Stories in order of appearance:-
Too often never sent, never read. - a poem.
Publishing a Biography.
Scrooge? ……. Poor 0ld boy.
The man who wouldn’t take the monkey home.
Amber eyes, amber warning.
TLA can be detrimental to normal human brain function.
The Gods at work – but man knows better.
While our hands cling steadfastly to the past, . . .
Too often never sent, never read. - a poem.
Publishing a Biography.
Scrooge? ……. Poor 0ld boy.
The man who wouldn’t take the monkey home.
Amber eyes, amber warning.
TLA can be detrimental to normal human brain function.
The Gods at work – but man knows better.
While our hands cling steadfastly to the past, . . .
Too often never sent, never read.
I’m getting old, I sense an end
and want to help, not to offend.
For bitterness and woeful strife
lay in the way to happy life.
If to the world, we kindness give,
a better way, we’ll have to live.
Instead of hate, when heart does ache,
reach out your hand, for friendship’s sake.
Destiny, or hand of fate,
it was your choice, if left too late.
Share some time, with someone dear,
before they are no longer here.
Were they honest, were they kind,
does a thank you come to mind?
If in life, this time you squander
for evermore, your soul will wonder.
I’m getting old, I sense an end
and want to help, not to offend.
For bitterness and woeful strife
lay in the way to happy life.
If to the world, we kindness give,
a better way, we’ll have to live.
Instead of hate, when heart does ache,
reach out your hand, for friendship’s sake.
Destiny, or hand of fate,
it was your choice, if left too late.
Share some time, with someone dear,
before they are no longer here.
Were they honest, were they kind,
does a thank you come to mind?
If in life, this time you squander
for evermore, your soul will wonder.
The bridge is all but washed away - better cross it soon.
Publishing a Biography.
(Eavesdropping a meeting between a publisher and author if not of their minds.)
“Well I’ve read your manuscript – not bad – needs a bit of tidying - some sentences too wordy and some appalling grammar. Mavis, our tame editor and a cross between Wordsworth and an Orang-utan with typing skills, will knock it into shape for you. We’ll deduct her wages out of yours. Easy done, our accounts people are real wizards, ex tax office folks.
Smiling inanely, “Thank you, I didn’t realise how easy it was to be published with such a reputable company.”
“Whoa, don’t jump the gun, hold your horses a bit, the chickens haven’t hatched yet. The story is good, well, alright, workable. However, the biography bit is tosh. For starters, what made you pick such a stupid name?
Surprised, “But, that is my name. I just wrote the truth.”
“Truth? Truth? For God’s sake, they don’t want the truth. They want gossip, intrigue, mystery, heroes and above all an author they can believe in, a real someone – you know, like a soap actor or a convicted politician. Let’s sort your bio out while I have you in the office.”
With that, Montague Falcon de Chevalier took out his old Woolworth’s biro and began to write. “What about, ‘Sherpa Cameron’, illegitimate son of an Earl and a Tibetan peasant. That has a nice ring to it.”
“No, I don’t think that would be right at all,” the author replied, still somewhat shocked at a top publisher not wanting the truth.
“Okay, okay, what about Peregrine Gainsborough, descendant of the famous painter, your parents are Cornish farmers related to Tess of the Durbavilles.”
Verging on indignant, “No, no, I couldn’t be party to that. . . “
Brutally interrupting, “If you want that book seen in the light of day and read by anyone other than you and your mother you’re going to have to start listening to me.” With that, an irate Montague threw a few new books on the desk. “Look,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at each cover in turn, “Sexual secrets of free Masonry, by Babs Malone – the inside story by the wife of a leading mason who was accidentally killed during a frenzied ritual, they reckon that to produce such depraved and graphic detail she must have been present. There were surprisingly no prosecutions. Or this – Games in the second house, an expose by Lord Butterfield, real name John Smith from a council estate in Islington. Or this – ‘Sir Edmund Hilary – Nazi Spy, by Abraham Goldsmith, real name Bob Jones a failed trade unionist who’d never made good of anything in his life. And this brilliant piece of modern literature, ‘How to have everything you ever wanted’, by Sir Archibald Smythe-Flannigan. A self proclaimed millionaire whose advice is sought by great leaders from around the globe. The truth is, the man is a compulsive liar, there not being a shred of evidence to back up any of his claims. Uses a pseudonym so he can’t be traced in Who’s Who or google. In reality he’s an old lag currently doing 15 years for swindling funds from orphanages. Now do you see?”
Drained of any will to resist further, “I suppose I must accede to your professional integrity – will you advise me?”
“That’s better. We’ll call you. . . Zeus Maximus, infamous author of the dark arts. Don’t worry, we can seed the internet with the name and various untraceable rumours. Father?”
“Er what do you mean, ‘father’?
“Your father dopey, who was he?”
“He was simple cobbler, his mum died young and he fought in the Second World War, that’s it really, no one special … Oh, he did guard Balmoral Castle once when he was in an Anti Aircraft company of the Artillery.”
