The Blogger Formerly Known As

The Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Mon, 28 May 2012 15:02:00 +0000

AKA Tales From the Fields . . . and Beyond

Part 1. Charlotte’s Ebb

Even the spherical giants were dwarfed by the unfathomably vast expanses of blackness in which they hung. From afar these great swirling orbs merely resembled glistening globules. But closer up none were insignificant, and none were unremarkable. Even against their backdrop of mind-boggling nothingness.

Zaxer 8, for example, was remarkable because it had twenty-three moons, twenty-two of which were larger than itself. Zaxer 8 had precious little daylight. But a modicum was better than nothing.

Klayon Minus was a disk-shaped planet; a flat world whose residents believed it to be round. Many a calamity was bestowed upon its adventurers, as one by one they fell off the edge of their world.

The Earth was a gyroscopic ball of rock. A twirling globe that existed inside a bubble of air. Not unlike one of its inhabitants, the Argyroneta aquatica (Water Spider) which also carried with it its own air supply.

The Earth’s moon and two of its neighbouring planets, Venus and Jupiter, reflected from a small pool, newly swollen by the spring rains. Their images distorted though, by ripples in the early evening breeze.

Below the surface and blissfully unaware of anything else anywhere, lived a spider called Charlotte. Planets and moons that shone into her world might as well have been cuddly dogs from the local toy shop for all she knew or cared. She contented herself with making underwater webs and eating her mates after sex. Well, having a cigarette would have been out of the question.

We’re all so tied up with our tiny little lives, that we’re oblivious to oblivion.

Charlotte’s oblivion came in the guise of a less than cuddly dog called Felix. A cur owned by Donald, the guy who lived next door to the local toy shop.

Felix was an unkempt, untrained, medium sized mongrel who, while taking his customary dip on his way to the park inadvertently demonstrated the fragility of life. Sadly at the expense of poor Charlotte. Perhaps her doomsday was poetic justice though? Maybe Felix was the reincarnation of all her former boyfriends, here to exact their revenge for being eaten. But probably not.

Donald himself was every bit as dishevelled as his hound. Or as near as dammit is to swearing. How he achieved his shock of hair when there was so little of it left, was possibly the eighth wonder of the world. But, a wonder that was kept hidden under the cover of an almost-Stetson-but-not-quite type of hat.

He was lazily resentful of being an indoor type with an outdoor life. He wore a world-weary expression which blended aptly with his rounded shoulders. When physical prowess was being handed out, he wasn’t even in line.

But there was something about him.

Judith’s dog, Joan of Arc, was a mollycoddled pedigree that defied description. Most people’s dogs led them into conversations, and occasionally friendships. Not Joan of Arc though, she led Judith into many a battle.

As for Judith herself, she had perfected that Raggedy Anne look. Her long straggly hair complimented her long bohemian dresses, long Wellington boots and general sense of longing. Her head leaned to one side, and her face bore all the hallmarks of a tormented soul. Once devout, she’d used up her 490 forgivenesses and had now run out of credit.

Donald and Judith had been seeing each other for months now, but always from opposite sides of the brook which ran through the park.

That night, of all nights, they could see each other approaching, and knew their paths were finally going to meet. The stage was set.

To lend enchantment the background scenery was hazy, giving a dry-ice atmosphere to proceedings. Although when the smell hit them, they realized the local arsonist had merely set light to a nearby barn.

Magical clouds streaked across the sky. Or were they just aeroplane trails?

As similar, and different, as stinging nettles and dead nettles, Judith and Donald were just about to meet. Only minutes to go and their heart rates increased slightly in anticipation.

Just seconds to go now. Never ending seconds in which hopes and dreams lived and died.

To be continued . . .

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 The Blogger Formerly Known As
All Rights Reserved

The Bridges I have Crossed

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 12:20:00 +0000

Nothing went unnoticed by Emily and her friends on the way to the bakery; the high wychert walls lining the cobbled alleyway; the corrugated garden shed roof on which there was a skeleton that only she knew about (despite having never actually seen it); the huge spider lodged limbo-esque between a splintered wooden panel and a murky pane of glass in the boarded up, crumbled-down old house.

Once inside the creaky bakery door almost everything went unnoticed; the woodworm-eaten joists; the just baked breads of every size, shape and colour; even the assortment of fresh cream cakes, each supplied with or without a dead wasp. And the prize wasn’t even in sight yet. But soon would be.

The unsmiling baker’s wife didn’t deter them either. She was of an age that the summer of life was behind her. And her expression suggested it had rained.

Beneath the counter a treasure trove hid its secrets. The magical penny box with a brightly coloured array of edible jewels. Synthetically sugary, tooth-rotting, fat-inducing little pieces of heaven, and only a penny each. Some gems even less. And that was back in the days when a penny was worth something. Marshmallow bananas, flying saucers, sherbet dips, love hearts, chocolate drops, liquorice rolls, sugar mice, jelly cola bottles . . .

As they dipped their greedy little hands into their paper bags they would inevitably be chivvied along by the Get Cracking Man. One of Pobblestrum’s truly indigenous folk, he was a cloth cap-wearing old man with a glint in his eye. As he waved his stick and told them to, “Get Cracking,” you could tell he was one of the gang, and it wasn’t so very long ago when he was buying sweets and dawdling to school himself.

In those days Emily had her whole life ahead of her and certainly didn’t expect glimpses like these to be paraded before her again. They say at the moment of your death life flashes before your eyes, don’t they? She wondered what it meant when it trudges by with infuriating slowness.

The sun had tracked unhurriedly across the sky all day but when it could no longer sustain its flight, it dropped out of sight with careless abandon. Its rays still seared through the heavens though, ricocheted from the moon and made the grass sparkle as if fairies were dancing the night away. Amongst the dancing Emily perched on a discarded railway sleeper left over from a sleepy and discarded railway. Feeling like an interloper in her own life, she reflected on the blank canvass she once had with so many possibilities. Now it was tarnished by her existence with an unsightly splodge, rather than the resplendent work of art she would have preferred.

Her aspirations towards hedonism were let down badly by her conscience which left gaping holes in what might have been. Her unfocussed eyes gazed towards a tree’s branches and the moon beyond. It wouldn’t be long before the daffodils bloomed once again and the swallows returned.

Little wisps of air dashed from here to there as though they had only just remembered where they were supposed to be and made Emily’s mind float away again, to a time when she was floating away.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself sitting in the cockpit of a glider. Like most things in life it was something she’d pretty much fallen into by accident. The objective was to take aerial photographs of Pobblestrum. The reality was this, her first solo flight. She always felt rather incongruous in the pilot’s seat anyway, and now small wayward thoughts all snapped together in blind panic.

The flight checks seemed fine: Wings, yes. Parachute, check. Pilot, nooooooo . . .

A second or so later there was too much else to think about as she was hurled hell-for-leather into the sky. The air hissed past defiantly, and gravity merely looked the other way.

Everyday things looked different from up here; the roads she’d travelled, the paths she’d walked and bridges she had crossed. And it wasn’t hard to feel detached from everyone she knew as well, all their problems and their promise. To ascend was to transcend.

But perhaps more important was that small crescent-shaped mustard field she’d just passed over. The one that closely resembled a marshmallow banana. The roundabout in the park looked remarkably like a liquorice roll. And the brown-topped parasols in the pub garden were virtually indistinguishable from chocolate drops. In fact, the world looked like one giant penny box.

Brimming over with philosophical zeal and nonsensical profundities, she sat on her railway sleeper and pondered: it’s too late to change the past, and only the present can change the future. But, she’d think about that tomorrow. Even the daffodils and swallows would have to wait. All this thinking had made her hungry . . .

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Copyright © 2012 TheBloggerFormerlyKnownAs
All Rights Reserved

Wellington Wonderland

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 20:15:00 +0000

The parched fields of summer gave way to the boggy swamps of winter. From dusty great expanses to squelchy marshland seemingly overnight. A veritable Wellington wonderland.

I thought I knew this area like the back of my hand. And indeed I did, but only the vehicular routes. But, I’ve been rediscovering the locale since walking the length and breadth of the footpaths and bridleways. No longer just the trans-village routes, but now the inter-county rights of way too. I’ve reached crossroads and made decisions.

