The Almost Fish

The almost fish wasn't quite a fish. Over the years he had long discovered he wasn't quite anything in particular. It was a most frustrating thing to always be almost, never achieving what he set out to, but making a decent effort nonetheless. Some stood by and whispered that the almost fish must be a lie,

'If he is an almost fish, why wasn't he almost born?'

Yet he lives amongst the world... almost. Where his time is spent is a mystery, the life of one who studies the almost fish is often incomplete. His research never complete, the mystery of the almost fish becomes inherant in those in its presence, and yet they are fascinating creatures, almost - in fact - the most fascinating of all creature.

His diet is varied, but never fully satisfying, his social life existent but with a touch of longing. In time the almost fish learns a trick of two, he aims higher than he needs to and finds his goals in life completed. Logic, as it has, is always game for semantics.

In years to come he will be found hanging between lifetimes and despite the sadness in his eyes of the endless wait that he faces, the tales he tells of his adventures are enough to make you feel, if only for a split second, a pang of jealously.

Almost.

The Nightmare of Children

The dust was not what tore at his fingernails. That was something else entirely, but the dust did swell up in his eyes, coating his lungs as the foul breath swam his vision in the ocean, drowning to consciousness and the murmuring of the distant traffic.

As the buzzing stopped and the stench faded he dared open his eyes, just a fraction, hoping to God he didn’t see his arm, the shock was covering the pain so far but he felt brittle, like snapping was oh so easy to do. Still chocking on the dust of the cellar he squinted into the darkness. Ahead was a clear path to the door, those stairs rising to infinity, his body ached and groaned at the memory. Suddenly a growl and he snapped. The pain cascaded down and the fear overwhelmed his senses. Fighting the darkness he rose again.

This time to face his padded foe with a smirk, not a scream.

________________________________________________

And that little Timmy is why we do not release Lions into suburban neighbourhoods? Ok? You feel you have learnt your lesson today? And tomorrow you’re going to apologise to that poor man’s family? Ok?

Good lad, now of to bed before your mother gets home. Chop chop.

- Mr Winston

Expand your Mind

Sometimes it takes a crazy person with 3 cross headed screwdrivers and a lust for blood only quelled by excessive amounts of Sesame Street to make you question your recent life decisions. Namely those that involve posting adverts on dating websites for homicidal children’s TV fanatics with a penchant for DIY.

But I digress.

The reason I found myself with yet more puncture wounds and that dang ABCs song in my head for a full week is that I was trying to expand my mind. Y’know that thing that sits in your head (if you’re lucky) and that, unbeknownst to you, keeps your body ticking, your lungs breathing, eyes blinking and occasionally your feet tapping. Well a few weeks ago I woke up and realised I had that January rot, you know the feeling that unless my mind started being more active, seeing new things, doing new things it would solidify into a permanent state, such that any future attempts to reshape or mould it would simply crack it’s fragile shell causing it to leak, egg-like, through the crevices of my behaviour. Metaphorically, of course, or at least I damn well hope so.

Well I was not going to site for that, cue my attempts at conversation with fellow housemates that extended beyond grunts and the throwing of saucepans, something that I consider a minor success; for example did you know Toby is not a natural blonde? It does have its downsides though as Toledo insisted on showing the entire Pimp my Ride UK series one. Needless to say my eyes will never be the same.

But so far so good I thought, my mind has been expanded, admittedly to areas of hate I usually reserve only for talkshow hosts and reality TV but it was a start. It was thus that I found myself in the lonely hearts section seeking a connection. Now before you worry too much dear reader may I just say that the ad I posted (homicidal, kids TV, DIY) was simply a joke to see if such a person existed. I think the fact that my left arm looks like a piece of Swiss cheese would serve as my answer, and a warning for the future.

But I am not deterred. Next week I have signed up to a self defence class and in my spare time I will be trying to learn how to the play the flute (now you see the need for self-defence classes.) So I urge you too to try something new, give your mind something new to worry about and constantly analyse. As someone once said this life is for living, not painting giant swear worlds on the side of our neighbours’ houses. Well maybe that was only to me but the message is universal, if we stay still even the world moves past us and nobody likes playing catch up.

Now who knows anything about skidoo racing?

The final Chapter.... continued

As you may well remember, or not depending on your daily alcohol intake level, a few weeks ago I submitted my (frankly wonderful) book to the publishers, confident it would result in worldwide success; record braking sales and minimal, but effective, use as a doorstop in living rooms throughout the globe.

