Quanta

The Trail

2007-11-14T23:58:00.000Z

I want to walk down Byres Road, tacking towards Partick, till we have no idea where we are and don't care

With the sun in our faces and the wind at our backs

Hills and mountains could be our playground, rivers and lakes there to slake our thirst

As the sun sets and the stars like dust scatter through the sky, we could sweep them up one by one till the dawn breaks

I want to hold on to you till it's not the closeness that matters anymore, it's the letting go we fear

With the hope that we crave and the moon that casts shadows

The pillars that stop us looking back keep us moving into pastures new, throwing off the rainfall

As the sun rises and the mist burns off into the ether, we could fly on the currents till we can see the ground no more

I want to sit and talk to you, ask questions I'd never dare ask and you'd never dare answer, unwrap the present to find the past

With the fear in our eyes and tremor in our hands

The trail stretching before and behind us as the Urubamba urges us upwards with a sparkle of laughter

Then as the horizon cracks our vision we could lie down, sleep and dream of tomorrow.

Technorati Tags: poem,relationship,Inca,Peru,Partick

Semi-Semaphore

2007-10-30T14:41:00.000Z

I get up and make the coffee
You get up and have a bath
I leave the house, go to work
And escape the aftermath
You get home and watch the telly
I get home and make the tea
You go to bed without even once
Looking towards me.

In bed, our backs are touching
We can’t bring ourselves to face
Things gone right or things gone wrong
Our lives seem out of place
No small talk in the morning
No more sweet-talk at night
No honeyed words of sympathy
Just vicious eyes of spite.

(Chorus)

We’ve lost the art of communication
We don’t talk any more
The best we get is semi-semaphore
Can’t even hold a conversation
It walks right out of the door
And we’re only left with semi-semaphore

Like cold refrigeration
Like preserving beef with salt
Our silence remains in storage
And we’re both trapped in its vault
Its true we want to break out
To the freedom speech can bring
But saving face and dignity
Becomes the most important thing.

(Chorus)

The temperatures been falling
Now there’s ice above the door
Our love and lives torn apart
But we’re not sure what for
Perhaps if we’d just talked it through
Instead of falling prey to pride
Then even if it hadn’t worked
We could at least have said we tried.

(Chorus)

Caterpillar Man

2006-08-27T13:41:00.000+01:00

He put on his shoes and his running top
He left before the alarm had stopped
Into the summer, bright morning dew
Sprayed from his feet as on he flew
Over green hills, down by the lade
His quest to win the fitness parade
But suddenly, something caught his eye
A caterpillar slowly crawling by

Stopped in his tracks, he hunkered down
And watched the beast all furry and brown
Cross the road, but wait! A car!
He'll never make it, not that far.
So Trevor took its life in his hands
And picked it up like fate demands
I've saved its life was his belief
Into Trevor's thumb sank the caterpillars teeth

He cursed he swore, the caterpillar flew
Before into a butterfly it grew
The thankless insect ran away
Sucking his thumb, Trevor did the same
He finished his run, feeling rather peckish
Opened the fridge for tomatoes and lettuce
Barely he thought, it tasted so good
He'd forgotten the caterpillar who acted so rude.

Into the shower, Trevor washed off the grime
The shower gel acting like cleaning slime
As he rubbed on his arm, he noticed a lump
Couldn't remember even getting a bump
He towelled off his body and put on his clothes
Wondered at the tightness and struck up a pose
In front of the mirror pulling his belly in hard
Look, there's nary an inch of lard

Still feeling peckish he went for more food
But muesli and toast didn't look very good
He had some more salad but still unfulfilled
Looked around at the plants in the pots he had tilled
The parsley looked awesome, he could barely resist
He couldn't, he didn't, he reached out, he missed
His hand was a stump, fingerless, brown
Trevor bent his head and gobbled it down.