Sometimes it’s easier to think in the rain, sleet, gales, fog and snow. Careful as I go though; it’s always the dog-walkers who discover the bodies, isn’t it?

Exercising and socializing Nada has done just the same for me. New friends. Well, almost . . . Dalmatians aren’t that common here, and she gets all the attention. Middle-aged neurotic loonies are everywhere, so I don’t.

Still, I’ve got a reason to get up in the mornings now, and something else to care about other than myself. That might just stave off therapy for a little longer.

I’m creating memories for tomorrow, even if I never revisit them.

Falling Isn’t As Easy At It Looks

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 20:03:00 +0000

The single slit-like window was high up and out of harm’s way. A window from which the outside world could not be glimpsed, flowers could not be viewed, and clouds could not be seen.

But moonlight did manage to find its way in, falling on Amanda’s unflickering eyelids and changing her otherwise pallid complexion lunar blue.

She sat there in silence gently rocking. An intangible silence growing ever more deadly since the departure of the last visitor.

No one visited any more.

* * *

Ripples of contacts once encircled her, just as they do all of us. Acquaintances in the outermost rings described Amanda as bright and breezy. But stripping away the layers to the much smaller circles of friends and a very different woman was described; aloof, austere and introverted.

Scratching deeper still, there was only one really close friend. With the emphasis on ‘was.’

Marisa just disappeared one day. Local rumours fuelled tabloid stories about pig farms and sausage factories.

“Sausages?” Amanda blithely dismissed the gossip, “As if you’d dispose of anyone so poisonous in food!”

The police left few stones unturned. But in turning them they covered all the tracks they would have preferred to have found. Almost as if some perverted genius had planned it that way.

Marisa certainly had existed, but detectives found precious little evidence of the fact.

* * *

Preceding Marisa’s disappearance there were a number of ‘incidents’ in Amanda’s family which were never adequately explained. In reality, they were rather more than incidents, and included the untimely demise of her mother no less.

Although Amanda was the linchpin, the connection between a lot of suspicious happenings, the police could find neither evidence nor motive. She might still be able to help with their enquiries though.

At precisely the same time as the sirens were switched on, Amanda slipped and fell.

A raised floorboard, a lumpy carpet, a loose shoe . . . it was a complicated series of events, but then falling isn’t as easy as it looks.

By the time the wailing had subsided, Amanda was in the foetal position on the bathroom floor with a fractured skull.

The police took the decision to move her to a psychiatric secure unit and monitor her condition. There she sat, like a living ghost. A freezing atmosphere surrounded her that you could almost touch.

Interrupted only by doctors opening her eyelids and shining lights into her black, distant eyes. Far beyond interviews and lie detectors now.

Moonlight may still get into Amanda’s cell, but no one and no thing could penetrate her any more. She’d escaped. And with her, she’d taken secrets from the world; was she the perpetrator or a victim?

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 The Blogger Formerly Known As
All Rights Reserved

Horses of Very Different Colours

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 09:53:00 +0000

The view outside the window contrasted spectacularly with the view inside. Not the that the horses were ever interested, any more than the staff inside were interested in the stables.

Irresistibly pleasant smells of tea and bacon sandwiches slightly overpowered the stale odour which would otherwise have dominated the room.

A hodge-podge of soggily unwanted food blocked the sink, and dirty mugs haphazardly bobbed up and down in the murky water therein.

Questionable stains on the moth-eaten armchairs could have told their own stories.

The ‘Crew Room’ was a second home to a bunch of hygienically-challenged truck and bus drivers who complemented their surroundings perfectly. You didn’t need to cut their trunks and count the rings to know their ages. The lines on their faces gave that away all too readily.

The only exception was Adrian Stagg, who was tall, dark and nearly as handsome as he thought. What he lacked in looks he made up for with his broad, mischievous grin and oozing confidence. Jaws dropped for him, as did knickers. Or, so he said.

“Oh, so you reckon Catherine Zeta-Jones would fancy you?” Bert taunted him jealously.

Adrian stood up, grabbed the snooker table and hurled it at Bert.

Another argument settled in the usual way. It would all have been forgotten down the pub later on.

Outside of sex and violence, another common hobby was flaunting their ignorance. Really bragging about it at times. But when they received their payslips they all became advanced mathematicians.

Farther along the corridor there was door on which a grubby sign stated, ‘Control Staff Only’. Behind this door was a horse of a different colour. This door was very much the division between them and us.

Management and workers?

No!

Men and women.

Much of the chipped, discoloured paintwork was tastefully hidden by meaningless flow-charts, timetables and forecasts. All generated by computers so primitive they would have been envious of an abacus. To be fair, they did use ones and zeroes. Just not many of them.

Instead of mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches, office nibbles came in the form of cups of coffee and chocolate biscuits. And pills of varying shapes and sizes to help with the foreboding feeling of deep time.

Feminine touches stretched as far as the odd plants that were brought in to die sadly in darkened corners.

Transparent acts ranged from sophisticated personas to well-rehearsed spontaneity, all paraded with precision. And, my colleagues all had that deceptively eloquent look, when they were anything but.

Voices shrilly talked over one in another with no understanding of synchronized speaking. An atmosphere of false friendliness resembling the Cold War was almost tangible.

And where an argument did erupt, nothing was thrown, except one or two home truths, perhaps. Instead, deadly looks were exchanged. If looks could have killed, Lizaveta would almost certainly have scratched out many an eyeball. And lifetime grudges ensued.

This was all a typical day in the life of a particular transport section on a particular military camp. Needless to say, I signed the Official Secrets Act when I first started there, and can’t reveal anything else, so mum’s the word. In fact some of the work was so secret I didn’t always know what I was doing ^*.

I can’t tell you, for example, that the British secret service, renowned for wearing black, now have to wear ‘high-visibility’ clothes for Health and Safety reasons.

Now removed in time and distance, I look at this extract from my CV and wonder if I should have been more concise. Then I look out of my window here; at the end of the garden there stands a house where used to stand a horse.

What ever happened to all the horses from my past?

^* This is a joke I stole from my friend Heather, and unfortunately can’t take the credit for.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 The Blogger Formerly Known As
All Rights Reserved

The Usual Mishmash of Greys

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 23:39:00 +0000

In the small hours of a filthy Thursday morning she awoke restlessly, never to return to sleep. The heavens opened and the sound of hundreds upon thousands of raindrops pouring from their rolling clouds onto the roof and walls grew louder. Raindrops that fell like teardrops from a million anguished hearts.

With great effort, she lifted her head and took her hands away from her sore and blood-shot eyes. They painfully scanned all the familiar objects through the veil of night; all the possessions there might once have been reasons for buying, their importance, if there ever was any, had long since paled. She gave up and dropped her head back to her pillow and tried hard to sleep once more.

Hours of emptiness passed. Neither sleeping nor waking, but somewhere eerily between. Millions of racing thoughts all added up to just one question. One word; why?

Restively she moved towards the window, and on opening the curtains what little light there was streamed out, leaving the place greyer and gloomier than before. Little wisps of air twitched and dashed from here to there, as though they had only just remembered where they were supposed to be.

She watched the blustery weather easing off, and through the blurry glass the drenched car-park dimly reflected the orange street lights’ dulled twinkles. The last raindrop trickled sadly down the pane and into a cold shallow pool on the window ledge.

The new quiet stillness was only broken by the odd creak and the ticking of the clock, which only served to remind her of the passing of time. She didn’t need reminding, she was all too painfully aware of it. The world hadn’t stopped after all. It would have been more apt if it had. The creaks became unbearable.

She didn’t even flinch when the alarm finally broke the silence. Instinctively she switched it off just as she had every other morning.

Shell-shocked, fractured and bleary-eyed, she made her way to her car, drove to the main junction, but instead of turning left as usual, she just carried on.

In her usual self-disapproving manner, Emily sat there struggling to unravel her spaghetti thoughts. But in doing so she only disturbed sediment in the murkier recesses of her mind, and troubled feelings regurgitated back through her consciousness.

She tapped on the steering wheel and sighed. The traffic was terrible. Before last night, it would have mattered to her more. Well, it would have mattered.

