This Is The One

I don't write too many love stories, but here's one that got published a few years back...

I  fell  in  love  with  Amanda  Reece  on  the  first  day  of  secondary  school.  I  was  twelve. Do  not  misunderstand  this  declaration  of  Love,  this  was  not  some  haphazard  decision  arrived  upon  while  queing  for  sweets,  some  awkard  teenage  crush;  this  was  It.

It  was  in  Art  I  believe,  second  period.  I  sat,  listening  to  the  register,  attempting  to  put  names  to  so  many  new  faces...Julie  Lemon,  Martin  Locke,  Andrew  Parker  and  then...Amanda  Reece.

Teacher  stopped.  No  reply.

Suzanne  Dixon  stepped  in.

"She's  not  coming  to  this  school  sir.  She's  moved."

"Oh.  Right.  Thanks."  said  teacher,  and  scratched  her  away  forever  with  his  biro.

As  soon  as  I  heard  her  name  I  knew,  I  knew  this  was  the  girl  I  was  going  to  be  with.

Her  not  even  being  at  my  school  simply  made  her  all  the  more  attractive, she  maintained  a  mystique  and  allure  that  most  of  the  other  girls  very  quickly  lost.  She  alone  remained  aloof,  distant,  unattainable.

So  unattainable  in  fact,  that  she  wasn't  even  there.

Erased  from  our  register,  she  quickly  faded  from  the  minds  of  my  classmates,  but  her  name  was  already  burned  across  my  heart.  And  I  knew,  as  you  do,  that  we  would  be  together.  Eventually.  I  could  wait.

And  while  I  waited, I  passed  the  time  with  a  very  short  list  of  girlfriends.  An  average  of  just under one  partner  per  year.  We'd  be  ecstatically  happy  for  a  period  of  no  less  than  two  weeks  and  no  more  than  three months.  The  time  difference  between  each  of  my  secondary  school  girlfriends  ensured  that  every  time  I  returned  to  the  dating  game,  the  definition  of  what  was  considered  acceptable  behaviour  had  always  changed. Thus  I  progressed  across  the  sexual  arena  in  a  series  of  well  timed  skirmishes,  always  surprised  to  find  that  so  much  ground  had  been  gained  in  previous  campaigns.  To  me  therefore,  sex  seemed  to  occur  more  quickly  than  it  actually  did.  Like  time  lapse  pornography.  Hand  holding  to  bashful  embraces.  Bashful  embraces to  french  kissing.  French  kissing  to  ineffectual  groping.  Groping  to  more  prolonged  fumbling.  And  then  on  to  capture  the  flag.  My  lack  of  any  physical  prowess  seemed  to  ensure  that  I  was  never  the first  team  to  capture  the  flag,  but  I  was  always  just  grateful  for  being  given  the  chance  to  compete.

I  left  school and  began  the  lengthy  process  of  avoiding  going  to  university,  punctuating  the  desolation  of  my  early  twenties  with  a  number  of  dead  end  relationships. 

And  then  when  I  was  twenty  three,  I  got  engaged. 

It  was  very  fashionable  at  the  time,  and  I  had  reached a  stage  in  my  life  where  the  aching  reproductive  panic  of  those  around  me  had  begun  to  take  it's  toll. 

My  fiance  was  Suzanne  Dixon,  the  girl  who  had  first  placed  Amanda  tantalisingly  out  of  reach.

She  had  gone  to  university  and  gotten  herself  a  degree  in  something  which  allowed  her  to  earn  professional money.  I  couldn't  honestly  tell  you  what  her  job  was.  But  she  was  A  Professional  at  it.

The  engagement  crept  up  on  me,  and  took  me  a  little  by  surprise.  The  proposal  seemed  to  fall  out  of  my  mouth  like  rogue  chewing  gum,  as  if  I  hadn't  quite  finished with  it,  or  I'd  been  storing  it  in  there  for  later  use.  I  think  to  be  fair,  we  were  both  of  us  a  little  taken  aback,  but  as  neither  of  us  could  think  of  a  good  enough  reason  not  to get  engaged,  we  pushed  on  with  all  the  bloody  mindedness  of  the  young  and stupid.   

