Keeping track on the tracks
To kickstart some creative juice flowing I decided on this little travel piece as I roll in motion with this train.
My Words, My World
First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing
Goodbye, my sun
As the leaves burn brown
and rage in a riot of red
The low, winter light losing colour
looking tired and stretched
The sun’s early rising all but forgotten
another life, another time
The soltice shroud of darkness covers all
and the frost fingers;
hard and cold
grip the earth
And its frigid breath
bites the air
As the year ends in a flurry of colour
We are
The mirror’s image wavers before me
It implores me
“Look at me”
“Look at you”
I do
And wish I did not
The mirror’s image dances in my eyes
As you chastise
“Look away”
“Look at me”
I do
Relieved that I did
The mirror’s image shows you beside me
Love unties me
Mountains slide
Oceans rage
We are
And we will remain
God speed this bullet
96 years ago the First World War, the Great War, was finally over. A generation of young men, those that returned home, were left to pick up the pieces of what they had experienced, seen and endured. They said it could never happen again. but it did; 21 years later. As terrible as the Second World War, the same as any war, was, there is something truly horrific about the trenches.
***
The ground heaves and shakes and small rivers of dirt fall, splattering my helmet and the pounding of the earth is like a fist in my back. I look at Jenkins; he’s now bleeding from the ears and nose from the concussion of this incessant artillery barrage. I look at the lieutenant; his face flares white in the explosion flashes; dark rings his eyes and he’s gaunt, like the rest of us. He’s one of us now. After two years in this hell-hole the only part of Cambridge that remains is his manners. He looks at me.
‘Don’t,” he says.
He knows I want to look, I can’t help it; George was my friend from the pre-war days. George who had the nerve to stick his head above the trench, only for a piece of shrapnel to tear it off and fling the rest of him across the trench. The trench, this devil-made wormhole. What will I tell his wife when I get back…if I get back?
A let up in the barrage and the shadow of the black Somme night passes across the trenches, leaving destruction, torn and twisted bodies, fatherless children and husbandless wives but now all was silent. We’ve been stuck here for months, barely advancing, barely retreating. The smell of the ripped earth and dank mud in which we wallow is everywhere, except when the wind blows towards us and the stench of death and decay replaces it.
‘Help…’
The voice is faint but it’s there. In the sudden and welcome silence it’s as clear as birdsong on a June morning, agony and suffering coming through in just one word.
‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ Symes; newly arrived from the train, all shiny boots, clean puttees and enthusiasm. They always arrive with enthusiasm. What the hell are they telling them back home? Five days a week killing the Hun then Saturdays and Sundays off, French whores and bistros thrown in? ‘Can we not do something for that poor bugger sir?’ he says, turning to the lieutenant, who sighs.
‘Corporal, take a look and be bloody careful.’
I take off my helmet and place it on the butt of my rifle and slowly raise it above the trench, joggling the rifle to simulate movement: nothing. No sniper fire to split the night. The lieutenant hands me his field-glasses as I replace my helmet and climb the ladder. They say there’s nothing blacker than no-man’s land at night but that’s not strictly true, especially following a barrage. The artillery will always find something to burn, even if it’s just human remains, and little fires dotted around cast an unholy light in the field-glasses. I first scan the enemy lines, looking for movement, but I see none.
‘Help…’
My vision jumps from crater to crater, searching for life and hoping for it also, in this God-forsaken pit of human misery. At first I see nothing, then I take a slower, longer sweep with the glasses. I see movement; slow, shambling movement some twenty yards away where the barbed-wire is stretched across and upon which hang torn and crow-picked corpses, like some infernal spider’s web. A slow, crawling movement catches my eye and even in the dead-light I can see enough. It’s a soldier, a German soldier, gone from the waist down, pulling and dragging himself inch by agonised inch towards our trench.
‘Well I’ll be damned. It’s a Jerry sir and in an awful state by the looks of it.’
‘What the Dickens…’ as he climbs up, taking the field-glasses from me and looks upon the awful site before us. He wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand, sighed and turns, stepping down into the trench. Not a moment too soon, as a high whistling noise is followed by chaos. The concussion from the blast is enormous, filling my head with a death-roar and I could feel my ears and nose bleeding freely. Symes is on the floor of the trench, his legs pinned down by dislodged sandbags but he’s ok. Upon hearing that whistle, the lieutenant, Jenkins and I all threw ourselves against the wall of the trench. Symes will learn, if he has time.
