Paul Servini's Blog, page 3

Cliché

What a cliché! Yet, it was true. he really had never been so scared in his life. But his editor would never accept that. He tried to find something new.

Heart beat omission as reporter lacking ease of mind takes three steps back before turning to run.

Officer's command omission results in backward slide of ill at ease journalist.

Backward retreat order omission: Soldiers ill at ease  at confession.

He spent the next five minutes trying to admit to himself that each of these formulations was a vast improved on the time-worn cliché he'd wanted to use. But he was too good a journalist for that. With a sigh his pen tip extinguished the offending words and he wrote simply:

I'd never been so scared in my like as that day when I was left behind enemy lines.

Of course, what he'd really wanted to say was:

Forced cliché omission reporter at ease over editor's hasty backward retreat.

Now that really was avoiding the cliché.

Call For Help

Sensational was a pretty proud guy. I guess that's hardly surprising. If you had a stream of people, day in day out, using your name to describe experiences that would throw your body into ebullience (his word not mine), then you'd be proud too. Anything from a ride down the Amazon in the minutest of river boats with piranhas sharpening their teeth in readiness for a good meal, to hang-gliding over an icing-sugar capped peak and Sensational name was called upon.

But recently, Sensational was beginning to feel like God. The problem: people were using his name so often that they were beginning to take it in vain. He'd first noticed this the day after his nephew's first birthday. He'd gone straight to his sister's house after work to wish him a belated Happy Birthday. A bedraggled Mundy was just getting up and described with several sensationals the pub crawl his friends had taken him on the evening before.

He'd come up against similar experiences on occasion over the next few years, but more recently it was becoming more and more frequent and this was worrying Sensational. His pride could not withstand the blow of having his name cheapened like this.

From having read his Bible he knew that calls and appeals to change would not help at all. God had tried that and each time come up against nothing but hard hearts. What they needed was education; examples of what was truly sensational, examples that would inspire. A collection of stories and various other writings to help make his point. Just the thing for Sunday Scribblings writers.

Where are you, Adam?

This week’s words: erode, heart, observe. My apologies to Heinrich Böll for pinching his title.


Erode had never been very popular. When he was young, he tried his best to breach the repulsion people felt at the sight of him. To little avail. Whoever saw his half eaten body coming, would gather around the children like a mother hen and tell them to keep walking and not to look. And whenever they did so, the inevitable result was further erosion; a little more of his already fragile heart would disappear, eaten up by the hatred of rejection.

I was warned about Erode the moment I moved in. Every single one of my new neighbours called to bid me welcome. Without hesitation each one told me to beware.

“True, he’s a poor devil. But watch out, when they’re like that who knows what will happen; can’t control themselves, can they.”

To be honest this only served to peek my curiosity. So I decided to keep a lookout for Erode that very evening when I went jogging to the park. The result surprised me. Yet, I wasn’t sure. So I said nothing, not yet. So I went out and I observed. And as I observed, the conclusion began to force itself upon me. There was no one Erode. Almost everyone I met, showed signs of erosion trying to reach out yet harvesting only rejection because… Oh yes, there was always a because and there always will be. That’s why Erode is here to stay.

Where are you, Adam?

This week's words: erode, heart, observe. My apologies to Heinrich Böll for pinching his title.
 

Erode had never been very popular. When he was young, he tried his best to breach the repulsion people felt at the sight of him. To little avail. Whoever saw his half eaten body coming, would gather around the children like a mother hen and tell them to keep walking and not to look. And whenever they did so, the inevitable result was further erosion; a little more of his already fragile heart would disappear, eaten up by the hatred of rejection.

I was warned about Erode the moment I moved in. Every single one of my new neighbours called to bid me welcome. Without hesitation each one told me to beware.

"True, he's a poor devil. But watch out, when they're like that who knows what will happen; can't control themselves, can they."