The  wedding  preparations  went  on  around  me,  a  lace  tornado,  with  me  the  eye  of  the  storm.

What  struck  me  as  time  went  on  was how  little  I  had  to  do  with  it  all.  Getting  ready  for  the  happiest  day  of  my  life  was  a  very  isolatory  experience.  Gradually,  the  wedding  eclipsed  our  actual  relationship,  and  we  happily  latched  onto  it  as  something  to  talk  about  during  the  increasingly  regular  silences.   We  would  talk  about  our  wedding,  other  weddings  and  people  we  thought  would  probably  have  weddings  soon.

Each  Saturday,  religiously,  Suzanne  would  purchase  the local  paper  and  examine  the  wedding  photos  of  the  recently  hitched.  I  would  smile  and  nod,  or  shake  my  head  disapprovingly  as  the  situation  demanded.  One  Saturday  she  said

"Look!  It's  Amanda  Reece!  I  haven't  seen  her  for  years."

For  well  over  a  decade  I  had  loved  Amanda  from  a  distance  which  had  precluded  any  visual  contact.  Here,  now, I  was  about  to  see  the  love  of  my  life  for  the  first  time.  But  I  had  to  be  careful  not  to  make  it  too obvious.

"Amanda  Reece?"  I  said  "She  was  supposed  to come  to our  school  wasn't  she?"

"Yeah  that's  right.  She  was  my  best  friend  in  primary.  I  can't  remember  when  I  last  saw  her."

Suzanne  was  still  holding  the  paper,  and  so  I  could  not  yet  see.

"She's  married Andrew  McIntyre!  Remember  him?"

"No."  I  said  "Was  he  at  our  school?"

"For  about  a  month.  He  got  suspended  for  stealing  craft  knives.  And  then  just  never  came  back."

"Well  he  sounds  charming.  Let's  see."

Mercifully,  Suzanne  just  turned  the  newspaper  around  to  let  me  see  it,  had  she  handed  me  it, she  would  have  doubtless  noted  the  incessant  shaking  of  my  hands.  There  followed  a  brief  period  of  tunnel  vision;  Suzanne,  my  room,  the  rest  of  the  world  all  blurred  and  swirled  away,  until  only  she  remained,  the  light at  the  end  of  this  tunnel.  Finally  visible.

I  had  long  prepared  myself  for  the  day  when  I  finally  saw  her,  knowing  that  she could  never  be  the  idealised  beauty  I  had  allowed  her  to become.  And  sure  enough,  she  wasn't.

Her  hair  was  a  little  shorter  than  I  had  imagined,  and  more  blonde  than  brown.  Her  lips  looked  more  or  less  right  and  she  was  maybe  a  little  taller  than  me.  But  it  was  her.  Amanda.

She  was  smiling,  just.  But  it  was  an  empty  smile,  a  drawn  on  smile.  A  smile  for  the  cameras.  Full of  teeth  and  lipgloss,  signifying  nothing.  She  wasn't  happy.  And  how  could  she  be  happy?  We  were  not  together.  And  now  how  could  we  be?

It  was  over.  And  it  never  really  began.

Following  this  abysmal  revelation,  even  the  lacklustre  soda  stream  sparkle  fizzled  out  of   Suzanne  and  I's  relationship,  and  we broke  off  our  engagement  just  in  time for  Christmas. It was cheaper that way. I  spent  New  Year  attempting  to  reach  her  on  the  phone  in  order  that  we  could  get  together  and  have  bad  idea  sex.  Afterwards  we  would  both  feel  guilty  and  ridiculous,  but  in  the  short  term  New Year  wouldn't  be  so  cold  and  lonely.  She never  returned my  calls.

All  through  the  bitter  January,  I  consoled  myself  that  everything  that  had  happened  actually  made  a  twisted  kind  of  sense;  I  had  been  with  the  wrong  partner,  and  now  I  was  free,  someday,  Amanda  would  be  free  too.  I  would  wait.