‘Corporal, who’s our best shot?’ but he looks at Jenkins, the Welshman is a crack shot and needs no introduction.
‘Help…’
‘Take him out Private. I won’t risk stretch-bearers to bring him in but the sorry blighter has suffered more than enough.’ He moves aside from the ladder to let the Private through. The figure is nearer now but still a good fifteen yards away. No trouble for Jenkins, who could shoot a canary in a Welsh coalmine from fifty. The first signs of dawn are beginning to pink the early clouds, which a rising breeze is scattering. Jenkins brings the rifle up to his right shoulder, intent only on what he sees at the end of the barrel.
“God speed this bullet and put that poor devil out of his misery”, the lieutenant says, to no one in particular.
“Amen,” says Jenkins, and his finger tightens on the trigger.
As if in response the morning sun throws its first rays of light through the breaking clouds and onto the battlefield. The bombardment has done a lot but not enough; the barbed wire is still in place. If we have to go over the top we’ll be torn to pieces by the German machine-gunners.
The report of Jenkins’ Lee Enfield barks out. The lieutenant raises the field-glasses but they aren’t needed. As more lights floods across the battlefield the sliding, shuffling figure shimmers and fades to nothing.
We look at each other in silence. We’ve all heard stories of ghosts on the battlefield and I guess with so many men butchered on a daily basis it was only a matter of time. I wonder, should God grant any lasting peace on this Earth, in 100 years how many of our souls will still wander here, lost in a foreign land far from home.
***
I’d like to acknowledge http://femaleimagination.wordpress.com/2014/11/11/11-november-world-war-i-ends/ for the use of the photograph.
Flash Fiction Friday 146: Colours frozen in time by Chris Farley
My ever present and never diminishing thanks once again to Morgen.
I’m still unsure as to whether I should be disturbed about the fact that I sat in a pub looking at a tattoo and invented this story around it…
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and forty-sixth piece in this series. This week’s is a 436-worder by Christopher Farley.
Colours frozen in time
The tattoo was the first thing I noticed; it was beautiful. She sat opposite her friend drinking Belgian beer from a huge glass and I saw it as I walked past, making my way to the men’s room.
Her thin, white arms poked out from her even whiter t-shirt, then a waterfall of colour burst from the sleeves of the t-shirt. Three lotus flowers, red, green and pink, one on top of the other. But oh, the arm. How could something so pale and delicate suffer so much pain? I returned to the bar and pretended to look at the game on the big screen. Her friend rose from the table and headed for the toilet.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help…
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Semicolon
You, semicolon
A dot. A comma,
a pause slightly longer
than a breath
And instead of punctuating words
they’ve punctured your heart
You, semicolon
Half remembered, barely read
Semicolon; you ran your race,
and lost your place
And in this fast-paced world
of the modern human race
You paused once too often
and became a Winky, smiley face
;o)
I see you in the darkness
The sunlight for a second
Blinked
A shadow
Its shadow
By my window whispered
Or did it laugh
As I felt its draught
And shivered
My skin crawled,
then froze
The shadow passed
for now
But it’ll come back
When night falls chill
For I will give it life
In black and white
Just words?
One recent lunchtime I was sitting, waiting for my quesadilla, with every intention of jotting down some potential copywriting ideas – I completed a course not too long ago and I really want to pursue that direction on a professional level. Anyway, it just wouldn’t happen; nothing came when I put pencil to paper except the opening two lines of this. Between waiting for and eating the aforementioned quesadilla, the rest of the piece followed. I suppose you could call it a reluctant poem, as it certainly wasn’t my intention to write it, but as nothing else came I gave in to the flow.
The book is open, the pencil in hand
The eyes stare at black lines on white,
waiting for the muse to turn on the light
What to write? What to write?
Perched over a fissure, under pressure
An abyss awaits, mind contemplates
I did not intend to write this,
this poem, this rhyme
This scribbled tribute to the sublime
Gift of words; the words we use
To communicate
Our love, our hate
Pleasure, displeasure
How are you my treasure?
Spoken words may be forgotten
From the written word may be begotten
A declaration; of love, of war
Of the suffering who can take no more.
Letters by sages
Indented onto pages
A permanent reminder
Of words that can bind you
That seek and find you
And you lay open the page
As you lay open your heart
With thoughts transmitted and thoughts transcribed
As into your book you care to confide
All that you feel, and can’t keep inside
You are reality
The heart doesn’t flutter;
it hammers, in my chest.
On the train,
the rolling motion,
my rolling emotions,
as the station nears.
The final stop; full stop.