Well, such things are easy to see through the rose-tinted glasses of happiness and self-confidence and I am sorry to present to you today the letter I received today in reply. But fear not for me dear readers, adversity is the first step to success, world domination and fame, or so I'm told and so for this reason I am proud to bring you this news.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go cry for another 22 hours straight....

__________________________________________

Dear Mr Greenway,

I would say thank you for your submission of your manuscript entitled ‘Bite off a piece of my happiness: There’s enough to go around’ but that would imply that I gained something other than an overwhelming sense of the futility of the world from reading your piece, which I’m sorry to say is simply not true.

While we here at MD Books admire any author willing to test the waters of publication and delve into the competitive and challenging world of writing, I think that it is safe to say that on your case we make an exception. How something as incompetently written, so blatantly derivative and misguided and so completely enamoured with its authors own delusions could make its way as far as the page beggars belief, but the fact that I had to sit through all 386 pages of it out of morbid curiosity and a sense of self-masochism, is the icing on this particularly unhealthy cake.

You call yourself a self-help guru and, arguably, believe in the methods you so regularly regurgitate onto the page, well my advice to you Mr Greenway is to help us all by throwing your limp and useless self from the nearest tall building or cliff and then allow anyone who has had the misfortune of coming into contact with you or your ideas have the pleasure of stamping on your corpse until they feel a sense of justice has been finally restored.

If and when you take this advice please do inform me and I in particular would not want to miss it.

Yours sincerely,

- Margaret Beckett

The month of Sundays

When the month of Sundays comes there is little you can do about it. Some try to hide under the stairs and hope it will just go away, like unwanted relatives at Christmas. Others carry on their normal lives, thinking (wrongly) that if you don't believe it is happening, then it isn't. But then there are those, world-worn and weary who know of the Month, and who face it head on, gritting their teeth and preparing for the worst.

For there is no shopping past 5pm in 'the month'. The railways are constantly under maintenance and you can never call out a plumber. The sound of church bells toll incessantly and Points of View endures endless repeats on television, with later episodes featuring commentators on the earlier ones. The world becomes tangle of overlapping ideals and repeating themes until all you can see, hear and think about is Sundays. Millions fail to pay rent, as they cannot work. But as it is Sunday no cheques can be cashed by eager landlords who are left with unbalanced books and ever mounting wads of promises and frustration. The world falls into limbo, suspended between activities, ever-waiting for life to begin again.

And yet there are those times when the birds sing, the sound of traffic vanishes from the landscape and you roll out of bed at 12 to a breezy walk alongside what remains of the countryside, that make you yearn for the month never to end. And just as the calm decends upon your soul and you crack a smile to your neighbours for the first time, it ends and everything you gained is lost to the shuffle of paper and raucous laughter of television audiences.

And so then you wait with one eye on the clock, for that bittersweet time to come once again, and throw this chaotic world out of synch just one more time.

Of dreams and Stonewall Thomas

When she fell into her dreams, she couldn't believe how vivid it all felt. The colours intoxicated her every molecule, she laughed and her laughter gave way to something beyond joy and human expression.

_______

Stonewall Thomas lived atop of the 93rd St. Building. Standing 60 stories high and with views to make migrating birds jealous. It stood head and shoulders above it's competitors in the neighbourhood. Every time a new officeblock went up, it grew in height and nobody could understand it, lest of all Stonewall himself. Charged with maintaining the building Stonewall was a steadfast fellow. He would spent hours just staring down at the streets below, sometimes through a small telescopic sight laughing madly and demanding duels with the various commuters that would walk down below.

Whenever a new office building would finish construction in the area eclipsing the height of the 93rd building, Stonewall would go to bed, muttering and close to tears, fearing the end of his reign amongst the citys skyline. But each time when he awoke the next morn, from his small room on the top floor, he found bright sunshine cascading against his stubbled chin. Unbelieving he would stagger to the roof to once again find the building standing taller than ever, looking mockingly down on the surrounding metropolis.

Nobody could explain the phonomenon, but none would argue with Stonewall and he would always claim,

'Tis the buildings way and we should not question it'

And he would say no more, and smite those who questioned him further, until the day Bridget arrived. Quiet and unassuming she could silence him with a look, her big brown eyes ever curious and welcoming. Together they existed in silence and unsaid looks. They would stand together at night and look down on creation and all would be at peace.

