I’ve got nothing but bad news

Do you remember some time ago I complained, ranted, raved about the Electricity and all things Technological Gremlin? Well, the bastard has struck again.

My computer has been playing up for some time and yesterday I packed him up and took him off to the doctor. There’s a whole pile of them advertising in the FUSAC: no fix no deal, no fix no pay. Anyway, I was convinced that my computer had a wee worm or virus or whatever. The last time it was going nuts and I took it to the Server Guy he managed to temporarily make him better (which should have been a clue that perhaps the old Satellite’s problems were more serious). Anyway, then there was this post on Debi Alper’s sites about Trojans and so such so I sent for the Calvary and they seemed to whoop those spy wares and ad wares for a while, but the old thing has still been getting poorly. For so long in fact that it’s been a while since I’ve been able to watch DVD’s on it (not that I like watching DVD’s on the computer, but every now and again the thought of the odd episode of the West Wing while I’m in the bath), burn CD’s, download music, make a video; hah! Anyway, gradually my computer has become nothing more than a word processor and a pretty slow method of checking e mail and surfing more than one page at a time is a wee bit daring.

The Doc was a very quietly spoken calm Scot who just so happens to live up the road. He asked me lots of relevant questions and then threw in: “What time do you go to bed?” which didn’t seem relevant at all, except he then explained that he was a bit of a night owl and if he had any news he would ‘give me a tinkle’ before my bedtime. So, last night as I was struggling over a so called ‘medium’ sudoku (I’ve lost my sudoku mojo too) I heard the phone ring. I sprang out of bed (which is not so easy after the self flagellation of the ‘Bums and Tum’s class at the gym the other night) and heard that soft Scottish brogue again: “I’m afraid I’ve nothing but bad news.” I wasn’t sitting down at the time, but I managed to take it. In the light of day I’m beginning to want to slap the girl who didn’t back up ALL her WRITING, MUSIC, PHOTOS.

Also in the light of day I’m thinking: Right send the Satellite off for surgery and then transplant the insides into a new smashing fantabulous computer; one that isn’t 7.5 kg. The question is which one? I’m having a wee look at the Apple MacBook and Sony Vaio and they are both blooming expensive, but, but, but, the point is here we are all using computers, so some of us must know something about computers. If it can be done on a computer I will find a way of doing it, I love USING them. If it’s a problem, I’ll have a go until I am beaten and bloody. If it’s inside I’ll run screaming beaten to the hills, and basically that’s where I am, so please if anybody knows anything at all about computers: WHICH ONE SHOULD I GO FOR?

But lastly back to the Gremlin problem. I think it’s to do with bragging, every time I brag the exact opposite happens. I noticed this a while ago and I caught myself when I started saying: ‘Tomorrow my computer will be better…’ and then I got all excited and said it again, and again, and again. NO MORE BRAGGING, must stop.

A Wee Bit of Trumpet Blowing

Well, I finally did it, I finally entered one of these bloggy competitions, you can read me here. You can also read me here. To kick start the challenge here are my five hundred words.

She had nothing more than luck and good timing on her side the day she locked me away. But one day I would be free, I just hope that she didn’t kill herself before I could. On my timescale fifteen years was nothing, but she had achieved what lesser demons only dreamed of and that PISSED-ME-OFF. And believe me, I am not someone you want to piss off; not when you’ve let me into your deepest fears.

Her hold had been diminishing for some time now and one day my world shook and a crack appeared, just a slither of light seeped through into my prison, but it was enough for me to slip through and there she lay. In fifteen years the Crystal lady had eaten away at her nostrils and flesh leaving a skin covered sack of bones. No make up could cover up the fact that this mistress had tried to forget me; it almost made me smile.

When she woke up she turned the place upside down looking for the powder for her nose. I heard her crying and moaning, she knew it was somewhere and I knew exactly where it was and finally she saw me. “Fuck!” She exhaled. “You! It can’t...” She trembled and her red-rimmed eyes brimmed over and spilled salt.

“Now don’t tell me you didn’t realise this day would come.”

“I, I, I...” She staggered around the room until her eyes fell on the box in my hand. “Fuck!”

“It’s in here. What you’re looking for.” I opened the box and the sweet poppy smell filled the room.

She fell onto her bony knees, grappling at my legs. “I’m sorry, you scared me. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“When did you not know what you were doing? The day you sold me your soul or the day you locked me away?” Dribble oozed from the side of her mouth as her eyes begged forgiveness. “It’s in here Lara,” I waved the box in front of her again. “Take it.” I waved the box before her.

