shine open before you. Know that hidden or revealed I am with you. You are free to choose the way to go; my love for you is steadfast no matter which road you walk. You may not know which way to turn, you may feel lost; at these times stretch out your hand and follow me.

Do not be afraid, trust in his unfailing love.

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Sabotaj

2011-02-24T12:45:00.000Z

Until recently this building was occupied by a world food grocer called Taj. It now holds a group of squatters protesting against plans for another branch of Sainsburys to open in the building. The court ruled in favour of Sainsburys regardless of what local people want. Within one mile there are already two Sainsburys stores plus Tescos, Morrison etc. As I stand here people the ground below are passing up supplies via a length of cord bring dangled from the roof top. Who will prevail?

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Privileged

2011-01-20T13:01:00.000Z

Sitting in a more salubrious coffee and cake establishment in Brighton I suddenly had a flash of realisation. How privileged we are.

The photo speaks volumes. The fact that I could take the picture, write this post and upload it from my seat speaks volumes.

Most of us compartmentalize suffering in the world. We have our cake and eat it, whilst watching people starve.

Why do we do this?

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Ambush

2011-01-17T22:48:00.000Z

You sit there.

Wrapped up in cerebral folds of grey.

Ready to ambush in the silence.

The odd thing is.

You isn't really you at all.

You is a mental construct.

All high vis-vests and neurons.

No substance.

No reality.

A cardboard cut out that makes me

Squirm

Agitate

Corrode.

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Peace

2011-01-09T14:10:00.000Z

Peace. What is peace? Is it an absence of war? Is it a lack of provocation? Is it an excuse to keep the status quo and avoid strife? Can we strive for peace without first seeking justice? Can we believe we are working towards peace, whilst at the same time ignoring the oppressed?

Think deeply. Feel deeply. Pray deeply. Know that a deep peace can only be achieved through loving the Lord. Loving the Lord leads to loving your neighbour. Loving your neighbour leads to understanding their needs. It leads to removing obstacles that cause them to stumble. It leads to building them up. Seeking justice for them, which leads to peace.

Seek out you neighbours. All peoples are your neighbours. The poor and the oppressed are your neighbours. Your friends and family. Your enemies. The marginalized. Love them all freely.

Do not be afraid to love......

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Donuts; go nuts!

2010-12-13T14:19:00.000Z

Hi all. Well, I am now a resident of Brighton, and am now more likely to post to this blog as there are many things that catch my attention around and about these parts.

Today it was Krispy Kreme that leapt out at me. Another little piece of America; sneaking across the pond in an innocuous ring shaped, sugar coated disguise. Why should this matter? Shouldn't we be glad that we can now all buy a dozen assorted luxury donuts?

Well, I, for one, think that it does matter. Their arrival theatens those few independent bakers that are left and they increase the rate of the spread of an homogeneous americanised high street. Maybe I am just out of touch. Doesn't our society crave convenient, mass market, mass produced goods? Isn't Krispy Kreme a shining example of conformity and clone store capitalism? It is rather depressing to concede that the answer to both questions is yes.

Now, I have nothing against Krispy Kreme or donuts come to that. I just feel a tad deflated at the rampant advance of unthinking, unfeeling consumerism. Standardization of taste and culture; miserable.

Before, you all accuse me of getting on my high horse and being 'holier than thou' about this issue, please know that I am writing this whilst sat in a branch of Waterstones!

So, what are your views? Do chains and franchises give us more or less choice as consumers? Please leave your comments.

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Light

2010-12-08T22:21:00.001Z

Wait. Patiently. Watch for the light. It is coming.

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Snowflakes

2010-12-05T23:22:00.000Z

Snowflakes. Each one is unique. Each one is formed different. Millions fall from the sky, each one unnoticed and undistinguished from the others by human eyes. However fleeting their existence may be, each one has a part to play in creating the snow covered landscape.