“Mmm, okay – let’s see, brilliant author inherits wisdom of his father, his whole life coloured by the presence of an unsung war hero. Zeus’ father, who we cannot name for legal reasons, was born into poverty and orphaned along with his siblings at an early age. Sent to work aged fourteen, five years later he was first in line to volunteer to serve king and country against the fascist hordes that were crushing the innocence out of Europe. He was selected for secondment in a crack Anti Aircraft unit to protect royalty at Balmoral Castle. It was later rumoured that the aristocratic elite had fraternised somewhat liberally with young soldiers. This may explain why so many were transferred to other regiments and sent in on D Day, conceivably to purge witnesses to the infamous ‘Balmoral affair’. Changing his name again on return to Blighty he became a successful and self-made leather goods industrialist. He never spoke openly of his loves and trials in life but in this enlightening book, Zeus Maximus reveals all he knows and more, shedding long awaited light on the eccentric social past of Great Britain.” “That’ll do for a start –Mavis will knock it about a bit – should make a best seller – we can easily buy a few prestigious awards for it and enter it into our own competitions where we can guarantee you coming first. Nothing to it really, if you have the will to deal with the truth.”
M. F. de C. 2016
(Eavesdropping a meeting between a publisher and author if not of their minds.)
“Well I’ve read your manuscript – not bad – needs a bit of tidying - some sentences too wordy and some appalling grammar. Mavis, our tame editor and a cross between Wordsworth and an Orang-utan with typing skills, will knock it into shape for you. We’ll deduct her wages out of yours. Easy done, our accounts people are real wizards, ex tax office folks.
Smiling inanely, “Thank you, I didn’t realise how easy it was to be published with such a reputable company.”
“Whoa, don’t jump the gun, hold your horses a bit, the chickens haven’t hatched yet. The story is good, well, alright, workable. However, the biography bit is tosh. For starters, what made you pick such a stupid name?
Surprised, “But, that is my name. I just wrote the truth.”
“Truth? Truth? For God’s sake, they don’t want the truth. They want gossip, intrigue, mystery, heroes and above all an author they can believe in, a real someone – you know, like a soap actor or a convicted politician. Let’s sort your bio out while I have you in the office.”
With that, Montague Falcon de Chevalier took out his old Woolworth’s biro and began to write. “What about, ‘Sherpa Cameron’, illegitimate son of an Earl and a Tibetan peasant. That has a nice ring to it.”
“No, I don’t think that would be right at all,” the author replied, still somewhat shocked at a top publisher not wanting the truth.
“Okay, okay, what about Peregrine Gainsborough, descendant of the famous painter, your parents are Cornish farmers related to Tess of the Durbavilles.”
Verging on indignant, “No, no, I couldn’t be party to that. . . “
Brutally interrupting, “If you want that book seen in the light of day and read by anyone other than you and your mother you’re going to have to start listening to me.” With that, an irate Montague threw a few new books on the desk. “Look,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at each cover in turn, “Sexual secrets of free Masonry, by Babs Malone – the inside story by the wife of a leading mason who was accidentally killed during a frenzied ritual, they reckon that to produce such depraved and graphic detail she must have been present. There were surprisingly no prosecutions. Or this – Games in the second house, an expose by Lord Butterfield, real name John Smith from a council estate in Islington. Or this – ‘Sir Edmund Hilary – Nazi Spy, by Abraham Goldsmith, real name Bob Jones a failed trade unionist who’d never made good of anything in his life. And this brilliant piece of modern literature, ‘How to have everything you ever wanted’, by Sir Archibald Smythe-Flannigan. A self proclaimed millionaire whose advice is sought by great leaders from around the globe. The truth is, the man is a compulsive liar, there not being a shred of evidence to back up any of his claims. Uses a pseudonym so he can’t be traced in Who’s Who or google. In reality he’s an old lag currently doing 15 years for swindling funds from orphanages. Now do you see?”
Drained of any will to resist further, “I suppose I must accede to your professional integrity – will you advise me?”
“That’s better. We’ll call you. . . Zeus Maximus, infamous author of the dark arts. Don’t worry, we can seed the internet with the name and various untraceable rumours. Father?”
“Er what do you mean, ‘father’?
“Your father dopey, who was he?”
“He was simple cobbler, his mum died young and he fought in the Second World War, that’s it really, no one special … Oh, he did guard Balmoral Castle once when he was in an Anti Aircraft company of the Artillery.”
“Mmm, okay – let’s see, brilliant author inherits wisdom of his father, his whole life coloured by the presence of an unsung war hero. Zeus’ father, who we cannot name for legal reasons, was born into poverty and orphaned along with his siblings at an early age. Sent to work aged fourteen, five years later he was first in line to volunteer to serve king and country against the fascist hordes that were crushing the innocence out of Europe. He was selected for secondment in a crack Anti Aircraft unit to protect royalty at Balmoral Castle. It was later rumoured that the aristocratic elite had fraternised somewhat liberally with young soldiers. This may explain why so many were transferred to other regiments and sent in on D Day, conceivably to purge witnesses to the infamous ‘Balmoral affair’. Changing his name again on return to Blighty he became a successful and self-made leather goods industrialist. He never spoke openly of his loves and trials in life but in this enlightening book, Zeus Maximus reveals all he knows and more, shedding long awaited light on the eccentric social past of Great Britain.” “That’ll do for a start –Mavis will knock it about a bit – should make a best seller – we can easily buy a few prestigious awards for it and enter it into our own competitions where we can guarantee you coming first. Nothing to it really, if you have the will to deal with the truth.”
