And then he was very happy

A report to the owners of a guest.

It was a crisp and clear day in late autumn. He felt a certain tension in the air as he left his comfortable cave where his bed and spaces were second nature to him. He had the sense that nothing bad was going to happen but he did feel that the pack leaders were somehow less sure of themselves than normal and that made him just a little less certain.
But that was really only a fleeting imagining as the walk was nice, they were all going down a familiar path and along a place where puddles and water lay temptingly on the ground. There are big bottle boxes here that smell of leader's drinks and make noise when leaders put things in them. All was fun until a loud explosion erupted close by. It scared him, and his pack leaders who immediately pulled him in close, despite the fact that he really wanted to find out what had caused the noise.
He began to think the noise was his fault because the pack leaders immediately took him to the yard where he knew he would get stung, feel bad and throw up. That was what happened last time they took him there.
Thankfully the pack leaders didn’t take him to the yard place. Bit they did take him very close. A big plank moved and there was a cave and a leader he had smelt once or twice before.  He relaxed a little now as it was clear that there was no threat and he happily barged into the cave and began exploring. Before he knew it his pack leaders, who had followed him in, were leaving through the same hole and the plank was put back so he couldn’t get to them. No problem he thought, I’ll just got through the other part of the cave and find them.
But no matter how many parts of the cave he went into there was no pack leader to be seen or smelt. Just the smells of this new leader. He was about to go around the cave again when the new leader got his attention, told him to sit and he did that because that is what you do when a leader says sit. Suddenly one of those yummy little bites of food was in the leader’s hand and offered. It seemed it was very good to sit and he relaxed a bit more.

 
It was then that the new leader opened a big clear plank and led him out into the stinging yard . He was not happy and looked at the leader for help. There seemed to be an understanding as a comforting hug was offered that made him feel a bit safer and before he knew it they were walking around the yard and there were no bitings, and no sick feeling. He felt better and followed back through the open plank.
Suddenly there was a problem, this floor felt funny and didn’t like being walked on as it slipped away under his feet. It took him a little time but with encouragement he trusted his feet and followed further inside to a comfy towel on the floor. There was now time to walk around and find out about the place which he did with great concentration.
Shortly the new leader called out his name and clipped on the lead and they went back to where the big bang happened. The leader threw some noise into the big metal smelly boxes and gave him a pat so that he felt okay. A friend walked up with her small leader and while he and the friend sniffed, said hello and romped a little the leaders exchanged growls and whimpers, as they do. With the new leader giving a pull on his collar, he walked off but was not allowed to leave the new leader’s side which confused him a little but he eventually gave in. Only a short time later he got a pat and was told to go play. He was getting much happier and met lots of friends, some of who he knew and some of who he would recognise by smell. At these meetings there were lots of leader growls and whimpers, always started by a noise ‘horse’ for some reason, and he and his friends got on doing what friends do in the presence of their leaders.

This continued for many interesting smells and friends and lots of noises and walking and trying to remember to stop when the leader stopped to let moving metal boxes go past on wheels. Suddenly he was back in the big green flat place near the water but this leader did not release the clip from his collar. Never mind, there were moles to smell and wet friends to talk to. Climbing up some stairs then stopping for wheeled boxes and up some more stairs there was the plank that moved and a nice long drink put out for him.

The leader started to do boring things and he suddenly felt very tired and fell asleep. When he awoke there was the smell of nice moist food and he was suddenly very hungry. It was very good and with a big long drink he was quite content. The yard looked good now and the glass plank was opened for him to stroll around the nice yard for a while. The slippery floor was not so much of a problem this time and the leaders hands started to look like they needed to be played with. For a little while they were quite a lot of fun to play with but they eventually went away and a sudden and deep snoring sleep started to need to be done. He was quite content. But he occasionally woke to look at the plank.

It seemed like no time at all that another leader came through the plank and he was given a lot of hugs for doing absolutely nothing but they made him feel very good.    He felt so good he followed the new leader up the stairs and while she was in a little room he decided he would wait for her up on the big soft flat thing. This created a lot of noise from both leaders and he was bought back down the steps. He stayed awake for a little while to watch the two leaders move  some food things around and then move other things around that smelled like the noisy boxes where the big explosion happened. But other than some more hand and foot playing there were no more surprises until the pack leaders he knew the very best arrived at the plank.
And then he was very happy.

October 31, 2011.
Baby-sitting Bentley the Great Dane.

The Devil's Playground

“It’s 6:45 and time to get up. Bip bip bip.
It’s 6:45 and time to g”
I nudge the phone to shut her up.
Shit, I hate that thing. I chose it because she sounded like Claire on Look North.
You can go right off some people.
I roll over and look through the streaked glass.
Yet another morning of dull.
Getting ready and off for another day of drudgery at the office is so automatic my brain stays asleep right up until I’m reaching for the handrail and the dickhead driver does a pole position start from the bus stop.
I just manage to keep hold of the rail but spin into the disabled space. The grey lining of my navy coat flaps open. No-one should ever see that.

