The Raw Meat Book.. Post 3

The Light Fantastic

CHAPTER TWO - PLATO’S DREAM

Copyright Rebecca Stant © 2011

I’m still slightly disorientated and bewildered. How did I get here? I thought this stretch of mountains were uninhabited, in fact, I was so certain that there would be isolation and minimal human contact that it had prompted me to settle here in the first place. I was not expecting to share my cave with a crazy old man who had imprisoned several children. The phrase “out of the frying pan and into the fire”, springs into my mind because every new turn of events has progressively pushed me further away from a relatively normal social situation. I laugh bitterly - a short bark really - I seem to attract abnormal types these days, or do the nutters attract me? Sometimes it’s hard to tell us apart.

I think about the oddness of the situation I find myself in: this scenario, while unexpected and initially drawing a sense of horrified concern over the children’s welfare from me, also holds a vague tinge of familiarity about it. I know about this cave, though it isn’t my cave and I have no idea of how I ended up here. Then again a lot of unexplainable stuff is happening to me lately, so I try to adapt to this unpredictable turn of events. “Life in a cave has unique challenges”, I tell myself, although secretly, I don’t think too many hibernating bears have to face this particular abrupt location change. I ponder this new situation...

I remember back to my days as an undergraduate student in the city. I was studying for my architecture degree- a long and complicated affair that I didn’t finish due to severe mauling that I only just survived - but along the way, I did manage to slip in a few arts subjects. On one of these rare breaks from the dryness of my academic life, I took a philosophy subject on the ancient classical philosophers like Socrates and Aristotle. The philosopher Plato was among those stellar characters that excited the lecturer,who, now I come to think of it, looked a lot like the crazy old man himself; they both shared long grey beards and bright eyes.. I remember the lecturer flapping his arms about and gesticulating wildly as he paced the podium. His shoes were untied but he spoke in such a melodious way that his abysmal dress sense was soon forgotten.

He spoke loudly about the huge impact the ‘Platonic stream of thought’ had on philosophy even though many of his theories had lost credibility. One of Plato’s analogies that still retained a directness over the millenia concerned a cave, though I don’t think the lecturer envisioned a cave in the Alps as he spoke; although I guess powerful philosophers can have their cave wherever they choose!

‘The Cave Story’ was a way for Plato to explain how the philosopher is born. Plato did this by comparing knowledge to light and truth:the stronger the light, the more insightful the knowledge, hence the story beginning in a cave and illuminated by firelight. The children I can see in this cave are not real children as such - they symbolise people growing up in a society who only look upon a shadowy and pale form of knowledge, which they believe to be the pinnacle of truth. Their ability to see the limitations of their knowledge is hampered by the helmets they wear. At first they fight the helmet, but gradually they lose the power to use their neck muscles. They don’t explore their environment and the majority are content to watch the reflections cast by the flames. Very rarely, an individual from this room does look around and break free from the helmet. This would-be-philosopher discovers the exit from the cave, a steep narrow tunnel into the outside world, and follows the steep ascent out, where he discovers that there is a greater type of truth, purity and goodness in the form of the sun. After he learns to look directly at the sun, and so contemplate the greater mysteries of the universe, he feels the need to share this new knowledge with those back in the cave. Even though he is in possession of greater knowledge, his eyes are not adjusted to the dimness of the cave, so when he returns, the citizens of the cave only see his bumbling ways which they mistake for foolishness. Thus the story sets out Plato’s hierarchy of truth/goodness, justifies the existence of philosophers, and attempts to explain why philosophers don’t always conform to the rules of society. It also explained the lecturers shoes. A fine piece of writing, I thought, but it did not explain why this analogy, which I had previously encountered two dimensionally either as verbal or written text, was doing in all of its full colour, three dimensional splendor in my cave? I’ve heard that the ratio between words and picture is that one picture equals a thousand words, so I guess that Plato must have written a lot about his cave.

Maybe the appearance of the cave has something to do with my own recent rebirth? I am also an outsider, and I could now access a world where the normal laws of time, space and dimension could be blurred. It is possible that I’m seeking a kind of enlightenment- a very dark kind of enlightenment - and that I had unconsciously conjured up Plato to help me. However, my own journey had very little to do with accessing goodness at this stage, and more to do with restraining my ability to do very bad things. I still needed to discover many of my new abilities, but I needed to bring them under my control before I’d consider rejoining civilization. If discipline is the result of enlightenment, then yes, my quest was spiritual in nature. However, I am unsure that I even have a spirit at all, let alone one that was up to spiritual scratch.

I feel the slight touch of an air current on my cheek, and though it is difficult to see, I know that there is an exit from the cave nearby, so I just follow my instincts and soon find the narrow passage-way that I seek. The path ascends steeply - which I am prepared for - but it changes suddenly to an equally steep descent. Despite my confidence, I lose my footing and half tumble, half slide out of the tunnel….

... into a small forest grove that is strongly illuminated by a ghostly, silvery light. I look up to confirm the presence of an enormous full moon, and I suddenly remember that, according to Plato’s instructions, the would-be philosopher must train his eyes in order to gaze at the sun by beginning with reflected images of solar light, such as moonlight. I’ve never seen a moon like it before; huge and sitting low in the sky. It has a red ring surrounding it.

I curse my misfortune. I am usually very aware of the lunar cycle and I know that in the alps where my cave is, a full moon isn’t due for weeks. My stomach cramps, sharply, and I lose all strength in my legs. I fall to my knees and watch with horrified fascination as my skin splits and reveals the wolf-pelt underneath. My teeth grow longer and my jaw contorts in order to fit the extra sharp canines in my mouth. I cannot form words anymore, and can only scream gutteral shrieks of pain as my bones form themselves into a new skeleton. I can see and smell the sweat on my body, and I just make out the figure of the old man beside the tunnel. It is getting difficult to see: my human eyes are ordinarily blue, but I assume they are becoming brown in accordance with wolf eye colour requirements. I can feel my new eyes getting larger as they grow to fit into my new shape. I can taste blood, and for some strange reason, can smell chicken noodle soup? “Aaaaaargh”, I moan, desperately wishing that my own transitions were as cleanly instantaneous as those I had seen in the movies, “nooooooo…”, I protested, but gradually that plea becomes a howl.

The wolf is here….

