Another bit of stuff

Shelly didn't recognise the face she saw In the mirror. She knew it was hers but she did't identify with the image reflected in front of her. Turning the tap she focuses on the streak of gray in her hair.
How long had that been there?
She looked tierd, she was tired. She felt empty and alone. Running water over her hands she splashes her face and trys to wash away that feeling.

just a quick bite

The key to her sadness sits in her hand. Its sharp teeth bite at her tight grip as its cold metal form weighs heavy on her mind.
'Have they taken everything?' She asked no one in particular.

New(ish) Legend of captain Dag

A slightly altered with the addition of the next part of my story

I decided prologue was a better description for what it is. I wanted to give an image of an old man and his forgotten life. which will turn out to be the biggest adventure that no one knew about except of few who stopped to listen........

The Legend of Captain Dag

Prologue part one

In between a row of houses sits a tiny old cottage. For years it has existed, distinctive but unnoticed long before the others sprang up squashing it between them. Its uneven  walls hold a lifetime of furniture and memories within.  If it could talk it would tell so many tales, some of sadness and many of joy. The lives of the occupiers were depicted in the pictures covering the ancient wallpaper throughout . In the corner of the front room sits a figure, resting in his favourite chair. Behind his wispy white whiskers and pale grey hair his face is a map of wrinkles which betrayed his age. As he leans forward the sun light catches his fur making it glint with the fiery gold of his youth. His paws rest upon the edge of an open trunk beside the granite fire place. The ancient trunk was covered in carvings, depicting old sailing ships from all over the world. Among them were a corvette, a galleon, a junk, a brig and a fluyt. If you were to look closely at them you would see tiny perfectly spaced marks, making it appear to be not just hand carved but as if it had been nibbled out by small teeth. On the front  of the trunk just below the lock there was a brass name plate  it read “Horatio T. Rat, Carpenter and Surgeon”. Leaning  in to the chest  he shuffled around the mass of unusual objects, there were papers, books, jars and boxes which seemed to go on forever. The chest was crammed with the chronicles of more than a single lifetime. Lifting a heavy book he finds what he was seeking  a crispy bundle of old papers and letters bound with a once red silk ribbon. Leaving the lid open he sat back with the papers and carefully untied the ribbon which held them together, revealing the neat deliberate copperplate writing of his own hand. As he began to carefully check through the pile a scrap of paper fell and fluttered to the ground. It was darker than the others and time had eaten away at its edges; upon it‘s yellowed surface the once black ink had faded to a pale brown. When looking closer you could see that the paper was covered in old drawings and the kind of writing you found on ancient sailing maps, it read-

I've won in battles bold

An' Sailed upon the seven seas,

To obtain me treasure an' gold.

For I am Captain Dag

Of the SS LibeRATion,

Feared Pi-Rat of Cornwall.

 It was a poem, or at least the start of one. It was a poem that all Cornish rats are taught. A poem about a famous rat, one who existed as legend and saviour. Underneath the verse in older almost gothic script was scrawled a hurried footnote.

Never Forget

Horatio picked up the fallen scrap before carefully placing it on top of the pile. He settled back in to his seat and lovingly turned the scrap over revealing the rest of the poem,

I was born of vermin and underfoot,

Of my masters, freedom I took.

I swore an oath to all rat kind,

To free us all from life’s bind.

I will come in times of strife,

And take you to a new life.

And when your time is done

I promise, for you I will come.

For I am here to set you free,

To thine own land I’ll take thee.

He mouthed the words as if he were reciting a prayer. For a moment he sat in reverend silence until the hall clock struck the hour shaking him out of his contemplation. He pulled a face and harrumphed, annoyed at being taken away from his memories. For just a moment he wished that he could hold back the flow time for a bit longer.

  'Come on Horatio fella don't got much time, better get on wi' it. '   He said trying to spur himself on.  

He deliberately continued checking through his papers before placing them on the  table by the window. On the top he places an envelope addressed to a distant relative; his great great great nephew four times removed;  before returning  to the trunk. From within between the jars and strange boxes, he retrieves a small old compass and spy glass. Smiling he pats the compass as he places it in his pocket and opens out the spy glass to look through it.  His smile widens as he folds it away placing it on the table beside the papers. Next from under a pile of leather bound note books he pulls out an ancient bag. The leather was cracked and worn. The brass fastenings and handle were spotted and dull with age. Shaking his head  he tuts at its condition before he carefully opens it. The bag is filled with an old medical kit made up strange instruments, racks of small carefully labelled vials, leather pouches, a mortar and pestle, and a folding scale. From a pocket within he removed a leather pouch filled with strange golden coins and a silver hip flask. He leaves the pouch on the table but hesitates when it came to the flask he gives it a shake opens the top and sniffs.

