I'm going to forgo my usual rant about how hard the words were this week in favour of an invitation to anyone reading this to come and join in the fun. If it were not for Raven's Wordzzles, I would have run out of stuff to write ages ago. Striving to include the set words naturally in a piece of writing is a really good challenge for the old creativity and mental agility. If you would like to play this excellent creativity-stimulating game, go here for rules, guidance and links to other players.
The mini (gone fishing, privacy, noticeable, customary, tooth ache, disposable)
This is part of an ongoing story about a young blind seer who has had a vision of danger befalling a young man. She arranges to anonymously fund a holiday for him - only to discover she's sent him to the place where the danger was supposed to be. She catches up with him and they talk. Suddenly, a car comes careering round the corner of the road and, in his attampt to push the blind lady out of its path, the young man in injured. He wakes in hospital, having lost his memory. His only visitor thus far has been the seer.
The Young man speaks...
My sister has arrived at last! Irene has been kind enough to step outside to give us some privacy for our reunion. Now that she’s here in the flesh, a whole raft of memories has beached itself and disembarked into my brain, my life is coming back at last. It’s not long before we fall into our customary ways with each other . She still nags me like a bad tooth ache (but with a noticeable reduction in ferocity now), and I still nod and say um in all the right places with two little ‘gone fishing’ signs in my eyes all the while. It’s how we roll. It turns out that she has been trying to get here for days but had to arrange someone to look after her kids: her husband was out of town on a sales conference for a week. What there is about the sale of disposable toothbrushes that takes a whole week to discuss is a mystery to me. After a while, Irene returns, knocking tentatively, afraid to interrupt. It’s OK though. Everything’s ok now.
The 10-worder (clam chowder, chapter and verse, mega sale, arguably, tribe, shake a leg, platform, smelly shoes, gray hair, dangling participle)
New to Harold? The summary is here.
“Everybody OK?” Mercury looked around, the noise of the blast still ringing in his ears.
The rest of the team seemed to be pretty much unscathed apart from a couple of minor cuts caused by flying glass fragments. They had all been fairly well shielded from the main brunt of the explosion by the Osprey building itself, but its windows had shattered, raining down little pieces of grimy glass.
“What the hell was that?” demanded Prada, shaking bits out of her hair.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” came Teatime’s exasperated voice from down by her feet.
“There was a bomb in the warehouse.”
“A bomb?”
“Yes! You know: tick-tick-boom. A bomb!” Teatime jumped up onto a pile of boxes (McKinley’s Organic Clam Chowder) which provided a more convenient platform from which to address these maddeningly thick-headed humans. “Someone left us a little present, it seems. Harold found it.”
“And ran off to save itself. “ said India sourly, “Nice.”
“No!” cried Teatime, irritated. “He ran off with the bomb to save us!“
The wail of a police siren insinuated itself into the surprised silence.
“Look, we can’t afford to be found here,” said Mercury, “Let’s go find that demon and get out of here. Shake a leg, people!”
Harold carefully levered himself up into a sitting position, causing little avalanches of dust and debris to cascade off him. He was nowhere near fully recovered yet, but the sound of sirens had started up somewhere in the distance and was getting louder. While he didn’t know exactly what would happen if one of his tribe were to fall into the hands of human law enforcement, he had no doubt that if such a thing were to happen, awkwardness would certainly ensue. He had better get out of here and quickly.
Part of a nearby wall had come down in an untidy pile onto his left foot and lower leg, pinning it to the ground. Sighing, he set to work as quickly and carefully as possible removing the bricks one by one and tossing them aside. They seemed ridiculously heavy in his weakened state. He hoped the humans and Teatime were all safe, that he had got the bomb far enough away and that this had not all been for nothing. Running off with the bomb like that was arguably the most reckless course of action in the circumstances – he might have triggered it himself. Somehow, though, it had seemed exactly the right thing to do and there had been no time to give the humans chapter and verse on the situation anyway.
He wondered if they’d come looking for him or just simply write him off. If the latter, a little voice in his head whispered, he’d be free to do as he pleased, maybe find a quiet little town somewhere, settle down, get a job, compose jazz pieces in his spare time with pretentious names like Blue Dangling Participle, Noetic Concordance or Purity of Possibility. He would stay out of everyone’s way, not attract any attention. After a few years he could give himself gray hair and a few wrinkles to allay suspicion. A quiet life, now that was an appealing thought.
The pile of bricks was getting gradually smaller. Soon he’d be able to get his foot out.