Like snowflakes we mostly remain undistinguished in the eyes of humanity. Our uniqueness is perceived by few. In time all of us will be forgotten by society; a few names may be preserved in the dusty chronicles of human history; however, inaccurate facsimiles and half remembered anecdotes are all that will remain.

Therefore, do not seek fame and favour in the human realm. Rather know that your individuality is recorded by one who has known you for eternity. Take comfort in this.

Do not be afraid.......

Transient

2010-11-24T10:45:00.001Z

Life is transient. In an instant everything familiar is changed. Blink and you will miss it. Understand that impermanence underpins this life.

You will be sad when things become different; when relationships are no longer what they once were and when the scenery of your life is replaced. Grief is as much a part of life as impermanence is.

Be brave and look forward.

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Refiner

2010-11-22T11:04:00.001Z

Holy fire. It sears away impurity. Leaves behind what is good and whole. The process is hard, the path uncomfortable to tread. Your heart may feel like it is dying.

Be still and know that I am God. Rest in my love. Feel me replenish you. I will give you a heart of flesh. Through my guidance you will be made new. I will leave you with precious memories. I will let them strengthen you. When the flame is removed the pain will be gone and you will be strong.

Do not be afraid. I will not let you fall. I will not abandon you.

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Science and religion: mutually exclusive?

2010-11-07T10:59:00.000Z

I found this whilst perusing the Guardian's website; it was posted in the science section, I imagine that is where they suppose all of the atheist readers hang out. Read an article on gene therapy followed by a laugh at religious satire courtesy of YouTube.

I suppose for me it highlights contemporary societies' understanding that atheism and science are two sides of the same coin. A good atheist believes in Darwin, advocates Dawkins and thinks science is the answer to everything. On the other hand a good Christian (or other faith adherent) shuns Darwin, refutes Dawkins and thinks that God is the key.

For me, this is concerning. I am a Christian, yet I have a very high view of science. I have no problem in the theory of evolution. I can cope with the idea of string theory. I think that good medical practice is vital in healing the sick. There are many scientists who happen to be Christian (and other faith adherents). For example, Martin Nowak, an evolutionary biologist and mathematician at Harvard; Christopher Isham, a theoretical physicist; Francis Collins, former director of the US National Human Genome Research Institute all have a belief in God.

A person of faith can be a scientist. An atheist can view science with mistrust. We are all different, so please can we stop pretending that people of faith are intellectual dullards who have a serious problem with superstitious nonsense! We must also stop assuming that every atheist is switched onto science and is a militant follower of Richard Dawkins.

So, what do you think? Are science and religion mutually exclusive? Leave your comments below!

Decisions

2010-10-26T15:04:00.001+01:00

If you don't even know what is best for yourself how can you advise others. Take stock of your own life. Take time to think.

Know that decisions can sometimes seem impossible. Also know that with much examination and prayer you will know what to do for the best.

Understand that the best thing to happen may paradoxically be the hardest and most painful option. Work through that pain. Take each day as it comes.

Try to rest. Be kind to yourself. In times of great distress do not try to carry others, it will only lead to both of your downfalls.

Paradox abounds. To gain something we must first lose it. To be content we have to first know discontent.

Rest in the Lord

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Rosary

2010-10-24T11:12:00.001+01:00

It's the little things that I miss:

A gentle touch.

A shared joke.

Your smile.

Silly faces.

Cuddles.

So many things flood my mind; Awash. I am awash with memories.

Everything that made me happy,
Everything that irked,
Everything that was you,
Was me,
Was us.

Tears fall. Each one a reminder;
A reminder of precious times,
Of strong links,
Of sorrow,
but not of regret.

Each glistening bead counting days spent together.

Decades of experience.

Sorrow and joy.

Glorious and luminous.

A relationship rosary that rotates in my mind;
Like whispered prayers and hushed amens.

It is over.

Glory be.

Amen.

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Patience

2010-10-24T09:10:00.001+01:00

Waiting. Tick, tock, tick tock. Time crawls. You just want it all to be over. There is nothing you can do.

