Climate Change

Abecedary

‘E’ is for…  ‘extinction’. It used to be for ‘Elephant’ but poachers killed them all off in their ironclad greed for ivory. It was said elephants never forgot, but now none remain left to remember. And mankind knows exactly where the elephants’ graveyards are to be found. Wherever we dumped mounds of their tuskless carcasses.

‘P’ is- was, for ‘Penguin’. Until their population melted away with the polar ice cap that sailed off into the sunset, leaving them sunk without trace.

‘T’ was for ‘Tiger’, harvested for the supposed medicinal powers of its organs. Mankind still got sicker and sicker all the same. Both in body and mind.

‘D’ was for ‘Dolphin’. For all humans’ supposed rapport with our favourite marine mammalian cousins, we couldn’t invent tuna nets that didn’t snag dolphins too. We used to regard them as therapeutic when we swam with them in their briny realm. But all the while we were toxifying their habitat, so that their fish diet perished and they starved to death in Davy Jones’ empty food locker.

‘S’ was for ‘Seal’, the ones often depicted balancing a ball on their snouts. Delightfully entertaining us as kids in circuses, yet no playful rump persisted in us as adults. Since we culled their infant pups with bludgeons, cudgels and clubs. Wiped from the face of the earth, with nothing more than red blood smears on white snow.

This had the knock-on effect of thinning out the food supply for their natural predators the Killer ‘W’ that used to stand for ‘Whales’. Their existence was further compromised by global warming’s effects and noise pollution of desperate oil exploration both. Subverting their sonar direction so that they kept beaching themselves. Expiring faster than they could be harpooned for their wealth of blubbery products, both practical and exclusive, beloved of us landlubbers.

‘Z’ was for ‘Zebra’, now permanently residing in the unhappy hunting grounds, stripped of their prized stripes. But also through the system of man-made dams which caused the soil of their homelands to dry up and took their natural predator Leo the Lion along with them into oblivion. Pride comes before a fall it is said and we committed regicide in the kingdom of the savannas.

‘M’ was for ‘Monkey’, our closest living relative and one which we systematically extirpated, through our epidemic fears of a species short hop for disease transmission. Our paranoia knew no limit since we pressed the same relentless logic to take wing, as we emptied the skies of avian life for good measure.

‘F’ was for ‘Fox’, quick and brown at the heart of learning to write our alphabet. Well they were boundlessly trespassing our cities bold as brass, so the outcome was inevitable really. And that was even after the English had legislated to prevent hunting them with dogs. The rampant poison employed for the task was far more efficient. And environmentally devastating.

‘C’ was for ‘Cow’, which along with pigs and sheep previously had formed our staple domestic stable of meat. But when we fed parts of the trinity to each other, turning these ruminants into carnivores, they became soft in the head, couldn’t stand on their own four feet. So subsequently we, the ultimate omnivore, had to pass them up on the menu.

‘B’ the letter that actually sounded the name of its creature, well it now only stands for ‘bafflement’ or ‘befuddled’, since they were the first fauna to foreshadow the fatal trend. We didn’t even notice their disappearance until there was no more honey to be had for love nor money. The last time life was ever sweet.

The decline in human numbers caused by the diminution of our food supply and the impoverishment of the planet, both paled by comparison to the true devolution our species suffered. The degrading of our minds. For as these animals were expunged from life, what pictures could we fill our primary reading books with which to inculcate our children the building blocks of language? Cockroaches, hyenas, sharks and vultures, the perennial survivors of the animal kingdom, those best adapted to feast on the misery of the weaker beasts, are inappropriate for an infant’s reading primer. It would yield them nightmarish associations, which while maybe more fitting to our current disposition, mothers deemed it better just to let learning slide in its entirety. Muteness was the sole maternal birthright to pass on.

