"Pizzas" and "In Pursuit of the Elusive Poetry Groupie" (a.k.a. The Effects of Age and Priority on a Growing Poet)

Hullo all!

Please pardon my latest post delay - I've been working up and winding down so much recently, I'm starting to feel cracks and tears all over me. In short, I need a holiday... But do not fear! I'm not going to just leave those of you still reading in the lurch before I do - I have POEMS!!!

Well, two to be exact. I thought that it might be both entertaining and educational (has 'edutaining' been entered into the dictionary yet? Or is it 'edutational' or something else entirely?) to display to you one poem from my VERY fresh-faced youth (we're talking Junior/Primary School here, for all you former scholars of the British educational system), and one from practically a week ago.

The first is "Pizzas". Out of all the work from before and during puberty, this is the poem that I still cannot help but adore. It's mostly for sentimental reasons obviously, but I like to think that it was really a rather impressive piece of poetry for a very young child, as I was (especially one who had only ever really read "The Lady of Shallot" by Lord Tennyson and Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman", and virtually no other poems). I have tweaked it, but only very slightly; remember, I was only a very young child when I first wrote it. Anyway the title's pretty self-explanatory, not to mention indicative of it's orally-fixated, chubby, chomping little author (there, I said it...and with all the ugly adjectives too...)

The second, "In Pursuit of the Elusive Poetry Groupie", is almost equally simplistic in its composition but with that essential bit of poetic experience thrown in. And let's not forget about life experience: I think that the title is quite self-explanatory on that matter too. I know it's both naive and vain to believe that such a thing as a 'Hot Female Poetry Groupie' exists for a low-level poet such as I, but I'm not giving up hope just yet. Who knows, she may be at the next poetry recital I perform at - doubtful but maybe.

Anyhoo, I digress and into an emotional minefield, no less. I shall leave you to measure the change of years on this young and (not so) humble poet for yourself, using these cute little slices of poetry. They may not be the height of my skill but they certainly give a distinctive insight...


PIZZAS

Pizzas fat,
Pizzas flat,
Pizzas small,
Pizzas tall,
Pizzas delicious,
Pizzas nutritious,
Pizzas long,
Pizzas strong,
Pizzas light,
Pizzas for the day,
Pizzas for the night,
Pizzas from above -
Pizzas I love!


IN PURSUIT OF THE ELUSIVE POETRY GROUPIE

Women with words
go together like birds -
all in a flutter

but men with words
to flatter those 'birds',
stare down the gutter

cos 'Straight Male Poet',
who rarely does know it,
is out for the girls

fingers to find
those elegant spines,
those delicate curls

but I'm not one,
now the words have all gone
and fallen to me

and there's not One -
girls curtsey till gone
as I write for free.


And that just about wraps it up for this week/month/year's blog post. Once again I shall leave you for obscurity for a while, and then probably resurface within a matter of weeks. Who knows? I may even be back at uni when I do, grinding out fiction with the usual trusty verbal diarrhoea. There's no accounting for where my head will be then...

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

Constance Part 3 - FOG RINGS AND CLARITY

Four years changed and I felt the brunt of none of it. By then my dreams had become plainer as imagination turned its hand to more grown-up matters. Nevertheless my steps towards the twenty year milestone were still as timid as they'd ever been. Not without Constance. She'd been there before, she had to be there again. And then, in the shade of dusk, she stood before me once more. Once more.

            She turned away. She'd changed her hair again: dyed it blonde, let it grow out. I sighed and touched her shoulder. Her cotton jumper felt damp. I moved around her, searching for a smile. Her lips twitched and quivered. Before I could catch her gaze, she hurried forward. I could not fathom where she was going: we were surrounded by a ring of fog.

            I reached for her hand but it flinched away. I tried a smile of my own but it didn't last. There they were: tears on her cheek.

            I shrank down, pleaded with her, followed her aimless walk but she refused to even turn to me. I asked her in so many ways what was wrong and what I had done but she would not talk. Silent as ever, but never before had it stung my ears so. Words streamed out of me to fill the moment, to save it, but...nothing.

            My hands shook as I moved after her, fumbled as they gripped the sides of her face. I stared at her, eyes mad and wide; searched for doubt, for the smallest hesitation. Her eyes did their best to avoid mine but I caught them. Redness swarmed about the silver, dulling their glimmer down to a spark.

