writing

poetry | 101 | rehab | friend

Image | | andy townend

what is a friend?
in need
what is a friend?
in deed
what is a friend?
indeed,
what, is a friend?

what is,
a friend

in
need?

poetry | 101 | rehab |  friend

My prompt for this week’s Poetry 101 Rehab is FRIEND.

I will let the post speak for itself.

You can link to your post in response to today’s prompt by leaving a comment on my post and / or by clicking on the poetry | 101 | badge below and leaving a link.

And you can also tag your post with Poetry 101 Rehab so that it shows up in the WordPress Reader.

Please feel free to copy and paste the badge across to your own post and your own site 🙂

2015_06_19_09504

More information can be found on my poetry | 101 | rehab page.

dark | side | thursday | fortyfour

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

Do you have a dark side?

AJT_6650-EditOr, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

dark | side | thursday | fortyfour

He grasped the box with his fingers and withdrew it from the hole in the side of the chimney stack.

He held the box in both hands, standing there in the dark. The rotting stench of modern man’s failure, to live in harmony with his environment, filling his nostrils.

The chattering, rustling sounds around him abated, the denizens of the dark base of the chimney stack for once silenced.

He turned and walked back to the light, holding the box still in both hands.

His door lay closed before him. He could not remember climbing back up the concrete stairs. He let go of the box with the fingers of his left hand and opened the door. He closed and locked the door behind him.  Walked across to his narrow desk, laid the box on the desk, almost but not quite touching his silenced Mac.

He opened the door of the fridge next to his desk. Took out the bottle, flipped open the wire clasp that held the rubber bung in place. He lifted the bottle, noticing how little remained, lifted the bottle to his mouth and in one swift movement drained the bottle, leaving not a drop.

The liquid burned and swirled inside him. He knew that sensation only too well.

He sat at his desk. The box before him. His fingers moved over the box and, knowing exactly where to press and with how much pressure, the box slowly opened to him.  He reached inside and took out the key.

As his fingers touched the key a short sharp shock ripped into him, the same feeling he had when he touched the tone arm of his turntable, his feet bare and cold on the tiles.

He stood, walked through the door, into the sleeping area. He switched off the lights, lay down on the bed and held the key in both hands.

He lay there, the key held so tight in his palm that the knuckles of his fingers tensed and whitened. They would hurt later, and badly. For now he was oblivious.

He closed his eyes and as his mind drifted, so a light seemed to appear before him. A faint light, not unlike that thin strip of light that lay at the end of the corridor. And, like that light, a light that promised much but seemed to grow more distant the more he reached out towards it.

He heard the screams. He felt the searing heat of the flames. Screams mingled with the roar of the flames, the ripping of wood surrendering to the fire. And the terrible smell, the smell he could never forget.

As she burned.

His eyelids flickered as the flames gathered and roared. His fingers iron hard as they held the key.

He heard her screaming over and over again, the same words he always heard.

‘Don’t let them take him, not now…’

And her anguished eyes, as she looked through the flames towards him.

Her words, always repeated. Never heard.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

fortyfour | fiftytwo

dark | side | thursday | fortythree

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

Do you have a dark side?

AJT_6650-EditOr, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

dark | side | thursday | fortythree

The hills were alive with the sound of music.

That much he could remember. That sweet sugar coated music that covered up the horror beneath like a thin plastic caul.

The hills were alive with other sounds too. The howling wind, the ever present droning of the dreary rain, driving down in thick rivulets, from the dark moor above, smearing against the plate glass window.

The sky a thick roiling grey green blanket that stole away his childish hopes.

And the sirens, the sirens and the slamming doors, the curses of the men who searched. Searched in vain. He did not see these things, they were hidden, at least they were supposed to be hidden. Snatched glimpses of flashing lights on the TV screen, stern faced men and so many tears. He heard, he felt those tears. Felt the fear. The fear of the slamming door, the fake smile, the lost ones. The rain, the loss of hope. And, the fear.

He was not supposed to see, or hear, or know about these things. Not to hear the things that had been done to them.

But, he did, of course. They all did. All those who were supposed to be safe. They all knew it was a  lie. They could never be protected by ‘them’ from the dark, the smiles.