Hunger was all, consuming his thoughts
No silent thanks for the plants he had bought
As Trevor walked to his next tasty meal
Well, wriggled his way like an insectoid seal
For Trevor had changed, though giant he was
Furry and brown like his downfall's cause
Turned into a giant-sized eating machine
Piece by piece he ate the house clean

The contrast spectacular compared to before
Then he was skinny and now a plant whore
He'd gone from pale, smooth, to furry and brown
Now he was crawling not running round town
Six legs propelled him, scoffing at two
Do caterpillars even go to the loo?
Unrecognisable, metamorphosis complete
Now for another, transmogrifying treat.

Trevor searched the house for a place to pupate
Upside down, a cocoon for a face
Glued his bum to the ceiling, silk used for strength
Snuggled inside holding all of his length
Hormones released, chasing him to a change
Faster and faster, to the following stage
His wings start to form, we can see inside
Then out came Trevor the butterfly

He stretches his wings and goes for a flutter
Not too far as the room is a clutter
The hunger's still there, sweet need for nutrition
Luckily his desire comes to rotten fruition
But desire has forms more than just hunger
Trevor knows that his life cannot go on much longer
The window is open, a soft draught creates
The beautiful vision of a butterfly mate

Size is no barrier their love is sublime
Flying and dancing and beating in time
The colours a vision for all to behold
If only Trevor knew that he'd been this bold
Then sadly an end to their copulation
It's just what he needed this concatenation
His lover, his mate, had beaten and fled
And Trevor expired, he lay down and was dead.

Nobody knew what had passed in his home
Curious neighbours called him up on the phone
With no answer, no life inside
They whispered and gossiped perhaps he had died
A call to police brought out a team
They entered, all involuntarily screamed
There in the corner on the running shoe stand
Lay an egg, it was cracked, and out came a hand.

Technorati Tags:caterpillar, poem, poetry, writing, werewolf,

Bubbles

2006-08-22T11:31:00.000+01:00

My life is pretty monotonous. I get up in the morning at about 6:30am and get ready for work. I make my way to the tube station and wait patiently with the hordes of other Londoners, inwardly contemplating the day ahead. Or maybe we're all thinking about anything but the day ahead. The tube train arrives and as one we all get on, seamlessly cascading through the people who get off the Tube at our station. It's a great system really, requiring very little external input from the public. Then we all stand, or if we're one of the fortunate few, sit, until we get to our chosen destination. Then upon the opening of the train doors we descend upon the platform and the seamlessly cascading would-be passengers. The amazing thing in all this, is that there is little to no interaction between us. We get on and get off without making eye contact, without speaking. It's as if we're little bubbles travelling around in bigger bubbles just moving from one bubble to the next bubble.

I was on the train, like I am every morning, and then someone next to me disappeared. I say disappeared, but it wasn't quite like that. Not there one microsecond, gone the next. Firstly there was a shimmering light near her feet - it was a lady maybe forty years old, slim, classic faux Lady Diana hair, power dresser - and then it was as if her feet began to melt into the floor of the train. Slowly she was pulled down, her whole body melting. But the thing was, from having the London face (non-committal, vacant stare into the distance, kind of like a cat taking a dump) she suddenly looked happy, even exultant as she was pulled down, arms outstretched above her head. It all looked quite religious really. Then she was gone. I stood aghast at what had happened and looked around at the other passengers. Nothing, no reaction, no eye contact, no 'oh my god, a lady has just disappeared in front of my eyes' kind of hysteria. I was the only one looking round. Could I really have been the only one to see a woman disappearing in front of my eyes, melting into the floor, a shimmering white light around her and an almost beatific look on her face. I started to doubt myself. Maybe it had been an acid flashback, a legacy of my sporadic misspent youth. Or maybe I'd just closed my eyes for a second and drifted off , dreaming the whole thing. That must be it. So I settled back into my bubble.