            At lasts she pulled apart my hands and threw them back to my sides. I stood there and watched as she opened her hand and struck me. I took it: stumbled backwards, forwards, landed hard on my knees. With crooked fingers I touched my cheek, felt the sting again. I did not rise up; I let her step into the haze, cursing everything I could. I knew to stay back. It was her choice. Constance didn't want to stay.

            And why would she? She had good reason not to. It was my mind: I could have stayed a while longer. I had it in me to prolong the dream. But I didn't. I had abandoned all chances. I had abandoned her.

            As if responding to my wordless apology, she glanced back. It was brief, but she definitely stopped. She let something go: the slightest twitch of an aching smile. I returned the favour as best I could. I hoped that she knew I loved our time here, whatever it may have meant.

            And then she turned back, now standing before a corner. It was the best I could do. I couldn't lose her to the fog, after all. Not completely. She moved around it till she was out of sight. In a moment I was on my feet again, sprinting for the blank wall. I can't lose her, I can't lose her...

            There it was. At the very end, there it was again. Nothing.

            I slumped back down to my knees, yielding to the damn thing. Tears fell and disappeared, dissolving as quickly as the corner, the surrounding fog. It was coming and I did not fight it. I never once looked down.

           

            I felt the tears, the real ones, and they brought me out. I sat up, let them roll away, let others follow. When the morning at last arrived I felt no better. I couldn't understand why I wept for a figment, a fading woman; but I did and that made it all the more worse. The warmth had well and truly left now; I was alone with a cold day climbing up my shoulders. But I carried on. I dressed, stepped out and carried on.

            After all, a dream is a dream, isn't it? What hurts you by night, can't possibly hurt you by morning. Day is something else, too big to be held back by such odd little concepts. I went a whole lifetime thinking this way.

            Now I know how foolish such a thought is. Dreams are worse than reality; they can linger just as long. Eyes open or shut, they never really leave you. And she most certainly does not. Constance was and, in many ways, still is. Though I know I'll probably never see her again, she is welcome to my nights like the ghost of glory past. Like an angel never truly met.

Constance Part 2 - STOCKINGS AND PATIENCE

The slightest rustle of nylon unfolding: a very humble sound to drift into. Not to mention rather promising to a lustful teenage boy. I yielded to a glance at her thigh.

            Oh yes, she had certainly changed with the times; renewed herself, if you will. She could well have been anyone else if it wasn't for her angular chin, her pert little nose. The long brown ringlets had me fooled at first but I recognised the sparkle in those rolling eyes. We were old friends in new roles. For one afternoon in my sixteenth year, the woman of my dreams had become my lover. If only I could remember what had led to this very contented moment.

            My mind was completely blank. All I knew was that I was now truly a man and that a true man would not let a woman like her leave again. She told me she had to: I was only her four o'clock, after all. Naively I thought I was more. I watched dumbly as she draped her red leather coat across her shoulders; I merely nodded as she fastened the straps on her jewelled shoes. I kept commanding myself to stand up, to reach out for her hand but every moment after I did nothing. At last she collected her money and made for the door. At last I found my voice.

            "Please. I just can't let you go like this. I know it's inappropriate but I must be sure that I'll see you again." That was the gist: I can't quite recall the exact state of those faltering words.

            And she stood there. Her lips twitched as before; she had to bite down on the lower half. She reached into a hidden pocket and withdrew a card. She closed it in my quivering palm. It was something; the smallest token of a patient woman. I unfurled my fingers and glimpsed the top: in bold letters, 'CONSTANCE'.  I thought it an ill-fitting name for such a graceful creature. I held onto it anyway; tucked it away into the back pocket of my jeans and, indeed, my memory. Her smile regained its confidence as she turned back towards the door. She gripped the handle and was gone. I folded my arms and watched without even a moment's surprise. I followed shortly after but nowhere near as softly. Things were changing. A different place was waiting but I just couldn't bring myself to meet it yet. Just a bit longer. Just a few more...

            Within the seconds I was taken, I clung onto that name; repeated it from thought to tongue to teeth and back again. Constance, Constance, Constance, Cons-

            I grasped for my pockets. The insides were warm against my fingertips as I scratched and scrabbled around. I felt no sharp edges, no cool laminate. Just the same old fabric. I withdrew my hand as I opened my eyes. I should have read the number, the contact details. I should have memorised them. But they were only smudges now, everything except that name.