No, he told himself, disembarking reluctantly from the rather pleasant train of thought he’d been riding, the OGS humans would come looking, definitely. They would know he couldn’t have been killed by a mere explosion. He was also fairly certain that Agent India wouldn’t let them leave a loose end like that. No, they’d be here any minute with that useful car of theirs. His foot emerged from under the bricks, decidedly the worse for wear. They’d better be: in his current condition an untidy stagger would be the best he could manage.
“Here!” said Mercury “Turn left and don’t drive over the – “
The car’s tyres crunched over a bent and battered sign - Tired of smelly shoes? Odour-Eater Mega Sale Now On! – flattening it out once more.
“Never mind.”
“We’re definitely getting closer,” said Othello from the passenger seat. “There’s much more debris down here.”
“How can you tell?” asked Prada, sarcastically, “This whole neighbourhood looks like someone blew it up long before we got here. I bet even the rats have moved to a better area.”
“That demon can’t have got too far away, there wasn’t enough time.” said Othello. “It must be around here somewhere. Keep looking”
Harold heard the welcome roar of the approaching engine. He got to his feet and began hobbling towards it. At last! Those sirens were getting decidedly too close for comfort. When the vehicle appeared, though, Harold was dismayed to see it was not the OGS car – not a car at all, in fact, but a motorcycle. It was piloted by a rider in black leathers whose features were hidden by a full-face helmet. Harold glanced around quickly for possible motorcycle-proof escape routes, but none presented themselves. There wasn’t time anyway. The machine roared to a stop, blocking his way before he could do more than stagger a few feet. The rider jerked his thumb at the pillion seat behind him.
“ Jump on,” he ordered, “The police are almost here.”
Seeing no other option, Harold clambered aboard and they roared off into the night.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Write Your Password on a Post-It and Stick it to Your Monitor, you idiot!
The phone goes. I pick it up. "Hello, IT Support."
"Er, yeah, hi," says the voice on the other end, "Erm, could you do me a favour and reset my password on the Klueless Decision Support server? Hehe, I've locked myself out – again."
I sigh. This is the third time this week.
"Ok," I say, I'll email you the new password (mental note: set it to '1mad1ckh3ad').
I reset his password and mail it. He'll be back, I just know it.
This happens a fair bit in my line of work, and it annoys me. OK, we all get a bit forgetful from time to time, but some folks seem to have a very localised and specific form of amnesia in the area of passwords.
So I'm going to share something that will perhaps save you from annoying your IT Support crew and thus becoming the object of their everlasting scorn and hatred (we are a mean-minded lot, when all's said and done and, remember, we can get into your stuff, bwahahaha!).
You know that bit where they tell you never to write down your password? It's a great idea, right?
Yeah, except that a lot of systems these days insist on password complexity rules like not re-using any of your last 100,000 passwords, or having a password the same length as the human genome, which must include numbers, upper- and lowercase letters and special symbols like underlines, ampersands, Eygyptian hieroglyphics and so on. This makes for pretty difficult remembering, doesn't it?
So, here's how you can get away with writing down your password without leaving yourself vulnerable.
You password will be broken into two bits.
The first bit is a short (say four characters long) 'stub' which never changes. You must remember this part because you must never write it down or tell anyone what it is. Don't make it too obvious in case someone does actually guess it, or too obscure because you have to remember it. You can make the stub harder to guess by substituting numbers for some vowels like zero for O and three for E and so on. Try to make it meaningful and memorable.
The second part of your password is the bit that changes when a system insists you give it a new password. This is the bit you can safely write down.
For example, suppose my 'stub' was the name of your first ever pet, Freddie the fish. The 'stub' could be 'fr3d' (see we've already included a number to help with the complexity). Then we could stick an underscore on the end of the stub (adding more complexity) and then think of a suitable ending, say, 'summertime'.
The password would be fr3d_summertime. You could safely just write summertime in your notebook (or on a post-it stuck to your computer – always a favorite) and still no-one could use it to get into your stuff.
Simples!
"Er, yeah, hi," says the voice on the other end, "Erm, could you do me a favour and reset my password on the Klueless Decision Support server? Hehe, I've locked myself out – again."
I sigh. This is the third time this week.
"Ok," I say, I'll email you the new password (mental note: set it to '1mad1ckh3ad').
I reset his password and mail it. He'll be back, I just know it.
This happens a fair bit in my line of work, and it annoys me. OK, we all get a bit forgetful from time to time, but some folks seem to have a very localised and specific form of amnesia in the area of passwords.
So I'm going to share something that will perhaps save you from annoying your IT Support crew and thus becoming the object of their everlasting scorn and hatred (we are a mean-minded lot, when all's said and done and, remember, we can get into your stuff, bwahahaha!).
You know that bit where they tell you never to write down your password? It's a great idea, right?
