Author: burnee54

I know it’s been said in TV ads but we really are. The fact that our eyes have evolved to see such a broad spectrum of colours; the fact that our ears can distinguish minute details and individual sound characteristics, from the cacophony of noise that is the natural world, the fact that we can smell when the toast is burning from another room entirely. All these senses have given rise to our survival against all the odds.

We shouldn’t even be here. If that ball of molten rock and metal hadn’t settled into an orbit that was within five percent, of the distance needed to foster and support life. The “Goldilocks zone”, as it’s been christened. “Not too hot, and not too cold” etc. If two thirds of our world hadn’t been covered with a life-giving mixture of hydrogen and oxygen. Where did the water come from in the first place? Was it just the chance collision between our infant planet and a huge asteroid coated in dust and ice from the far frozen reaches of the universe? Given that we have an abundance of water while our near neighbours are arid desert worlds, it would be reasonable to assume that there must have been many such “chance collisions”. Should we consider it mere chance that the chemical composition of our bodies directly reflects the production of substances that are emitted from our own star? Are we just a by-product of our nearest heavenly body’s fitful prolonged death throes?

Although we try our best to ignore all these incredibly unlikely events that pepper our past, as we go about the execution of our daily lives. Here we are, scrabbling about on the surface, searching for happiness by snatching at tiny pieces of paper. What we find impossible to ignore are all the things the natural world throws at us from time to time. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes, hurricanes and typhoons. Add to that the lightning strikes, floods, landslides and downed trees that even the lowliest everyday storm puts in our path. You could almost be forgiven for thinking that somebody out there doesn’t like us very much.

While we are aware of all these naturally occurring obstacles that conspire to make us obsolete, we insist on poking the pimple that is man-made destructive events. The economic control of farming that oversees the destruction of the planets lungs. The global warming that runs hand in hand with the use of fossil fuels that we rip from below the surface of our home world. The greenhouse gases that result from the desire to make our armpits smell a little sweeter. Add the industrialisation of our environment that has caused too many deaths. Just fifty years ago it struck very close to home and wiped a whole generation from the population of a tiny unknown welsh mining community.

All of these pale into insignificance, I know, when held up against the “acts of God” that nature seems intent on taunting us with.

But, isn’t it precisely because these things are man-made that we try to unman-make them? Because we can, we must. With education and help from technological advances it should be possible to wipe our past mistakes off the agenda. Limit the things that can finish us off and the chances of our species’ survival becomes just that little bit more likely.

In the unlikely event that we should “clean up our act” we would then only have to worry about the planet earth trying to kill us. Plus of course those afore mentioned Astronomical Disasters. There are still a lot of very big things floating around out there, in the vast empty reaches of space. There are the asteroids, the wandering planets that have shed their orbits and of course the hordes of malevolent aliens of superior intelligence and bloodthirsty proclivities that have yet to discover us. We just have to hope that never happens don’t we?

It would be such a shame and a waste. After all’s said and done. We are amazing!

 

The smell of popcorn mingling with the acrid scent of electrical burning.  The pretty girl from school who seems to be permanently on the ride ahead of you, a chasm more unnavigable than the Mariana Trench. You board the Ferris Wheel. Don’t look down, don’t look down repeating in your head, and then you do. Only to see the next bucket disgorge your intended prey. Or in your wildest dreams, should that just be, “your intended”. Round and round, and up and down you go, never quite close enough to speak the words you have rehearsed a thousand times in your head. Life, it seems, is one big Roller Coaster. A little like the American presidential election campaign. The dizzying ecstatic heights induced by the candidates’ rhetoric and the gut wrenching plunge into despair when the facts fail to support the assertions of your favourites.

Then there’s the Dodgems, possibly the most inappropriately named ride of all time. Especially when your sole objective is to find out if your friend’s neck really will make the sound of a whip, when you slam your car into his unsuspecting back bumper.

“You’re supposed to DODGE ‘EM, that’s why it’s called DODGEMS,” hollers the cocky attendant leaping from one bumper to the next with consummate ease. All the while impressing every female within 200 yards. Including the girl of your dreams.

Another smell invades your consciousness, you follow the sound of meat sizzling on a hot metal griddle. You haven’t been on half the rides yet and the sight of a cheeseburger executing a passable back stroke across the grill should be warning enough, but the heady aroma of fried onions wafting through the air is the signal to send caution scurrying for cover. If you had only cast your gaze in the direction of the Waltzer, you may have taken notice of the recent riders regurgitating their hot dogs and ice creams. The thumping pop music seems to mockingly taunt them by taking a popular tune of the day and regurgitating it, until they never want to hear it again. In much the same way they never want to see another Waltzer.

Of course, you could have gone for the pink cloud on a stick that is candy floss. The effortless, intangible, melting in the mouth, as light as air, sweetness. As if it was never there. Only the stickiness of your lips…    …your nose, your chin and your hair give evidence that it ever existed. That and the wooden stick itself, as you try vainly to imagine what alternative use it could be put to. Too flimsy to make a good drumstick, too short for a sword, plus you lack the raw materials or the knowledge to turn it into a sky rocket.

