Monday, 28 February 2011

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Friday, 25 February 2011

Forty Eight

"It doesn't matter if it's good or bad. It only matters that you carry on doing it."

"That's not what mum says. Mum says give up and go home."

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Monday, 21 February 2011

Forty Six: I should do another drawing soon

I'm pulling the chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and mulling over our plans for world domination. They're good; precise. The bank heist was pulled off without a hitch (they haven't even realised it's happened yet). The nukes are in the back room. The laser guided missile system is in the process of being set up. Everything's going swimmingly.

But I'm going to have to leave. I'm going to have to depart before we can pull off our grand scheme together. I can't be your sidekick, your compadre, any more.

Because that time you patted me on the head, when I baked the celebratory Victoria sponge after we stole the piranhas from the aquarium and said, "You'll make someone a good wife some day."

I can't forget that.

Sunday, 20 February 2011

Forty Five

I don’t intend
To spend the next three years
Subdued by doses of,
“I’m not good enough/
Wait ‘til the time is right,”
That keep me
Up at night

And I’m going to admit it:
That I’m
Floating waywardly against
Or with a current.
I’m not currently sure
Of my direction

And this was fine
At least
For a little while
While I whiled away
The time spent locked deep
Inside myself
In the darkest realms I’ve ever delved to

(Excluding the bottom of the biscuit tin)

But now this has rolled over and off of me
Harmlessly (at least mostly) and
I find myself stranded
Without an OS map to guide me
And my insides turn like spinning coins
With the anxiety of it all:

The fear after the fall and not before
And what now to do?
Because I’ve sat and stewed here long enough:
Thoroughly tenderised and absolutely petrified

At least I can move
At least I have the privilege
To spend an age on Facebook
And wail about getting nothing done.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

Forty Four

I'm on the bus, and the night sings

    I have that
Swinging from the rafters feeling
Reeling like I'm not here at all and
I've not even imbibed any alcohol,

    But the world just swirls

And the girls and boys at the back of the bus
Sing a sweeping pop punk chorus,
Revelling in post gig gloriousness
And plans of scoffing late night kebabs.

    All this washes over me

in an icy sea of neon lights and
The right side of my brain flares up again;
Then the left,
As though it cannot stomach silence,
Now, no longer bereft of thought
It proceeds to reel off potential suitors
Then list the reasons they are unsuitable
And scoff.

    And me? I'm in bliss:
Couldn't care less about romantic conquests,
Or lack of them, bathed in inky depths
Of an evening well spent

And besides I'm still busy searching
Lurking uncomfortably in my spirit,
Looking for some kind of purpose
For me to live my life by.

    But maybe

    there's no more than this:
Just buses, night and giddy kids
At the back if the bus
Having conversations at a rate that suggests
they think they might expire soon
So better cram it all in now
Before the doom, destruction, you know, that end thing

And the night sings.

Friday, 18 February 2011

Forty Three (the expanding list/story)

Things What I Have Learnt:

1) Live uninsulated. That means without that stuff in the roof, or jumpers. And you got to take that bubble wrap off your mum makes you wear.

2) Keep a diary. At least this way there's some kind of way to keep track of all the bodies

3) Put milk in first, not like what the Queen does.

4) Always always wipe mud off your shoes. My mum proper hates this and once she proper bit me ear off (I mean actually really did)

5) Two ears are better than one so don't let your mum bite one off

Thursday, 17 February 2011

Forty Two

Grind the salt and pepper shaker,
Kernels, crystals meet your maker:
That twisting, turning metal dancer,
Whose crushing makes a meal enhancer,
Now darling will you pass the mustard?

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Forty One

Reiner, leader of the guard, drifted in the early evening sun. Aimless, distracted. He imagined vividly that he was a tropical bird, floating magnificently on the current of the wind, tilting and shifting with its flow.

He stopped, caught himself and wondered how on earth such a prolific daydreamer had got to this position.