Immediately my vacant brain fills with bile-fueled hatred for everyone there, the driver, the three sniggering schoolgirls, a gormless youth and two sneering suits. A dear old lady looks at me with something between shock and relief, then smirks at me. I hate them all.
A black mist rises through me and double-handed I pull my way upstairs, fighting against the next two jolting gear changes.
Bugger it, my seat at the front window is gone. I instantly hate the girl with her hair all held back in fancy plaiting,, and the old bloke hogging the other corner,, he doesn’t deserve to live.
I know it’s childish but I like to see where I’m going, judge the traffic, pick the line through corners. It gives me something to do. I can’t read in buses.
Using the momentum of the last gear change I grab the top pole and swing around down the aisle.
Then I spot my new vantage point.
Centre seat, back of the bus. Nobody else up here. Just the three of us.
I drop into the elevated perch one micro-second before the driver breaks heavily. I brace myself against the seat in front. I look forward to the camera lens and can sense the driver has checked his screen and timed his breaking to make me fall on my face.
Well, I thwarted him this morning.
A small glimmer of victory pierces my inky mood.
Today will be "The Wednesday" then..
I scope out the bus. 
I've practiced taking out the cctv camera but timing is critical for the rest of my plan.
I reach down and make up the hard cylindrical barrel. The silencer is secure.
I breath slowly, gather my thoughts, every detail must be timed to perfection.
The first three shots are critical, timed for just after the stop at five-ways. The driver won’t notice the camera is out for about three minutes, plenty of time for the call.
I go to my trouser pocket, pull out the sim card and swap it over. Good strong signal, I scroll the apps and select voice distort.
I’ll have about two minutes from when I shoot out the camera to make the call, deliver my demands.
My escape route’s researched and by simply reversing my overcoat after ducking down the back lane I can walk back to the office unnoticed.
Before I realise it, the stop at Five-Ways is happening.
Two solid African guys bound up the stairs laughing and take the seats directly behind the girl. I am really pissed off now, but I can adapt, I’m a professional.
Gear change three, Gear change four,
I take out my gun and snap off one quick thud that takes out the cctv, the plastic shatters and the old guy looks up, a clean shot through the top of his head and I’m lined up on the girl, she’s pretty, the bullet through her right temple is gorgeous and I blast the laughing African just behind the ear as he starts to turn.
I am amazed the second guy has managed to spring up and come towards me but my shot left of his nostril drops him like a log.
I get my phone and hit speed dial 1.
The call goes through, without waiting I hit 6. a female says “FirstBus emergency what is the nature.."
“Shut the fuck up. I have the 7:30, bus X98 hostage.
I have disabled the cctv. 
I have killed four passengers.
I have two demands.
Demand one. Contact the driver immediately, tell him to stay on route, do not to stop the bus for any reason. Demand two. You will call me back immediately you have done this.
You have forty seconds or I kill another passenger.”

I hang up, sit back in my seat and remove the silencer, re-training the gun on the stairs.  From here on in maximum muzzle noise is the preferred option.
I feel the bus swerve nervously and a few seconds later my phone rings, a male voice.
“Hello, is this….”
“Shut the fuck up and listen . You will put the week's payroll into the black case beside the pay clerk's desk. This bus is passing the sub-depot in four minutes, you will contact the driver and tell him to stop and open the doors. You will throw the payroll onto the bus and tell the driver to drive on.”

I hang up, remove the sim card and re-sight my gun to the stairs.  Within a minute the top of a head cautiously begins to ascend. One shot into the step above it vanishes the head and ensures my presence is confirmed. A scream rises from below and I click the safety on, sit back and relax.
The depot is visible as we approach and I see Keith running out with my briefcase.
The bus stops and I hear the shout and the case lands on the deck. Immediately the bus takes off.
This is my cue. I stroll confidently to the stairs and pause, a face looks up at me and immediately pulls out of my line of sight.  I rush down the stairs and jump into the aisle. 
Arming my gun I swing into the disabled space behind the bulkhead and take out the suits that sneered at me.  The old bitch and the school kids are dropped before they know what hits them. I break cover from behind the bulkhead just as the CitiSpace sign fills the window.
CitiSpace?
Shit!.. CitiSpace!..
I hit the stop button and race down the aisle.
I fly down the stairs for real this time and quickly take note of the driver.
I notice I am still clutching the rolled-up Metro and embarassed, throw it into the bin.
I smile and as the doors spring open quip  “Thanks Anass, go steady on the gear changes tomorrow will you?”
“Hi Mike. Sorry you missed your stop, I didn’t know you were up there. See you tomorrow. Have a good one.”

Strangely this day may be a good one, even if I did miss my stop.
I decide to sit in the centre back seat every day now.
It’s more fun than pretending to drive the bus..

The newspapers said he was the epitome of evil

My unique challenge was to write about 1000 words including the above phrase...and.... I had promised Gail that I would write a furry animal story again..... That would be two challenges then.

Brock Meles.

The day had been warm and the laughter, shouts and obscenities echoing from the day-trippers had died off as the sun dipped below the harvested hills. An occasional clank of boat life drifted down the embankment along with cooking smells wafting on the autumn breeze.
In the fading light Brock shuffled down the burrow to the mouth of the sett and placed his chin on the ground.

Feeling for vibrations through his whiskers he determined there were no more walkers on the towpath now. Out of habit born from caution he lifted his nose to sense what else was happening around the canal above him.    There was the oily smell of the floating metal things nearby, a vixen and her kittens were on the prowl on the other side of the water. The beasts that fouled the meadow were all at the far end of the field. As he crouched beneath the brambles tonight he could still faintly smell the old scent of his father who had carved this home and left his marks. Catching his nose too, was a wisp from the marshland bog that had grown nearby and now attracted frogs and newts, a doubtful legacy of Bardo’s foolishness.

