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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 15th Jan 2015, 10:24am
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BETH;

Gazing on Beth’s fairy like movements, ever innocently and fondly on a piece of living magic with longing of a lost pup and perhaps... looking just so, he could hardly sleep in the darkness of his bedroom. Her face was cast near constantly on his very being, introducing her features as paramount to the simplest thoughts or actions cast that summer.


Beth had every quality a lover could wish for; silky brown hair wafting wind swept look so desired by magazine photographers. Deep dark brown eyes to beckon the wildest of soul and a hint of magic going on forever complete with a smile to enchant a defeated devil because of her natural innocent creamed skin beauty of her face. Her walk defied gravity as if strolling with the Gods themselves. Her voice echoed sweetly to soften any discerning ear or pierced the most resilient heart to become a willing slave to her every whim or suggestion. She was beauty and sexuality personified.

He was brand new to this game of passion, nevertheless entered it with the vigour of a seasoned Romeo and the private presumption of a master ails Casanovas… even with Great Expectations, but never quite reached the qualifier (11 plus or otherwise). Since ever he could remember his desire for observing Beth just formed a life of its own emotions but unfortunately...pure love…. at a distance

These unreturned expressions were not seedy glances at limbs and digits not normally paraded for the world to see. This was gazing with adorations and factual affection, for all to see but particularly Beth…who was totally unaware. Each time she made entrance to the street they both lived in since childhood, the sun shone through the heaviest rain to brighten up that moment. Graceful Beth would seeming not make contact with the ground but dance to wherever she wished to be. Immediately her pure radiance was such…. All he could do was no more than stare.

He found himself timing to be at her close when he thought she was due out, not wish to waste one second or moment being with her.

There was a problem… for she neither realizes he existed or ever encouraged or touched him in any way which was a bit of a hindrance to his affections. It became even more difficult when he discovered she fancied dashing Gordon Campbell.

This boy had always been a thorn in his side, right from the first day meeting him in the street. He was good at everything he ever tried to do, and to name any sport he did not excel in school and you would be hard placed. He had the audacity to be good looking to boot but the worsted thing of all was; he was so dammed nice? He would make up excuses for him when once again, beat the pants off him (not literary as it was still against the law and any he’d probably wipe his ass with that too) at some deed or other.

Having no choice than to accept his immeasurable fate … looking on from afar, hoping against all hope she would miraculously change her mind and see him in hero’s romantic light. He had no choice but to do something constructive so to fill in the lonesome time.

He decided to make a new bow and arrow out of garden canes, just like all the kids but he would slave to make it so well…Beth would look on and wonder…. but he inwardly knew and would tell you this…. Gordon Campbell always made the best one?
-=-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 19th Jan 2015, 12:21am
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Shug in two halves

It is said you can fool some of the people all the time, you can fool all the people some of the time; but you can’t fool all the people all the time. This did not apply to Shug who was employed by a Town Council baths dept. He was the man working in the old style wash-hoose final closure of washing board stalls, huge steam operated washing-machines, drying horses, prams bringing dirty washing and a 100 years of a way of life for the woman-folk of the area.

This was decided by the forward thinking Council, to make way for the so called laundry-mats, which held no culture, or atmosphere for the prime and proper ladies in the neighbourhood .The wash-hoose was more sharp, a gossip terminal, and down to earth environment… close to the Scenes from the famous and very humorous play…“The Steemie”.

Shug was no walking fool … but fooled everyone I ever met, who indeed had come into contact him. He may have been a walking disaster and pretty slow in the uptake; however believe me, no fool. Shug was a Zen Buddhist (sort of) without having the knowledge of it, or actually being Zen or a Buddhist, or forming a thought pattern anyone would recognize, he was just harmless lazy Shug.

In an ordinary shift, he could receive instruction one day, and then loose the requirements quite quickly without knowing consciously he had been instructed at all. His burning ambition was to be a life saver in the Victorian styled tiled swimming pool….only used for schools during the day and the snooty club at night. Shug was employed as a dog’s body; with cleaning everything he was drilled to scrub.

He also was the message boy for lunches or nip out when the boss needed fags, a habit in those days, making a skin from each item purchased by charging operatives dearer than when bought. Friday was pay day, when each of the 18 employees’ wages was received in brown envelopes. Friday was the big dinner-hour when luxury came into play.

