light verse and much, much worse
Our neighbour favours push-up bras
To emphasize her cleavage
Although defying Newton’s Laws
Necessitates some heavage.
When on display, the locals say:
How fortunate she’s got ’em!
But sex appeal ain’t always real
‘Cause I know where she bought ’em.
Sue sits at her laptop
Pinging emails to herself
Andy’s new ZOOM backdrop
Is a virtual bookshelf
Pete’s touched base with Linked-In
To float this week’s ideation
Debbie’s power-thinking
More proactive penetration.
Management consultants
Hoped that Covid would pay out
Not to be insultant
But such optics are in doubt.
Companies aren’t calling
They’re too strapped to hear advice
How a day’s paint-balling
Might increase their market slice
Or to learn new jargon
To appear that more astute
Not an easy bargain
While you sport a sumo suit.
As employees now head back
(the lucky and the few)
Some consultants need to ask:
What is it that I do?
“It’s a dream catcher. It catches all your nightmares in its web. Then when morning comes, the sunlight destroys them and they disappear forever.”
Daniel Woodman thought a few hands would be raised at this but his students sat motionless, scared even to breathe in case any sudden movement would cause the eye of the dream catcher to fix upon them, thus marking its next nightmare victim. The Third Grade teacher knew that eight year olds were experts when it came to nightmares.
Shit. I’ve scared them. Okay class, time now for a damage limitation exercise. Let’s all say the Our Father and that will protect us from the bad Indian relic. One conjuring trick for another…
After an awkward silence, a tentative hand finally went up in the front row. The brave soul was Lucy Briggs. Small for her age, Lucy was bright, pretty and not afraid to stand up to the boys.
“Mr Woodman, could it catch a good dream by mistake? Like, say a good dream and a bad dream floated up from your bed at the same time and instead of the good dream passing through the hole in the middle and falling down the feathers and returning to me, it was grabbed by the bad ones after it got tangled up in the web and they killed it. I mean, could the bad dreams kill a good one if there was more of them or would the dream catcher know which was which and free the good dream?”
Daniel was pleased with the depth of the question and knew that Lucy spoke on behalf of her classmates, some of whom remained catatonic. He held the dream catcher higher for everyone to see.
“Native Canadians believe the dream catcher to be a good thing, so it only does good. It would never catch a good dream because it returns them back to us and they become part of our waking lives.”
“What would we do with a dream after we woke up?” Lucy again.
“Dreams become ideas, don’t they? Whether we dream at night or daydream during class, they’re all ideas of one sort or another. Look at the people who dreamed up cars, rocket ships and the internet. They dreamed about them, woke up, wrote it all down and then made it happen.”
“Mr Woodman,” Lucy’s cogs were still turning, “some people dream dreams that come true after, but they don’t invent things, like the psychics on Mindhunter. They’re good too. They help the police catch serial killers and find the bodies after.”
Who the hell is controlling the TV in her house?
“I’m now going to pass it around so you can all see it up close,” Daniel dodged that bullet.
He walked over to Lucy’s desk and held the dream catcher out to her. She cupped both hands as if receiving something fragile like a bird, while keeping it at a healthy distance in case it suddenly turned on her. Deciding it was safe, she let out an audible sigh of relief and started examining it forensically. The young girl plucked at the strings with her nail and caressed each feather thoughtfully, before frowning disapprovingly at Daniel who’d forgotten she had parakeet. She then held it up close, peering into every corner of the webbing as if expecting to find something.
She’s looking for residue from a nightmare left behind. Brave kid.
“Is this yours, Mr Woodman?” she enquired, her lips pursed with concern.
“Yes, it is,” Daniel replied. “I brought it from home.”
“Well, it’s a clean one!” she declared triumphantly. “Clean as a whistle.”
Daniel laughed at her seal of approval as he watched his students pass it along the rows. He’d always considered the dream catcher an attractive piece of native handicraft and was especially pleased with the specimen he’d brought in that day. The ring of hard leather contained a spider web design within its interior, with a small hole containing a polished stone at its centre, while the outer circumference was decorated with colourful beading and feathers, the longest of which hung down from the bottom. His grandparents had made him a new one every year for his birthday and he obediently hung them from his bedroom window.