To be honest this only served to peek my curiosity. So I decided to keep a lookout for Erode that very evening when I went jogging to the park. The result surprised me. Yet, I wasn't sure. So I said nothing, not yet. So I went out and I observed. And as I observed, the conclusion began to force itself upon me. There was no one Erode. Almost everyone I met, showed signs of erosion trying to reach out yet harvesting only rejection because… Oh yes, there was always a because and there always will be. That's why Erode is here to stay.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Tomorrow
 

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.

How easy it is to fool oneself. Yet it seemed so permanent, just like the cliff-top I'm standing on now. Yet, one day, it too will no longer be here. Troubles, I didn't even see them creep up on me; from what she said I must have been feigning blindness for as long as it takes a man to wake up to reality.

Now it looks as though they're here to stay.

Not just stay but multiply, like flakes of snow like powder on the ground, clinging to my toes, submerging my feet, creeping slowly up my shins, leaving me to wonder when, perhaps even if, release will come.

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Fool, as I was, no I am; for even now… hope beyond hope.

Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be,

Isn't self-pity a wonderful thing: delight, luxuriate, revel, glory in… refuse to get up, refuse to face tomorrow.

There's a shadow hanging over me,

a hiding place shielding me from the world.

Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

As it always does for blind bullheads.

Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say.

Or maybe, I refused to hear… Refused because I knew, I knew what she needed without having to ask her. And when she tried, then…

… I said something wrong,

and that was the end of that.

Now I long for yesterday.

Or at least for another chance, my lesson learnt.

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.

So easy, even I messed up. But messing up isn't the end; it can't be; there's got to be a way out.

Now I need a place to hide away.

Now I need to get up and face tomorrow. Take another throw, face my music, this time with ears open wide.

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

… TOMORROW

Face The Music

This week’s Fiction Friday prompt: Write a scene using purely dialogue. Nothing else is allowed ( no attributions, narration, description, scene setting etc)


… Mr. Seaswan, thank you for your call. You’re listening to ‘Face The Music’ brought to you by Radio Taff Valley and we have with us in the studio Warren Gatland, who tomorrow will be taking off with the Welsh squad to New Zealand. Our next caller is Mr. Ave Rage. Mr. Rage, your question please.

Yes, good morning Mr. Gatland. My question is a somewhat delicate one. I know the press have been very forthcoming with their advice to Mr. Gatland about what player to take or not to take. I don’t really intend to add to that, but I do have one question: Is the proud of the fact that he has repaid the trust put in him by Marty by axing him from the squad?

Ah, yes, Mr. Rage… I might add, I hope your name is really indicative of your character. As you know a trainer has to make tough decisions and decisions based on the needs of the squad as a whole. Marty was one of the world’s best foragers of the ball and on the strength of that, as I’m sure you know, won 99 caps for Wales. His strength of presence on the field is such that the opposition feared him tremendously. Unfortunately, we need to make choices in any squad. One of the choices I made was to take just one specialist position player of Marty’s kind and to include players who could play anywhere in the back row. That’s why Marty has had to miss out, and I am the first to regret that.

Yes, Mr. Gatland, but I remember your interview the day you announced you had persuaded Marty to come out of retirement and to rejoin the team. You said, Marty was going to be an enormous influence on the younger players coming into the squad.

You have a good memory, Mr. Rage. And I’m sure you can but recognise to what extent this has been the case. Our squad captain is a case in point. Marty has worked tirelessly to help Sam become the player and leader he has become. And that even to the extent that Sam has become our n°1 player in that position.

But if that’s the case, don’t you think Marty’s influence on the younger players could continue in New Zealand?

Mr. Rage, if I was picking a team of therapists, then Marty’s name might well be on my list. But I’m picking a team of rugby players, a team capable of winning us the World Cup. And unfortunately, Marty no longer makes the grade. I want the best Mr. Rage. That’s the only way we will win this competition.

The best? Is that why you’re taking a couple of players along with hardly any, and that’s putting it kindly, match experience. Just because and I quote “… they have the exciting ability to turn the game around on the turn of a moment.” The whole world recognises that these players are way past their best, but you insist on picking them on the pretext that they might put together a little bit of magic at a vital moment. I hope you have your magic wand with you, Mr. Gatland?