So gradually our children’s imaginations began to shrink and wither on the vine. They had no images to append to their words, to try and colour their thoughts in order to express themselves to others. Their alphabets broke down, unable even to construct words for them. Our language became as extinct as the animals which used to denizen its vibrant embrace. I am the last speaker to record all this. I composed all this centuries ago as I hung on to the vestige of my mind’s creative ability and foretold what would follow in my wake. Now I too have become extinct, both in body and heritage, since not one of the meagre generations which succeed me possesses any ability to read and understand these words.

-Marc Nash (from his 3rd collection of flash fiction “Long Stories Short”)

Bios And Links

-Marc Nash

has had 5 collections of flash fiction and 6 novels published. “Three Dreams In The Key Of G” was shortlisted for the 2018 “Not The Booker Prize” and his latest novel “Stories We Tell Our Children” was published last month. He lives and works in London, in the freedom of expression realm. 

World Lion Day

 

“Forsaken Children”
(Raanana, September 23, 2017)

The child is taught
When there is no help
God is our help,
When there is no hope
God is our hope,
When there is no redemption
God is our redemption.
These are honeyed words
To hear on sabbath after new years,
They succor us until we need them to be true
And then they desert us
Just like God did long ago
And we cry out from our crosses
With our last breaths like His Son
Why have You forsaken Me?
The truth is it’s our beliefs that crucify us,
Better to die like a lion roaring
Against the jackals of death
Or an eagle falling silently
From the sky
Than like forsaken children
Waiting for redemption.
-(c) Mike Stone, 2017

“Rage“
(Raanana, June 16, 2017)

No thing engenders pathos
As an old lion roaring rage
Against the young jackals around him
Except perhaps
One that does not rage.
-(c) Mike Stone, 2017

#National Lighthouse Day

All poems by Dean Wilson from his collection “Take Me Up To The Lighthouse”

https://t.co/wo71LSPUCq?amp=1

 

In Red and White

You could helter-skelter down their columns on a rug or tray,
pretend they’re giant sticks of rock in red and white –

slice thought their middles and you’d surely find
the names of places where they stand:
Strumble, Needles, Bardsey, Portland Bill.

In the wind you’d hear the thin bewildered sighs
of long-forgotten keepers drifting round
the eerie robot systems that transmit the beams;

men amazed that no-one has to trim or light the lamps.

-Gill McEvoy

 

 

 

Excerpt from The Errand Boy: North – when Dunkeld first meets Nostrum, is he a friend or foe….

The quiet serenity of the pub was abruptly shattered as the door flew open and half a dozen trawler men rolled in, good natured but loud and thirsty.

“Valerie, your favourite Vikings are back, give us your wenches and your mead so we can raise a pyre to Valhalla.” The leader had a voice of confidence and camaraderie, his blonde greyish hair and beard was punctuated with eyes that looked as if they were formed from the blue waters of Capri.

“Captain Daniel Nostrum, there are no wenches in my pub, you’ll have ale and a meat pie and you will be grateful and you won’t be lighting up in here either or I’ll be sending you to Ragnarok with your backside in a sling.” Nostrum’s crew burst out laughing as they saw their captain was bettered at his own game.

“Valerie, it is true, you are no wench, you are a siren of the sea created to lure poor fishermen in and drag them to the depths of Poseidon with your sweet song.” Nostrum leaned over the bar and offered her a kiss into which Valerie stuffed a freshly cut slice of lemon. He looked shocked and hurt and then chewed and swallowed the lemon before pounding the top of the bar and bursting into laughter. It had the feeling of a scene played out many times over the years, the men gather around excited and eager as the beers began to flow.

Dunkeld observed the ritual from his vantage point. His captive had adopted a disguise of a fisherman but these were genuine, they looked like they had been at sea for weeks; especially the way they were chugging down beer.

Nostrum slid onto the bench opposite Dunkeld, in his massive hands were two whiskies as a way of introduction, he handed one to Dunkeld.

“For Jonesy, slainte,” he said and they both knocked back the single malt. It was neat as Dunkeld new it would be, sweet, caramel tasting, Glenmorangie he guessed. He knew his palate was too tainted to pick out the finer points of the nose but he knew enough to appreciate a dram and would have preferred a drop of water with it but he was not going to tell Nostrum that.