It didn’t now.

At that time of the morning David would normally have been concentrating on merely being awake. But this morning he was mulling over his swimmy memories of last night.

A disk jockey read from a script that would have made a robot seem flexible, and with no margin for humour. Clearly whoever chose the playlist had more depth though.

On automatic pilot, David sang along to Slipping Under by Amy Belle.

Like the most of the other drivers that morning, he was driving far too fast, and distracted by life.

In his head, life should always have run like a Hollywood screenplay. But, last night both he and Emily had strayed somewhat. And he realized all too late that their paths would almost certainly never cross again. Time lost was time lost forever.

Aubrey’s night shift was running into overtime as usual. At the helm of his 44 tonner, he too was singing tunelessly along with the radio. Even though he was squinting hard through the windscreen, all he saw was his bed back at home.

His half-open eyelids were followed closely by a heavy trailer load of road safety leaflets, which never helped when he screeched to a halt as he did just then. Not a totally uncommon occurrence; it happened once in a while. Sometimes twice.

Emily hollowly accepted that the rainbow for her would probably always be greener on the other side. And yellower for that matter. And pinker. But, maybe not bluer.

Something unanswered had slipped through her fingers last night. A moment had come and gone forevermore, and the rest of her life would probably consist of the usual mishmash of greys.

Aubrey saw a car in the distance, waiting at the junction. The same colour car as his quilt cover. He dozily dropped down a gear. The diesel engine rumbled and throbbed hypnotically beneath him, almost in time with the music. All he could see was his warm snug sheets and soft plump pillows.

It all happened in a matter of seconds. Shattered blood-stained glass surrounded the wreckage, and bystanders began to anxiously mill around.

Eventually the sirens fell silent like the last firework of the season.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 The Blogger Formerly Known As
All Rights Reserved

To listen to Amy Belle’s Slipping Under, click below

To purchase this song, or to hear more of Amy Belle, click here.

The Road To Hell

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 21:08:00 +0000

As I’ve mentioned before, not having a job means that everyday I can choose the job I’m not doing. For example, today I decided to be an unemployed choreographer for the next Pirates of the Caribbean film. And tomorrow, who knows?

However, all fairytales must end. Or, at least fade into dullness. Here in the genuinely magical village of Pobblestrum, mythology itself has become commonplace. Rosalina the pond-dwelling mermaid vainly persists in her quest for a vice, and yet still can’t keep her cigarettes alight. But, for me, things have moved beyond bad-tempered marine life, how ever pretty it may be. And, as for the trolls and their unicorn farms . . . I’ll just have to gloss over them too. The reality has hit me; I need to find a way of making a living!

I recently submitted an article to an online magazine, which might not have been any good, but, to date, it has just been ignored. I’m going to take this as When he spoke, his mouth and voice were always out of synch like an poor satellite transmission. An impressive trick if you can do it.

Eventually soul searching found me kneeling in holy silence, broken only by my sister’s unholy size ten stilettos clomping up and down the aisle. The Book of Common Worship was deliberately tucked just beneath one of those new-fanglwould have been such a sweet irony to have written for a living.

I’m relieved that I had the guts to leave, but is it a question of out of the void and into the abyss?

Thankfully Cyril, the church organist, had just finished practising. A short man who had the ability to make a musical instrument sound like an industrial power tool. When he spoke, his mouth and voice were always out of synch like an poor satellite transmission. An impressive trick if you can do it.

Eventually soul searching found me kneeling in holy silence, broken only by my sister’s unholy size ten stilettos clomping up and down the aisle. The Book of Common Worship was deliberately tucked just beneath one of those new-fangled King James Bibles.

An orthodox Anglican, Reverend Sourby didn’t encourage Common Worship. Or anything common for that matter. Not suitable for this end of the village. Not suitable at all!

He looked like a caricature of a grotesque. His ill-fitting skin hung from his bones like hand-me-down clothes, highlighted impressively by his sagging chins and drooping jowls. He saw himself as the keeper of antiquity rather than a spiritual leader.

A tiny congregation of maybe four or five was vaguely evident on the rearmost pews of Saint Ivy’s. Everything else was covered evenly with prehistoric dust.

Fewer and fewer people congregated there anymore. Somehow the sermons of fire and brimstone didn’t exactly set the villagers alight. But, there weren’t enough of them to shake a stick at, and the austere vicar certainly wasn’t going to pander to the likes of them.

If the road to hell really is paved with good intentions, Reverend Sourby was well on his way to heaven.

But, it’s not for me to objurgate Anglican extremists, nor arch-traditionalists. As we all know, those who think they know the most, know the least.

As for soul searching, mine turned up again with the postman. My previous employers returned it to me with my P45 ^{US – Pink Slip}. Funny how easy it is to mislay such a thing, isn’t it?

And so, with my soul intact and my CV updated I persevere with my application forms. I might do better being paid not to write at the minute, but, one day . . .

On Track

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 00:23:00 +0000

As my visits here ain’t what they used to be, I thought I’d just break the ice with an embarrassing anecdote:

When I took my little darling to her first puppy class, she was instantly preoccupied by the Jack Russell next to us. By the end of the class I hadn’t managed to concentrate on anything the trainer had said because I was trying to bribe my own mutt to keep still and quiet.

I dropped out of those classes, and was therefore a little embarrassed when I ran into the trainer a few days ago. He greeted me and asked how I was, and I started asking him about other classes that might be more appropriate. After long monologue by me, there was a silence before he smiled awkwardly and said, “You do know I’m not your dog trainer, don’t you? I’m your nephew’s karate teacher.”

Well, honestly, they’re both young men with beards! How was I supposed to know the difference?

The border was defined by a disused railway track cutting through a jagged countryscape. An intricate network of footpaths formed almost mathematical patterns between open fields and woodland. Green and rough merged with green and smooth as moors, forests and glades mingled like a painting that was still wet; their colours and textures running freely into one another.

Tall rushes beside the T-shaped pond bent and tossed, tortured by the wind. Nearby ramshackle barns creaked and groaned as if complaining about their rude and gusty awakening.

Nature’s breath swept along, ripping through the tumbledown cottage at the edge of the village, and whistled past Saint Ivy’s church.

A little farther away, a single dim street light stood at the end of a cul-de-sac. Even on clear nights it hung there with no discernible purpose, illuminating nothing at all. Tonight though, its faint and pointless glow was almost entirely obscured by raindrops that fell like teardrops from a million anguished hearts.

Faintly luminous in the muffled moonlight and sheltered from the troubled rain, a dusty, dog-chewed and rugged old cross overlooked her room. She placed it there on top of the pile of unopened boxes as a safeguard; ’It only takes one of’em to stop watching over you,’ she thought to herself, ’for the other to get you.’ Over time it had worked its way back behind scraps of tatty paper with barely legible notes scribbled on them, discarded piles of junk mail, well-read books and empty cigarette packets. But, however well hidden it seemed, and whatever stood in front of the cross, it always reflected the light of the many moons that had come and shone through the chink in the curtains.

Emily had ran into a hundred ghosts from her past in recent months, each of them now happily married with children and lives. Each a painful reminder that her last throw of the dice had dictated a Return to Start for her. But, that’s no bad thing. The game of life ebbs and flows for everyone. This was, after all, where the troubles began, and therefore the very best place to get back on track. Until the game has finished, there’s always one more throw, and tracks across jagged countryscapes don’t have to be disused.

String Bridge

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:12:00 +0000

Today is THE day to help Jessica Bell's debut, STRING BRIDGE, hit the bestseller list on Amazon, and receive the all-original soundtrack, Melody Hill: On the Other Side, written and performed by the author herself, for free!

All you have to do is purchase the book today (paperback, or eBook), November 11th, and then email the receipt to:

jessica.carmen.bell(at)gmail(dot)com

She will then email you a link to download the album at no extra cost!

To purchase the paperback:

Amazon USA

To purchase the eBook:

Amazon USA

Amazon UK

To listen to samples of the soundtrack, visit iTunes.