M. F. de C. 2016
Scrooge? ……. Poor 0ld boy.
“Ah, Christmas is coming’, they said.
“Mmm, I don’t like Christmas”, he replied, but inwardly reflecting that it perhaps wasn’t Christmas itself, but how he felt about it and associated little tragedies.
“Bah, humbug. You Scrooge! Came a quick, accusing chant, and not without a hint of opinionated bitterness, from the two Christmas lovers, a trait that was absent in his own view on Christmas, it has to be said.
“Ah, poor old Scrooge, how maligned the poor old boy has been portrayed”. He said, quietly.
“Rubbish! He was just a mean old man that hated Christmas”, they replied.
Turning to them, he said, “Was he really? What do we know of his suffering, his feelings, and his endeavours; just because Dickens chose, for his own twisted purpose, not to write about them in his book? People only loved Scrooge once he gave them what they wanted … his money, like spoiled children when they didn’t get what they wanted the ‘I hate you’ syndrome kicked in”.
Warming to a task they relished each year they retorted, “What about poor old Bob Cratchit then, trying to feed his family on low wages, and having to work at Christmas?”
“So, Scrooge, who was not the father of any of Cratchit’s proliferate children, must provide for a man who hasn’t planned to live within his means? How many of us would be pleased to so do? …. And in those dark days of servitude and hunger, was not Cratchit gainfully employed and paid a fair wage … if he was that good and could have earned more and done better then surely he would have changed jobs?”
“Pah, Scrooge was doing alright for himself and should have …. er.. should have er … helped others and joined in at Christmas”, they blurted..
(‘Oy,’ they complained to the writer, ‘you’re writing us in a bad way ….. not giving us a chance’. ‘My point exactly,’ thought the writer.)
“Look, Cratchit ate better than Scrooge; Scrooge often ate warmed up gruel for his meal, Cratchit would have soon complained if that’s what he got … and so would you too. Scrooge was no hypocrite either, he could have gone every year to his nephew’s for a free slap up Christmas dinner, but did he? No, he didn’t, true to his values and beliefs his dinner was to be the cheap gruel he usually had, while Cratchit with his whole family had eyes on the butchers for a big turkey that they couldn’t afford. In years to come Scrooge’s lack of reckless investment and borrowing beyond his means, coupled with his ecologically friendly frugal use of fossil fuels and to live with what we need and not with ‘what we want’, will be held up as a shining example of humanity and not the pariah as you choose to see him. Scrooge took little for himself, while all around him as Christmas approached, thousands of living trees were to be hacked down, once dead to be discarded, thousands of animals slaughtered to lie half eaten in the bins of merry makers, people sent greetings to those they could hardly remember and looked forward in misery to a compulsory meal with family members they often couldn’t stand”.
His listeners sighed exasperatedly ...... he continued “and another thing, Scrooge was a leader; it was only through the drive and endeavour of Scrooge that Cratchit even had employment. Not only this, but reading between the lines of Dicken's character assassination, Scrooge at no time asked Cratchit to do anything he would not do himself ... now that is truly a rare man, remember, he was already at work in the cold when Cratchit rolled in late for work; yes, a leader indeed. He didn't have a wardrobe full of Victorian designer clothes, no plush furniture, no servants, and no grand pictures on the wall; he lived a simple life in which he condemned no other ... unlike what was to become of him from the mind and pen of Dickens”.
“You old humbug you”, they said in unison, “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Mmm, Christmas spirit eh? Well at least you won’t be plagued with the spirits that visited Scrooge, poor man, no doubt yours are likely to be Baileys and Advocat, and in some excess to boot, meanwhile let us be in good spirit for whatever life we lead. With eyes and minds only on the ‘material’ of this Earth we might miss out on the ‘spiritual’, and if not careful will have less time than was given to Scrooge to put it right. Scrooge was surely inherently a good man all his life, it was only when he started his ‘handout’ spree that others ‘saw’ it for the first time …. Or did they see what they thought they saw? If Dickens was to truly espouse the Christmas spirit he would have written in a refusal for payment by the boy sent to the butchers; the child could have said, ‘keep your shilling sir, for on this Christmas day I’ll gladly help you for free’. But he didn’t, did he? And what of that giant Turkey? Did Dickens write in an honest comment from Mrs Cratchit, mmm, I doubt it, more like it went … ‘we’ll never cook that blooming thing in time for dinner, and it won’t go in the oven, what burke bought this?’ One of the children probably said ‘I’m sick of turkey, why can’t we have some gruel instead’.
You see, Dickens only wrote what he wanted you to know, perhaps he wrote the story as revenge on an old rich uncle who had denied Dickens as a boy for some frivolous Christmas present he had hankered and whinged over ….. who knows?
Scrooge eh? Poor old boy.”
Not sure you like this version? Then how do you think Ebenezer felt when that man, Dickens wrote what he did about him in the tabloid of the day? Still don’t like it? Then it is simple ….. write your own!
**
"A wise man hears one word but understands two".
The man who wouldn’t take the monkey home.
The cautionary, allegedly true story about immense personal success gained through conscious and intentional neglect of other’s needs.
Names changed to protect. . . er. . . me mostly !