You are surrounded by the cacophony of whirling machinery and pulsating music. The garishly painted rides with a million flashing lights, like little suns cycling through their lifespan from creation to supernova, again and again in a matter of seconds.

At 10:30 it all comes crashing to a close as the whirling slows, the music fades to nothing and the universe explodes one last time.

Now is the time to make your way to the bus stop. Counting your remaining change under a street light in a futile effort to avoid the long, lonely walk home. Clutching your only companion, a stuffed toy you won on the Rifle Range for your little sister.

All the fun of the fair.

The steam rose up with an angry hiss, like an over inflated snake, venting it’s frustration. The car’s engine coughed to a halt. Then began the slow tick, tick, tick sound of the engine’s metal cooling. Nothing says final like that last expulsion of air from a motor’s exhaust.

We rolled into the side of the road using the last of our momentum. All that hard work pushing us forward over so many miles, gone in a moment. All those thousands of years of geology, patiently forming the crude oil needed to propel us on our way. Wasted now that the vehicle lies broken and useless by the side of the dual carriageway.

Dad slammed the door shut, with much more force than needed, as if he was showing the car his displeasure. It was almost as if he believed an inanimate object (and this vehicle was definitely as inanimate as a dodo) could be swayed by such a show of bile and raw frustration. He gingerly lifted the bonnet to study the innermost workings of it’s previously strong beating heart. It was as if he had some clue as to what he would find there, maybe even some inherited male knowledge that would enable him to fix it.

“Dad, you’re an accountant. Not a mechanic!” I exclaimed from the relative safety of the rear seat. He gave me a look and I fell silent.

After a sharp intake of breath through his front teeth, in the time honoured fashion made popular by people of the automobile repair industry, he seemed to come to a decision. You could almost believe the extra oxygen gained by his latest action, had powered his brain to form the necessary connections, to eke out the strands of logic and formulate his Master Plan.

“OK,” he said, loudly clapping his hands. “There’s nothing else for it.” By way of emphasising the finality of this decision he closed the bonnet once more and admitted defeat on that front. “It’s only a couple of miles, everyone grab a bag, we can walk, can’t we?”

And so, the holiday from hell began.

 

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I think I should explain about the origins of this story. I am taking an adult class at our local college in a last ditch attempt to gain a GCSE in English. A necessary skill, according to our tutor, is creative writing.  And so, half an hour before our first lesson finished, we were shown the picture at the top of this page and were set the task of using it as inspiration for a short story.

With, I have to admit a small amount of swagger and no less aplomb I ‘had at’ the challenge with the same amount of enthusiasm normally shown by a buckler of swash upon boarding a vessel of the King’s Navy.

The result is the text you can see above. I am pleased with it, but I feel it is not for me to judge. Your comments and any errors you can point out will be most gratefully received as always.

Yours
Bernie

I am not your typical
political animal. I am an ordinary man who dreams small dreams. Yesterday we witnessed the death of the career politician, and last night we attended his funeral. It was rather a raucous affair with swing-o-meters and dazzling computer graphics. No dignity was left under the glare of the world’s spotlight. But his time had come and he must now make way for a new breed of leader who puts the will of the people first.

Someone who instead of charging fourth with their own agenda, tossing the rights of the ordinary person aside, can reflect the view of the citizens of this country. Someone who lives in the real world. Not an individual that is cosseted and buffered from the world by wealth and privilege. This mythical beast must come from the world of men. Must know the price of a loaf of bread or a pint of milk. Must share in the everyday turmoil and tribulations that rule the lives of his countrymen, (or women). He must have held down an ordinary job, towed the nine to five, collected his pay at the end of the month and tried his best to make it last until the next one came around.

We need a leader that is not afraid to get his hands dirty. We need the man in the street to lead us forward.

The people have spoken, at last their voice has been heard. We hope it will be the first time of many, that the majority will be asked for their opinion on an important matter that will affect their lives. REAL lives need REAL democracy. We don’t need dictates, we need to be consulted.

WE HAVE FOUND OUR VOICE, NOW HEAR IT!

 

I think I’ll just sit here. If I lean my back against this tree I can appear relaxed.  If there is enough time I can seem to be as relaxed as I feel tense inside.

It is quite nice here, I’m glad I chose this spot to be our place. The energetic stream that rushes past not only adds a pleasing counterpoint to the incessant buzz of the insects that inhabit this bank, but also gives a slight coolness to the air that the reluctant breeze seems to be unable, or perhaps, is unwilling to provide. Hopefully it will keep the crisp white shirt I have chosen to wear from sticking to me. Even though I am sure I have just felt a trickle of nervous perspiration rolling down my spine. It always happens, at the slightest thought of approaching and speaking to her. Every time I see her passing by I end up as though a small but sodden cloud had disgorged itself of its moisture and thrown every last drop in my direction.  With an unerring aim that cupid himself would be proud of and, which would guarantee it a place in the university cricket 1^st XI.