I'd forgotten about the incident, in fact dismissed it as some kind of aberration, until another strange occurrence two days later. Again in the tube, somewhere between Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road, I was standing (again) and my eyes, avoiding all humans in the vicinity, slid to look at the reflections in the window. There I saw what looked like several ghostly people playing basketball. They were all facing a wall with what looked like some kind of helmet on and their arms were moving up and down like they were bouncing an invisible ball. Also, their legs were moving up and down similar to an exaggerated walking on the spot. I looked over my shoulder involuntarily, because, you know, I'm not really going to see helmet wearing basketball players on a tube train behind me. And sure enough. The same old blank faces studiously focused on empty space or reading the advertising boards for the millionth time. I fancied I half-caught someone's eye, a middle-aged man with slick, grey hair, balding, but it must have been my imagination. Which I eventually put the basketball players in the window down to. The mind plays tricks, I'm tired just going in to work never mind coming home. It's funny that people never seem happier, more animated, at the end of the day. You'd think that heading home would put some spark into them, but whatever extinguished it in the first place seems to have an extended effect. Even weekends, when any sane person who spends the week commuting would avoid the underground, it's the same. Maybe there's a half-life. Hell, this isn't even a half a life.

The dull monotony of the week is broken only by the slightly more infuriatingly dull monotony of the weekend. My social life is pretty non-existent. I moved to London straight after university and threw myself into my job. There was no culture of going to the pub after work, there was relatively little interaction within the workplace. Maybe that's what comes of chasing a career based on monetary gain rather than what I love to do. So, I'm a chartered accountant and I sit in front of my PC for most of the day. At weekends I do some shopping, sit around listening to music, watching some sport if it's on. The lack of activity during the week seems to sap my strength and resolve for the weekend and it's all I can do to laze around and recharge my batteries. Sometimes I daydream and think, "right, today I'm going to get the train to Brighton" or, "I'll ask so and so the PA out for a drink". But I never do. In fact, the brief imaginations in the tube are the most interesting things to have happened to me for a long, long time. I mused about it over the weekend, wondered about the two happenings, but only in an abstract fashion, not like it ever actually 'happened'. So when monday came and I was forcing myself to embrace the week ahead I had pretty much forgotten about everything. Again. It happened again. This time I was maybe closer to Marble Arch, yeah, you guessed it, standing. Daydreaming about what I would do when I retired early with all the money I was never going to make. I vaguely recognised the man standing next to me in the tube on the way to work. Middle-aged, slick, grey hair. Yeah, I'd imagined I'd caught his eye when I'd seen the basketball people reflection. I guess I took a risk sizing him up, he might have looked back at me. Anyway, as I said, it happened again. The light started shimmering at his feet, they began to melt into the train, the look of unbridled joy on his face as he was pulled down into god knows where. It's got to be good, right, it's a nice, bright, white light. His arms outstretched just like the woman before him - more "Hallelujah!" than "for fucks sake grab my hands!!" - and then he was gone. I stood in shock and disbelief. Was I going insane? Another person had just disappeared in front of my eyes and nobody had said a word about it. The train stopped and commuters jostled for position in the train, walking over where the grey-haired man had been only 30 seconds before. How could no-one have seen it? Or even if they had, why didn't anyone say anything? This and more was flying around my head, my heart thudding against my chest, my legs feeling like they themselves were melting into the floor. I grabbed one of the hand rungs to steady myself.

The day passed quickly for once, my thoughts running over and over what had happened on the train. On the way home I bought a newspaper for the first time in years, looking to see if there was any mention of mysterious, melting disappearances on the underground. Unsurprisingly there was nothing and the journey back to my flat was uneventful. The next day I was almost looking forward to. As awful as people disappearing in the tube was, there's something fascinating about it. It broke the tedium (have you noticed how many synonyms we have for that, doesn't that tell you something?). It was the most exciting thing to happen to me for years. I was whistling as I walked to the tube station and when I stepped on the train I had a real sense of anticipation. Even my hands were a bit clammy. I watched the people around me, my eyes sliding to the windows as the tunnel walls sped by. Every so often a blue electric spark would make me tense up, but nothing happened. Just as I was starting to relax before my stop, I saw a reflection in the window. Not semi-robotic basketball players this time, it was like a glove. Just a glimpse and it was gone. I could have imagined it again, but then I'm not really beginning to trust my imagination very much. Either I'm going mental or, well, just or.

That night I sat thinking about what I'd been seeing. Mysterious melting people with unbridled joy dissolving into the train. Pseudo robotic basketball players with helmets and gloves on. And a glove by itself. Although it didn't really look like a glove, but similar.