Although the growth of the bog worried Brock, it may encourage Millie and Lizzy to bring on their next lot of cubs. This had been a dry season and until the bog formed there had been little food nearby. Now there were worms and frogs aplenty and the berry bushes were providing good crop. More food meant more cubs and more cubs are a reason to dig a further den in the set.  Brock was worried about digging here, his father had taught him caution, never to dig too high in the embankment.
Subconsciously Brock instinctively licked at his wound and that reminded him of Bardo returning to the set smelling of clay.
Brock had guessed there was treachery afoot and went out last night looking for the site of Bardo’s industry. He found it not far away, Bardo had started a burrow up the embankment where the sandy soil was quick easy work . It was the confirmation Brock needed,  Bardo did want to steal Millie and Lizzy and den their new cubs.
This could never happen.
Bardo's burrow was small but Brock’s fears were confirmed. He found Bardo had dug right up to the clay and water had started to seep through. This was what Brock’s father had warned him about and he quickly began to back-fill the burrow and retreat to the entry intending to collapse it , to scent mark the area, and to teach Bardo, once and for all time, who was head badger.
Bardo however had had other ideas, and following Brock out that night, had crept up and attacked from behind.  Bardo was no match for Brock’s 12 kilos and 5 years of fighting skill. By launching the surprise attack though Bardo had managed to tear a strip of flesh from Brock’s shoulder and rip open the sinew of his ear. Brock was already angry and  was then merciless enough to guarantee Bardo could never return to the sett again.

     A gentle movement now behind Brock broke into his victory reminiscences. With a final check of the air he grunted and let Millie and Lizzy past so they could forage, nosing both of them to check their condition.
He watched as they disappeared into the freshly turned field looking for fresh morsels.
Tonight Brock had decided to take the cubs to the new marsh and teach them how to catch some tasty frogs. With a growl he summonsed the cubs to the entrance and made them wait.  Smelling the air and feeling for movement through the earth Brock moved away to ensure the route to the marsh was safe. Other than the acrid smells from the distant village Brock was satisfied they were alone and with a soft grunt he called the cubs to him. With nips and squeals, tumbles and trips the cubs attacked the marshland with enough noise and vibration to scare everything but the slowest of worms into deep cover.
This frog catching lesson was going to take some time.

Brock flattened some reeds down for the cubs to start hunting. They jumped in with glee more at the prospect of the hunt than to stave off hunger as they were still being fed on milk and pre-chewed food. 
Despite all the fighting and digging going on at that moment Brock detected a worrying vibration and lifted his head to take a breath. He stood still and took another.  Yes,  the confirmation was there, that rancid grease and stale flesh smell, wafting around from a position up-wind. He had no idea how close they were and let out a low warning grumble. The cubs dropped to the ground and Millie and Lizzy arrived silently to huddle them all into a tight group. Brock stood tall and again smelt the air.
The sense was closer now although the vibrations had stopped.
He gave a bark to action.
Millie led the way and Lizzy herded the stragglers quickly back to the sett.
Brock followed, checking back constantly.
He dashed through the fence as the ground vibrated from the hunter’s footfalls. Simultaneously the branches overhead splintered and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of soil. A boom sounded and more twigs splintered, a sharp searing pain burnt into his flank and another boom filled the air. Brock dived down the mouth of the sett making sure the others were all deep inside. Immediately he twisted around to bite at the burning hole in his side and with his teeth he grabbed at and bit out a small hard thing. The burning subsided and with his whiskers brushing the wall of the burrow he felt the hunter’s foot vibrations approaching over the field outside.

Fred watched the quarry disappear into the brambles and laughed at Henry,  “Ya missed ‘im ya daft bugger!”
“ I hit ‘im but owt but rabbit shot.  Tha said nowt ‘bout there being badgers.”
“ Aw shit!" Fred swore as he sunk ankle deep into the marsh.  "Fook the badgers, 'Enry, this whole bloody canal’s goin’ to give way!”
                                                                      ~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~

The repairs to the embankment took six months and the badger protection group lost their battle to prevent baiting. But hopefully, what with all the protesters picketing about Tuberculosis, the smelly, noisy machinery bought in to dam the canal and the workers sent to re-build the embankment, I really hope Brock and the girls moved out long before the baits were laid. I doubt Brock's kind will ever again live around Gargrave since the newspapers said he was the epitome of evil, spreading disease and threatening to flood the village.

Action Hero

To write about a hero, an action hero or write a script about an action hero..  I chose the Arab Spring conflicts as a backdrop.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He kicked me hard, once more re-arranging me like some baggage loose on the pounding truck bed. Unsupported now, my head bounced constantly on the ridged steel in stabs of searing pain. Cable ties locked my wrists to my ankles and the sharp plastic sawed into my flesh with every crash of the suspension.  I lay in stinking waves of my own piss, bile and blood. As near as I could figure it, from the fading light that seeped into my blindfold, we had been smashing through this rough terrain for a couple of hours.  I had guessed they were dispossessed Tuareg fighters by the veiled faces of the men and the open anger on the clear dark skin of the warrior girl’s face holding the AK47.  She had held it in practiced steady aim at my heart as her partner dragged me roughly out from the back of our car.

