WB 5.1 A protest poem

Slant. 5.1.      

Why?

Why do you protest?

Why not rather try to make life better?

Why destroy when you could build?

Why be against when you could be for?

Why hate when you could love?

You don’t understand? Then learn, educate yourself.

Why riot when you could join the police and make them better?

Why are you against; nuclear, coal, oil, gas, fracking, making electricity to power our hospitals. What is your alternative?

Where does the fuel come from to build windmills that don’t work?

Why are you against power stations to keep old people warm and lit?

Why set up protest camps when you could work an allotment?

Why say you are a socialist but act like a capitalist?

Why support socialism when you know it doesn’t work?

Why save polar bears but not bacteria?

Only save cuddly, cute animals?

Would you rather live in a cave?

Are you against your smart phone you use every day, making profit for the capitalists?

We are all human, let us work together.

If you feel strongly, be an MP, change things

Encourage change from within, 

influence others.

Don’t just shout and march and protest.

Do you have better ideas?

When do we get to hear them?

Have you tried them?

Do they work?

What have you struggled to make better?

Have you written any good protest poems?

Have they changed anything,  for the better?

Just take the easy way, carry on protesting…

or

Don’t just sit there, protesting, do something useful.

I protest against protest.

WB - 4. Theme - Lost. Title - Lost in a dream.

Lost in a dream

The sun is hot. I sweat. The saddle is hard. The road narrows. I don’t know the landmarks. The tarmac surface runs out. Ruts approach. Green appears between the ruts. The track surface is stoney muddy and unflat. Flints like acne pop up in the thinly soiled fields each side of the track. I pedal hard. The track winds around the stump of a very old, very circumferated tree. The track comes to an end. I am outside a flint-built farmhouse. Part of the house has knapped flints but in the older part they are left rounded with a slight imbrication to  the east, seemingly leaning because of the keening west wind up here on the dry hill.

There is a well in the courtyard in front of the building. I wind up the bucket, hoping for a drink. It is a long wind up. A long way down to the water table. A long way through this hill of well drained chalk. The bucket appears. It is half full of water. I take a long grateful drink. I pour the rest of the cool water over my head - a welcome wet chill. I look around, no people. No way out except the way I came; in. I prop my bike against the parapet of the well. I drop to the ground to lean my back against it. I am too weary to search for a seat. I doze in the shadow of the well roof until a dream comes, of speedy pedalling along these old trading trackways.

The sun moves around. The shade moves away from my face. I wake in the sun burning light. The dream retreats. The nightmare advances. I mount the hot saddle and free wheel down the track. The temperature drops. Grey clouds appear on the horizon. The clouds travel nearer. Wind comes from nowhere. The clouds arrive, now darker and thicker. Rain switches on, large thundery drops. It is cold. it is wet, Wind whips at my summer club top. I pedal faster to create warmth. The rain roars and hammers the ground. White rivulets form in the chalk ruts, turn to milk, race me down the track, looking for but not finding, a drain. It is a cross wind. I don’t know why. I am happy. It pushes me sideways. I keep on the bike, just. I follow the furrows. The tyres plough through the rivulets, competing to speed to the lower ground. The squall passes. Rain stops. Sun emerges from the clouds. A miraculous rainbow forms. I pedal faster, try to get to the illusory pot of gold. It moves away from me. the rainbow fades. Nothing lasts.

The rivulets chuckle and gurgle, not knowing that their life is nearly over. Twigs and leaves, debris, dam the bends. Clouded, milky water rushes down the straights. The ruts deepen, washed out to small river beds. The track flattens, the ruts fill with watery, chalky mush. The green centre of the track changes to tarmac. A tee junction ahead, no coffee here. The rivulets meet their nemesis, a black drain grid, hellespont on speed as they rush to a certain death in the dark unknown depths below. I pedal faster, aiming for dryness and warmth. I start to steam. The tyres sing on the tarmac. A spray of droplets from the rear tyre form a wet line up my back. This is cycling. This is how it should be. I sing with the tyres in happy harmony.