Yeah, except that a lot of systems these days insist on password complexity rules like not re-using any of your last 100,000 passwords, or having a password the same length as the human genome, which must include numbers, upper- and lowercase letters and special symbols like underlines, ampersands, Eygyptian hieroglyphics and so on. This makes for pretty difficult remembering, doesn't it?
So, here's how you can get away with writing down your password without leaving yourself vulnerable.
You password will be broken into two bits.
The first bit is a short (say four characters long) 'stub' which never changes. You must remember this part because you must never write it down or tell anyone what it is. Don't make it too obvious in case someone does actually guess it, or too obscure because you have to remember it. You can make the stub harder to guess by substituting numbers for some vowels like zero for O and three for E and so on. Try to make it meaningful and memorable.
The second part of your password is the bit that changes when a system insists you give it a new password. This is the bit you can safely write down.
For example, suppose my 'stub' was the name of your first ever pet, Freddie the fish. The 'stub' could be 'fr3d' (see we've already included a number to help with the complexity). Then we could stick an underscore on the end of the stub (adding more complexity) and then think of a suitable ending, say, 'summertime'.
The password would be fr3d_summertime. You could safely just write summertime in your notebook (or on a post-it stuck to your computer – always a favorite) and still no-one could use it to get into your stuff.
Simples!
Sunday, 23 May 2010
The Poetry Bus is on Fire
This week's challenge really had me stumped. It was set by Terresa here.
Basically, we had to write something based on this picture.
Now, I'm not even sure what's going on in this picture. Is she fire-eating? Has a firework just exploded in her face? Does she have super-power dragon-breath?
Anyhoo, this is what I eventually came up with. Other firewalkers can be found on Terresa's blog (follow above link).
She is fire, she is fire and ice,
Burning bright and bitter cold,
Flaming red and arctic blue
Torn in two, torn in two.
She is ice, she is ice and fire,
Saving warmth and killing chill
Howling wind and homely hearth
Torn in half, torn in half.
He it was that drew the line
Equatored her heart,
And divided her.
(Yeah, I know equator isn't a verb, but this is poetry after all).
Basically, we had to write something based on this picture.
Now, I'm not even sure what's going on in this picture. Is she fire-eating? Has a firework just exploded in her face? Does she have super-power dragon-breath?
Anyhoo, this is what I eventually came up with. Other firewalkers can be found on Terresa's blog (follow above link).
She is fire, she is fire and ice,
Burning bright and bitter cold,
Flaming red and arctic blue
Torn in two, torn in two.
She is ice, she is ice and fire,
Saving warmth and killing chill
Howling wind and homely hearth
Torn in half, torn in half.
He it was that drew the line
Equatored her heart,
And divided her.
(Yeah, I know equator isn't a verb, but this is poetry after all).
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Saturday Wordzzle 110
The words weren't quite so troublesome this week, I'm happy to say, although I have resorted to the low tactic of including the words in street signs and names of businesses.
If you would like to play this excellent creativity-stimulating game, go here for rules, guidance and links to other players.
The mini (muscle spasms, charter boat, sunshine, microwave oven, ample bosoms)
This is part of an ongoing story about a young blind seer who has had a vision of danger befalling a young man. She arranges to anonymously fund a holiday for him - only to discover she's sent him to the place where the danger was supposed to be. She catches up with him and they talk. Suddenly, a car comes careering round the corner of the road and, in his attampt to push the blind lady out of its path, the young man in injured. He wakes in hospital, having lost his memory. His only visitor thus far has been the seer.
The seer speaks:
I was not always blind. I remember the look of bright summer sunshine on blue-green water. I remember lying on the deck of my father's charter boat, staring up unto the clean bowl of the sky, imagining myself, like thousands of children before me, falling, up, up and away into the blue. That was before the virus, the muscle spasms, the fever and the swallowing darkness. One of my very last genuine sight-memories is of a pair of kindly blue eyes above the starched brilliance of a nurse's uniform stretched over ample bosoms, a pair of plump hands cradling a steaming bowl of Oxtail soup fresh from the microwave oven. I was too sick to eat and, to this day, the smell of Oxtail soup repels me. Ian is both saddened and amused by this, I can hear it in his voice, even as I can hear his spoon dipping into his bowl for another mouthful.
The 10-worder (solar power, rooster, all God's children go to Heaven, prosperity, savage, cucumber salad, drizzle and fog, false teeth, library books, trench)
New to Harold? The summary is here.
Behind him, Harold heard the startled shouts of the humans plus the screech of one very indignant monkey which had just been dumped without ceremony onto the grimy concrete.
He had no time to spare for them now.