We'd thought we had made it too. Fourteen hours driving cautiously through the dessert, bribing or cajoling at roadblocks and avoiding the wrecks of a confused regime change. The Algerian border was half an hour behind us and Emile and François had been singing in the front seat.  We'd rounded another cutting, this time to be confronted with a burnt out tourist bus blocking the passage. Spotting movement behind the wreckage Emile had immediately jammed the car into reverse and tried to swing it around, but a battered Toyota shot out of the gap and blocked his retreat. Immediately we were looking at the wrong end of well used artillery and no escape or excuse was going to work. Francois had been killed as soon as he reached for his weapon, an act of reflex more than intent. Probably reflex on both sides, but Francois, my protector for the last two years was no more. A rough bag had been shoved over my head blinding and stifling me as I was pushed onto the back of the truck and cruelly bound. That was probably about four hours ago and the only words I had ever heard were a brutish, “no talk” followed by what felt like a rifle butt to the back of my head. I was now wishing for the welcome of unconsciousness, which regrettably came to me in only short bursts.
                       ~ / ~
My eyes scratch open and I come around, my world has stopped moving.
I have no idea where I am, what place I have been taken to or why I have been captured.
My bindings have been cut but there is almost no movement in my fingers and I am unable to stand.
I lay on a sand-covered cement floor in a stale room with a barred window and one steel door, alone. 
An aridness beyond description racks my throat.  I can't swallow for the dryness of my tongue.
A dry paste coats my mouth and I am sick to my gut..
And there is no noise. None. Not in the distance or nearby, no wind, no voices, no machinery, no sound other than the heartbeat in my ears and the roar of my breath.
I stop breathing, trying to hear anything. I have never experienced such silence and my breath when I exhale catches painfully in my chest, I am in very poor shape.
An old bulk food can lays propped in the corner and I manage to slide and push myself towards it . There is water, and a pink plastic dish floating in it. I fumble for the dish but pull back not wanting to foul the water with the filth I can see on my hand.
I am sick with thirst. My mind is snapped into clarity by the need to figure a way to save the water and get myself a drink.
Right now there is nothing more important. Bringing the backs of my hands together I grab and dip the relatively clean cloth of my shirting, sufficiently damping it to wipe some of the crud from my hands. This excruciating action brings some life to my fingers.
I can grasp the dish and I take a small cautious sip. It is water, stale but clear water. I take one mouthful and wash it around my mouth slowly allowing it to leak down my dust-filled throat . It may well gag me to drink fast and my ribs could not stand a cough.
The slow, wet ecstasy is all consuming,
I feel the water penetrating parched crevasses and a wave of relief flows through me.
I take another mouthful and luxuriate in the sensation, but I catch myself, cautious to limit my intake as I have so little of this water.

I use my damp shirt to wipe at my wounds a bit more, the activity brings more movement to my fingers but not to my feet. I can however now crawl and move around a bit on my knees. A horse gallops up the wall next to me and I realise I am hallucinating.
I crawl over, take another mouthful of water from my pink cup and lie back...

I am a strategist not a fighter, I am not built for this, all the time I've spent behind the battle lines I have had protectors, guys that could drink lead and shit ammunition. Francois had been the latest in a series of these guys the agency had moved onto me. Over the past two years we had been in some worrying places but Francois had managed to keep me insulated from the immediate dangers, he had won my confidence. The man had a presence that demanded respect and attention, he'd possessed a physique and the sickly charm of a matinee idol,  effective in securing the pleasures he sought.

Emile was of a similar cut and was to be his replacement,  He was scheduled to take over when we reached Algiers. God only knew what had happened to Emile back at the ambush, I had not heard another shot so I could only imagine his fate. 
I had had little time to get to know Emile.  
To be effective he and I would have had to have come to understand each other very well indeed.
Correct decisions have to be made instantly in our world, but like today, decisions may not always be the right ones.
Wrong decisions can be fatal in our line of work.

Emile was a chisel jawed athlete and from what I had seen, and unlike Francois, Emile was a ladies man. He exuded a hungry sexuality. 
Before our departure from Sirt, I had wondered if I could ever completely rely on Emile to stay focused on my safety as his primary role.
I had begun to warm to him during our escape though.
While Francois had shielded and escorted me, Emile proved his abilities, dispatching four guards bare handed and silently to their eternal futures. He had pulled the bent bodywork free from the wheels of our escape vehicle using brute force and I was thinking he was one of that breed of near immortals. 
Strange then. 
It would have taken a lot for the Tuareg to contain him, and I sat considering...
What could have happened to him, 
I had heard no struggle no shouting no shot. I ponder and my own pains surge.

It is deathly quiet here…… .......... .........

Author's note...(This story may continue at a later date….. I think it has some legs…. Emile could rescue the narrator.  I think a really unlikely yet endearing name for the narrator could be Tristram Boddington-Fforbes, it would force him to use a pseudonym, say, my personal favourite Max West, there would be international intrigue, spy scandals, regime influencing, sex stories and victories in battles through the Arab nations, but all the time there will be a growing reliance on Emile,,,,, but with a niggling, uncomfortable, underlying unresolved distrust……)

Components of interconnectedness

The task this week was to let one of the Savage sketcher's works act as muse for a story in a thousand words.

This sketch was chosen and I selected one component of the drawing to build my story around.

