CLICHES

24-03-2020

Well, there’s one born every minute, isn’t there? It’s an old trick but it might just have worked. Only I am not as green as I am cabbage-looking. I don’t fall for that old chestnut that; because the oldest, surviving, written record we have of a word/phrase/idea comes from Jo Soap’s writing; Jo Soap must have invented it. There are writers who were publishing stuff at the time when censorship laws were relaxed in this country (sorry – this great nation of ours) Some of them recalled going through manuscripts filling in blanks with the actual ‘naughty’ words intended. It must have been quite a surreal experience for an erudite wordsmith to spend a morning writing nothing but cuss-words. BUT, they could have been given credit for inventing many of these expletives as there was, presumably, no previous written record. Mind you, J.K. Rowling’s facebook post was the first time I encountered the word “dumbassery” and I’m happy to let her have that, as well as “quidditch”

So:

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. The short, pale, unassuming stranger walked into the saloon in the gold-orderly-queue town and the piano player carrried on playing; conversations and card-games went ahead uninterrupted. The stranger walked up to the bar and waited his turn to be served. He ordered a soft drink.

“Certainly sir. Guess you must be new in town?”

“Yup. I’m looking for the man who didn’t kill my pa.”

“Don’t narrer it down much.”

“Guess not.”

At that momet, the sheriff came into the bar and announced “the Pittsville Bank’s been robbed!” He was almost knocked down by the wave of apathy that swept past him.

“Oh, not again.” Miss Kitty, the bar-room floosy- I mean, assistant manager yawned. “Did they have any money left to steal?”

“Sure did, Miss Kitty; just took delivery of the Pitt Company payroll money.” Someone started to say that, since the Pitt Company were not exactly generous employers, that would hardly be worth stealing, and someone else was about to accuse the sheriff of a cliché, when the officer of the law noticed the new-comer.

“Say, fellah, I don’t think I know you from anywhere. Your face is not at all familiar. We like strangers around here. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay”

“He’s looking” the bartender offered “for the man who didn’t kill his father.”

“Do ya have a name?”

“Of course, sheriff; I’m Joseph Lux.”

“No. The suspect; do you have a name for the suspect?” There was a brief hush and a collective intake of breath until Miss Kitty opined that “A corny joke doesn’t count as a cliché.”

“Matter of fact,” the stranger responded “I do. Jonathan Hart.”

Nobody flinched at the mention of the name.

“Jonathan Hart, the famous philanthropist?”

“Oh, I don’t know if he collects…” the stranger was interrupted by Miss Kitty

“I’m prepared to allow one corny joke but…”

“Sorry, ma’am” he tipped his hat. “Yeah. Him.”

“Tell us how it happened” Somebody had to say.

“Well, my pa was a mean, ornery rat. That is, he was an average, ordinary guy who was a member of the Water Rats. He was waitin’ to hold up the Smithsburg train (you know, one of them there whistle-stops where the driver don’t stop less’n some wayfaring stranger signals for him to) Anyroad, Hart was ridin’ up front with the driver.”

“Why was the owner of the railroad ridin’ up front with the driver?” Somebody had to ask

“ Cause he cou… well, heck, Miss Kitty, who doesn’t want to ride up…”

“Oh, get on with it.”

“Well, my pa trips over his boot-lace and falls right on to the tracks. Hart seen him but the driver never did. He stopped that train and didn’t kill my pa.”

“And you wanna thank Mr Hart?” The sheriff guessed. “Maybe that was your daddy’s dying request? Or maybe Mr Hart knows something? Something that’ll lead you to some treasure or…” Miss Kitty coughed.

“I know” the stranger looked straight down the barrel of the camera “that you’re expecting a punch-line. But isn’t a punch-line something of a cliché?”

1hr 4mins writing time

This is a test:

We are the ancient sisterhood.

We were here before

the iron horse, the brazen sword,

the long-gone dinosaur.

Below the water-line in black

armour we’ve dwelt

until the morn that called us forth

to come & break the spell;

to break the surface, break the bonds

now that we are ready

to scintillate and sparkle in

the sweet-scented, heady

glamour of the Summer’s morn.

who or what are we?