He had to get himself as far away as possible. The rhythm of his feet pounding the pavement brought the words of a chant into his head and he found himself running in time to it: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. All God's children go to Heaven. One-two-three-four... He pushed this irrelevance aside and tried to remember where he'd seen the safe place, it had to be around here somewhere...
"I knew it!" cried India as Harold suddenly shot past her and out the door, "It's getting away!" Taser in hand, she set off after him.
"What?" Mercury and Othello spun round in surprise, having been intent on the crumpled old speeding ticket they had found.
"The demon's making a break for it!" this was from Prada as she herself ran toward the doorway.
"Helluva time to pull a stunt like that," grumbled Othello as he and Mercury followed.
"Wait!" cried Teatime, but it was too late.
Harold was not strong as demons went but he was fast and had soon put several streets between himself and the crumbling old building. This was not a good neighbourhood, its days of prosperity were well behind it. It was a wasteland of failed businesses and broken dreams, a desolate sprawl of padlocked doors and smashed windows. Even the gangs didn't bother coming here any more, such was the spirit of listless despair that hung around the place.
Where was it?
Harold rounded a corner, passing the shuttered windows of Sweetman's Cafe - Cucumber salad a speciality and Bergdorf Solar Power and Light Inc, now ironically in total darkness. Sale of Surplus Library Books! shouted a hand-painted sign as he flashed past. He was close now, he was sure. Rooster and Trench – False Teeth and Dental Supply Company proclaimed a faded hoarding to his left. Yes! He was almost there now, just down this street: he'd seen it on the way in.
"Darn it!" India skidded to a stop in the empty street. Of the fleeing demon, there was no sign. "I knew it couldn't be trusted." There was a savage edge to her voice, "I just knew it!"
Beside her, Mercury sighed and shook his head. "Guess you were right after all." he said, "I have to hand it to that demon though, he had me fooled. I really thought he was helping us."
"It was just biding its time, obviously." added Prada, "Now what?"
"Well, we've still got –" began Mercury.
The bomb exploded.
Glass and brick fragments and clods of earth flew everywhere, and the air immediately filled with a great spreading cloud of choking dust. Where the bomb had been, there was now a large hole in the ground as if a giant had wielded a great big invisible spoon, scooping up the earth. Knocked flat by the blast, Harold could only watch helplessly as shards of glass and lumps of masonry rained down on him from out of the smoke, the whole thing a weird sort of drizzle and fog. He'd still been too close to the bomb when it had gone off and he would be going nowhere until his vessel had repaired itself. He closed his eyes. It was such a pity that humans weren't as durable.
If you would like to play this excellent creativity-stimulating game, go here for rules, guidance and links to other players.
The mini (muscle spasms, charter boat, sunshine, microwave oven, ample bosoms)
This is part of an ongoing story about a young blind seer who has had a vision of danger befalling a young man. She arranges to anonymously fund a holiday for him - only to discover she's sent him to the place where the danger was supposed to be. She catches up with him and they talk. Suddenly, a car comes careering round the corner of the road and, in his attampt to push the blind lady out of its path, the young man in injured. He wakes in hospital, having lost his memory. His only visitor thus far has been the seer.
The seer speaks:
I was not always blind. I remember the look of bright summer sunshine on blue-green water. I remember lying on the deck of my father's charter boat, staring up unto the clean bowl of the sky, imagining myself, like thousands of children before me, falling, up, up and away into the blue. That was before the virus, the muscle spasms, the fever and the swallowing darkness. One of my very last genuine sight-memories is of a pair of kindly blue eyes above the starched brilliance of a nurse's uniform stretched over ample bosoms, a pair of plump hands cradling a steaming bowl of Oxtail soup fresh from the microwave oven. I was too sick to eat and, to this day, the smell of Oxtail soup repels me. Ian is both saddened and amused by this, I can hear it in his voice, even as I can hear his spoon dipping into his bowl for another mouthful.
The 10-worder (solar power, rooster, all God's children go to Heaven, prosperity, savage, cucumber salad, drizzle and fog, false teeth, library books, trench)
New to Harold? The summary is here.
Behind him, Harold heard the startled shouts of the humans plus the screech of one very indignant monkey which had just been dumped without ceremony onto the grimy concrete.
He had no time to spare for them now.
He had to get himself as far away as possible. The rhythm of his feet pounding the pavement brought the words of a chant into his head and he found himself running in time to it: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. All God's children go to Heaven. One-two-three-four... He pushed this irrelevance aside and tried to remember where he'd seen the safe place, it had to be around here somewhere...
"I knew it!" cried India as Harold suddenly shot past her and out the door, "It's getting away!" Taser in hand, she set off after him.