One such day workers made their big orders, gave Shug a fiver or tenner, and asked Shug to get something for himself. After rounding all the orders Shug left at high noon. A hour and a half past by with no sign of the chips or Shug and most of the allotted time for dinner used up. A couple of the girls fretted slightly, but on the main body of employees were growing with irritation.

The gaffer was really fuming for not only something to eat was astray, but Shug with the bloody fags.


Just about ten minutes later, Shug stoater’s in slightly full to the wind, and plunks the goods down. Angry and frustrated because the official dinner break was well and truly over… with the chips are cald, the curry’s is manky…. they all demand their rightful change.

A bemused Shug pulls out two pokes, containing two shirts and a pair of Wrangler jeans, that horrified all present….Shug came away with a belter….”Ye all telt me tae coff something I wanted?” …gobsmacked was the reaction from the team………and he forgot the gaffer’s fags……
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peter.howden
post 20th Jan 2015, 12:54am
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A Christmas miracle

Glasgow has in famous or infamous name of being an alcoholic’s dreamland holiday or as a refreshment centre, depending what side of the glass you are standing. At one time with a pub at every corner though not in the posh areas for they do their indulgence and depravity, behind well kept close doors.

It is true, or use to be, Glaswegians are renowned for being ‘Wee’ hard drinkers, having no difficulty in “a Swally” as there was a pub and nigh every street corner. Harry enjoyed even more than slight refreshment giving him a tad of a problem as to know when to call a halt to such “sessions”

After this particular hard day’s work, he scurried around the famous Trongate, to visit all taverns such as Crystal-Bells, Candleriggs or renowned Granny-blacks, meeting such men of the same calibre, swapping stories Being thee Christmas Eve with millions of individual star shaped snowflakes dropping to the earth creating a instant festival picture card scene outside. This encourages Harry to stay, in the last hostelry, The Hangman’s Rest, with company joyful and glee…longer than first intended.

Leaving the warmth of inside, cold air was playing havoc with his water-works. The fact this tavern lay in the complete opposite direction from Harry’s original journey home, was pure chance returned to powder his nose in the little boy’s room..

The Hangman’s Rest was an old man’s pub, locked in many decades before décor (Known by Glaswegians as a sawdust pub owning to the sawdust spread over the floor to hide dirt or blood stains). Harry bought a couple of raffle tickets as he sat down once again with a wee Goldie. Minutes later numbers were called and one number matched his….the reward was one massive bawled duck.

The next moment Harry was outside, askew with the extra weight, while the crowd were still clapping. Struggling through the snow, though severely handicapped carting this huge bird, he managed to find the bus stop

Alighting from brightly lit bus, trudging home along the street, Harry felt like the little boy out of “Christmas Carol” when Scrooge ask him to carry the turkey to “Bob Cratchit’s” humble home. Puzzled to discover he held another surprise plastic bag containing a pair of deep red Italian leather stylish shoes in a fancy box. Where it came from or how he manages to be in possession was an enigma … a miracle all the same, in the mole of Harry Belafonte’s festival song ‘Scarlet Ribbons’ ….. There is magic in Christmas
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peter.howden
post 20th Jan 2015, 02:26pm
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Home Made Tales

Dark

It’s dark, darker than usual, so dark he lost control of his eyes as they were unable to see anything, or cast a shadow. The room was filled with emptiness. When light feebly attempted to sneak in past the all-purpose one room/kitchenette gloom, it was beaten back by sheer blackness. It has always been a mingin miserable place called a flat, hiding from daylight to disguise the grime formed by lewdness within these walls, but something extra was enticing repulsion.

An air more than uncertainty flanked like a deadly wave cushioned within by the peeling dirty wallpaper, unheard noises continuously returning, time and again, from the origin …but with darker disturbed vibrations. Four restraining walls repulsing echoes of the hideous past which bounced uncontrollably across the forbidden floor, avoiding the centre area like a plague

There was no mistaking as he clocked it, just seconds ago, as he lazily woke up between the soiled clarty sheets. The dampness, which the council insist was condensation, seems to add to the itchy touchy evil in this house… a wicked atmosphere …

What kind of person would linger in such a hole, let alone sleep, for would take a special kind of being to remain there, an individual lacking a conscious dignity, one whose blood must remain jelled even when his movements imitated a human.