            And then I remembered where I was, realised that I'd never actually been in that room; understood that it was far away if it even existed at all. CONSTANCE. There was no Constance. She wasn't here. Reality had swallowed me whole again.

            But at least I had a name. The mystery wasn't nearly so thick or dark. Yes. Constance. Familiarity had more than a face now.

"Constance" Part 1 - BISCUITS AND ELEGANCE

Dreams. I've never paid much heed to them. The kind I usually have are loud and screechy things, splashed with colours so bright they're obnoxious. And don't get me started on the experiences of my earlier, more tender years.

            Sleep was more of a place back then; a gaping cave mouth with a heaving breeze leading in. The things I found there weren't so much nightmares but wild imaginings dressed in formal clothing. Nothing is so paralysing than the sight of the usual going terribly wrong. On waking though, there was always a sense of relief as my eyes adjusted to not just the immediate surroundings but to the comforting knowledge that what was now happening was actually happening. Here the horrors were much larger but could always be hidden from, from behind a warm duvet and five extra minutes lie-in.

            But then, as I was drawn in one gentle night, I suddenly found myself...elsewhere. 'Elsewhere' looked nothing like the other dreams. It was the finest living room I'd ever seen. So many facets and ornaments of 1920s elegance. How I admired that period; its art, its colour. Such a fresh-faced era. But the room was a blurry nothing, a background fading in and out of focus. My focus was busily set on the sight sitting so primly before me.

            She was a raven-haired flapper, or at least dressed in that fashion. Her dress was sometimes green but often blue, but always curling with the ebb and flow of her slightest movements. This woman had silver eyes, a feature which more soothed than shocked me at the time. Her smile was a fragile line that dithered and parted with occasional flashes of white. Then again, my attention was far more concerned with other things: namely the light brown circles that were crumbling apart in her hands. Hobnobs. This was the object of my youthful passion. Suffice to say I was a boy who loved his snacking. And the woman must have known this too, or else why would she have been gleefully feeding them to me? I tried my best to keep from snapping at her long delicate fingers as they graced my mouth. After all, she was a thing of beauty, even to a ravenous twelve-year-old boy.

            At the close of that moment, I felt that warmth that they always talk about lightly writhing within. And as the blurry gates closed across the dying image, and as I returned to brief, weary squints at reality; I could still feel it. But it wasn't alone now; it had acquired a strange companion. Emptiness. I had lost my pretty thing down a well and knew that it would be a long time coming back.

            But it did. She did.

"Constance" Introduction (a.k.a. Getting the Compulsory Commentary Out of My System)

Hullo all!

Considering how well "Among the Magpies" did not too long ago, I thought that I'd write and release another serial short story for you. Well, to be perfectly honest, "Constance" is more of a short story with events that cut up nice and neatly into serial portions. It's slightly longer than "Among the Magpies" and (I think you'll be happy to hear) a lot less creepy. I still seem to lean towards the pathetic social pariah ([insert snarky remark about writer here]) bur I like to think that this guy is a lot sweeter. He's also a little bit upper-class camp, but I'm sure you'll find that out for yourself.
Anyway, that's all I'll say for the time being. After all, that's half the fun of a serial story, isn't it? The not-quite-knowing-what'll-happen-next feeling. I seem to get that sensation a lot when writing these commentary things...
However, there is one more thing. A (very) little poem expressing a rather uncharacteristically pessimistic perspective on individualism and rebellion against the norm. It's called "Upwind". Please enjoy and try not to get too bummed out by it (That's for all you fighters out there! I believe in you!). Meanwhile, if you are the sort of person who agrees with the message then try not to enjoy it too much (Damn you, you perpetual party-poopers! BOOOOOO!).


UPWIND

Standing tall
before the gales.
Freshest trick -
it always fails.


Oh and ah yes, keep an eye out for the three daily instalments of "Constance" and enjoy them too. If you can.

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

"Routine" and "The Great Canvas" (a.k.a. Life and Bereavement in Poetry...Well, Mine Anyway...)

