An Exceptional Time of Tales, Rumours and Facts

Time to write.

Ten minutes to ten.

Evening.

A sensible bedtime.

A reasonable writing time.

The end of a beautiful November day; doors open, and the warm air pulling you outside even though the floors and walls need cleaning.

But what to write?

The tale of the black bee that found its way inside and then got stuck as the night fell, but was rescued by a play of lights?

That of the robin that didn’t survive its meeting with the cat but which was left as a gift for someone to find and subsequently bury?

Or the one about the deer who was disturbed in the forest by clumsy foot-fall?

Or shall we settle for rumours?

Those of the cold that is coming?

Or the rains that apparently aren’t?

Perhaps those of the village folk that plan to clear the ancient by-ways through the forest and practice a daily transhumance of goats up into the forest?

All rumours have a silver-lining and this one holds the promise of delicious creamy cheese only once before tasted, at the Tuesday night market.

Tales rumours, or facts?

The water in the pond is cold, but not insupportable. 

Legs feel the sting of icy needles, before tingling with cold warmth. Cold warmth that encourages shoulders to dip under.

Slowly and for a brief moment only.

It has been over a month since anyone has dared.

It’s an exceptional November.

December will be delicious.

 

 

 

 

Stories in Dreams.

I don’t live in the city anymore, and I can’t say I miss it.

 

Pollution – obviously – but it’s more the unbridled capitalism that reduced me to my knees. Everyone is desperate or else praying on the desperate and making money. More than they need, just for the sake of having money. I don’t miss it; but am I bitter?

 

I left when the last newsagent closed.

 It was on the corner, opposite the jeweller’s store. He had moved here from a bigger city after thieves broke into his workshop, ransacked the place and hit him over the head when he arrived at work to find them filling their sacks with silver and gold. 

It hurt, it didn’t leave him in a wheel chair, but it discouraged him remaining. 

Why live in a place where people hurt each other?

 

Why live in a place with no news? 

No news is good news some say but it’s bullshit. 

There is no news anymore because the fascists have colonised the message. So I left. 

Yes, I could have stayed and fought but someone once told me that the biggest change you can make to something short of destroying it is to change your attitude to it. 

I found that easier - less bloody if I’m honest - and I don’t believe in spilling blood. 

Except when it comes to mosquitoes.

 

And fascists perhaps, but I’ve never been put to the test.

 

So I live here.

 

There are no newsagents but bookshops are flourishing -  there is one on every corner - people still believe in stories. And people still dream.

 

Stories and dreams. 

Some people even dream while they are in a story, others tell people stories of their dreams.

 

Once upon a time there will be something better than this.