If you are not familiar with String Bridge, check out the book trailer:

Rave Reviews for String Bridge:

“Jessica Bell’s STRING BRIDGE strummed the fret of my veins, thrummed my blood into a mad rush, played me taut until the final page, yet with echoes still reverberating. A rhythmic debut with metrical tones of heavied dark, fleeting prisms of light, and finally, a burst of joy—just as with any good song, my hopeful heartbeat kept tempo with Bell’s narrative.” ~ Kathryn Magendie, author of Sweetie and Publishing Editor of Rose & Thorn Journal

“Poet and musician Jessica Bell's debut novel String Bridge is a rich exploration of desire, guilt, and the difficult balancing act of the modern woman. The writing is lyrical throughout, seamlessly integrating setting, character and plot in a musical structure that allows the reader to identify with Melody's growing insecurity as her world begins to unravel … String Bridge is a powerful debut from a promising writer, full of music, metaphor, and just a hint of magic.” ~ Magdalena Ball, author of Repulsion Thrust and Sleep Before Evening

“Jessica Bell is a brilliant writer of great skill and depth. She doesn't pull back from the difficult scenes, from conflict, pain, intensity. She puts it all out there, no holds barred, no holding back. She knows how to craft a scene, how to develop character, how to create suspense. This is an absolutely brilliant debut novel. I look forward to reading her next novel, and next and next.” ~ Karen Jones Gowen, author of Farm Girl, Uncut Diamonds and House of Diamonds

Connect with Jessica:

String Bridge: http://www.stringbridge.com/

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/jessica_bell

Website: http://www.jessicacbell.com/

Blog: http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/author.jessica.bell

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/MsBessieBell

Publisher: http://www.luckypress.com

Please TWEET and/or FACEBOOK this post using #StringBridge!

Back From The Sunset

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 13:22:00 +0000

I’ve always chosen to avoid current affairs on this blog. A deliberate ploy; these words should be timeless, and make as little sense in ten years time as they do now. The Pobblestrum Diaries should always have been just a tiny piece of escapism for those who live elsewhere.

But today I thought, in breathing a little life into an almost defunct blog, I might also dip my dainty little toes into the waters of current affairs. And who knows, maybe even a little political subversiveness to boot.

While we’re living on a financially and morally bankrupt planet, NASA search the universe for other life forms from whom to borrow. Some affluent planets, of course, are so far advanced, so superior to our own, that they’ve managed to put a stop to spam emails once and for all. But, the UP (United Planets (the intergalactic version of the United Nations)) would forbid any lending to Third World worlds for Health and Safety reasons. And, besides, the cosmic exchange rate is a bit on the high side these days.

And, with no money down here on earth, few jobs, and damaging cutbacks, we’ve seen a global uprising of the masses. Or, at least a few. Protests and banners. Anti-capitalist slogans. Lethargy and apathy.

But, people need to be told what they like, and what’s good for them. It’d be a dangerous place if not. Unappreciative mobs! There are ingrates everywhere!

As for me? Well I’m divided between righteousness and riotousness. I’m torn between my usual masquerade mask, and the Guy Fawkes mask (from the film, V for Vendetta).

I think my mind’s made up though. I simply can’t be anti-capitalist! No, I’m too much of a stickler for capitals, and that’s all there is to it.

Obviously the fresh air and exercise from dog-walking aren’t helping me one jot. But, despite that, I finally feel like I’m just waking up again. Slowly coming back to life, and blood is circulating through my veins once more. From bursting into tears, I now occasionally burst into song (an equally unpleasant sound).

My dear old mum is adamant that she shouldn’t have to hide things from my dog. Unfortunately though, the dog is a five month old kleptomaniac, and most days start and end by chasing her around the house for the same old items as yesterday. There really is enough material here for long-running sitcom. Of course I can’t even blog too much about it until I’ve found somewhere else to live. Even my parents’ fading memories won’t help me; I’ll just find myself disinherited several times over.

Traipsing past Pobblestrum’s Latin Quarter, located between an age-old iron monger’s shop and a modern day estate agent. Then out of the village and into greener pastures.

A vast disused field. A dried up trough gouged out of the ground by a plough many years before. Rusty old water troughs too, from when cattle used to graze there. Evidence of both livestock and arable land before nature took over, and the terrain given over to wilderness.

Beyond the fields there are woods. Scrunching through autumn leaves as the sun gets ever lower through the branches of trees readying themselves for their winter rest.

But, what will happen after the fall? What happens after you’ve walked into the sunset?

Still so many things, I promise you. Still a million things to say. And, whatever else happens, it’s been a good year for the tomatoes.

The Doorway to Everywhere Else

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 18:00:00 +0000

A cell dies, is then replaced, and the cycle of life goes on.

Echoes and reflections of a life gone by still flare and flame from beyond a hazy horizon. Crescendoing and diminishing dramatically like the grand finale of an opera. As theatrical as they are though, these are now the death throes from another time and another place.

But this is no time for tolling bells. Despite my spaghetti thoughts and murky clarity, it’s almost time to up sticks and move on again.

Betwixt the then and next I feel as nomadic and unsettled as ever, but for some reason, keep on coming back. Like a television programme you’re not than keen on, but you never miss an episode.

From the outside, the front door here is just the same as the next. But, it sits at the foot of evermore, the doorway to everywhere else. And I stand there frozen, staring out into elsewhere, stunned and daunted as if I’d just won the lottery, but fearful of the consequences.

I think I’ve missed the caravan of gypsies I’d been waiting for, but I’m still dreaming of vardos. Hopefully it won’t be long before I’m looking back on the days of drunken eloquence and windfall onions.

After that meandering nonsense, I would like to deal with two awards I’ve received since the last time I was here. For the first, I would like to thank Miss Bobo from Rockinglicious very much for giving me the iDig Your Blog Award. To accept this, I must . . .

1. Thank and link to the person giving me the award
2. Post three interesting facts about myself
3. Pass the award on to at least five others whose blogs I dig, and notify them

So, with Number One done, here are three facts, although they’re not really interesting at all. My near-life experiences:

1. When I was young and (even more) stupid, I had a night of watching videos. I noticed a strange smell, but ignored it as I sat there smoking heavily. What I didn’t realize until the end of the night was, the room was filling up with gas from the leaking fire
2. On a school trip to Athens, I pressed the button for the lift, and the whole hotel started shaking violently. I thought I’d caused something to go wrong, but it was an earthquake
3. I had no idea the pain in my side was appendicitis. I didn’t bother doing anything about it, thinking the pain would just go away. By the time I did get into surgery, my appendix had burst

I’m passing this award onto five fabulous bloggers. I won’t tell you too much about them, you’ll just have to go and visit their blogs to see that they’re all sickeningly over-talented . . .

Lorelei at Lorelei’s Muse
Maria Zannini at Maria Zannini
Mustang Sally at Functional Kaos
The Words Crafter at The Rainy Day Wanderer
Jessica Bell at The Alliterative Allomorph

The second is the One To Follow award kindly given to me by Kate from The Scribbling SeaSerpent. Thank you very much, Kate.

How does one choose?

Marjorie at Upwards Over the Mountain
Regina at Unsettled
Medeia Sharif at Medeia Sharif
Lisa Potts at Lisa M Potts
Robyn Campbell at Putting Pen To Paper
Su at Cheekyness
L'Aussie at L'Aussie
Em-Musing at Em-Musing
Trisha at W O R D + S T U F F
Donna Hole at Donna Hole

I haven’t mentioned my ~~savage~~ darling little puppy yet in this post. See how good I’m being? Well, I’ll soon put a stop to that:

Gone to the Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 19:15:00 +0000

The seeds of this blog were first sown about a year ago, and through care and nurture it came to fruition. Even now, despite my neglect, it’s still doing far better than it deserves.

And, a lot has happened during that year. I sold my flat and bought a dog for one thing (or, more precisely two things). Not sure what that says about me. Probably all very illogical.

There again, logic is overrated, and very often illogical.

As many of you already know, I’m now living back with my parents again, for my sins (or theirs), and back in the almost mythical village of Pobblestrum. I’ve made one or two tentative attempts to re-integrate myself back into a life that once was; attending fêtes, Bring-and-buys, and so on. Erstwhile faces . . . ghosts from the past. Somewhere between memory lane and a séance. Some people looked exactly as years before. Almost as if they had rotting paintings of themselves in their attics. While others were totally unrecognizable, but I don’t know who they were.