'Aqua vitae top notch rum.'

He sniffs it again before taking a quick swig. Its sharp fiery taste, a combination of  being made of 169 proof rum and bitter spices, make him pull a face until the sweet sugar soothes the warmth. He struggled to speak his voice hoarse from the alcohol.

'S still good.....Never goes off that stuff....amazing.... Best be tak'n he wi'me wouldn' want you in the wrong paws.'  

He slips the flask in to his jacket pocket patting it gently as if to ask it not to wander too far or into another pocket or worse still in to someone else's pocket. just like any sailor Horatio loved to know where his rum is at all times. Turning back towards the trunk to resume his work he starts to shake and cough. It was the cough of an old man, dry, hacking and relentless  it stopped him from continuing his work.  Wincing he lifts his paw to his collar and loosens it, still short of breath he leans against the table. Determinedly he takes his bag and hurriedly makes his way through the contents, speaking to them in short broken pants as if the object he is seeking were capable of answering.

'I.... knows..... you're..... in...... ere.'

Knocking over a rack of vials he has his eureka moment and removes a small leather pouch. As his stiff old fingers worked at the knot he uttered curses under his breath, for the few seconds it took seemed like forever to him. From within he took  a small clear yellowy brown rock, a piece of amber.  The surface of the amber is chipped and scratched on all sides, you could see it was once much much bigger.  Holding it between thumb and forefinger Horatio places it in his mouth and bites down, breaking a piece off which he chews and swallows. Breathing more steadily he sits back in to the chair closing his eyes. He begins to twitch and grips the arm of the chair, something is happening. one paw rushes to his stomach as he is taken by a spasm. Groaning  he pulls himself up right and blinks to adjust his eyes,

 'Well that ain't getin' no easier.'

As he gets up he seems to move more easily and as he places the rock back in his bag the light from the window makes him appear younger as if the colour has returned to his fur . Sniffing he continues working thought he contents of the chest filled with the curiosities of his life's journeys. He looks at an intricate old wooden spoon,  it was the one his  father made for his mother aboard the ship he was born on, as he like may rats was born at sea.

From among the jars  he pulls out one  it contains a dull brown feather which as he examines it, just for a moment, it  begins to shimmer and glow as if it were a light. There is a brown paper label attached to the jar and it reads phoenix feather.

'They'd never believe what I did when I were young'

Placing it back in to the chest he continues though its curiosities remembering he checks his watch before closing the trunks lid. Locking it tight He places the ornate key it the envelope addressed to his nephew and seals before putting it in his pocket. Standing  he looks around the room as if to make sure all is in place before heading to the kitchen. On his return he's holding an old shopping bag containing a thermos and sandwiches ready for his afternoon walk.

Horatio walked from his house in Long Rock along the sea front just as he did for lunch every day until he reached Penzance. He loved this walk and place but  it had changed many times over the years. Once a long long time ago when he first made land here it was fields, but over the years things changed. Now there are  shops great big supermarkets, fast food restaurants, more and more houses and roads. Sometimes he doesn't recognise the place himself, this place, the place he chose as his home, it feels alien to him. However on this walk  he could take in the never changing constants the view of St Michaels mount  and of course the sea. he liked the sea to be ever present, it was  an old friend.  The path he took followed  the train tracks which had been there since 1852 well past the station car park and shops along the road past the dry docks and down along the harbour wall close to the where the Scillonian docks.  There he made for his favourite spot on the wall and sat where he could watch the boats pass in and out and eat his lunch. Surrounded by the  familiar sounds of the sea and the constant  rhythmic clang of rigging he felt at peace and found himself reminiscing the adventures of his youth. He always felt at home when he could hear those sounds feel the salt in his whiskers and taste its tang in the air he began to drift off carried into a gentle sleep. His eyes fluttered open and close as he watched the horizon. Through heavy lids he thought he saw a tall ship heading to the harbour before he dozed off.

The cool evening breeze stirred the air and something woke Horatio woke with a start, he felt a warm paw resting on his shoulder. With His eyes wide open he could see that the evening was drawing in he'd slept for a long time. Without turning he asked,

'Is that you old friend?'

'Aye' came the reply from behind.

'You came for me?'

'As I promised to do for all.'

'It's time then.'

'Aye.'

'You'd better be taking me home.'

As Horatio stepped forward he looked down at himself to find  he was wearing his old sailing coat, shirt and birches. In his belt sat his trusty old short dagger just as it had in his youth. Everything was newer and somehow brighter than he remembered.  Confused he looked at his paws they were no longer stiff and bunched, his arms were now covered with ginger fur. His paws rushed to feel his face to discover it was no longer a map of wrinkles. Before he could ask how this could be  the owner of the paw on his shoulder stepped forward in to view. The ratty figure was dressed in his full regalia, on his head sat a brown tri-corn hat with a flourish of ostrich feathers denoting his position. A smile filled his soft brown face which was framed by his pink ears, one of which had a notch taken out of it, as he looked Horatio straight in the eye and said...

