The Selling of Tales

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a story.’ The artisan stood back, admiring his own work.

‘What does it do?’

The artisan glanced up, thinking it was maybe the inbreeding, but – still – as his old dad always said, the customer is always right. ‘It is a series of events, written down.’

‘Oh.’ The (potential) customer leant closer, looking at the squiggles on the parchment. He’d had several expensive tutors, some of whom had strongly suggested he learn what these black squiggles represented. But he, (now, Duke) Farantzy, didn’t see the point. ‘Oh,’ he repeated. ‘What events?’

‘Well, this one is about a heroic knight,’ the artisan glanced at the (potential) customer’s dress and regalia. ‘A Duke....’

‘A Duke?’

‘Yes, a Duke.’ The artisan took a breath, he could always rewrite it before delivery, shove in a couple of references to dukes. ‘He journeys to save a princess from a dragon.’

‘Ooh, a princess, eh?’

‘Yes, a beautiful princess.’

‘How beautiful?’ The Duke made a gesture suggesting he was weighing a pair of grapefruit in his hands.

‘Oh, very beautiful.’ The artisan made a similar gesture suggesting he was weighing a pair of melons… watermelons. How he suffered for his art.

‘But… a dragon?’

‘Yes, a very brave… fearless Duke.’

‘And I… er… he kills the dragon?’

‘Well…. I wouldn’t want to give the end away.’

‘Oh?’ The Duke scratched his beard. ‘Then why have you written it all down?’

‘I… er…. To entertain… in the reading of it.’

It was the first time the Duke had ever heard the words ‘entertain’ and ‘read’ in the same sentence, at least one without any negative connotations.

‘The joy is in the reading, the unfolding of the tale.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, how strange. Couldn’t you just tell me if he gets off with the princess?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Nowas not a word the Duke was used to hearing. His hand reached towards the pommel of his sword.

‘No,’ the artisan repeated hastily. ‘The joy of the tale is in the telling.’

‘What?’

The artisan sighed. This was turning into a long sale. ‘You share the tale with the characters in it, as it goes along; share their adventures, their trials, their mista… their misfortunes and triumphs. So by the time he gets to fight the dragon to rescue the princess you feel as though you are there with him. You share his every stroke of the sword, every thrust of the lance is yours as though you yourself are fighting the dragon.’

‘Eeek!’ The Duke blushed. ‘I mean, poor bloody dragon….’ He gripped the pommel tight. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance, know what I mean?’

The artisan nodded. ‘Of course, sire.’

‘So why don’t you just tell me what happens in the end, save me the bother of having it read to… of me reading it?’

‘Like I said, sire, the joy is being in the tale yourself.’

‘Right.’

‘So, sire,’ shall I wrap it, have it delivered to your house?’

The Duke thought for a moment. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’ll just wait for the DVD.’ He turned and left the shop.

The artisan watching the Duke stride away as he used several words, under his breath, he’d never used in any of his stories... yet.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Writer's Block

I turned.

Then I wished I hadn't.

There was a man, standing there in the doorway behind me. He had a gun in his hand.

I raised my hands.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'You've got a gun.'

'And?' He looked down at the pistol in his hand. It was a big one. The sort that Clint Eastwood would point at a street punk.

'And you are pointing it at me.'

'Oh, sorry.' He lowered the gun, but remained standing in the doorway.

'But... well, what's going on?'

'You... you're writing that story.' He nodded towards the computer on the desk.

'Well... yes. But what's that got to do with you?' I remembered about the gun. 'If you don't mind me asking?'

'It's that Raymond Chandler thing.'

'What Raymond Chandler thing?'

'Don't you know?'

I shook my head.

'But you are the writer?' He spoke as though it was something every writer should know. But, if he was so bloody smart then he'd know that writers don't know much at all, about anything. That's why there is Google.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, that story....' He pointed with the gun towards the computer. 'You are having trouble with it, aren't you?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, Raymond Chandler said once: When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.' He shrugged. 'So here I am.'

'Ah, right.'

'What?'

'I'm not entirely sure that is what he meant.'

'Oh.' The man slumped. 'Should I go then?'

'Yes. I think that would probably be for the best.'

'Oh, right.' He turned. 'Bye.'

'Bye.' I said. 'Oh... one thing...?'

He turned back eagerly. 'Yes?'

'How did you know I was having problems?'

'Oh, your muse told me.' He trudged off down the hallway. 'Bye, again.'

'Bye,' I called, but he'd already gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

New Kindle Book Out Now: Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love

Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love

Available now here (UK) or here (US)

Yet more outpourings and ejaculations from Norbert Trouser-Quandary's notably upstanding organ, featuring more tales of the doings and goings-on in that most delightfully perverted of England’s rural villages: Little Frigging in the Wold.
This volume of tales from Little Frigging features the adventures of Grand Uncle Stagnant back in the summer of love where he hears about the concept of free love and – almost immediately – stops issuing invoices.
Other tales in this volume detail the history of the Hot Strumpets on Wheels service, the uses of high visibility fetish gear, Little Frigging in the Wold – the computer game, the appendage of a hands-free pole-vaulter, pancakes and perversions and the Great Fire of Little Frigging. Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love also contains many other intriguing events and happenings from the village and its environs, including the erotic use of the toolshed as well as pointers on the tactical subtleties of the Inter-Village Orgy match and much, much more.

Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love

Available now here (UK) or here (US)

Further collections of tales from Little Frigging in the Wold can be found in: Little Frigging in the Wold and Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape.

Some comments on David Hadley's writing:
“I think I just broke all my vital organs laughing”
“another one of yours I truly enjoyed, “Old Feebletrousers” love it!”
“Loved this piece. Very funny and energetic….”
“funny stuff!”
“that was brilliant!”
“on the one hand I’m so glad I decided to read the rest of this collection (funniest thing I’ve read in a LONG time) but on the other hand I wish I hadn’t done it during dinner as I just sprayed barely masticated tomato all over my keyboard from laughing too hard”

Grand Uncle Stagnant and the Summer of Love

Available now here (UK) or here (US)

Shakespeare and Commercialism

‘The isle is full of noises’. As most people know Elizabethan spelling was more a matter of individual choice rather than adhering to any standard, so Shakespearean scholars have often overlooked the fact that here the bard meant aisles rather than isles as yet again he was working under commercial commission, something which today’s Arts Council subsidised theatricals would regard with abject horror, seeing their precious bard sullying himself with commercial concerns. However, those were very different times when Kings and governments pissed money away on endless pointless wars against each other rather than keeping a bunch of luvvies in breakfast champagne.