Golden Beard

His name was JC.  He had a golden beard from which shone a path of golden light for his disciples to follow.  And they followed, in ever-increasing numbers, as he travelled the land, spreading his message.  The crowds became larger and noisier; more and more excited.  The establishment became nervous and fearful. Who was this quiet, unassuming man?  Where had he come from? What was his appeal? 

He was revered and vilified: a Messiah and a trouble-maker.  He cared about the sick, the poor and those on the fringes of society.  He overturned the tables of the money makers – those motivated by greed and self-interest who would profit whilst others suffered.  He was loved by the many and hated by the few.  For the rulers, the establishment, those who would wield their power over the people, JC posed a threat.  They did everything they could think of to destroy him except they had overlooked one crucial thing.  They might succeed in destroying the man but they could not destroy his ideas or the will of the people.  Friday was the day set to confirm his destruction.  The people called it Good Friday.

Glue

I hardly ever use glue so, on first hearing of it, the discovery of a glue well on Walkley Green did not inspire or excite me.  In fact, when do I use glue?  What do I have in the house?  I have a Pritt stick in my box of bits.  My box of bits goes to training events with me.  It contains pens, marker pens (chisel tipped), Sellotape (some glue involved there), Blu-tac (hmmm, is that a glue substance?), drawing pins, scissors and Post-it notes (more glue).  Funny how many items in my box of bits go by a brand name.  Sellotape is sticky tape. Blue Peter taught me that.  I haven't watched Blue Peter for years.  Blu-tac is adhesive putty.  Carmel taught me that so yes, it is a glue.  How do they refer to Post-it notes and Pritt stick? 

Back to the glue in my house.  We have Superglue, another brand name, and I have no idea whether we have actual Superglue or another type of super fast drying adhesive. It gets used infrequently to repair broken items around the house.  I prefer to throw away broken things and replace them if needed.  Broken items, glued back together, never quite look the same and they have a weakness from which they will never recover.  So, if I had my way, we wouldn't have Superglue in our house.  My husband likes flaws.  He finds them of great interest and he doesn't like to throw things away.  So, my Pritt stick and his Superglue, Blu-tac and Sellotape are the only types of glue in the the house in their functional glue form.  Clearly, glue resides in our home in manifest ways: Wood glue to hold furniture together, gum on envelopes and on the back of the stamps in my purse. Oh yes, and his artist's fixative.  Maybe we have more glue than I first thought. 

Nevertheless, I would put a lid on that glue well and hide it away.  We have a beautful green in Walkley; a place to stop and reflect; a place which lifts our thoughts and with them our feelings.  This place causes us to stop for a moment, even a fraction of a moment, to see the world in a different way.  I do not welcome these glue speculators, tramping over our lovely, lttle green. Slopping glue from their buckets onto the delicate blooms that flower around this modest rural space.  Besides, we have noticed a significant increase in the number of undesirables hanging around the area.  Glue sniffers.

Helen West

Dancers

The dancer at the shore
Rolling in foam, footprints in the sand, blending into the cliff face.

The dancer in the studio
The barre, mirrors, piano, pianist, blisters.

The dancer on stage
Audience anticipation.

The dancer in the landscape
Trees, nature, autumn leaves, birdsong, passersby.

The dancer in the castle grounds
Sunshine, tourists, applause.

The dancer at home
Music, fun, lovers twirl around the kitchen.

The dancer through the child's eyes 
That's my mummy on stage.


Helen West

Hallow's Eve Mayhem

The sky had turned blackly as if stars had escaped,

And shimbles of mist were hungling like drapes.

Folks had all hastied to be safely indoors

Before zombies and demons arrived in their hordes.

But peeps were so jesty and already guised

As witches and goblins and some as vampires.

All twixy and jeeful they stumbled outside

With Stinky- Jack- lantern lit up as their guide.

They tricksied or treatsied and startled old folk,

By bawling rude songs and jarrating bad jokes.