'Are you ready old friend?'

'Aye....' he replied in a voice filled with energy and youth  'Aye Aye Captain!'

As he sets off for one final journey  Horatio left his old self behind him its empty form slumped where he'd sat.

Prologue part two

The letter

My dearest Great, Great,Great, Great

My dearest Nephew Steve,

As you read this  you will have no doubt been informed of my passing.

Although we have met but a few times when you were naught but a wee nibbler it was you alone out of all of your brothers and sisters who were generous enough to listen to an old man's tall tales; just as your mother Heather did. I hope you remember our chats as fondly as I did. The looks upon your face when I told you me stories made this old man very happy.

It is for this reason I bequeath to you my chest, and its contents on the condition they are never to be sold nor separate and my memoir and journals. the first of which my solicitor should have presented to you with this letter.

My house is to be sold off and the profits are to be split between your siblings and yourself as my only surviving relatives (of whom I am aware) you are my heirs.

 In reading my memoir and journals I hope you revisit some of those tall tales just remember that everything is not how things can fist appear for the very best stories are not made up but are based on fact.

Yours Fondly

Uncle Ratio

P.S. Please find enclosed a photo from our last meeting.

The dream and the dreamer

 

It’s late evening and for all the tumult outside it was awfully quiet in the room. The windows were shut tight locking out the world.  Only an eerie silence fills the dark space. Stale air hung still as night, undisturbed by the passing time. The room sits and waits, holding its secret deep inside.

She knew she’d been brought in to open up this riddle, to find an answer and yet she was not fully prepared for what lay ahead. Dressed in her white t-shirt and jeans she did not betray her profession. Even the jewellery she wore offered no explanation for her presence in the sealed room.  Penny took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The image she'd been given was still clasped in her hands. She found herself staring out of the window, the flashes of light from the passing traffic painted her shadow on to the wall. The illumination reminded her of the flickering candlelight in the room she’d just left. A shiver of familiarity passed over her, as if she’d been here before. Her soft brown eyes traced from the bay window following the unremarkable magnolia wall to the fireplace and television. Everything seemed peaceful and familiar; everything in its usual place, but a wrongness rang though the room.

 It was so quiet.  She found her attention drawn toward the glowing television set. Even with no sound the colourful cartoons contrasted the dark oppression of the room. As she grew closer to it, her apprehension grew. Penny felt her heart not so much creep but race to her throat as her eyes anxiously chased a glossy gossamer which covered the screen. In a moment of realisation she turned around where she was confronted by the horror of the situation.

There was blood everywhere and there slumped in the centre of it were two broken ragdoll shapes. The scene rewound and then played out like an old black and white horror movie, before Penny. She saw their mother stand over them still and quite. There was a distance in her eyes, a blank empty hate appeared to fill her body and take it over. The woman took the knife in her hands and brought it brutally down on to the children over and over. The woman’s robotic actions were extenuated the feeling of alienation within Penny; it was as if the woman were possessed. Regardless of how much Penny wanted it to stop she knew couldn’t interfere with the past; she was only an observer. Horrified she turned away and closed her eyes. When she reopened them she found she’d returned to the room with the flickering candle. Placing the image of the crime scene face up on to the table in front of her she stood up from her chair only to confirm with her client who the perpetrator of this act was.

Principles

New poem the title probably needs work but I can't think of any thing else so it'll do.....

This poem is from a group of poems/lyrics based on the themes defiance, acceptance and revenge this is from he first group, defiance.

 

Principles

 

I'm sick and tired of you propaganda and you lies,

It's the truth but only as you see it with your eyes.

Your selling but I'm not buying.

You're duplicitous in this conspiracy,

You ask for my silence and complicity,

But I can't submit to these unreasonable demands.

My mind is not yours to command.

You can't disguise the truth by dressing it in lies,

I taught  to reason as a child, to  look for answers with my own eyes.

I learnt to question and explore,

I can't' stop thinking...thinking big.

It's the lack of evidence I deplore.

Proof without evidence is no proof at all.

Just as words without any action have no meaning.

Your ideas leave me with a distasteful empty feeling.

I know everything is not as it seems,

False smile, false hope, false dreams.

You want us to fit an unobtainable ideal,

Which simply isn't real.

You subjugate and you imprison

To maintain your idealistic vision.

Every day you demand I compartmentalise myself in to a box

You like to think you control the locks,

But you can't take our thoughts and freedom,

For they are ours alone to give.