Plato enters the tunnel. He has made the journey countless times and moves quickly to where his children are. He saw the man turn into a very large wolf-like creature, and he can hear the howls as the wolf greets the moon. He knows the tales of men who change into wolves - the historian Herodotus wrote about tribes of men like this when Plato was traveling the world in his mortal body - but he had never completely believed the assertion. He had believed that it was another example of a cave-fire picture; not true in the cold hard light of day. He believed it now, and after a brief tussle with the aloof and coldly rational side of his philosophers brain - it advocated a clinical approach to seeing whether the children would survive their encounter with a legendary killer. (After all, the children are little more than symbolic portrayals of worldly citizens. Their deaths cannot be counted as human casualties) - however Plato decides to act. These are his children, and they have accompanied him for thousands of years. He has grown fond of their simple ways, and he decides to abandon his experiment and try to save them. He feels responsible for placing them into a situation of his own making, one which does not truly reflect the world. Plato reconsiders his analogy: is it robust enough?

He threads a long length of rope through the childrens helmets and gently tugs on it. The children initially resist him, then rise from their seated positions and follow the philosopher in a grim kind of conga-line. They slowly move to the other side of the fire and resume their positions sitting on the floor, mouths agape. They are usually tranquil and content to watch the shadow images, but their world has been disrupted and the familiar pictures are gone, replaced by a roaring fire in an inky black room. Plato notices the two reflective disks of the wolves eyes on the opposite side of the cavern, and the man and wolf silently survey each other for a moment. The wolf does not like the flames, and pads silently past the fire. He disappears into the darkness, unexpectedly exiting the same way he had arrived. Plato looks around at his children, some have returned to their previous vacuous states, but others have abandoned their passivity and are trying to move. Perhaps his analogy is not ruined after all, although maybe his tendency towards the abstract needs to be reconsidered. Certainly, his definitions of truth and goodness need re-examining….

I open my eyes back in my alpine cave. I am naked and I shiver in the morning sun. I can’t entirely remember my adventures last night after I changed, but I clearly recall the other cave, the children and Plato. The children! There was a little girl there who resembled the girl in the city - she had stumbled upon the body of my first kill as a wolf and was almost my second victim, regardless of her pleas for my mercy. I was unable to control my blood-lust and would have swiftly struck her down too, but a passing patrol car interrupted my rampage - I hope that I haven’t harmed anyone during last nights hunt? I dress quickly and almost fall over a discarded can of chicken-noodle soup. I must have been warming up the soup for my dinner last night before my adventures began. The saucepan that the soup was in is burnt so badly that I will not be able to salvage it; I will have to bury it deeply so as not to attract predatory wildlife, although for at least one night a month I am the most dangerous predator around these parts.

My thoughts concerning Plato are equally as jumbled; I’m not sure who is real and who has been imagined by the other. Did I dream him up from the depths of my own confused mind in an attempt to bring some clarity into my life, or did Plato conjure up a werewolf in order to test his own theory and resolve?

I need to think some more, luckily I have the time.

So… what happens next? If you’d like to have a go at writing Chapter Three yourself, please get in touch with me at - nicbat3963(at)aol(dot)com

The RAW MEAT Book.. Post 2

The Light Fantastic

CHAPTER ONE Continued from Post 1

I’m clenching my fist so tightly that I’m sure my fingernails are cutting right into the flesh, rivers of blood trickling down into the sleeves on my sweater…is this reality?

I just can’t feel what happened to the child …I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what’s just happened, all that is left behind in the city. I can still hear the child’s cries echoing around persistently in my head, even though I shake it vigorously from side to side, it’s no use, the cries won’t die away.

I become aware that I’m clenching my teeth so tightly that it seems quite likely that they may shatter and fall apart inside my mouth, so that I’ll spit out the fragments and be left with just gums, just useless gums.

Hearing a sound from further back in the cave I turn around quickly, but of course seeing nothing but blackness, just blackness. I can’t identify the sound , it could have been something moving, something live. I tread softly, cautiously into the blackness, stretching out my arms on either side to try to get some idea of where the walls of the cave are. This blackness makes me feel dizzy, it’s so dimensionless…I can’t get any idea of anything at all. If I stare fiercely enough, surely I’ll see something… some recognisable shape or colour? I become aware of some flickering lights not too far away…I can’t define these shapes at all, but they remind me of flames, and are writhing like snakes…but they are different colours, changing shades of orange, yellow and red.

The strange thing is that although I’m convinced that the flickering lights are flames from afar, I don’t feel any heat at all. As I approach the fire I can make out several small figures sitting to one side at the back…they are all sitting perfectly still, and they all seem so fantastic to me but I’m filled with a sinking feeling of deadly fear.

Reaching out a trembling hand towards one of the small figures, I feel metal beneath my fingers; it’s a helmet of some sort, a mask that the child is wearing…for they are all children, all these figures sitting, staring into the flames. The flickering flames cast shadows on the walls which change constantly, stretch into different forms all the time – never stopping as one thing, always changing, moving. I realise that this group of children are all wearing these strange contraptions on their heads which force them to face directly forwards without being able to move their faces away.

I turn quickly as someone touches my arm – another small figure, but without the helmet this time. It’s an old man, very old – in fact he’s so completely covered with wrinkles that I just want to lie him flat and smooth him out. I don’t, but instead I ask, once I’ve found my voice,

“What’s going on?”

The old man raises his hand very slowly and just smoothes down the few white hairs he has remaining on his head, and he smiles gently. We both turned to watch the flickering shadows cast on the far wall of the cave for a while. Then the old man begins to speak in a very clear, ringing tone of voice so that his words take on their own particular quality, unchanged by age.

“These are all my children…Plato’s children,” he says , “for that’s my name, Plato… I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. -?”

“Look, my name doesn’t really matter - I think you should just tell me what the hell is going on here.” I stare into the old mans tiny, wrinkled face aggressively; I’m in absolutely no mood for indulging nutcases in caves after what’s happened back in the city, I can tell you. But the old man continues to smile at me as if there’s nothing unusual going on at all. He moves the wooden staff he’s leaning on very carefully so that it hovers just above ground… along with the grey robes he’s wearing, he looks like some sort of wizard or magician.

“Well, if you won’t tell me who you are then I’ll just continue my speech,” he says finally, sounding slightly amused if any thing at all. He raises his staff very slowly and waves it in the direction of the group of children. “These are all my children and under my control.”