Their fake false smiles.

And sugar coated promises.

Perhaps it was the wasp, the wasp in the curtains, that whispered in his sleeping ear. Told him the things he must not know, told him as it prepared to sting.

And then, morning broke again.

He stopped typing.

Remembering all this was pointless. Maybe it explained some of the anger he felt inside, maybe it didn’t. He closed the lid on his Mac, stood and walked to the low white shelf to his right. He picked up his keys, selected one and walked to the glass door, he inserted and turned the key, walked out and closed the door behind him.  He strode along the exposed and rain soaked walkway and, turning left, he began to descend the concrete staircase. Rainwater pooled in the dark places where the staircase turned back on itself. He reached the bottom, the lights were off, broken. Water dripped and he heard the rattling and whispering of the things that lived in the dark, he felt their beady eyes watch as he walked into their domain.  He knew the way.

The room was dark and dank, the smell of days old rubbish, hidden away in plastic skips, rank and fetid. It always made him smile, as he imagined them all, eager faces, transfixed by flickering TV screens, oblivious to the decay and rot that gathered beneath their freshly vacuumed rugs and wood-panelled floors.

He approached the thick base of the chimney. His fingers searching in the dark for that one loose brick.  He found it, slid a finger into the loose mortar.

He pulled out the loose brick. Reached inside.

The box was still there.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

fortythree | fiftytwo

‘there’s this store where the creatures meet’

Image | | andy townend

Lazy diamond studded flunkies

– The Doors, Love Street

2016_03_12_10802

for wordpress weekly photo challenge – one love

 

dark | side | thursday | fortytwo

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

Do you have a dark side?

AJT_6650-EditOr, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

dark | side | thursday | fortytwo

Of course, he never did see it, nor feel it’s cold dead fingers touching his shoulders. Perhaps if he had, then things might have been different.

Maybe a beast realised, visceral and present, would have been harder to contend with. He would never know, of course.

He did remember the fear though, the endless nights, the longing for that sliver of light, the longing for the voices to welcome him. Voices he knew were never welcoming, but raised and angry, cold and cruel. The light a deceit. The nights that ended in the cold break of day, the longing again for the night. An endless cycle.

He remembered the longing he felt when the bird that was blue, and named pinkie, flew free. And how (back then) he had wanted to be that little bird, to fly to be free.

As he continued typing, he could smell the ripe odour of rampant rhododendrons.

Wet leaves, oozing under the constant rain, giant green sentinels guarding another world, through to which he could never pass.

His thin, scrawny little legs pedalling as hard as he could make them, the wobbling wheels of his bicycle spinning in the air as he rolled to one side and the rattling stabiliser wheels sparing him (once again) more bloodstained knees.

Guiding the bicycle along the rain slickened and bumpy ash filled path that lay between the forest of rhododendrons. Fear filling him as he knew that he was off the path, the path where they could find him. He was alone. Alone to face the dark wet green leaves, the shapes that moved behind their cold embrace.

He could hear the rusted creaking of the swings.

He (thought he) could hear the swishing of the bird’s bright blue feathers as it escaped.

He pedalled quickly past the row of red and blue painted (rusted) swings that towered above him, streaked and covered in slime accumulated under the endless rain. Echoes of long gone children, laughing and crying as they swung (out to dry – he thought).

And ahead, at the top of the rise, across the grass. The bandstand.

He had to reach the bandstand.

He knew he had to reach the bandstand.

Before it, or they, could stop him.

As he typed, he remembered the terror as his little wobbly wheels shot out from under him. Felt again the pain as his head hit the gnarled root of a tree that had been the cause of his tumble, felt the trickle of blood seeping from the gash on his forehead and running into his eyes. Remembered how he had sniffled and forced back the tears, remembered how he had stood again and walked towards the bandstand.

He could hear the music still. Off key and stilted. He could not recall the tune.

The slumped shoulders of the solitary pianist, the way the figures frail fingers fought to slash out the fragmented refrain.

He turned away from his keyboard.