 

You have no power over me

A once forgotton story idea

I was looking though stuff when I found this it's old idea for a story...........

I am a vampire but to look at me you would not know it. You will find it hard to liken me to those of us portrayed in books, pictures and films. My face is not wrinkled or haggard. When I feed my face does not change, there are no demonic bulges busting from my brow. My teeth are as straight and level as yours are. For I do not need fangs to open a vein to drink you life away, mine is a different hunger. I do not fry like a piece of meat on a barbecue in the suns rays, if truth be told I enjoy a sunny day just like you. However I do object to the ideas of the tan addicts who’s ritualistic sun worshiping does more harm than good. We may not fry but skin cancer is just as much a risk for us as it is for you.

Like you also we to face death we are no more immortal than any other living creature and I too was born to the union of man and woman, there is no magic there only myth just like so much of your ‘knowledge’ and beliefs about my kind.

Our kind are very similar there are good and bad as well as the indifference among both our kin, and human and vampire can produce offspring from a union, our genetics are not so far apart, we are very alike you and I. Nonetheless I cannot be human just as you cannot be Vampire.

Although we are similar we are as different as cat and dog. Vampires you see cannot be ‘made’. Drink my blood and nothing other than the salty warmth of my sanguine liquor will fill you. As I have said we must be born you can no more be made a vampire than can I be made human, no matter how persuasive you are.

A lot of that which you take to be true about me is nothing more than fantasy, mere fairy tales. What was originally a metaphor to allow people to easy understanding has become myth. Fuelled by a lack of knowledge and ignorance this has lead to fear and hatred toward my kind, however there are a few that know.

I do not need to drink blood to survive, frankly the thought of drinking blood although not abhorrent (if needs be I as any animal will do that which is necessary for survival) does not appeal to me a great deal. I do not need you blood to make my own I like you eat food to allow me to grow. Nonetheless we need you to survive and you need us.

You see there was a quirk of nature that created our two species which now links us forever in a symbiotic relationship.

Many moons ago when we were as one we could gain all we needed from food and though our kinds habitual need to discriminate against and damn difference, bred ourselves apart.

Man's ruin

Here's a lyric I wrote a whilst ago

 

Man’s Ruin

 

Broken heart and broken mind,
I’ve nothing to loose and nothing to hide.
Empty mind and empty soul.
Ain’t goin’ nowhere I got nowhere to go.
You’ve No hope, no dreams, no aspiration,
You just sit and wait for the next temptation.
 
Pent up aggression and unfulfilled desire,
Make us want to get much higher.
Too many good times and too much booze
We’re game to win but we always lose.
We live to gamble. We live to drink.
Got nothing better to do why should we think.

 

              When your hate turns to anger and your belly fills with fire

              When your body fills with urges and your head fills with desire

              When you can’t resist the gamble and you always go under.

              You live, live by Man’s Ruin.

 
You offer so little and I always want more.
You can’t fulfil my needs; to you I’m a whore.
Don’t want no commitments, don’t want no ties.
We don’t like the truth so we fill you with lies
I’m everyone’s demon but no I’m man’s fool.
You’re my puppet you’re my tool.
 
You know you can’t resist a wager
Even though the odds are always in my favour.
Tonight your mine and I’m your desire
Lets play together and get a little higher
Want to take the poison got to flirt with danger.
But you want it all; you want it now not later.
 
              When your hate turns to anger and your belly fills with fire
              When your body fills with urges and your head fills with desire
              When you can’t resist the gamble and you always go under.
              You live, live by Man’s Ruin.

Broken heart and broken mind,
I’ve nothing to loose and nothing to hide.
Empty mind and empty soul.
Ain’t goin’ nowhere I got nowhere to go.
You’ve No hope, no dreams, no aspiration,
You just sit and wait for the next temptation.

             The Drink, the Women, the Game,

             The Drugs, the Men, this life of pain
             They say it’s not the destination but the path we take
             And in this life of pleasure we’re damned to man’s ruin

Bearfaced monster

Bearfaced monster

 

Take my hand cried the bearfaced monster.

It cuts me up with it’s cold knife stare.

It takes me in with its soft voice like velvet fur.

It comforts me when you're not there.

 

My instincts tell me to run,

they tell me to hide.

Yet there's nothing wrong and there's nothing right.

I'm held by its spell as I fall at its side.

 

 I'm bound by an unseen rope,

It fills me with fear and it cuts out my hope.

 Its uses its words to justify the means,

And I know deep down it's not as it seams

 

It lays me down as it takes me in.

I feel its corruption, I feel its sin.

I've sacrificed myself into service,

I'm violated as it touches my skin.

 

Its stale, bitter, sweet taste, lingers

Long after the act.