These players you’re talking about are players of experience and will have an enormous influence on the rest of the squad whilst in New Zealand.

Like Marty? But maybe, Mr. Gatland, you could give me your definition of experience. I had always thought it had to do with playing rugby and the ability to nurture younger players. The only experience these guys seem to have is of bar brawls, nights behind bars and getting into the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Is that the kind of nurture you’re looking for them to give?

Mr. Rage, you’re good with words. I’m good at running a rugby team. I’ve let you have your say, now please leave the running of the rugby team to me. I’ve picked a team to win the World Cup, not win a Mr. Good talent show. That’s all this is about. What my players do in their own time is their business.

And, that’s what you call nurturing?

Ah, Mr. Rage, if I might but in here, because you certainly do seem to be provoking a certain amount of rage here. But we really need…

Yes, well maybe Mr. Gatland needs to understand the rage that most of us fans have at his disgusting treatment of Marty. He calls him out of retirement, persuades him what a pivotal role he has in the team leading up to the World Cup and then rewards his loyalty over the years by giving him the axe at the crucial moment. We call that despicable.

We, Mr. Rage?

Yes, I’m sure you’ve realised that my name is a pseudonym, both my names, not just my last name. And if both you and Mr. Gatland put two and two together, you might just find out what the average rugby fan in Wales thinks of his decision.

Face The Music

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: Write a scene using purely dialogue. Nothing else is allowed ( no attributions, narration, description, scene setting etc)

 

… Mr. Seaswan, thank you for your call. You're listening to 'Face The Music' brought to you by Radio Taff Valley and we have with us in the studio Warren Gatland, who tomorrow will be taking off with the Welsh squad to New Zealand. Our next caller is Mr. Ave Rage. Mr. Rage, your question please.

Yes, good morning Mr. Gatland. My question is a somewhat delicate one. I know the press have been very forthcoming with their advice to Mr. Gatland about what player to take or not to take. I don't really intend to add to that, but I do have one question: Is the proud of the fact that he has repaid the trust put in him by Marty by axing him from the squad?

Ah, yes, Mr. Rage… I might add, I hope your name is really indicative of your character. As you know a trainer has to make tough decisions and decisions based on the needs of the squad as a whole. Marty was one of the world's best foragers of the ball and on the strength of that, as I'm sure you know, won 99 caps for Wales. His strength of presence on the field is such that the opposition feared him tremendously. Unfortunately, we need to make choices in any squad. One of the choices I made was to take just one specialist position player of Marty's kind and to include players who could play anywhere in the back row. That's why Marty has had to miss out, and I am the first to regret that.

Yes, Mr. Gatland, but I remember your interview the day you announced you had persuaded Marty to come out of retirement and to rejoin the team. You said, Marty was going to be an enormous influence on the younger players coming into the squad.

You have a good memory, Mr. Rage. And I'm sure you can but recognise to what extent this has been the case. Our squad captain is a case in point. Marty has worked tirelessly to help Sam become the player and leader he has become. And that even to the extent that Sam has become our n°1 player in that position.

But if that's the case, don't you think Marty's influence on the younger players could continue in New Zealand?

Mr. Rage, if I was picking a team of therapists, then Marty's name might well be on my list. But I'm picking a team of rugby players, a team capable of winning us the World Cup. And unfortunately, Marty no longer makes the grade. I want the best Mr. Rage. That's the only way we will win this competition.

The best? Is that why you're taking a couple of players along with hardly any, and that's putting it kindly, match experience. Just because and I quote "… they have the exciting ability to turn the game around on the turn of a moment." The whole world recognises that these players are way past their best, but you insist on picking them on the pretext that they might put together a little bit of magic at a vital moment. I hope you have your magic wand with you, Mr. Gatland?

These players you're talking about are players of experience and will have an enormous influence on the rest of the squad whilst in New Zealand.