Interconnected COMPONENTS

Artemesia looked on as her father scraped the remaining hair from Paquita’s white hide and she secretly wiped away another tear.
Artemesia had been weeping on and off ever since she discovered Paquita laying cold and still when she had gone to milk her. It was hard to accept the absence, she would miss Paquita’s warmth in the mornings, her calm in the evenings. Her goaty friend would no longer stand and listen patiently to her troubles and wonderings as she was milked. It was even tougher to watch on now as dad showed her how Paquita’s passing was to be honoured. She had observed the harvesting of meat they could eat, she had gathered up the hair for yarn that would be made from her last shearing, and as usual, but especially this time Artemesia was a key part of the hide tanning and softening.  So many uses can be had from this fine skin. Yet despite the honour, more tears came.
      ~/~
Stood on the hillside, Montez watched exhausted as his dad grasped the smooth hardwood handle and took grip of the axe, wielding it cleanly into the cleft Montez had chopped behind the face cut. With just four final and mighty strikes his dad felled the massive tree safely away from them and onto level ground. Montez knew how much work was required from this day forward but he was enjoying the work now, knowing he had selected a fine solid tree. This trunk would provide him and his dad much tightly grained timber with which they would make many beautiful things.
     ~/~
Enrique trudged painfully along the village street towards his shop regretting a night spent on the blanco tequila in Garibaldi plaza. Working in his little abattoir may earn him a living but it wasn’t a good one. Today at least he would be doing light work, although to be honest, separating offal for its different uses was not the most pleasant of jobs.  As if any job in his line of work were pleasant.  Enrique’s morning-after stomach crawled at the thought of stripping and cleaning the stench from bowel sections but he did have customers for the gut and his brother always wanted some of the best lengths..
    ~/~
Akiro became more and more pleased as he thumbed through the text on his blackberry. This Keith fellow sounded like he had played a bit and from what he was saying, it looked like he knew his stuff. Last weekend at Whitelocks, Peggy and Andrew had agreed to invite him in and hopefully the new guy would fit to their style. Akiro was determined to prove his parents wrong about his life choice, as strange as they thought it was.
    ~/~
It had been almost eight weeks now but Artemesia had kept track of which hide was Paquita’s and today she made sure she was the one who removed it from it’s tanning frame. It may not really have been the case but she was sure Paquita’s calm beauty still shone from this skin that she now rinsed and caressed. The hide certainly had benefited from the care Artemesia had lavished on it. Smooth, even and flexible it was almost transparent and would be a high priced sample for the buyers at the village market. Artemasia intended to hold out for as many pesos as she could to honour her goat friend’s spirit.

Montez was shaping some chair legs in the sunshine as she walked past his shop and she smiled at him when he caught her eye. ‘Beautiful day for a beautiful senorita” he grinned.
Artemesia blushed slightly but stopped to look at his work. “you make lovely things”
“I thank you pretty lady, but this beauty is already in the wood, I just let it come out”.
She looked up from the items he had crafted and Montez was staring at her.
She felt the heat rise in her face again.
“What is that you have there?” he asked.
“It is Paquita’s hide, I am wanting to sell it today” she said as she held it closer to her chest.
“May I see it? If it is better than your best I may be able to save you the walk to market!”. Reluctantly Artemasia released her hold and allowed Montez to assess her handiwork.
“Oh, senorita,” smiled Montez, “This is a very fine hide. May I buy it from you?”
“Make sure he gives you a good price!” Called out Enrique from inside the doorway “he tries to pay cheap for my stuff so you make sure you drive a hard bargain senorita”.
    ~/~
Akiro and Peggy were the first to arrive at the lock-up and having rolled the door up started sweeping out the usual grot and rodent droppings before opening the boxes and setting up the amp and mics. Andrew strolled in about ten minutes later and immediately plugged in his base to run off the new riff he’d been working up. They discussed some chords and Peggy layered some viola plucks and notes over it.  Akiro tried a melody and the riff slowly gained shape.  Keith stood watching unobserved for a moment from the door. He had not considered that a Japanese guy would be a rasta-man, that had made him pause rather than walk straight in as he normally would have. Anyway it gave him the chance to see how tight they sounded and he was pleased the bass player was delivering a crisp edge that the music needed.
“Hi” called the viola player once she'd spotted him standing there.
“You must be Keith” Akiro said, “Come in, glad you could make it”.  Introductions were exchanged and as Andrew shook his hand he eyed the conga drum.
“Can I have a look at your quinto” he asked. “Where did you get it?” and they fell to discussing makers and skins until Akiro and Peggy chipped in and the afternoon rolled away into a bit of jamming and a few beers.
At around nine that night the three original members were laying around in Peg’s flat. Andrew, getting up for another can said “Well, I reckon the bloke’s going to fit in okay”.
“I loved the drum, Andy.” said Peggy, ‘it sounds so beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s some shit Mexican make, never heard of it, but that skin was magic wasn’t it? And a good gut binding, body hand carved. Buggered how they do it for the price.”
“Yeah, all good." Interrupted akiro, "But if he does come and join us on Saturday we’re going to have to set up a stand for him, he doesn’t know our stuff”.
“That’ll be okay Akiro-san, Andy can lead him along for a while.”
“Yeah, I’ll stand behind him, we’ll work it out, no probs.” ......

An almost invisible life

Task was to write about invisible in 1000 words.


A long time ago, in a county far away from where he later lived, Max was born into a commune of Hunter Gatherers, as they liked to be known. The famers and townsfolk referred to the commune dwellers as thieves,  whores and dope-heads but Max would live for some time before he understood the difference.

Max was an unassuming boy with no outstanding physical features. It was hard to distinguish him from any of the other children being parented by the group. I mention this group parenting because years ago the group decided that all children should be raised equally by all members, with mothers sharing their nurturing to any child requiring a feed and all the males sharing care and providing authority over all children. Every child was expected to be given equal affection and support by the members of the group, to promote a sense of peace, protection and communal love. This group parenting was decided at a council of the originators because it had soon become apparent, from the open satisfaction enjoyed by all members, that no-one in the group could ever be certain which coupling had fathered which child. The system had worked well and no one ever thought to change it.
As an observer I guess I could say it allowed the members of the group to relinquish individual responsibility over specific children and gave barren members both the pleasure and the duty of parenting. It is beyond me to make any criticism of the structure given its continued and mainly successful longevity.

