writing challenge 18 – tttt1 – part 3

here’s my next bit to sean, and his post on part 2; as he says, feel free to join in on this one, or start a separate one with me or sean, or a reader of your blog – one rule though – i don’t know if this was made clear; all stories must begin with the first red section below; my only attempt at vanity……

At some point – maybe even tonight – i’ll aim to give all this its own section heading on the blog, and should any other stories take hold anywhere, this is where they’ll be found, both colour-coded and straight black….i’ve decided…..



My pulse quickened when I saw her…..it wasn’t her beauty – like the hair upon her head, she didn’t have any – although the limp was pronounced but not eye-catching; her squint was noticeable but not headache-inducing; whilst the teeth that protruded from her cheeks left one a little startled, the drool appeared to have a note of charm to it, as did the mole…….what in fact made the pulse quicken was the fact that she stood over me holding a scalpel and a ball-peen hammer. I was strapped to a wooden chair that was uncomfortable (probably the least of my problems at this stage) and smelt like piss and unanswered questions.

‘What ish your name?’ She slurred at me, spraying my face with spit.

‘Ziggy Stardust,’ I said, sputum dripping down my cheek.

She raised the hammer and I must say, it was in a really rather threatening fashion; I made a mental note to informal the faculty first thing in the morning that I thought this sort of behaviour was in no way in-keeping with that expected of a university lecturer, and that some mention of these unorthodox teaching practises should at least be alluded to in the otherwise faultless prospectus.

But that was for tomorrow…..my present predicament banished all such thoughts from my mind, and I maintained only a minute awareness of the warm fluid collecting in my crotch, and that I had now possibly become a part of the assault on the olfactory system of the next poor victim…..I shall do my best to answer her questions…….

‘Let’sh shee how funny you are with a broken wrisht!’

‘Wait! Pleashe!’ I have a horrible habit of mimicry; say something else, dammit, and she may not notice! ‘I’m sorry; I panicked; the scalpel and hammer combination shat me up proper big styley; when questioned under stress my default answer has always been Ziggy Stardust, ever since I was a boy and


ode to effexor

venlafaxine, venlafaxine

helps you when you need relaxin’

when the palps begin to bite

pop it quick you’ll be alright


no more weeping on the floor

no despair through every door

declare with utmost predication

the wonders of mood medication


the relationship though symbiotic

stops you going all psychotic

i loved you then, i love you now

you love yourself now take a bow


this ode is in reverence to dotty headbanger’s words on the wonders of prozac

the moon pilot says that whilst all things are transient, if a rock hits your head it’ll still hurt

and since in order to deserve respect one must preach by example, i hit the moon pilot’s head with a rock and sure enough it hurt; as respects were gathered with alms, and bandages wrapped to music, the moon pilot says – i don’t know why they hire me, this fucker flies itself; the moon pilot says many things, often in reply to the question – how many things do you know; one can then guess how silly this gets until someone points out that it matters not who is on first no-one’ll better jiggs donahue; the moon pilot then proceeds to call tide-control to make sure he’s flying at the right height in order to avoid any undue floods or pesky droughts, he then proceeds to take his redundant yoke and simulate a kamikaze attack, or a particularly fearsome dogfight over guadlacanal or malta, or pretend he’s a submarine pilot, whale, fog diviner; when asked what he’ll do if tide-control ever want him to alter his altitude, he replies – i shall tell them to fuck off…………we prayed to be present should this parle play out……….every friday he just makes shit up; goes through the whole day lying about stuff, saying how much he doesn’t enjoy being critiqued, how much he doesn’t think he has a great name by the way, how curtains aren’t to be trusted, how it’s impossible to cook with a vial of god’s wrath; thank fuck it only happens one day a week otherwise we’d suffer greatly and have to have him put down, but the big grasshopper smile he wears makes the lengendario easy swallowing…….and easily swallow it he does when the blues hit him; dark asteroids of fear and loathing bombard his soul, the toys in the attic fray and revolt, splinter into parasitic ticks burrowing under gangrenous, sloughing skin……and then he’s alright; remembers he has the moon to pretend to pilot and so becomes again the grasshopper; spiracly endowed with a violin under each arm, staring off sidewise in to the distance; we’re so far ahead but he thanks us sincerely for following

i’d like a breakdown

of the quarterly returns and the projected apple turnover from march through to wednesday, including all point to point verification nodules associated with the bi-monthly management meetings held in the old offices, not the old old offices, for those i need a letter writing, under an assumed name, about a little boy who works in a hotel and a lostlost woman, don’t give too much away of course, you’ll find your feet’ll hurt and the ticks’ll find a new noise so you’ll not hear them coming, and the tocks’ll just wander aimlessly in the dirt; no-one wants them if they’ve lost their only definition, and they’ve not the gumption to hone themselves another; they were attached to what they were, like a parasite feeding on a host already coughing up blood they forgot they weren’t healers; perhaps they could become healers, or at least perceived as such; if the coughing stopped, if the blood ceased to spurt, and the result of both were life, maybe they’d be mistaken for the cure, maybe the ticks’d put in a good word – they’d partnered well over the years – but the result of both was death; the tocks were blamed and the ticks’d fucked off to the bolivian republic of venezuela, discovering a particular love for nearby curaçao, its inherent healing properties, and the welcome shown by, as of the first of january 2009, its 141,766 strong population; the tocks need a breakdown not of quarterly returns; nor of the kind where the need to call one’s spouse at work arises, the i couldn’t stay in bed any longer though now i cannot raise me from the floor please listen to me cry about things i don’t understand so cannot explain and indelibly print an image on your psyche that will make you feel sick whenever its remembrance assails you, i feel sick, i must write this letter to the lostlost woman, i must avoid a breakdown, i shall not ask, nor say please, no-one should have these images

i fear

i may not get through the night; i have ‘one moment in time’ soiling itself round my head and it won’t go away; i don’t know where it’s come from, i’ve not heard it in time and i don’t know why it’s here; i duck and roll from thought to act but still it takes pot shots at me atop a tall tower from which i’ve yet to find the appropriate place to hide…..there’s a radio close by that i could switch on but fuck only knows the crap that’ll ooze out of that – someplace, somewhere at any given moment in time……………………..i fade………………………..there’s a celine dion song being played and i’m buggered if i’m risking that kind of exposure; i have a family – i also have six hours to rattle round this place on my own, and i aim to do so without recourse to a cd – i’ve yet to ascertain the purpose of this self-set challenge but i suspect it has something to do with my cds being in the car, and it’s dark and cold out them there doors; but i must to work, and to prostrate myself before the tower, and be thankful that these are but flesh wounds, and the ligatures may well shut down the brain that deals in the memory of song – i just don’t know what it’ll trade for next

friday flash – i used to hear the avalanches

i used to hear the avalanches, i used to hear the screams of the dead wood; i used to listen for the distant rumbling of a mind that refused, i used to quiver at the prospect of hearing the sound made by the world when it stopped turning; i used to hear the rip, i used to hear the glacier tear through that which was deemed impassable, i used to hear the wake; i used to hear the dull dead silence ravaged; that which I heard is no more, for all i hear now is drip drip drip drip drip