"What?" Mercury and Othello spun round in surprise, having been intent on the crumpled old speeding ticket they had found.
"The demon's making a break for it!" this was from Prada as she herself ran toward the doorway.
"Helluva time to pull a stunt like that," grumbled Othello as he and Mercury followed.
"Wait!" cried Teatime, but it was too late.
Harold was not strong as demons went but he was fast and had soon put several streets between himself and the crumbling old building. This was not a good neighbourhood, its days of prosperity were well behind it. It was a wasteland of failed businesses and broken dreams, a desolate sprawl of padlocked doors and smashed windows. Even the gangs didn't bother coming here any more, such was the spirit of listless despair that hung around the place.
Where was it?
Harold rounded a corner, passing the shuttered windows of Sweetman's Cafe - Cucumber salad a speciality and Bergdorf Solar Power and Light Inc, now ironically in total darkness. Sale of Surplus Library Books! shouted a hand-painted sign as he flashed past. He was close now, he was sure. Rooster and Trench – False Teeth and Dental Supply Company proclaimed a faded hoarding to his left. Yes! He was almost there now, just down this street: he'd seen it on the way in.
"Darn it!" India skidded to a stop in the empty street. Of the fleeing demon, there was no sign. "I knew it couldn't be trusted." There was a savage edge to her voice, "I just knew it!"
Beside her, Mercury sighed and shook his head. "Guess you were right after all." he said, "I have to hand it to that demon though, he had me fooled. I really thought he was helping us."
"It was just biding its time, obviously." added Prada, "Now what?"
"Well, we've still got –" began Mercury.
The bomb exploded.
Glass and brick fragments and clods of earth flew everywhere, and the air immediately filled with a great spreading cloud of choking dust. Where the bomb had been, there was now a large hole in the ground as if a giant had wielded a great big invisible spoon, scooping up the earth. Knocked flat by the blast, Harold could only watch helplessly as shards of glass and lumps of masonry rained down on him from out of the smoke, the whole thing a weird sort of drizzle and fog. He'd still been too close to the bomb when it had gone off and he would be going nowhere until his vessel had repaired itself. He closed his eyes. It was such a pity that humans weren't as durable.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Mugged!
I saw this mug in a charity shop.
It was plonked carelessly in among all the usual sorts of bric-a-brac you find in these places: ornamental dogs and cats trying to out-do one another in whimsicality and general look-at-me cuteness, willow-pattern plates (it’s ALWAYS willow-pattern!), lonely wine glasses (which should clearly be part of a set but there’s always only the one - deep, no doubt, in the throes of survivor guilt), endless salt and pepper sets, empty picture frames, and mysterious little ceramic boxes whose purpose I have never managed to fathom.
But there was something about this mug. Its dark colour and its aloof plainness so set it apart from the gaudy, busy, floweriness and general commotion of the other things around it. It was sure of itself, too - centred, as they say, and didn’t feel the need to stoop to the level of those other mere trinkets vying for my attention. It was the ceramic embodiment of less is more. If it had been a person, it would have been a Buddhist monk - serenely detached from the world and all things in it.
“I’m not going to buy you.” I told it, slightly prickled by its smugness, “I have more than enough mugs in my house, thank you very much, and I’m trying to de-clutter. So, although I like you, I don’t need you and I don’t want you.”
The mug just sat there saying nothing (well, it would, wouldn’t it?).
It knew, you see.
The next week, I was in the shop again, (I am an Olympic-level moocher around charity shops). The mug was still there, albeit on a lower shelf. The company down there was no better than that which it had enjoyed the previous week: the dogs and cats were still trying too hard, the solitary wine-glass still mourned its shattered siblings and the little Chinese people were still hanging about on their bamboo bridge, gossiping, no doubt, about the sad state of a world that doesn’t want willow-pattern tableware any more.
“Still here, eh?” I greeted it. “What’s with the relegation? Were you too pricey? Not pretty enough? Chip on your shoulder? (See what I did there?)”
It was unimpressed by my attempts at ceramics-based wit.
It really was rather a nice shade of blue when all was said and done, and so smooth. I hefted it in my hand, just to try. mind you, no commitment. It fitted as if it had been made specially for me. For a moment, I contemplated our future relationship. The Children in Need mug would have to move over, obviously, but Pudsey’s nice enough - for a bear with just the one eye, he wouldn’t mind, surely? I imagined a shared future of refreshing cups of tea, bitterly delicious coffees and maybe the occasional ice-cold milk (the stark whiteness would look so good against the mug’s dark skin).
It said nothing: it had waited, it could wait a little longer. Softly, softly…
“Ok,” I sighed, reaching for my wallet, “You win.”