I look up to the side of the road, houses, shops and pubs appear - each side. I am entering a town. No reception committee. Where am I? What is the name of this town. I know I am in South East England because of the chalk downs, vernacular buildings of flint, lopped ends and tile hung fronts. All towns have a name. If a town had no name, no one would know of it because no one could refer to it. I see a church, built of red stone - is this possible? It is but parish churches are always built of local stone. Only cathedrals could afford to import stone because they had more tithes ground from the poor. I stop. I prop the bike against a gravestone to ‘tuts’ from purple and lavender clad ladies with large-brimmed hats who chat in the sunlit graveyard. Who will object to my bike? They are too late. I walk up to the war memorial. Names written in cyrillic script in columns down the five faces. Five fold symmetry, must be crinoidal. Why cyrillic? I enter the church. I pick up a hymnal. It is English, I recognise some of the words. I put it down. I walk out through the heavy door to the sunny graveyard. The lavender ladies have dispersed but my bike is still there. The gravestone has gone. Other gravestones have english names, Henry Edwards, George Kent… The church is now vernacular, flints and bricks. The war memorial has four sides, english names in english script. I look at the notice in the church porch, St Ethelburgh’s dates and times of services. The town has a name, Tenterton. I don’t know it.

I wake and stretch my legs, aching from all that pedalling. As I dress I see my  cycle top is still sweaty, with a muddy line up the back.

WB - 3 Theme - Manipulation Title - Manipulation

Manipulation

I felt the coolness of the shadow slowly move over me. I opened my eyes and looked up to the the steward standing in my sun, holding a tray that contained two drinks; a vodka martini for Helen and a tom collins for me.  I tipped him generously and sat up to enjoy my ice-cold drink. We clinked glasses  to celebrate to first drink of the day. We were lazing in deck chairs on the Manipuowac, the flagship cruise liner of the Polish Blue Star fleet. She was cruising slowly across a warm, calm cerulean, Adriatic Sea, nothing to see but the sea and the sun slowly dipping to the horizon. I exulted in our laziness and thought back to my working life as a welder in a fabrication shop in the metal bashing district’ of Birmingham

I had worked for the medium sized company for over twenty years. I started the lottery syndicate about fifteen years ago after one of my work mates won £100 one day. I thought,’ this must be worth a go,’ and it sort of went on from there. We got to about hundred people eventually so we had a weekly individual sub of £3. We won quite a bit in dribs and drabs so I suggested that we invest the winnings rather than just pay out a few pound here and there. Everyone agreed as they had this fantasy of the money piling up.

I suggested opening a bank account and said it should be in someone else’s name to make sure ‘I wouldn’t run off with it.’ As usual everyone was too lazy to take on the work so I was ‘persuaded’ to run it. This I did - under my own name of course. I then suggested that we opened a stocks and shares ISA with a share supermarket such as Hargrates Linksdown. Again, they all insisted, in spite of my insincere protestations, that I did it in my name. I said we would have a great prizegiving day twenty years after we started, ‘After all,’ I said,’ investing is for the long term.’ - they all agreed with £ signs in their eyes.

I went for a multi manager fund and invested a monthly sum of £1,000. This meant that the ISA limit of £15,000 was not exceeded so I didn’t have to deal with HMRC. At the end of the first year, the fund had risen by 16% so there was £12,960. The next year was even better with 20% growth. To cut a long story short at the end of ten years there was £275,000 in the fund consisting of the subs, fund growth and dividends. There was also £36,000 in the bank. Both were under my name. I had told the other punters in the group that the investment ‘had not done too bad but don’t get your heart set on a Rolls just yet.’ I think this is called ‘managing expectations’ in management-speak.

The tenth anniversary was getting closer so I spent the final six months making the arrangements for Mr ( name to be agreed ) and Mrs (ditto ) to disappear complete with over £300,000. It took some persuading to get the ISAs and Bank account to pay out in cash but I managed it, with my air of injured innocence, ‘Don’t you trust me?’ I left £1,200 in the bank account to reduce suspicions.

It was all going well and we were having a great time until, one day, we were recognised by one of my mates from the fabrication shop who happened to be on the same cruise but under a cheaper fare. He asked why we were travelling under assumed names. He phoned another of our mates with the news and before could get off the ship, the whole lot came tumbling down around our ears.

My colleagues from the fabrication shop were not best pleased with us but I thought it was going a bit far to involve the police. After all, I had only done what the stockbrokers and bankers had been doing for years to ‘hard working families.’

WB - 2 Theme - Black and White Title - Black and White

Black and white

I was surprised when my promotion came through as I had been Princess of Shovels for so long that I had got comfortable in the role, used to shopping in Sainsburys etc. Coming from the superior Spades family I was used to being treated well, even though I did do some of my shopping in Lidlaldi.