Hullo all,

Just to prove that I'm still here, I thought that now would be a good opportunity to post some new poetry for you, my lovely, lovely masses! (okay, I'll stop...:D). Since my last post, amidst the compulsory slothing and "ahem" 'rigorous' job-hunting, I've been working on a pair of poems in an attempt to get back in touch with verse and the vignette. I've certainly had a lot to work with emotionally, as I'll explain in detail below.

I wrote "Routine" first. I wrote it during a rather sad week as I, along with the rest of my family, saw our beloved black labrador Ben through his final days. During this time I, in my unusual state of grief, spent a lot of time at night wondering what it would be like to not see him around the house. When I started to imagine coming downstairs the morning after, I found myself gushing with emotion and just had to transfer these thoughts to something meaningful and beautiful to me. This was what eventually came out, after much tidying up. I like to think of it as an adequate example of bereavement but, as always, I'll let you be the judge.

The second poem, "The Great Canvas", was another late-night discovery. For some reason I find that within the fleeting moments before I drift off to sleep, just as I finish collecting my thoughts and review the day; I start spewing forth intriguing lines of very promising poetry. Normally when I do, I grab my mobile phone and eagerly start writing it down and developing it in the rather handy memo section; then leave it to gestate till morning. This is one such poem. For some peculiar reason that I can scarcely recall, I got to thinking about the old saying that 'Life is just a blank slate, what matters most is what you write on it'. Then I started to think about yellow crayons and 'being caught red-handed' and came up with what I can only describe as a rather colourful piece of poetry for me.

Anyway, I leave you to enjoy them. Oh and, while your here, how about some short recorded readings of these two particular poems? Hopefully, when you scroll down to the bottom of this admittedly rather lengthy blog post, you'll find two clickable videos for you to view and maybe even cherish (or is that asking a little too much? :D). Either way, I'll just pop off for a bit...


ROUTINE

And what will I do

when I cross the hall,

enter that room

and find a glaring shell?

And what will I do

when I search that room

for winks of shadow

and find sunlight still?

And what shall I do

when I find that day

closing around,

and feel that crushing chill?

And what won't I do

to see you standing,

as in life before,

in that doorway, and well...

THE GREAT CANVAS

a room,

a blank room

with white walls yawning –

left to right,

with joins that aren’t quite there

a hand,

a red hand

dithers by this halo –

right to left,

crumbling at the tips

crayon,

yellow crayon

winds tracks behind it –

in and out,

like a pale lapping tongue

markings,

scratchy markings,

like little claw, find white –

out and in,

to close orange once more

And now I toddle off for good. Well, more like until the next time I've got something worthwhile to show you. See you then :).

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

P.S. The lip sync's off in a rather noticeable way again, so I suggest you just listen to it. Unless, of course, you enjoy accidental visual symbolism and/or badly-dubbed films...:).

"Small Things in Battle" and "Mummy's Boy" (a.k.a. My Shaky yet still Somewhat Valiant Attempt at Climbing Back Up to the Top)

Hullo all,

Sorry to have been so silent for so long. I'm not deliberately imparting a monthly blog or anything like that, it's just what seems to be happening right now. I've been rather busy doing a fine ol' mixture of reading excessively, watching Doctor Who, helping a friend with his current Xbox situation, job-hunting and (most important of all) WRITING! Sadly though, the last activity has been slipping back somewhat in my priority list of late.

However, I have indeed been writing a few things and have been trying my absolute best to make it some of the finest examples of my work and style to date. I've spent a considerable amount of time on two short stories in particular - "Small Things in Battle" and "Mummy's Boy". With these I have begun the slow and difficult process of picking myself up and dusting myself down in terms of the whole writing thing (in case you didn't know, I've only just finished the final assignments of my course and so have been both physically and mentally drained in a very thorough fashion).

"Small Things in Battle" is a highly condensed and compacted version of a story that I have long wished to write but have otherwise been unable to. The tale features two first-person perspectives: the goodie in plain text, the baddy in italics. Please don't feel like I'm insulting your intelligence here, I just want to make it as clear as I can that they are not the same person. I won't give away the theme yet, but I can tell you that war fiction is not quite what I'm talking about here. At least that's not what I think I'm talking about - the power of the subconscious mind can be a tricky thing, especially in terms of individual inspiration.