Over the next few days another two people melted into the train (both on same day - on the commute into work and on the way home), the basketball players returned, looking almost comedic if I'm honest and the 'glove' stayed just outside of a firm identification. No one else in the trains seemed to notice. When the people melted, no reaction, when the basketball players did their dance in the window, no reaction. I guess I'm not surprised that a 'glove' didn't elicit a huge response from the lobotomised throngs. It was only during this period that I began to think (I should stop that sentence there really) that the window images and melting people might be connected. - "Bravo Sherlock!!", I hear you cry. In mitigation, I've been brain-dead for years and it's only now waking up. The commute and job does that to you.

The weekend came and for once I had a purpose. I sat at home with my computer and endless cups of coffee searching for reports of missing people. It's amazing how many people go missing every day. I mean, I wouldn't have the first idea about how to disappear completely and stay alive. Most of my thoughts about getting away from it all involve cessation of life. Still, there can't be that many people killed every day in the country, let alone London. Time and again I read of reports of adults leaving home for work, or leaving work for home, like they had done thousands of times before and not arriving at their destination. No closure for the families, big 'unsolved' red stamps on their police files. I found a picture in one newspaper that looked a bit like my middle-aged, grey-haired man but I couldn't be sure. Even if I was sure what could I say? "Hi, I saw your husband/father melt into the train the other day. There was a big, white light. It's ok, he looked really happy about it. Really." That's if he even had a family; there was no mention in the article. The neighbours had said he was quiet, introverted, never any trouble. With a shudder I saw myself in thirty years time.

I resolved to travel the underground all sunday, after all, I had only ever really been on the central line, as that's all I needed for work. Was this a London-wide phenomenon or just restricted to one line? I started on the Central line, nothing. Getting off at Holborn I travelled north on the Piccadilly line. I saw nothing. Maybe it was just a weekday phenomenon I mused. Getting off at Finsbury Park I hopped on to the Victoria line. Just as we were coming to Oxford Circus I had my my first melter of the day, a fairly sombre looking punk with numerous piercings and tattoos. It made me wonder, as Oxford Circus is on the Central line, but after I got off there and hopped on to the Bakerloo line I saw the basketball players just before I reached Waterloo. I fancied that I saw the punk who'd just melted in front of me, same build, same t-shirt, maybe even a tattoo on his arm and creeping out at the neck, but you can hardly tell when you're looking at a supposed reflection in a window. I began to feel strongly that the glove was the key to unravelling the mystery. It had changed slightly in the window, becoming clearer every time I had seen it. I got off at Waterloo and hit the Northern line up towards Tottenham Court Road. I was knackered and figured it was time to go home. The underground seems to lack anything of interest, any spark, and spending all day on the trains surrounded by disinterested, mundane people - well, I felt drained. Back on the Central line I took a seat and closed my eyes for a minute, reflecting on what I had seen. When I opened them again I saw the glove, clear as day in the opposite window. It was like a slimmed down baseball glove, it looked black, maybe brown and there seemed to be wires coming from it, but it was hard to be sure, but there it was, a slim baseball mitt. The realization was overwhelming. I hadn't a fucking clue what it meant.

Disappointed, I got off at my station and walked home. It was late, 8pm, by the time I got to my flat. I'd stopped off to pick up some takeaway and eating it straight from the cartons I switched on the tv. I flicked through the channels...sport, not in the mood....soap, too, well, no....films, Clint Eastwood, Arnie, the end of Terminator 2 when the T-800 is lowered into the molten steel and gives the thumbs up sign. That caused a lightbulb to go off in my head. Robots, wires, helmets, basketball players, gloves, melting people, the punk. Were the basketball players the same as the melting people? Were the basketball players taking people from the tube to somehow join them? What was the glove? A robotic hand...no...virtual reality maybe? They all have helmets on, maybe they're seeing something else or protecting hteir vision. Convinced I was on to something I hardly slept all night, anxious to go to work the next morning. Running everything round and round my head, again and again. I barely noticed anything, anyone, the next morning as I got on the train at the underground station. I stood thinking, thinking, thinking. Until I noticed the light. I looked at the people around me, they were fine. Then I looked down. My feet had disappeared into the floor and the light was bright and shining. I was being pulled down. At last I'd know what was going on. I felt alive.

tags: bubbles, London, creative writing, stories, werewolf, underground

The Last Wolf

2006-08-15T09:05:00.000+01:00

The rain teemed down on the four riders as they urged their horses on, trying to catch their quarry before it could reach the hills. The sound of the horses hooves churning through the mud, their nostrils snorting and the wind howling surrounded them, but still they focused ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of their dogs. These were the best dogs, trained to silently follow the barest scent, but not trained to kill. They would hunt and run and tire their target until it could run no more, leaving their masters to draw blood.