Soul searching, life changes, and reversing fortunes turned my life inside out. Office life gave way to ambling through the fields just for the fun of it. And the week before last I brought home my very own dog. The companion I never had; a guide dog for life.

In the past twelve days, Nada’s had more visitors than I have in the past twelve weeks. Even here, on the blog, she steals the limelight (but she won’t always). So without further ado, I’ll give you all the pupdates.

She’s everything a puppy should be. And more. Sweet and affectionate . . . and then she wakes up! We haven’t seen a rat in the garden since she started her mass destruction out there. And in just the same way, the toadstools she’s exposed now stand empty, deserted by their fairy residents.

Nada has really found her feet. And, unfortunately, ours too; her bite is worse than her bark! Tooth-marked objet d’art lays in her wake as she lunges towards another chewy human friend.

She already understands the words, No, Bed, Come, stand, Down, and Sit, which means her vocabulary is worryingly better than my own. And most of the time she’s flying through the air perfecting the art of disobeying physics.

Eventually she sleeps again, and comes a tide of calm and relief. Computers can be plugged back in without risk of their cables being torn to shreds, giving me a rare opportunity to write this celebratory post.

Why the celebrations? Well, lots of reasons. Namely . . .

1. A year of this blog

2. This is my 80^th post

3. It’s Nada’s nine-week birthday tomorrow

4. 500 followers

5. An award . . .Thank you very much to Deirdra at A Storybook World for honouring me with The Powerful Woman Writer Award

So please, dear readers, find your very best masquerade masks (oh come on, everybody’s got one, surely), and raise a glass.

Cheers . . .

Across the Reaches of Forever

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 21:48:00 +0000

The earth taken from Voyager 1 at a distance of approximately 3.7 billion miles

~ Picture courtesy of NASA

This planet . . . this cloudy planet . . . is the earth. It is our home. The place where you and I live
~ The Clangers / Oliver Postgate

Blankness.

Hollowness.

After all those years of expressing other people’s emotions from the orchestra pit, stricken and sallow, she walked away from it all. From the claustrophobic clambering of the halls, to the freedom of the fields. Yesterday she was one day younger. Today, she was a lifetime older.

A myriad of conflicting thoughts diminished into an ever increasing void as the moody clouds of thunder rolled away and the stars came out . . . different constellations now it was June. Orange flowers by day had become darkly luminous in this light, and butterflies and moths swapped places like the Changing of the Guards. Emily walked beyond the ancient trees, and across yellow rose petals in the moon soaked night, carefully trying to avoid the glare of life.

Logic-defying truths sat awkwardly in a world that thought it could explain everything, and clearly couldn’t. But those truths were all she had left. Everything else had been blown to smithereens. All sense had long since stagnated, ignored and forgotten like the unplayed piano and the pictures no one ever looked at anymore.

But whether she liked it or not, life clings on, even in the most hostile of environments. And it survives, hanging on like grim death. Emily didn’t notice the twinkling and glistening from the grass, the light in her eyes had gone out.

An atom-sized Voyager 1 would only have had to journey 3.7 light seconds into her inner universe, which was just as dark and complex as any other, to discover the essence of being. An essence that still shone like the sun, and would rise again. Only, no longer to the east of her. An essence that would always be there, no matter how far she looked into herself, or across the reaches of forever.

After all those years of expressing other people’s emotions, she would finally be expressing her own. Tears for every occasion. And smiles too. Only now, genuine ones.

OK, nuff of that. Let me introduce you to my new baby.

This is Nada.
At the age of seven weeks and a day, she’ll be coming to live with me on Monday. Only five more sleeps.
I’m so excited.

Dreams of Vardos

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 21:59:00 +0000

I actually feel rather guilty for posting at all at the moment, further and fewer between though my posts are these days. I’ve never been very good at fulfilling my duties as a blogger, but have neglected them even more in recent months.

For reasons I don’t understand, last month I had more people viewing my blog than ever before. And received an award as well . . .

Thank you very much to Paul S from Pfeiffer Pfilms And Meg Movies for The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award.

In receiving this, I’m expected to:

1. Thank the person giving me the award . . . check
2. Tell you seven facts about myself . . . see below
3. And pass this award on to other deserving bloggers . . . see even further below

So, on with Number Two, and a few trite facts loosely about myself:

1. June didn’t go as planned, and I’m glad it’s over

2. Since deciding that I need a canine companion, I’ve watched hours of dog training videos on youtube. And, I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m making my own

3. I’ve finally decided what I’m going to call my puppy (if it’s a girl (I’m open to either at the minute)); Nada. It’s a Croatian name (which is where Dalmatians are thought to originate from), and it means hope

4. I love Isabel Coixet’s films

5. I like walking in the rain

6. I’m really going to make an effort to get new cello strings soon, and get my own back on all the children practicing their instruments around here

7. I’m pained to admit that my life’s so dull I can’t think of a seventh fact

I’ve decided to pass this award onto those who haven’t become too exasperated by my lackadaisical attitude in the blogging arena; those who commented on my last post to be precise, all that time ago. This award goes to:

Teri from The Bipolar Diva

Mustang Sally from Functional Kaos

tawna6988 from Tawna's Journey to a Healthier Me! PHYSICALLY and MENTALLY!

Robyn Campbell from Putting Pen To Paper

Lucy from Sedona Urbanity: A Slice of Heaven

Sallie from Romance Puppy

Kari Marie from WRITING BY HEART

LisaWeidknecht from Planet Weidknecht

kendra30752 from RiBbOnS and PeArLs

Yvonne from Socrates' Book Reviews

Olga from Artful Nuance

Dori from Yellow House Views

Samantha Vérant from Samantha Vérant

Jayne from Suburban Soliloquy

Jai Joshi from Jai Joshi's Tulsi Tree

Sir Tom Eagerly wherever he’s from

Jules from Trying to Get Over the Rainbow

Lisa Potts from Lisa M Potts

Flying high in the sky.... from Flying High ..in the Sky....

Beth from Beth?

So, why the decline in blogging enthusiasm? Laziness? Nonchalance? Probably. But I’m going to blame it on living with my parents again. Dad’s an unorthodox Anglican minister and something of a DIY expert. Nothing in the house works quite as it should; doors need that extra push, and toilets need that extra flush. And because he gets discount at the Clerical Supermarket, all our food and drink are labelled: Once consecrated, use within three days.

And, as for mum . . . she’s frequently entertaining herself by reading or watching some detective story or other. I think she’s a would-be murderess. Who knows what unsavoury thoughts lurk there, unseen?

There’s enough material here for a multi-volume epic.

Entertaining though it is, I’ve already let the grass grow beneath my feet. I’ve had all the recuperation Pobblestrum will afford me, and dreams of vardos still ensue. As soon as my dog is ready, we’ll roam.

Little Ones

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 23:15:00 +0000

Mr and Mrs Lewis had a small garden, and it was full of different sorts of animals. To some it was home. Others were regular visitors.

The Rat family lived in the garden, just behind the shed . . .

“Clive, Mr Lewis is looking out of the window. Quick, run across the lawn now, and tease him!” said Mrs Rat with excitement.

Mr Rat tore across the grass, sniggering as he ran.

Mr Lewis’s face turned red with rage as he pressed it up against the French windows.

“Why are you laughing, mummy?” little Roger Rat asked. “It’s not funny! Why does daddy upset humans?”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun, darling,” said Mrs Rat.

“But, humans are nice, aren’t they?” asked Roger looking a little puzzled.

“Oh, they’re all right,” explained Mrs Rat, “but we wouldn’t want too many of them living near us . . .”

“But there’s a girl in my class,” protested Roger, “and her cousin had a pet human, who used to clean out her room and give her food and drink whenever she wanted.”

“That’s as maybe,” interrupted Mr Rat as he came in through the back door, “but they carry diseases. Chicken pox, measles, head lice, all sorts of things.”