Yet it had not always been so…no ….just a frightened bewildered soul whose body is frozen to the manky bed by invisible threads of fear, not a wishful heaven but a bloody hell which threatens to devour his very thoughts… if not his all.

He tried and tried to look into the middle of the room but bleakness returned but he know evil was within. His mind was now numb…..whatever it was ….it was about to devour him….making him defunct

-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post 21st Jan 2015, 07:09am
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Fairy tale



The first meeting was not supposed to happen but like all fairy tales… once upon a time it did.

Mark was walking past a stores window in the fashionable part of town. Helen was acting as stand-in for her sister, who was the window-dresser of female lingerie, for the large department store. Helen’s sibling become unwell, frightened she might lose her position, she asked her to stand in. Not sure if she could cope, being a novice in art School where actual work was not quite her bag, Helen’s code of sisterly duty came first.

Mark yearned for something completely different his dreary life, something with risk and action not available in this small township, forcing him to make up his mind, that very day, to be on his way to sign up and join the Army.

He stopped at the large window, standing almost motionless, staring directly in…not realizing the assortment of underwear the window exhibited…for he could not help staring at Helen’s angelic whimsical face. She turned around and heard music coming from outside where this guy was looking in. He tapped the window gently…motioning her outside. She dropped what she was folding and instantly submitted. In pure excitement their first date was arranged for that very night

From that very moment, that very second, they danced and sang and giggled into a whirlwind romance. Mark and Helen felt they had known this would happen all their lives was leading up to this joining of souls. He joked and she laughed when Mark said she was his Helen…. who launched a thousand slips.

They dreamed such sweet dreams, so composed they vowed it would last forever where they would grow old disgracefully together collecting our old age pension at the post office, then walk holding hand in the local park that so endeared and warmed their hearts. She cried at ‘Girl’s-pictures’ on the screen and he cared so much he was there with the tissues and popcorn and coca cola. As a couple they would dance at the drop of a hat swooning the moony along with old records, then dancing without moving their feet or limbs, but so close together it was almost indecent, locked in a heaven all of their own as Peggy Lee sang as they hummed ‘The folks who lived on the hill’ full in the knowledge it was written for them.

Just as quick as it had begun, She was gone… in a hint of a windless whiff and no letter of reason…just gone. All that was left was the bottle of perfume Mark had bought to celebrate their togetherness for it was something else above all other love affairs throughout history…and beyond. He had not noticed until the fateful moment of discovery she was no longer in his life……not one photograph for him to hold...with great heartache… reminisce.

He never did join the army but passed the window regularly hoping above hope, his Helen would be there. While staring in the abyss of the window, Mark would mentally sing, though sometimes was caught out by a stranger as he mumbled a verse or two of Ray Davis song “Thank you for the days” because those precious days was a lifetime for him.



He knows men should not cry……….but failed to keep the tears from falling

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peter.howden
post 23rd Jan 2015, 08:12pm
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A STRANGER ;


A single figure of a man, sat in the middle of the human jungle rest bite of tables and tatty chairs, where people just minutes before sat in the café which now was almost empty. The usual morning crowd who in rushing mayhem, scattered around the plastic flooring in search for coffees and teas; rolls and toast and the odd chip butty, before scrambling up Jam-packed elevators on the look-out for their private bureau… exactly the same as the next one and the next desk forming a row.

That clientele were well gone. All of them locked safely in boxes containing boxes, surrounded by thick walls of concrete blocks. Outside, and furtively hidden in some corner, away from the main door, was the odd couple of fly’s by night, in unison sucking nervously on cancer sticks while prepared at a moments notice, to dart oft as soon as they have had their fix.

In the unfilled snack bar the stranger, twist and turns his tea spoon, first clockwise then anti-clockwise, swirling the cold liquid in a haywire direction. This simple act he had carried out for at least the last ten minutes. The tiered waitress has given up tempting him to move but washing down the table with …a not so clean damp cloth…. which left streaks across the Formica speckled table top.

Splashes of water soaks his shirt sleeve cuff, but fails miserably to encourage movement on the stranger’s part. Where ever he was, was not prepared to leave the coffee bar.