The Tempest as any historian of the time well knows was one of the more successful Elizabethan supermarkets well-know for its BOGOF offers on a surfeit of lampreys and its take-home sacks of sack. However, he supermarket had been losing market share to the somewhat slightly more upmarket Marlowe’s which had outlawed religious feuding on its premises and was therefore a much more pleasant shopping experience for the gentry.

However, in an inspired marketing exercise Tempest hit back, hiring Shakespeare to create a play which hinted at all the wonders available in their aisles and their magical product range, and – of course – hinting that the then CEO of Marlowe’s, Arthur Caliban, son of the famous Right-wing political leader Margaret Sycorax, was up to no good with all manner of schemes set up to fool his customers.

As with any advertising or marketing scheme which involved Shakespeare the whole enterprise was a massive success, allowing Shakespeare at long last to retire from the theatre business and to buy both a new bed and a much better new pair of gloves.

Shakespeare and Historical Accuracy

‘Let us sit upon the ground. And tell sad stories of the death of kings; how some have been deposed; some slain in war, some haunted by the fear of Brussels sprouts returning in the dead watches of the night.’

As the original Folio version of Shakespeare’s Richard II shows, the bard was much troubled by the role of Brussels sprouts in history, and concerned that their influence was much overlooked by those who would learn lessons from that history.

Of course, for those of us in later years the only lesson we ever seen to learn from history is the strange propensity for those in the field to have a predilection for leather elbow patches on their jackets, something which also applies to male history teachers too.

Still, as none of us can ever forget what we learnt in history, especially British history, even though we may be slightly hazy on some of the more recondite aspects of it, as Shakespeare himself showed – and contemporary Hollywood has adopted with glee bordering on the orgasmic - we should not let mere historical accuracy get in the way of making up a good story.

Still, though, we should always remember that Shakespeare was right about the sprouts.

 

[See also: Shakespeare and Advertising]

Shed-Based Cogitations

Then there are three of them, which, if you’ve never been quietly engaged in philosophical speculation in your shed and been disturbed by She and her cronies then you are indeed fortunate.

However, like all those unused to philosophical speculation and contemplation, they were immediately curious as to why such deep pondering involves the use of so many pictorial representations of the naked female form. Of course, those of you familiar with Aristotle’s work will immediately see why such philosophical speculation in the calm and privacy of garden shed is so important to a man’s mental well-being.

Not only that, the use of beer as an aid to philosophical inquiry has been proved beyond doubt especially in the tavernas around the philosophical academies and symposia of ancient Greece, where it was not unusual to see a heap of insensate philosophers overpowered by their own philosophical ability and power of thought, all snoring peacefully next to the bin full of empties.

This is of course – as I pointed out to my trio of sceptics - why so much Greek art featured nudity. The ancient Greeks were – rightly – proud of their philosophers and wanted to do all they could to help them in their cogitations. Not something – I pointed out – that seems to have followed through to this day and age.

Suitably chastised, the three made a hasty exit when they saw the errors of their ways, although, why they accidentally seem to have locked me out of the house is hard to grasp, even with such a philosophically-acute mind such as mine… and why they left all my belongings in a heap on the back step is a matter I will have to ponder as soon as I can get more beer in.

Something for the Weekend: Free Kindle Novel – Hanging Around Until

Hanging Around Until

'Education is hanging around until you've caught on' - Robert Frost.

Set during the mid-1980s, Hanging Around Until is the story of Paul Carr, who, at the age of 28, decides to become a mature student at a North-Eastern university in the hope that an education will help give a direction to his life. On arriving at the university Paul discovers he is to share a house with five other students. Two of those housemates – Alison and Julia, each in their own way – turn Paul’s simple quest for an education into a tangle of confusion and uncertainty amid the turmoil of university life during the height of anti-Thatcherite campus activism and the birth of the new Left.

Available here (UK) or here (US)

[Extract]

[….]

‘I frightened myself yesterday,’ she said. ‘I was shaking so much I couldn't get dressed. I was expecting you to come back to my room, hoping you would but scared in case you did. I've been sitting up there for over an hour tonight trying to make sense of it all.’

I sat up and turned towards her. As we kissed, my hand moved up to her breast under the T-shirt. She broke off the kiss and looked down at the place where my hand disappeared under her clothes. I started to move my hand away. She took my other hand in hers as I let it drop. She stood up, still holding my left hand and led me from the room.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs while Alison was three steps above me, still holding my hand. I took a step forward, then another, and then we walked up the stairs together, hand in hand.

Alison moved over to her bed, still holding my hand. We sat down side by side. I kissed her lightly on the lips, lifting the jumper and T-shirt together. She lifted her arms to help me. I dropped the bundled clothes on the floor and she glanced down at them for a second. We kissed again as I reached out to touch a breast with each hand.

‘You are gentle,’ Alison said softly as she began to unbutton my shirt.

‘No, not really. I'm clumsy most of the time.’

‘One of the first things I noticed, and liked, about you was the way you rolled your cigarettes, so graceful, delicate. I could feel those fingers touching me.’

‘These fingers?’ I held up my hand. The fingers looked too thin, too long and too hesitant to be of any real use.

Alison helped me pull off my shirt and then pushed me back onto the bed. She undid and pulled down my trousers. She let her jeans, and then her pale green knickers fall to the floor. She sat down on my thighs, looking into my face as her hand held me. She lowered her face towards me. I felt the tips of her nipples brush my chest and the tickle of her hair. Alison kissed me on the lips; the chin, neck and chest, moving lower until her lips met her hand.

A few moments later, I whispered: ‘Come here. No, all the way up here.’ She crouched as I kissed her deeply. She stroked my hair and smiled down at me as I looked into her eyes from between her thighs.

Alison rose slowly, unwillingly, but in some other, greater, need and moved backwards, lowering herself again. She moved languidly, as slow as a lazy summer afternoon.

A few minutes later she began to speed up, then her back arched, stiffened. She sighed deeply and fell onto my chest. I rolled us onto our sides. Alison opened her eyes and looked at me as I resumed the slow rhythm.

