Nav Logan's Blog, page 17
April 19, 2015
Strange Fruit
At the edge of the meadow there sits a single immense tree. In early spring, as I walk the land, I notice for the first time the strange fruit in the boughs of the tree. The fruit is large and rough-hewn, and the ancient tree is heavy with these kernels.
The fruit rarely falls during the autumn harvest, though occasionally, after a particularly blustery night, you might find the remains of the fruit after it has crashed to earth.
Spring brings leaves to the old tree and a kaah-ing chaos each dusk and dawn as the rookery comes to life.
The fruit rarely falls during the autumn harvest, though occasionally, after a particularly blustery night, you might find the remains of the fruit after it has crashed to earth.
Spring brings leaves to the old tree and a kaah-ing chaos each dusk and dawn as the rookery comes to life.
April 18, 2015
The Get-together
“Ah, Sheila, I thought you weren’t going to make it!”
“Sorry, girls. I had a bit of a disaster this morning. Don’t get me started!”
The other ladies eyes lit up with curiosity, eager for gossip.
“Well, I was just ready to leave, when I noticed a few cups lying on the sink, so I thought to myself, Sheila love, you’d better stick them in the dishwasher and turn it on. You know his lordship won’t lift a finger unless there’s no dishes left in the cupboard. Anyway, there I was, bent over putting them in the rack, when in strolls our Max, and him dragging half the bloody garden in with him …”
The other ladies frowned in sympathy.
“Well, before I could stop him, he’d leapt on me and planted his dirty paws all over my nice blouse. He was only being playful, but jaysus, my outfit was ruined! I had to beat him off with a tea towel, for God’s sake. Needless to say, I couldn’t be seen out and about like that, so I had to go and change. Boy, is he in the doghouse when I get home! There’ll be no treats for him this evening, let me tell you!”
“I’ve always found neutering helps …” commented Eileen, a newcomer to the ladies group.
“Oh, I’m not sure he’d go for that, my dear.”
“It’s not that bad. A few days to heal and he’d be right as rain. Once the lampshade is off and the stitches have been removed, he’d be fine, but I can guarantee he’d be a little calmer after that. The vet bills aren’t too costly these days either.”
“No, I don’t think my husband would never go for that … though it does sound tempting after the morning I’ve just had.”
“Men! They can be sensitive about the subject,” agreed Eileen. “You’d think you were asking them to cut off their own balls, the way they go on. Such babies! Listen, girl, you just need to put your foot down. Tell the hubby that it’s the dog, or his balls. Either way, one of them has to go!”
“I think you misunderstand,” explained Sheila, struggling to contain her mirth. “The dog has already been neutered, but Max is my husband.”
“Sorry, girls. I had a bit of a disaster this morning. Don’t get me started!”
The other ladies eyes lit up with curiosity, eager for gossip.
“Well, I was just ready to leave, when I noticed a few cups lying on the sink, so I thought to myself, Sheila love, you’d better stick them in the dishwasher and turn it on. You know his lordship won’t lift a finger unless there’s no dishes left in the cupboard. Anyway, there I was, bent over putting them in the rack, when in strolls our Max, and him dragging half the bloody garden in with him …”
The other ladies frowned in sympathy.
“Well, before I could stop him, he’d leapt on me and planted his dirty paws all over my nice blouse. He was only being playful, but jaysus, my outfit was ruined! I had to beat him off with a tea towel, for God’s sake. Needless to say, I couldn’t be seen out and about like that, so I had to go and change. Boy, is he in the doghouse when I get home! There’ll be no treats for him this evening, let me tell you!”
“I’ve always found neutering helps …” commented Eileen, a newcomer to the ladies group.
“Oh, I’m not sure he’d go for that, my dear.”
“It’s not that bad. A few days to heal and he’d be right as rain. Once the lampshade is off and the stitches have been removed, he’d be fine, but I can guarantee he’d be a little calmer after that. The vet bills aren’t too costly these days either.”
“No, I don’t think my husband would never go for that … though it does sound tempting after the morning I’ve just had.”