We’ll call him Brutus Maximus for the sake of argument. His subordinate will be played by me. We both worked in the same fictitious training department for a local authority fire service, a hierarchical organisation which requires employees to follow orders and observe the chain of command; regardless of circumstance. Even word, act or demeanour could constitute punishable offences.
Long before I was enlightened about the ‘no monkey’ policy which Brutus had implemented, starting at his office door, I witnessed one or two other self interested behaviours, so I thought. For example, the department had a limited number of drill books for students and reference. On special days when practical examinations were held for promotion exams each examining officer was given one to use (the applicants were expected to possess detailed knowledge without the aid of such book – in order to rise to the level where they too could forget the contents.) My job was to issue these few books and ensure their safe return for others to use. Brutus lost his and when I explained he had already been issued with one, he leapt about screaming, ’get me another one then.’ Orders is orders as they say and he duly had his second book..
Prior to an unexpected (by the rest of us anyway) promotion to head of department Brutus would always join in a practical day out exercise with officer students. It involved a pleasant day’s walk in countryside watching other people struggle with initiative tasks and always culminated in beer and sandwiches on a small remote river bank. Once Brutus was head of department, he could no longer avail himself of such pleasures and to make sure nobody else did, he scrapped that particular exercise from the course.
One of the tests for recruits into the service was a dexterity test, in this occasion, it was a hacksaw which had been dismantled and had to be reassembled by the student in a given and reasonable time . . . preferably without breaking or losing any bits. For some reason, known only to him, Brutus (with power of life or death over any application) was prepared to pass a particular applicant on a hacksaw that had been reconstructed (you might prefer the description completely redesigned) with the blade back to front and upside down and the locator bolt protruding dangerously from the wrong side. Brutus must have sensed our collective horror associated with employing someone with such dubious skills in an essentially practical life saving job and changed his mind. Perhaps the chap was a relative, or perhaps Brutus was just feeling peculiarly benevolent, perhaps somewhere along the line a monkey was waiting.
One more example before I explain about the monkey reference. I was tasked with writing behavioural objectives for the service training programme (incidentally, never implemented despite a year’s work). Sometimes he would ‘correct’ the objectives in red pen. When I could see that Brutus was misguided I simply had the original retyped and submitted. How odd that it received approval next time. Was wielding the red pen just an illustration of power without logic? The behavioural objectives always started off with something like –‘At the end of this session the student should be able to do this or that’. Brutus thought this was wrong and ordered me to change ‘should’ to ‘will’. I tried to explain that there is no guarantee that a student will succeed only that given favourable opportunity they should succeed. Brutus told me quite clearly, ‘you should write will.’ I said ‘exactly’, rested my case and we wrote ‘should,’ with his reluctant approval.
Okay, monkeys. Many a time I would visit the office, which Brutus commanded in omnipotent solitude, with some problem that the department was experiencing. For example; ‘The breathing apparatus course at the weekend doesn’t have enough staff for safety.’ Foolishly expecting him to look at the staff rota and transfer someone to assist.
His answer, ‘I’ll leave it with you, do what you can, perhaps someone on the fire station can help.’
Such answers were never very helpful and often stressful; we were burdened with great responsibility and no power to carry it out. Brutus had the power but constantly declined the responsibility. Remember, we could not complain, for the highly disciplined chain of command leads through the problem himself.
Then one day he confided, in fact he lent me his copy of the article to read, all about avoiding problems – for you anyway. I’ve no idea what idiot (I’m not afraid) wrote it. The methodology was to see all problems as monkeys. When approached by a member of staff bringing a problem, visualise it as a monkey. Under no circumstances let the staff member leave your office without taking the monkey away with them. If you get stuck with the monkey you have to take it home at night, feed it the next morning and drive it back to work where it will sit on your desk all day annoying you before you drive it home for dinner. There was no sign on the door that said ‘No problems - no monkeys past this point.’ It was a secret which eventually led him to two more prestigious promotions culminating in an office at headquarters where his ‘no problem’ approach must have engendered an ignorant admiration of him. I went there once, after he’d denied ever receiving important documents sent six months previous – his desk was empty, polished shiny and empty . . . all the monkeys living somewhere else I guess, or retired on ill health.
Conscious and selective negligence can lead to great rewards for those who neither give nor take a monkey’s . . .
It was never my way, I had enough monkeys to fill a zoo, and I’ve just released one into the wild. If you find it, do make sure it’s okay, won’t you?
The cautionary, allegedly true story about immense personal success gained through conscious and intentional neglect of other’s needs.
Names changed to protect. . . er. . . me mostly !
We’ll call him Brutus Maximus for the sake of argument. His subordinate will be played by me. We both worked in the same fictitious training department for a local authority fire service, a hierarchical organisation which requires employees to follow orders and observe the chain of command; regardless of circumstance. Even word, act or demeanour could constitute punishable offences.
Long before I was enlightened about the ‘no monkey’ policy which Brutus had implemented, starting at his office door, I witnessed one or two other self interested behaviours, so I thought. For example, the department had a limited number of drill books for students and reference. On special days when practical examinations were held for promotion exams each examining officer was given one to use (the applicants were expected to possess detailed knowledge without the aid of such book – in order to rise to the level where they too could forget the contents.) My job was to issue these few books and ensure their safe return for others to use. Brutus lost his and when I explained he had already been issued with one, he leapt about screaming, ’get me another one then.’ Orders is orders as they say and he duly had his second book..
