Our haunted souls

In ancient times there were those that believed that certain birds and their cries were the lost and haunted souls of humans. Seagulls held the lost sailors and fishermen, Ravens the souls of those that worked the land. Today, in our modern world what birds carry the lives of our professions? Which jobs are represented by the Great Tit, which career by the Lyrebird?

The Glass Wall

He could hear them again. He walked to the wall and pressed the glass against his wallpaper listened to the familiar routine.

His slightly raised voice, hers a quiet murmur. The male voice rising followed by a higher pitched response. Then the escalation, his shouting, screaming hysterical voice. Hers now lost in the tirade as the noise becomes scary. Then the sound of something breaking, a feint thud and the silence. The awful, awful silence.

He takes the glass from the wall and turns away. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to help, who to talk to.

He goes back to the table and looks at the press cuttings. Yellowed with age they record the awful incident when a gas explosion destroyed the house next door killing the young bride and her baby. The husband returning home from the pub to complete destruction. The subsequent investigation recording accidental death.

He steps outside his front door and walks down to his gate turning to see the gap where number 46 had been. Never rebuilt in over twenty years now a missing monument to a tragedy few knew about and even fewer cared.

Shafts of Sunlight

Deep under the ground of Seething run a myriad of shafts lying dormant since emptied of their talcum. Deep in our minds shafts of creativity, fun and hope fall into disuse and begin to petrify. How do we rediscover the locations of these pitheads and encourage our thoughts and actions to explore these rich veins again? 

One day a man looked back upon his time and realised quite how early in his life learned fear had begun to influence his decision-making. Thoughts of failure and embarrassment had been fuelled and reinforced far too early by the ‘right and wrong’ dogmatism of ‘knowledge’. True exploration of ideas and play had been quietly restrained by those that cared – ‘Let us save you the trouble for we too have tried that and it won’t work.’ 

But of course it will because it can only fail against your expectations and mine will be different to yours yet still with guiding heart we all try to lead people to our safe land and accidently take away exploration.

I shall search for the pitheads of the talcum mines. Don’t tell me they never existed because I know in my mind that they did and I will find them. Then, I will laugh and that sound will echo down my past to the child who smiled at the sun and believed.

(This also appears on https://seethingography.wordpress.com)

If Nicky Morgan and Jeremy Hunt lived together - an allegory

An Allegory

If Nicky Morgan and Jeremy Hunt lived together

‘I’m home’

‘I’m in the kitchen’

‘What are you doing in there? You don’t cook.’

‘I know, but it must be easy and I’ve eaten loads of meals.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to try Spaghetti Bolognaise. How was work today?’

‘Really tough, I’m finding it really difficult to make people understand that I’m right, that I know all the answers. You?’

‘Same, and I’ve got some really loud and obnoxious people who keep showing me research and statistics to say that I might be wrong. I mean really, me wrong! It’s unimaginable. You look distracted’

‘Hmmm, I’ve been wondering about whether Spaghetti Bolognaise is a good idea.’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, I know evidence suggests that a Mediterranean diet is healthier but …… it’s a bit ….. European. I mean what would it say about us? I wonder if we might be better cooking something like the food those Americans down the road eat. Or that lovely old couple we see who keep telling us how much better life was before. What would they have?’

‘Meat and two veg.’

‘That’s it, simple, basic.’

‘But I’ve only got the stuff for a bolognaise.’

‘Well, use that.’

‘Do you think we can really use the same ingredients?’

‘Of course, It’s only cooking.

‘I suppose I could press the mince into the shape of a steak, and I can roast the tomatoes, but what about potatoes?’

‘Use the spaghetti to make potatoes?’

‘Do you think that would work?’

‘It must do.’

‘It’s ready.’

‘Ugh, this tastes awful, aren’t you going to try?’

No, I had a meal with a friend who owns a private restaurant before I came home.’

‘Well luckily I ate at the club. Bumped into an old school friend. Told him about work. He said his company could probably sort all my problems out and shut all the noisy people up.’

‘Well like we always said, the only thing that’s holding us back is all these bloody experts.’

'Do you ever get the feeling that things might be going wrong, that we might not have all the answers?'

'Nope, but have you mentioned this to David?'

'I tried to but he seemed preoccupied and I didn't want to tax him anymore.'

'Oh, by the way, I might have new job soon.’

‘Excellent, something you know about.

'No, same as this one, but I’m sure I’ll have some old chums who can help out.’

'Well they are always easier to deal with those experts.'

Shall I throw away this food?’

‘Why not, it’s not like it matters.’

Blood Red

He woke and felt the stickiness on his hands. Through hazy blurred eyes he could see the blood, part red part brown covering his fingers and palms. As he began to look beyond his hands he could a sea of crimson that stained his white sheets and duvet.

His foggy head tried desperately to remember what had happened, why was his bed like this? It was then that he saw the razor on the pillow and the bad thoughts, the bad memories flooded back.

He knew, he remembered and he swore,

He was never going to do ‘slammers’ again and he certainly wasn’t going to take a bet that he could shave his legs with his eyes closed.

Painful Change

It was clear what was happening. His feet had hurt for almost four days. There was little point going to his GP or to A&E because he knew they wouldn’t have a clue and he would be sentenced to a series of tests that would shed no further light on his condition. Anyway, he knew what it was. He was turning into a golden eagle.             

He had little time to do all the things he needed to do before he lost his human form. He realised that some of the jobs he needed to accomplish would be almost impossible with wings so he just got on with things and awaited the inevitable.

Ten days later he swept his legs from under the duvet and sat up. As he stood he realised that the pain in his feet had gone. He shifted his weight from the balls to his heels but nothing, not even a twinge.

That was when he realised it was possible, just possible, that he was not going to turn into a golden eagle after all. In some ways it was a repeat of the previous occasions when he had felt he was going become a dolphin, a tiger, a giraffe. Disappointingly those changes hadn’t happened either.

He drew back the curtain and stared out at the eyrie he had built in the tree at the end of the garden. His shoulders sank. It was then that he felt it. A light but pressing pain in his elbow. ‘It’s starting he thought, the change is coming.’ He knew it and he realised he wasn’t destined to be an eagle.

Suddenly he wanted kippers for breakfast. That was when knew, he knew, he finally knew he was turning into a penguin.