It’s been an interesting few months, trying to get used to my new environment. The options seemed to be disruption or stagnation, and I went for the former. And I’m glad I did, despite slipping in and out of the blogging world. This month particularly isn’t panning out quite as planned.

After watching the animals in our back garden, someone suggested that I write children’s stories about them, hence the above. Whether it’s any good or not will hopefully be judged by my eight-year-old nephew. I know he’ll be honest, bless him.

After a harrowing few years, I finally realize that I was wrong to think I’m not an animal person. Having looked after Oscar (see previous post), I can safely say I am. Caring for him was the most therapeutic experience I’ve had for many moons now. The only drawback being that we both became a bit too attached, and he belongs to someone else.

I know it won’t substitute Oscar, but I’ve decided to get a dog of my own. And the weekend after next, I’m looking at a litter of Dalmatians. At the minute they’re only eleven days old, and look like this:

So I’m looking for girl names now. Any suggestions?

Doggy

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Fri, 27 May 2011 15:23:00 +0000

I woke up to a warm body next to mine, and hot breath on the back of my neck. All very nice, except that he has terrible breath and keeps on licking himself (which may well account for his bad breath).

Despite this being my third consecutive post about animals, I’m not really an animal person. And I’ve certainly never had a dog before.

I occasionally take my brother’s dog for a walk, and I overheard myself offering to look after him while my brother goes on holiday. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

That was then.

And this is now.

It’s probably just because I’m not used to it, but having a dog isn’t very conducive to writing. Or anything else for that matter. He’s an all-consuming, attention-seeking beast; every time I pick my laptop up, I suddenly find myself with a furry, slobbering head on my knee instead.

Although I don’t approve of low-energy light bulbs, it would be nice to find some low-energy dog food. Something to slow Oscar* down, just a tad

On the plus side, I am glad I learned to juggle a few years ago; that means I am able to walk for miles holding a lead in one hand, a bag of dog pooh in the other, and still use my saliva-covered mobile phone.

I did have an entirely different blog post planned, in which I was looking forward to using the phrase, . . . yellow rose petals in a moon-soaked night . . . but, that’ll have to wait until next time.

For now, if anyone’s got any useful tips on how to cope with ten days of dog ownership, please feel free to let me know. Or even, just explain why it is that more comes out of them than goes in.

Have a great weekend, dear readers.

*So called because when he barks, it sounds like he’s saying, “There’s only one thing worse than being a dog, and that is not being a dog.”

Bittersweet and In-Between

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 15 May 2011 20:38:00 +0000

Arrows, and the words, THIS WAY UP, mark the sides of damaged boxes, all pointing in different directions. Many of them still deliberately unopened. Despite this being my old room, I don’t want it to feel like home. And it doesn’t.

I’ve often felt that other people’s conversations are more meaningful and profound than my own somehow. But voices over fences tell a different story . . .

Unlike when I grew up here, there’s now a rat that shares our garden with us. They are apparently “vermin who carry disease and live in the sewer.” Hmmm. In reality, for the past few generations, this small family of clean animals have enjoyed living in three or four adjoining gardens in a particularly affluent area.

Having had six pet rats myself, I think our frequent visitor is quite sweet, although I’d be dunked in the village pond for saying such things out aloud.

The menfolk of End Of The Rainbow Crescent all imagine themselves in loincloths, primevally protecting their neighbourhood from the most fearsome threat to mankind. Pitting their wits against the ferocity of nature itself.

Of different ages and from different walks of life, they suddenly think they’re Tarzan, cunningly planning the entrapment and demise of this most dangerous of predators. Slavering and primitive, these normally rational men speak (or, more accurately, grunt) about spears and guns with which to catch their quarry.

All of them dreaming of the day they hear that blood-curdling squeak; to bring home the sacrificial rodent and sate the bloodlust of their ancient gods; to become the new alpha male; and inherit the title of, Rat Dundee.

Ernie (the rat) and I sit quietly out of the way. Him eating the bird food, and me smoking another cigarette, and we chuckle at what we hear. But, he suddenly looked up at me and said thoughtfully, “Well, you’ve done what you wanted. You’ve broken free. But, be careful. Now you’re free they’ll try to kill you too.”

The Kentia palm that once sat beside my office computer remains the only constant in an ever-changing and distorted world. Now sitting on the unplayed piano, its fronds grow and open. And I desperately hope I’m not far behind. Meanwhile, my boxes remain packed and sealed in preparation for another move, and a happier time that’s always just beyond reach.

Is It A Plane, Is It A hummingbird . . ?

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sat, 07 May 2011 12:02:00 +0000

I’ve been absent without leave for too long, and I thought I’d just tentatively dip my toes back into the world of blogging again. To see if I still remember what to do.

I’m on the road to recovery, where I’ve been picking up the pieces. And frequently dropping them again. Trying to lay to rest my nightmares and drown my demons. And, all as a fully-fledged native of Pobblestrum again . . .

The scenery around here is gorgeous. The valleys look magical and dreamlike, filled with mist. But, there’s no moisture down there; it hasn’t rained for ages – not even acid rain - and the scablands are growing by the day. It was smog coming in from Bogcragston, the local industrial town. A place where greed is a virtue.

Even Pobblestrum has undergone a green transformation. Not only have we got electricity here now, but low-energy light bulbs too. They’re amazing things. When you switch them on, the room gets darker somehow.

To me, having a garden is still a novelty, and I’ve got to know the visiting birds quite well. The lady blackbird has definitely ‘scored,’ not that she seems overly impressed by the prospect. I even saw feathers fly as a rather indignant dunnock narrowly avoided being caught by a hungry sparrowhawk.

Then, of course, there’s the hummingbirds; the only birds that can fly backwards. Oddly, they look exactly the same as starlings.

Now, regular readers will know that this village has one or two quirks to say the least. As an example, for those who missed it the first time round, take a look at the photograph below. Notice how the shadows point in different directions.

Now, have a look at this video:

I’m hoping bird expert, John, from Hedgeland Tales will clarify whether this is normal behaviour, or a Pobblestrum quirk. I await the answer with baited breath.

Now, during this patchy blogging period, I have received some awards. So, thank you very much to Summer Ross at My Inner Fairy and Marjorie at Upwards Over the Mountain for presenting me with the The Stylish Blogger Award.

I’d like to present this award to Rachel Morgan at Rachel Morgan Writes.

Also, a huge thank you to Lorelei from Lorelei's Muse for giving me Liebster Blog Award.

I’d like to present this to Jayne at Suburban Soliloquy.

Please have a fabulous weekend, dear readers, and I promise to make an effort to return to you all again soon.

Change of Address

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 22:40:00 +0000

Until further notice, anyone wishing to send me letters, fan mail, ~~hate mail~~, postcards, donations, presents, or anything nice, my address is no longer:

47368 Sewerage Towers
Bogcragston
UK

My new address is:

3 End Of The Rainbow Crescent
Pobblestrum
Fairyshire
Uk

Yes, folks, it’s finally happened. I’ve moved. The sale of my nicotine-stained flat has finally gone through. An empire has fallen. But, because of that, I now have the world.

Years of agitation and worry came to a thundering end when the man with a van helped move my belongings. I often wonder what the plural is, for man with a van. Men with ven, perhaps?

In the great colouring book of life, I deliberately went over the lines. But, the corporate world took a very dim view. And so, the frustrated artist moved on, into new realms. Looking for a new, creative direction.

Living with my parents is a stepping stone. A respite. A time for reflection and contemplation.

The cold and lonely life of a smoker sees me standing in the garden rather a lot. By day, I bathe in the sun. Its beams eight minutes old by the time they reach me. By night, the light from the stars are millions of light years old. The constellation of Ursa Major drifts slowly through the night sky. And thin layers of silent clouds float past infinite galaxies. Even the distant light-pollution of Bogcragston doesn’t mar the sight.

An unfamiliar group of incandescent stars shone to my right. Still looking magical, even after I realized it was someone else’s television aerial glistening in the night.

My feelings are as far-flung as the heavenly bodies themselves. I'm soul-searching in tranquillity and vulnerability. This is my road to recovery, or a more subtle suicide. Snatching at moments and then letting them go.

