Elephant Words

Conversion

Alex Jury — Thu, 17 May 2012 13:34:22 +0000

‘Tis pleasant, safely to behold from shore
The rolling ship, and hear the tempest roar.

Well, yes indeed. That’s what the inscription says around the temple and, frankly, I couldn’t agree more. Mind you, the erosion’s pretty bad here, the building’s so close to the edge that in a few years there’ll be no more safely beholding from the shore going on here. Still, no need to dwell on that in the advert.

Very pleasant aspect. Very pleasant. And the name is, thankfully, rather misleading – it was actually built as a library, so there’s none of that time-wasting getting things de-consecreated malarky. The conversion should be fairly straightforward too. We’ll leave the side facing the shore mostly as it is, but the wall facing the sea will have to be completely knocked out and replaced with glass. It’d be a damn shame not to be able to enjoy the view from the dinner table or a nice roll-top bath. Not that I go in for nature much myself, I prefer the telly. But there we go, each to their own.

The view’s spectacular, I have to say. It’s a bit remote though – we’ll have to knock a road through this field and the edge of that wood. Normally these things are hard to do but I’ve taken a fellow from the Council out for a few good lunches and, usually, if you know the right ear to whisper into or the right person to golf with, you can get past all this irritating listed-building this, protected-woodland that nonsense that has a nasty habit of holding things up.

Yes, I think this might turn out quite well. I’ll be able to use the cash for that mid-life crisis porsche I’ve always fancied. Now that is a thing of beauty.

Dirty Blue Gene in Bastard Wants To Hit Me

Dan Lester — Tue, 15 May 2012 18:17:28 +0000

When you grind the beans yourself, making coffee becomes almost like a religious ritual. And if you don’t grind the beans yourself, you may as well be drinking instant. I took the coffee pot off the hob, turned off the gas, then poured out a cup for myself and one for the man who had been sent to kill me.

When I walked into the living room Shepherd was thumbing through an old science fiction paperback. He put it down and took the coffee when I offered it.

“Thanks.” He hesitated slightly as he took hold of the cup, and I could tell he was thinking about throwing it in my face, but we both knew I would have ducked out of the way before his arm had time for a full swing, and with his feet handcuffed to the chair there wasn’t much else he could do. He brought the coffee up to his nose. “Smells good.”

“Even the coffee shops round here don’t make coffee this good,” I said as I sat down. “It’s because I use real coffee beans, not that synthesised shit from Mars.”

Shephard took a sip, then put the cup down on the table next to him, inadvertently using the paperback as a coaster. I grimaced slightly but didn’t say anything. “So how did you know I was coming?” he asked.

“Kranz’s house was bugged.”

“He’s beng investigated?”

“Was. They were put in three years ago, but we stopped monitoring manually after six months. Since then we’ve just had an automatic computer sweep. A week ago the sweep picked up Kranz saying the word ‘kill’.”

Shepherd shook his head. “Bastard never did know when to shut up. So now you’re going to take me in?”

“Not quite. It’s more Kranz that concerns me. Even in prison, he could still put another contract out on me.”

“Then what?”

In movies, when someone offers to pay a hit-man double to go back and kill the person that hired them, they always refuse. Lucky for me, this wasn’t a movie. Shepherd looked me directly in the eye. “How do I know you can afford it?”

“I didn’t get a nickname like Dirty Blue Gene for not showering. Are you in?”

“Okay. I’m in.”

I tossed him the handcuff keys, and as he was unchaining his feet I picked up my smartphone. “The first half will be in your account by the time you start the engine on that piece of shit you drive.”

“And my gun?”

“What I’m paying you, you can afford to buy a new one.” Shepherd hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and walked towards the door. “Be seeing you,” I called as he stepped through. A minute later I heard the ignition on his car. A second after that I heard the car explode. I ran over to the window.

There was almost nothing left. Just a few smouldering chunks of metal. Looked like Kranz had already had his doubts about Shepherd’s trustworthiness. I was glad I’d taken longer to put the wire transfer through. I was also glad he’d parked as far away from the house as he had. I looked down at the smartphone screen, and pressed the cancel transaction button. Shepherd was out of the picture, which was good, but I still had to find a way to deal with Kranz. “I need to think about this,” I thought. Time for another cup of coffee.

Review of Pennybottom Castle

davidbaillie — Mon, 14 May 2012 17:23:58 +0000

Review of Pennybottom Castle by Eden Carter –
published in the West Bolton Courier, 19 July 1982.

After paying my entry fee (a shock for many at 25 pence, I can tell you!) I entered the tourist attraction which West Bolton District Council have laughingly decided to re-Christen Pennybottom Castle. Why they couldn’t leave it be, as the perfectly acceptable Pennybottom Keep, I cannot fathom.

Closed for five years to allow urgent restoration to be carried out, I and thirty other Pennybottom enthusiasts queued for the very first tickets. And we were not disappointed.

As reported in this very organ – the last fifty or so months has seen buckets of unidentifiable filth and a million Marathon and Opal Fruits wrappers removed, allowing the hand carvings of Bolton’s pre-eminent eccentric millionaire to be fully appreciated for the first time in almost a hundred years.