Two  years  later,  Amanda  Reece  died.

She  was  hit  by  a  car  coming  out  of  Tesco's.  She  was  six  months  pregnant.

It  was  a  taxi  that  hit  her,  the  driver  was  Martin  Locke,  another  classmate  Amanda  never  met.

He  killed  himself  about  a  fortnight  later.

I  attended  her  funeral  of  course,  I  stood  right  at  the  back,  but  I  could  still  hear  Andrew  sobbing.

I  didn't  go  to  the  cemetery,  instead  I  spent  the  day  walking  around  the  streets  where  I  so  dilligently  misspent  my  youth,  eventually  coming  to  rest  outside  my  old  school. I  sat  for  awhile  by  the  bins  and  had  a  brief  but  cathartic  cry.

Afterwards,  lost  and  confused,  I  wandered  into  a  pub,  firmly  intending  to  accentuate  my  misery  by  getting  bitterly  drunk.  Across  the  years  of  my  unrequited  love,  I  had  become  an  adept  in  the  art  of  wallowing. The pub  was  busy  and  grey,  but  as  I  returned  from  the  bar,  two  girls  were  just  leaving  their  table  and  I  grabbed  it  immediately.

The  table  presented  me  with  a  decent  vantage  point  with  which  to  dip  into  the  lives  of  those  scattered  around  the  room.  And  they  all  seemed  to  be  happy  but  me.  Groups  of  friends,  couples,  simply  enjoying  themselves  without  having  to  concentrate.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt I had  no  agenda, or worse, no excuse.  The  girl  I  was  meant  to  be  with  had  lived  and  died, before  I'd  even  had  the  chance  to  meet  her.  I  sulked  into  my  vodka  and  settled  down  for  a  life  alone.

This  was  when  one  of  the  tables  previous  tenants  reappeared. 

"Excuse  me."  she  said.

"Sorry?"

"Did  I  leave  my  purse  here  a  minute  ago?"

"I  don't...I'll  see..."

Sure enough,  there  it  was,  on  the  chair  next  to  mine.

"There  you  go."  I  said,  attempting a winning smile,  but  instead  managing  a  kind  of  tortured  grimace.

"Thanks."  she  said,  and  turned  to  leave.  But  then,  for  some  reason,  she  turned  back  around.

"You  work  in  that  art  store  don't  you?"  she  said.

"Yes."  I  said.

"I've  seen  you  down  there.  Nice  shop."

"Yeah  it's  a  great  place  to  work.  Terrible  hours,  shit  pay,  good  pictures."

She  laughed.

"Hey  listen,"  I  said  "D'you  want  a  drink  or  something?  Or  is  your  friend  waiting..."

"No.  No  she's  gone  home."  she  smiled  "A  drink  would be  nice."  

"Great."  I  said.  "Oh...I'm  Steven  by  the  way." 

"Hello  Steven."  she  said.  "I'm  Amanda.  Amanda  Reece."

.

Her  hair  was  a  little  longer  than  the  late  Amanda's,  and  more  brown  than  blonde.  Her  lips  were  perfect  and  she  was  about  as  short  as me.  It  was  definetly, suddenly her. Amanda.

I'm not the only person to accidently spend some  of  my  life  in  love  with  the  wrong  person,  but  now,  my  course  was  clear. We  moved  in  together  within  the  month,  entirely  assured  that  we  should  be  together. Love,  not  at  first  sight,  but  sound,  the  resonance  of  this  moment  echoing  fifteen  years  back  in  time  to  my  art  class.  Where  I  would  promptly  put  a  name  to  the  wrong  face.

I  saw it  all,  a  mirror  reflecting  endlessly  upon  itself  stretching  back  across  my  life,  showing  me  how  things  would be. My  past,  our  future,  forever  orbitting  the  burning  brilliance  of  this  moment. 