‘Do you like it slow as well?’ she whispered.

‘I prefer to play the slow Blues rather than a twelve-bar boogie.’ I demonstrated both rhythms.

Alison laughed deeply in her throat and hugged me close, ‘I want adagio rather than allegro,’ she said before nibbling at my nose.

‘Yes,’ I whispered as I began to kiss my way slowly down her body, pausing at each breast in turn before moving lower. My tongue entered her navel and trailed lower. I could taste echoes of myself as my tongue moved deeply before returning to trace and caress along the mystery of folds and creases.

My tongue moved deeper again. Alison stiffened and relaxed as it eased her open and crept inside. As my tongue curled and turned and my lips kissed, my fingers traced the journey where my tongue had travelled moments before. Alison moved with the rhythm of my fingers and tongue. Her rhythm changed and mine changed to match hers. My fingers and mouth changed places and the rhythm continued, grew and changed.

As her body relaxed from the sudden stiffness again, I retraced my kisses back up her body and ended with two kisses, one on each closed eyelid. I eased back inside her and felt the warmth enclose me. The slow, gentle rhythm began again.

We lay on our sides facing each other. Alison lay with her head resting on my arm and my body between her thighs. She reached up to stroke my face. I kissed her fingertips and sucked them into my mouth. She held me tightly with her legs breathing hard against my ear. Moments later, I stiffened and then finally relaxed.

Alison trailed her fingers down my sweat-damp chest and rolled onto her back. I lay for a moment between her spread thighs, tracing around a nipple with my finger then I too rolled and lay on my back.

Alison turned and laid her head on my chest, wrapping her legs around me. I could feel a warm dampness on my thigh where she held herself against me. She sighed softly and rolled onto her back.

She looked across the pillow at me. ‘I've been thinking about that since the moment I first saw you.’ She reached out to touch my cheek. ‘For a time I was hoping you'd turn out to be a bastard, but you're not. The more I got to know you the more I wanted you. But that's the problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

She sighed. ‘I just wanted to get through this year and get out of here. I didn't want to get involved with anything… or anyone.’ She lay on her back with her hand over her face.

I reached out a hand towards her, but I couldn't seem to make it touch her. My hand fell back uselessly. ‘I'm sorry. But I wasn't expecting anything like this to happen either.’

‘Pathetique is about right.’ Alison turned to face me. ‘You looked so pathetic lying on your bed earlier. If I'd had any sense, I would have walked away. Would we be here like this if I'd waited for you to make a move?’ She stared across the pillow at me, ignoring the single tear that ran slowly down her cheek, daring me to contradict her. ‘Well?’

‘I never feel really sure,’ I said, hesitating. ‘I'm always afraid to act in case I'm wrong.’

Alison sat up slightly, leaning her head on her hand. The sheet slipped down over her breasts. The small pale nipples stared back at me. I wanted to take one into my mouth and be held. ‘Well, you'll just have to learn how to take a chance, won't you?’ She smiled. ‘Do you know how long it took for me to arrange my dressing gown yesterday morning, so it fell open like that?’

Disorientated by Alison's sudden change of mood, it took me a few seconds to realise what she had said. ‘Did you really arrange it?’

Alison laughed, but did not answer. She smiled at me for a moment and then kissed me on the lips. ‘Why can't I stay angry with you?’ she murmured, more to herself than to me. ‘I suppose you ought to go now, before the others come back.’

‘No, I want to stay.’

‘That's nice to hear,’ she said. ‘Even though I'm not sure I want you to stay.’ She took my hand in hers and turned it over, tracing the lines on my palm. She turned it back over and touched the small scar - diamond-shaped, pale and almost white - in the centre of the back of my hand. ‘After all, I know almost nothing about you, and you don't know much about me.’

‘Does any of that matter?’

She shook her head. ‘Maybe... maybe not.... I don't know.’ She lay back, staring at the ceiling.

[….]

Available here (UK) or here (US)

Something for the Weekend: Free Kindle Novel – Dance on Fire

Free for the next five days:

Dance on Fire

What do you do when sex and drugs and rock and roll are no longer enough? At one time, Transmission were probably the most famous rock band on the planet. Now, even as they approach their twenty-fifth anniversary they are still up there, one of the top ten bands of all time. However, each of the surviving members of the band feels something, somewhere, has gone wrong, and the rock and roll dream they used to believe in so much has become an empty and hollow routine. Dance On Fire is an exploration of the relationships between the remaining original members of Transmission, and their manager, as the band enters their 25th year together. The novel charts their growing realisation that rock music no longer has any meaning for them, and they are - at best - still going through force of habit - 'We've become our own tribute band.' Dance On Fire is a novel about the shallowness of everlasting adolescence and the vacuity at the heart of the rock and roll mythology.

Extract:

The throbbing beating brain-numbing noise was almost solid enough to touch. The noise used as music in clubs like this was too loud to be music, too primal to be music, too crude to be music; a noise stripped of almost all its possibilities of becoming music. It was music beaten up, raped, buggered, pissed on and left for dead with its lifeblood oozing out of it and running down the drain with each pulsebeat.

Pete loved it now.

He was dancing, with a half-full bottle of Champagne in each hand. Dancing – or so he thought – like a shaman, like a witch doctor. He was the mystical priest of the beat. He was primal too. He was savage. He was base. He was Dionysus.

The lights throbbed and pulsed showing then concealing the smiling, laughing, grinning coterie he - or rather, his recently discovered valid credit card – had gathered. He had disciples. He was the pied piper, the pied pissed-up prankster that would lead his gang of grinning cavorting lovelies to a new, higher paradise.

‘Wsdsd…FGGFvmm…? HGTffvbb!’

‘What?’ Pete jammed his ear up against the mouth of… whatever her name was.

‘XXXXZXzzzzzz! Quuallll! Tits?’

In the briefest of silences in the noise, Pete was sure that he had heard the word ‘tits’. He nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘Tits, yes!’ he yelled grinning down at the items in question. He was almost sure she had only the normal complement, but there seemed to be far more than just two in there. However, she proved his notion of the conventional correct when she whipped her top off and shook both of them in Pete’s face.

‘Yum! Yum!’ Pete shouted, watching mesmerised, as they performed a slow-motion gravity-defining dance all of their own.