“What?” My eyes search frantically amongst the faces of the sitting children, who are all various ages… but all seem to be completely devoid of any emotion or even awareness of their surrounding. My eyes come to rest briefly on a little girl, and I’m immediately reminded of what’s just happened back in the city. Her little face is so vulnerable and pleading, I can’t bear the sight any more. Turning away quickly, I glance briefly, angrily at the old man, taking a step and raising my fist. “You’re keeping all these children here against their will? I think you should let them go right now.”

The old man shakes his head very slowly from side to side, as if playing for time. He moves towards one of the children and touches the leather strap across the child’s face very gently, his fingers moving over the metal pieces as if trying to convince himself of the reality of the child’s encasement.

“But I don’t want to, Mr… who ever you are, I don’t want to until the time comes. Don’t you see, I’m a philosopher who’s outside time, beyond the dimensions of time.

I’m an ancient philosopher who’s been dead for centuries… I’ve been dead for many years, encased in ice. So you see, I have no fear of you or anyone… I only want to see the reality of my cave reach completion… don’t you understand that?”

I drop my fist uselessly to my side - my anger dies within me… for what use is there in feeling such emotions when faced with such insanity? I fix my eyes on the flickering flame on the wall, the lights changing continuously from red to yellow and orange. The shadows between the flame are now formless creatures, now people, now buildings, changing.

So, what happens next? If you’d like to continue the story and write a chapter or two then please e-mail me at: nicbat3963(at)aol.com

The RAW MEAT Book..

The RAW MEAT Book.. Post 1

THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

CHAPTER ONE

From here, several mountain tops are visible, and the way the early morning light catches the snow and ice on them seems to shift them into another dimension entirely. Though these mountains are real and solid rock, which I cannot argue with, I don’t feel confident enough to consider climbing them, even though I think I’d like to. Everything about the mountains seems slightly remote and untouchable at this hour. It’s right that I should be here at this time, in this country, I don’t have any doubt of that. The weak rays of the sun glance off the snow all around me, which makes the whole place seem fantastic, like another world completely, even though I know it’s not.

Turning away reluctantly, I begin to clamber down the side of the steep mountain. There are still patches of snow round about, and also areas which are covered in dense forest, where the trees seem to grow so densely that it makes me doubt that it would be possible for me to enter. So I passed by the forest and made my way on towards the cave in which I slept last night, for I’m beginning to feel a bit hungry now and am thinking about the piece of food I brought up here with me.

Although I’m wearing that horrible thick green sweater my mother knitted for me several years ago, for the first time I can feel the cold fingers groping their way through the wool to touch my skin and bones, even eating their way through to the marrow. Even though this sensation of ice is absolutely right for this place, it still comes as a surprise to me… I’m obviously not used to being up here in the alps, I’m just a city boy, after all. That’s what I’ve become now, after all these years – though I feel as if I’ve come back here, as if I was born to be in the mountains. Well, maybe I have.

I feel like I’m coming home when I reach my cave. Straight away I begin to make a fire to warm the place up a bit, though that’s not really possible to do. So I concentrate on my task, every muscle obeys me mechanically, without thought, for too much thought hurts me at the moment. I’m trying hard not to think, not to remember. I had to escape, I had to come here to the mountains, to be alone, I had to do that.

Hearing a sound from deep within the cave, I pause before entering it to feel for my flash light within my pocket, for it’s so dark in there, I feel quite nervous, I admit. When I find my flashlight and turn it on, it doesn’t work, so I throw it away angrily. It’s little things like this which cause my irrational feelings of violence, intense anger – absolutely unfounded, I know, and yet, what can I do but give way to these feelings and allow them to overtake me? I think about what’s just happened to me back in the city and I want to cry out to release some of the emotion that’s been suppressed for so long, so many years. I can feel my chest rising and falling rapidly and I try to steady myself before entering the cave any further. I don’t want to meet any intruder in this frame of mind – for who knows what it will lead to? So I wait, taking deep breaths and watching my fallen flashlight, lying miserably by the side of the cave.

Chapter one continues HERE

Thanks for reading this page. For more information about The RAW MEAT Book please visit my Newsletter RAW MEAT

Writer's Island Threshold

The prompt this week at Writer’s Island is: Threshold

Here’s my offering:

BEYOND THE THRESHOLD
The old man sits beside the fireplace on a three legged stool, reading a book. The fire in the grate is crackling away - it’s the only sound in the room; it must be the middle of the night… the wee small hours, before dawn. The old man sits motionless as if carved from alabaster. His hair and beard glow dully, the bright orange now faded with age but still catching the light from the flames so that it appears to be made up of living snakes, each coiling and writhing – red, gold, orange. He has a pair of round spectacles and is bent over a book which he holds close to his face as though it’s difficult for him to make out the words… even though he himself wrote the book many years ago and is only now reading it for the first time. The book seems to be covered in cloth – and as the light from the flames falls upon it, it comes alive, each shade of colour changing constantly. The old man keeps his fingers perfectly still upon the fabric, never hesitating for a moment… he wants this to become clear to him, to unfold the secrets within. Beyond the Threshold, the book’s called; as he turns each thin page very carefully the gently rustling sound of the paper plays upon the air, fading into the background.

I watch him from the doorway – at least I think it’s a doorway; it’s cold and dark out here and I wish I could go inside and sit beside the old man by the fire. I can feel the heat from the flames even now, but I can’t step over the threshold of the room, I just can’t, I dare not. For I’m afraid if I do the illusion will shatter, be destroyed absolutely… the fire will turn to ice, the pieces falling away to the ground, the shards glittering even though they have no life left within them. The old man will cease to read his book for there’s no light left to make out the words. So I have to stand still and watch… never moving a muscle, waiting beyond the threshold.

Writer's Island Sizzle

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Sizzle.

SIZZLE

As I walk across the main square in Tunis all I’m aware of is the thin leather sandals I’m wearing flapping against the souls of my feet with every step I take; the straps of the sandals have been broken for quite some time, but I haven’t had the money to get them mended. One of my sisters offered to mend them a few weeks ago but I refused her help in my usual way – a brief shake of the head and a low growl, “No thanks, forget it.” So the sandals remain to be an irritation to me… oh well, such is life.

I pause in the bright sunlight as I feel a tug at the white linen of my sleeve. I turn around to see my younger brother Saul, who’s been following me with the trailer. He knocks off a few of the carrots as he does so, I watch him pick them up quickly… I can feel the heat from the bubbling frustration inside me even now.

“Sorry Mohammed… Do you still want to sell these?” Saul says apologetically, brushing off the dirt from the carrots. “I don’t think it will matter – no one will notice anyway. Why don’t you stop here in the shade to sell them? You don’t want to be too obvious, not when there’s so many people around.”