But the night grew forbodely and was garphooned with grief

For ghoustals were griggling and up to mischief.

A sprottled young sprite surprizled a door,

And  a gas-gurgled goblin just glisseld with gore.

They swappled shop signs and de-hugled the gates

Then lashed down door latches and croppled some crates.

Peeps watched in horror for they would be blamed,

For this monstrooperous mayhem the monsters had made.

So they sprinkelled salt and danged on a bell,

Which trooperd the ghoustals back into hell.

All plexy and pipered the peeps set to toil,

To put right the damage they’d managed to foil.

They un-lashed the latches and stacked up the crates,

Fixied the signs and re-hugled the gates.

There were no signs of ghoustals and bats had all flown,

So tired and sleepy the peeps pottered home.

They would tell all their folks of their terrible fright,

On this ghoulishly ghostly ‘All Hallow’s Eve’ night.

Sue Wharton

Costa del Dorset

Costa del Dorset

Come now children, gather round Granny’s old armchair, and I’ll tell you a story. I’ll tell you a story about long ago, when I was a little girl, before the time when the weather changed, and the seas rose.

In those times the days were not so hot in summer, and not so cold in winter, and the seas were not so high all the year round. Things were very different then.

If you look out across the bay here, from the Costa del Dorset, you can see there is an island.  Well, before the time when the weather changed and the seas rose that was not an island. That was a hill, and you could walk all the way from this farm to the top of that hill and never dip your toes in salt water. There was a little stream in the bottom of the valley there, where the tide comes racing in now, deep and dangerous, but that was freshwater that the cows would go and drink. And you know cows won’t drink salt water.

I used to go paddling there with my sisters, in that shallow little stream, and our hobby was to catch sticklebacks and minnows, little freshwater fish, right there where the salt sea is now. There was a stork that used to go fishing there too – a bird with very long legs and a long beak. They were very rare round here, but there used to be a few. When the seas rose and the weather changed they flew away, and I don’t know where they live now.

And this farm where we all live had a different name too. We started to call it the Costa del Dorset when the sea came in, because the days grew hotter until it felt as though we lived in Spain, where they always called the seaside ‘Costa del’ something or other. Of course Spain was hot in those days, but it wasn’t a desert like it is now, and there was a lot more of it, like everywhere.

We called this place Firecrest Farm then. There was wild land up on the hills behind here, and when the bracken turned colour in the Autumn it sometimes looked as though the hills were on fire. And now of course we have the beacon fire up there, ready to light as a warning if the pirates come again.

And your grandad, he wasn’t a soldier like he became later, like you’ve seen when he puts his medals on, for the memorials. He worked on the farm. I called him my jolly plough boy, and I married him as soon as we were old enough. But then all the men and women who could, we all had to learn to fight. We  used to practice up on the moorland, marching sometimes like old fashioned soldiers, but mostly learning to fight a guerrilla war against the invaders. That’s another reason we called it ‘Costa del Dorset’, because guerrilla was a word that came from the Spanish language.

Who were we fighting? Well, the people that came across the seas and tried to take our land!

When the weather changed and the seas rose, there was less land anywhere, but still lots of people trying to live on it, though of course a lot died, what with the floods and the heatwaves and all, and the storms in winter, and the malaria and such that came with the mosquitoes and the other insects,  and the sewers not working properly any more with the floods.

Now a lot of the people were peaceful, but needed help. But there were a lot more that just tried to take over any land they came across, and didn’t care how. So that was why we had to learn to fight. And that is why you have the lessons now in how to fight, with guns, and bows and arrows, and with knives and swords. The guns work best, but one day there won’t be any left, so it’s good to learn other weapons. You learn to fight with any weapons you can, and with no weapons at all, like the karate teacher shows you. You learn to fight, because I don’t want to lose any more of my family to invaders or pirates. Before the weather changed and the seas rose children were told off for fighting, and people got in trouble for carrying knives. But now, you make sure you always carry your knife, and you learn to fight well.

Beryl Chaudhuri