I hope the book I have decided upon, after much soul searching and wringing of hands, gives the right impression. I wanted it to make me appear intelligent and manly, but also leave her thinking I was a sensitive soul. Not that it would be a false conclusion of course. I don’t want to start the rest of our lives together with a lie. It was going to be the “rest of our lives” after all.  Hence the need for the meticulous planning. It mustn’t even cross her mind that my only thought was to ensnare her heart, steal her innocence, and then cast her aside without a care or thought as to what comes after.

Not my only thought.

Although the first part is of course true, I can’t deny that my intention is to take her heart and put it with mine. The second is also true enough and I think only natural for a man and a woman in love. The last is as beyond my capabilities as it would be for me to walk up the side wall of that sandstone building opposite and seat myself against the protruding flag pole, in the same manner that I have used the willow behind me.

She will pass by soon. As she has a thousand times before. But, this time it will end differently. The book of Blake’s verse that I will be reading as I rise from my recumbent position, which she will without question have noticed, and which I will be so intent upon as our paths cross. So much so that I will brutishly career into her and become distraught with remorse, to the point that I will apologetically insist upon buying her a cup of tea, to make restoration, in the small tea room attached to the bandstand a few yards away.  The string quartet murmuring under the ornate cast iron filigree of the freshly painted roof will work its magic, as I earnestly apologise once more, no matter how unnecessarily she thinks it.

A man can never appear too polite and caring.

I have to get the timing just so…

*

I wonder if he will be there?  He thinks I haven’t noticed how his eyes never leave me as I walk passed. Twice every day.  I’ll soon know. Just around this corner. Yes, there he is underneath that willow. Sitting rigidly relaxed, reading that book with a ferocity that I swear can only end up with him boring two holes in the stupid thing.

Is he ever going to speak to me? Two months now and I still don’t even know what his voice sounds like. I’m sure it must be deep and rich with well enunciated vowels. I couldn’t bear it if he cut short his words with some sort of clipped whine which sounded like an old worn out jalopy being coaxed into starting on a cold winters morning. There I go again, what would it matter what he spoke like. He looks so dashing in his bright red bowtie and gleaming straw boater. If his speech is too offensive I will just not let him talk in front of my friends and family. Easy enough to accomplish, my father always says that I could talk for England and that he feels sorry for any man willing to pay that high a price for my company.

Daddy is such a tease.

Oh, he’s just leapt up as if he has found he was sitting on an ants nest. No, no I must try not to laugh. He is certainly setting a cracking pace across the lawn. It looks for all the world as if he intends to ram me like an enemy destroyer.  I must pretend I haven’t noticed him. I wouldn’t want to scupper his plans no matter how absurd they may be. The poor lamb, two months planning and this is the best he can come up with? I’d best get ready to repel all boarders I think. The speed he’s going when we do meet it will be such a collision he will have to do the decent thing and marry me.

I must hurry or he will glide straight passed at right angles and never the twain shall meet. The poor boy, he seems so desperate. Trying so hard not to look where he is going and keeping that book up in front of his face. How on earth does he think he is going to catch a girl carrying on that way…

 

…no matter how much she wants to be caught.

Here we go!

It’s really dark in here.
And very stuffy, I can hardly breath.

Dark and stuffy. If I concentrate I can hear others around me. They seem very distant and disjointed. Or perhaps that’s me?

There’s a tiny chink of light coming in just above my head, but I can’t get my hands up to explore it. My wrists seem to be anchored straight out from my sides, as if in some kind of homage to a well-known religious figure. There is very little give in the bindings so I can only assume they, whoever they are, have used wire to shackle me. Probably used the same stuff on my ankles too. To stop me from kicking my way out.

The light I can see is very pale, almost a washed out look. Like a cold and grey winter’s morning, an unpromising start to an unsatisfying day. Almost as bad as the last few days I have suffered. It seems hard to remember now but up to a couple of days ago I had friends, lots of them. I had a life and a view. That’s what I have missed the most I think. Being able to see things around me. Did I mention how dark it was?

Oh, I just heard a door slam. It was quite far off but in the same building I think. Yes, I can definitely hear movement and it’s getting closer. There is the sound of voices all around me, so close now that if they were solid I’m sure I would be able to reach out and touch them. Surely they must find me soon? They must drag me out of this dark place?

Then suddenly, there is a frantic scrabbling and I am lifted up. The light fills my world. The wonderful light that I thought I had lost forever. And I can see her. Her eyes wide with delight, and almost impossibly I know in that instant that she is the one for me.

My heart beats so hard I’m sure it will burst from my chest. I feel her excited breath on my ear as she hugs me and I hear her say, “Oh Mummy, I love him, I will always love him. I shall call him Teddy.”

Merry Christmas Everybody.