And the results, I can tell you, are simply startling.

Even an innocent babe would have no problem identifying each flobby breast and dollopous buttock from among the heaving throng of bodies in the many bawdy depictions of local courting rituals. It is also suddenly and delightfully clear which hags Pennybottom intended to be toothless. And after many a year of scholarly argument I don’t think anyone can now seriously disagree that the figure chasing the bishop with two sheep, a duck and a pot of marmalade is definitely male.

Some folk might say 25p is a lot to pay to see some badly-drawn boobies. And I would say that some folk are Philistines.

Mussenden Temple

Bridgeen Gillespie — Sun, 13 May 2012 13:07:46 +0000

Mussenden Temple- Bridgeen Gillespie

Through unfamiliar eyes

Budgie — Sat, 12 May 2012 17:08:57 +0000

The world was blue. Well, somewhere between purple and blue. Possibly lilac.

He knew he’d thought this before but couldn’t quite remember when, just as he knew he’d once had power.

Not merely authority, but real power; the ability and facility to order men into war, and women into his chamber. And they’d both gone to their respective fates not willingly, but because he ordered them to.

His power had been acknowledged and accepted by all. Well, by all that counted. Those that hadn’t recognised and submitted to it had… regretted it. He was sure of it. He was. He just couldn’t recall how he’d made them regret it, how that had operated, nor when it had happened.

He felt himself move, but he had not wished to move.

This was… familiar, and he had a sudden impression of dread. And then, as the memory of the curse made its inevitable return, the full sum of the events of that day surrounded him, suffused his very essence until he could imagine nothing else.

He remembered the meeting with the emissaries of the alleged deity, their strange costumes, his contempt for them, their executions and the laughter as the feathers burned and shrivelled…

…and then nothing until the world was blue. Well, somewhere between purple and blue.

Was that yesterday or a thousand years ago? The memory was gone, as was his caring about it. Until the next time.

He was left with only one thought, slowly fading.

He should never have offended the god of owls, he decided for what he never knew was approximately the half a millionth time…

Mother Knows Best

Alex Jury — Fri, 11 May 2012 14:52:51 +0000

I only want what’s best for him. He’s so precious and so perfectly unspoilt, that I can’t bear to think of anything polluting him. So it’s all wheat-free, vegan organic – the whole time I was breastfeeding too ( none of that it’s-ok-to-have-one-glass-of-red-wine nonsense).

I’ve got the Origami Babycarrier (if you buy anything else then, really, you’re asking for trouble and setting up your child with bad posture for life). It’s important not to put too much pressure on yourself as a mum, but obviously you do have to take into account that unless you do everything perfectly now, you’ll ruin your baby’s life. You can’t get them back to those perfect little beings once you’ve started messing them up with processed grains and getting them hooked on sugar.

I’ve made a few mistakes myself. Switching to solids was a disaster. He adored all my organic vegan dishes and happily ate everything my husband and I ate so I thought it was all going brilliantly. But then I read about the Baby Bird Concept and realised that I was making a mockery of his digestive system. So now, before he eats anything, I chew it carefully and then pass it to him, mouth to mouth, just like a mummy bird. Babies haven’t developed the right saliva or enzymes to break down food properly and his teeth are brand new so they shouldn’t be worn down before he’s out of nappies. He loves it – just this morning we shared a delicious breakfast of miso soup, crushed collards, steamed radish skins and flax oil.

People sometimes ask me, ‘Surely there are times when things get on top of you, when you feel you can’t cope?’ Well, yes there are. It’s only natural – having a baby, regaining your perfect figure and keeping a marriage happy and alive can sometimes feel rather overwhelming. At times like these, I make a goji berry and acacia smoothie, sit in the gazebo for a few minutes and think, ‘What would Gwyneth do?’

Protection.

iansharman — Thu, 10 May 2012 18:18:14 +0000

It descends like a blanket, enfolding and enveloping me, the darkness. It fills my room, turning the familiarity of my sanctum into a strange place, full of mysteries bathed in shadow. I draw the blankets up around me, hoping they will provide protection from whatever creatures lurk in the corners, behind the…things.

I focus my eyes on the light, the small, glowing night light in the corner or the room. I know it’s designed to reassure more than illuminate, but I open my eyes wide and will the weak rays I know it emits into my eyes. I imagine them spreading out and reflecting around the room. In my mind’s eye I see them war with the shadows, driving them back, warding off the creatures that lurk within. I imagine the hidden beasts shielding their eyes, turning away in pain as the light sears them. It burns, I imagine, and they slink off looking for easier prey. Perhaps tonight they’ll feed on my sister, for I know that she’s foolish enough to sleep in perfect darkness. I imagine that she’s easy picking for the things of the night.

I am safe, I am secure, and nothing can harm me now. Not while my light shines, not while I remain vigilant and will it to fill the room.

I feel my eyes become heavy, but I trust to the light, I trust it to keep me safe and watch over me while I sleep. I have used my eyes to expand its glow to fill the room, nothing can touch me now.

As I drift off to sleep, I am dimly aware of a feint scratching sound from the other side of the room.

The light goes out.