I brush a fly away from my face as I move defiantly into the sunlight glancing at Saul dismissively.

“No, I’ll sell my things here… I want to attract attention, that’s the whole idea of selling. Here, give me the stuff… Thanks, see you later.”

Saul hands over the vegetables to me which I set down all around me, making them as obvious as I dare. I don’t know what it is about today but I feel so on edge, so irritable my general frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to break out and erupt like a volcano at any moment. Saul can’t sense this because he turns away and disappears thankfully amongst the crowds of people. I’m left alone which I’m glad about – I can’t share this anger with anyone but I can’t afford to move or even to breathe. I want to sell most of the vegetables before I’m stopped by a policeman. I suspected this, I knew this was coming.

“Haven’t you got anything to give us?” The policeman asks me, giving me a hefty shove backwards. “You’ve been selling stuff… you must have money?”

I stare at him furiously. “I’m not giving you anything – This is all a complete sham! Get lost. Get away from me.”

He gives me a sharp slap across my face, making the blood ring in my ears, I’m so angry. My anger is sizzling within me – fighting for release.

“Don’t you dare… You’d better keep away from me.” I struggle to my feet, beginning to back away. I continue to shout at him half blind by my own fury. “You won’t get away with treating me like shit – who the Hell do you think you are? I’m going to the Governor… So you’d better get ready for the sack!”

The policeman is still laughing, even as I scuttle away amongst the crowds in the main square. I take no notice, I know where I’m heading… the Governor’s office on the other side of the square. The Red Flag flies above it signifying the high point of my anger. I suddenly feel a droplet of saliva hit me on the cheek – the droplet lies against my skin in the warm air of the afternoon. That’s all that I’m aware of as I move forwards, not caring who I’m pushing aside. The high point that I won’t be able to reach before the eruption, the lava flowing down. I run up the front steps of the building, taking the stairs two or three at a time… my leather sandals are still flapping continually against the soles of my feet all of the time.

“I want to see the Governor of Tunis right away – I’ve got the most serious complaint!” I shout in a clear voice as soon as I approach the front desk. The man sitting there looks up at me with only a very slight interest, putting down his pen. He stares at me lazily and yawns.

“Can you tell me your name? If you want to make a complaint you can at least do it properly.”

“My name is Mohammed Ali, and I want to complain about the police insulting me just now in the main square. I want something done. This sort of thing has got to stop!”

The official gazes at me briefly before pulling a sheet of paper towards him and beginning to write. Every movement he makes is very slow, deliberately slow.

“The police insulting you… are you serious? How old are you Mohammed?”

I press my fist on the surface of his desk, trying to control my anger.

“I’m 26. So please don’t treat me like a child! I want to see the Governor.”

The official smiles and shakes his head very slowly.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Not for something as insignificant as this. The Governor is a busy man… he has a lot more important things to do with his time. I cannot allow you to bother him.” The red flag is flapping before my eyes, the blood bubbling to the surface.

“I demand to see the Governor right now! Or else I’ll…”

“Or else what? Go away and stop wasting my time!”

I turn away from the desk and walk across the entrance hall towards the wide open doors, every pace in slow motion, as if counting out the seconds, entering the sunlight again, I can feel it beating down upon my head I can feel the ends of my black hair sizzling by the heat and my anger. I descend the front steps very slowly as if moving through a bubbling liquid, like lava, or even blood. I’m moving towards the end of my anger… I feel around in my pocket until my fingers close around a lighter. Drawing it out very slowly, I stare at it for several moments as I reach the bottom. Moving into the spotlight of the white sun, I gaze around as the expectant faces turn towards me… waiting.

Writer's Island Superstition

The prompt at Writer’s Island this week is: Superstition

SUPERSTITION

Friday the thirteenth of May, three-thirty pm. “Twenty-five, twenty-six please…” I place the eggs carefully on the top of everything else so they don’t get broken!

I clear the counter for the next customer, who begins taking her stuff from the trolley and stacking it on the check-out. I try not to yawn; the woman I’m watching blearily looks almost as bored as I feel myself. She’s pretty old – I see there are quite a few wrinkles beneath her eyes, and her hair is steel grey. Her hair seems to be almost made of metal – not hair at all, but a thin steel sheet encasing her head. Like a sort of protective helmet I suppose… I shake my head to clear the vision. I think I definitely had too much to drink last night… I’m still seeing things even after a few hours sleep. I jab my crimson finger nails on the counter, taking care not to squash the packet of moon cakes which the woman has put there, beside the Chinese leaves, eggs, noodles, beans and other such things. My eye runs over the items fleetingly; I’m not really interested, this is just a part-time job, ringing up the sales, filling in time, extra money to pay my rent.

“Excuse me dear… does your supermarket take cards?”

I stare at her blankly for a moment – that voice doesn’t seem to belong to match her appearance at all.

“Of course we do,” I snap back, pushing her items along the counter impatiently. “This is the biggest Chinese supermarket in Los Cristianos, you know… of course we take cards.”

“Oh… alright, I’m sorry.” The woman watches me nervously, wringing her hands together, as I press the buttons on the cash register viciously to ring up the sale. The woman shakes her head from side to side, it could be a nervous twitch, I’m not sure, she gives a silly little laugh and she looks at me with her tired eyes, the wrinkles running down her face to meet the lines around her mouth. “I’m sorry – you must forgive me, I’ve not had much sleep I’m afraid. There’s been… some trouble, or rather, there will be. Though I’m not superstitious, still…”

I stare at her, feeling my crimson lipstick crawling over the scornful curve of my lips.

“What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, yet.” Once again, the woman gives a nervous laugh, opening her purse to get her card. The image suddenly stays with me… the shop girl and the customer paying, the grey hair on her head mixing suddenly with the crimson light of my lipstick… the executioner awaits. “But I’m sure… I feel unsafe. There’s a man being stalking me for the past few days… I don’t know what’s going on in his head… but I’m scared. So, you see – that’s why I can’t sleep.”

I stare at her, my crimson mouth hanging open. I don’t know what to say; I can see the old English tourist suddenly beside her open-air swimming pool with her husband, at the plastic table with perhaps a cocktail placed upon it. I see the image moving slightly behind my eyes… every second the stalker gets a little closer, the butcher’s knife in his hand gleaming.