Prior to an unexpected (by the rest of us anyway) promotion to head of department Brutus would always join in a practical day out exercise with officer students. It involved a pleasant day’s walk in countryside watching other people struggle with initiative tasks and always culminated in beer and sandwiches on a small remote river bank. Once Brutus was head of department, he could no longer avail himself of such pleasures and to make sure nobody else did, he scrapped that particular exercise from the course.
One of the tests for recruits into the service was a dexterity test, in this occasion, it was a hacksaw which had been dismantled and had to be reassembled by the student in a given and reasonable time . . . preferably without breaking or losing any bits. For some reason, known only to him, Brutus (with power of life or death over any application) was prepared to pass a particular applicant on a hacksaw that had been reconstructed (you might prefer the description completely redesigned) with the blade back to front and upside down and the locator bolt protruding dangerously from the wrong side. Brutus must have sensed our collective horror associated with employing someone with such dubious skills in an essentially practical life saving job and changed his mind. Perhaps the chap was a relative, or perhaps Brutus was just feeling peculiarly benevolent, perhaps somewhere along the line a monkey was waiting.
One more example before I explain about the monkey reference. I was tasked with writing behavioural objectives for the service training programme (incidentally, never implemented despite a year’s work). Sometimes he would ‘correct’ the objectives in red pen. When I could see that Brutus was misguided I simply had the original retyped and submitted. How odd that it received approval next time. Was wielding the red pen just an illustration of power without logic? The behavioural objectives always started off with something like –‘At the end of this session the student should be able to do this or that’. Brutus thought this was wrong and ordered me to change ‘should’ to ‘will’. I tried to explain that there is no guarantee that a student will succeed only that given favourable opportunity they should succeed. Brutus told me quite clearly, ‘you should write will.’ I said ‘exactly’, rested my case and we wrote ‘should,’ with his reluctant approval.
Okay, monkeys. Many a time I would visit the office, which Brutus commanded in omnipotent solitude, with some problem that the department was experiencing. For example; ‘The breathing apparatus course at the weekend doesn’t have enough staff for safety.’ Foolishly expecting him to look at the staff rota and transfer someone to assist.
His answer, ‘I’ll leave it with you, do what you can, perhaps someone on the fire station can help.’
Such answers were never very helpful and often stressful; we were burdened with great responsibility and no power to carry it out. Brutus had the power but constantly declined the responsibility. Remember, we could not complain, for the highly disciplined chain of command leads through the problem himself.
Then one day he confided, in fact he lent me his copy of the article to read, all about avoiding problems – for you anyway. I’ve no idea what idiot (I’m not afraid) wrote it. The methodology was to see all problems as monkeys. When approached by a member of staff bringing a problem, visualise it as a monkey. Under no circumstances let the staff member leave your office without taking the monkey away with them. If you get stuck with the monkey you have to take it home at night, feed it the next morning and drive it back to work where it will sit on your desk all day annoying you before you drive it home for dinner. There was no sign on the door that said ‘No problems - no monkeys past this point.’ It was a secret which eventually led him to two more prestigious promotions culminating in an office at headquarters where his ‘no problem’ approach must have engendered an ignorant admiration of him. I went there once, after he’d denied ever receiving important documents sent six months previous – his desk was empty, polished shiny and empty . . . all the monkeys living somewhere else I guess, or retired on ill health.
Conscious and selective negligence can lead to great rewards for those who neither give nor take a monkey’s . . .
It was never my way, I had enough monkeys to fill a zoo, and I’ve just released one into the wild. If you find it, do make sure it’s okay, won’t you?
Amber eyes, amber warning.
This is my version of an extract from another author’s story about an old abandoned building with surprisingly no sign of vandalism. Why not?
With fallen rose petals underfoot, she had peered in wonder through the old dark glass; past her own reflection she peered at another time, another world. It was a world to which she felt belonging.
She could be the girl she could see in the mirror, in the chair, with dog at feet, comfortable near the warmth of the cooking range, secure in a home that afforded velvet curtains, happy in her world of daydreams.
A toad with amber eyes moved at her feet and in the looking, she found the rusty key.
She felt like she belonged beyond that window pane and, key in hand, she entered. She stepped in quickly, eager to relive her vision through the window’s mind. Only a few steps in, her nostrils filled with that dank stagnant smell that, when everything else is dead, always lives on in abandoned buildings.
Her feet felt the long lived icy cold of the flagstones and her heart shuddered with her body, as disappointment met cold in the middle. She turned to leave quickly, just as the door was slowly creaking closed – only a few steps to the door but cobwebs clawed at her face as if to keep her there, keep her now where she didn’t want to stay.
‘What a mistake, you silly girl,’ she told herself as she hurriedly locked the door behind her. Replacing the key exactly where she’d found it, she found herself looking into the amber eyes of the toad. She sensed the toad was sharing a wisdom with her, she opened her mind to listen. . .
Looking through the glass will never tell you what is on the other side, looking with imagination belies the reality of a different existence. Outside the glass you were anyone you wished to be – inside, something sought to rob you of your soul. In life, you will find many windows through which you may look – remember well – ‘seeing is not seeing.’