The rest of his entourage had now noticed that one of their number had managed to monopolise the attention of their platinum-credit-card wielding sugar daddy. So, in the spirit of good old free enterprise they too decided that a revealing of their own not-inconsiderable assets would be a way of restoring some balance to the proceedings.

By this time, Pete was already seeing double – if not triple – the sudden avalanche of naked mammaries bouncing and undulating for his delectation was almost too much for him to cope with. He stopped his cavorting and took a step back.

Unfortunately, his backwards motion brought him into contact with the almost full pint held by one of a group of young men. The men were already feeling more than a touch aggrieved that this bloke – at least old enough to be their father – was monopolising so much female attention seemingly through the mere fact of being significantly wealthier than all of them put together.

‘Oi! Cunt. Watch it.’

Pete heard and turned. He grinned. ‘Sorry, mate. It’s getting a bit crowded in here isn’t it?’ He gestured behind him towards the undulating mammorial tide that was threatening to engulf them all.

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘What? No.’

‘Hey Jimmy, this old cunt is taking the piss, as well as all the birds.’

Jimmy and the rest of the gang began to circle around Pete. Even in his befuddled state, Pete could recognise that things were beginning to get ugly. As the circle closed around him, he could see the girls edged out one by one. But still the first punch to the side of his head took him by surprise.

Pete staggered back into the men who had moved around behind him. They pushed him forward once more. It was over twenty years since Pete and Johnny had to fight their way out of an Austin bar. Since then Pete had not had to raise a fist in anger. Despite this, he knew he was easily able to handle half a dozen or so blokes who were probably over twenty years his junior. He raised his fists, noticing that he still held the two – now empty – champagne bottles.

‘Hmm… useful,’ Pete Muttered. He could feel that his mouth was already starting to swell up. He raised the bottles and took up a martial arts pose.

There was a whirling blur and the man directly in front of Pete collapsed. One of the topless girls took his place. The way she was swinging her lethal looking handbag around her head caused all the young men to turn in her direction. They gazed, mesmerised by her breasts and the slow, almost, leisurely way they developed independent orbits around her upper body.

Two more of the men fell, handbagged from behind be Pete’s tribe of vengeful amazons. Pete lowered his bottles and just stared as the gang fell one by one. Out of the corner of his eye, Pete just noticed the handbag bouncing off the shaven head of one of his attackers and heading towards him.

‘Wat…!’

There was pain. He fell. It went dark.

*

Available here: UK or here: US

Ode to a Stickleback and Romanticism

Trackback Pseudopod is – probably – the least well-known of all the Romantic poets, even though to his contemporaries, his Ode to a Stickleback was one of the best known poems of the time, even outselling – for a time - Lord Byron’s epic ‘Ere Mate, I’ve Shagged Your Sister.

However, Pseudopod’s fame was short-lived. Even though he did have the essential wild-eyed sister that was de-rigour for a Romantic poet, Pseudopod had also spent nearly an hour in a Lake District thicket with Dorothy Wordsworth and shared a pipe or two with Coleridge; despite all this he felt he was never really accepted into the Romantic’s inner circle.

Scholars have often wondered why Pseudopod felt he was never really accepted by the rest of the Romantics. Some put it down to Pseudopod suggesting that Keats had more than an aesthetic interest in nightingales and kept a chicken in his rooms at Wentworth Place for ‘inspirational’ purposes.

Later, Pseudopod was also accused by Shelly of trying to get Mary ‘to have a feel of a real monster’ on that infamous night in the Villa Diodati in Geneva. Percy Shelley’s later claim that Mary based the monster on Pseudopod was believed to be what caused the rift between Pseudopod and the other Romantics and mainly responsible for Pseudopod kicking Robert Southey in the couplets when they met on Westminster Bridge early one morning.

Pseudopod’s masterpiece, Ode to a Stickleback, however, did go a long way towards re-establishing his credibility with the other Romantic poets, with Wordsworth admitting later that it was ‘better than a field full of daffodils’ and an early draft of the first stanza caused his sister Dorothy to write to Pseudopod, offering to meet him around the back of Tintern Abbey, where Pseudopod could prove to her that ‘it really is measureless to man’.

Pseudopod had managed to collect fifteen words for his poem by late 1810, but he did not have any idea what kind of order he wanted to put those words in, so he thought a trip to Venice would give him a chance to collect more words, perhaps even enough for one complete stanza. Pseudopod was far too optimistic though, his Italian trip, even though it lasted three months, ending in a wild altercation with a gang of gondoliers which resulted in Pseudopod fleeing the city, he returned home with only one additional definite article and a tentative conjunction for his poem.

For five more years Pseudopod wandered around the Lake district until he felt he had enough words for five or –possibly – six stanzas of his poem, but still he had trouble thinking up a rhyme for the word ‘punt’ that would convey the wistful romantic image of young lovers alone on the river as the young poet poled his lover along to see the finest stickleback she was ever to see.

Tragically, it was while Pseudopod himself was poling Dorothy Wordsworth in her punt that he lost his footing and fell into the river. Despite Dorothy’s heroic efforts to get Pseudopod out of his wet clothes and her frantic pulling of him onto the riverbank, Pseudopod caught pneumonia.

Pseudopod died a few weeks later with his masterwork unfinished. However, a tentative draft of his ode found amongst his papers by Coleridge when he was frantically searching for something to use to light his pipe on the day of Pseudopod’s funeral.

The remaining Romantic poets had a whip-round, which Dorothy Wordsworth said later was the best night of her life, and raised enough to have Pseudopod’s ode published posthumously, thus assuring his place in the literary cannon.

Free: Poetry Book -This Brief Life of Sparks

Available Free for the next few days:

This Brief Life of Sparks

A Collection of 100 poems by David Hadley.

David Hadley's poems have been published in Stand, Eclipse, Envoi, Poetry Nottingham International, Raw Edge and several other magazines in the UK and US. 

Several of his poems have also been cherry-picked by the editors at abctales.com.