Like Marty? But maybe, Mr. Gatland, you could give me your definition of experience. I had always thought it had to do with playing rugby and the ability to nurture younger players. The only experience these guys seem to have is of bar brawls, nights behind bars and getting into the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Is that the kind of nurture you're looking for them to give?

Mr. Rage, you're good with words. I'm good at running a rugby team. I've let you have your say, now please leave the running of the rugby team to me. I've picked a team to win the World Cup, not win a Mr. Good talent show. That's all this is about. What my players do in their own time is their business.

And, that's what you call nurturing?

Ah, Mr. Rage, if I might but in here, because you certainly do seem to be provoking a certain amount of rage here. But we really need…

Yes, well maybe Mr. Gatland needs to understand the rage that most of us fans have at his disgusting treatment of Marty. He calls him out of retirement, persuades him what a pivotal role he has in the team leading up to the World Cup and then rewards his loyalty over the years by giving him the axe at the crucial moment. We call that despicable.

We, Mr. Rage?

Yes, I'm sure you've realised that my name is a pseudonym, both my names, not just my last name. And if both you and Mr. Gatland put two and two together, you might just find out what the average rugby fan in Wales thinks of his decision.

And if it really was possible…

Better late than never. Here's my take on this weeks Fiction Friday prompt: You character is  stranded in the middle of nowhere and their phone has enough battery for one call. Who do they you call?
 

The essence of time-travelling is a good TGPS. Mine wasn't good. I'd tried talking ot the bosses about it but all they did was invoke the usual excuses. The technology is only as good as the technician using it; financial constraints; not to mention – although they did mention it – the thrill of the unexpected adventure when things went wrong. It was easy for them to talk, they weren't being hurtled from one century to another with only a 50% chance of ending up where you wanted to. Which brings me… but no. I haven't explained yet who I am or what I'm after.

John P. Cutting at your service. Researcher and general dog's body for the management at Encyclopedia Systemae Omnitempae. Yes, it was me you saw materialise before your very eyes. Come all the way from the Golden Age didn't I. That's why it's such a shock to have landed here. You see, contrary to what you might think you really are the backwater of civilisations. All that stuff about upward evolution, well it's just not on. But I'm wandering off again.

The Encycopedia Systemae Omnitempae have given me the task of researching their new Everyman Course, "Treasures Of The Universe." I'm researching into all things artistic. That's why I'm here. Or better, that's why I'm travelling. The only reason you find me here in the twenty-first century, is because that bloody TGPS cocked up again. Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like you 21C guys. You're okay. I had a great time when I was last here and partied with some really nice people. But, I have to be blunt about this, even if you don't like what I'm telling you: you're not really very artistic. Sure you've got people who create. I read one guy who actually created over 100 new words in a 500 word short story. Impressive. But art is not only about creation it's also about content. Art has something to say, but you guys have nothing to say. Nothing whatsoever.

Let's take a case in point. Last time I was here I hung about with a whole bunch of whispering Chinese guys. Writers they were one and all. So they set up this virtual museum where anyone could come and write anything they wanted. And they called that innovative, futuristic. In fact, just at the time I was here, the future was what they were talking about. And what a load of drivel it was too. Future, you haven't a clue, none of us have. At least, none of us have a clue about their own future. But as my present is your future I know enough to know what to think about what you don't know.

But enough ranting. It's time for me to get to work. Maybe I can find some remnants of 20 C stuff that's worth… Hello, who's that coming just now. It looks like the Friar I was… But it is him. Now that's what I call a stroke of luck. Or maybe our scientists really have started to get their act together and created a TGPS that brings me to where I need to be even if I didn't know it was where I needed to be. But I forget myself. Permit me to introduce you. This is Friar John, the very guy I want to interview. Surely, you all know Friar John. He appears in one of the greatest works of literature ever penned. That's why I want to interview him for our course. You see, it was his great mistake that brought about all that tragedy… Now look what you've made me do. You've got me in tears again. I can't think about those lamentable happening without…

Now what's going on? I don't like the look of that. What would Friar John be doing meeting up with one of the universe's greatest artistic forgers. Nothing good can come of this. If Friar John failed his maker once, he must be capable of doing so again. Let's see if I can catch what they're saying.