The head waitress Slide closer to listen to what was on his mind for it could heard the following; “How could I be such a fool all, of our goodbyes to last forever”. I have no sense except horse sense”. “How could I let her slip away; how could I not tell her she was my Mona Lisa, my soul mate; my life”. How could I be so foolish, so proud…. so tongue tied?” “Now she has gone and so have my chances; just for once I wish I could open up”. “In love songs, some rain must fall and some tears be shed but I’ve had showers… too many tears wash my eyes”. She will never know just how much I cared”.the stranger mumbled to himself

Just then, a young lady entered the quiet café, ordering Russian tea and neatly sat down quite a distance from the stranger. He glancing up towards her and making sure she did not see him do so, the stranger looked intently at this young female. There was something about her that excited his eyes. He observed something really sweet and charming and innocent about her body language. Was she waiting for someone? However the stranger did not believe so.

The waitress delivered the glass containing lemon tea and left the change, in such a way to encourage a reasonable tip. The waitress just glared at the stranger, who failed to notice because his attention was on the other patron at the far side of the window. Her saintly hands reached for the covered glass, the lemon dropped into the hot liquid,

The stranger witnessed her well-manicured nails of the edge of her lean piano playing fingers, so slender and elegant she owned an obvious silky touch. Her red lips puckered with excitement as it tempted to sip the hot beverage. Her eyes glistened with expectation and her expression showed signs of anticipation. Her feature lines personified through the crafty lighting of the open premises. In other words the stranger says the young beauty as a peach…which he would love to take a bite and savour.

Could he take a chance, could he approach this Madonna…asking if he could sit next to her. Could he be so bold and ask this female perfection… for a sentimental journey to ‘Begin the Beguine’? Perhaps they could take a tram ride together to Kelvinside or maybe the Art Galleries. Yes…. lets strike while the iron is hot, thought the stranger and almost gave effort into standing up.

Just then she crossed her legs, amplifying the physical sound of stockings stroking each other…which drives young, and old men alike; wild. She rose and left the premises without one word from her perfectly formed lips. Just at that moment… a heart was crumpled again.

A single figure of a man, sat in the middle of the human jungle rest bite of tables and tatty chairs, where peoples just minutes before…. sat in the café which now….was empty.
-=-=-=
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Heather
post 23rd Jan 2015, 08:19pm
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Aye very good Peter, I enjoyed those stories. smile.gif


--------------------
Heather.......I'm tartan. Alba gu Brath. Saor Alba
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peter.howden
post 23rd Jan 2015, 08:49pm
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Magic Heather.........I like to scribble............we are all proud.....and as free as our minds will allow....
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peter.howden
post 25th Jan 2015, 10:21am
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Ponderings


The coming of a particular day of the year is a date our family have no need to search for, though a craving and aching to remember is always with us. . We are not alone in such dire, for in Glasgow, in Scotland or indeed the World peoples woe such a date’s annual arrival. Yet two years ago this date brought harrowing grief we were unaware existed which lead to emptiness you wished no other person had to share. The most unexpected happening… happened, against all odds for it would not she was too young, too full of life, to vibrant to allow this catastrophe to occur. Unfortunately she lost her short combat with cancer and we lost our daughter.

We all experienced psychological pain far beyond any brutal wound could inflict or sword could slice or dismember and what we were live through ,with unwanted suffering,… there was no cure and no escape. Each morning the darkness grew, each day the tears flowed at the slightest thought and each night torment knew its mark.


We decided as a family, without words or conversation, we would make sure we would be together… no matter what. The harrowing event happened on a Saturday and we would as a family meet on that day… at our home. The wooden kitchen table became our alter, the conversation became our script… with hours of talk mixed with sorrow, tears, awkward laughter and the family became our salvation. We were always close but there is a bond which is unspoken as we see each other and just know.

There is a worldly saying… ‘Time heals’ which is in my limited knowledge, is not quite true. It eases the tension slightly; it softens the pain a little, but it can’t stop the sudden anguish flourishing through the instant darkness or the unexpected tears which come out of nowhere. Now day to day living is no longer a trance as my rational capabilities return, not too normal, but to something which I can act so. There is a sense of guilt coming from deep…way deep inside.

There is no time when she is not there. She is with us in certain things we do, she touches our hearts with memories stirred from little ordinary day action we do which remind us something she did, or said or giggled about. Washing the dishes, a photo of some place, a present she gave or a knickknack she thoughtfully bought for my wife and I.