Patience. It is said to be a virtue. Be solid. Wait. Worry less. Easier said than done; remember though that you have done this before and will do it again.

Cling on and weather the storm. Be steadfast, like a limpit awaiting the returning tide. Do not let yourself be consumed by panicked thoughts. No one can predict the future with certainty. Do not try to interpret current events, you are never in possession of all the facts. The un-tethered mind can be destructive if not guided. Let it imagine positive things. Know that all will be well.

Trust in his unfailing love.

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The big squeeze....

2010-10-23T09:18:00.000+01:00

As I am sat on a coach heading back to Cornwall I thought that today's post should have a transport flavour to it. In fact the post will have a distinctly citrus tang.

For many years the Brighton and Hove Bus and Coach Company has pretty much had a monopoly on public transport within the city. They do an admirable job; services are prompt, frequent and wide reaching if a tad pricey. They also claim to have very clean exhaust emissions from their fleet of buses. Excellent. Though they do run on traditional fossil fuel. Not so excellent.

Enter The Big Lemon. In the autumn of 2007 Tom Druitt founded the company with a very limited service and in a couple of months had to suspend the service due to lack of financial viability. It is back up and running though it has a long way to go before it can start to put a big squeeze on Brighton and Hove buses.

So, what's different about The Big Lemon? Well, the main attraction is that the company collect waste cooking oil from restaurants around and about in East Sussex. They process this to create fuel for their fleet resulting in an exceptionally low carbon company. Smashing.

Follow the story at www.thebiglemon.com

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Self

2010-10-22T14:32:00.001+01:00

Your true self is buried deep within you. Though you will never completely discover it, you must always seek it.

You are, in part, the sum of your life to date. This is the part you can change by what you do and what you think on a daily basis.

The other part of you is the core to your very being. It is often veiled. You can try and ignore it. You must come to terms with who you are and what it is that you truly want.

Only when your life goals and your true self align can you be happy. You are unique.

Do not be dismayed.

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Graffiti: Love it or hate it?

2010-10-22T10:10:00.000+01:00

What do you think of when you hear the word graffiti?

Vandalism?
Thugs?
ASBO? (I'm not sure that ASBOs even exist anymore!)
The Life of Brian?!?!

How about:

Art?
Skillful?
Fun?
Legal?

Living in Truro, Cornwall, for the last three and a half years has really taken the issue of graffiti out of my conscious thoughts due to the fact that there is virtually no graffiti on the walls at all. So, on my visit to Brighton this week, I have been struck by the sheer volume of the stuff that is plastered over everything here. The majority is the sort that gives graffiti a bad name: 'Kev woz ere 09', 'Trish is a slag'. You know, the puerile stuff.

However, there are also some really stunning pieces. The picture above is of a piece of work that stopped me in my tracks. This is in part due to the fact that I am a bit of a geek and do love star wars! Look at the size of it! Whatever your opinion on that piece of artwork, you have to admit that it took a lot of talent to create. It wasn't done by a gang of deliquants after dark with a stolen spray can. It was planned and lovingly brought to life.

I had a bit of a mooch on Google earlier and found Brighton Graffiti, which displays the work of some of the more 'professional' graffiti artists located in the Brighton area. Some of the pictures in their gallery show some amazing work. The best bit, it has all been commissioned. It is all wanted by the buildings' owners and it is legal.

Some people might criticise the grafitti pieces for encouraging vandalism and further grafitti in the area. Some may argue that comissioned graffiti is ugly. Some may argue that commissioned graffiti is by definition not graffiti at all! I think it cheers the place up a bit. :0)

What do you think? Leave your comments below!

Fear

2010-10-22T09:20:00.000+01:00

Sometimes you will be afraid. When things in life change suddenly; when all familiar things take on a strange hue, that is when fear creeps in. The unknown. What will happen? What will I do? Where will I go? Unanswerable questions.