It didn’t show it, but somehow I know it was pleased.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Saturday Wordzzle 109
And still I struggle with the words this week. You'd think this would get easier.
If you would like to play this excellent creativity-stimulating game, go here for rules, guidance and links to other players.
The mini (eggs over easy, lawn mower, forgiveness, cold shoulder, chipper)
This is part of an ongoing story about a young blind seer who has had a vision of danger befalling a young man. She arranges to anonymously fund a holiday for him - only to discover she's sent him to the place where the danger was supposed to be. She catches up with him and they talk. Suddenly, a car comes careering round the corner of the road and, in his attampt to push the blind lady out of its path, the young man in injured. He wakes in hospital, having lost his memory. His only visitor thus far has been the seer
The young man speaks:
I'm feeling quite chipper today. Yes, that's definitely the word: chipper. So much so, in fact, that when they brought me my breakfast this morning, I jokingly asked for 'eggs over easy' in a silly American drawl. The Health Care Assistant (I think that's what they call them) just laughed and plonked my tray down. They must hear a lot of nonsense like that from patients with head injuries and so forgiveness probably isn't too hard for them. The blind lady – Irene - is coming in later today, which is great news. She told me yesterday that I have a sister and, as she said this, the image of a little blond girl struggling heroically to push an old and cantankerous lawnmower up and down our back garden, sprang into my head. And, like those strings of brightly-coloured silk hankies that magicians pull out of their sleeves, there came a stream of other memories tied to this one. My life is still hidden behind a fogged-up window but, here and there, little patches have been wiped clear and I can see though. Maybe there's something still hidden that explains why Andrea is apparently giving me the cold shoulder.
The 10-worder (speeding ticket, pedestal, changeling, what we ache for, in demand, carrot soup, powder puff, improvement, shady deal, amplitude)
New to Harold? The summary is here.
Whilst life in the world of men was a definite improvement over the one he had led in the Basement, Harold could not but help being a little disappointed sometimes that things were not more, well, glamorous. He and Teatime found themselves, once again, in a narrow alley. This one was behind the crumbling old building that was supposedly the home of a hi-tech medical plastics company. The alley was a classic of gritty gumshoe movies and hack cop-shows. Rubbish lay everywhere, piles of cardboard boxes labelled McKinley's Organic Carrot Soup were stacked untidily, ready no doubt to be crashed into at any moment and sent flying by a speeding car. There were a couple of dumpsters (with bodies or incriminating evidence in them for sure) and Harold expected at any moment to turn the corner and come across some ill-lit figures conducting a furtive and shady deal of some kind. Yep, definitely not glamorous, but at least he wasn't sitting in his little room at Aunt Aggie's, being bored to tears.
Earlier in the day, Prada had visited the place and had found it locked-up and deserted. Far from being the home of a hi-tech medical supplies manufacturer, the place looked more like an abandoned warehouse. There had been nobody around to ask about it either, so it had been decided that a night-time visit was in order.
"OK, demon," Came Prada's soft voice in the darkness next to him, "time for you to do your thing."
"My, my, what it's like to be in demand, eh, old sock?" came Teatime's amused voice from his shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah," replied Harold, "It's what we ache for, now step back please, ladies and gentlemen." He flexed his fingers theatrically. India rolled her eyes: what a show-off!
Harold placed his hands against the peeling paintwork of the door.
"Ta-daa!" he sang softly, as it clicked open after only a few moments' concentration - he was definitely getting better at this.
They quickly entered the building and Agent Othello closed the door carefully behind them. No point advertising their presence, after all.
They paused for a few moments to listen out for any signs that their ingress had been detected, but the dead stale air in the place was playing it cool and was not being split by the sound of wailing sirens, angry shouting or the thudding of running footsteps.
The humans clicked on their flashlights.
"Mag-lights?" Harold said to Prada, in mock disappointment, "I'd have thought you agents would have had some fancy gizmo like a powder puff that turns into a set of night-vision goggles or something."
"Mag-lights are reliable and cost less," replied Prada.
"Yes, and they're just about heavy enough to make a handy bludgeon as well," added India darkly.
"Focus, people." admonished Mercury.
They were in a narrow hallway. A door led off one side of it and another stood ajar at the opposite end to the one they had come in by. A cursory glance through the side door revealed an empty room.
The door at the far end gave out into a large space which was mostly empty. Here and there, the concrete floor had metal brackets sticking up out of it - presumably once used to bolt down machinery, and the odd wooden pedestal here and there which may once have supported a tool rack or a workbench. Two rows of metal column marched down the room, holding up the corrugated metal roof. The agents played their torches around some more, and the shadows rose in clouds like dust before settling back into place once the light had moved on.