Fate does not wait for you. Fate is busy and has a lot on right now. So you  must  seek  Fate  out,  stand  in  a  million  wrong  places  at  the  incorrect  time,  battle  through  the  dark  days  which  erode  your  vision  of  how  things  will  be.  And  when  you  find  Fate,  as  you  will,  hold  it,  shape  it,  make  it  your  own. Let  there  be  no  doubt  in  the  resolution  of  your  future, let  there  be  no  escape  from  this  wonderous  self  fulfilling  prophecy.

And  most  of  all,  let  there  be  love.

A Bit of The Moon!

This was the first Christmas poem I wrote for my children. It accompanied a genuine purchase of lunar property. I believe land is now also available on Mars, assuming of course you are prepared to take it by force from the martians. Anyway, I still have all the documentation, and am assuming that this land purchase is legally binding and therefore when we eventually move into terraforming we'll be quids in. Check out some cool Christmas in Space photoshoppings here..


What should I get you for Christmas?

A new rattle? A carved silver spoon?

Never mind a new toy, you’re a lucky wee boy

I got you a bit of the moon!

I could’ve got you a big woolly mammoth

Or a hunting hat made from raccoon.

But there’ll be no fur for you young sir

I’ve got you a bit of the moon.

I could’ve got you a trip on a pirate ship

On the second last fortnight in June.

But no treasure yet, no parrots for pets,

See I’ve got you a bit of the moon.

How about a Tibetan safari?

In a marvellous hot air balloon?

But we’ll see yeti later, Kung Fu monks can just wait,

Cos I’ve got you a bit of the moon!

And maybe one day, you’ll fly away

To the sea of tranquillity.

You’ll build a wee home inside of a dome

And we’ll fly up to your house for tea.

Steampunk Love Poem

Rounding off a wee informal month of scifi style postings, I just found this in an old fanzine I used to produce called "refractor"; it was a sort of a conspiracy zine, except I just made up all the conspiracies in it...my favourite was one about the British attempting to use the power of voodoo during the second world war. I stopped doing it when it became clear to me from the disturbing letters and phonecalls I was getting, from the zines readers, that some people really believed what I was saying.

Anyway, a steampunk love poem...

Hearts Without Pistons

That day

The smog hung like a shroud,

Draped grimly

Over the greying decay

Of slowly rusting streets,

And green smoke

From the armament factories

Swirled sickly through gaping chimneys,

Cutting stinking lime streaks

Across the five o’clock sky.

In the park

A circus

Too big for fleas

Entertained the factory children

With clockwork clowns.

“They’ll be thinking for themselves soon.”

“The children?”

“No. The clowns. And the Policemen.

And the Priests.

And all the other tin men

With their wind up hearts.”

The next shift of children arrive

In time to watch the trapeze.

Timing so precise,

No one will ever fall.

At 8pm

A rocket roars upwards,

Gleaming brass and shining copper,

Trailing purple flames.

And inside,

The two lovers

Escaping to somewhere more real.


And if steampunk is yer thing, you may enjoy reading about the adventures of "the robot James Watt built", Tin Jimmy...

Doctor Who - Red Letter Day

The disappearances had been going on for some time before myself and the other gentleman became involved. On many occasions since, I have cursed the day I ever set foot in the wretched bookshop – certainly my nerves have never fully recovered. There are still those who recognise me in the street, glancing askance, inferring upon me a sinister notoriety I scarcely deserve. For that reason, I have resolved to record my own version of events, in the hope that it will go some way to drawing a line under the whole affair. Perhaps too, it will convince some of those who left my life that it may yet be safe to return.

The Bookshop in question enjoyed a reputation in the town for sourcing rare and unusual editions. It was equally famed for the haphazard nature of its collections and so I had set aside a day for my explorations. I was looking for a particular copy of “Peter Pan and Wendy” to gift to Miriam – it had been her favourite book as a child – and as I wandered leisurely in and out of the rickety wooden maze of shelving and book stacks, I became gradually aware of being watched. I looked around, but seeing no one, I continued my deliberations. Shortly thereafter the feeling came upon me once more, and this time, I could also hear a whispering – again, not uncommon within the more respectable bookshops, but as I looked around, there was still no one to be seen. I rang the bell upon the counter for service, more for the reassurance of company than assistance, and as if in response there came a low guttural giggle. There was then within me, a very sudden and inexplicable panic, a tremendous overpowering urge to flee, and so, with scant regard to who might see me, I ran foolishly towards the door, intent on leaving immediately. But the door was no longer there.