I wonder what they do with the old ones they take away.
Trying not to laugh, he watched his students pass it among themselves almost reverently, whispering the necessary handling instructions. To them it was pure magic and he knew the power of imagination when it came to that subject. While they were now too old for Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, a little Indian hocus pocus had them hook, line and sinker. That afternoon an otherwise dull lesson on the fur trade had come to life, thanks to his grandparents. He was quietly proud of his heritage and the respect it now commanded among his students.
What would the penguins do if they knew a shaman was conducting a History lesson next door? They’d put the wagons in a circle and start shooting, that’s what they’d do, he smiled to himself.
His students knew of Daniel’s heritage and he enjoyed their curiosity in him because of this fact. To them, having a ‘real Indian’ for a History teacher elevated him to a level of infallibility as far as they were concerned. Early on in his career, he quickly realised he was regarded as the final authority on Canadian History by both students and colleagues, although he felt this greatly undeserved.
But for now, none of this mattered because it was the last class of the day and with only ten minutes until the final bell, Daniel was content to end the lesson with the dream catcher. His students were also watching the clock and knew the merits of passing the relic as slowly as possible; the rules of the game required the final student to examine every aspect of it in minute detail, following up with a prepared question in order to run down the clock.
Luckily, their teacher’s thoughts were elsewhere. Leaning back in his chair, Daniel clasped his hands behind his head and stared at nothing in particular on the ceiling. It was Friday afternoon and with less than two weeks until summer vacation his thoughts gelled into a warm soup of Indians, report cards, barbecues and friends. Leaning back still further, he let out a great yawn and slowly closed his eyes. Daniel Woodman began to relax completely.
And he began to dream.
Father Marc assumed his usual seat in the front pew of St Jude Church and unfastened his collar. Each evening after mass the old Jesuit liked to collect his thoughts for several minutes before extinguishing the candles and clearing the altar. St Jude’s had a cheery interior by day but dusk had draped a grey cowl over the building which he didn’t like, entombing everyone and everything inside. Now peering into the shadowy recesses around him, he decided he’d turn on more lights for evening mass, even in summer.
In a grotto to the left of the altar stood a life-sized statue of The Virgin Mary, illuminated by several rows of red offertory candles. Earlier in the day an elderly parishioner had brought in a dozen crimson roses from her garden and asked if she might lay them at the statue’s feet. In the flickering candlelight the carefully arranged blossoms created a dramatic effect against the white linen which he now believed merited closer inspection. Genuflecting before the altar, he followed the semi-circular marble railing which led to the grotto.
Father Marc gingerly lowered himself onto the wooden prayer kneeler before The Virgin. He could remain thus only briefly before his knees locked and he leaned forward to transfer some of his weight onto the book rest. The solitary figure studied the statue’s expression and thought she seemed more melancholy than he remembered, while The Virgin’s gaze never wavered from the front entrance to the church. Reaching over the rows of offertory candles, Father Marc selected one of the roses to enjoy its scent but discovered it had none. Disappointed, he replaced it and began counting the number of offertory candles lit that day by the hopeful.
Nineteen… no, twenty. Will there be $20 in the donations box, I wonder? I doubt it.
A deep, sinister chuckle rose from within the shadows behind him. Father Marc tensed and the hair stood up on his arms; he was not alone. For a moment, he considered the possibility he’d locked in a straggler after mass, but dismissed the notion just as quickly. Every instinct told him this was not a believer. The laugh was not human.
“Let me blow those out for you, Father,” came the low, menacing snarl. “You know me… I prefer to work in the dark.”
This time the guttural growl came from much closer yet he’d heard no footsteps. His blood froze and his knees were now on fire as he tried to stand without success. Bracing his arms against the wooden book rest, he looked to The Virgin for guidance but her gaze was fixed upon what was now approaching.
Help me, Blessed Virgin. What has come into my church?