“What is it?” Her feral nose wrinkled at the end.

“What you desire.”

“You tricked me before.” She curled up onto her haunches. I raised an eyebrow. “Just tell me?” She begged.

“Are you scared to look?” I took her by the wrist. “You were scared that day weren’t you? The day you held on and couldn’t look.”

“I couldn’t look. All that water, all those bodies.” Her body quivered as I laid her on the bed.

“And I took that away for you didn’t I?” I stroked her feverish forehead and opened the box a crack.

“What is it? It’s so blue?” She craned forward.

“It’s the sea my darling.” I cooed as I pushed her in and kept her under.

In the end the coroner wrote ‘drug overdose’ on her death certificate. He couldn’t bring himself to write drowning on an official document when she lived two thousand metres above sea level.

Copyright, 2007, Verilion

The Challenge Grows

Ok so I'm finally getting round to posting the new challenge. The process of honing something down to fifty words meant getting all the back story in your head and then stripping it down to its essence - at least that's what I did - but there's still a story there in your head. Anne (aka Fanny Powers) and I then talked about expanding it, and then naturally people commented on which stories they liked best, so that's the challenge.

1. Click on the label FLASH FICTION below.
2. Choose ONE of the stories.
3. Expand the idea to 500 words. You don't have to include any of the original entry. In fact it would be quite fun guessing which one inspired you.

Looking forward to reading these. Guess I've really got to get started now. Oh and this challenge will finish 31st January at 12 midnight (my time - which I think is CET, but I can't be sure).

The Wrong Picture

The other day I saw a link on Minx's blog for a writing competition: 'Silent Grey' Short Fiction Competition. I'm quite into short short fiction at the mo, so I thought I'd have a go, but my computer was playing up pretty badly that day and I only got a wee smidgen of a look before I was distracted by other stuff and then the computer crashed and then I got started and then I got finished and then I looked at the site again and then I realised that what I thought I had seen was not actually what I had seen. But seeing as I've written it anyway...

The last time I saw him if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself maybe I would have noticed that for a bloke of his size he wasn’t supposed to be that size.

“Do you remember that nutty woman who used to stalk you in the cemetery?

I laughed remembering how my pubescence had hidden her black cloak and wild hair, I had seen breasts, a pretty face and my imagination ran wild until the day I had mistakenly tried to engage her in conversation and found myself momentarily locked into her insanity by her wild eyes. “Where is he? They put him here.” She scared the shit out of me and until today I hadn’t set foot in this cemetery again.

“Adam fancied the local crackpot, looking for her dead husband’s grave.” Christy burst into a lung spilling cough that he called laughter. “She said he’d died of influenza.” Christy’s red face could barely spit out the last words. “In 1875!” I should have noticed the way Caroline was looking at him.

Through grey drizzle I found a splash of floral colour, it had to be him: the grave was fresh and no headstone marked his spot. Plastic covered cards bid Christy Whelan farewell and I sank to my knees to do the same. “Sorry I was late,” I mumbled.

Behind me a voice I remembered sang out: “Christy Whelan. He died of influenza.”

Turning to see her face I said: “I thought you were her.”

Copyright, 2007, Verilion

New Year’s Resolutions

I made some this year. Last year I grouched and grumbled about how much I hated the New Year and that resolutions were crap and that you broke them anyway and you may as well make them any time during the year; like March for instance. But the truth of the matter is that I, not New Years was in a pretty bad place last year*. This year I made them and I’m probably going to break them, but hey ho...

The Ancient Babylonians celebrated New Year over 4000 years ago (probably not by getting pissed and slurry humming to the tune of Auld Lang Syne). They began the year by resolving to return things they had borrowed... Mmm that means I need to find that Ska CD I borrowed off Jane ages ago and I still haven’t read Claire’s books and maybe I should return her screwdrivers...

The Romans seeked forgiveness from enemies ... Well I don’t have any enemies as such, just people who I have little or no respect for and I think tootling up and saying: “Excuse me, could you forgive me for having no respect for you,” might cause more problems.

The Chinese clean their houses, maybe that’s why Mum always spent New Year’s Eve in a frenzy with Mr. Sheen. Anyway, I can put a big fat CHECK by that one. I didn’t start until six last night, but I did finally dust, hoover, change sheets, scrub and just generally tidy up the wee abode. Now I’ve just got to keep it up. I did also consider getting a cleaner, but then I realised the benefit of starting in the evening is that all the cleaning was accompanied by large glasses of vino.