Breathe. Know that worrying will get you nowhere. If logic and reason provide no clear answers to the problem in hand, wait. As each day goes by the challenges that face you will become clearer. As the scenarios unfold you will be guided. Trust.

Trust that you are not alone.

Feeling a bit tyred and let down...

2010-10-21T09:50:00.000+01:00

I saw this tyre garden on the side of the pavement the other day. I am really pleased for two reasons. The first reason is that someone actually felt bothered to create these planters. The second is that in the middle of Brighton the plants have not been destroyed at night and are actually bearing fruit (Tomatoes).

Although I don't currently live in Brighton, as a Brighton boy with family still there, I have picked up a lot of information through osmosis. From what I can tell the plantyres (see what I did there?) probably came from the wonderful but ill-fated Lewes road community garden. A, legally dubious, project which saw members of the local community take over the land of a nearby demolished Esso petrol station and turn it into a living breathing place of rest. It was, to mix metaphors, an oasis in an urban jungle.

The land management firm want to build flats and yet another Tesco outlet. The local community want a garden. They made a garden. It's been taken away. So much for the 'big society'!

Read the full story at http://www.lewesroadcommunitygarden.org/

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Pimp that Mexican!

2010-10-20T19:43:00.000+01:00

Iztapalapa.

I've never been there.

Actually, up until a few minutes ago I'd never even heard of the place. What interests me is what happened there a few days ago; it was an amazing feat of culinary coordination and skill. Quite frankly I have no idea where they found a big enough oven. Imagine a 230 foot long, one and a half tonne, enchilada. No, I couldn't really either. But it's big enough to be a record holder. I wonder who came up with the idea and how they managed to convince the town it was a worthwhile use of their time and ingredients? I mean, a giant sandwich I could understand. But a giant enchilada? I think maybe the guy who came up with the idea, Pedro, had been looking at http://www.pimpthatsnack.com/ minutes before he told his good amigo Juan the idea.

Reliance

2010-10-20T09:18:00.001+01:00

Stability. You must find it at the core of your being. Trust in no one but God. To lean on anyone else is folly. Spend time alone. Be at ease with yourself.

Crave no one.

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Trust

2010-10-18T18:56:00.001+01:00

There are times in life when you will have to make hard choices. It may seem that whatever you do will cause you to lose in some way. Know that in whatever situation you find yourself there is always a way to succeed. Stop. Slow down. Reflect. Look around you.

Ask and it will be given. Seek and you shall find. Trust that there is a solution to any problem you face. Hester Panim. God's face, hidden. Like an eclipse. You may feel alone. You are not.

Trust.

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Silence

2010-10-17T23:07:00.001+01:00

Silence. It wraps round you. Heavy. A shroud. It often seems oppressive, it can torture you. The absence of noise. The absence of company. Stark. It forces you to confront yourself, do not shy away from this, it is a gift.

Be still. Reflect. Pray. Commune with God in the depths of your heart. Acknowledge the steady stream of chatter in your mind, know that you cannot fully stop it. Let it be.

Hush.

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Love

2010-10-15T18:22:00.001+01:00

True love and friendship bears all things. Even the most intense hurt and pain. Know that the love that is shared between two people remains. It is indelibly recorded in eternity. Sacrifice. Understand that no real friendship can exist without it.

The memories you have will always remain. They shape you. Your innermost being is formed through the love that you share with those around you. Know that each one of us is in a constant state of renewal and change.

Embrace it.

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Black

2010-10-14T22:22:00.001+01:00

A black cloak surrounds you. Restrictive. It's tendrils constrict. It's presence is cloying. Powerless. Nothing you can do but wait and watch in silent terror.

Pray. Let light pierce the darkness. It is all you can do as the events unfold. Your nerves are ablaze with liquid concern. Let good bathe them. The darkness cannot harm you. It can intimidate. Bully. Pester. Torment. It can chill you. It cannot conquer.

Do not be afraid!