“She can’t hear you, you fool!” the voice snapped angrily, “but I’m listening to your every thought.” It then softened in tone but couldn’t conceal an underlying rage. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve journeyed a long way to find you.”
In one final effort, Father Marc managed to get to his feet and turned to face the intruder. The church appeared empty but he knew this was not the case; every nerve in his body screamed he was in mortal danger. Whatever was hiding was playing a game. Waiting. Watching.
“I need to make a confession,” the voice whined mockingly. “I’m about to revert to my old ways and you wouldn’t want that, now would you? Won’t you come in and join me? I really don’t want to have to come out there and get you,” it hissed.
At that moment the light above the confessional door lit up, giving the cleric a start. It was in there waiting for him. Father Marc took a tentative step towards the confessional then stopped. As a Jesuit, he’d been trained not to fear evil and although every instinct was now telling him to flee, this was no longer an option. Whatever had entered his church had no right being there and his sense of indignation grew, not only at this act of defilement but at its sheer audacity. As the priest’s anger grew, so did his resolve. His years of training now taking over, he advanced silently toward the confessional.
Blessed Mother, stay with your poor servant.
“It’s only you I want for now, Father,” the voice threatened. “I’ll deal with her later.”
Father Marc was no longer listening to the demon behind the door. Whispering the Act of Contrition, he was imagining what God looked like. He hoped his creator would be forgiving and reward him for what he was about to face in his name. The priest also wondered where God was at this very moment. Was he watching events here on Earth? Was this a test? Was the plan to intercede at the last moment and then reward the cleric for his faith? His mind now racing, he hadn’t noticed that the sun had now set, plunging the church into total darkness except for the candlelit grotto and the ominous light above the confessional door.
His knees no longer hurt and he’d regained control over his breathing. The only sound was the coins in his pocket which betrayed every step with a click. He tried to visualise the demon that lay in wait for him and how best to fight it, fully aware the odds did not favour an old man. Martyrdom seemed inevitable and the priest accepted his fate as many others had before him, while his mind continued to release thousands of memories, one of which was a prayer his grandfather had taught him:
Aronhiate, onne aonstaniouas taitenr
“You don’t know which gods to call upon, do you?” the fiend tormented him. “How pleased do you think they’ll be to learn you’ve been playing them off against each other all these years? If you’re afraid now, wait until they get hold of you…”
When Father Marc arrived at the confessional the light above the door went out. Maintaining his composure, he pulled a plastic lighter from his shirt pocket and flicked it. He listened for any type of sound coming from inside the confessional but the church was shrouded in silence as if every living thing was hiding and holding its breath. His left temple ached and his stomach was churning.
God have mercy on my soul.
He reached for the door handle but his right hand stopped short and hovered above it, shaking, while the small flame from his lighter continually rose and fell, threatening to abandon him at any moment. Scarcely breathing, he silently closed his grip on the door handle and was about to turn it when he had a revelation.
It’s behind me.
Before he could turn around Father Marc was set upon. The old cleric was seized from behind and hurled across the church, landing in a broken heap beside the grotto. Disoriented and bleeding badly, he was again raised off the ground and slammed face down into the prayer kneeler before The Virgin. He clung onto the book rest with the last of his strength, realising this was where his enemy wanted him. Daring to open his eyes, he tried to focus but all he could make out was a pool of blood at the feet of The Virgin where the roses had once been.
“We need to talk, old man,” rasped the voice, its breathing now heavy and laboured. “It’s coming and I know you feel it too.”
Father Marc couldn’t speak but he knew his thoughts were no longer his own. He also knew these were to be his last moments on Earth, a prospect which now filled him with joy for he was ready to meet his god.
You thought it was me, that’s why you came here.
“Yes, I now know you were only a diversion; a fatal mistake on your part.”
We all have roles to play and I’ve played mine.
“Not long now, Father. I’m getting closer each time.”
Time is against you. It has started and not even you can’t stop it.
“I can make one night last a thousand years, Father” the demon reminded the Jesuit, “or have you forgotten that?”