She’d found more in a moment from the amber eyes than the old house could tell in a lifetime, who’s ever it was!
Sadly, she didn’t listen and Alice would make a crazy mistake once more.
This is my version of an extract from another author’s story about an old abandoned building with surprisingly no sign of vandalism. Why not?
With fallen rose petals underfoot, she had peered in wonder through the old dark glass; past her own reflection she peered at another time, another world. It was a world to which she felt belonging.
She could be the girl she could see in the mirror, in the chair, with dog at feet, comfortable near the warmth of the cooking range, secure in a home that afforded velvet curtains, happy in her world of daydreams.
A toad with amber eyes moved at her feet and in the looking, she found the rusty key.
She felt like she belonged beyond that window pane and, key in hand, she entered. She stepped in quickly, eager to relive her vision through the window’s mind. Only a few steps in, her nostrils filled with that dank stagnant smell that, when everything else is dead, always lives on in abandoned buildings.
Her feet felt the long lived icy cold of the flagstones and her heart shuddered with her body, as disappointment met cold in the middle. She turned to leave quickly, just as the door was slowly creaking closed – only a few steps to the door but cobwebs clawed at her face as if to keep her there, keep her now where she didn’t want to stay.
‘What a mistake, you silly girl,’ she told herself as she hurriedly locked the door behind her. Replacing the key exactly where she’d found it, she found herself looking into the amber eyes of the toad. She sensed the toad was sharing a wisdom with her, she opened her mind to listen. . .
Looking through the glass will never tell you what is on the other side, looking with imagination belies the reality of a different existence. Outside the glass you were anyone you wished to be – inside, something sought to rob you of your soul. In life, you will find many windows through which you may look – remember well – ‘seeing is not seeing.’
She’d found more in a moment from the amber eyes than the old house could tell in a lifetime, who’s ever it was!
Sadly, she didn’t listen and Alice would make a crazy mistake once more.
TLA can be detrimental to normal human brain function.
(Don't take it too seriously!)
A synopsis extract from an extensive research project on peripheral neuro sciences by Professor Ivor Fabrico CFP, head of DSU for the Institute for Practical Cognitive Development (IPCD). The IPCD is currently predominately intracranial based but has dreams of building a research centre in the Caman Islands.
“The inability to effectively cognitively process a TLA or the more advanced form, FLA, can lead to catastrophic failure in essential decision making in Homo Sapiens (HS).
Various sub sequential traits on exposure to TLA have been observed in HS, in general they are all negative, and can range from simple confusion all the way through to despair and even anger.
There is no present evidence that an NHS is affected by a TLA. Though it could be argued that an NHS may respond to a verbally transmitted TLA it is not believed to have been cognitively understood by the NHS, it merely reacts to its verbal presence.
Where a TLA or FLA has been exposed to the subject an HBM can occur, so preventing it from accessing both judgement and reasoning faculties. In fact it is almost certain that neuron pathways become broken or even fail to initiate under the influence of TLA.
Only sections of a WWT free of TLA and FLA can readily be understood. Context can sometimes assist in interpretation but it is more general that a TLA stops cognition in its tracks.
The effect of a TLA is independent of IQ (Intelligence Quotient); even subjects with IQs above 180 cannot cope with a TLA without intervention by trained therapists.
Some of this research was sponsored by the Government department for the Transparency in Language Unit which has specific responsibility to the LWE in the general population.”
References.
‘Overcoming common sense’, Dr I Luney
‘Rewarding Gullibility’, Pavlov’s wife.
‘Terminal stupidity as an art form’, the late Dr A Lemming et al.
‘Effect of good cooking on intelligence’, Einstein’s wife.
Acknowledgements. My mother of course, various teachers, herbal drinks and Microsoft for assistance with spelling errors (often their own).
Abbreviation key.
NHS Non Human Species
CFP Completely Fictitious Person
DSU Dubious Sciences Unit
LWE Less Well Educated
WWT Written Word Transcripts
HBM Human Brain Malfunction
TLA Three Letter Abbreviation
FLA Four Letter Abbreviation
(Don't take it too seriously!)
A synopsis extract from an extensive research project on peripheral neuro sciences by Professor Ivor Fabrico CFP, head of DSU for the Institute for Practical Cognitive Development (IPCD). The IPCD is currently predominately intracranial based but has dreams of building a research centre in the Caman Islands.
“The inability to effectively cognitively process a TLA or the more advanced form, FLA, can lead to catastrophic failure in essential decision making in Homo Sapiens (HS).
Various sub sequential traits on exposure to TLA have been observed in HS, in general they are all negative, and can range from simple confusion all the way through to despair and even anger.
There is no present evidence that an NHS is affected by a TLA. Though it could be argued that an NHS may respond to a verbally transmitted TLA it is not believed to have been cognitively understood by the NHS, it merely reacts to its verbal presence.
Where a TLA or FLA has been exposed to the subject an HBM can occur, so preventing it from accessing both judgement and reasoning faculties. In fact it is almost certain that neuron pathways become broken or even fail to initiate under the influence of TLA.
Only sections of a WWT free of TLA and FLA can readily be understood. Context can sometimes assist in interpretation but it is more general that a TLA stops cognition in its tracks.