“There, over there” shouted the first rider as he caught a flash of white to his left. The other riders followed his lead, wheeling to the left and leaning low over the horses' withers. Each of the riders was a member of the Canhednar, the strongest hunters in their village. Only the Canhednar were allowed to hunt with the aid of dogs of which there were four, one for each man in the hunt. Each dog was practically an extension of the hunters, and each hunter was as anxious about the safety of their dogs as they were about themselves.

They were hunting the last wolf. Over the years their village, Varkolak, and the surrounding villages had hunted the wolves who stole their sheep in the night. Slowly, they had won battle after battle, hunting the packs down, protecting their flocks. This hunt was to win the war. The hunters were certain none remained apart from this one. The country had been scoured, their lairs cleared, even the lair of the pack to which the last wolf belonged. But still he ran.

Still he ran. He could hear the dogs close behind and in the distance the horses with men upon them. His strength was failing - the rain and mud virtually sucking the vitality from him. His tongue lolled and his lungs burned as he gasped for breath, the muscles over his body aching with fatigue. Suddenly he heard a dog close behind and with an agility belying his exhaustion he turned and leapt at it, taking the dog by surprise as it's throat was ripped out. Blood dripping from his teeth, the last wolf took scant nourishment from the kill and was off running, knowing he would not be so lucky a second time. He had one last chance, which might be even worse than the fate that followed, but it was the only glimmer of hope he had. Turning to the hills, the last wolf ran on. The dogs followed.

The first rider cursed as he saw the corpse of the dog, rivulets of water running pink from it's muzzle. He heard the cry of anguish from the third rider as he recognised his dog. These men spent all their time with the dogs, training and hunting. They were their friends, their livelihood and crucial to the village. The first rider felt the horse of the third rider draw next to him, as if the death of his dog had given him greater urgency. Then he cursed again as he saw the remaining dogs' trail led up towards the hills. He put a steadying hand across, a hand of sympathy and understanding, but also of warning. The hunters were wary of the hills, often unexplained noises could be heard at night and many a traveller had disappeared despite warnings from the locals to avoid them. Even animals seemed to give the hills a wide berth at night. The riders urged on their horses after the dogs, encouraging them to chase the last wolf still faster.

Still faster and faster, the last wolf could hear the dogs, closer and closer. He could hear the hunters behind them and knew that time was short. He was in open ground now, knowing the dogs and riders could see him but sanctuary wasn't far. With a last burst of effort he ran over the brow of the hill and down. Before him lay a conical hill in a wide valley with a river flowing through it. The river was swollen with the rains, but didn't cross his trail. The rain had stopped now, the clouds were parting and under the moon he ran down the slopes of the valley and up the incline of the hill. On reaching the top, he lay down, closed his eyes and waited for them to come.

The dogs could sense the kill was close now, could smell the desperation and fatigue from the last wolf. They could see him running up the hill and go over the edge. They were only seconds behind. The first rider sighted the last wolf just as he reached the bottom of the slope, saw him at the top, with the dogs halfway up. His heart sank as he recognised the hill, understood where the last wolf was running. He saw the dogs go over the edge and swore under his breath, hearing the curses of the other riders over the thundering hooves. They reached the crest of the hill and looked down.

The last wolf opened his eyes and looked down at himself. He saw fine, grey leather boots, well woven trousers and a long grey coat, his heart still beating hard beneath it. His hands wore gloves and he could just see the edge of a beard underneath his nose. He looked around. He was in a large room with no windows. While there was no obvious light source he could see perfectly well, as if it was daylight. The walls were brown, hard. There was no furniture in the room, it almost had the air of a vestibule about it but opposite him was a door made of oak. Just as he took in the door, it opened and in stepped a person, slim and about a foot taller than himself. There was no sound as the faerie walked towards him and stopped about three feet away, studying him closely.