"Mummy's Boy", on the other hand, is on entirely the other side of the coin: it's a story that I've had great reservations about writing but ultimately knew I could and must. I had the idea for it around Mother's Day, as the title suggests, and that little voice that says spiteful things and whispers wicked thoughts just took over for the majority of it's conception. It's safe to say that the theme, which again I will not reveal to you here, was not one at the top of my list to explore. Nevertheless I think that the subtlety with which I wrote it will dampen the shock sufficiently. I hope.

Anyway, without further ado (and further improvised typing), here are the stories :).


SMALL THINGS IN BATTLE

He's here with me. Who's he exactly? Can't tell. Yet.

            An enemy though, no doubt about that. One of the other side with the bombs and the bigger brains. There's a crafty trigger finger round here. Somewhere.

            In all the fuzziness I recall a name. Begins with 'm'. Martial? Marshall. I can see a face now. His old man's smirk. Bastard.

            He's got to know something about this place. From all the big boxes and dusty metal I'd guess this is an abandoned cargo bay. Enemy ground, anyway. Unfamiliar. Potentially hostile.

            I've crossed this pillar four times now. Damn funny looking thing. It's got bumps all over it - ins and outs. Wooden too. Didn't realise that the other side were so...flamboyant. I wonder if this is what they mean by 'the art of war'. Personally, I don't get it.

            Urgh, I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm just sick of the waiting now. That distant empty hum's scratching on my last nerve. Give me an exploding minefield any day.

            I shout "Show yourself."

            He'll bite, sure enough. He's gonna bite back real soon.

            Look at you, grunt. Little one.

            That's it. Keep stomping around with your pea-shooter, your empty brain bucket. Look up if you want.

            But you won't. Of course you won't. Incompetent subordinate. I can tell from your weary eyes, your sullen expression. You're broken. But you won't desert; you shan't change your course. I respect that. I know your angry little heart. I've seen the same in so many men; some smaller, most greater.

            Ho, ho, you're wandering in all the wrong places now. You'll never see me there. Maybe I should wave, dance around, draw you out. Make it easier for the both of us.

            Yes, I did hear you before. No reason for me to respond though, for what have you got on me? I'm up here, you're in your place. And if that should suddenly change, I always have this. My service revolver. I haven't used it in a while though. Oh, what the hell? A quick spot of target practice certainly won't go amiss. It'll do us both a world of good...

            It's clogged. Damn. I need time to clean it.

            He's getting close. Damn! I just need the time.

            Hmm, this block. Big and wooden. Rather solid too. Uninspired as far as traps go, but it will do.

            Heave-ho, and down we go...

            Was that a laugh?

            Sliding. Something's sliding up top. And falling.

            Quick forward roll.

            Bang.

            Out of the way. Just.

            Let's see what we have here... Some kind of block. Hell, it's big. Had to be pushed. It's him. Heads up. Hello, jackboot.

            Gun's heavier than I remember. And where's the trigger? Shit, it's broke. Ah well, it'd have been too late anyway. Already out of sight.

            At least I know where he is now. Old men like him can't run too far.

            I need some kind of ladder or at least something with footholds. Giant work-station like this, there's gotta be some way to get on top. All I can see is that construction over there. Don't know what the hell it is but it looks a little like a bureau. Huge wooden sliders poking out. It'll have to do. Marshall's getting away.

            I grab onto the first ledge, unsheathe my knife. At least this'll work.

            You've disappeared. You're a ballsy one, aren't you? Can't say that I like that.

            Nonetheless, I think I know how you plan to get up here. There's really only one plausible way, after all. Time to jump into the car.

            It's a classic. It has that vintage sheen, the heady scent of times past, leather upholstered seats. However it's rather snug when you climb into it. Disappointing. It's really just a shell now; the engine having been removed. Still I can move it a shudder and that's all I need from it for now.

            I look behind. That strange luminescent green rope I found before is holding just fine. It was a little frayed when I found it but it'll hold just long enough. It's tied between the back bumper of the vehicle and the handle of the topmost drawer. When you reach it, I'll power forward and snap your last ledge shut. Then, I think I'll leave you hanging. That'll teach you to treat your betters with more courtesy. 

            You're certainly taking your time. Any of my boys would have scaled up here within minutes. It's a pity none of them are around right now.

            Strange, that. We were running together, before all this, guns aimed high for the castle stronghold and then...nothing. It's like I've been asleep and, since waking, I find myself stranded. I can conceive of no credible reason. It must be conspiracy.