The comfort for me is………. I know there is a future…where we have to squeezes as much contentment out of life as possible and not feel guilty which hovers around unchecked.

Selfishly I know indeed I am lucky. Fortunate because I have my missus at my side, my family and my true friends whose help is beyond value……… but above and more so vital…………. I had, and have a daughter … for as long as I live.
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peter.howden
post 26th Jan 2015, 06:46am
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What’s up “Doc”

He had the makings of being a great world renowned ‘Chef de cuisine’ , for he valued knowing the basics to work with, which could add just heaven to the client’s taste buds, and like all the greats knew just how much of ‘this and that’, ingredient to make gastronomic magic… down to the last skech of a dash.

He was untidy, gruff and dependent on the lower grafters, this shows me a master chef who isn’t or does not have a skivvy or two up his, or her sleeve. His big fault was health and safety and may approach on both equally. A pot of water with just a tad of washing up liquid was always near the boil in not doing so…to properly cleanse through sterilization all his utensils including his keen, razor sharp huge knife better described as a whittle. He never used a ‘Shantieglan’ to grind his precious instrument; stone sharpening its blade to a keen edge himself.



He treasured his cutting appliance above all else… but had an awful nasty habit of wiping it from the cleansing pot, then drying it under his armpit with his tee-shirt sleeve…which he swore saved times and was hygienic. Either claims were suspect; however no one in the classy restaurant dare tell him so never mind chastise this naughty habit,.

Instead of insisting obeying Health & Safety rules they…. rather in a laugh off way or childish pansy manner.… the owner, the manager and a couple of brave souls in the kitchen would quote;… word for word……’here will be a revolting horrible accident happen one day… to your oxter being slashed deep inside’ ‘Mark my words’, they all quoted uniformly….then added before finishing their spiel; “You could be disfigured for life, (and possibly ruin the soup)…the last part they never said…only thought it …for no-one had the stomach for antagonizing this already grippe human.

The fateful day arrived as other days do with no pointers, no clue what atrophying happenings and the far reaching effects with the ‘Haute cuisine’ dishes, or it would have on all…. but mostly with the head chef .

Working normally and keeping a skewed eye on all the other commis chefs while preparing his Special, guaranteed holding taste to die for and observing ‘waste not, want not’ perfect ethos. The lethal moment came closer with all pots, and pans on full blast, or just simmering away ingredients for a master stroke in culinary dish.

He reached for his trusty knife in his usual manner from the boiling cleansing pot. He had done so many times but this time was to be different. Without looking his main cutlery hand reached in the correct direction but made contact with a heavy metal spoon instead of the hilt of the knife. Having been boiling for some considerable time the whole spoon was nigh to boiling temperature when is fingers first lay contact.



The reaction on meeting his digits to the scorching spoon burnt and scaled his skin, then producing instant blisters turning his fingers black. With a hell of agony he attempted to rid himself of this calamity but the spoon just sunk in deeper into his fingers, damaging the very nerves of his whole hand. The shouting squealing in agony did not last an eternity but just seemed so as one brave helper, had the savvy to smothered the hand and the offending utensil with a soaked towel which gave enough relief to quell the distress calls for a brief moment or two at least.

The tragic consequences were losing his intimate senses, in his golden hand holding an acute touch for the amount of ingredients, to most minuscule tad needed to supply his famous recipes.

His books were cooked as the world never forgave him in his reckless hour…..Basically he returned to being a mere cook …Par-average at that…..in one greasy diner….with a Scottish title…..

-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 26th Jan 2015, 07:54pm
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Nomadic (1)

The long train, with a multitude of selected carriages took quite a while to slowly grind to a standstill and lucky for him, as the clatter of the steel wheels waked him for an uneasy sleep. Stretching and moaning for being awaken, a familiar cough as the railing pulled back revealing George (the porter) was standing with a pot of coffee and a huge grin which stretched from, ear to ear across his whole face.



It had been a long journey… monotonous to boot with few bright spots except the detours from tedium via George and the history of ‘The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters’ battle, ‘fight or be slaves’, with the Pullman company. He heard it was a clash for survival from some considerable time, while the custodian of the train revealed a few interesting facts. One being his name was not ‘George’ but it was a condition of his shaky employment all passengers would recognize him, and all his fellow brothers by this single non de plume.