“Men! They can be sensitive about the subject,” agreed Eileen. “You’d think you were asking them to cut off their own balls, the way they go on. Such babies! Listen, girl, you just need to put your foot down. Tell the hubby that it’s the dog, or his balls. Either way, one of them has to go!”
“I think you misunderstand,” explained Sheila, struggling to contain her mirth. “The dog has already been neutered, but Max is my husband.”
April 17, 2015
The War Cry
Epona stalks through the woods towards the sound of battle. A shriek of pain echoes through the mists as she steps into the clearing. Ahead, a huddle of warriors gather around their queen, fear in their eyes. They are losing the battle. The end is nigh.
Stepping through the crowd, Epona reaches the queen’s side and raising her dagger, she slashes across the dying queen’s belly. Reaching within, she drags the screaming baby from the womb, and into the light. She is not too late. The new king of the Horse Clan wriggles and lets forth his first war cry.
Stepping through the crowd, Epona reaches the queen’s side and raising her dagger, she slashes across the dying queen’s belly. Reaching within, she drags the screaming baby from the womb, and into the light. She is not too late. The new king of the Horse Clan wriggles and lets forth his first war cry.
April 14, 2015
The Vultures
Those Fundamentalists are such crazy mothers! Only focused on their strict beliefs, they can quickly lose all their humanity. Focused only on a single goal, their lack of morals scares me at times. All else is pushed side in their crazy pursuit of their god – and in this case, that deity is numerical – digital – black and white. There are no grey areas on a balance sheet, no pensioners about to be evicted, no human stories to allow for. Only the worship of their god so that they can reach Nirvana.
Venture Capitalists - Vulture Capitalists more like. Beware these crazies.
Venture Capitalists - Vulture Capitalists more like. Beware these crazies.
Hope
All is not yet lost.
True, there have been a few minor hiccoughs, a few overwhelming disasters, and then there was the truck that blindsided me … I never saw that one coming! Nevertheless, the eternal optimist that I am, there is always hope.
My plans lie in tattered shreds upon the floor of life, but I endeavour. I pick myself up, dust off the debris of mishap, and the fan-assisted splattering of excrement that has landed upon me from god only knows where, and I look ahead. Putting my failures behind me, I set about devising a Plan B.
True, there have been a few minor hiccoughs, a few overwhelming disasters, and then there was the truck that blindsided me … I never saw that one coming! Nevertheless, the eternal optimist that I am, there is always hope.
My plans lie in tattered shreds upon the floor of life, but I endeavour. I pick myself up, dust off the debris of mishap, and the fan-assisted splattering of excrement that has landed upon me from god only knows where, and I look ahead. Putting my failures behind me, I set about devising a Plan B.
April 12, 2015
The Suicide Helpline
“Good evening … Suicide Hotline. My name is Trish. How can I help you?” the chirpy female voice answered at the end of the line.
“Hi … I’m John …I-I …I’m feeling a little depressed.”
“That’s great, John. You’ve come to the right place. I’m here to help.”
“John? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry. I’ve never done this before … called, you know. What am I supposed to do? I think my girlfriend is cheating on me.”
“Well, there are many things you could try. Have you considered an overdose?”
“Pardon!”
“An overdose, you know. Neck a bottle of sleeping pills with a few big glugs of J.D. … Slip quietly off into oblivion. It’s far less messy than jumping under a train.”
“I thought you were here to help?”
“We are, John.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be talking me out of it?”
“Certainly not! You called the Suicide Helpline, not the bloody Samaritans. We’re here to help you get on with it and stop making everyone else’s life so miserable. Do the decent thing and get it over with. There really isn’t any point in prolonging their misery, is there?”
“But …”
A deep sigh from Trish’s side of the line. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hoax callers. Look, why don’t you stop wasting my time and just get on with it, either that or hang up the phone. I’ve other callers waiting, you know: people with genuine needs … so what’s it going to be, bucko?”
“Look, I’m sorry … forget about it. I think I’ve changed my mind.”
Beeep … The line goes dead.
Trish’s supervisor unplugs her headset and smiles encouragement at their latest recruit. “That’s great work, Trish. I see that you used an unorthodox approach, but hey, you got the result we are looking for. A few pointers though before you take another call. Maybe you should stick to the script until you get the hang of it, and perhaps next time, you could try for a little more empathy? After all, this is a 1890 number so the longer they stay on the line the better it is for us.”