Writer's Island Season

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is: Season

Here's my response:

SEASON
I pause to try and catch my breath; I can feel the droplets of sweat rolling down my back like a river, between my shoulder blades. The woollen garments I wear cling to my skin with a horrid sort of tenacity, and I can almost hear the sound they make as they rub against my skin. I glance up into the bright sunshine, it burns into the lenses of my eyes and I have to look away for a moment. The glare of the white snow all around reflects the rays of the sun and takes my sight away from me… but still I can hear the grunts and wheezes of the men around me as they push the sledge up the edge of the glacier. I’m only one of the team working so hard to reach the South Pole; we’ve come so far through the snow and ice, pushing the sledges, feeding the horses and then shooting them, feeding them to the dogs and always moving on with an unaccountable determination inspired by Captain Scott himself, moving on tirelessly towards our goal. And still the sun burns down without ceasing, mixing day and night so that they become one, and the seasons are confused. Like several of the other men, I peel off my outer layers of clothing so that I’m wearing just my long woollen underclothes and boots of course. I feel ridiculous even though there’s no one really to mind, as all the other members of the team have done exactly the same. Including the captain himself, I believe. We must be nearing the top of the glacier now, I’m sure… perhaps there on the plateau we can rest… it’s difficult to tell the time when the sun is up all day and all night, but it must be nearly lunchtime for my stomach is rumbling. I kick the snow from the side of the sledge to help it up the sharp incline, though I don’t know if it will do anything at all for the snow is as much a part of this natural scenery as anything, and has more right to stick to the sledge than I have. “Let us stop here for a while,” called out the captain from the front of the sledge. “We have reached the plateau now, and we deserve a special Christmas dinner… we’ll go over there, beside that incline.” The captains voice became louder as he walked towards me. “ Unpack the food we brought, John… have we got turkey?” I exchange a grin with him, my face breaking easily into such an expression on such a day as this. The sun continues to burn down, reflecting off the snow without ceasing. There seems to be no respite, no end to this day. This Christmas day, in 1912… a Christmas day which I will always remember, which will always be burnt - etched into my memory, engrained so that the textures can be felt by fingers unseen. I began to open one of the pouches of food and examine the contents. “Yes, captain… we have turkey here, and even roast potatoes… though they are somewhat cold I’m afraid.” Captain Scott roared with laughter, clapping me heartily on the back. “No matter John - no matter! This will be a Christmas we will never forget!” I smiled also, if a little feebly. The sun continued to burn down day and night, mixing the seasons into one… the snow transgressing upon the sunshine. The two tried to mix, but the solution didn’t work… they simply stayed side by side, without touching.

Self Prompted Poetry III

UNPROMPTED

There was nothing to do but sit and think,

Sit and think… so what’s wrong with that?

Inside the hut can smell the age of the stones

Telling the time as it passes slowly, the sun casting shadows

Which measure the hours as they crawl on the way towards the night,

The end of the day, a great vacuum, the plug hole

Down which we will all vanish.

I wonder if they know, if they can tell that I’ve been crying?

Everything around me moving, sounds spinning

I imagine it all, the whole thing made up

And simply for me alone, always alone

So far away nobody can ever touch me

So remote, I fear for my own sanity

And yet, without it - am I really so lost?

Is the breakdown unprompted, completely spontaneous?

Turning my face to the sun, I feel the soft breeze against my skin

And this is the reality.

DOLCE VITA
Often I lay awake in those long, empty early hours… and my mind drifts in a state of half waking, half sleeping. I wander through places where I once lived, past people who I once knew but now are dead… or perhaps just changed, moved on after all those years. There are no solid objects here. No rigid structures or geometrical designs, just marshmallow lands and everything is soft and cushioned… is that maybe where the expression the “soft life” comes from? I balance against the sides of my surroundings… there’s absolutely no room for Ziggy here, I can see, I can hear. I blink as the Light Fantastic touches the retinas of my eyes… although when I’m awake the darkness increases around me, closing in… here the light grows brighter and brighter, beckoning me onwards. Beckoning me onwards, enticing me. I’m not sure how many hours or just minutes have passed since I woke up - time has done absolutely no damage here in this space between. I keep my eyes firmly shut, not wishing to disturb the slumbering state which has taken me so long to catch hold of, and is even now slipping, slippery as a fish between my fingers. Falling down, falling down to the ground and through that, beyond, down into the abyss. Still bouncing against the sides, the soft cushion, rebounding all around me as I fall… and I’m not frightened, I have no fear. The light creeping around the edges of the curtains seems far brighter than the grey day it heralds in reality… in this state, this magical state the light has no bounds… only soft cushions, soft promises, a truly soft life.

Self Prompted Poetry II

UNSEEN FACES

I’m living in the past

On vanished memories, faces now turned old and wrinkled

Changed not fixed like a photograph

-though that’s all I remember, the image fixed

In my memory, unchanging and clinging on desperately

Struggling, kicking, refusing to go down the plughole

And vanish, forgotten completely.

Distant voices echoing, I hear them still

But the image, the vision is gone

People might loose hair and teeth around me

But still, they’re there.

I still hold Jack in my arms

A tiny, shrivelled baby when I saw him last

In years long past by - gone now

Vanished, dropped into the abyss

Down the plug hole.

Self Prompted Poetry

Apparently it’s national poetry writing month, so Rob’s too busy writing poetry to bother with Writer’s Island prompts… however I’ve decided to do my own prompt, so here it is.

POETRY CONFUSED

I see him in the garden

Wandering around, eyes fixed on the sky

Translucent words spilling from his mouth, washing over the edges

To form a layer of mud which hardens in the sunshine

Like an extra eggshell, a coating of brittle pieces

A poem confused?

He still shakes his head and yawns, his open mouth cavernous

The garden twinkles around him, perhaps starry skies meeting the grass

I don’t know, I can’t tell - who am I?

I’m no one, I don’t matter

I’m just a poet confused.

Writer's Island Unlimited

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Unlimited.

UNLIMITED

“Take my hand. Look up into the night sky… it’s all open to you now, so take it. Take it.”

The warm wind breathes gently over the lashes of my eyes as I open them. The garden walls fall away as we stand side by side and stare into the night sky… the stars are dotted all over, and their canopy is completely unlimited. I grip onto your hand as if I’m falling, spinning round and round with the stars whizzing around me on either side. I can feel them whirring past me like a clockwork star, clockwork stars without the limited feel of mechanical motion.