The voyager rose sharply from his make shift sleeping quarters, washed and brushed up then checking his Italian mohair suit was presentable his hand made Melbourne shirt, followed Milan leather shoes(shined to perfection by George) , and finally taking his cashmere coat of the swinging hanger.

It was raining as he stepped down from the coach, onto the wet unwelcoming platform, making the traveller wonder why he had truly come to this dismal station which was exactly as he remembered it…cold and unhospitable. He struggled to remember poor George’s real name but it was lost in his own discomfort as the rain lashed down making it difficult to see what was ahead.

He had no wish to be here, or anywhere near this grim reminder of the past ….but was drawn by not so subtle threats and intimidations which made it appropriately clear as to his would be future if he disobeyed. He was trapped and now there was no turning back. Unlike George…he had no union or backing for his unspoken services to companies……or individual shady clientele. He wanted out but out was not an option.

‘Money was good but sometimes money is not the problem’, he thought to himself his light attaché case.

The blue skies had disappeared long ago but now it was dark and foreboding black holes with intervals of nothingness. The angel of death he knew too well lurking behind some innocent facade, being rewarded for surprising this beaten traveller......................to be continued

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 28th Jan 2015, 09:50am
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Nomadic (2)

His psychological grisly journey, through dismal personal confinement was measures in years…. with his own Gordian knot, forever present. No swift Macedon blade to swiftly cut clean the unanswerable question; countless dire struggles release this particular endless riddle His was a small intimate family business, taking contracts, from the unidentified…. to be honour above all else…or human cost . Was there a higher deity, would his dark activities be deemed immoral. Was his deeds condemning him dammed eternal unrest. This time was the total conclusion of his life’s worth and he knew, regardless what he truly wished…. for had no chance in hell of coming true.



Walking along the unsympathetic empty streets of his home town in the early drab morning ,he recalled his school days had been regimental constructed by one domineer individual above all else, his mother…. though he had now broken free from the persistent bulling which made him do things, terrible things. He had, he believed, this was the one last mission into the bleakness of life. As usual he reached the bus locker station and with his key received his instruction. He did not see the shadowy furtive body lucking in the avenues and passageways nearby.

Following coded instruction, examining rail ticket left in cubbyhole, followed by something to eat at the old café…, then wait for the return sleeper back from whence he came…the contract was on the train line . He followed his orders methodically. Time waiting just caused pain. The Pullman carriage was dirty through travel, hiding the distinctive Chambersburg dark green of all the companies’ coaches. He met George again and George was his target. Like many other large companies of this notorious time, they employed spies to keep tabs on their employees; in extreme cases, company agents arranged disappearance of union organizers. How this was done…no questions asked.

The simple thing of George asking if he wanted his shoes buffed, made the decision not to fulfil his contract for to act as instructed was no place for a man to boldly go. So often, in the past, he had refused only in the end in mental torture as a dominant voice would dictate surrender terms. This time he was determined to see it through. He warned George…through his real name of his company’s wish to end the ‘The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters’ and push George over the railing of the Caboose.

George smile had gone however for some reason did not, or would not believe him…. so it forced his hand to trick George going through to, and lock the unfortunate porter in the freight carriage, then prudently take stock then head back to his allocated seat on the train. Arriving and just about to pull the curtain back he heard a tense explosion then instantaneously felt a red-hot pain singing his skin just below his heart. Blood spurted over his shirt and onto the grubby curtain as he uncontrollably spun through them.

Spinning forced his body as he fell to Land backwards on the converted divan, staring upwards close to unconsciousness. The pain became unbearable as he could see a shadow appear through his blood hazed eyes. For some reason he sneezed which cleared his sight slightly when a head took shape right above him. What ever happened was beyond explanation, made his sight come to life for a brief second or so and he recognized his assassin.

Tears rolled gradually down, from his misty eyes to his pulled in cheeks as he took real effort to spurt out his last spoken coherent words…. said….”Hallo Mother” ……his limp body ceased to exist

-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 28th Jan 2015, 07:59pm
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Home made tales

The real Trojan horse

Odysseus, or if you prefer his Latin name, Ulysses, urgently sought an ending to the Trojan war, in a vain hope of returning to his reputed faithful wife Penelope whose image stirred his venting emotions…due to news of parties all the time back home….… and in Odysseus private apartments…in his palace. It was testified Penelope was weaving or sewing or something like that…but this was hard to swallow…even for Odysseus’s reputed big mouth.