"Well, this looks like a bust." said India, with a sigh "If those records ever came here then they must have been picked up long since."
"Spread out and keep looking," ordered Mercury.
Harold and Teatime wandered over toward the farthest corner, away from the OGS agents and their lights.
"Oh," he said disappointedly when they reached the corner.
"Oh, what?" demanded Teatime, "You know, you could turn on your flashlight, old bean. You might be able to see like a cat but I see like a monkey."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot," laughed Harold. He got his own light out and switched it on. He shone the bean down at the remains of a cardboard box. "I thought I saw something here, but it's just an old box after all."
He knelt down to look more closely. The box was labelled Changeling Electronics Inc – Amplitude Modulation Circuits. Setting down his torch, he lifted the top flaps to see inside.
Behind him, he was dimly aware of Agent Mercury announcing that he found an old speeding ticket, but that was all a very long way away.
The inside of the box was dimly lit by a single red LED, whose sullen light also showed a tangle of wires and a slab of something that looked a lot like Play-Doh, but clearly wasn't.
If you would like to play this excellent creativity-stimulating game, go here for rules, guidance and links to other players.
The mini (eggs over easy, lawn mower, forgiveness, cold shoulder, chipper)
This is part of an ongoing story about a young blind seer who has had a vision of danger befalling a young man. She arranges to anonymously fund a holiday for him - only to discover she's sent him to the place where the danger was supposed to be. She catches up with him and they talk. Suddenly, a car comes careering round the corner of the road and, in his attampt to push the blind lady out of its path, the young man in injured. He wakes in hospital, having lost his memory. His only visitor thus far has been the seer
The young man speaks:
I'm feeling quite chipper today. Yes, that's definitely the word: chipper. So much so, in fact, that when they brought me my breakfast this morning, I jokingly asked for 'eggs over easy' in a silly American drawl. The Health Care Assistant (I think that's what they call them) just laughed and plonked my tray down. They must hear a lot of nonsense like that from patients with head injuries and so forgiveness probably isn't too hard for them. The blind lady – Irene - is coming in later today, which is great news. She told me yesterday that I have a sister and, as she said this, the image of a little blond girl struggling heroically to push an old and cantankerous lawnmower up and down our back garden, sprang into my head. And, like those strings of brightly-coloured silk hankies that magicians pull out of their sleeves, there came a stream of other memories tied to this one. My life is still hidden behind a fogged-up window but, here and there, little patches have been wiped clear and I can see though. Maybe there's something still hidden that explains why Andrea is apparently giving me the cold shoulder.
The 10-worder (speeding ticket, pedestal, changeling, what we ache for, in demand, carrot soup, powder puff, improvement, shady deal, amplitude)
New to Harold? The summary is here.
Whilst life in the world of men was a definite improvement over the one he had led in the Basement, Harold could not but help being a little disappointed sometimes that things were not more, well, glamorous. He and Teatime found themselves, once again, in a narrow alley. This one was behind the crumbling old building that was supposedly the home of a hi-tech medical plastics company. The alley was a classic of gritty gumshoe movies and hack cop-shows. Rubbish lay everywhere, piles of cardboard boxes labelled McKinley's Organic Carrot Soup were stacked untidily, ready no doubt to be crashed into at any moment and sent flying by a speeding car. There were a couple of dumpsters (with bodies or incriminating evidence in them for sure) and Harold expected at any moment to turn the corner and come across some ill-lit figures conducting a furtive and shady deal of some kind. Yep, definitely not glamorous, but at least he wasn't sitting in his little room at Aunt Aggie's, being bored to tears.
Earlier in the day, Prada had visited the place and had found it locked-up and deserted. Far from being the home of a hi-tech medical supplies manufacturer, the place looked more like an abandoned warehouse. There had been nobody around to ask about it either, so it had been decided that a night-time visit was in order.
"OK, demon," Came Prada's soft voice in the darkness next to him, "time for you to do your thing."
"My, my, what it's like to be in demand, eh, old sock?" came Teatime's amused voice from his shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah," replied Harold, "It's what we ache for, now step back please, ladies and gentlemen." He flexed his fingers theatrically. India rolled her eyes: what a show-off!
Harold placed his hands against the peeling paintwork of the door.
"Ta-daa!" he sang softly, as it clicked open after only a few moments' concentration - he was definitely getting better at this.
They quickly entered the building and Agent Othello closed the door carefully behind them. No point advertising their presence, after all.
They paused for a few moments to listen out for any signs that their ingress had been detected, but the dead stale air in the place was playing it cool and was not being split by the sound of wailing sirens, angry shouting or the thudding of running footsteps.