At first, assuming I had become confused and inexplicably lost my bearings in a small city bookshop, I looked around, expecting the door to be elsewhere. It was then that I saw the man sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Odd isn’t it?” said the gentleman “That’s where I was sure the door was as well.”

I politely nodded, hoping my acknowledgement would not be taken as an invitation to further conversation. Naturally it was.

“Sorry.” He said “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m the Doctor. Good afternoon. Is it still afternoon? You lose track of time in bookshops…”

“No…it’s before eleven.”

“Ah…then is it still Tuesday?”

“Not until tomorrow. Excuse me.”

I wandered across the room, still looking hopefully for the door, no longer interested in buying anything this shop had to offer.

“At least a week then. No wonder I’m getting tired.”

I was embarrassed and annoyed and in no mood for further nonsense from the gentleman.

“What’s this all about?” I said “Were you the one laughing just now?”

“No. No I don’t find our situation remotely funny.” He said “And that feeling? Like you’re being watched? I feel that too. Something’s watching both of us – presumably the same something that has hidden the door.”

“Don’t be ridiculous” I said, intent on maintaining some semblance of normality “I stepped through the door not 5 minutes ago…I’ve become disorientated is all.”

The Doctor smiled.

“Possibly. Though again….that’s how I tried to rationalise it. Is it really that big a bookshop d’you think?”

I looked again, I was so certain; I ran my hands over the wall as if expecting it to give way, revealing one of those secret passages so popular in gothic fiction.

“This was the door.”

“And yet…it isn’t there.”

The panic came again, this time finally resolving itself into terror. I grabbed at one of the shelves to steady myself.

“I only came in here for a gift for my fiancés birthday.”

The Doctor stared at me for a moment, then, clearly having reached some sort of decision he smiled and leaped up from the floor, hand extended.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Harper. Maxwell Harper.”

“How do you do Harper. Glad you’re here. And no. I don’t know the way out either.” 

Hands still shaking, I passed the Doctor my flask, but he declined.

“Unlike yourself Harper, I didn’t actually come here looking for books. I was looking for people. Missing people.”

Here finally, was something I could understand, something real.

“You’re investigating the disappearances?”

“I was. What do you know?”

“No more than has been in the papers.”

By this stage you may recall that more than twenty people had apparently vanished over the preceding fortnight. It would be fair to say that it’s very likely more than twenty people vanish every day in London, people who are already invisible, destitute and alone. This twenty, who had more obviously vanished, were well heeled city folk. The presence of the gentleman and the strangeness of our situation suddenly put an altogether different complexion upon the matter.

“You think the bookshop has something to do with the disappearances?”

“I know it has. Listen.”

I was first aware of a low moaning, then a whispering

“It’s the books.” Said The Doctor “There are ghosts in the books.”

“Ghosts! Please don’t tell me you’re one of those dreadful spritualists.”

The Doctor hushed me, and I heard once again the strange whispering I had heard before. This time though, the voices were more distinct, sad, some crying, all talking at once without order or reason, as if desperate to be heard.

“Can you hear them? The books are talking Harper. I’ve been hearing them for hours now.” 

He lifted a book from the nearest shelf, ran his fingers carefully along the cover, then lifted it up to his face, first sniffing at it, then listening to it as if it were a shell found at the seaside. His face darkened.

“Something very bad is happening here Harper. These aren’t just books.”

He handed me the book. It had no title. I carefully opened it; the pages were of a heavy yellow vellum, more suitable for manuscript. Indeed, that seemed to be what it was, for across every page the words were scrawled in a deep angry red, like scars across the parchment. Realisation came then, and I dropped the book in horror and disgust. The Doctor carefully picked it up and respectfully returned it to its resting place on the nearest shelf.