Nowadays health related resolutions are numero uno on the list. Now I do have a gym related one on my list and I was reading some article in the Guardian (during the HOURS I had sitting at the airport) about how the gym membership is the biggest waste of money ever. On this occasion I do actually think that joining in January is nuts, I joined last April and first of all I went three times a week, then I didn’t go for two months because I was on holiday and moving and since September I have gone once a week. Not bad I think, although my new year’s resolution is to go TWICE a week. Realistic I think, although when Lise called last night I told her that resolution was starting on Saturday (well I had the cleaning to do first).

My last two resolutions are the difficult ones. It’s easy to write everyday when I am on holiday, but then work kicks in and it becomes so easy to come home and veg out in front of the telly watching rubbish. Anyway, even if it’s fifty words a day I’ve got to do it.

The last one... mmm, well I’ll let you guess, it’s a pretty obvious one.

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* Having said that I really do dislike New Year’s Eve; that pressure to go out and enjoy yourself when actually the most enjoyable New Years have been quiet ones indoors with friends; although having said that, I also enjoyed strutting my stuff like a teenager at ‘The Tower’ in Carlow this year because the band were pretty good (actually they were very good) and it was different.

The Year Ahead

I’ve decided I hate flying, I hate airports and terrorists have won the war on terror. My poor little red suitcase has returned with a few more war wounds, my shampoo gave up the ghost and exploded and I sat in a catatonic state in Heathrow airport for too long yesterday.

BMI have somehow made the whole process of checking in painless by getting rid of people and having an avatar on a computer screen. From there on in it all goes horribly wrong. I merrily tootled off to departures and then started following the queue back from departures that zigged this way and zagged that way and zigged... look it was just blooming long OK. So after an hour in that queue with people frantically trying to squish all their liquids into this tiny little freezer bag and me staring at my little tub of Vaseline and wondering how can anyone get that much make up on one face anyway we then get to the x-ray machine. Oh bliss – take your belt off, your coat, your shoes – would it not just be easier to turn up naked?

And then it all got peaceful again. I bought three different types of cheddar; I got a cup of tea and a flapjack. I stared through the mist at the grey green hills of the environs of Dublin, I wished the planes would get out of the way, which to be honest they did and I squinted over at the departure screen. After much squinting I realised that yes, that was my plane delayed until 11.45, but some slow counting in multiples of ten on my fingers and I figured out it was OK, just. Sitting on the plane having lost my window seat to a mere infant who would otherwise have been separated from her family and being told we couldn’t take off until 12.30 I then realised that all hope of being at home by 5 pm was lost.

On landing at Heathrow I followed all the signs at break neck speed and it was like popping back through the wardrobe after being in Narnia. Hey this is where I was last Friday, there’s the hideous smoking room, there’s the check in, there’s the man who showed me how to check in, there’s ... Shit I’m going to have to take my boots off again. And then I tried to accept I wasn’t going to be home by 5 pm, but I still must have looked very very sad when I went to the ticket man at BMI because he gave me a WINDOW seat in one of those big seats up near the captain!

And finally we landed at Terminal 1 of CDG. On home ground at last, yeah! Terminal 1 is like the set of a bad 60’s sci-fi movie with it’s white pebble dash walls and rounded pod holes everywhere and the travelators that go down and up and down and up and then the criss crossy escalators that are actually outside the circular terminal, but inside the circle and finally, finally the moment I’ve been waiting for: THE TAXI RANK. I could almost hear the hosts of angels singing ‘Alleluia!’ Due to the one wayness of my road being the wrong one way from the airport I was still happy to be getting out at the corner of my street and sprinting up the last bit, following the bin man in, lugging the case up the last few steps, keys in the door and then yes, yes, yes, yes ... MY SOFA, with sleeping bag already curled up on it. It’s good to be home.

Yeah I left the Paramount hotel in Dublin at 9 am yesterday and got home at 7.30 p.m. That’s 2 hours shy of a London to Singapore or to Mauritius flight. I’ve travelled from one end of Mexico to the other on buses that took less time than that. I’ve been in a Polo whose top speed was about 75k per hour (top max) and it still didn’t feel like I was going nowhere because oh yeah, I did spend the majority of yesterday going NOWHERE.

So what I was going to write and say was: HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all. It’s going to be a good year. I can feel it, it may be a year where I should just stay at home, but it’s going to be a good year.

PS Thanks to Susan and Minx for your special messages.