It’s frightening, this total abandon of reality… of course it’s frightening, but it’s also exhilarating in the extreme. This night sky has completely opened up to engulf me, the hard edges of the stars glittering like many coloured gems falling away on either side, and me? I, meanwhile, have no dimension, no limits. Nothing to hold me in, to stop me to tell me no, you can’t do that, you can’t go there… it’s not allowed, there are limits after all. These sounds are dead and gone, there are no limits here… for I’ve gone past the barriers. I have gone inside my mind, and am travelling fast beyond limits.

Writer's Island Tribute

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Tribute.

TRIBUTE

A Sunday night tribute made to Pink Floyd

An Arena full of a complete mixture of people

Aging hippies amongst them, I’m sure.

Shine on you crazy diamond glitters amongst

the debris of Manchester-grey as always

A room full of dogs barking and whining,

Their plaintiff howls echoing round and round

The electric guitar holding me spellbound in the tribute

Wish you were here plucked out on the Spanish guitar stings

And the woman cries create such beauty

That I find difficult to believe in.

The tribute goes on…

Writer's Island Secret

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Secret.

SECRET

As a child, I was drawn as if by an invisible thread down to the cellar which was a place of secrets. Cold stone walls with damp dripping down, dim light and silence, just a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling… cobwebs of course, and the smell of mushrooms musty with age and decay. My skinny arms struggled to lift the button cover I found high up on of the walls, for I knew with my child’s perception that the cover must hide a secret. I laid the cover down on the floor, and stared into the dark space behind it… what was inside the space? I had to find out - there was no two ways about it. Searching round the cellar I found a small ladder, which I used to climb up and enter into the Black Hole… I wasn’t frightened, just intrigued to know what secrets the space held.

There was no room to stand or even sit up - I was forced to wriggle on my belly into the darkness… there was a brick roof immediately above my head and as I stretched my fingers, I could feel more bricks separating the space into different areas. It was all very strange… especially because I couldn’t see a thing… only feel the bricks and the soft cobwebby substance which covered the bottom of this space along which I wriggled… my greatest fear was that my groping fingers would make contact with a dead rat or some other horrible corpse, perhaps even human. As I wriggled further and further away from the opening, deeper into the foundations of the house I became a little anxious that I would be unable to breathe in such an atmosphere of decay and secrets, for the cobwebby substance began to fill my lungs. This place, this dark space of secrets … I began to panic, though at the same time I just wanted to go on, to go further and stay down there forever, to stay far away from the old mundane life at school. I wanted to stay down there where there was always a secret to be found… I didn’t want to return. Yet at the same time I knew that I had to, I had to turn round if I wanted to stay alive and breathe.

So eventually I retraced my wriggling movements back to the dark opening back into the cellar. It was impossible to tell exactly how long I had been inside the foundations, for time had ceased to have any real meaning since I’d entered the Black Hole. As I climbed carefully down the ladder and stood there, brushing the cobwebby substance from my T-shirt and jeans I knew that the secret in the cellar would have to remain. With my skinny arms I lifted the wooden cover reluctantly and replaced it over the entrance to the foundations. I turned away, leaving the secret safely stored away from prying eyes.

Writer's Island Foretell

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Foretell.

FORETELL

I can still feel the light behind me fading slowly, casting my shadow across the dining room table. I watched my mum move busily back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, clearing away the dishes… I watched her with a lazy pair of eyes that had seen it all before, many times. Seen it all before, still watching and waiting. All that was twenty five years ago, though I remember it all so clearly. I think I may possible have cleared my plate before I spoke, but it’s only a possibility.

“You know,” I remarked, “I’d be totally lost without my sight.”

Ziggy’s arm creaked slightly as I lent upon it, shifting my weight to get into a more comfortable position. My wheelchair is my friend now - Ziggy it’s called. I still watched my mum even though she had started to move back and forth between the rooms, her attention caught by my words. She dried her hands very slowly and carefully on the tea towel, taking a few tiny steps across the carpet towards me until she was standing right by me, almost leaning against Ziggy.

“Yes,” she agreed, “I think you would be.”

That was it, the sum total of our intimate conversation. But I’ve been thinking of it now, and it feels quite distant even though I remember it all so distinctly. I saw the light fading slowly, and I see it still, the light fading slowly away from me. It won’t ever be diminished completely. I don’t feel frightened any more, for all that has changed… the “I” has become dissipated, fragmented into multiple beings, some living, some dead. They are all me, different facets of me. I have become contained within each self, each being… and every one of them can both see and be seen.

And behind me the light still fades slowly, ever more slowly from the sky… and yet the darkness will never descend and smother me completely.

Writer's Island Epiphany

The prompt this week at Writer's Island is Epiphany.

EPIPHANY

The entire corridor fell suddenly silent as George’s final question hung in the air. Elvira and Bart exchanged nervous glances, edging slightly closer to each other, wondering what exactly was moving towards them.

”What’s going on ?” demanded George in her most aggressive tone of voice, “What’s that?” she pointed over Elvira’s left shoulder to a strange circle of light which moved with an unnerving grace towards them, closer and closer. It seemed to be almost like a candle, but then it had no substance to it whether it be wax or something else, no substance at all only light. The group of figures became suddenly aware of the presence of Alice, the little illustrated figure with her black and white edges curling as they slightly moved, edging into the limelight, falling to her knees- centre stage all the time. Elvira watched her uneasily.

“What’s going on, Alice? What’s wrong?” She asked quietly, trying to take Alice’s paper thin hand. But the little girl pushed her away.

“Leave me alone!” she cried out in a shrill shaky voice. “This is my moment! You may have thought I was only a Victorian illustration, dead and gone - but that’s where your wrong. I’m still alive, and I’ve seen the light. Here it is, it’s moving towards me - this is my moment, my moment of awakening. Everything else is nothing, it’s all nothing… it doesn’t matter. You all don’t matter… I don’t matter either, in fact nothing matters. We’re all just figures from books.”

For a while nobody said anything - for what could be said in reply to such a statement of truth? Then George took a step towards Alice’s papery edges, reaching out and tentatively feeling them. For a moment Elvira wondered if she would rip them deliberately and she got her wand ready to raise if necessary, but Gorge pulled her hands quickly away from Alice as if the feel of the old paper stung her.

“Well whoever you are, I don’t know what you’re talking about… but it all sounds pretty religious to me… and I certainly don’t go along with all that great spiritual awakening stuff. It ‘s all rubbish and went out with the Victorians - which is maybe where you belong. I don’t know who you are… I’ve never read your book and I must say I’m glad.” Alice wavered slightly as though wondering whether to turn the page. Her voice rose in the air once again, even shriller as though touched with panic.