Tuesday, 15 February 2011

Monday, 14 February 2011

Thirty Nine

The clock at the big house at the side of the road was used to having his daily packet of Skips, brought to him by the kind elderly groundskeeper. The house was now empty of any human inhabitants (thankfully for the clock, it was also a grade two listed building) and only the groundskeeper visited to tend the gardens.

And distribute the crisps.

"Yum yum," said the clock every day as he chomped down on a veritable cornucopia of prawny loveliness.

But one day, the elderly groundskeeper passed away. And for months if not years the garden grew around the clock like green flames, entangling every crevice of the building. He was dishevelled and devoid of Skips.

Until one day, a gang of adventurous boys scaled the ruinous heights of the old house to the clock and stared, dumbfounded into his face.

"I'm proper hungry," said the clock.

The boys rummaged tentatively in their pockets,

"Here," said one of them, "Do you fancy some Monster Munch?"

"Oh yes!" said the clock, "What flavour is it?"

"Pickled onion."

Sunday, 13 February 2011

Thirty Eight

"Batten down the hatches!"
"What man? What are you talking about? We don't have any hatches. I'm pretty sure we don't have any batten, whatever that is either."
"In that case, battenburg the windows!"

Sunday, 6 February 2011

Interlude two

I'm off on a drawing excursion to Rome (how lovely for me!) The stories will start again on Saturday when I have finished eating extensive amounts of gelato.

Have a lovely week!

Bethan x

Thirty Seven

Saturday, 5 February 2011

Thirty Six: True Story

When I took the connecting train from Ely to Cambridge today, something must have possessed me.

That is the answer. Either some evil spirit flew into my head, some wizard cast an ancient spell or, to be more fanciful, I once again became a victim to irrational thought and fidgetiness.

Because as I boarded the train, I panicked. The lady speaker on the platform said something about Norwich. Norwich? Was I on the wrong train? Oh god. I didn't have a ticket. Oh god. No, I told myself, it's okay. You get off at the next stop and head back in the Cambridge direction.

So I waited. And in that waiting time, I deduced some things. The man in front of me was reading a guide book about London theatres. Funny reading materials on a train to Norwich that. I thought about the train I had caught to Ely (one intended for Norwich) and the direction it came it. And it dawned.

I was on the right train.

So what happened next, what exactly flicked the manual override switch in my brain I'm not sure of. I just know I gathered my things, got up and got off at the next stop.

And spent an hour stranded in Waterbeach.

The stop before Cambridge.

Friday, 4 February 2011

Thirty Five

I’m metamorphosing. Metamorphosising. Transforming, with the WHO-CH-CH-CH noise like they make in the cartoons. You know the one. I’m not harder, better or stronger but I’m certainly hairier, leggier and more deadly. Damn. This was never in my New Year’s resolution list. This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted a, “life changing evening.” And the bass is thump thumping so hard that I can feel my eyeballs vibrate in their sockets. And the floor’s lit up and everybody’s jumping mindlessly; sweaty bodies moving oddly on a dance floor.

I’m just still, looking at my hand. Looking at my hand and the third arm that’s appeared, with eyesight that’s like staring through diamonds.

Thursday, 3 February 2011

Thirty Four: For Mharaid

Thirty Three

"God cursed me," he said, across the table, lamenting another lost possession, head in hands. "He cursed me with a bad memory and a wandering mind. He cursed me with poor eyesight and glasses. So that's like, great, thanks, that's another thing I can lose. Awesome."

I looked down, into my juice box.

 "Look on the bright side. At least you'll never lose your perfect eyesight."

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Thirty Two

When Nialvefel had finished his work and crafted the stars, the sun and all things that give light, he set about on his next task. The one that no one told him to do. He set about crafting a tiny creature just for himself.
And the other Gods, though they laughed and scoffed at his efforts (how he meticulously shaped its ears and curved its tail to an exact angle). Well, he could see how jealous they were, when he sat it upon his lap and stroked its silken, furry head.