“Did you know him?” Dunkeld asked as he lowered his glass to the table.

“I did, a fine man, good drinker, great storyteller, crap darts player, did you?” Nostrum focused his blue eyes squarely on Dunkeld. This time it was not as friendly as Valerie’s but more insistent with a hint of a threat.”

“No, sorry to say I didn’t, I’m here on behalf of the regiment. I’ll place a flag on his coffin on behalf of the family we shared, even the ones he didn’t know.”

“I thought he’d left that behind years ago?” Nostrum said, casually.

Dunkeld straightened and felt himself visibly bristle: “you don’t leave this family, wherever your life takes you, if you are from us you, are one of us.”

Nostrum smiled and backed down. “Sorry, I like to push and see what develops. No offense intended. He was a good man, his death was,” he paused, “unexpected and tragic for such a capable person. He came out to sea with us once and he looked like he was born to it.” Dunkeld read Nostrum’s face and could see he did not believe in accidents either.

His thoughts were interrupted as Valerie returned to fill the glasses. She looked at Dunkeld and said: “Scottish hospitality” as she poured the whisky. “Where are you from? Your accent is strange, a wee bit off but I can tell a Scot when I hear one.”

Dunkeld smiled and raised his glass, for years he tried to strangle and subdue his accent so he could blend in at Sandhurst and in the desert.

“The family is from Dunkeld originally, it’s where the name comes from but I grew up in Glasgow before being kidnapped by a fine but fickle English woman and when she ran off I joined the army.” It was a truth, sort of, and with that he downed the glass.

“That’s bloody English women for you, no idea when they have a good thing. I’ll leave the bottle, enjoy.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned back to the bar and Dunkeld was sure that in her day she would have played hell with the local men.

“You watch her, she breathes fire and eats landlubbers for breakfast.” Nostrum said loud enough for his crew to hear. They erupted into a loud cheer and tried fruitlessly to get a rise from Valerie who was too well schooled in the art of men and drinking to be impressed.

“She’s great, we come in here once a month, create a lot of noise, drink a lot of beer, spend a lot of money and then stagger down the street to sleep it off, she’s not barred us yet so we figure she likes us.”

“Why here?” asked Dunkeld, not entirely sure why he was interested.

Nostrum looked up and around the pub, pondering the question. “We’ve been coming here ever since I became captain, 10 years ago. My father used to come here as a young trawler man and his father before him. This place is over 100 years old. It’s always been a safe harbour between the water and home and” he paused, “they don’t eat bloody shark although haggis is not so good either.” He burst out laughing and poured them both another drink.

“I see you were in the navy, special forces.” Dunkeld said pointing to Nostrum’s tattoo that was partially revealed as he offered another toast to his late friend.

“Not many people would be able to recognise this tattoo.” He said rolling up his sleeve to display it in full, a Viking face behind an upright arrow, framed by a longboat, oars up. “FSK, Forsvarets Spesialkommando.”

“Formed in the 80s to protect Norway’s interests and cloaked in a lot of secrecy and denial. Your unit was formed by men whose parents had been famous in WWII for lightning raids on German boats and fortifications, FSK techniques were developed alongside specialist units such as the SBS and then SAS. I like a bit of military history.”

“SAS, the Saturday and Sundays only squad, I did my national service and graduated up to FSK but the sea kept calling me like it has done to all my family. I couldn’t wait to get back on the water and here I am, sat with you toasting a fallen comrade with my new friend and telling you far too much.” He refilled the glasses again and they both took a large slow drink this time. “Have you met Douglas yet?” Nostrum asked. For a brief second Dunkeld considered lying but realised that would be a mistake.

“I have, we shared the ferry over, doesn’t say much but he gathered I was over for the funeral.”

“Jones was his nephew.” Nostrum leaned in and added this bit of information conspiratorially. Dunkeld was shocked, he had not realised there was a family connection and there was nothing in the paperwork to suggest it.