            You're getting near; I can hear your husky breathing. All I need is this slight push forward. Roll, you beautiful husk. Drive!

            Snap. The ledge is gone. Bastard's got me.

            Or maybe he hasn't. I see that green line he used, think I can use it for myself.

            Reach up for it. Yeah, just about taut enough. Dumb move, Marshall. Very dumb.

            Gotta say it's been a while since I last climbed rope. Boot camp? Comforting to know that nothing goes to waste. Just got to keep steady.

            And there he goes. Typical. Nice wheels, though. Wonder why he's left it behind? Hope he kept the brakes on...

            Whoa! The fucking car's slipping back! Lightest damn vehicle I've ever seen. Luckily I'm already halfway onto the top. Move a little to the left and...

            Whammo! Helluva crash down below. Wonder if he had insurance on that thing. Shit.

            Marshall's still near. He got out so fast, he's stumbling. Gun's still bust though. I'll have to pursue. Don't like it.

            Not my finest plan, I'll concede. You're obviously a quick learner, for a common runt. A pity about the car. I suppose beauty is yet another casualty in the tides of battle.

            Well, if waste is what you respond to, then have some more. Wooden sticks. Steel cubes. Tin containers.

            Hmm, how odd. This thing looks exactly like a ruler; though the biggest I've ever seen. And that: a ball-point pen. Well, if it rolls, it impedes.

            I just hope we get there before you lay your grubby little hands on me. I'm quite surprised you haven't fired at me yet. I suppose your gun is blocked too. How fortunate.

            I wonder if you've fallen yet. You're obviously quick, spatially aware. I do want you to meet with me but in good time.

            Ah, and there it is. Just within sight. My last resort. A few more obstacles and you'll be here too.

            Goddamn it! That thing nearly bowled me over!

            Good news is he's desperate. His movements are erratic; he could slip at any moment. Then it would be a clean shot. Soon as he's down I'll stab him in the calf. No more fucking running.

            Marshall's gotta know something. With any luck, he'll lead me to the right place. Maybe he's leading me there now. Nah, he's too smart for that...

            What the hell is that thing? Looks like a holding cell, only big, shiny and special.

            What's with all the buttons on the side? It's all numbers and squiggly lines. Is that the door? Feels warm. Can barely see inside. Something nuclear, I'll bet.

            And where's Marshall gone?

            Click. Jackboot footstep. Cold barrel on the back of my neck.

            Grunt. "One last trap, huh?"

            "Of course." I see his smile reflected in the door. Yup. An old man's smirk alright.

            "Drop the knife." And you do. Good show. "Don't turn around."

            I glance at the thing. A little old and weathered but still distinctly sharp. Hmm, much bigger than the standard commission. You certainly like your blades, don't you, grunt?

            "Silent, eh? The mark of a good POW. I respect that. But before you tell me your name and service number, I think you should know that I don't really care. From your actions, I doubt you are any wiser than I am about our current situation. Also I must admit to feeling a little intrigued by this...contraption here and how it operates. Get inside."

            I prod but you don't move. Defiance? Honestly?

            "Now, I really haven't the time for this. Surely your simple grunt brain can comprehend a clear instruction. Not to mention, a loaded gun."

            You still don't move. I see your fingers twitching near your back. I see them crawl towards the butt of your rifle. I see...

              My fist. He never saw it coming. Now he's laid out on the floor. Weak jaw. Typical.

            I grab the rifle, slam it across his face. No getting up. Even old men are dangerous here. Need someplace to hold him. Something strong. Let's see this 'contraption'...

            Door won't budge. One of these buttons must open it. How about this one? The lowest. It's clear: no words on it or anything. Here goes...

            There. Hmm, funny looking cell. What's this see-through plate thing for? Ah well. In you go, Marshall. Stay down.

            That door's pretty heavy. Shuts nice and solid though. Now, which buttons do I press? Need to seal him up - maximum security. Looks like it operates by time intervals. Now let's see, I'll call in on the radio with what intel I have, but it'll still take my squadron a little while to find my exact location. Like, half an hour? Yeah. '30 mins'.

            Wait...what's that humming? The machine? Whoa, that's hot! Gotta get out of the way...

            Thing sounds like it's about to explode! Where's the fucking off-switch? Maybe the blank button again.