But I was talking about Max, I have been researching his development with some interest. Max was never a troublesome child nor was he adventurous or slow witted. Like many of the children, Max was content. Content to be fed, content to do as he was directed and content with the comforts he received when hurt or upset. Some of the children found cause to seek more attention by performing brave or clever acts and so they became known as individuals but mostly the kids all grew up together and slowly became members of the commune. I guess it is a comfortable way to live in a sort of a heard protectorate, but I must not bring my social values to what is clearly a close and caring community.
There were high minded and well educated individuals in the commune who as part of their contribution willingly educated the young ones not only in the way of the commune but, in a surprising nod to awareness and responsibility, they also taught the kids the skills of literacy and numeracy. In fact the level of education has allowed many of the children to pass institutional exams and to gain real world certificates. Max, to his due, was a moderate student who achieved passes but did not excel or fail in any particular field. I remark on this purely because of the unlikely basis from which these achievements are obtained and, honestly, it flies in the face of my logic.
It will not be a surprise to you though, if I say that in time Max’s hormones developed and his dissatisfaction and rebellion slowly rose above the platitudes and calming words of the elders of the commune. I would like to say that this disobedience within the commune was seen as a mark distinguishing Max as an individual, but the group had seen it all before and knew in time Max would either calm down , or if he left, would return, as so many offspring had done in the past. If he didn’t come back that was fine too. It was an ordinary part of the commune experience and Max was allowed the space to make his decisions with the gentle guidance of the commune ringing in his ears. Not unlike many before him, Max decided to leave the commune and find work and experiences in the outside world. Well, not in the outside world nearby, because the farmers and towns folk were not all that accommodating. By now Max had understood the difference between hunter gatherer and stalker thief.  It is my presumption though that while he knew the disparity he saw no ethical difference. I say this because of his general lack of observance to common law from the moment he left the commune. I make reference here to his early fare evasion and petty theft.
It must be said that these minor crimes did not earn him any special attention from the authorities and permanent records of his early years were not retained against his name. I presume Max either became wiser in avoiding consequences or very cleverly avoided being observed in suspect activities. I do know he established a home with a girlfriend who was employed in a semi professional role and that he for some years sought benefits but also held a number of part-time jobs in hotels, betting shops and as a builder’s labourer on major sites around Leeds. There is no record of his marriage and Max’s name does not appear on the birth records of the children his partner bore. In fact if you were planning a life of insignificance and low profile you could not do much better than to match Max’s seemingly practiced triviality.

That may seem to you to be a strange comment, but of course you are unaware that I am referring to the Holbeck Hacker. It has taken me seven years to link the back street slaughters of all seventy two victims and to find the one common link that directed me to Max.  A simple hg scrawled in the victim’s blood next to every eviscerated corpse. That, and the fact that every victim had used a cash machine and all items of value were removed post mortem had led police to focus on known thugs with the initials or connections to any pseudonym of H.G.
Max Kristofferson of course was never a suspect as he was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the society in which he hunted and gathered. (hg)

The End.

Magazine

July 25 meeting was to write something about magazine. 
I had fun writing this, I hope you enjoy trying to follow it.

The view and the heavy curtains were good reasons for choosing this hotel, that and its rear lane access and easily disabled cctv. The drapes shield me as I scan the roadway outside again, I'm checking doorways, corners, and café seats for bystanders. The long window allows me a wide range of sight and I check that my movements do not betray the stillness of the drapes. I glance back across the bed as I hear people walk down the corridor outside the room. A crack of sunlight from the gap in the curtains cuts a diagonal line across the disheveled sheets and I recall the knowing smile the maid gave me when I tipped her well and requested no room service.

That was yesterday and thankfully, as I look down on the street my cover doesn’t seem to have been compromised.  As a reward for my escape I gently tear the cellophane off my last Puro dÓro and catch its thick spicy scent. I drop into the armchair by the window kicking off my shoes and anticipate the bitter chocolate taste and the warm leather smell I know will come as I draw slowly back.
My glance falls again on the beautiful shapes laid bare on the bed. Deathly still now, spent and cold. Not ever to be co-joined again, just grey-blue forms, bereft of their heat and void of their urgent energies, I am deprived forever of their tactile activity. I see them as used and now useless but I note they retain a fragrance from the oils I rubbed over them. From their recent activity they still exude the wondrous odors I anticipated initially. I must be rid of them. I regret the decay they will suffer when abandoned and I chide myself for becoming attached to them. Without thinking, I blow a ring and stream of smoke over their lifeless shapes and that line of sunlight cuts whitely between them, highlighting the depressions their dead weight makes in the bedding.
Tonight I will bind each of them separately and dispose of them individually, one well-weighted will be drowned in the deepest channel of the river, heavy enough so the spring flow will not dislodge it. The other will be slid down the ventilator of a mine shaft many miles from here as I leave this city for the last time. And that will be the end of all of this. No witnesses, no vacuous media idolatry.