“Oh! Okay,” agreed Trish, “if you think that’ll help?”
“Oh, and don’t forget to mention our sponsors. It’s vital that you plug them at least twice in every call. After all, they paying your wages.”
“Hi … I’m John …I-I …I’m feeling a little depressed.”
“That’s great, John. You’ve come to the right place. I’m here to help.”
“John? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry. I’ve never done this before … called, you know. What am I supposed to do? I think my girlfriend is cheating on me.”
“Well, there are many things you could try. Have you considered an overdose?”
“Pardon!”
“An overdose, you know. Neck a bottle of sleeping pills with a few big glugs of J.D. … Slip quietly off into oblivion. It’s far less messy than jumping under a train.”
“I thought you were here to help?”
“We are, John.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be talking me out of it?”
“Certainly not! You called the Suicide Helpline, not the bloody Samaritans. We’re here to help you get on with it and stop making everyone else’s life so miserable. Do the decent thing and get it over with. There really isn’t any point in prolonging their misery, is there?”
“But …”
A deep sigh from Trish’s side of the line. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hoax callers. Look, why don’t you stop wasting my time and just get on with it, either that or hang up the phone. I’ve other callers waiting, you know: people with genuine needs … so what’s it going to be, bucko?”
“Look, I’m sorry … forget about it. I think I’ve changed my mind.”
Beeep … The line goes dead.
Trish’s supervisor unplugs her headset and smiles encouragement at their latest recruit. “That’s great work, Trish. I see that you used an unorthodox approach, but hey, you got the result we are looking for. A few pointers though before you take another call. Maybe you should stick to the script until you get the hang of it, and perhaps next time, you could try for a little more empathy? After all, this is a 1890 number so the longer they stay on the line the better it is for us.”
“Oh! Okay,” agreed Trish, “if you think that’ll help?”
“Oh, and don’t forget to mention our sponsors. It’s vital that you plug them at least twice in every call. After all, they paying your wages.”
April 9, 2015
The Saline Sprite
I hover around graveyards, funeral homes, hospitals; and even the odd nursery, looking for suitable victims. Unseen, I wait for the right moment to pounce, and then, like an eagle I swoop into action. So swift I can hardly be seen, I harvest people’s torment and grief. A little here and a little there; no one will notice that they are gone, but gradually my hoard of treasure mounts.
True, I thrive on other people’s suffering, but I cannot help myself. I didn’t choose to be the way I am. After all, it’s a tough job being a Tear Fairy.
True, I thrive on other people’s suffering, but I cannot help myself. I didn’t choose to be the way I am. After all, it’s a tough job being a Tear Fairy.
April 8, 2015
Cursed by the Moon
The young man stopped, placed the axe beside the chopping block and rubbed his aching shoulder, where the freshly-healed scar tissue ached. It was then that he noticed how quiet the woods had become; too quiet.
They were here.
He couldn’t see them, but he knew instinctively that it was true.
He glanced nervously at the rifle, propped up against a tree only a few feet away, and yet it might has well have been back beside his bunk in the log cabin for all the good it would do. He would never reach it in time. When they attacked, they would come like the north wind and rush across the small clearing where he was working.
He could hear the voices of the other men back in the cabin. The hunters were preparing the evening meal and winding down after another unsuccessful day’s hunting. It had been a poor week for all of them, and now he knew why.
They had been watching, and the game had sensed their presence. He should have sensed it too, but he had been in another world. His judgement had been clouded by his current predicament. He was still coming to terms with his problem, and his mind had been focused solely on that.
She stepped out from behind a massive oak and he gasped in surprise. Silver grey, and standing three feet high at the shoulder, she was an impressive sight. She held herself with regal majesty as she looked over at him.
Fear trembled in his belly, but he did not flinch from the she-wolf’s gaze. This was going to be worse than anticipated if the pack’s matriarch was at the fore.
On soft silent feet, she strolled across the clearing until she was standing before him. Her eyes never left his.