I was now Queen of Spades, not the top of the suit, that belonged to Ace of course. I think the main thing that took me a while to get used to was shopping in Waitrose. It wasn’t just the general obsequiousness of the staff or even the ridiculous prices, it was mainly the other customers - what a stuck up pack! All court cards and the occasional Ace. I quite fancy some of the Aces but that is another story - do you really think I am a bungalow?

As I had nearly filled my twee little trolley with gazpacho, halloumi, Italian black olives, smoked salmon, freshly baked Focaccia, Manuka honey and few other essentials, I headed for the checkout, looking very smart in his apron printed with black and white squares. It must have been cold sitting there among all those draughts and he looked a little board.

He beeped all my purchases before packing them into my trendy hessian bag. I handed over my card. It was the Queen of Clubs, one of the lower suits but I am broad minded. There was to be no cashback for me today. We now had a pear, avocado of course, so I took the complimentary partridge from the tree, collected my little green tokens and dropped them in the box for the undeserving rich - one of my favourite charities.

The game had been set for that afternoon, poets and peasants alliteration at the Peardrop, so we hopped aboard a chicken. I made small talk with the other Queen, well, one has to make an effort with one’s social inferiors doesn’t one?

I chose my cue carefully as it doesn’t pay to get there too early. We did the usual test to see who would break, it was the other Queen of course, she had more experience. She potted a Spot with the break so I helped her out of the pool and then repaired the break. It was a Gloucester Old one so I had the choice of the piglets. I picked up a couple because we were having bacon and egg for supper. I had only decided this on the ride up the hill. Luckily the chicken decided to cooperate. She would probably dine out on that story for donkey’s years. ‘I laid an egg for the Queen of Spades,’ making a right ass of herself, as no one then believed her. 

I managed to get the piglets in the Waitrose bag and got a lift from the donkey back to the castle. I had tried to get some ham from the Gloucester Old Spot but she wasn’t committed enough to contribute. The piglets were feeling cold so I wrapped them in a duvet and put them in the oven, Gas Mark 7. The donkey started to ‘Eee Aaw’ very loudly so I went to see the Vicar of Bray. He suggested that I paint its fur, then hide it on a zebra crossing. This didn’t work as I got the stripes the wrong way round and so the donkey looked like a draughts board - all black and white. Luckily a woman from Waitrose Human Resource department was passing at the time and offered it a job on the checkout.

I checked on the piglets. They were now crackling nicely so I stuffed an apple in each of their mouths ready for the table. The cat was by now looking interested and stared at me. ‘A cat may look at a king,’ I said, ‘but I am a queen so you’re out of luck.’ The cat smiled and slowly faded away to Aintree, leaving its smile behind.

I left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the castle’s parapets, which were kept on the roof. It was unusual to have so many disabled animals to care for but I suppose if you are a dog, a tortoise or a goldfish and fall off a castle, there is a good chance that you will get injured. One tortoise, ‘Falling George’, took so long to climb the steps back up again that, as soon as he got there, it was time for him to fall off again. Because of all his injuries, he took to drink and now has the hare of the dog each morning after his porridge. The dog wasn’t too keen as he was going bald but George was usually too quick for him and if he didn’t quite make it, the hare would pluck one for him. 

I headed for the counting house where my husband, the King, had the spreadsheets open on his iMac. As usual, he ignored me at first, engrossed in his calculations. 

‘Did you have a good day, dear?’ I asked

‘Not three bad,’ he said, but I’m having trouble thinking because I’m hungry. ‘ I hope you’re making a blackbird pie for my supper tonight.’

‘I couldn't get any blackbirds in Waitrose so I got two dozen frozen robins instead. They won’t have time to defrost so we are having to share an egg tonight.’

‘I don’t know, what is the world coming to? Did you complain?

‘Yes, I saw the manager and they are flying 144 blackbirds in next week.’

‘Good, but that will be too many for us, gross incompetence if you ask me,’

‘Yes, dear,’ I murmured placatorily as I backed out and fled to the parlour where I knew my Focaccia and Manuka were waiting for me.

I decided to retrace my steps to see if I could find the miniaturisation reset button so squeezed through the bars of the portcullis - I didn’t see Falling George come hurtling down towards m…

WB-1. Theme - Time. Title - Reality

Reality

He walked into the lecture room and eyed the group of eager young apprentices looking expectantly towards him.

‘My name is Jarod Xu. I am here to tell you something about our work so that you can decide if you want to join us and also for us to see if you are suitable for the work. Our duty is to keep the maximum number of humans from harm and to allow them to live happily in their Reality without them becoming aware of our existence.