The effect of a TLA is independent of IQ (Intelligence Quotient); even subjects with IQs above 180 cannot cope with a TLA without intervention by trained therapists.
Some of this research was sponsored by the Government department for the Transparency in Language Unit which has specific responsibility to the LWE in the general population.”
References.
‘Overcoming common sense’, Dr I Luney
‘Rewarding Gullibility’, Pavlov’s wife.
‘Terminal stupidity as an art form’, the late Dr A Lemming et al.
‘Effect of good cooking on intelligence’, Einstein’s wife.
Acknowledgements. My mother of course, various teachers, herbal drinks and Microsoft for assistance with spelling errors (often their own).
Abbreviation key.
NHS Non Human Species
CFP Completely Fictitious Person
DSU Dubious Sciences Unit
LWE Less Well Educated
WWT Written Word Transcripts
HBM Human Brain Malfunction
TLA Three Letter Abbreviation
FLA Four Letter Abbreviation
Can you spot the face in the sky?
The Gods at work – but man knows better.
The Gods shuffled the pack, sipped their tea and looked down on Experiment Hu666 and sighed. “It’s awful!” exclaimed one, “just awful, we should never have interfered genetically improving their brain capacity to speed things up after the Neanderthals”.
“You’re so right”, said another, “now they’re swarming all over the place, and going where never intended, and to boot they’re doing genetics themselves now ….I despair.”
The head God swept the cards together, put them to one side and placed a nice assortment of fancy cakes on the table. “It’s our fault, you know, we should have put better conditions on this experiment, we should have written in that life expectancy was a privilege and not a God given right. To preserve their own kind they have destroyed and killed; why, they develop chemicals that poison the laboratory to kill the mosquito – and which kills everything else!”
One of the Gods with responsibility for human distribution in the early stages reported to the group next; “The northern side Eskimo experiment we were running in the frozen north was going well, no mosquitoes, no chemicals, …. Then suddenly some of the subjects developed a thing they call pesticide poisoning. Do you know where it came from? I’ll tell you. They visited an area in the south they call USA for hospital treatment and contracted the poisoning from hospital food! There’s no end to their stupidity, a stupidity accelerated by their bigger brain function.”
“Pha, that’s nothing,” quipped another in annoyance, they sprayed a place they call the everglades, er, look, here, at sector SG103 TP109 on the laboratory grid, to kill mosquitoes – which were back within weeks to live in a place where everything else was dead! I ask you!”
“If they had no brains they would be alright, it’s the brain that’s the problem, why can’t they live their lives naturally like the other species and accept that death is a part of living just as the conclusion is part of an experiment.”
The cakes were passed round and tea was drunk. The head God said, “Well the experiment will soon be over, they will see to that themselves, then we’ll clean the lab out, possibly with an asteroid or volcano like we did before - then we’ll try again – no brains next time.”
They all nodded in agreement, they knew it made sense.
(After reading about the renewed use DDT in Nat Geo).
The Gods shuffled the pack, sipped their tea and looked down on Experiment Hu666 and sighed. “It’s awful!” exclaimed one, “just awful, we should never have interfered genetically improving their brain capacity to speed things up after the Neanderthals”.
“You’re so right”, said another, “now they’re swarming all over the place, and going where never intended, and to boot they’re doing genetics themselves now ….I despair.”
The head God swept the cards together, put them to one side and placed a nice assortment of fancy cakes on the table. “It’s our fault, you know, we should have put better conditions on this experiment, we should have written in that life expectancy was a privilege and not a God given right. To preserve their own kind they have destroyed and killed; why, they develop chemicals that poison the laboratory to kill the mosquito – and which kills everything else!”
One of the Gods with responsibility for human distribution in the early stages reported to the group next; “The northern side Eskimo experiment we were running in the frozen north was going well, no mosquitoes, no chemicals, …. Then suddenly some of the subjects developed a thing they call pesticide poisoning. Do you know where it came from? I’ll tell you. They visited an area in the south they call USA for hospital treatment and contracted the poisoning from hospital food! There’s no end to their stupidity, a stupidity accelerated by their bigger brain function.”
“Pha, that’s nothing,” quipped another in annoyance, they sprayed a place they call the everglades, er, look, here, at sector SG103 TP109 on the laboratory grid, to kill mosquitoes – which were back within weeks to live in a place where everything else was dead! I ask you!”
“If they had no brains they would be alright, it’s the brain that’s the problem, why can’t they live their lives naturally like the other species and accept that death is a part of living just as the conclusion is part of an experiment.”
The cakes were passed round and tea was drunk. The head God said, “Well the experiment will soon be over, they will see to that themselves, then we’ll clean the lab out, possibly with an asteroid or volcano like we did before - then we’ll try again – no brains next time.”
They all nodded in agreement, they knew it made sense.
(After reading about the renewed use DDT in Nat Geo).
'While our hands cling steadfastly to the past,
they are no longer free to grasp a better future.'
When I joined the Fire Brigade in 1974 we still practiced ‘live’ carry downs. Taking it in turns, firemen would descend a ladder carrying a colleague on their shoulders.
(As shown in the drawings I’ve borrowed from an old manual of Firemanship.)