            The door springs open. Shit, is that steam? Aw, God...

            Gloop. Everywhere. Is that him? Marshall? Oh, shit.

            Did-did that thing just...melt him? God. What the fuck do I do now?

            I raise the radio to my ear. Procedure. "This is Private Jay, over. This is Private. Over." I look at it. Really look at it. "H-hello...?"

            It's...it's plastic. Just a stupid wad of plastic.

            Turn back. The goo's dribbled out, run up to the heel of my boot. Kneel down, pick up a bit, run it through my fingers. Plastic too. Familiar texture.

            And that's not it. Everything - shit - everything about this place seems familiar. Domestic, almost. The giant pencil things, the ledges like bureau sliders, the pillars like table legs. Shit.

            I've been missing it. So big. Everything's so goddamn big here.

            I drop the radio. The gun too. Just hunks of plastic now.

            And what about me? What am I made of? I'm nothing. Here. Somewhere. Alone.

            What do I do?

MUMMY'S BOY

The tray wavered and almost slipped as it skimmed past the banister. Rex's fingers tried their best to wrap around the sides. Most of the time Rex could hold onto big things like this, sometimes even bigger, but every now and then his hands suddenly felt very sore and tired. He bit his lip, holding back the naughty word that Dad had taught him a few days ago but told him never to repeat again.

            Leaning against the rail, Rex slowly made his way up; his eyes fixed on the coffee cup. His thumb twitched as the warm brown liquid sloshed lightly over the rim. He remembered the last time he got too near hot water. Mum had rested the kettle near the edge of the kitchen counter top for a bit and he had stretched up and prodded the handle with one curious finger, trying to get a grip on it. Before he knew what was happening, it suddenly slipped and started tumbling forward. It was a good thing that Mum had caught it in time before it scolded him badly. Instead it just got a bit of his finger. It hurt but, after running it under the cold tap for a bit, the redness started to disappear. Mum, however, wasn't so lucky; there was a long splash of red across the wrist of one hand and the palm of the other. He said sorry but she told him not to cry. Not to worry. These things happen, after all. It had happened nearly three years ago but Rex certainly didn't want to risk feeling that tingly burn again.

            Eventually he reached the landing and stopped to catch his breath. Mum and Dad's bedroom was just around the corner. They would probably be asleep because it was Sunday. They were always asleep on Sunday mornings. Except they called it 'snoozing'.

            As gently as he could, Rex knocked on the door and pushed it open. They weren't snoozing this time, they were awake and hugging each other. There was a big smile on both of their faces. Dad noticed him first.

            "Well wahey, champ! That's a top notch breakfast!" He winked. "Isn't it, mum?"

            "Oh, yes. Yummy-yummy." She sat upright. "Take your time, dear. Don't want you hurting yourself, especially with that plate. Oh, and that coffee looks piping hot! You helped him with that, didn't you, dear?"

            Dad chuckled and kissed Mum on her forehead. "Of course."

            She reached out and grabbed the handle of the coffee cup. It had 'No. #1 Mum' on the front but she didn't notice. Instead she rested it on the table and reached out for the tray. "I'll take that, Rex. Oh, this all looks wonderful! Thank you, dear."

            Rex stared at Mum. She looked very pale in the morning light and a little bit wrinkly. Dad referred to this as 'showing her age' and insisted that there was nothing wrong with it, but swore Rex to secrecy all the same.

            She smiled, showing even more wrinkles around her eyes. "Come here, you." She tousled his short blonde hair and hugged him close. "My little angel. And you dressed in your best clothes too!"

            He had. His blue and white striped t-shirt tucked neatly into his black shorts. Rex had even picked out his nicest pair of glasses too, the ones with the green rims. He'd cleaned them especially before coming up. Mum didn't like seeing greasy finger marks all over the lenses and Rex really didn't want her to fuss today.

            He looked up at her. She was reading his special card, bits of glitter coming off on her fingertips.

            "And aren't we forgetting something?" Dad chimed, "Where's the prezzie, champ?"

            Licking his top lip, Rex tried to remember where he had put it. Running into his bedroom, he brought out a clay bowl. He'd made it at school with some help from Miss Wembley, but the thumbprints around the rim were definitely his own handiwork. And the message on the front too: "Mummy's". He didn't quite know what she would use the bowl for, but he wanted to make it specifically clear that it was her's and her's alone.