He realised that had been when it began.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

fortytwo | fiftytwo

dark | side | thursday | fortyone

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

Do you have a dark side?

AJT_6650-EditOr, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

dark | side | thursday | fortyone

The clocked ticked over, it was 12:52, nothing had changed.

Or, perhaps, everything had changed.

He began to type, the only thing he could think to do at this point was to get the words out of his head and on to the screen. Only that way could he buy himself some time to think, some freedom from the ghosts, and shades, that haunted him. His fingers flew across the keyboard. The words spewing out and into the hard (unforgiving) drive that spun mindlessly inside the sculpted aluminium case of his Mac.

His recollection of events had become hard to piece together. Distorted and curved. He remembered things that had happened to him when he had been a child, insanely trivial things that remained imprinted on his circuits, trivial things that seemed to have (at least for now) some deeper meaning. Things that happened yesterday he could barely remember. The sequence of events that had resulted in him sitting at this desk, under the dark shadow of the chimney, could well have been shrouded in the thick black smoke that he imagined had once belched from the open throat of that, now defunct, pillar.

His mind wandered as he typed.

He remembered a snake and a tiger, at least that is what he thought he remembered. There had also been a stuffed elephant, with cold dark eyes. The snake and the tiger locked in an eternal power struggle, the thick cord of the snake wrapped around the tiger both terrifying and somehow beguiling. The stained white fangs of the tiger prominent in his mind, the open maw of the animal frozen in a silent and terrible, never ending, roar of pain. The snake’s dripping fangs only seconds away from tearing at the throat of the beast. And all this behind cold glass in an old house that no longer echoed with the laughter of children or the anguish of those who once held sway there.

The buzz of the giant wasp that he (had always known) inhabited the dark space behind the curtains, in the corner of the window. The bloated wasp that he knew scrabbled for freedom against the cold frame of the darkened window. The wasp that he knew would, in the long passage of the night, realise that all it had to do to find freedom was to turn, to fly beneath the curtains, to feast on the flesh of the small human shape that lay shaking beneath the bedsheets night after night.

He remembered rising from his bed, the long walk across his bedroom, turning the cold handle of the door. The voices at the end of the corridor, the light shining at the foot of the door. The promise of safety. The faltering steps along the corridor that lengthened as he began to walk toward that sliver of light. Feeling the ground liquify beneath his dragging feet.

And knowing what he would see as he turned, what he would feel as it reached out.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

fortyone | fiftytwo

state of mind

Image | | andy townend

“We are like the herb which flourisheth most when trampled upon”
― Walter Scott, Ivanhoe

2016_02_14_09931

for wordpress weekly photo challenge – state of mind

 

poetry | 101 | rehab | file

Aside | | andy townend

we’ve got, a file on you

face(the)book
insta(nt)gra(tification)m
there’s a twitter(ing) in the hedgerow

we’ve got a file on you

pressed for words?
are you ready to take a tumbl(r)e?
not pinterest(ed)?

we’ve got, a file on you

it’s not about you, it’s all about.me
there’s no happy medium
it’s the first stage of lighting a fire

and don’t forget

we’ve got
a
file

on

you

poetry | 101 | rehab |  file

My (late) prompt for this week’s Poetry 101 Rehab is FILE.

So, this week, do you know what they know? About.you? Do you care? Inspired by comments on last week’s post, Apple’s spat with the FBI, and a moment’s reflection. Are we just the kindling for someone else’s fire?

You can link to your post in response to today’s prompt by leaving a comment on my post and / or by clicking on the poetry | 101 | badge below and leaving a link.

And you can also tag your post with Poetry 101 Rehab so that it shows up in the WordPress Reader.

Please feel free to copy and paste the badge across to your own post and your own site 🙂

2015_06_19_09504

More information can be found on my poetry | 101 | rehab page.

drunk(en lion)

Aside | | andy townend

What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?
Ask a glass of water!
– Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

swirled, and shaken,

not, stirred

grappa, gripped, grasped and gratuitously groggy

swallow

me

don’t,

remember

me

is your

thirst,

quenched?

for laura’s literary lion – drink me with a nod to the shout out for my previous (and punctuation free) dip into the  maw of the lion