Some comments on David Hadley’s poems:

“your lovely poem awoke my own memories”
“An elegant poem”
“wow well done”
“That was beautiful.”
“That captures my ambivalent feelings about morning! Love those last five lines.”
“This is simply gorgeous, poignant and bittersweet. Thank you for this”
“Lovely and delicate, like your dancer.”
“This is a beautiful poem, hadley! I love the two-stansa structure and whole reflective, traquil feel. Well done ;)”
“I like the way you write - sounds a bit strange, lol, but true.”
“very Keats like … much enjoyed.”
“another scorcher!”
“Lovely rhymes and rhythm, quite a warming feeling, good stuff!”
“What a beautiful picture you paint with your words.”
“Wow, this is pure perfection. I absolutely love this poem. You use a whole different dimension here- a unique story told in familiar ways. Each stanza, each line and each word is in perfect harmony. This is what I call craftsmanship. Well done.”
“Absolutely beautiful. I'm awe struck, well done :)”
“I really like the way this evolves… The line: 'Silence speaks like a sullen child.' is great,”
“really enjoyed, beautiful :) Especially the last lines.”
“I found this strangely haunting.”
“absolutely spell-bounding stuff.”
“I liked this, especially the last few lines”
“This is a nice piece of work - well done.”
“Thoughtful and thought provoking.”
“I like this. Can identify with the little things forgotten when waking and lost.”
“an interesting - and thought-provoking -piece.”
“fantastic! Love this line: 'where all the rules are torn / to scatter like coloured confetti '”
“An excellent evocation of the dreamworld.”
“'it's harder than you think to close / the doors of all those memories.' So true...”
“I think this is a beautiful poem…”
“Good one.”
“beautifully poetic, I really like this.”
“"Running the sands of my life / through my opening fingers" lovely lines”
“Brilliant stuff. Loved it.”
“I liked this. There is a good truth in this”
“Eloquent, beautiful.”
“Lovely words.”
“This is stunning, I've read it over and over again and will do many times today.”
“Great. Love the opening lines, turning a cliched image into a new, fresh one. This so mirrors my own reflections on where I am. Fabulous write”
“I love the first two lines. Gripped my attention straight away. A lovely poem. Well done.”
“That's really good.”
“Quite heart-rending.”
“I love the refrain - so song-like and yet sad!”
“I enjoyed this, Hadley. Some nice imagery here.”
“Really poignant.”
“this is a really good read. I love the descriptions, I can almost see her! Well done.”
“Simple words, simple form; complicated things.”
“Enjoyed the complexity behind these thoughts”
“Very touching and nice...”
“That is just such a beautiful image”
“simple, pure, evocative”
“Reading this makes me uncomfortable. That's what makes it interesting!”
“A very well written solid piece of writing here.”
“I really like this poem.”
“This was beautiful in a kind of sombre way”
“Beautiful poem - rich in imagery.”
“Such a beautiful take on the detritus of war, I really like this”
“So rhythmical, lovely and lulling, sounds like a sad lullaby”
“I like this poem, telling of the wind’s character.”
“this is lovely Hadley - really enjoyed it”
“Lovely.”
“This is a nice cosy poem, thinking of Autumn not far away, and longer nights to come. Enjoyed very much.”
“I really liked this poem. You have given it an air of mystery, as this woman looks out on the world she cannot quite trust. Very descriptive and poignant.”
“This is a beautiful poem and yet it is unbearably sad.”
“'And then we fall apart to lie alone'.. Great line. Lovely poem. Nice job.”
“Some brilliant images and beautiful words here”
“what a true day to day picture you paint with this poem, it rings very true.”
“Stunning”

Also available free here.

Her New Man

‘Go on, tell me,’ Carolyn said.

‘He’s perfect.’ Helen grinned.

‘Come on….’

‘No, listen… he’s a writer, so obviously he is great in bed. All writers are…. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘Is that true? I mean… about writers?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not only that, because he is a writer, he is attentive, gentle, a good listener… everything you could want really.’

‘So, he has no faults?’ Carolyn played with the stem of her wine glass.

‘Obviously he has faults… he’s a man,’ Helen said. ‘But they are not serious ones. He can be a bit quiet at times, and he has a tendency to shout at the telly a bit too often.’

‘He sounds too good to be true.’ Carolyn tried hard to not be too sceptical about it; after all it was early days.

‘No,’ Helen said. ‘He is very good for me. He’s even suggested that he writes all my dialogue for me.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you know how I’ve always had a habit of gabbling on a bit, mostly about nothing in particular?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Well, Jeff says he can cure that for me. All I have to do is let him write my dialogue for me.’

Carolyn looked around at the rest of the bar. It was quiet before the evening rush. ‘Do you mean…? Even now?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Helen smiled ‘Good isn’t it?’

‘Where is he?’

‘Omniscient narrator. It’s ok, you won’t see him, but he is there… here.’

‘All that stuff about being a great lover… that was him putting dialogue in your mouth wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it isn’t true?’

‘Oh, yes it is…. Anyway, I think he was just trying to impress you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he fancies you, obviously.’

‘Really? Me?’

‘Yes, of course. He’s been in love with you ever since he created you.’

New Book Out Now: Choosing Headgear for Penguins

Choosing Headgear for Penguins

No doubt you have been wondering over the years about what is the most suitable hat for the various breeds of penguin: such as a deerstalker for the King penguins, or whether emperor penguins should wear a top hat.
Perhaps you have also wondered if Napoleon wore a basque under his uniform at the battle of Waterloo and the role that lingerie played in history.
Maybe you have long puzzled over the role of the Stilton cavalry in the English Cheese war.

Possibly you may have pondered who was The Greatest Prime Minister Great Britain Never Had, or who was The Fastest Jelly Baby Diversity Co-Ordinator In The West.

You could have even puzzled over The Fabled Lost Source of the Pork Scratching.

Choosing Headgear for Penguins is the book that answers all of these and many other questions you’ve never thought of asking as well as much, much more about such diverse topics as: Celebrity Extreme Gardening, Eroticism and the Intellectuals, People Staring At Walls, Raiders Of The Lost Car Park, The Latest Celebrity Sex Scandal, The UK’s Leading Adult Film Male Superstar and Weasel Defusing.

Some comments on David Hadley's humour pieces:
"Bloody Hilarious!"
"The hamsters of doom. Dammit, that's poetry. Well done"
"oh my god....I just about died laughing reading this...it's genius! Pure genius! Especially the bit about the fluffy particle...too funny."
"This made me laugh so much, tears came into my eyes...."
"I just sprayed barely masticated tomato all over my keyboard from laughing too hard"
"this really made me laugh. I shall never look at a cup of tea in the same way again."
"Brilliant! made me howl..."
"I think I just broke all my vital organs laughing"

New Book Out Now: This Brief Life of Sparks - Poems

This Brief Life of Sparks

A Collection of 100 poems by David Hadley.