Whilst transitioning to this new life, I’ve discovered another magical wonder in this village I now call home. The fence at the end of the garden is covered in greenery. It was quite late one night when I noticed a flickering of daylight through the branches. Curiosity got the better of me, and I went to investigate. Despite being dark on this side, I could see a sun-lit bridge through where the fence should be.

A ruinous building the other end of the bridge drew me in even further. It was about half a mile’s walk, and stood where The Elf and Firkin Public House should have been by rights.

And at the ruin, the ghostly figure of a beautiful girl roams the grounds. She looks reflective and contemplative too. Doubtless she had no aspirations of becoming an apparition – nor perhaps any knowledge of the fact.

These were echoes and reflections from a time that came and went. Located in a place that doesn’t exist in time or space.

The girl gave me a smile before walking through a wall and disappearing.

Part 6

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 18:21:00 +0000

After an extraordinarily busy week, I have much to blog about, but won’t have the time to wrote it until next week. So, here is Chapter Five. Most of which has been posted before. But, now, at least it can be read in context.

Unbeknowingly Searching

Continued from Part 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Emily was now a young woman. And like many young women, she was empathetic and perceptive. She worried about the state of the world and the shape of her nose.

She was flourishing in the world of light entertainment, and she hated it! She cursed the day she ever joined that damn orchestra.

She had been bought! Mere money had lured her away from the work she loved – the likes of Fauré's Requiem simply didn’t pay the bills. She was a whore now, and that’s all there was to it. She detested herself.

And, why did they have to dress up to the nines? All right, so she used to love dressing up. It only seemed like yesterday when she played in her long Guinevere-style gowns. But, that was different.

Her cello alone was cumbersome enough. But the dress was sheer masochism! And for a pit orchestra? Where no one but the conductor would see her? Unlike the shows for which she played, she had sold out!

Although the theatre was brand new, the pit still managed to have that old stale smell. Just like all the others, in every town to which their tour had taken them.

To her right, Jane had caught her eye. One of the violists, Jane was the most dangerous of enemies; one who called herself a friend. The type who liked to call a spade a fork.

Emily pretended she hadn’t seen Jane’s smile. The sweeter the smile, the more venomous the snipes, she thought to herself. She stared intently at her music instead, which, after playing the same thing for what seemed like an eternity, she certainly didn’t need anymore. Bloody Orpheus and her. This, without a doubt, really was the underworld!

The house lights dimmed and Sir Arthur raised his baton.

Her cigarette during the interval would be the next oasis of normality. A dirty, expensive habit that would at least ensure a few minutes freedom from Jane.

Now a young man, David had had no haunting mysteries crossing his mind for many years. He catered for the requirements of his body now, like they mattered. And, like so many humans, had long since forgotten about the needs of the soul.

He had moved to nearby Bogcragston. He hadn’t move there because it was picturesque.

It wasn’t.

In fact, Bogcragston was one of the few places that had its appearance enhanced by the introduction of speed cameras. Its occupants weren’t so much Ladies and Knights, as ladies of the night.

A town visibly in decay. But it did have a new theatre.

Sharon seemed destined to wear name-badges throughout her professional life. Whether it was to assist dissatisfied customers with their complaints, or for her own personal benefit, was anyone’s guess.

And she had perfected that smile while working as a doctor’s receptionist. An unconvincing smile that appropriately turned the sides of her lips upwards while her eyes remained dulled and blank. Somewhere along the line, social graces and Customer Service had passed her by.

Sharon glanced at David’s ticket and ushered him a couple of reluctant paces, waved her torch vaguely towards the front of the theatre, and mumbled, “You’re somewhere down there.” She creased a strained smile back to her face, “Do enjoy the show, Sir.”

Coincidentally, the seat which David had been allocated was the one used by Emily between sound checks just an hour earlier. He could smell her perfume still lingering in the air as he sat down.

At the same time as Emily was sitting there, David was still at home getting ready. Running around the his house trying to find his other sock, and looking for a jacket that would hide the creases in his shirt.

The house itself was a model residence for the town. Complete with ceiling mould and indestructible rising damp; sliding doors which wouldn’t slide; and sinks that didn’t even fulfil their basic function of draining water. When he bought the place, it didn’t come with an instruction book. Although, if he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t have read it, even if it had.

Nevertheless, he still managed to give the impression of being reasonably clean and well-dressed.

Unbeknownst to Emily and David, they shared very similar tastes. And, what they didn’t have in common would have perfectly balanced and complemented each other; David was no more a fan of this type of music than Emily. And being there just seemed like a rude interruption to his life.

This had been a terrible mistake, and he didn’t hide his indignation. Why had he agreed to accompany his father?

From their front row seats, they could just about make out movements in the shadowy pit below them.

After all these years, Emily and David finally found themselves in such close proximity again.

The orchestra opened, and so did the curtain.

The performance was exemplary. Except, Emily thought, for the noise emanating from the viola section that purported to be music. One viola in particular.

She had to admit though, that whereas her own playing was note-perfect, it was also totally devoid of any emotion. But, given what she was feeling, that probably wasn't a bad thing.

Meanwhile, David tapped the face of his watch as if it would speed up time. And he gazed at a moth intent on injuring itself on a spotlight. He whiled away the first half wondering, if moths liked light so much, why weren’t they diurnal? A design flaw, perhaps? Problems in heaven's Planning Department?

Finally, after an inestimable period of hellish theatricals, the curtain came down. David wasted no time in finding the smoking area. By the time he arrived, there was already a quagmire of smokers with the same intention. He inconspicuously sloped around the back of the building, overlooking the disused canal. He stared into the distance at the sun setting behind the silhouetted rooftops of Bogcragston. And, he contemplated why his teeth itched.

Way above the canal bridge, a flock of swallows played on light winds. Like the clouds, the birds radiated deep oranges and reds, and they danced in flame-like movements, swirling across the sky.

The orchestra took a little longer, having to pack their instruments out of harm’s before clambering to toilets, the bar, and then back to the toilets again. Emily fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes, glanced disdainfully at Jane, and made her escape with relief.

Like David, Emily opted to avoid the crowds, and made her own way to the back of the theatre too.

All that remained of David’s visit was the remainder of his abandoned, and still smouldering cigarette. Emily tutted and stamped it out. One final smoke ring drifted lazily up into the air, and Emily gazed wondrously at the birds flying in the remainder of the sunlight.

The two of them would spend their first evening together; something neither of them would know. A case of being in the right place, but, at slightly the wrong time. Fate just wasn’t paying attention.

To be continued one day

Part 5

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 11:57:00 +0000

Unbeknowingly Searching

Continued from Part 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Alf lit his pipe, found his driving gloves, and started his car. The Mathesons were off on holiday, and that was all there was to it! And, they would enjoy it, they told each other.

Then he started the old banger again. And, the battered well-worn engine developed into that old familiar rattling sound which he’d grown to know and love.

Alf’s neighbour had a bright red sports car; a car that attracted attention everywhere he went. People heard him from miles around, and turned to see the spectacle that made that noise.

Although he never quite understood the difference, Alf was quietly proud that his own car had a very similar affect.

Anne was petite and neat to the finest detail. With a starched skirt, blouse and face, she sat and fidgeted anxiously in the passenger seat with an upside-down road atlas on her knee. “Now, don’t drive too fast, Alf, darling,” she suggested, “we’ve got all day.”

They had indeed got all day. It was nevertheless a long day, and a long journey. Far, far longer than Alf had originally calculated.

Alf finally drew his car to a grinding halt in the unevenly shingled car park of the hotel. Hungry, tired and fraught, he led his little family to their room. Their home for the following week, whether they liked it or not. And, they would like it, Anne and Alf continued to remind themselves. Alf dropped the suitcases onto the threadbare carpet, they splashed their faces with a little discoloured water, and then headed off to find some food.

The hotel was rather rustic, but they were used that. It was dark, derelict and gaudy, and within their price range.

Alf sat down in the restaurant, moodily puffied his pipe, and stared grumpily at the menu, as if he were trying to fire laser beams from his eyes.

Anne strapped David into the high chair with some force, and sat down herself. She glared at Alf with a deafening silence. They hadn’t spoken a single, solitary word to each other for the past hour and a half, and they weren’t about to start now.