            Dad reached over and inspected it. "Nice. Very nice. It's got that personal touch. What do you think, Mum?"

            "Oh, yes." She said, running her fingers delicately across the edge. She stared away and smiled dreamily.

            "Miss Wembley said it was the best she'd seen all day." Rex announced.

            "I'm sure she did, champ." Dad laughed and winked.

            Mum gave him her cross look. As always, Dad quickly recoiled.

            "It's wonderful, sweetheart." She ruffled his hair and drew him in for another hug.

            "Anyway," she said, patting him on the back, "it's time me and Dad were getting up. Now have you brushed your teeth yet?"

            Rex shook his head. He knew that she knew he hadn't. He'd come to learn that Mum had the uncanny ability to see inside his head. Rather than arguing, he ran off to the bathroom. He heard his parents chuckling as he approached the sink.

            An hour later, Rex scampered down the stairs and past the banister again. He needed a good spot, one that they'd never think of; but he just couldn't decide. Usually he was very good at hide and seek ('small and crafty', as Dad once put it) but the barely audible sound of the slow countdown from one hundred was filling his ears and he was shaking with excitement.

            Rex stopped and took a deep breath in, like Mum had taught him to. He needed to think carefully but also quickly. He could already hear Mum and Dad approaching the stairs from above. He pictured a hiding spot. A spot he could fit in easily and that neither would ever discover...

            He opened his eyes. Of course. Rex sprang forward, making a bee line for the back garden.

            Closing the back door behind him he ran towards the far left corner of the grassy patch. Adjusting his glasses, he looked up and down at the thing stood in front of him. The old wooden shed with bits of green paint flaking off the front. It was perfect. The last time Dad had found him in here he was very surprised, but not angry. Not quite. It was filled with old junk, he said; his father's stuff. Rex tried to ask about Granddad, but Dad was anxious that he got back out into the sunshine. In all the places in the house, Dad would never think to find him in here again.

            Rex opened the door and hurried inside. It was very dark but he could be patient. Nevertheless, he kept the door open a crack so he could peek through. Holding in his breath, he waited.

            Keys rattled in the back door and the handle was forced down. Mum and Dad strolled outside, holding hands. Mum let out a sleepy sigh and rested her head on Dad's shoulder.

            "Oh, I do love a blue sky in April." She muttered.

            Dad nodded. "It's always clear down here. And, to think, you didn't want to move."

            "Well, what could you expect? There were so many memories back home."

            "Like what?" Dad turned to her. "Not him, surely?"

            Mum stopped and looked at him with infinite patience. "He was a good man. I know you two never really got along, but he was essentially good. I loved him."

            "I didn't." Dad mumbled.

            Mum gave him her cross look again. "He taught you a lot, you can't deny that."

            "Doesn't mean that I ever liked him. Ever had a reason to." Turning away, Dad frowned and pouted. "He left us, or don't you remember?"

            "I know he left but it wasn't out of spite. It...hurt him. He didn't understand. He couldn't bring himself to."

            "Couldn't..." Dad grumbled.

            "But think of what he did in doing that." Mum touched the side of his face lightly. "He brought us closer. Made our home happy again."

            "And all it took was a few years for the old bastard to realise."

            Mum grabbed hold of Dad's face. "Sweetheart, he was your father. He was a kind and good man. It wasn't his fault. It was just his nature."

            Dad turned away again. He knew that she could see inside his head too.

            "Now, let's not think about him anymore, eh?" Mum said. She raised Rex's bowl into his line of vision. "Think about your son. Our son."

            Dad reached out for it and held it with both hands. A smile crept across his face. "Nice. Very nice."

            Mum laughed and kissed him on the cheek. She ruffled his hair. "My little boy."

            Dad laughed too. "Happy Mother's Day, Mum."

            With one last glance around, they made their way back towards the other end of the garden. From the crack in the shadows, Rex watched and wondered why.

And that'll do. Whatever your opinion, please feel free to post a reply on here or on Twitter - look for 'mrpondersome' and the blue question mark with the top hat, stood proudly beside it. I may make another email address especially, depending on the reaction I get after this post takes off for the great wide internet highway. I won't bite if you don't :).

Thanks for reading (and waiting, as always),

Mr. Pondersome