David Hadley's poems have been published in Stand, Eclipse, Envoi, Poetry Nottingham International, Raw Edge and several other magazines in the UK and US.

Several of his poems have also been cherry-picked by the editors at abctales.com.

Available now.

Fireworks

These times take the shape
Of beginnings for you.
But I've lived a life
Like this before.
The sharp sudden colours
Of fireworks exploding
Into instances of creation
Are so new to you, so you
Bang on the window
And clap and yell.

I have been here before
And every now is tinged
With memories of my first times
And how each bursting memory
Lasted longer, far longer
Than this brief life of sparks
Tumbling down onto damp ground.

Times like this are gone
So suddenly. We forget
So much about transience.
But this - it is your first time,
It will always last forever.

The Adventures of Perambulator Helicobacter, Gentleman Detective

“Furthermore, should you attempt to describe these lupins, or to inform anyone else, not trained as a semi-professional tadpole disconcerter about them, or the part they played in the rescue of the pomegranate from the bucket, then your life will be forfeit.” Everyone who watched it will be unable to forget this, the final words of one of the most impressive feats of TV drama to come out of these islands since the Party Political Broadcasts on behalf of the Quite Interested in Cheese party during the 1970s.

The hero of All Our Stoats are Ticklish, Perambulator Helicobacter – played with rare understatement, finesse - and with a telltale smoked mackerel fillet in the breast pocket of his formal donkey jacket - by Shakespearian legend Prole Flabbergast. He utters these final and deeply resonant words as the villain Plankton Formica - excellently played by Hypotenuse Tolpuddle - is about to fall to his death into a pit of slavering local government five-a-day fruit and vegetable co-ordinators. This climactic scene, after a fight that has taken place across the rooftops and scenic guttering of one of the greatest country houses in Grimsby, received wide acclaim by TV critics, several of whom stayed awake long enough to see most of it.

Of course, it must be said that The Adventurers Perambulator Helicobacter, Gentleman, detective and Intimate Confidant of Dorothy was one of the most famous of Victorian detectives. Up until now, there have been seven TV versions and twenty-three feature films featuring Helicobacter. Yet, this version, which brings Helicobacter into the 21^st Century, updated to a contemporary private detective, has completely re-invented and re-imagined the great detective in a way that ensures all royalties from the series remain with its contemporary creators.

While helicobacter’s original 19^th adventures took place in the great continental cities of Paris, Hamburg, Vienna, Venice and Cleethorpes, the new series replaced them with the more glamorous post-industrial northern British towns of Doncaster, Hull, Grimsby and Bradford to bring a gritty urban authenticity to the production costs.

It will be interesting to see how the character of Helicobacter develops in the next series where - the writers have promised – he faces his most famous adversary in The hamsters of Boxhouse Hall, with its most famous of helicobacter quotes, saying : ‘The curious incident of the hamster wheel squeaking in the night-time.’ Whichdaughter replies: ‘The hamster wheel did not squeak in the night-time.’ To which Helicobacter responds: ‘That was the curious incident. Come, let us tandem ourselves to Ilfracombe without delay!’

Pigeons

[….]

‘I think you may be right,’ I said. ‘But I don't really feel any connection with what I'm doing any more, there's none of that intensity of experience I was expecting from university. I used to think literature really mattered, was really important. But who really cares about T.S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence and all the others, apart from a handful of specialists? I don't think knowing about them is going to help me much. I just feel as though I'm going through the motions.’ I looked across the table at Julia and smiled. ‘I don't know what I want to know, what is worth knowing, any more. Does that make sense?’ I took a sip of wine.

Julia shook her head and looked away.

‘Ron was explaining devaluation to me the other day,’ I said. ‘I think that's what I've got. My knowledge seems almost worthless these days. Nobody cares about literature now, anyway.’

‘I just think you are pissing it away, not only the course you are doing, but the whole thing. The whole experience is just passing you by while you sit in that room. I think one day you are going to regret it, both of you,’ Julia said with an angry concern that surprised me and turned heads at nearby tables. Julia glared back and shamed eyes dropped back towards their plates.

I watched Julia as she was eating. Her intensity of belief frightened me sometimes. I, who found believing in anything almost impossible, found strong belief in others made me embarrassed and nervous: embarrassed at my own lack of any form of commitment, and nervous of the power of other people's beliefs. People would kill or die for a belief, but I sneered at the obvious simple-mindedness necessary for the continuation of all beliefs, from the religious and political onward and downward. Even belief in my own existence was sometimes too difficult for me.

I glanced out of the window. On the roof of the building opposite a line of pigeons prepared to roost for the night in the gathering grey gloom. Their feathers were puffed around them like greatcoats, like the old Soviet Politburo on May Day with the same solidity and certainty of their own perpetual existence.

The pigeons' eyes snapped to their left and there was a ruffle down the rank. I looked to see what the pigeons had noticed. A polystyrene hamburger container spiralled and somersaulted between the two buildings on the opposite side of the road. That container was more like me, blown about, never coming home to rest. Having nowhere to call home, and nothing solid to build on in my past, I drifted on eddies floating between the past and the future.

I knew Julia was right, but I felt as though I no longer had the energy or the will to change myself. I lacked the spark that would ignite me once again. Lines I had quoted from Prufrock and The Hollow Men in my first essay ran through my mind. If only I dared, then I would be able to act. I had no desire to do so, though. Life with Alison had acquired its own comfortable inertia. Neither of us had to try any more, not out in the world, not out in the rooms and lecture theatres, not out in the bars, parties and discos.

All that mattered to me lay in that small room with the door shut and the curtains pulled tight. A yellow pool spilt by the angle-poise for Alison and me to wallow in. I turned back to find Julia studying my face. I smiled uncertainly, and Julia nodded.

‘You do think I'm right, don't you?’

‘Yes, I know you are right. But I don't seem to be able to summon up the energy to change myself,’ I said. ‘I don't think Alison would want it... me... us... to be any different, either. We seem to have drifted so far away from everything, I don't know if we have the power to stop, turn and push ourselves back.’