"It's dead simple mate. With this 'ere telephone, you can call up anyone you want whenever he happens to live. This device can change the course of the world."

"Gods be praised. You mean to say I can call up Friar Lawrence, I can tell him my mission's failed?"

"Now why would you wanting to do a thing like that for. Look Friar, I know your church is in a pretty poor state. But if I put the word out, my friends 'll come along and sort things out for you. They already done a few raids yesterday for the materials. All they waiting for now, is for me to give'em the go ahead. And all I'm waiting for is for you to make that phone call I told you about earlier. You just call up that Romeo chappie back in the sixteenth and tell him what's going on. Telll him not to believe anyone who says Juliet is dead. That'll put the kybosh on the whole play. And without that ending it'll never get written. And as I've got the text, this little bit of sabotage 'll play right into my hands. I've already got a publisher and he's willing to pay me nicely for it. But first, you have that phone call to make. And be quick about it right, cause I forgot to charge the batteries before leaving this morning. Don't want it cutting out just when victory is in my grasp."

On Frying Pans and Fires

Back again after a long while with a new Fiction Friday post. This week's prompt: Include each of these items in your story. Priest, ring, magnifying glass, cat.
 

"Lying down again. I thought we came on holidays to do something different?"

Leila opened one eye and tried to focus on him.

"I don't know why we pay a fortune to come to a luxurious campsite with all these activities, if all you can to do is lie down all day in the sun. It might be different if it did you any good. But just look at you… Mother, do you think Leila looks any better for her so called bronzing."

Silence was the only reply.

"Good job Marlie's away all day with the other kids, wouldn't want her to realise what a good for nothing mother she's got. I'm going diving."

Leila watched him pick up his kit and wander off towards the changing rooms. Nearly a thousand euros that lot had cost. And he already had two sets at home. Leila couldn't understand why he moaned about money whenever they were on holidays. They had more than enough. A smile flickered across her face. Money, security, possessions. That was she'd been after and that was what she had. That was what made life with Pienar worth living. She'd known what he was like and she'd taken the risk.

She pulled herself up onto her knees. A voice floated across from the picnic benches.

"You know he's wrong. I think you've got a wonderful complexion."

She raised a hand to her forehead shielding her eyes from the sun and peered. He must have been about thirty, shoulder length blond hair and eyes that were both piercing and calm. A pure white cat sat purring on his lap. His hand went back and for over its back. She turned away from him without replying. She glanced at her watch. She stood up and started walking towards the bridge. If she was quick, she could get around the lake and be back in time for the daily session at the rifle range. Not that it would cut any ice with Pienar, mind. He knew what she did and he was just as likely to accuse her of doing too much as too little.

*     *     *     *     *

"So, a glass of white wine for my damsel in distress." Sojan placed his own beer on the table before he sat down opposite her. The moment his backside touched the chair the white cat jumped up onto his lap.

"Damsel in distress, now why that?" She almost coloured saying it. She fixed her eyes on the Pienar's ring, still feeling a little uneasy about accepting this stranger's invitation.

"Experience and ideology. Experience because that conversation I heard certainly didn't sound much like pleasant banter. And ideology because I, and my friends like me, believe in the essential dignity of every human being."

Her blank face was encouragement enough to press home his advantage. He took a small book out of his shirt pocket and began.