“I didn’t know that at all” was all he could manage to say.

“Douglas likes to keep things close to his chest. Jonesy’s mother was Douglas’ sister, so different surname but Douglas was a happy man when his nephew came to work on the island. After his wife passed away he changed a bit, like a good part of him had gone. I’m not convinced he believes it was an accident. If he gets his hands on who is responsible then there will be all hell to pay.” Dunkeld’s shock turned to worry about the prisoner – would Douglas deliver him as promised or take him out to some cliff top and drop him off the edge?

Dunkeld brought his attention back to Nostrum: “What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“That lighthouse, that spit of a bit of rock has been drawing people in for decades, do you know the story of the three lighthouse keepers that went missing at the end of the war? Lights at all hours, birds nesting spooked, no one stays there too long.”

“Do you think it’s haunted?” asked Dunkeld.

Nostrum looked at him and held his poker face as long as he could bare it before bursting out into laughter. “Haunted, Christ no but it’s bloody cursed for sure.” A noise burst from one end of the bar as two of the drunken crew started stripping to their waist.

“Captain Nostrum, please sort this out before I fling you all out. I will not have nudity in my bar on a Friday night” bellowed Valerie from behind the bar.

Nostrum nodded goodbye to Dunkeld and rose to sort his men out leaving a confused Dunkeld to mull over the revelation. From the bar voices rose, speaking English one minute and Norwegian the next. Men crowded the two semi-naked brawlers and the regulars just took it in their stride, watching with amusement, moving there pints from time to time to avoid collateral damage.

Dunkeld looked at all the customers, to him there was no sign of anyone who did not look like they did not belong and even though Dunkeld had only been there a few hours he knew this type of place. If your face fitted it embraced you and if it did not you were encouraged to drink up and be on your way.

A glass shattered, there was a roar of encouragement at the bar as the two men grabbed each other to wrestle for honour and then the body of men moved itself as one solid mass out of the saloon doors and into the car park. The doors swung shut and the sound of testosterone blowing off steam could be heard getting louder as bets were placed.

Bios And Links

-Dean Wilson

is a retired postman from Hull. He moved to Withernsea a few years ago and is a volunteer in the lighthouse.

-Cat photo by Elizabeth Moura

-Photos by trixiedreamspank

No longer there

Did you call for me
Did you want me close
My thoughts are too late I suppose
At four in the morning you will come calling
Will I find you on my keyboard sitting
Will I be able to wear you as a hat you silly thing
When can I look forward to your reactions to new and shiny things
Like your expressions when the Christmas tree is lit and decorated
Will I get to see you climb it this year
And will you be there to throw it down each morning
Or come running when you’ve nipped the scent of fish frying
I won’t get to see you sleep with half of your body on the chair
Or in positions that made me laugh having me wondering if you had a care
Will I ever have to worry with which other cat you fought with
Which dog you’ve been chasing
Which part of the chair you’ve been clawing
Puss puss you silly cat
No longer will you be there
Because no longer you are here
No longer
You are gone

-trixiedreamspank

One of the dogs

She hung out with the dogs
She played with the dogs
She roughhoused
She guarded
She chased
Other dogs with the dogs
But she was no dog
I think
She was just a confused cat.

-trixiedreamspank (She says of these two poems “two poems I have written about my cat Princess that sadly was only around for just under a year.“)

A Cat’s Concern (From my “Self-Isolation Sonnets)

Bella is the abandoned cat rescued
By our dear late friend Big John and his spouse
who cleaning his jacket asked why cat food
treats pocketed when it’s not a cat house?

John tells her in preparing their new home
a little cat comes from the undergrowth.
Neighbours say she was left behind alone
when old owner sold house and loath

to see her starve have been feeding her scraps
but sorry they can’t take her in themselves.
He knows some cat lovers who will perhaps
take her in and care for her as themselves.

John and spouse renewed vows dressed as Beauty
and Beast so Bella does her nurse duty.

-Paul Brookes