It took something it wanted,

Something I can't take back.

 

Emptiness

Emptiness

 

A young man awakes,

As the dull light

Pours through the window,

To reveal the same old image.

She turns on the T.V.

And sits at the table,

Just like the day before,

And the day before that.

 

Same old shit different day

Work place filled with

That autonomous drone,

Echoes of a thousand voices

All the same.

And with every breath we take,

We are taught to breathe.

With silent voices whispering,

Making our every move.

 

And she sits and wonders why

All the pictures are the same,

As he knows he’s not supposed

To be hear again.

 

And it all seams so important

To keep the wheels

We’re given turning.

All its doing is churning me up,

Turning us out.

 

Held in this conspiracy of,

Mans own construction.

It seams so hollow,

So empty and dry.

I feel the need for change burning me.

 

And whilst some sit and wonder

As the world keeps turning,

We note we’re standing still.

So we take a little drink to

Swallow our bitter pill.

Avast all ye who dare to look at me blog to day for tis international talk like a pirate day me hearties as you sail across me posts do check out me special pi-rat story the legend of captain dag and I hopes you be dressed for the occasion like me arrrrr!

Its time for something different...pictures of clothes and costumes I have made. Why? Because I can and as International Talk like a pirate day and Halloween are almost upon us I'm busy preparing and planning so as always at this time of year writing takes a break.
So here they are some costumes

Granpa's funeral

Grandpa’s Funeral

I’d never been to church before, not until today. I didn’t like it too much, It was full of sadness and people dressed in black. It was cold and the seats were like the hard wooden benches you get in P.E. you had to sit staring up at what's called an alter and behind that on the wall at the back there was a scary statue of Jesus on the cross. Hanging there staring, I felt like it was staring at me telling me I shouldn’t be there ‘cos we don’t go to church, even though we were meant to be there to see Granddad's funeral. In front of the alter was Granddad's special box called a coffin; with its shiny handles it looks like a draw form Nan's  brown dresser, except it's got a lid and is shaped to hold a person.  You had to sit still and quiet as the vicar waffled on about Granddad and God. What did he know about Granddad he never met him?  Even Dad scoffed at the vicar, he doesn’t believe in God neither does Mum but Nan does; she goes to church every week. She believes in heaven and God...but I don’t. Granddad was none to fused either, he told me so himself. He said he was agnostic. When I asked what that means he said he’s not sure what happens and if there is a heaven. He said that there’s no evidence for such things.

‘How could a God let people and animals suffer in his name?' He'd say followed by ‘But I sure hope something happens when you go.’

Today we laid Granddad to rest; I don’t know why they said that. It sounds like he’ll wake up but I know he won’t really. It confused Daniel he’s three years younger than me and he doesn’t understand what adults mean sometimes. They tell stories to us, they think it makes everything better, but it doesn’t.

I miss Granddad loads, I miss his stories; they were the best but I’m not sad he’s gone. When he got sick they told us he would get better that he just needed special medicine that makes your hair fall out, but he didn’t. I remember Granddad telling us he didn’t mind about the hair ‘cos it had disappeared years ago from looking after Dad. He told me one day I’d understand. Now he won’t be able to tell me what he meant. When we last saw him he looked so old. He was so small and delicate he looked as small as Dan, when he coughed I thought he would snap! You could see it hurt him that made me sad. He was always so full of life always, doing things. He made this wooden dog for me from a stick once with just his hands and a knife. I hated seeing him like that.

When he died I asked dad what had happens to you do you go to heaven like Nan says? Dad just smiled and he told me he didn’t know but he said one thing he did know was that we are all made up of stuff that’s been around for years; Millions of them. And when we die and don’t need that stuff anymore we get recycled into new stuff. So inside you and me are bits of really old stars isn’t that cool!

I wonder if you get to be part of the new things. Granddad really liked trees maybe he could help one grow or get to be one.

Discovery

 

Softly walking alone along the seams of his mind.

Slowly awakening from this dream,

Unto the dawn of another time.

Knowing the fear of his emotions,

Drowning in the crest of a wave,

He rises as if to free himself,

He knows he must awaken.

 

He opens his eyes, to this new world.

To find himself trapped, in the mirrored glass prison.

Fully aware but not yet awake,

He walks upon a river of dreams.

God like he stands cracked and shattered.

To seek his freedom from the insane world,

Of one mans creation.

 

Tears falling from the tatters of this broken mind.

He finds a voice within.

‘I’m free, right here!

I’ve finally found my own mortality!

I’ve sunk to my knees,

Stared right into in to the bleakest day!

To be brought to my senses here.’

 

‘What has brought me here?

Who is this man I see before me?

Reflections of a distant memory,

Line the walls of this strange place.

