Tag Archives: death

Dreams

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Snorting, their hoofs pounding, horses vast and black chase, pursue, hunt me down. Dark creatures unleashed at night to gallop through my head.
In day light the black mares are stabled where none dare go, in the dark depths of the brain. Hidden, padlocked behind steel doors they wait, patiently for darkness. Night cometh, like ghosts they glide through locked doors. No, need to wake go away, thrashing trying to escape, baring down, snorting. All the years, childhood fears, death, vengeance, nightmares, must awake.

Departs Stage Left

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I was saddened to read in today’s Daily Telegraph of the death of Tony Benn, the veteran Labour politician at the age of 88. Whether one agreed with Benn’s politics or not he was a powerful speaker and I have memories of listening to his oratory on BBC Radio 4’s Any Questions? I also recollect sitting in the college library leafing through “Writings On The Wall” edited by Benn, http://www.amazon.co.uk/Writings-Wall-Socialist-Anthology-1215-1984/dp/0571133355. A political giant has gone to that country from who’s bourne no traveller returns and politics will be the less vibrant for his departure.

Barking

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Standing in my kitchen, peeling an orange, I was arrested in my progress by a sound cold, short and sharp –  The barking of one of the many foxes who make their homes in and around Crystal Palace. “Bark” the sound sent a shiver down my spine. Once again, “bark”, what are you about my friend? Do you hunt for food or call to your brethren? My dog lies seemingly unperturbed in his bed. He is your distant cousin but on this evening acknowledges you not. Sometimes he stands, nose pressed against the window, intent on you, his distant relative in the garden far below, but tonight he communes not with you. Fox, dog, so close and yet so far removed. Creature of domesticity, something wild lurks within. Sometimes you give short, sharp barks like your relation yet, if your paths chanced to cross you would give chase. You are, my dog, mine but not wholly so. You are part of the domestic hearth but yet have a paw in the wilderness. When you dream you are, I think closer to the wild fox calling at my window than you are to puny man.

The barking has ceased but the sound of death lingers on.

The Power Of The Dog Kipling

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I remember losing my previous guide dog, a golden lab/retriever called Drew, in March 2011. She was well in the morning but, come evening she started to pass blood and a day later my friend was dead. I recollect coming across the below poem shortly after Drew died and whenever I read it I’m overcome with emotion. This poem will, I believe resonate with anyone who has ever loved and lost a dog. They are so, so much more than mere animals.

 

The Power of the Dog

 

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THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

 

Buy a pup and your money will buy

Love unflinching that cannot lie

Perfect passion and worship fed

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

Nevertheless it is hardly fair

To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

 

When the fourteen years which Nature permits

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs

To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

Then you will find – it’s your own affair, –

But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

 

When the body that lived at your single will,

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

 

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,

When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent,

At compound interest of cent per cent,

Though it is not always the case, I believe,

That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve;

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,

A short-time loan is as bad as a long –

So why in – Heaven (before we are there)

Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

The Thing Behind The Door Review

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I vividly recall as a child sitting in the darkened school library reading Edgar Alan Poe’s “Tales of Mystery and Imagination” and feeling a chill run down my spine at the thought of the continuing beating of the dead man’s heart in Poe’s “The Tell Tale Heart”. There is something chillingly wonderful about frightening oneself half to death. Attending a boarding school I recollect lying in bed in the dormatories with their wooden floors telling and listening to others relate tales of ghosts and ghouls. Having listened to such stories it was no easy matter to pass a peaceful night’s sleep as my dreams where inhabited by things which go bump in the night.

“Great British Horror” Volume 1 will not disappoint those who enjoy the horror genre. I have only read the first story, “The Thing Behind the Door” and I am hooked already. John a boy who has suffered terrible bullying at the hands of 3 fellow pupils during his attendance at a brutal school takes a hideous revenge on his tormentors and their children. The story begins prosaically enough with John feeling a sense of relief at the death of the parents who maltreated him. However the tale soon takes a darker turn with John determining to kill the children of Clayton, Louise and Jennifer, the people who tormented him during his school days. John either consciously or unconsciously summons “the thing behind the door” which exacts a terrible vengeance by killing the innocent children of John’s former tormentors. We never see “the thing” clearly. It is a mere shadow on the wall or, more frequently a menacing presence pervading the derelict school to which Clayton, Louise and Jennifer return in order to kill John who they know will be there. The story ends in blood and gore with all the protaganists meeting grizzly ends. Throughout the narrative it is the satanic presence, “the thing behind the door” which dominates although it is only fleetingly glimpsed by the people in the story.

“The Thing Behind The Door” is a chilling tale of what can happen when evil begets evil. The cruelty of Louise, Jennifer and Clayton comes back to haunt them and their families with a terrible vengeance. There is no humanity in this tale, only death and darkness.

On a positive note all the proceeds from the sale of the book go to Centrepoint a charity which helps young homeless people in the UK.

For “Great British Horror” Volume 1 please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/Great-British-Horror-Volume-ebook/dp/B00E3D6CH0. My collection of short stories, “The First Time” is free in the Kindle store from 4-8 October, http://newauthoronline.com/2013/10/04/free-book-promotion/

Autumn Love

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You come to me your golden gown floating in the breeze. For a while we dally in the woods rich with the scent of the dying year. Beautiful in your approaching death, golden tresses fall, our mouths meet hungrily for soon you must go. A new stern mistress will I have dressed in snow and ice.

Autumn has come in all her beauty

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The sun has chased the rain away here in Crystal Palace although he is no doubt waiting in the wings for an opportunity to pounce again.

Autumn has come early. The ground is strewn with leaves and the air is perfumed with the scent of rich earth. Damp ground and newly fallen leaves mingle to delight the senses.

I love autumn. A gentle sun combined with the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, who could ask for more? Autumn reminds me of the cyclical nature of time. The growth of spring and summer is superceeded by the slow retreat into death of autumn which culminates in winter. The dying of the year is exquisetly beautiful, melancholy intimately mingled with profound beauty, perhaps symbolic of life itself.

My Confession

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I have always regarded myself as a civilised man. The idea of violence makes me feel physically ill. Life is a precious spark which should on no account be snuffed out. To commit that most wicked of acts, murder is to lose one’s own soul. To have on one’s conscience the death of another is surely the most appalling weight any human being can carry. What is done can not be undone. The flash of a blade, a slight pressure on the trigger and death swiftly claims his prize.

However we all have our limits. A point beyond which we say thus far and no further. It is a rare man indeed who when struck on the right cheek proffers the left in order that his assailant may strike that also. Very few men can follow the precepts of Christ and permit others to abuse them with impunity. I for one do not possess the saintly qualities required to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune without taking up arms and, albeit reluctantly defending myself.

I am a patient person and possess the capacity to put up with a great deal of abuse but, ultimately my patience will snap.

You wouldn’t follow the path of prudence. No you, like a fool insisted on plaguing the life out of me. All I wanted to do was to enjoy my lunch free from distractions but you insisted on making that most irritating of noises. Not content with asailing my ears you wouldn’t keep still. Next to me one moment and then in the kitchen eating my food. It isn’t as though I invited you into my home. Like a thief in the night you entered and paid the consequences of your rash actions.

I aimed taking my time. It is important to get a good shot. You tried to escape but my merciless finger pressed down and death streaked as swift as lightening and found his mark. Poor little thing your death agonies pricked my conscience exceedingly. You rolled around on the floor desperately clinging to existence but, eventually you succumbed to the wasp spray …