“How can you speak to me like that? You must have read Alice in Wonderland surely… how can you possible diminish my spiritual awakening, even if it wasn’t made explicit in the book? This is it, it’s happening now.”

The tall man standing behind George suddenly laid his hand on his daughters shoulders and cleared his throat loudly.

“You’ll forgive me for interrupting your little scene… but George, don’t you remember me giving you Alice in Wonderland when you were younger? Surely you remember that?”

George stared at Alice’s illustrated form aggressively.

“Well, maybe… but I don’t remember the story at all, so it can’t have made much impression on me,” she muttered. The strange circle of light still hovered a few feet above their heads, glowing with such an unnatural brightness that its reality seemed very doubtful to all of them. George continued stabbing her forefinger towards Alice, each movement punctuated her words. “All the Victorians were religious - and that’s obviously where you belong back with them, you should never have left them… what are you doing here anyway? We’ve come on quite a long way since those days of great spiritual awakenings… all that crap, all that rubbish - there’s absolutely nothing to awaken to, no truth, no nothing. I’m a real modern boy, don’t you know?”

Behind her Uncle Quentin took his hands away from her shoulders with a marked air of significance.

“Do you mind Georgina? May I remind you that you are not in fact a boy, you… you’re my daughter? Whether you’re religious or not, it doesn’t make any difference.”

Writer's Island Beguile

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Beguile.

BEGUILE

The bright sun hangs overhead

And filters though a haze of heat

Seeming to waver as touches fleetingly

Dazzling upon the surface of the white alabaster statues of young men

Which surround the swimming pool of the villa

The villa where she lives, the villa where she lies.

She lies now beside the pool

Stretched out upon her towel

Her skin glowing strangely white

Against the deep colour of the towel

The ebony lines of her hair are sharp contrast

Echoed in the edge of her sunglasses

Waiting for the approach of the stranger

Waiting to remove the glasses

And fix him with her medusa stare.

Writer's Island Clarity

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Clarity

CLARITY

Clarity was an angel - I realised that the moment I first saw her walking past me through the park, her bare feet rustling gently against the fallen leaves covering the ground. A strange light came from her, enclosing her within it almost like a shroud, a shroud of radiance. She sat down next to me on the bench, carefully draping her beautiful wings over the back so that their feathery softness would not be disturbed by the reality of the cold autumn evening. Even though it was evening - twilight actually to be precise - the silver light shone from all around her… I worked out eventually that it came from her hair, which was silver like tinsel, this amazing silver stuff streaming down her back until it became lost beneath her wings. I must admit to being rather gobsmacked - she took my breath away, and for several moments all I could do was stare stupidly. She didn’t seem to be aware at all about any difference about her; shaking back long strands of silver hair from her face, she smiled only very gently in an abstract manner, as if preoccupied with some other business. I swallowed nervously and cleared my throat. I was aware that anything I said now would sound just plain stupid… but still I had to say something.

“ I - I haven’t seen you round here before, if your forgive me for saying so,” I stammer, aware suddenly of the icy sting of autumn air against my lips as I spoke. I turned up the collar of my Lumber jacket, feeling the deep softness of it against my bare throat… I had shaved off my beard some weeks ago for some reason which I had no knowledge of. It seemed an incredible thing to do at this time of year, when a man needs every strand of hair to protect himself. I glanced quickly at Clarity’s thin, shimmering sort of gown and bare feet - which were blue with cold, hardly surprisingly. “Your feet must be absolutely freezing.” Clarity glanced down at them, seeming surprised by their colour.

“Well, I suppose they are… it’s a bit colder down here. Heaven’s such a warm place, you know - that’s one of the best things about it.”

I could almost hear the leaves fluttering down to the ground all around me, though I was unable still to take my eyes from the angel herself.

“Well why did you come down in the first place? Why not stay with the heavenly ghosts?”

Clarity laughed very softly, the sound becoming visible as vapour in the cold air.

“Oh, I had to… I was sent down here. I had no choice in the matter - when the Almighty speaks, we have to obey.” She shrugged indifferently, her wings raising and falling with her shoulders. “That’s the way it is up there, so that’s why I’ve come down. I don’t know why though there must be some reason I suppose.”

I shook my head wonderingly, basking in the gentle radiance from her hair… from her whole self in fact, her angelic self that is.

“I’d like to see Heaven for myself… I’ve always thought it sounds pretty boring though. Is it?”

Once again, the shrug - the wings moving with it, the feathers also.

“I suppose it is really… not much goes on there. But it’s the only place I’ve known, so…” she broke off suddenly, shaking her head as if to clear it. I became aware of a buzzing, a vibration in the air. I frowned; I felt uneasy, searching for some sort of explanation, some insight into Heaven and how angels work, some sort of clarity. Her eyes became unfocused a frown creasing her delicate brow. “Wait a minute… I’m just getting a message… this might be the reason we’ve been looking for. Some sort of light is being thrown on the subject of my actions, I hope.”

I stared at her, feeling the light intensify around her along with the vibrations so that the two were linked, they went hand in hand, side by side. Clarity stood up abruptly, her bare feet shuffling against the fallen leaves on the ground. She held out her hand to me, and all I could see was the light surrounding it.

“I’m afraid I have to go… that is, back there. I’ve just been told - and I can’t argue with that one. But you’re coming with me, you know… I’ve been told to bring you. So come on, get to your feet and let’s be off… oh, by the way I ought to introduce myself properly to you - the name’s Clarity. Clarity by name… clarity by nature.”

Her light was becoming more and more intense as every second passed… I seized her hand, I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to see heaven for myself. As I got to my feet also, I saw the golden staircase taking shape against the gloom of twilight… I followed Clarity towards it, trying not to trip over my own clumsy feet in haste. I walked side by side with the angel, her silver hair still streaming down her back until it was lost in the feathers of her wings. The lights around her hair became so bright and intense I became anxious… and yet at the same time so excited.

“I suppose this is what they call seeing the light,” I cried out breathlessly.

Beside me I felt Clarity smile by the movement of the air.

“Yes, I suppose it is… you coming? You coming then?”

We began to climb the stairs, moving both our feet in perfect unison.

Writer's Island Courage II

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Courage.

