Captain’s Speech

I hereby declare, for all those fettered and not, to go among the sun on this of all the days, to seek their tidings, to grasp their glories, and to reach into the abyss of all that was hence before unknown. Yorkshire follower make yourself known, to the skies, to the trees, to the trampled grass that lays in wait for battles of far off days. The paths you tread now are worn to the bone of the earth by those within thousands of years past by, their victories no less potent in the hearts of us all than those which you forge each day to the next, a lift of your hand like the lift of their sword. Let the bleak day come and have it cast away like sea water spattering off your bow, a luckless thing of ash and ruin. Today let you be free, free to seek what tries so desperately to hide from your ever weary eyes, what has outrun your fingertips like the stag from the hunter’s bow. Lest this day be forgotten, and forever will it be remembered, in the tails of old and the songs of children, this is the day we take the air back, the space we dwell within, and keep it there until and ever again we may be needed to snatch it back from whichever daemons’ foul grip. S.H.

The Hero Walks

A gentle walk across a sparking bridge. The trees leaning over the banks like nosy neighbours gave a shuffle, as if they were quickly trying to change their position while I wasn’t looking. I gave them roughly three more seconds of my suspicion before my path began to openly crave my attention. The Sun was falling towards the western hills and kicking its last few rays across the freshly showered bridge, the stones like glass that had been stained with bronzed and coal colours, all mixed around with a painters brush. The river ran, as fast as it could, below my feet, fleeing, it seemed to me, a deathly foe placed higher up and deeply set in the mountains. S.H.

Help, I'm going to be sick.

Help! HELP! I'm going to be sick! This I said, I screamed, internally, old people next to me snogging. On the Tube platform, crowded and buzzing, they latched onto each other like great octopus tentacles round a stray fish. I had to, so horribly, my stomach pitched and rolled so, look back three times, and still they were there, in frozen and horrendous still life. Public is no place for such a thing to be displayed, and certainly not so close to me, in a place so public, by two people nearly twice my age. No prudish thoughts are in my mind, I can assure all of that, but this was truly creepy. Sorry, but I can't write any more about it, the longer I do, the longer my dinner has to plan to reacquaint itself with the light of day.

The Deepening Fog Pt. 3

The kill had been sloppy, I'd known it, but it had been so long since I had had to use any of those skills, any of that training, that I just did it. But I would have to refine things from now on, I knew that, and hope my first slip up was my last. If I was to find her again, there was nothing that could go wrong, it had to run like machinery, every time, when I had to, I had to do it right. A blackening tinge began to fill the edges of my view, and I wondered if I should again chance another rest. But as I ran on the darkness continued to slowly flow over everything, like an inky drizzle, and I knew it wasn't fatigue. Night was coming. Slinking up behind me like a ghoul after my skin. But the darker it got, the better off I would be. The darker it got, the less would my pursuers be able to see me, and more able would I be to see them. S.H.

The Deepening Fog Pt. 2

The fog grew thicker still, falling from the sky in blankets of mist. I trundled on, with more fervour than I would imagine my body was able to sustain. It stared to groan, to pale, and I didn’t dare think about the storm now on my face. The forrest turned this way and that forever, a mass of muddy leaves and blackened oaks all I could make out. My vision gave in to small fits of blurriness and I had to slow down, rest my hand against a tree, and collect what little breath I had left to my lungs. I went on for who knows how much further more before I realised the birds had ceased their singing. There was something else that rang around them, calling them to catch their breath, and I didn't dare to drop my pace after that. I knew they had found the body. They were coming for me. S.H.

Ribbons and Lace

There is nothing to weep for, the time has long past us by. There is nothing to stamp on, the the creatures have scampered away. There are no tassels on the edges, no ribbons lined with lace. The day is off, tomorrow is on. Cross your heart, hope not to die, no precious words, no useless cry.

The Bitter Salts

The bitter salts are left to flutter like flickering lights, highjacking the wind to throw their shards at new homes. Formulate, if you will, and interview for yourself in ten years time. What would you say? Would you even need to say anything at all? Would one look at your decade plussed counterpart be enough to answer all your queries? Not a breath nor word need to be uttered but a look that says you’re going to be fine. Better than fine you’re going to get what you need, what you long for more than want.

If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

Call Me Anytime

You’ve still got my number. It’s the only thing you can’t take from me anymore, because you’ve already got it.