This life I see seams lost to me.

Am I that man in the dream?

Empty and lost I stand here alone.

a bit of a short one for a change

You Feel me Falling

 

You feel me falling,

And catch me.

You see me crying,

And you comfort me.

You see me alone,

And you join me.

You are filled with so much love and kindness.

You make me more than I could ever be without you.

Numb

Numb

I feel you in the emptiness,

Of my mind.

Open and wide.

You’re by my side.

I’m waiting for you to arrive.

I need you near me now.

You’re the only one.

And you always leave me numb.

 

Because without you I’m numb,

I’m dead from the waist up.

Empty and dumb

I’m numb.

 

Put your hand on my heart,

And hold me tight.

You have a smile that can thrill.

A love that can silence,

The beast.

When you leave,

You leave me numb.

Oh you’re the only one.

 

Because without you I’m numb,

I’m dead from the waist up.

Empty and dumb

I’m numb.

 

You fill the void,

That is me.

Give me my heart and mind.

Your touch id like the sun,

Lapping my body,

As if it were the moon.

You create me

Fulfil and elate me.

 

Because without you I’m numb,

I’m dead from the waist up.

Empty and dumb

I’m numb.

 

I crave your wholesome presence,

Within and around me.

I want you to surround me,

Your love crowns me.

You fulfil me,

Always thrill me,

And you know.

With out you I’m numb 

Because without you I’m numb,

I’m dead from the waist up.

Empty and dumb

I’m numb.

 

Passed over

Passed over

Trapped chasing an image caught in the light of a distant sun.

Like a train on the tracks there’s no way out and only one way to go.
I’ve got tunnel vision in this empty place. Left staring at its crumbling walls,
I was abandoned here with haste. I’m I really here alone?
And so it’s in to the night I go again lost without the light of another day.
 
I will walk for aeons to feel you’re touch again,
Cross a thousand rivers just for one more smile.
You’re voice is the sun that chases away my winter,
My candle in the dark.

I listen to a thousand voices singing the same old song

As a hundred million echo’s beat around my head
There’s a longing softly whispering deep inside this aching heart.
But there’s a solid wall of glass holding us far apart.
Two different worlds in which we now dwell and some times I fell like this is Hell.

And I would walk for aeons just to feel you’re touch.

Fight on a thousand fields to just hear your name.
I’d give this broken body for one last kiss.
Just to be with you I’d duly give all of this (and more).

Locked in an empty gaze with the mirrored walls I fight with the dream.

With open eyes I chase the shadows to find a familiar face.
Only to find I’m lost without a warm embrace.
I can’t sleep for fear of waking into another day,
To be once more without you to show me the way.

I have walked for aeons to feel you’re touch again,

Cross a thousand rivers just for one more smile.
You’re is the hand that wipes my tears away
And the breath that gives me life.

I’m caught in a web of memories, listening only to my tears (fears).

Held captive by the fear of truth, this vision won’t pass.
I’m stuck waiting for a hero to take me from this place.
No light rains down here no sun to warm this face.
And so I’ll wait ensnared in the pictures of our past.
 
And I have waited aeons for your touch to take me from this dream.
I’ve been watching from this cold metal frame
Waiting patiently for your time to pass so you may colour my world
My body aches for the day I will feel your kiss again.

The Legend of captain Dag

Right this is a first draft of a short story to start a series of stories or chapters, warts and all I will take down and revise as is needed. Comments welcome........Please see newer version

The Legend of Captain Dag

Chapter one

The Journey

In between a row of houses sits a tiny old cottage. For years it has existed, distinctive yet unnoticed, long before the others sprang up squashing it between them. It's uneven  walls hold a lifetime of furniture and memories within.  If it could talk it would tell so many tales; some of sadness and many of joy. The lives of the occupiers were depicted in the pictures covering the ancient wallpaper throughout . In the corner of the front room sits a figure, resting in his favourite chair. Behind his wispy white whiskers and pale grey hair his face was a map of wrinkles which betrayed his age. As he leans forward the sun light catches his fur making it glint with the fiery gold of his youth. His paws rest upon the edge of an open trunk beside the granite fire place. The ancient trunk was covered in carvings, depicting old sailing ships from all over the world. Among them were a corvette, a galleon, a junk, a brig and a fluyt. If you were to look closely at them you would see tiny perfectly spaced marks, making it appear to be not just hand carved but as if it had been nibbled out by small teeth. On the front  of the trunk just below the lock there was a brass name plate  it read “Horatio T. Rat, Carpenter and Surgeon”. Leaning  in to the chest  he shuffled around the mass of unusual objects, there were papers, books, jars and boxes which seemed to go on forever. The chest was crammed full with the chronicles of more than a single lifetime. Lifting a heavy book he finds what he was seeking  a crispy bundle of old papers and letters bound with a once red silk ribbon. Leaving the lid open he sat back with the papers and carefully untied the ribbon which held them together, revealing the neat deliberate copperplate writing of his own hand. As he began to carefully check through the pile a scrap of paper fell and fluttered to the ground. It was darker than the others and time had eaten away at its edges, upon it‘s yellowed surface the once black ink had faded to a pale brown. When looking closer you could see that the paper was covered in old drawings and the kind of writing you found on ancient sailing maps, it read:-

I've won in battles bold

An' Sailed upon the seven seas,

To obtain me treasure an' gold.