_______

Stonewall was awoken at night by the charges. The earth cracked and dreams shattered and all around him fell into darkness and dust. Agonized and heartbroken he felt himself falling to earth when he caught a glimpse of Bridget silent and unassuming in the fractured doorway.

'Come with me'

She whispered straight to his heart. With a broken smile he gently shook his head as the room came down around them in noise and fury,

'You know why I can't....'

________


Bridget was never found in the rubble. Her wide eyes had long since passed to different dreams and worlds unlived.

It returns again

So the annual 12 Crumble Ave holidays are over, and I for one am glad to lock away the pickaxes, bayonettes and egg cups for another year.

This time we came back witha record number of limbs (four more than we left with...) and only spent 35% of our time reclining within police-entrusted property.

Sorry this post is brief but I really feel I should mop up the mess streaming from Mr Winston's case before it gets all over the house, as we learned in Europe, that stuff does not wash off.

Until next time, I hope you are all well

- Toby

P.S If anybody knows where I can store the 3,500 teapots that greeted me at our front door this morning I would be forever grateful.

Singing Teapots Unite!

The teapot sings but once a year and you never can tell when it might be. Many have studied the phonomenon but very few facts are known about this most rare of occurances. All people know is that teapots, when left unattended at least once in every 365 day cycle sing the most beautiful tune. Since this has become public knowledge many have tried to sit with a teapot for an entire year, swapping shifts in order to witness the event, but the teapots are wary and will always sing at the exact moment both people are either asleep or not paying attention.

In fact hearing a teapot sing is so rare that nobody has actually heard or seen it, but as nobody can ever say with absolute certainty they have watched a teapot for a year without any distractions or breaks, it must be a fact that teapots sing as we cannot prove otherwise.

Why they only sing once a year is unknown as well, the timings are seemingly random but maybe, if we lined up all the teapots in the world they would unite together in a continous song that would last all year and soothe our aching souls with it's tender lyricism.

I have begun then the daunting, but vital, task of collecting all the teapots in the world for such an event, I currently have three and am just off to raid my nearest Debenhams store so if you would like to be a part of this social and scientific experiment dear readers do send your teapots and any others that you find to 12 Crumble Avenue and help make teapot singing history!

- Toby

The Agoraphobic Astronaut

The agoraphobic astronaut wasn’t any fun,
He stayed inside the capsule,
Without a word to anyone,

The agoraphobic astronaut kept looking at the floor,
Diverted his eyes away,
From the view outside the door,

All of space surrounded, in wonder they did stare,
Not the agoraphobic astronaut,
For outside, he could not bare.

He spent his time in space, wishing he was home,
He missed out on the space walk,
Into God’s celestial home.

Those left on Earth were angry, they couldn’t understand
It’s unfair! They would cry
And protests, they were planned.

But in the end he made it, landing back to Earth,
Where everyone ignored him,
With their sounds of endless mirth.

He went back home that night, locked in the house he bought,
That was the last anyone saw,
Of the agoraphobic astronaut.



*This poem is dedicated to Neil Armstrong. He knows why.

The perfect cup of tea

'That is the worst cup of tea I have ever tasted!'

My boss will yell this daily, often accompanying this sentement by vomiting on the floor or throwing the cup at my face.

I just don't get it.

Day after day I try new ideas, he likes milk but no sugar so I've tried a slither of milk - vomit.
OK then loads of milk - that one gave me a six inch gash on my cheek.

I've tried semi-skimmed milk, full-fat milk, goats milk, baby's milk (don't ask), condensed milk (not a smart choice but I was desperate...)

Nothing works.

It's bad enough being demeaned to the level where you are literally the office tea boy but I am determined not to let this beat me. Apparently he is the reason eight other tea-boys have left in the past year. Four of them never made tea again.

Well not me.

The others in the office love my tea, they smile and offer me sweet sentiments, but none believe I can make one the boss won't hate. I see them glancing at the frosted glass of his office, his ominous shadow reflected strongly as I walk towards, the tea tray shaking in my hands. Their collectively bated breath fills the room with silence, and the inevitable retching or crashing accompanies their exhaling.

It is a demoralising situation folks, but for now I will not quit, I will struggle on until, one day when the vein in my head throbs so hard I burst a blood vessel, I waltz in their with a mug full of acid and throw in in my boss's smug, tea-hating face.

The sirens will inform you when that day comes, for my own sake as well as yours I hope it is not soon.

Crash. Vomit. Stitches.

... another day counts down.

- Toledo