Months in the waiting,
weeks in the planning
and my heart beats the seconds
that pass, too fast.
Am I the only one
alive in this carriage?
This miscarriage of humanity.
Where is the humanity?
Talk to me!
You! The Ipod girl,
in front of Ipad man,
beside Facebook boy
and Candy Crush sister.
Ah! Enough of them.
I’ve been drawn to meet you,
talk to you and kiss you.
As I hold your letter.
A LETTER!
Words on a once-tree,
the Parker Pen veins
stand out, draw me in.
As you stand in the rain,
black brolly Polly,
dark as mystery,
deep as a desert night
but not so old,
nor so cold.
Sand stinging, hand wringing
a nervous encounter,
here at the counter
of the coffee bar.
Spoons clink and rattle
And our nerves finally settle.
There is no war to end all wars
One hundred years on and…
A brief truce broken
A steel head awoken
And glared into the night
A firefight,
Candlelight: mourners
Apparently security means a dawn raid
An air raid,
Siren
Not silent
Blaring, uncaring
The choke of smoke
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
On whose hands the blood
That puddles the street
Beneath frightened feet
Running, fighting
Toe to toe
Door to door
Calibre counts much more
A prayer for the lost
And for those who remain;
Once again
The blinding smoke
The dust that chokes
The blood that soaks
The tears that burn
Amid the fires that turn
Earth to hell
A hell on earth
Suffer little children
As men hide among you
While their enemies’ bomb you
Poor innocent souls
As the death toll
Rises
Through wars’ devices
Bodies twisted and torn
Lives shattered and shorn
Of all hope of peace
A three day pull-out
A humanitarian hand-out
Look at me
Through your blood-shot,
Blood filled
Hateful eyes
They say security means war my friend
Do you really think
It will ever end?
Lunch in the park
Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds
Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park
![20140714_135037[1]](https://christopherfarley.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/20140714_1350371.jpg)
Happy place
Puerto La Savina is a happy place
in the early morning.
It’s not a miserable place filled
with the miserable grey shouts
and whistles of a city port.
It thrums; it thrums with
sound of boat engines.
It is happy,
basking in the sun.
Brooms sweep the pavement
and early morning walkers walk.
A thicket of masts wave
with the sigh of the sea.
It is a happy place.
The dark kitchen
Another tip of the hat to Morgen Bailey and this time her poetry prompts. “the dark kitchen” immediately took my fancy and this time I had it down in less than a third of the allotted time. Once again, thanks for that Morgen.
The Dark Kitchen
The dark kitchen
The darker drawers
The still darker knives,
Each telling their story
The darkened oven
Black from the roasts
The un-cleaned fat
That spat; and sizzled.
The dark old woman
Dressed all in black
Black widow in waiting
Black venom giving
The death-grey husband
Now ever in the dark
Her dark kitchen her web
Her poison pernicious
The dark pantry
Away from the light
Locked in tight
Opened only at night
When all is black
Lights, camera…nothing
The lightning forks
The wind it stalks
through every open window
Lugano heat,
it’s stifling heat
Replaced by nature’s lightshow
The thunder groans
Mountains of stone
Silhouetted by lightning
No rain as yet
Did Thor forget?
His hammer only taunting
Huge sheets of light
They split the night
And leave me watching in awe
Purple and black
Clouds holding back
Dying wind, where goes the squall?
Mount Tamaro
See the storm go
Behind your mile-high buttress
Dark once again
Energy spent
Return still air to suppress
Wave in waiting
Wavelet, gentle wavelet
Don’t call yourself
a wave yet.
The Mediterranean
is calm today
No hint of wind,
blows your way.
And you have to be brave
to call yourself
a real wave.
Rolling, roaring and tumbling
ride the tide in.
Just be content
to gently
lap the hard pebble shore
and wait for that
scirocco
wind, racing to lift you up,
white foam blowing,
to lift you up
once again.
Once green world memory
Where be now the wind
that once blew?
Around the compass, all around;
south, east, west and north true.
Flag flutter memory
just choking on dust.
Where are you now rain,
that once fell?
Down from the heavens, drenching me;
downpour, shower, drizzle.
Umbrella memory
doesn’t dampen dust
You frost, cold and white,
that once lay.
Covering the fields, chilling me;
your kiss hard underfoot.
Winter boot memory
now walking in dust
And you the snow, you
fall no more?
Stinging my face, red cold my nose;
freezing, numbing my hands.
Sheepskin glove memory,
tracing in the dust.
From you the sun, where
can I hide?
