Monday, November 17, 2008
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Stories from the Apocalypse - Buried
This cellar is cold-comfort concrete, shuttered windows to keep out. Keep out, what?, he wonders.
The splayed vision of a blackened TV carcass, playing out grainy loops. Batten down the hatches as the ball is launched in slo-mo from one end of the screen to the other. The waiting batsman pauses, winks to the child on the sofa and strokes away the ball. It trickles out from the screen, and as it spins slowly into this world it gains colour. Ox-blood red and oozing grassy stains. It's stitched, this ball.
The flaxen-haired boy gets to his feet. The room is silent, and he bends down to retrieve the bloodied sphere as it rolls toward him. The boy glances back to the stiffening paunch of the figure on the sofa. A bristle-moustached Captain. A silent capped cadaver. And behind him hums a black-lace pall-bearer, her winter veil draped across her face as it turns crevasses in frozen time. It brings to mind the ghost of Christmas past, a widow's band placed upon her finger.
Hearing the footsteps approach, he knows what must be done. A knife plunged deep into the fast solidifying tissue, cracking open his rib-cage like the sparking timbre of an iced-red fire. He lifts the beating heart, crimson-stitched ball and places into the cavity. Waiting for the beat.
He has no time to spare. The glacial cold envelops the cellar, calling to him to surrender. To be dragged deep into her chilly hold until all life drains, like the colour from the staccato television playing doom loops in the corner of the room. The boy scrabbles desperately at the shuttered window as the electric hum moves ever closer. Will he? WILL HE!!!
The splayed vision of a blackened TV carcass, playing out grainy loops. Batten down the hatches as the ball is launched in slo-mo from one end of the screen to the other. The waiting batsman pauses, winks to the child on the sofa and strokes away the ball. It trickles out from the screen, and as it spins slowly into this world it gains colour. Ox-blood red and oozing grassy stains. It's stitched, this ball.
The flaxen-haired boy gets to his feet. The room is silent, and he bends down to retrieve the bloodied sphere as it rolls toward him. The boy glances back to the stiffening paunch of the figure on the sofa. A bristle-moustached Captain. A silent capped cadaver. And behind him hums a black-lace pall-bearer, her winter veil draped across her face as it turns crevasses in frozen time. It brings to mind the ghost of Christmas past, a widow's band placed upon her finger.
Hearing the footsteps approach, he knows what must be done. A knife plunged deep into the fast solidifying tissue, cracking open his rib-cage like the sparking timbre of an iced-red fire. He lifts the beating heart, crimson-stitched ball and places into the cavity. Waiting for the beat.
He has no time to spare. The glacial cold envelops the cellar, calling to him to surrender. To be dragged deep into her chilly hold until all life drains, like the colour from the staccato television playing doom loops in the corner of the room. The boy scrabbles desperately at the shuttered window as the electric hum moves ever closer. Will he? WILL HE!!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Jury's Out
Dear Chroniclers,
I've served my time, and now at last I'm free! What a fascinating fortnight I've spent in the company of many others, keeping the streets of the UK safe.
It was seemingly a cast of thousands as our names were read out at in the Jury Room, a collection of ne'er do wells, teachers, housewives, retirees and one faintly puzzled horologist.
Regrettably, I'm sworn to secrecy, so like much in life (and indeed these feeble, groaning Chronicles) all must remain mystery.
Yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
I've served my time, and now at last I'm free! What a fascinating fortnight I've spent in the company of many others, keeping the streets of the UK safe.
It was seemingly a cast of thousands as our names were read out at in the Jury Room, a collection of ne'er do wells, teachers, housewives, retirees and one faintly puzzled horologist.
Regrettably, I'm sworn to secrecy, so like much in life (and indeed these feeble, groaning Chronicles) all must remain mystery.
Yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Van the Man
Dear Chroniclers,
Van the Man hit the boards of Birmingham's esteemed Symphony Hall last night, watched from aloft by yours truly and dear mrs electrofried. Complementary oxygen masks were supplied with our seats on the Uppermost Circle, which had it been any higher would surely have necessitated entry by helicopter.
Nonetheless, we had an excellent view of proceedings. And this, despite the regular dribble of latecomers whose arrival caused a series of geriatric Mexican waves as seats were duly raised to allow them ingress.
Van took to the stage bang on 8:00, as advertised, and for the next ninety minutes opened up to us his magical world of love, yearning and mysticism. He said barely a word the whole time, his sole utterance being a short aside about George Formby when a recalcitrant roadie brought his mandolin on stage. He didn't need to say anything in truth, for his music said it all.
It is said good wine improves with age, and Van's voice brought forth images of vintage Chateau Latour - rich, red and full-bodied, with subtle hints of seasons past. The hits blended seamlessly with more recent work as the talented ensemble of musicians and vocalists drew us ever further into rheumy reflection.
And then the finale. "Gloria" and in excelsis! A song so familiar, yet still so jubilant. Van the Man sent us roaring to the night as he departed stage left, his ninety minutes done.
John Steinbeck once observed, "... all the sterile wonders of movies and television and radio will fail to wipe it out - a living man in communication with a living audience." And all this, with barely a word exchanged.
yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
Van the Man hit the boards of Birmingham's esteemed Symphony Hall last night, watched from aloft by yours truly and dear mrs electrofried. Complementary oxygen masks were supplied with our seats on the Uppermost Circle, which had it been any higher would surely have necessitated entry by helicopter.
Nonetheless, we had an excellent view of proceedings. And this, despite the regular dribble of latecomers whose arrival caused a series of geriatric Mexican waves as seats were duly raised to allow them ingress.
Van took to the stage bang on 8:00, as advertised, and for the next ninety minutes opened up to us his magical world of love, yearning and mysticism. He said barely a word the whole time, his sole utterance being a short aside about George Formby when a recalcitrant roadie brought his mandolin on stage. He didn't need to say anything in truth, for his music said it all.
It is said good wine improves with age, and Van's voice brought forth images of vintage Chateau Latour - rich, red and full-bodied, with subtle hints of seasons past. The hits blended seamlessly with more recent work as the talented ensemble of musicians and vocalists drew us ever further into rheumy reflection.
And then the finale. "Gloria" and in excelsis! A song so familiar, yet still so jubilant. Van the Man sent us roaring to the night as he departed stage left, his ninety minutes done.
John Steinbeck once observed, "... all the sterile wonders of movies and television and radio will fail to wipe it out - a living man in communication with a living audience." And all this, with barely a word exchanged.
yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
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