I rise and check the footpaths, benches and shop-front awnings again, still no stooges, no one undercover, I am calming by the minute.
There are seven hours before the curfew is lifted and I can leave this room. The view in here however is unsettling, I throw the bedclothes over, not wanting to keep looking at them.
Today was always going to end like this, from the moment Ashif introduced them to me this morning. I knew they would be ideal and I was excited at the prospect of using them in ways I could never do in my own country. I guessed by just looking at them they would enjoy being used. I had rebuked myself for imbuing them with desires similar to mine but I owned them now and they would serve me as I wanted. Ashif gave me some clear warnings which I ignored and he left me alone with them in this room. I stripped them bare and ran my fingers over their every curve and treasure, teasing the tension in them and enjoying immensely the coupling and re-coupling. It took a few hours but I was confident, when needed, they would respond to my every touch and that the urgency, fear and darkness would only enhance the experience.
I had felt ready then, I knew Hakem was leaving at dusk for the private meeting venue and I had ensured the event site was all scoped out.

When dusk eventually came and in the the fading light I grabbed at them perhaps too enthusiastically and with thick woolen coats as disguise headed out into the chill, greying evening. The weather thankfully had turned sour, the wind was driving thin icy rain horizontal through the city canyons and it ensured the stragglers looked down to the pavement and not at me or at what I was gripping. The battered and overflowing rubbish skip was blocking the entrance to the alley just as I had left it, leaving space to get by and providing excellent cover. Without checking for observers I calmly turned into the alley, released them to rest against the wall within easy reach and I un-chocked the skip allowing it to roll forward and block the alley. The first of the police escort bikes crawled past and with flashing lights and loudhailers cleared the sidewalks and stopped all traffic coming from my right.

I was shielded from view and the landings overhead provided protection from the rain, an ideal sniper nest. The angle of the skip gave me a clear view across the intersection and I could see Ashif was parked up and ready to create the diversion. Satisfied that civilian casualties would be minimized I turned to look at my treasures still shrouded in their coat and leaning against the wall. Did I imagine it or were they actually anticipating the slaughter that lay ahead? No time for that sort of thinking. I flung the coat off them and briefly marveled at their raw beauty. Grabbing one in each hand I first released the safety, opened the gate and crashed the magazine into the stock, checking that the first cartridge slid cleanly into the breech. My timing was perfect, the main police escort had crested the hill and Ashif immediately pulled left into the intersection and deployed his water and smoke release. A grinding noise screamed from the truck’s engine and Ashif jumped out, threw up the cab and wildly gesticulating, he made a convincing show of exposing the smoking engine as the source of his problem. The cavalcade had no option but to turn right in front of me and I commenced.
The first six cartridges were incendiary into the fuel tanks of the lead and tailing bikes creating a flaming barrier around my target.  The next six were armor piercing and I dispatched the driver and backup in each vehicle. The convoy, now immobilized in the middle of the intersection had stopped Hakem’s limo adjacent to Ashif’s now abandoned truck and it was time for me to leave as well.  The explosive force from the truck which evaporated Hakem’s Mercedes would have blasted my battered skip back into the alley but I had retreated in time and was well clear.
My return via the hotel’s rear lane was undetected and my return into my room was well within time for me to respond to the emergency procedures the hotel instigated. I had thrown the magnificent weapon and its empty magazine on the bed where they now lay under the covers and had begun my long and systematic checking of the street outside looking for secret police or for any of Hakem's minions who would be intent on finding me. I took another look down the street, all clear still.  I returned to my cigar.
The End.

The following is an email I wrote when I first heard the topic was Magazine upon returning from holiday.  I wanted to record it here as I may write some stories based on the ideas I had then.

Magazine?
.......Located deep underground and safe within the fortifications , piles of rough edged wooden cases, copper covered walls and floors, round brass nail heads securing the soft metal in quilted squares behind pyramid rows of stacked lead projectiles, canvas load-bags full of chain and scrap, the reek of saltpeter and black powder, wax water-proofing soft to the finger's touch, a maze of dark dry corridors whispering the impending disaster of one small spark, one flare of flame or one minuscule act of clumsiness. that would obliterate this entire magazine...
OR, perhaps..... a crowded street, the hard click of a full magazine crashing 30 rounds into it's breech so quickly that their ejected predecessors have not yet reached the ground , the staccato pops of not so distant light armoury echoing off the pitted and graffitied walls of another downtown slumlord's empire.... the innocent public standing stunned or scattering for cover in the classic pattern of mass panic so often seen since the police cut backs.....
NO?... .... maybe a fiction piece on an immoral media giant with the police and politicians in his pocket, secrets, scandal and threatened global financial meltdown should his share prices plummet, no, too far fetched.  maybe I'll just go along and listen..

From all of that the story that did emerge above was probably triggered (pun) by the second idea but I wonder now if the idea wasn't better than the story it spored.

beer, cathederals,prams and redundancy scare

THE FOLLOWING ENTRY SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE TO MY WETHERBY ADVENTURES BLOG BUT ENDED UP HERE THRU PLAIN SILLINESS.  So here it stays as i don't know how to move it.