Now Helen beauty was never in dispute by her husband King ‘Menelaus’ of Mycenaean(later day Sparta) though he was slightly vexed against a certain ‘Paris’ who sneaked away from grand banquet, by the way… held in his honour. On face value he could be forgiven for such bad manners…. if Helen had not been pirated away, so he could lay his hands on her beautiful curves.

By pure chance…the reality was, the marauding King Menelaus, had already booked and wanted a holiday away from the growing frugal way of life in the dull state, choose Argos independence agency to arrange a longish break in Anatolia. The problem, began because of a lack of visas for some four thousand individuals he selected to bring with him, through a silly misunderstanding, started a tiff about trespassing on private land… or playing around with different gods.

You know what it’s like when lads get together in sunny warms, drinking too much wine, or the local liquor, especially when girls are involved, ownership and winching privileges, allow tempers to fray with outcomes every now and then… not too pretty. The fact others would join in and it lasting so long was just one of those unexplained things.

For King Menelaus to save face, he sued Argos and used his wife’s innocence and Paris’s sexual transgressions as a protest against paying Argos independence agency for the extended time, strongly reminding the organizers…his whole team had to sleep on the beach due to lack of accommodations.

Meanwhile Ulysses was beginning to be frustrated by the tussle and what may be going on in his own court, decided to take action. He built the mighty impressive Trojan horse… hiding lots of army pals armed to the teeth. The Greeks made such a tattoo about giving up, the Trojan’s swallowed it hook and crook, accepting the horse as a gift… planning to take it inside the great walls that so well protected their city for 10 years

Now Ulysses may have been a heroic warrior solider but a mathematician he was not…and unfortunately Geometrician Philo the Dialectician; or Chrysippus of Soli had centuries to go before being born. The measurements were not checked and double checked, when the great horse rumbled forwards the mighty city walls, it came apparent it would not pass through the enormous gates…due to the fact the stallion was much bigger than the going space would allow.

The Trojans on the other hand, apart from being stupidly dumb to allow things to get out of hand, wisely decided the best thing to do was to give a burning sacrifice to their Gods…. For unforeseen victory…and the horse was perfect being under health and safety protocol …securely outside their cherished walls

The Greeks got burnt and did not return until Alexandra the Great past through….not stopping mind you………..the rest you may have heard….is a myth……..of course.

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peter.howden
post 30th Jan 2015, 09:15am
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Cure


It’s hard to tell a story particularly when there is no real story to tell just a collection of happenings. I have told peoples some at various stages in my life but to put pen to paper is a different game altogether. Some found them amusing and some found them hard to swallow but they are all true and the names have not been swapped to save embarrassment. When I say they are true it is worthwhile remembering that my vision of truth may or should differ from persons mentioned within, so it lies mainly with the reader.

(Grannies remedy)
As a young boy and growing adolescent I suffered badly from dreaded spots and boils of all shapes and sizes. As the years have passed this embarrassment state has been explained as normal growth behaviour for teenagers of the male gender but while in action this became a constant harassment. The boils would spurt out with surprising speed and I would look in the mirror just before leaving to go out, and I would certainly see one or even two maturing on my neck. A look further on and there was a spread around my lower chin. Other boys had boils but they never seemed as big or as sore as mine. My affliction in tow I managed to struggle through life and carry on to marry the girl of \my heart. Life was now appearing colourful and bliss until the fateful day
.
A few days before that particular morning’s dawned, it became obvious that a boil had travelled far. This singular inflamed swelling had settled between the cheeks of my bottom. I did not know how big it actually was, but it felt like a volcano erupting pain my wife and I had been married for only a few weeks and we were still on honeymoon really and totally inexperienced in life or its funny ways. My wife could remember a remedy to rid of boils handed down by her great Gran to Gran to mum and then to her of a magic poultice made up of heated sugar, soap and kaolin and just thinking about it now brings tears to the eyes.