“Why have you come?” he asked. He had known that they would pursue him, that he could not escape, but he had expected to hear their howls as they approached. He had expected the baying of the hunt, and a pack of hungry males looking for revenge. He had never thought it would be the matriarch who came.
He could sense the others now. They were all around. The whole clan had come looking for him. He knew it, even though he couldn’t see them. He could feel them from deep within his tormented soul.
The other men in the cabin were still oblivious to the threat around them. Hunters all and used to living off the land, they were still blind to so much of nature. They were as close as he could find to the wild within mankind, and yet, they fell far short of what he needed. Still, it had been better than being alone. Even a monster like him could not face life alone.
“You are not a monster!” the matriarch protested. Her words were more facial expression and body movement than human words, but he could understand her, nonetheless. He had grown up with her at his side, a constant watcher as he grew. Human words were not needed.
“I am!” he insisted, clenching his fists in impotent rage. “I am a monster and an outcast. Have you come to kill me?”
Her eyes showed her pity, “Don’t be foolish. Of course not. We have come to take you home.”
“Home! I have no home now. How can I come home?”
“You will always be one of us, my son. You will always have a home.”
“… But I challenged the pack leader. I was banished.”
“It is the nature of the young to challenge their place in the pack. Your father knows this and understands.”
He glanced at the red angry scar tissue that marred his shoulder. He had been lucky that it wasn’t a few inches higher. He could have had his throat ripped out.
“You must come home, my son. We can help you.”
“No one can help. I am cursed.”
Sadness crossed her eyes. There was no denying that her son was cursed. Something had happened, and the pack did not know how to cure his ailment.
“Can they help you?” she asked, her nose pointing towards the log cabin, and the rank odour of humans that she sensed there. “Do they possess a cure?”
“No,” he replied. “They do not know anything about it. They are blind to what is right in front of them. They think I’m human, like them.”
The wolf smiled softly. “Come home,” she pressed. “We can help. We can learn to come to terms with your curse.”
The youth looked skyward. It was getting dark now, and the moon was starting to rise, big and round. He would be cursed to live in this gross form for another few days yet, before the power of the moon faded and he could again take his natural form. He wanted to howl at the moon in frustration, curse it for what had happened to him, but all that came out was a choking sob. He was tired of being alone. He missed his pack. They were everything to him.
He was nothing without them; less than nothing.
Sensing his sorrow, the matriarch lifted her head and howled at the moon. In the trees the rest of his pack followed her example, giving voice to his feelings.
Panic ensued, as the humans in the cabin finally noticed the large pack of wolves that surrounded the clearing. By the time they had overcome the panic and grabbed their weapons, the pack was gone. So too was the silent young man who had come to stay with the hunters. All that remained of the strange youth was the clothes he had worn.
Naked, the were-man ran with his brothers and sisters. Together they would find a cure, or if not a cure, at least a way to come to terms with his affliction.
They were here.
He couldn’t see them, but he knew instinctively that it was true.
He glanced nervously at the rifle, propped up against a tree only a few feet away, and yet it might has well have been back beside his bunk in the log cabin for all the good it would do. He would never reach it in time. When they attacked, they would come like the north wind and rush across the small clearing where he was working.
He could hear the voices of the other men back in the cabin. The hunters were preparing the evening meal and winding down after another unsuccessful day’s hunting. It had been a poor week for all of them, and now he knew why.
They had been watching, and the game had sensed their presence. He should have sensed it too, but he had been in another world. His judgement had been clouded by his current predicament. He was still coming to terms with his problem, and his mind had been focused solely on that.
She stepped out from behind a massive oak and he gasped in surprise. Silver grey, and standing three feet high at the shoulder, she was an impressive sight. She held herself with regal majesty as she looked over at him.
Fear trembled in his belly, but he did not flinch from the she-wolf’s gaze. This was going to be worse than anticipated if the pack’s matriarch was at the fore.
On soft silent feet, she strolled across the clearing until she was standing before him. Her eyes never left his.
“Why have you come?” he asked. He had known that they would pursue him, that he could not escape, but he had expected to hear their howls as they approached. He had expected the baying of the hunt, and a pack of hungry males looking for revenge. He had never thought it would be the matriarch who came.