FICTIONAL LIONS

As he wandered along the Yellow Brick falling to the ground at every other step, the scarecrow saw a magnificent lion advancing slowly towards him without making a sound. The scarecrow felt a little uneasy at this silence, for he expected such a splendid creature to make some sort of roar or something… but this silence was quite un-nerving. The scarecrow picked himself up when he came face to face with the lion and asked him some what timidly…

“Don’t I recognise you? Aren’t you searching for a heart - for courage?” The lion smiled very vaguely, shaking his beautiful golden hairdo from side to side so that his mane glinted gently in the sunshine. When he answered, the words came vibrating from his throat, in a great rumbling vibration of energy.

“I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with someone else… some other lion, perhaps a more courageous one than me. For I’m a quite different creature… a suffering lion, a sacrificial lion with religious undertones - need I say more?” The lion stared directly into the scarecrows painted eyes, raising his fierce eyebrows very slightly. “Surely you’ve read the book I come from… you’re into children’s fiction aren’t you?”

The scarecrow shook his cloth head firmly, although he didn’t feel at all firm.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you. I understand nothing about religious undertones, for I’ve got no brain have I??”

“No… sorry, I forgot.” Gently the lion raised a great paw and patted the scarecrow apologetically on the arm. He almost crushed the scarecrow’s fabric body as he did so with his almighty strength. “But you must have heard of my story somewhere… for I step out of fiction into religion… a sort of mixture of fictional characters against a real background. I’m talking about the bible - Christianity, call it what you will. And I’ve wandered out of that into children’s fiction… there I become Aslan, the most courageous and tragic lion you’ve ever heard of. You must have heard of me.”

Still the scarecrow stared blankly at the great lion and continued to shake his stupid cloth head. It seemed to both of them there was nothing more to be said.

Writer's Island Courage

The prompt at Writer's Island this week is Courage.

DESTINY

I sat on a coil of rope just at the edge of the water, watching the Torpoint ferry make contact with land; all around me the bright lights lingered and flashed intermittently, red, yellow, gold. The night yawned and stretched, enjoying the solitude. Everything seemed to be completely still and silent… at least, almost silent - for the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the harbour walls became a musical background to my thoughts.

At first I thought the bright white figure moving towards me was another light from the ferry, then I realised the figure wasn’t walking across the water after all, even though it became obvious to me pretty quickly that the form wasn’t a human but an angel, with massive great wings trailing behind him. I watched with some interest as the angel moved noiselessly towards me… only his wings made a slight dragging sound, as the feathers trailed along the ground behind him. My eyes hurt to stare at him, he was so bright. I’m afraid I can’t remember if he had a halo or not… such details don’t matter, do they? I got to my feet very slowly as the angel approached - I thought I should show him some form of respect or simply civility. Although the angel’s face showed no expression, it seemed to be set with a gentle smile, almost sculptured in marble, shining marble. He held out his hand towards me, and I took the map from him wordlessly… don’t ask me why I wasn’t surprised, I just wasn’t . I unfolded the parchment carefully, and stared at the markings upon it. When I raised my eyes back to the angel’s shining face, I felt confused.

“I - I’m sorry… I don’t understand,” I said, feeling truly stupid. “What is this?”

The angel gazed at me patiently folding his arms. He may even have sighed - I wouldn’t like to say.

“It’s a map of course - it shows your destiny. You gonna follow it or what?”

I noticed immediately the angels cockney accent… which seemed completely in keeping with the strangeness of the night even though Torpoint was nowhere near London. Still, I felt I had to speak to the angel.

“I didn’t know - I didn’t know angels could have cockney accents,” I said, taking the hand he offered, for I felt I could do with something steady to hold on to. “I thought angels were meant to be ethereal, above such things.”

The angel’s smile widened slightly as he raise his hand and pointed upwards, ahead of him into the black night sky. Perhaps a star twinkled there, perhaps not.

“We’ve got to go up… when you’re ready - are you ready?” I could hear the waves lapping against the harbour walls… and the sounds spun away , entangling themselves with the stars, the images of destiny. The angel coughed and tutted impatiently. “We should get going right away, then… we have got to go up very high… right up amongst the stars. You ready?”

I felt his hand pull on my own, drawing me towards the light. I swallowed down my nerves.

“Ok, I’m ready… lead the way,” I said with perfect confidence.

Writer's Island Embark

Written for the Writer's Island prompt: Embark

EMBARKING

I’m clinging for dear life onto the edge of one of the sails, high up above everyone else, all the rest of the crew who scurry about like beetles over the main deck of the Discovery. If I dare to shift my position I’m just able to make out the Captain himself, strolling leisurely amidst the general hubbub of activity that takes place around him. As I watch, he takes out a large white handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose loudly – I can hear the sound clearly from right up here on the ship’s highest yard. I smiled to myself; I have a great affection for the captain, although I hardly know him really, for I’m only a nameless one of the ship’s crew, no one special. I’m one of tens of workers, pulling the ropes, setting the sails, getting the ship already to embark on this voyage – this voyage of discovery.

I crawl slowly along the yardarm, inching towards the centre mast, the steady centre. It seems to take a long time for me to reach the place where I can feel relatively at ease, where my heart can perhaps beat a little easier and my breathing become slightly less frantic. I’m still high up on the mast, with the sails flapping below me and there are even a few gulls screeching around my head – though this may be merely my imagination, for after all, we’re not yet at sea, this is only the Thames. Reaching the mast finally, I sheen my way down carefully, feeling the ropes, rough and abrasive, against my skin… for my skin is a soft female one, though I almost forget this, so caught up have I become in the part I am playing, in my disguise.

My rough fabric shoes make absolutely no sound as they make contact with the wooden deck, and the rest of my body follows noiselessly, but even so the captain turns his head to see who has moved the air around him, disturbed the stillness. I get to my feet slowly, very aware, as always, of the absence of my skirts rustling and dragging around my legs, dragging me down. My legs cry out with freedom, the freedom of the thin cotton breeches… I stare back at the captain as he meets my eyes directly, challenging. I’m sure for a moment that he recognises me, but of course he says nothing. It’s not so easy for me to keep my face raised and my eyes confronting his shamelessly, without blushing or turning away, as I have been told to do all my life, all these past twenty years. I’m trying so hard to meet the gentle eyes of Captain Cook… remembering that last time we lay together, quite some months past, perhaps it’s even years, I’m not quite sure. I want to raise my hand to touch the captain’s face, to let him know that I have come on board The Discovery beside him… for I could not possibly allow him to embark alone on this voyage.

My Newsletter Raw Meat is now Online! Issue 124 January 2011