*     *     *     *     *

Dear Juana,

Your letter puzzles me. What on earth are you worried about? Sojan is such a fantastic man. He's opened my eyes to so many things. And wasn't it you who first suggested I needed to leave Pienar. I was deaf and blind. Deaf to what you and others were saying and blind to what Pienar was stealing from me. Sojan has changed all that. He has shown me how my own self-value is the most important treasure I have. He has restored it to me. And that is of far greater value than any of the riches Pienar used to shower upon me. But they are no longer there to blind me. Those that I didn't leave behind when I left Pienar, I've given to the church. Sojan didn't ask for them. He'd never do that because he's completely oblivious to all worldly possessions. All that concerns him are church matters. As one of our three priests he spends his mornings in private study. The rest of the day he is either missioneering or teaching us, illuminati. I spend most of my time here in meditation upon the sacred books. Once a week Sojan himself takes me down to the treasury where he reads to me from the Pnomasta, the sacred book God himself wrote, using his own finger. Only the priests are allowed to read this book. To do so they have to use a tainted magnifying glass so as not to blinded by its glory. After this he accompanies me back to my room. And we achieve a sense of spiritual unity I've never before known. Unfortunately, his duties in the church do not allow him to spend the night with me, but my consolation is knowing he will be back in a week.

So you see, there's really no reason to worry. I'm fine and I've never been happier. I hope you get the chance to come and see for yourself. I'd love to see you again and I'm sure you'd love it here.

Best wishes,

Leila

Encounter

Two birds with one stone with this piece. First, a writing exercise, details of which can be found here. And secondly, another 3WW piece to include the words: indecision, option, fate. Hope you'll enjoy it.
 

With a loud click the clock moved on to 3.13pm. D-minute -1. My head kept telling me this was the moment I'd been waiting for. My legs weren't so sure. They wanted to remove me at high speed. Good job, my overweight body refused to obey. Was it a good job? Could it really be? The train pulled in. I looked for the bouquet I'd intended buying… Well, they do say the road to love is filled with good intentions. At least, I'll know if it's really me she wants. Another click… and a groan. The five minutes late sign pops up. Everyone looks at me. Was my inward groan so loud. My legs begin to find find some life. They lift me off the bench, force me down the platform… in the wrong direction. About turn. Indecision. There's the train pulling into the station… two minutes early or three minutes late. I no longer care. She's all that matters now, and in a few seconds, she'll be stepping down off that train. Damn, I've walked so far up the platform… The doors open. There she is. We glide into each other's arms. No one ever can separate us now.

For the third time since flying past the old grammar Enna glances at her watch. She presses her nose against the window, tearing herself away only when the train slows to a standstill. She tries the doors, nothing doing. It seems fate is playing her final hand. She pulls her rucksack down from the rack. It flies down the aisle and lands beside me at something like the speed of a Nadal backhand. She bends down to pick it up just as the train starts up again with a lurch. Now, it's her turn for flying. She refuses all help and is soon back on the feet. She looks like a drunk as she advances down the aisle trying to compensate the rocking of the train as it crosses a series of points. Her hand clicks onto the door handle. However hard anyone pulls, she'll not release. Not until the driver activates the release mechanism To me, it seems as if she jumped through the closed door. She races. Then I see him, a charging elephant. They embrace. Seconds later, they are raptured up into heaven in a whirlwind.

I can understand it all now.  His weight loss, his sudden interest in cycling. His promise that nothing would ever separate us. Of course, it wouldn't, she'd said no, sent him packing, leaving him with no option but to return, tail between his legs to his long-suffering wife. She'd rejected him because she'd wanted adventure. But adventure's shine fades. Was that why she'd come back. And to think, I'd been so proud of him these last few weeks. 5 kilo weight-loss and so much exercising. He'd even begun writing again. He was making me happy. Maybe, things could after all be as before. But he remained fragile, I could see that. Feverish excitement would give way to black moodiness. His poems finished, I tried to get him to read them to me. "I've an important appointment. When I return…" Those were his very words. So I followed him. Dogged him all the way to the train station. Past the ticket office and on to the arrivals hall. Then, I knew. There was only one train due in at this time and that was from there. Adventureland, seeking out a new victim. I saw the platform charge. Saw the waiting passengers smirking, their bemusement written large between ever-widening eyes. I turned away and vowed never again to look back.