‘Well... maybe. Perhaps this thing between you and Alison isn't what you think it is. Maybe it isn't such a good thing.’ Julia looked down at the remains of her pizza, crumbs and untouched olives.

I rolled and lit a cigarette, washing smoke down with mouthfuls of wine. I had felt a momentary burst of anger at Julia for talking about Alison. Whether it was anger at an outsider peering into my life or anger at having the truth pushed into my face, I wasn't sure.

‘Anyway,’ Julia said brightly as she looked back up at me. ‘There's a disco at the union tonight and you are going to come with me. What is more, you are going to dance with me. Don't look at me like that; I'm going to insist you dance with me. Maybe we'll even go to one of those student parties, you say you loathe so much, afterwards as well.’

‘Julia, don't try to make me into another of your worthy causes,’ I said. ‘I don't think you can put me to rights like the rest of the world.’

‘I'm just concerned about a good friend, two good friends, that's all.’ Julia picked up the bill and her purse. She stood up. ‘I do care about you, perhaps more than I ought to.’ She walked off to the till. Standing at the back of the short queue, she turned and looked over at me for a moment before turning back to sort through her purse.

*

Twilight had turned to darkness outside. The Christmas decorations threw pools of coloured light into the street where litter danced in the wind. Julia shivered and cursed as the wind threw the icy drizzle into our faces. I saw a taxi turn the corner in front of us and stop at the traffic lights. Grabbing Julia by the arm, I ran. We pulled open the door and tumbled into the seat as the taxi pulled away from the lights.

Julia, thrown off balance by the sudden acceleration of the taxi, slipped partially off the seat and fell so she lay half across me as the taxi illegally u-turned sharply back up the dual carriageway. The driver grunted and swore as he tried to push his way into the stream of cars leaving the town. I reached into my pocket for my tin. Julia nudged me and pointed around the taxi. On every available flat surface, a No Smoking sticker glared back at me.

As the traffic rolled from traffic light to traffic light, I automatically inserted noises of assent into the taxi-driver’s obligatory monologue. I shook my head and put my finger to my lips when I saw Julia was about to dispute some points with him.

‘What's the point?’ I whispered into her ear. She stared at me for a moment or two, but eventually nodded even though she did not look happy about it.

Julia shivered and snuggled closer to me. I could smell the icy rain in her hair. As the street lights lit up her face, I could see the animation in her eyes as she looked out of the taxi window at the now familiar sights of the town. She stared out as though seeing somewhere far more exotic and novel than this tired town battered by a relentless wind and too much indifferent history.

The taxi drew up at the house, and Julia reluctantly got out as I searched through my pockets for the fare. By the time I had paid - and politely listened to the last of the taxi-driver's speech - Julia had opened the door. She stood in the hallway silhouetted by the light behind her.

I stepped into the house and shut the door. We stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs. Julia looked at the door to the kitchen, then at the door to her room. I looked up at Alison's room at the top of the stairs. Up there James Joyce was waiting, locked in a darkened room. I thought I had better go up there and turn the light on.

‘I'll see you in a little while, after I've had a shower and so on,’ Julia said. ‘Remember, I want you to dance.’

‘You may live to regret that,’ I replied.

‘No. I don't think so,’ Julia said, smiling secretively as she turned away to her room.

[….]

[An extract from Hanging around Until]

Stories like Lives

We let these things go because they are too hard to hold onto. We let the days slip between our fingers and swim off down the river of time into the endless sea of the past. We let lovers slip away into the night, leaving only the echoes of themselves fading from our fingertips as they walk away into memory and regret.

People fade into, then out of, our lives like some film coming into focus as they walk into shot and then blurring, fading away, as they leave the scene and our story moves on.

Stories are like lives, with their beginnings and endings and casts of characters, some major and some minor. We are all characters in the stories of each other’s lives, moving in and out of each other's narrative and always changing the world and changing history.

There is glib talk of moments, events that changed the world, events that changed history. That is all history really is, though, the story of a series of events that changed history. Everything changes history; otherwise, there would be no story to tell.

History is a story and all our lives are a story too. Everything and everyone always has some tale to tell.

Crawl into the Mind

What if all of this was nothing at all? What if it was less substantial than one of those dreams you leave behind on your morning pillow when you step out of that bedroom to face the day?

After all, this is only words, mere marks on the screen, scratches on paper and movements in the air. They do not amount to that much, easily ignored.

You can turn off the computer, close the book or just walk away, leaving the words to fade into nothingness.

Think of all those words we have ever spoken and how many of them really mattered. The silences when the words are left unspoken are often more eloquent, more meaningful than a whole jugful of words poured into the ear that does not want to listen.

Although, words too can be the poison dripped into the ear of the sleeping king that brings about the downfall of the entire kingdom. Words can tell a jealous husband about his wife’s handkerchief and words can promise kingdoms around cauldrons and tell of great loves that will last all through time.

Words can creep and words can crawl into the mind and stay there for the rest of your life.

Shakespeare and Advertising

‘How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the Cornish pasties of this world! / Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,’

Of course, nowadays, Shakespearean scholars are slowly coming to acknowledge the commercial basis for much of the bard’s work, especially the plays. The above quotation for Honest Rosencrantz’s ‘Real Meat’ Cornish Pasties is but one example along with, of course, the famous further quote from the same play extolling the virtues of Guildenstern’s Pencils, the 2B in particular.

Obviously, back in those days there was no Arts Council, or any such diversion of taxpayers’ money into what the great and good of the arts world thought ordinary folk ought to be made to like – or, at least - pay for. Instead, there were such things as patronage, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis poem, for example, was dedicated to a patron: the Earl of Southampton, and used by the Earl as advertisements for a dating agency he had set up to enable the sons and daughters of the Elizabethan gentry to meet each other.

However, Shakespeare’s plays were a different matter.

In later years, Shakespeare and his company of players were paid a certain amount of money for some of their plays by royalty: both Queen Elizabeth I and, later, James I. Unfortunately, this was not enough to even cover the costs of staging a play, especially with the price of theatrical doublets. Therefore, like modern commercial TV, Shakespeare used both commercials and sponsorship to provide the money necessary to get his plays on stage.