Raging that it had wasted time pursuing the wrong quarry, the fiend had nonetheless gleaned vital information in its race to find answers, but it didn’t like being mocked and Father Marc would pay dearly for his defiance. All promises of mercy were now forgotten as the demon snapped the priest’s head back, breaking his neck, before bearing down for the final, frenzied attack upon Mary’s poor servant.
My mother was a medical professional who worked long hours. When she came home in the evenings her day didn’t end there because she would then make supper, help us with our homework, do laundry, iron, wait up for my father to return home from work, etc. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised just how tired and rushed she must have felt every time she walked through our front door.
One evening in particular when my twin brother and I were still quite young, my mother put us to bed and then changed out of her hospital whites into a pair of navy blue slacks and an old, floppy blouse. She next washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel before heading back downstairs to see to our older siblings and a waiting pile of dirty dishes. Paul and I, however, had no plans to go to sleep as we whooped and hollered while swinging from our bunk beds like a pair of baby chimps. My mother, up to her elbows in suds, issued a few verbal warnings from the kitchen but we took no notice.
This proved a fatal error on our part.
Tired, hungry and now angry, Mum had had enough. Storming upstairs she banged open the door to our bedroom and let us have it with both barrels, issuing threat after threat until the blood drained from our faces. Convinced the message had finally gotten through, she turned to leave and as she did she overheard a small voice tentatively ask, “Who was that?”
Unaware our mother had transformed herself from Florence Nightingale to Carmen Miranda since putting us to bed, my brother and I thought a mad woman had broken into our home and killed everyone before coming upstairs to wrap up any loose ends. Now realising the situation, Mum wasn’t struggling to contain her anger but her laughter. After a couple of deep breaths to stop the giggles she re-entered our bedroom, flicked on the light and removed the towel to reveal her true identity.
I still smile every time I picture her sitting on the bottom bunk, unravelling the sequence of events to two traumatised toddlers.
And I have to admire her for that.
Because I would have kept walking, then explained over breakfast that the mad intruder actually lived in our cellar and only came upstairs when wakened…
Half of ladybugs are dudes
Biologists agree
But just so things aren’t misconstrued:
What would their pronouns be?
The new teacher entered the classroom and took her seat, greeting no one. Perpetua Tightwaters was having a bad day but her deportment made it impossible for the students to tell because she held only one expression in her armoury: disapproval. A fierce-looking woman with grey-blue eyes which devoured their prey whole, she could scan an entire school assembly at a glance over horn-rimmed glasses designed to gore enemies at close range. Thick, silvery hair which still held its lustre was meticulously hoovered up into a tidy bun, giving her the air of a grande dame of the Bolshoi who had long since exited the stage, but not the company. A smooth complexion required only a light touch from a modest palate; it was only her mauve lipstick which strayed into the adventurous, considered redundant by many because her lips were permanently pursed until they parted to issue a summons, reprimand or decree.
Perpetua Tightwaters loved crosswords, hated skateboarders, still bought her meat from the local butcher, donated to the Red Cross by direct debit, considered pet ownership overrated, knew her brother-in-law had a drinking problem before he did and stopped listening to Engelbert Humperdinck the day the singer made a joke about the Queen Mother during a live interview on Radio 4.
Alert and self-assured, she made few demands of others and expected the same courtesy in return, preferring discretion at all costs. During her morning commute into the city, Perpetua remained vigilant lest she should drop her guard for even a moment and, in doing so, make eye contact with a fellow commuter just bursting to talk about his gifted toddler’s progress at Junior Montessori. She had nothing against the public, she simply regarded them much as she did junior royals: odd-jobbers whose pivotal role might one day involve organ donation. In an increasingly unrecognisable world where meat was murder, Drag Queen Storytime had replaced Show & Tell and a pope had wavered ever so slightly on the question of married clergy, Perpetua Tightwaters chose to anchor herself in work, God and country for everyone’s sake.
In her opinion, social distancing wasn’t overkill.
It was overdue.