“The books are…written in blood?”

“I’m afraid its rather worse than that. Whoever has been making the books doesn’t believe in wasting anything at all. And we need to put a stop to that.” 

I’m sure my face betrayed my terror, my cowardice, for he brightened then, as if resolving to reassure me by his own example.

“There’s a door back here I can’t get opened. Maybe if we give it a go together eh?”

We pushed at the door and finally it gave way, revealing stairs leading down towards the cellar. Below, burning torches, bathed the room in a low red flickering light. I will not pretend I took the first steps down those stairs. Neither did I run, much as every part of my being seemed to scream at me to do so. 

We surveyed the room, even in the poor light the cogs and grinders of some awful machine could be seen, stretching and stitching the terrible leather of those bindings. The Doctor was staring into the corner. As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I could make out a hunched figure. The shape shuffled and giggled.

“Hello there! I’m The Doctor, I’m a…”

“Time Lord, yes. I gathered. I’ve been watching you wander around my shop for days. I cannot wait to write your story.”

The figure kept his back to us, still clearly busying himself with some unpleasant task.

“Oh there was no need to be shy. You could have come and said hello…I don’t bite. Which I’m guessing is probably more than can be said for you.”

The man turned and stepped out from the shadows into the dim red light of the workshop. He was a fat, unpleasant looking fellow, wearing the telescopic glasses jewellers use for precision work.

“This is my friend Mr Maxwell Harper. And you are?”

“A simple craftsman.”

He gestured around the room.

“Do you like my machines? Certainly they can help you create…but you must of course have the spark of imagination to start with.” He grinned. “And the right materials.”

“You’re too modest.” Said The Doctor “Operating this level of technology takes more than craftsmanship Mister..?”

“On this world, I am but the nib.”

“Mr Nib.”

He stepped forward again, just far enough that we were able to see he was brandishing a number of knives.

“There are always collectors on the look out for something new and different. My books from this planet are very much in vogue in certain circles.”

“And you use this machine to what? Unpick and extrapolate their life and memories?”

“As a starting point.” Said Nib “Then I embellish the stories slightly. More glamour, more pain. My collectors can only take so much of the mundanity of this tedious little planet. But they do love the misery. The sorrow.”

The Doctor lifted a book.

“But these are people….in every possible sense.”

“Yes. That’s rather the unique selling point Doctor. You however, will be a true original. It’s whether you are one oversized edition or an eight volume set.”

All the while they had been talking, I continued to look desperately around the room for something, anything that could aid us in escaping. Certainly there were no other obvious exits from the cellar, only his machines and the endless dark shelves, rows and rows of unread lives, unlived. It became clear to me then, that far more than twenty souls had become the focus of Nib’s craft. 

All pretence of polite conversation now dropped, Nib circled The Doctor in predatory excitement.

“You will be my finest work. Truly priceless. Timeless.”

Nib lunged for The Doctor, blades outstretched and instinctively The Doctor shielded himself with the book he was holding. As the knives plunged in, there was a shriek then what sounded like a sigh before the book crumbled into pieces.

“No!” cried Nib.

Seizing his opportunity, The Doctor pushed Nib back towards the machinery and then grabbed one of the torches from the wall.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this Harper…burn the books!” he cried “It’s the only way to free them.”

I flailed around, grabbing as many of the braziers from the wall as possible, and setting them to the shelves while the Doctor continued to fight off the fiend who had written them. 

As each book took flame, there was a terrible screaming, a wailing release from the pain and the eternal sadness of what might have been. Not undaunted, but certainly undeterred, I visited fire upon each and every one of the damnable volumes. The cellar walls were now aflame, and the shelves began to crack and topple. I caught sight of The Doctor attempting to haul Nib back, but he charged into the flames as if somehow expecting to rescue his abysmal machines. There was fire all around and amidst the burning books, a constant unearthly howling. In those final moments, The Doctor dragged me back up the stairs. By now, blackened and coughing, I was sure my own story was coming to an end. The Doctor smiled sadly as everything began to blur..

