The saga that is Chris And Mike vs continues and I'm in awe at fans suggestions for producing novels, flash collections and graphic novels. It's humbling when a group of people get behind a writer so positively. I'm grateful to everyone who has said a nice thing about my mini project that is soon to become one of my main projects (more on that in a future post).
This weeks was interesting. I decided not to look to much into what the picture was of and, instead, what I saw in a quick glance.
I struggled for a while to get a cohesive plot and then decided I do something crazy and write it in the form of a poem.
CHRIS AND MIKE vs THE LABYRINTH OF SHADOWS
Silent was the labyrinth as the boys stirred from slumber.
In the darkness they were trapped and in much perilous danger.
They’d been plucked from their beds by a grey feathered crow.
Now their predicament was delivered by their most heinous foe.
“I warned you my task was to hunt you and kill you.
Now a fight to the death in this maze shall ensue.”
Unmasking this villain would be their reward.
As Chris gripped his bow and Mike grabbed his sword.
They summoned their courage and prayed for good luck.
And if they got out alive this tale would make a great film.
It was another busy Friday at work and that, coupled with the fact that I saw the picture as a bridge instead of a prison wall, meant I was struggling to get something decent done that evening.
I don't think these are my best pieces but I do like how different they are to each other.
Why does she do it?
It’s because she hates me. What other reason is there?
I tell her every time that I don’t like beef stroganoff but she keeps cooking, keeps making me eat it.
There’s loads of foods I don’t like but this is the worst. It tastes disgusting, it looks disgusting and it smells like a word I’m not allowed to say.
Okay, so I can see the joy on her face as she dances around the kitchen. Since dad left this room has become her happy place. Most nights we sit at the table, just mum and me, and all she needs is my yummy noises.
Fish and chips.
And Sunday’s tasty, tasty roast.
But every now and then she makes beef stroganoff and then she makes me eat every last bit.
I normally don’t have any bad feelings against our dining room table. It’s where I draw, or build Lego or where we play our board games.
But when beef stroganoff is on the menu it becomes my prison, a place I can’t leave until the warden is happy. I’m trapped at the table until I finish every last chunk.
SPOIL THE BROTH
I’ve got three years left on my sentence.
To some that sounds like a lifetime. But I’ve crossed off twelve years already so it’s nothing more than the home stretch.
At least it was.
I blame them, obviously. It was their fault, their ‘clerical error’ that put me into a compromising situation. I mean, come on! Look at my record. I was put away for murdering my wife’s family with poison. I feed them a tasty roast dinner that was laced with poison.
So was it the best idea to put me in charge of the prison kitchen when the regular guy called in sick? Of course not!
You stick a steak in front of a lion, he’s gonna eat it.
You put a football in front of a young boy, he’s gonna kick it.
You place a vat full of soup in front of a man who doesn’t like many of his cellmates and he’s gonna do something about it.
Warden got fired. Couple of inmates found their freedom via body bags.
Me? I’ve had ten years added to my sentence.
Think I might take cookery class to pass the time.
For most of the weekend I couldn't come up with anything that wasn't close to my previous entry HIS MASTERS VOICE.
However, a therapeutic walk with my wife and son managed to clear my head and the magic came one again.
FROM BEYOND THE GROOVE
I set the needle down and took a step back. I didn’t know what to expect.
There was a low humming sound as the groves of the record glowed electric blue. Smoke began to trail from the needle, collecting next to my dining room table and forming the shape of a person.
A person I hadn’t seen in a long time.
The needle reached the centre of the record and the process was complete. The man coughed a little and rubbed his eyes, looking around and trying to get his bearings.
Then he looked straight at me.
“Who the hell are you?”
I hadn’t really expected this to work so I hadn’t thought about what I should say first. I didn’t want to startle him by just blurting out the facts; he’d been trapped in that record for a long time.
“Perhaps you should sit down?”
“Screw that. Only a few people knew about my trick. How did you know to release me?”
So much for being gentle with him. “It’s me, dad. It’s Anthony.”
“Anthony? My Anthony? No, that can’t be right. You’re old enough to a pensioner.”
“It’s me, dad. Little Ant Man.”
That did it. He stepped a little closer, searching for that something that spoke to him on a much deeper level. His eyes widened when he found it and he rushed forward. It was good to feel his arms around me again. It had been a long time since my dad had hugged me. After a couple of minutes he stepped back, trying to take it all in.
“What happened? Why are you so old?”
“It’s been almost fifty years since you sealed yourself in that record.”
“Fifty years! Fifty years! It was supposed to be for a couple of weeks, just until the bookies gave up chasing what I owed. Why the hell would your darling mother leave me in there for fifty years?”
“She found out you’d been gambling again.”
“That bitch. I knew I couldn’t trust her.”
He walked over to the dining room window and gazed out.
“So, this is the future?”
“It’s kinda the present, dad. I’ll fill you in.”