Thanks to the baby boom, the country had been turned into one giant nursery. And the restaurant offered no reprieve. Anne tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed the baby on the next table along. A rather thin child, but eating like he was possessed. Possessed by a rather larger baby.

On the table opposite sat the Smart family. Already two days into their holiday, and enjoying it every bit as much as the Mathesons.

Little Emily was slurping and spilling her meal all over the floor. Something it would take some time to conquer. David looked up from his soggy baby food, and their eyes met.

At that moment, a new colour appeared in the rainbow. But no one ever noticed.

It had been a year since he’d seen soul 19,790B/1103L/YO65-35, and, boy, had she changed? Still recognizable though, somehow.

There they sat, high chair bound, staring across the table at one another, spellbound, as if there was nothing, and no one else in the room. They somehow knew they had something to communicate, although they had no conscious idea of what or why. They vainly reached out their tiny, waving arms, but to no avail.

Bodies are like puppets to the souls that inhabit them, worked from the inside. In these cases though, not very expertly. There again, they didn’t come with instruction books.

Their thrill at seeing each other again, was such that they literally couldn’t contain themselves. And, their souls extended further than their under-developed physical counterparts, floating ever closer, transfixed and hovering, unseen above the table.

When their mothers strapped them into their high chairs, they had no idea how inadequately they would hold them. Not only had the babies become free of from the straps, but also from the very confines of their own bodies. Unfortunately they didn’t have complete independence, and were still attached by some sort of spiritual rubberiness. This was something David discovered to his peril. Having stretched himself just that little bit too far, he suddenly pinged back into his startled little body, with a jolt.

Anne noticed what she interpreted as a tiny spasm, and put it down to indigestion. “Oh, he’s got such a delicate tummy.” She feigned a smile in Alf’s direction, but he hadn’t noticed at all.

Before the infants could make a second attempt at this reunion, David was hoisted away by his mother. One minute you’re being carted around by a bad tempered stork, and the next, it’s some strange woman. At that age your life’s just not your own.

To be continued Friday, 1^st April

Lobe: The End Of An Ear The End Of An Era

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 23:29:00 +0000

I started the ball rolling back in January. Estate agents, meetings at the bank, solicitors, and so on and so forth. All this just to sell a few bricks. Oh, and the kitchen sink.

Nearly three months of languished anguish, but, now I’m finally moving.

Next Thursday I’ll finally shake the dust of this crumby old town off my feet once and for all. This time next week I’ll no longer be a resident of Bogcragston, and they’ll be no scintilla of tears shed because of it.

A couple of years ago, it seemed like a good idea to get myself a sports car. Or, a hairdresser’s car, as my colleagues used say. A two-seater, with just enough storage space for a small mobile phone and a nail file.

What was a good idea back then, isn’t exactly genius now. Over the next few days, I’ll be moving the accumulation of nearly twenty years . . . in small boxes . . . one at a time.

How ever much of a kerfuffle this might seem, it’s the dawning of a new era. I won’t have to be afraid of visits from the postman anymore, or death threats from the bank. I'll turn my back on being a frustrated artist in a corporate world, where I felt like I was going sane and mad at the same time.

Going back to square one isn’t such a bad thing. Returning to the village that shaped and nurtured me. The place of first kisses and near misses. I’ll stand up and shake myself down, and face the misguided world once again.

So, having only just returned to blogging, I’ll be a tad aloof again. I want to visit your blogs, honestly I do! I’m not deliberately being rude.

Of course, I’ll fully understand if you decide not to read or comment here anymore (although, I would sulk like a spoilt child if you didn’t).

I’ll be posting the next instalment of my story at the beginning of next week, because that’s already written. And I’ll be back with a vengeance to haunt your blogs as soon as I possibly can.

As I metamorphose into something brilliant and new, all I ask is that you'll wait for me. Please. I do love you all.

Part 4

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 23:41:00 +0000

Unbeknowingly Searching

Continued from Part 3

CHAPTER THREE

On the other side of the horizon to Pobblestrum, about the same distance again, laid another exquisitely enchanted village. Omnidowns consisted of an intricate web of single track roads, all of which inexplicably went downhill, whichever direction you were heading. And, with similar oddness, you never reached the bottom. Whichever of its narrow and weaving lanes you chose, and from whichever direction, you seemed to come across the same land marks time and again.

Towards the centre of the village, there was a small wooded area which normally goes completely unnoticed to passers-by. A little way in, there was a slight clearing where the trees got smaller, the toadstools larger, and the flowers more colourful. In the height of summer, glorious heliotropes and vermilions almost shone from the undergrowth, although Alf only knew from which flowers they radiated. If any. That area seemed to continue limitlessly, beyond where the horizon should start, and your eyes would begin to go in and out of focus at that disconcerting point.

This perplexing world had a complete otherness to it, even to the locals of this idyllic fairyland. But despite its haunting beauty, this was still an unyielding place to most. Of course, Alf was unfazed. There again, you often wondered quite how much he actually noticed.

Alf Matheson was a short man with a pipe permanently fixed to his mouth, but which was rarely ever alight. The people of Omnidowns believed that their ancestors to be apes, but Alf’s, according to local folklore, were gnomes.

He lived there, in a cottage which he had built himself. Not an extraordinary house as you might imagine. But, a place that he could call home.

No one was in at the minute though.

Dutifully, but reluctantly, Alf was beside his wife, Anne, in the local maternity unit. Judging by the expressions on their faces, he was having a far harder time of it than she was, despite the abnormal amounts of oxygen he was breathing in through his unlit pipe.

Anne comforted him patiently whilst giving birth to soul number 19,789B/1103L/YO65-34, who, like so many others at this tender age, was tremendously unused to his new body; how his bladder worked, his fingers, legs, or any of those niggly little bits. But at least he now had an easier name to remember: David.

To be continued next week

Trying To Find The Moon

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 21:23:00 +0000

A quick reprieve. They let me have my keyboard back for the day. So, I’m taking a brief break from my blog break.

Having taken pictures of Pobblestrum in all four seasons, and snow and sunsets, I decided it was time for shots of the full moon (I didn’t realize at the time, it was a super moon).

I borrowed a good quality camera – so good in fact, that I’ve bought cars for less – and had a ten minute lesson before heading out for the wilds of the village.

The sun had set, and the sky began to darken. No sign of that ball of cheese though. I wandered across the fields to the haunted pond, but still no rocks orbiting the earth. I didn’t hang around for very long; there’s a swan nesting there, and I didn’t fancy walking into it in the dark. Or the ghost, for that matter.

Back towards the church again. Camera slung over my shoulder and tripod in hand, it was getting later, and I was losing hope. Right, I thought, time to give up.

As I headed back towards my car, I glanced along one of the roads heading out of the village, and there, silently and dramatically, hung a massive, orange moon. The sight of it really made me take a sharp breath and stare in wonder. It was amazing.

There was a concert in church, and as I waited for the moon to rise above the rooftops, cars filled the area. I must have looked rather suspicious crouching amongst the cars, ducks and pixies. But, I think it was worth the wait.

The other important event you’ve missed in my absence: it was my birthday a week ago last Friday. As with so many birthdays, I reflected on how nice it would be to lose a few years, and a few pounds.

I watched a science documentary recently: the cells that form our bodies are constantly dying and being replaced. We are being renewed all the time. Apparently every seven years we get a new nose.

So, with that in mind, I realized I was a lot younger than I first thought. As for the pounds, I put a few more on, with a huge, birthday pizza.

See you all soon.

Thank You, and Goodnight

noreply@blogger.com (The Blogger Formerly Known As) — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 00:16:00 +0000

I want to thank each and every one of you for clicking the Follow button, for bothering to read my ridiculous nonsense, and for taking the time to write your lovely comments. I can’t tell you how much it all means to me.

I apologize sincerely that I haven’t managed to get around to all your blogs as often as I should have. If only there were a few more hours in the day.

I may be back. I may even have a change of heart as soon as tomorrow. On the other hand, I might even return in another incarnation.

There again, at the minute, I just don’t know.

Thank you again, very, very much.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am just going outside and may be some time . . .

xxx