The Deepening Fog

Tell me of this, the wheedle the warp, the beadle and snap, the warbling bird that sat above my head. I cricked my head and held it to the sky. The clouds were made of branches, crooked and beautiful. The ground was damp and dark, a mess of dead leaves. The light cut lines of dull grey through the air. I set off again, a weight in my boots that has seldom been there before, but neither a surprise to my heart. The cold was manageable as no wind scratched through the trunks of the trees. I held a simple pace, over hillock and round creek, the crystal light a deepened fog. I’d gone for at least an hour before I looked down at what I was wearing. A tattered suit and totally inappropriate shoes, a gun in my jacket pocket. I stopped and pulled it out, a black and frigid lump of metal, I had no idea how it had gotten there. But considering I had no idea how I had gotten where I was too, the heavy weapon in my possession was a small task at hand. S.H.

About A Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue tights.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.

Go Home

Bah humbug and malice and trolls. Muddy skies and filthy streets. Still they change nothing, make only themselves feel better, and the Ones on the top of their towers continue to do what they want. Don‘t think you are changing anything. The Ones are there to do what they want, not what you desire. Even if they do let their tossed coins fall down on your favoured side, it is never because you were there, with your tousled hair and brightened eyes, but because they wanted to change or let themselves move that way. You can never sway the vote with such petty actions, no more than it is possible to reprogram a living entity with computerised thoughts. You cause may be worthy but your time is wasted. Go home, love your family, look after yourselves and rethink what you can do to really make a mark to the better, for us all, for us all.

Pudding Pie

He shook his head, like pudding pie, a jumbled sludge of softened crust and doughy centre, clear thought at the minute a figment. ‘No time for this,’ he thought, his mind too tired for words or thought or anything of use. Use. It was useless to think of how she had done this, what ‘this’ had been. He knew it was coming but still he had sat, atop a horse made of mashed potato, the tidal wave of gravy so ready to come. She'd rolled him, kicked him, thrown him all over and out. He wouldn't do it again, he wouldn't wait, this was something that did not need to be undone, but something to be built upon.

Metallica

It would be fair to say that there have not, of late, been many things that I have been thankful for. As time has and continues to go on, there are more and more things that I feel lucky to have in my life. One of those things I do feel greatly thankful for is Metallica. How grateful I feel to be alive in the time that they have been also. I love other bands as well, but there really is nothing like Metallica. When it comes to heavy bands, there are many others that are awesome, but if there was to be a shinny gold star placed and a silky blue ribbon awarded, when it comes to Metallica, nothing else matters. SH.

Cafe Sahara

How do you make chance encounters happen? Being by definition, chance, it would seem that it's not really possible. I, however, would like to take a more positive approach. Being in the right place at the right time is not something that is seemingly left to chance. For example, if you live in the Sahara your whole life, you are unlikely to run into Simon Pegg in an Islington cafe. This is simply because Islington isn't in the Sahara, it's in Islington. And as far as I know, nor are there any cafes in the Sahara at any case, although I would love to be proved wrong on this one. The idea of sipping a freshly brewed Earl Grey whilst trying to keep sand out of your sugar bowl is something that is strangely appealing to me.
But to chance, and the simple theory of mine that it may still be inherently random, but you can always increase your chances of making the odds a little fatter, like the returns line at Target after Christmas. This can be done, I hope, but putting yourself out there, in the proverbial line of fire, ready to catch the bullets in your teeth with a smile, wholly with the belief that the risk is more than worth the reward.
To say I believe it is one thing, but to clearly know how to do it it but another of life's questions that no one ever seems to save the answers to on their portable hard drive. But worry not, I shall blaze a trail of my own, make the steps and lay the plans, hedge the bets and continue to use worn out metaphors to explain why I want to take the fight to Chance, raise my sword in glory and take what's rightfully mine. Wish me luck, it can't possibly hurt. S.H.

Song Of The Day - KRAM

Silk Suits by KRAM. The legendary front man behind the kit. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Superheist

Bullet by Superheist. An old one, but a good one, by an Australian band that disappeared off the radars about ten years ago. Shame. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip

Thou Shalt Always Kill by Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip. I got put onto these guys a couple years ago by one of my students. He got a handful of gold stars that day I can tell you. The album version is better than this, but you get the picture. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Ben Folds & Nick Hornby

Levi Johnson's Blues by Ben Folds & Nick Hornby. Too good for words. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Driftless Pony Club

Legends of Archery by Driftless Pony Club. Short but sweet. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Girl In The Red Light

Kids Get Wasted by Girl In The Red Light.