From your lofty perch, glaring;
shrivelling, withering.
Once green world memory,
now turning to dust.
Spring morning
Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?
As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.
“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.
Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.
Getting dizzy with it
He called out and tried to raise his right arm. Joe felt his stomach roll like a wind-tossed rowboat as he opened his eyes and opted to close them again. His head spun, and waltzed around the elevator in his stomach. He tried to speak but no words came, sobbing instead of shouting out and forced himself to roll over onto his back but it made it worse; he turned over again and succeeded in waving his hand, surely someone would notice. He needed and pleaded help.
He felt someone make a grab for one of his writhing legs and fingers grasped his foot. Something was happening; his head was starting to feel attached once more and his stomach gave in to lazy rolls. He opened one eye, the world continued to dance around him but it was slowing, he could see that. Lying face down he edged himself backwards, his feet finding nothing but air for a few seconds before touching the ground. He tried to stand but his legs gave way and he fell, and let his body find the cold, hard comfort of the ground.
He heard laughter as he rummaged in his pocket for a two-pound coin then handed it over. The boys from year ten had already found another victim.
“Oi shorty, bet ya two quid you can’t stay on the roundabout for five minutes.”
Shadowplay
Living in a daily world of imaginary conflicts, in which the tide of others washed and pushed against him, He lived ever in anger’s twilight. The anger simmered, threatening to boil over but not quite managing to do so. In some ways it would have been better if it had.
In his make-believe world in which everything was a hurt against him, either directly or indirectly, he no longer lived; not in the true sense of the word. Whereas sensibility to his condition was heightened, other important aspects of his character were made obtuse. Happiness was an emotion felt by others. His anger would obtund any sense of enjoyment or achievement and his spiral continued downwards.
The world outside is bright
Spring fills the air
The fields and the trees are colour
Animals awaken from winter slumber
But within him the winter remained
And for him the clocks unchanged
He slivered on ice
where others walked on grass
He shivered with cold
while others warmed to the sun
He withered, his face white
when others danced with new life
He lingered in the shadows
whilst others cavorted in the long,
joyful hours of sunlight
He revered in his head
his sufferance in a world
where hurts imaginary
and conflicts obtusely
Beat him to the ground
into the dust, to be found
Where maybe hope one day
will bring him out;
out into the world again.
Depression can take manifest itself in various guises, this I know from personal experience. Whilst at the height of my chronic insomnia 4 years ago the hospital put it down to depression which, personally, I couldn’t understand as there was no real motive, so I believed. I just thought it was the other way around – that I was shot to pieces in the head, imagining scenarios which weren’t there simply because I didn’t sleep. Thankfully, with loving support and no lack of determination, I managed to untangle myself from the shadow-spectre of this awful and destructive condition.
During last 4 years I’ve started writing, which is a therapy in itself. I still don’t sleep anywhere near the recommended 8 hours but whoever recommends this probably has nothing to do all day. The above, in a very rough form, has been around quite a while, probably written during ‘recovery’ stage. Ordinarily I avoid personally-related posts, but this is different – I want that reminder there. I want to remind myself of where I was and where I am and be thankful for it.
C.
p.s. – Shadowplay is a track by Joy Division from their “Unknown Pleasures” album. It just seemed apt in this case.
Flash Fiction Friday 132: Where There Is Hope There Is Hunger by Christopher Farley
Spring is now in full swing and I’m still writing with winter as a background. I think I need to see the sea…
As ever, thank you Morgen.
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and thirty-second piece in this series. This week’s is a 420-worder by Christopher Farley. This story will be podcasted in episode 40 (with two other stories and some 6-worders) on Sunday 25th May.
Where There Is Hope There Is Hunger
The bees were the first noticeable difference. Within just a few years there weren’t any. The pollen must have been modified in the same way the plants had been. The honey stocks fell quicker than a suicidal stockbroker after a Wall Street crash. They told us to be patient and that they would replenish the honey from laboratory stock, which they did. I don’t know what the hell it was made from but it was soft, runny and sweet, so I guess some people were happy. However, honey wasn’t the biggest problem; after all, we had sugar if we had the money…
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This cold dark night
Firelight, flame dance
shadow tango, flicker bright
Light, blaze and burn away
the cold, dark winter night
The cold black winter night
of frost, snow and ice
of chilled bones gently warmed,
reading by the firelight
Reading by the firelight
Shadow tango, pages white
Let your warmth envelope me
and burn away this cold, dark night
Whereabouts
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My Words, My World 