The humans clicked on their flashlights.
"Mag-lights?" Harold said to Prada, in mock disappointment, "I'd have thought you agents would have had some fancy gizmo like a powder puff that turns into a set of night-vision goggles or something."
"Mag-lights are reliable and cost less," replied Prada.
"Yes, and they're just about heavy enough to make a handy bludgeon as well," added India darkly.
"Focus, people." admonished Mercury.
They were in a narrow hallway. A door led off one side of it and another stood ajar at the opposite end to the one they had come in by. A cursory glance through the side door revealed an empty room.
The door at the far end gave out into a large space which was mostly empty. Here and there, the concrete floor had metal brackets sticking up out of it - presumably once used to bolt down machinery, and the odd wooden pedestal here and there which may once have supported a tool rack or a workbench. Two rows of metal column marched down the room, holding up the corrugated metal roof. The agents played their torches around some more, and the shadows rose in clouds like dust before settling back into place once the light had moved on.
"Well, this looks like a bust." said India, with a sigh "If those records ever came here then they must have been picked up long since."
"Spread out and keep looking," ordered Mercury.
Harold and Teatime wandered over toward the farthest corner, away from the OGS agents and their lights.
"Oh," he said disappointedly when they reached the corner.
"Oh, what?" demanded Teatime, "You know, you could turn on your flashlight, old bean. You might be able to see like a cat but I see like a monkey."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot," laughed Harold. He got his own light out and switched it on. He shone the bean down at the remains of a cardboard box. "I thought I saw something here, but it's just an old box after all."
He knelt down to look more closely. The box was labelled Changeling Electronics Inc – Amplitude Modulation Circuits. Setting down his torch, he lifted the top flaps to see inside.
Behind him, he was dimly aware of Agent Mercury announcing that he found an old speeding ticket, but that was all a very long way away.
The inside of the box was dimly lit by a single red LED, whose sullen light also showed a tangle of wires and a slab of something that looked a lot like Play-Doh, but clearly wasn't.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
The Poetry Bus Wakes up and Smells the Lino
This week, that legendary conveyance, the Poetry Bus, is driven by Barbara who set us a challenge on her bleeuugh! to write a poem whose first line was: I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
Now, there's a few ways this could go, obviously, but this is a family blog and we'll have no kinky stuff here, thank you very much. Barbara wanted long lines as well. My pome has those, alright (hence the smaller font to fit them in), but reads more like a lump of prose as a result.
Anyhoo. Enjoy. Oh, by the way, the story recounted here is completely fictional as far as I'm concerned, but I'm sure it has happened to somebody somewhere.
I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
The toothbrush clutched in my aching fist was a shocking pink shout,
At odds with the steady brown decorum of the imitation oak parquet,
Defying the tired but resolute black of the shoes of the woman standing over me.
A bucket of soapy water landed with a dull plastic noise next to my bent head,
It was not the first: Sister Mary's anger had run to many buckets this day.
I was scrubbing the floor and the wickedness from my nine-year-old soul.
Gluttony is a deadly sin and nobody should go to Hell for a stolen cupcake.
My hands were dead, white, shrivelled things, luminous in the long shadows,
My back a red-hot rod of pain when she returned just before Vespers
Surprise limned her face: she had forgotten me and my shocking pink toothbrush.
The floor was clean enough to eat off, but my thoughts were black.
P.S Can anyone think of a title for this? 'Cos I can't.
Now, there's a few ways this could go, obviously, but this is a family blog and we'll have no kinky stuff here, thank you very much. Barbara wanted long lines as well. My pome has those, alright (hence the smaller font to fit them in), but reads more like a lump of prose as a result.
Anyhoo. Enjoy. Oh, by the way, the story recounted here is completely fictional as far as I'm concerned, but I'm sure it has happened to somebody somewhere.
I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum.
The toothbrush clutched in my aching fist was a shocking pink shout,
At odds with the steady brown decorum of the imitation oak parquet,
Defying the tired but resolute black of the shoes of the woman standing over me.
A bucket of soapy water landed with a dull plastic noise next to my bent head,
It was not the first: Sister Mary's anger had run to many buckets this day.
I was scrubbing the floor and the wickedness from my nine-year-old soul.
Gluttony is a deadly sin and nobody should go to Hell for a stolen cupcake.
My hands were dead, white, shrivelled things, luminous in the long shadows,
My back a red-hot rod of pain when she returned just before Vespers
Surprise limned her face: she had forgotten me and my shocking pink toothbrush.
The floor was clean enough to eat off, but my thoughts were black.
P.S Can anyone think of a title for this? 'Cos I can't.
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