Every evening after dinner my dogs, Gizmo and Spark, take me for a walk. On our way to the park the pair regularly drops in on our elderly neighbours who, in most cases, once had dogs of their own. One in particular, Old Ed, is especially fond of Gizmo who himself is knocking on 17 years. The two have a bond and Ed discusses everything with his loyal friend, from his time in the National Service to the state of the NHS.
During one visit in particular we had time to spare and happily sat down to watch Crime Watch UK, one of Ed’s favourite TV programmes. Ed is 89 years old but not without his faculties and he considers it his civic duty to keep watch over the neighbourhood.
“It’s the old dears we need to look out for,” he said. “They’re soft targets.”
“And who’s looking out for you?” I asked.
“Gizmo.”
That evening’s episode included a re-enactment of a homicide which had taken place in the shires. Like all re-enactments, the viewers were first introduced to the characters and setting to make its treatment of the crime less clinical and more personal. The victim in question was an elderly farmer. His last day on earth portrayed him as a hard-working, decent sort who was fair in his dealings with others. The narrator set the scene:
John Brown began his day like any other, checking his crops in the fields. For him, as for every other farmer in the county, rabbits proved a perennial pest because he grew their favourite food: carrots. Every morning, shotgun slung over his shoulder, he’d shoot as many as twenty before breakfast.
“Vermin,” Ed told Gizmo, who hung on his every word although deaf as a post.
After a long day’s work, John Brown drove his tractor into an outbuilding and locked it shut. He then checked on his cows and hens a final time before heading into the farmhouse.
“Cows and chickens make okay intruder alarms but he should have had a few geese as well. They’re the best,” Ed informed me.
“Why’s that?”
“They’re skittish. Geese’ll wake the dead.”
“They haven’t mentioned his family so I’m guessing he might be a widower,” I ventured.
“They didn’t say. But where are the sons?”
“Maybe they didn’t choose that life.”
“It’s the best life for a person,” Ed was staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Fresh air, proper food, hard work…”
The narrator went on to describe what police believe happened next. Apparently, at some point during the night one or more intruders broke into the farmhouse. From what they could gather, the intruder(s) found John Brown’s shotgun by the door. Whether it was because he heard them or not, John Brown came downstairs and was confronted by the intruder(s) who killed him with his own shotgun.
Nothing of value was taken as far as police can tell. John Brown had no known enemies and it’s suspected it might have been a burglary which went horribly wrong.
“Poor bugger,” Ed stroked Gizmo behind the ears. “And by his own gun.”
“Maybe he screwed someone over,” I weighed the evidence. “Maybe he owed them money. Farmers are always juggling massive debts.”
“It wouldn’t be that.”
“Maybe developers wanted the land and he wouldn’t sell.”
“Nope, that’s not it.”
“Okay, last one,” I racked my brain. “Maybe he does have a son but they’re estranged and the son came to claim what he believed to be his birthright.”
“Not even close,” Ed looked out the window. “Think about it.”
I was flummoxed, but moreover, I was intrigued by his self-assuredness in the matter. I had apparently missed a vital clue which was the clincher. Now watching him savour the moment without any smugness whatsoever I was proud of Ed. He’d seen more in his lifetime than I ever would: The Great Depression, WW2, the draft, rationing, The Cold War and a man on the moon, yet I knew he now felt utterly discarded by those who had come after him. What he’d already forgotten I’d never know; I had gained knowledge whereas Ed’s generation had acquired wisdom.
“Give up?” he asked, thumbing tobacco into his pipe.
“I’m all out of ideas,” I conceded, happy to be sharing in his big moment.
“It was the rabbits.”
It’s not just during spring
When Nature has a fling
‘Cause I don’t know one rabbit
Who isn’t always at it
“Why are you in school?”
“What do you mean?
“I mean, why are you in school? Shouldn’t you be distance learning like everyone else? I’m in school because my parents are key workers.”
“Then I guess mine must be as well.”
“My father’s a Member of Parliament and my mother’s a doctor. What do yours do?”
“My dad stacks supermarket shelves and my mom works in a toilet paper factory.”
“Awesome!”
“Yup.”
“Come and eat lunch at our table.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Mr Ormsby At Large 