“What is it that you want wolf”, said the faerie. To the last wolf, the voice and face of the faerie were neither female or male. In fact, there was no hint as to what age the faerie was, its skin smooth, ageless, yet suggesting of many years.

“I come seeking sanctuary, I am the last of my kind.”

“We regret that you cannot stay here wolf, the humans have followed you. And..” the faerie spread his arms looking around the room, “you can see, we have limited room”

The last wolf's heart sank, but he knew there would be no changing the mind of the faerie. “What can I do?”, he asked, “I would give you everything I have, but I have nothing.”

The faerie's eyes twinkled and a small smile appeared on its lips. “You have yourself”

Confused the last wolf said, “Yes, I have myself”

“Would you be willing to give your life to save yourself, your race?”

Sensing a trap, but seeing no other choice, the last wolf replied, “Yes, I would give all I can.”

The faerie nodded slightly as if approving of his answer. “When you leave here, run round our mound three times. As you complete the third, you and your kind will receive everlasting life.”

The last wolf apprehensively nodded his thanks and closed his eyes. He opened them again to find himself running for his life.

The first rider watched by moonlight as his dogs closed in on the last wolf whilst he and the other three riders galloped down the side of the hill. The last wolf was running around the base of the faerie mound with all three dogs chasing. They were gaining, closer and closer, then all four disappeared out of view. The thundering of the horses hooves was the only sound, faster and faster down the hill, closing in for the kill, trying to intercept before the last wolf could run past again. The quarry went past just before the first rider and his fellow hunters reached the bottom of the mound. Letting the dogs go past too, they turned in the opposite direction, heading the last wolf off. The first rider took his yew bow from his back and notched an arrow, knowing the other riders would be doing the same. Guiding the horse with just his legs he pulled the arrow close to his cheek, sighting along its line. With the reins dancing wildly on the neck of his horse he saw the shape of the last wolf come round the bottom of the hill. With a soft zing, he released the arrow and watched it speeding towards its target.

The last wolf was into his third circuit of the faerie mound as he passed the riders coming down the hill. His body was moving by instinct alone, every muscle agony. The only thing that was saving him now was that the pursuing dogs were tired too, otherwise they would be tearing him apart. He knew the dogs were behind but suddenly realised he couldn't hear the riders. Simultaneously, with only 50 yards to go before he completed the third circuit, he saw the riders ahead and felt the first arrow thud into his left hindquarters. Despair welled up as he slipped onto his right side, waiting for the dogs attack. The force of the first arrow saved him, as two more arrows missed and a fourth grazed his underbelly. In a heartbeat he scrambled up, throwing grass and mud behind him and ran for the invisible line, the arrow doing a hideous circle in the air as he moved. He absently wondered where the dogs were. Another arrow hit him in the right shoulder, causing him to stumble, digging his muzzle into the dirt. He managed to angle his head and rip the arrow out, dragging himself forward. Ten yards, so close. He stumbled on, waiting for the killing blow.

The first rider drew his knife. It flashed as it caught the moonlight. He had watched the last wolf fall from his first arrow and then scramble back up, running towards them. Knowing it couldn't escape them now, he had whistled to the dogs, who stopped only yards from the last wolf, whining and milling in frustration but absolute in their obedience. The other riders had stopped too as the first rider went wide for a better angle. He couldn't understand the wolf running/hobbling towards his fellow hunters but still it moved, seemingly oblivious to them. He had sent another arrow into the last wolf's shoulder, watched as it collapsed into the mud, bedraggled, beaten, then as it pulled the arrow out and, blood streaming from the wound, had carried on towards the riders.

Dismounting, he signalled to the other riders to stay back and walked slowly to the last wolf, every sense alert to some kind of last, desperate action. But the wolf just put one paw in front of the next, dragging himself forward. The first rider grabbed the scruff of the wolf, exposing its neck, put the blade to its jaw and drew the knife across. As he finished the cut the last wolf made one final explosive leap forward and lay shuddering, twitching, blood spurting in ever diminishing arcs across the ground. The last wolf was dead.