One of the earliest of Shakespeare’s successful in-play adverts was the line: 'what light though yonder window breaks? It must be a Capulet's candle to shine so brightly.' in Romeo and Juliet.

Shakespeare’s use of advertising in his plays reached its artistic peak in his play dedicated to Macbeth's Original Scotch Broth. From its list of the famous secret ingredients, herbs and spices hinted at as the witches prepare a cauldron of the broth, right through to what many playgoers regarded as the advertising slogan of the year:

'Is this a soup spoon I see before me. All the better for a spoonful of Macbeth's Original Scotch Broth – the taste thee'll never forget, even when Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane!'

Towards the end of Shakespeare’s writing career, The Tempest was sponsored initially by a company producing what they called ‘the most powerful laxative powders’ then on the market, with the advertising slogan:

Enough to cause a Tempest in your closet.

So successful was this commercial link up it enabled William Shakespeare to retire to a house in the country soon afterwards and live a life of comparative luxury right up to his death in 1616.

Envy

[….]

‘Are you going to tell me?’ Julia said as the song ended.

‘Tell you what?’

‘Why you aren't going to the lectures? Why you act so pissed off all the time? Why you don't make me laugh like you used to?’ She knelt up on the bed, looking at me. The light of the desk lamp behind her made her blonde hair a pale halo around her head, her face in deep shadow.

I sighed and sat up slightly. ‘All right...’ I paused for a moment of thought. ‘It is the contrast, the difference, the gap. In my tutorial group, we all sit in this small room around a table talking quietly about rages, angers, passion, despair, love and confusion. Then after an hour of this we pick up our books, put away our pens and walk away for a cup of coffee....’ I paused again and took a long drink of my wine, holding my hand up as Julia opened her mouth to speak.

‘Then, I come back here to Alison. I think about food, whether or not I need a shower and if we have enough dirty washing to go to the launderette. Now, I find myself thinking of The Wasteland as I watch the tumble-dryer, and thinking of sweat-stained shirts in the tutorials. But neither of them seems to be of any help, of any use. I can connect nothing with nothing. The shirts will only get dirty again, and what real use is the other stuff?’ I took the cigarette from between Julia's fingers. She sat with her head down, deep in thought. I laughed as I lit the cigarette. She looked up at me, slightly puzzled.

‘It's a silly thing, I know. I thought I was too old for any of this teenage-angst stuff, walking through the rain in a too-long second-hand overcoat, raging at the cold indifferent moon and moaning in existential despair.’

Julia shifted slightly and I could see her eyes as she looked at me. ‘It doesn't sound silly to me,’ she said. ‘I get upset by things like social injustice, inequality, the Tories winning the election again, university underfunding and the poverty of students, and things like sexism and racism, but I've never felt so... so lost as that.’

I reached out and took her hand in mine. I shook my head slowly. ‘It's not that bad, honestly. It just gets like that sometimes.’ I smiled, squeezing Julia's fingers. ‘Anyway, it will soon be Christmas; perhaps I just need a holiday.’

Julia turned, and moved back to sit beside me. I let go of her hand, but she picked my hand up and held it in both of hers, resting in her lap. ‘You will come back though, won't you, after Christmas?’ Julia looked down at my hand and stroked her thumb across the back of it.

‘Of course,’ I said. I still felt, despite everything, that this was my last chance. My last chance to find some sort of life for myself, some sort of meaning, nothing else had worked for me. Nowhere felt like home any longer. If I gave up, I would have to go back to my parents' house. I would have to face my sister's confirming sneer, my mother's reproach, but most of all I would have to stand face to face with my father.

‘Good luck, son,’ he had said with a shy, almost proud, smile. ‘I wish I could've had a chance like this. There's always been so much I wanted to know, to learn, I envy you.’ I felt the rough skin of my father's hand as he held mine, tight, for a moment. He winked and then smiled at me. The sound of my sister's car horn jerked me into movement and I let go of his hand. As we drove away, I looked back to see them both, my mother and father with their arms around each other, waving.

Until that point, I had never felt my father needed to know anything. He was a man who could fix anything with a short, sharp intake of breath, a shake of the head and a screwdriver. He had a screwdriver with a shining shaft and a worn, sweat-stained wooden handle, far older than me, and probably of far more use.

I had no use for those screwdrivers, but I felt I could use some of my father's envy. The envy that had so surprised me. I could envy Julia and her belief in the rightness of her socialism and feminism. I could envy Guy's desire for the music, noise and crowds of a good party. I could envy Ron's desire for a good degree to get him a good job, and his easy social manner. I could envy Margot's arrogant disregard of those around her. I could envy my sister's tabloid certainties, her desire for the money, expensive clothes and jewellery that spelled success for her. I could even envy Alison's ironic distancing of herself, turning away from the university life she no longer felt she needed. There was also my parents' stable, happy contentment with each other, which I could envy too.

I could use some envy, but only if I could feel it like the solid, purposeful weight of that screwdriver. But, I had no strength for envy. Strong emotion feels out of place with me, fraudulent in some way; I am not built for such things. At that moment, I couldn't even feel the true weight of my own doubts about the value of what I was doing at the university. They seemed airy, light and insubstantial. As I had said to Julia when I tried to put them into words, they seemed silly, adolescent even. I was getting very tired of words.

‘Do I dare eat a peach?’ I said.

‘What?’ Julia said sleepily, letting go of my hand to stroke her hair back from her eyes.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Do you want a cigarette?’

[….]

[Extract from Hanging Around Until]

Stories on the Wind

There were times when there were stories blowing on the wind. There were once times when it seemed there was a tale lying over every hill and each horizon hid legends and myths beyond the rising or setting sun. There were times when these lands seemed full of stories and each traveller carried with them tales of far places we only ever heard of in the stories and legends.

Now, though, we grow old and we grow weary. It seems we have heard too many tales. We have gone past wondering if all these stories are true, or embellished with distance and imagination. Now we wonder if we know the nature of truth at all. We have lived long enough to distinguish the lies that those who would make promises of leadership or salvation tell with every turn of their tongues.

We no long believe, even those of us who wanted to believe and those who needed to believe, no longer believe in the stories of gods and devils, monsters and ghosts.

We have lived too long and seen too much about how this world does not fit inside all those tales we have been told.

And yet....

And yet we sit here watching the dancing flames of our fires, waiting for someone to begin telling us a new tale....