For I am Captain Dag

Of the SS LibeRATion,

Feared Pi-Rat of Cornwall.

 It was a poem, or at least the start of one. It was a poem that all Cornish rats are taught. A poem about a famous rat, one who existed as legend and saviour. Underneath the verse in older almost gothic script was scrawled a hurried footnote.

Never Forget

Horatio picked up the fallen scrap before carefully placing it on top of the pile. He settled back in to his seat and lovingly turned the scrap over revealing the rest of the poem,

I was born of vermin and underfoot,

Of my masters, freedom I took.

I swore an oath to all rat kind,

To free us all from life’s bind.

I will come in times of strife,

And take you to a new life.

And when your time is done

I promise, for you I will come.

For I am here to set you free,

To thine own land I’ll take thee.

He mouthed the words as if he were reciting a prayer. For a moment he sat in reverend silence until the hall clock struck the hour shaking him out of his contemplation. He pulled a face and harrumphed, annoyed at being taken away from his memories. For just a moment he wished that he could hold back the flow time for a bit longer.

  'Come on Horatio fella don't got much time, better get on wi' it. '   He said trying to spur himself on.  

He deliberately continued checking through his papers before placing them on the  table by the window. On the top he places an envelope addressed to a distant relative; his great great great nephew four times removed;  before returning  to the trunk. From within between the jars and strange boxes, he retrieves a small old compass and spy glass. Smiling he pats the compass as he places it in his pocket and opens out the spy glass to look through it.  His smile widens as he folds it away placing it on the table beside the papers. Next from under a pile of leather bound note books he pulls out an ancient bag. The leather was cracked and worn. The brass fastenings and handle were spotted and dull with age. Shaking his head  he tuts at its condition before he carefully opens it. The bag is filled with an old medical kit made up strange instruments, racks of small carefully labelled vials, leather pouches, a mortar and pestle, and a folding scale. From a pocket within he removed a leather pouch filled with strange golden coins and a silver hip flask. He leaves the pouch on the table but hesitates when it came to the flask he gives it a shake opens the top and sniffs.

'Aqua vitae top notch rum.'

He sniffs it again before taking a quick swig. Its sharp fiery taste, a combination of  being made of 169 proof rum and bitter spices, make him pull a face until the sweet sugar soothes the warmth. He struggled to speak his voice hoarse from the alcohol.

'S still good.....Never goes off that stuff....amazing.... Best be tak'n he wi'me wouldn' want you in the wrong paws.'  

He slips the flask in to his jacket pocket patting it gently as if to ask it not to wander too far or into another pocket or worse still in to someone else's pocket. just like any sailor Horatio loved to know where his rum is at all times. Turning back towards the trunk to resume his work he starts to shake and cough. It was the cough of an old man, dry, hacking and relentless  it stopped him from continuing his work.  Wincing he lifts his paw to his collar and loosens it, still short of breath he leans against the table. Determinedly he takes his bag and hurriedly makes his way through the contents, speaking to them in short broken pants as if the object he is seeking were capable of answering.

'I.... knows..... you're..... in...... ere.'

Knocking over a rack of vials he has his eureka moment and removes a small leather pouch. As his stiff old fingers worked at the knot he uttered curses under his breath, for the few seconds it took seemed like forever to him. From within he took  a small clear yellowy brown rock, a piece of amber.  The surface of the amber is chipped and scratched on all sides, you could see it was once much much bigger.  Holding it between thumb and forefinger Horatio places it in his mouth and bites down, breaking a piece off which he chews and swallows. Breathing more steadily he sits back in to the chair closing his eyes. He begins to twitch and grips the arm of the chair, something is happening. one paw rushes to his stomach as he is taken by a spasm. Groaning  he pulls himself up right and blinks to adjust his eyes,

 'Well that ain't getin' no easier.'

As he gets up he seems to move more easily and as he places the rock back in his bag the light from the window makes him appear younger as if the colour has returned to his fur . Sniffing he continues working thought he contents of the chest filled with the curiosities of his life's journeys. He looks at an intricate old wooden spoon,  it was the one his  father made for his mother aboard the ship he was born on, as he like may rats was born at sea.