The job of the rescuer was to carry their supposedly ‘unconscious’ casualty as smoothly as possible down a ladder some 20 to 30 feet to safety. Sometimes the casualty would slip to one side of the rescuer’s moving shoulders and the necessary even balance would be lost. To regain the balance point the rescuer would at times try to gently throw the casualty across their shoulders. This was often very unnerving for the casualty who was well aware that any effort on their part to control or assist would only make matters worse. The casualty just had to relax and trust. The rescuer just had to adapt and make sure the acting casualty didn’t become a real one by dropping them several feet. This training resulted in a high level of confidence between the firemen who demonstrated a willingness to trust their comrades with their lives.
The job of the rescued casualty was, if not easy, quite simple . . . all they had to do was completely relax and let their body hang balanced over the rescuer’s shoulders - to be as one with the rescuer. Never mind the odd wobble or the much more frightening bit when the rescuer stepped onto the ladder from the roof or balcony and with only one hand gripping swung both of you out over the ‘abyss’, all he had to do was relax . . . relaxation and going with the flow, the oneness, was all he had to do. The rest of it was out of his hands. Tense up and you made life difficult for the rescuer and increased the chances of an accident. I recall on occasions when being carried down, the rescuer stopping on the ladder to make an adjusting ‘throw’, my hand would reach out to steady myself by gripping part of the ladder. Now the hard part, I began to think that my security relied upon my grip. Of course it gave the rescuer a false impression of where the balance truly was and they would already be descending again. The longer I clung to the ladder the worse it was going to be when I let go, for now my letting go would create a sudden imbalance potentially causing my rescuer to drop me. . . and it would be all my fault. I had to make a decision quickly . . . the only one worth making was to let go as soon as possible. Sometimes in life it is difficult to let go, in this case life, as I knew it, might end if I didn’t. It would certainly destroy any hard won trust if nothing else.
I recently overheard some one say something like, “Clinging to the past leaves you without hands to reach the future.” For some reason it made me thing back those forty years ago and to my own experiences in the fire brigade..
The ladder is like a timeline, if you stay where you are then you may get burned, if you hang on half way you may be gripped by fear and left hanging and unable to move either way, for the rescuer, like time, has moved on. Only by being one with that of the universe which willingly carries you safely through life will you fulfil your true destiny – whatever that is.
It’s up to you to find it and you won’t do it if you are too busy clinging to the past. Good luck.
Having written this I must now let it go . . . goodbye.
they are no longer free to grasp a better future.'
When I joined the Fire Brigade in 1974 we still practiced ‘live’ carry downs. Taking it in turns, firemen would descend a ladder carrying a colleague on their shoulders.
(As shown in the drawings I’ve borrowed from an old manual of Firemanship.)
The job of the rescuer was to carry their supposedly ‘unconscious’ casualty as smoothly as possible down a ladder some 20 to 30 feet to safety. Sometimes the casualty would slip to one side of the rescuer’s moving shoulders and the necessary even balance would be lost. To regain the balance point the rescuer would at times try to gently throw the casualty across their shoulders. This was often very unnerving for the casualty who was well aware that any effort on their part to control or assist would only make matters worse. The casualty just had to relax and trust. The rescuer just had to adapt and make sure the acting casualty didn’t become a real one by dropping them several feet. This training resulted in a high level of confidence between the firemen who demonstrated a willingness to trust their comrades with their lives.
The job of the rescued casualty was, if not easy, quite simple . . . all they had to do was completely relax and let their body hang balanced over the rescuer’s shoulders - to be as one with the rescuer. Never mind the odd wobble or the much more frightening bit when the rescuer stepped onto the ladder from the roof or balcony and with only one hand gripping swung both of you out over the ‘abyss’, all he had to do was relax . . . relaxation and going with the flow, the oneness, was all he had to do. The rest of it was out of his hands. Tense up and you made life difficult for the rescuer and increased the chances of an accident. I recall on occasions when being carried down, the rescuer stopping on the ladder to make an adjusting ‘throw’, my hand would reach out to steady myself by gripping part of the ladder. Now the hard part, I began to think that my security relied upon my grip. Of course it gave the rescuer a false impression of where the balance truly was and they would already be descending again. The longer I clung to the ladder the worse it was going to be when I let go, for now my letting go would create a sudden imbalance potentially causing my rescuer to drop me. . . and it would be all my fault. I had to make a decision quickly . . . the only one worth making was to let go as soon as possible. Sometimes in life it is difficult to let go, in this case life, as I knew it, might end if I didn’t. It would certainly destroy any hard won trust if nothing else.
I recently overheard some one say something like, “Clinging to the past leaves you without hands to reach the future.” For some reason it made me thing back those forty years ago and to my own experiences in the fire brigade..
The ladder is like a timeline, if you stay where you are then you may get burned, if you hang on half way you may be gripped by fear and left hanging and unable to move either way, for the rescuer, like time, has moved on. Only by being one with that of the universe which willingly carries you safely through life will you fulfil your true destiny – whatever that is.
It’s up to you to find it and you won’t do it if you are too busy clinging to the past. Good luck.
Having written this I must now let it go . . . goodbye.
The full story about the possible 'real truth' concerning the Three Billy Goats Gruff, available in the book is now offered to you HERE on a hidden page for free.