I am a time technician in the Chrono Corps; as you can see by the emblem on my top with two capital ‘C’s with the arrow of time passing through them. My job is to apply the corrections in Reality as they are planned by the Temporal Planning Committee. I generally cover about 100,000 years backwhen and forwardwhen from what we casually call ‘Now’ - although, of course, ‘Now’ doesn’t have a separate existence from the past or present. As Einstein once said, ‘"people like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between Past, Present and Future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” Sometimes we have to work out of our areas when a major correction is required to be carried out.

We operate backwhen to the start of the Cambrian period some 540 million years ago when life was just starting on the Earth and forwardwhen to what you would call the 30th century. Further forwardwhen from that it gets a bit speculative as we have no results of corrections to work with.

Yes, Apprentice, you have a question?’

‘Yes, Sir. Isn’t implementing these corrections interfering with the human freedom of choice?’

‘Don’t call me Sir, I work for a living and yes, it does interfere but consider the fact that, if we never did corrections, the human race wouldn’t exist. You will understand this if you allow me to get on and tell you the story of two corrections, one large and one small.

I was sent for by the TPC some time ago. They told me that the human race was in danger of not existing as the dinosaurs were starting to dominate the Earth so that there was no room for mammals to evolve. Their plan was to change the orbit of a bolide that was in the asteroid belt such that it moved into a trans-Earth orbit and so would eventually collide with the Earth. It impacted in the Cretaceous at Chixulub, caused a lot of damage and threw up dust clouds into the atmosphere that lasted for several years. Most plants died off and the dinos starved to death as a species. A few small shrew-like animals survived and the mammals started to evolve from these as the Earth slowly recovered from the impact.

The second correction I want to talk about is Professor Susan Whitemore who worked as a quantum physicist and was on the verge of creating a device that could see outside Reality and so expose and threaten all the work we had been doing. I gently steered her, whilst a student at Bristol, away from physics towards biology and the quantum effects of evolution and photosynthesis.

Another question, apprentice?’ sighed Jared.

‘What relevance has the old paradox idea of going back in time and killing your own grandfather?’

‘Reality is very resistant to change, rather like honey in a jar. If you dip in a spoon and take out a spoonful of honey, a depression will be left in the surface. This depression will then fill in over time until the flat surface is restored. Reality is similar in that it will always try to restore the previously existing Reality. We take this effect into account during the design of the correction.

As I said earlier on, there is really no such thing as ‘Now’ in Reality because it is squeezed between Past and Present, Humans can only live in the ‘Now’, but we can travel into the Past and Future - we call them Backwhen and Forwardthen. It can be summed up by an old poem:

*

What is Now ?

A three second line, said poet  

Depends where you are, said astronomer

What you want it to be, said philosopher

The moment you are living, said spiritualist

That little part of life, which he now lives, said emperor

Whatever man, said the skunk smoker

What future brings, said Past

What past hides, will say Future

Me, always, says Now

*

You could also ask the question, ‘What is now?’

Send a person to stand on the sun, OK, be kind, give him asbestos boots, with instructions to shout ‘Now’ at the same time as you. Stand in your garden on a cloudless day and look at the sun through smoked glass. Can you see him? Are you ready? Shout ‘Now’ and wait. 18 minutes later you see him shout back ‘Now’. The question is, ‘why did he wait so long? Look at it from his point of view, your now is when you shouted and his is 18 minutes later. We now (!) have three ‘Now’s. Which one is the real ‘Now’? 

It depends on your point of view and which Reality you are in.

*

‘Always remember the motto of the Time Techs, “Reality is only for those with no imagination.”’

‘I hope that is of some help to you and I am happy to try to answer any questions you may have.’

‘What would happen if the humans became aware of our existence and our corrections?’

‘That has happened many times over the history of the humans so we invented the ideas of faeries, ghosts. apparitions, poltergeists, gods etc. The humans have generally accepted this but as education improves we may have a problem in Reality in the Forwardthen, which we will have to deal with by designing a suitable correction.’

Word Bohemia

Word Bohemia is running a year - long flash fiction challenge during 2015 with a weekly theme. Normally, with some exceptions, the fiction story should be up to 1,000 words long.
I will try to post a weekly story in response to the challenge. These will usually be newly written but may be modified from previously written stories if the story line fits. I will use the index numbers WB-1, WB-2 etc. in the title line to separate it from other stories and writing on the blog.