From among the jars  he pulls out one  it contains a dull brown feather which as he examines it, just for a moment, it  begins to shimmer and glow as if it were a light. There is a brown paper label attached to the jar and it reads phoenix feather.

'They'd never believe what I did when I were young'

Placing it back in to the chest he continues though its curiosities remembering he checks his watch before closing the trunks lid. Locking it tight He places the ornate key it the envelope addressed to his nephew and seals before putting it in his pocket. Standing  he looks around the room as if to make sure all is in place before heading to the kitchen. On his return he's holding an old shopping bag containing a thermos and sandwiches ready for his afternoons walk.

Horatio walked from his house in Long Rock along the sea front just as he did for lunch every day until he reached Penzance. He loved this walk and place but  it had changed many times over the years. Once a long long time ago when he first made land here it was fields, but over the years things changed. Now there are  shops great big supermarkets, fast food restaurants, more and more houses and roads. Sometimes he doesn't recognise the place himself, this place, the place he chose as his home, it feels alien to him. However on this walk  he could take in the never changing constants the view of St Michaels mount  and of course the sea. he liked the sea to be ever present, it was  an old friend.  The path he took followed  the train tracks which had been there since 1852 well past the station car park and shops along the road past the dry docks and down along the harbour wall close to the where the Scillonian docks.  There he made for his favourite spot on the wall and sat where he could watch the boats pass in and out and eat his lunch. Surrounded by the  familiar sounds of the sea and the constant  rhythmic clang of rigging he felt at peace and found himself reminiscing the adventures of his youth. He always felt at home when he could hear those sounds feel the salt in his whiskers and taste its tang in the air he began to drift off carried into a gentle sleep. His eyes fluttered open and close as he watched the horizon. Through heavy lids he thought he saw a tall ship heading to the harbour before he dozed off.

The cool evening breeze stirred the air and something woke Horatio woke with a start, he felt a warm paw resting on his shoulder. With His eyes wide open he could see that the evening was drawing in he'd slept for a long time. Without turning he asked,

'Is that you old friend?'

'Aye' came the reply from behind.

'You came for me?'

'As I promised to do for all.'

'It's time then.'

'Aye.'

'You'd better be taking me home.'

As Horatio stepped forward he looked down at himself to find  he was wearing his old sailing coat, shirt and birches. In his belt sat his trusty old short dagger just as it had in his youth. Everything was newer and somehow brighter than he remembered.  Confused he looked at his paws they were no longer stiff and bunched, his arms were now covered with ginger fur. His paws rushed to feel his face to discover it was no longer a map of wrinkles. Before he could ask how this could be  the owner of the paw on his shoulder stepped forward in to view. The ratty figure was dressed in his full regalia, on his head sat a brown tri-corn hat with a flourish of ostrich feathers denoting his position. A smile filled his soft brown face which was framed by his pink ears, one of which had a notch taken out of it, as he looked Horatio straight in the eye and said...

'Are you ready old friend?'

'Aye....' he replied in a voice filled with energy and youth  'Aye Aye Captain!'

As he sets off for one final journey  Horatio left his old self behind him its empty form slumped where he'd sat.

Oh goth it's summer

This is a piece of comedy performance poetry it is best read out and performed.
I wrote it in reply to summer which was a challenge set to me by a friend to write a poem about something they liked. I as you can guess am a bit of a Goth, I don't tan well I mostly burn and personally prefer autumn and winter so this is my summer piece.

Oh Goth It’s Summer

 Argh the light! Who the hell made it so bright?

And there are all these people dressed in white.

You can see their pants!

 Which only adds to the urge, to self harm

But not as much as those

 

Who think a postage stamp constitutes clothes.

And if that were not enough to bare,

These bloody people are everywhere!

Cro-Magnon man removes his shirt exposing a horrifying sight.

Bright red like lobsters they attempt to “tan”. (It looks more like boil.)

Why they don’t they just finish the job and baste in oil?

 

It’s all just beyond me.

So I overt my eyes to avoid the view,

Because if I do not I fear I may spew.

I’m surrounded by people enjoying the sun,

Laughing chatting and having fun.

 

 

Even nature has conspired against me for,

Everywhere I look I’m confronted by bright colourful views!

They mock the parasol that protects my skin,

I’m treated as if pallor were the ultimate sin!

Yes I am quite well THANK YOU.

And the heat, is simply unbearable,

It’s rendered half my wardrobe completely un-wearable.

Getting cool is a monumental task.

Involving air conditioning, and getting sweaty. 

 

And though you may think I’m weird or a fool,

Too long for short days, long nights and winters cool.

You’ll never change my point of view,

Because simply I’m not like you.