I lay on the bed face down while the gently warmed substance was placed between my bare cheeks and this mountain of a boil. After a short period we both realized that it was not being of any good and my wife suggests that it is not hot enough. The second attempt was totally different for the mixture was heated as far as she dared and then a couple of minutes extra for good measure like all good novice cooks do. The chosen wrap around the mixture was too small a piece for the amount of mixture made, expanded by heat I think , so when it was placed a second time it hit raw flesh. Well it was such a shock it forced my cheeks together which made the mixture act like super glue while the force of the clam tight cheeks spurted the by now huge extra stuff out in all directions but mainly the ravine of my exposed bottom.

I was never a great athlete at school but with my new overheated aid I leapt upwards into the air from my lying position to what I believe a hairs breath away from the ceiling of our Victorian room returning back to bed in a cat like posture screaming “get the buggering thing off”. This created a panic in my wife, much the same as a chicken that has had its unfortunate head chopped; she grabbed the only piece of cloth showing and pulled with feverous vigour.

Unfortunately as she pulled more of this homemade larva discovered virgin skin relatively unscathed which lead to my second leap. It was not as high a leap as my first but it did manage to squish the remaining mixture forcing me to squeal in a very high pitch which I have since never been able to repeat and I wish not to. After such an ordeal you would imagine that the very boil would have at least burst but no way.

My wife argued convincingly that since I had been to hell and back, and to rid myself of this boil once and for all, heat I should try a course that her Granddad swore by. On reflex ion I now know why Granddad swore and call me a fool but by now I was past reason or thought and also my threshold for pain or so I believed.

I watched my wife prepare a heavy old milk bottle by heating it up in water just below boiling. She explained that by heating the bottle and placing it on the skin it would act like a kind of vacuum therefore suck up the boil puss and all. You may find this hard to believe that there was no sensation of pain what so ever when it was placed surrounding the offending boil and she insisted that for it to work she would count up to twenty before removing the very hot bottle with the two towels raped around it.

I was extremely embarrassed by now but the count came to an end seemingly without success until my wife tried to remove the bottle which was rock fast. She had no choice but to give a violent tug and being in an awkward position lost her grip on the bottle leading to my third leap but my screams by now were muffled by muteness.

The aftermath was cream placed gently on the whole area and I was told the boil was indeed burst. A few days later, with the aid of mirrors, I was able to see for myself and all that remained and to this day is a perfect red ring mark.

My lovely wife has never had a boil or if she has never told me……

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peter.howden
post 31st Jan 2015, 11:50pm
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The flight for life;(1)

my life was forfeited as I struggled for breath…through smoke and putrid smell of hostile carnage formed by modern sea battles brutally displaying pieces of human flesh attached to shackles still locked to large broken spinsters of rough wood, blown apart by terror ramming ships hurling indiscriminating fire buckets..

Unrecognizable limbs, socked in bloody sea water, as fallen masts cripple both life and ship alike create a floating hellish aftermath whilst fire scorches, roast and barbecue skin peeling off live and dead bones that once were human… desperate to survive at all cost.



This meaningless butchery was my punishment for defying the Roman Gods or Caesar which were the same deities. I could hear crowds of people cheering; yes cheering as I lost my final grip knocked unconscious slowly fell towards a watery grave. It all started quite innocently, for me anyway, back on my homeland; and if I the same thing happened over again, it would certainly prove what I knew then; that I had no influence in the forthcoming events as the Gods had ordained it to be so. We are all pawns in a much bigger crueller game.

Now, I would not call myself a coward, not exactly, just I want to live and live without pain to this ends I became important in my adopted tribe, by camouflaged my hidden fears by taking on the status position of wandering druid (Augur teller) for my adopted tribe. I was quite confident in making up fables or stories with a purpose.

Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself Dugall Vcean, embraced clansman to the noble Scots Damnoni. 'Men under care of the goddess of the deep' we were the best of Celtic traders. I was born a free man but sold as a slave of Rome burning hatred of the men who betrayed me and killed my only light.

I do remember the Romans coming, in peace but ravished, plundered and massacred anyone who opposed their peaceful tributes sending my whole family to hopeful safety to kin tribe on the far coastline. Just for practise in battle, the Roman commander in that area, butcher everybody to a man.

The invaders deliberately caused panic through rhetoric; “Each drill like a battle; each battle like a drill”.

This scared the living daylights out of me but I boiled sweat for revenge….



.to be continued
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