He could sense the others now. They were all around. The whole clan had come looking for him. He knew it, even though he couldn’t see them. He could feel them from deep within his tormented soul.
The other men in the cabin were still oblivious to the threat around them. Hunters all and used to living off the land, they were still blind to so much of nature. They were as close as he could find to the wild within mankind, and yet, they fell far short of what he needed. Still, it had been better than being alone. Even a monster like him could not face life alone.
“You are not a monster!” the matriarch protested. Her words were more facial expression and body movement than human words, but he could understand her, nonetheless. He had grown up with her at his side, a constant watcher as he grew. Human words were not needed.
“I am!” he insisted, clenching his fists in impotent rage. “I am a monster and an outcast. Have you come to kill me?”
Her eyes showed her pity, “Don’t be foolish. Of course not. We have come to take you home.”
“Home! I have no home now. How can I come home?”
“You will always be one of us, my son. You will always have a home.”
“… But I challenged the pack leader. I was banished.”
“It is the nature of the young to challenge their place in the pack. Your father knows this and understands.”
He glanced at the red angry scar tissue that marred his shoulder. He had been lucky that it wasn’t a few inches higher. He could have had his throat ripped out.
“You must come home, my son. We can help you.”
“No one can help. I am cursed.”
Sadness crossed her eyes. There was no denying that her son was cursed. Something had happened, and the pack did not know how to cure his ailment.
“Can they help you?” she asked, her nose pointing towards the log cabin, and the rank odour of humans that she sensed there. “Do they possess a cure?”
“No,” he replied. “They do not know anything about it. They are blind to what is right in front of them. They think I’m human, like them.”
The wolf smiled softly. “Come home,” she pressed. “We can help. We can learn to come to terms with your curse.”
The youth looked skyward. It was getting dark now, and the moon was starting to rise, big and round. He would be cursed to live in this gross form for another few days yet, before the power of the moon faded and he could again take his natural form. He wanted to howl at the moon in frustration, curse it for what had happened to him, but all that came out was a choking sob. He was tired of being alone. He missed his pack. They were everything to him.
He was nothing without them; less than nothing.
Sensing his sorrow, the matriarch lifted her head and howled at the moon. In the trees the rest of his pack followed her example, giving voice to his feelings.
Panic ensued, as the humans in the cabin finally noticed the large pack of wolves that surrounded the clearing. By the time they had overcome the panic and grabbed their weapons, the pack was gone. So too was the silent young man who had come to stay with the hunters. All that remained of the strange youth was the clothes he had worn.
Naked, the were-man ran with his brothers and sisters. Together they would find a cure, or if not a cure, at least a way to come to terms with his affliction.
April 6, 2015
Morning Glory
My first efforts are never the best, whether we are referring to the finer arts of sexual intercourse, or the making of a perfect piece of toast. The toaster, like my dear wife, needs a little time and encouragement to wake up and get going. Women and machines are like that, I guess.
They don’t wake up with a morning glory, an urge to pee, and a craving for coffee: in that order.
Men, on the other hand, were born to leap naked from the bed, howl at the moon, and then go off and chase down some unsuspecting wildebeest.
They don’t wake up with a morning glory, an urge to pee, and a craving for coffee: in that order.
Men, on the other hand, were born to leap naked from the bed, howl at the moon, and then go off and chase down some unsuspecting wildebeest.
The Making of The Chocolate Bunny
My dad was an awful messer. He’d tell his kids anything. He once told us that Easter Bunnies were made by feeding chocolate to rabbits and that Easter eggs came from force-feeding Ostriches cocoa beans.
Then, one day at school they showed us a video of how chocolate rabbits were made. I was astonished.
The next Easter, I plotted my revenge. Late at night, I crept out to the rabbit hutch and switched our pet rabbit with a chocolate one. The next morning, my younger sister bawled her eyes out.
“I only gave him a bit of Milky Way!”
Then, one day at school they showed us a video of how chocolate rabbits were made. I was astonished.
The next Easter, I plotted my revenge. Late at night, I crept out to the rabbit hutch and switched our pet rabbit with a chocolate one. The next morning, my younger sister bawled her eyes out.
“I only gave him a bit of Milky Way!”