“You know, my birthday always seems to end up like this.” he said, and then he handed me a book.

It was two days later that I was discovered unconscious in the scorched rubble of the bookshop, surrounded by the bones of the missing, still holding the book The Doctor had given me. My own distressed and dishevelled state went some way to convincing the authorities of my innocence – but only just. In any case, my association, however unfortunate with the horrific bookshop murders was enough to immediately distance me from polite society. 

I spent months unable even to leave my house, my only comfort, the book given to me by The Doctor. For days I would grip it, as if to anchor myself to this world lest I once again drifted into his. But those days are behind me now, and I am ready to give it to Miriam, for whom it was intended, if she will but pass my way again.

There are loads of sites featuring "fanfic", stories, books and novels based on other people's creations; some really REALLY weird stuff out there, but loads of cool stuff too. This was my entry into a Doctor Who competition run by audiobook company Big Finish a few years ago. As you may have guessed...it did not win. But it was right good fun to write. For the record, its meant to be the Paul McGann version of the Doctor. But yknow...if you have to explain it...

Terminus

This is somewhere between vanity press and a labour of love.

I've loved HG Wells "The War of the Worlds" since I was 8 years old. It's the book that keeps on giving, and I've read it pretty much every year of my life since then. No really.

In the mid 90s, when conspiracy theory and aliens and all that malarkey were popular, I decided to write a sort of a sequel, something many other people have attempted. My favourite is Christopher Priest's "The Space Machine".

I wanted it to be illustrated, like this version I had read when I was younger that terrified the life out of me. So if nothing else, working on this was how I properly got to know my friend (and artist) Ross, who among other less impressive feats, introduced me to my future wife. So what I'm saying is, even if you cant be bothered reading the whole story, metaphorically it has a happy ending.


Terminus

National Poetry Day - Dad's Time Machine

To celebrate National Poetry Day, poems across all the blogs...

The theme for National Poetry Day is actually "Games", this poem is one I wrote for my wee boy Connor a few years ago now...just silly.

“Look!” said Dad
“Everyone come and see,
It’s my fantastic, wonderful
Time machine!”

And it had
Wheels that went whoosh,
And springs that went ping,
Ten levers for pulling
And a bell that went bing.
And a big round blue button
That when pressed it, went pop
And right at the top
Going tick tock
A clock.

“We could go back to last Christmas
And meet old Saint Nick
We can fly on to next Thursday
Come on! Let’s go! Quick!"

So we all jumped in and the clock went
BONG!
And dad said “Oh no!
I’ve set the time wrong.
It’s not going to take us
To meet Santa Claus
We’re going right back to see
Dinosaurs!”

The wheels went whoosh.
The springs went ping.
The lights all went out
We could not see a thing.
And we shuddered
And shoogled.
We went in, out and round.
We wibbled
And wobbled
We went up, under and down.

Then..a big BUMP.
We stopped
With a thump.
All the lights came on again
And a roaring made us
Jump.

Out of the trees came
A big T-Rex!
With sharp shiny teeth
Wearing huge purple specs.

Down from the sky came
A pteranadon!
Flapping his wings
Which had pink mittens on.

Over the hill came
A triceratops!
With big pointy horns
And polkadot socks.

And they all stood around
With their horns, wings and teeth
And dad said “Hello!
Would you all like some sweets?”

We counted out sweeties.
One. Two. Three.
There were some for the dinosaurs
And some left for me.

Then we all said goodbye
To our dinosaur friends.
The clock went BONG
We were off again!

Utopia

See me worn down

See me broken

See my heart and mind decay.

See me empty

See me frozen

See my spirit burned away.

See me losing

See me beaten

See my plans corrode and rust.

See me over

See me ended

See my corpse rot into dust.

I am rebuilt

I am reborn

I will not bow to lies.

I am focussed

I am ready

I will tear down tired skies.

I am stronger

I am truer

I will blaze and flare with love.

I am patient

I am heartfelt

I will see and soar above.

I am Atlantis rising

I am here to be again.

I am sunrise on a morning

That now will never end.