Within an hour the riders had made a camp in the lea of the mound. The dogs were tied up, fed and watered, as were the horses. The four riders sat beside the fire, shattered and euphoric. The wolf pelt, still filthy, lay to the side with the remains of the wolf roasting on a spit over the fire, fat oozing and hissing. As was the custom of the Canhednar, to eat the flesh of any wolves they killed, the first rider took his still bloody knife and sliced strips of meat onto a plate. He placed the plate between the four and as one they took a piece and placed it into their mouths. As they did so, the full moon looked down and the wind howled.

Technorati Tags:wolf, werewolf, story, fantasy, faerie, the last wolf

Bears Everywhere

2006-08-08T20:48:00.000+01:00

Bears Everywhere

I woke up one night
It was black as coal
Not even moonlight
Nor glow from the hall
And scared as the monsters
From under my bed
Made rumblings and grumblings
To fill me with dread

Under the covers
I scrambled to find
My soft, safe protector
So strong and so kind
I grabbed him and hugged him
He banished despair
A knight in fur armour
My teddybear

He held up a torch
Saying "dont be afraid,
I'll show you there's no need
to be worried and scared"
And grabbing my hand
He threw back the sheets
And shone the torch light
Before I could speak

And there in the corner
Was Panda so brave
Ready to pounce
When monsters misbehave
Stood by the door
Was Snowy so tall
He'd come all the way
From the cold North Pole

We jumped out of bed
And teddy bear flashed
His light on the wardrobe
As I stood aghast
I was happy to see
Koala up high
Ready to banish
Airborne threats from the sky

We crept to the door
Silent with care
Peeking out at the landing
And the top of the stairs
Looming in the shadows
Stood a Grizzly sentry
With safe and strong paws
To deny mosters entry

I relaxed for a second
Then thought of the curtains
They'll get in that way
I know it for certain
But Teddy just smiled
"The window's no danger"
We looked at the stars
There shone Ursa Major

So we climbed back in bed
And snuggled so warm
Knowing that I
Could come to no harm
If ever I'm worried
If ever I'm scared
I just have to remember
There's bears everywhere.

The Hopeless Jazz Werewolf reborn.

2006-08-08T20:33:00.000+01:00

Well, the podcasting business died for a number of reasons, not least of which were motivational and technical. So the hopeless jazz werewolf has been sitting for a number of months, purposeless and patient, waiting for a reason to be. Maybe I've found that reason. Maybe.

I intend to post some of my creative writings, letting them loose on the world to sink or swim as they will. I'm guessing sink. Like a stone. A big one.

Probably a variety of things, starting soon with a children's poem.

The Hopeless Jazz Werewolf is teething

2005-10-27T16:23:00.000+01:00

Haha, well, it’s going sort of ok. I thought it was going to be easy using blipmedia, but despite being able to upload the mp3 and it creating an RSS feed automatically, there have been problems downloading it onto iTunes. I suspected it may be an iTunes/RSS compatibility problem, but a new RSS hasn’t made a difference. It now appears that the problem is that whilst downloading the podcast, the server cuts off for some reason, often at the same point.
So, options are to find some webspace to upload the file to. i.e. host it myself. Or perhaps hope that this is a temporary blip in Blipmedia’s service. I download somebody else’s podcast from there though, and it’s fine. Hmmmmm.

I’m using Audacity to create the mp3, and that seems to work well, and The Podcast RSS Buddy to create an RSS file, which also worked. Hopefully I can just edit that file now. Well, once I get it all up and running. The first podcast is going to be an introduction to the solo work of Frank Black (eventually)

The Hopeless Jazz Werewolf is born

2005-10-24T22:07:00.000+01:00

I created this blog for music purposes, specifically to have a go at creating a podcast of music I like. It may work, it may not, but I'm having a go. This may die because my musical taste isn't particularly wide, but then again, it may inspire me to look for new stuff. Anyway, now I've got to do one.