How this song didn’t get to number one in Australia is beyond me. Enjoy. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Otep

March of the Martyrs by Otep. Turn it up.

S.H.

A Day in the Life

I received a correspondence back today from a short story competition I entered a while ago. I didn’t win it but made the ‘long list’ - whatever that may be. The feedback was wholly positive and contained such quotes as ‘there are excellent descriptive movements’ and ‘strangely exciting and believable’ so, hey. S.H.

Sail Away

I've been de-friended. One of my few followers has jumped ship; left the keel; deserted the crew; bailed out; hit the spits; cracked the wobbleys; left the ranch ... not too sure about that last one but the picture is crystal I'm sure. I can't work out who it was, which in itself is probably the reason, but hey, each is each. Tally ho, ta ta, farewell my internet friend, as you cast yourself back out into the raging wilds of the vast sea of online communications. May your life as a cast away end with you landing on the desert island that you seek the most. However, if you ever feel need to set sail in web that is as wide as the world, know that there will forever be a place among the crew that it balderdash, ever ready to welcome you back into the fold, like a shipwrecked companion once pulled of course by the shining light of treasure, but now with their matetys, home again on the seven billion seas. S.H.

I'm Not Gonna Cry

I'm not gonna cry today, I won't shed a tear,
even if some milk is spilt, I won't dilute my beer,
I won't use a tissue, my pillow will stay dry,
and I won't need a shoulder, 'cos I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna snivel, and I'm not gonna sob,
Both my eyes will remain dry, and I won't have to dob them,
Move me with a tragedy, just go ahead and try,
Play me a tear jerker, but I'm not gonna cry.

I'm not going to weep today, I will not wet my cheek,
I'll count to ten and I'll hold it in, I'm not gonna leak,
And I'm not gonna loose it, though I may want to die,
They say it's good to let it out, but I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna blub today, I'm not gonna bawl,
And I'm not gonna fall apart, even if you call me,
I could not cry for forty years, I was to tough a guy,
Now I can do it any time, but I'm not gonna cry.

I must have cried a million tears, at least ninety-six,
I cried me a river, and an ocean just for kicks,
Listen to the thunder, dark clouds fill the sky,
Well it looks like rain, and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.

Yeah, well it looks like rain and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.


Alas, this is not mine, but belongs to the great Mr Wainwright. Big respect goes to the man, the myth, the legend. S.H.

Thou Shalt Always Kill

Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry. SH

I Shall Be Released

And to business. Fettered utterances were the call of the day as most of it was spent reading. Either that or basking in the sun. Or gazing out at other things as they basked in the sun. The day was partly cloudy and mostly quiet. But only where I spent it, as I imagine a building site or the playground of the nearest McDonald's was probably anything but quiet. As one would imagine they would be on most days they were in active use. The afternoon past, a sunset appeared, and soon after nighttime ensued. It still continues as I speak, but for the most part the day has drawn itself to a muted, if not regular conclusion. Excitement did not really rear any of its heads for me, but dare I say it may well have done for several others. Most of these people I will never meet, so the height of their excitement on this day would seem to be interminably unhelpful. Except maybe as serving to brighten my outlook on the day that yes, good things do happen if you are only in the right place when they happen. I will await the proof of this dizzying theory with most eager open-mindedness. Probably. SH

The Summer

Salty skies, air like warm honey. A tethered breeze seems hardly enough to carry anything of worth my way, but still it cools the sand, cools the water, cools the earth. Withered tales crumble and break up above like fallen leaves of autumns long passed away. They turn to dust like decayed vines, no longer snaking their way around and into recesses they should have never found, now blown away by the breath of something new.

I realise this is utter drivel, but something has to fill up this cyberspace, so until I become involved in anything more interesting, this will have to do. SH

Of The Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue stockings.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.
Who tells me the truth, even when I don't want her to.
Who knows it's only just rain.
Who walks like she means it.
Who forgives but doesn't forget.
Who bangs her head to every thick drum beat.
Who has a jacket made of red cotton.
Who speaks like a thunderstorm and sounds like a rainbow.
Who is just around the corner. SH

The Broken, Beat & Scarred

Leave your line of silk, your tawdry tale. Bereft the rest of us your lies, your sullied maze. Take the time and make it yours, keep your clock away from gaze. No eyes of mine could wish to see, nor care to look upon, or wist to be akin, to anything of your own entropy. SH