June was the month to remember.  And I'll start this blog of with some words rather than the usual photo.
Sure, summer has arrived and is pleasant partly because of the beer festivals that continue to amuse us and the many community days that happen. 
I try to ensure these pages concentrate on the good times we have from Wetherby and I hope you read them as such but life is life and things do crop up that are less than pleasant, I just choose not to capture them on these pages for perpetuity.
The most rememberable thing of June however was that Gail's employer announced  REDUNDANCIES for their mobile radiographers (Gail) would be rolled out over two weeks.  There will now be half the mobile vans and the mobile staff will number 47, down from 150.  The stress we lived with for those days was intense and the relief most exquisite when Gail was told that because she could lead days on DEXA vans she was spared from the cut this time. 
We so need her employment as without it we have no work visa and must leave the UK.  From reviewing these pages you could guess WE DON'T WANT TO GOOOOO! 
Just the thought of leaving Wetherby is enough to make us cry right now, we have made many good friends and our life is quite quite pleasant.  So the good news is that we stay, for now.  In February we apply to Her Majesty for our permanent residency (we have studied, sat for and passed the living in the UK test necessary to be able to apply for the permanent leave to remain here) and hopefully our fortunes will become more secure. 
But that is quite enough of the dire side of life.
Let's talk beer festivals.
We have been to three, Boston Spa, Wetherby and Clifford. Photos follow of Wetherby's and Clifford's as I didn't take the camera to Boston Spa.   All were great days, different but similar enough to equally classify as great days. Boston Spa and Clifford finished with a Thai restaurant meal for many and the Wetherby one Gail and I ended up walking back from Rob and Angela's house very early the next morning.
The shots here are of the Wetherby Beer Festival.



 There was a band of kids from the local school doing up to the minute gunge rock and pop covers who were only bearable because of their enthusiasm.  No the blokes below were not them ,  These were a loose gathering of  ex-hippies who all happened to all know some of the same tunes from the 60's and 70's.  They were great in fact and by far more suited to the casual sampling of 30 odd local brewed ales.

 You can see the back of Gail's head here, we met up with Kim Danby (Gail's colleague) and her sister Tessa, also back of head shot, and opposite Gail is Rob Guest and Angela's back of head.  We were quite lucky to secure a table just out of the screaming cry of the grunge boys and while I acknowledge the photo does not capture the mood or the faces, we did enjoy the spot and the day.

 The Wetherby Beer festival is advertised as being family friendly and the bouncy castles etc prove it.

Clifford Beer Festival fell on a near 30 degree heat wave day so the community hall was full to overflowing in the great weather and hundreds of folk turned up for a great bit of sampling and endless talk as well as a bit of music.

 I think this is the best shot I have taken of the ales being pulled , there are usually about 30 local brewed ales a few ciders, a perry or two and some rather scrappy wines.  A pint costs 2 pound 40p a half pint half that. All beer festivals are run to earn funds for local causes so you feel like you are doing good as you progress to feeling gooder and gooder.

 Inside the hall with the beer and the band all got a bit close and crowded,

 So we commandeered the gazebo while a few hundred others sought the shade of trees or lounged on the lawn.  I this shot are my legs, tom the dog, Rob, James Emma, eddie the dog and Angela's knees.

The shot below has nothing to do with festivals but is our local pub, The Muse. It's a short walk from home, has nice clientele, good food and a fine selection of locally brewed ales. 

 But..... Just so you don't think all we do is drink ale, we also go to cultural things and stuff.  This was a fine art auction which we didn't buy anything from but there were Dali's, Picasso's, Ruben's and other cleffa painters and drawers.

 This one below was purported to be an Andy Warhol, but we didn't like it either.  By and large the works did not sell well with many passed in and some selling for little money.  You really have to know what you are buying with this stuff so we didn't.

We also went to a Leeds open art event where young artists get to show their gear and seek reactions from the public.  Here I am taking to Rob in front of his works, he uses veneers and slivers of film to create shapes.  We are going to take delivery of the dog in the bottom left of frame. 

 Of course we live on the Wharfe river, or the River Wharfe to be correct about it.  This time of year the water gets a lot of use, there is the annual raft race where sometimes the teams finish the course.

 There is the annual Pram race in support of the care flight helicopter service which rescues accident victims and received no government funding so we try to help them out in Wetherby.

 There is usually a rock band playing out of the back of a soft sided semi-trailer

 And the River is always spectacular, see the heron in this shot?

 Not in anyway to seek forgiveness we went to Beverly Minster, about an hour or so south of Wetherby.  A Minster is a teaching church and Beverly was quite the destination for pilgrims a few hundred years ago. http://beverleyminster.org.uk/ will tell you all you want to know about it's Gothic and pre Gothic history.

 We were taken up into the rafters to see how it was built.  The man powered walking wheel crane is the only operating medieval one in the world or western Europe or England I didn't pay attention.  Today it is used not to lift stones and roofing timbers but the boss above the organ so tourists like us can look and see down .   It is a fantastic and rare experience for which we are really grateful the church man took the time and enthusiasm to explain to us.

 This is the gilded boss the wheel lifted up, it's about two meters across.

 And this is the view down through the hole it opens looking down 80 foot or so to the top of the huge church organ and prayer space.

 While walking trough the roof space you get to look out through the huge sectioned windows at the top of the spires. This one looks over the old first and second world war air fields and into many of the slivers of ancient glass, people have etched their names and drawn images of air planes of the ages.  From bi-planes to the shuttle with early jets and recent fighters all featuring.  Most interesting.

 This is a rose from our bush in the back garden.  I only include it because the picture turned out so good.

 Also in our back yard.

 And a great shot Gail took of a couple of young blokes angling in the Wharfe just below the bridge into town.

 And because I have to Gail says here is the furry animal shot for June. (it and the Clifford beer festival actually were in early July but who cares really.)

It's just cosmetic really

Task set for June 29 2011 was to use Random or Chaos in a piece. I chose to use the phrase random acts of chaos just because I thought it might be fun. The story that came up was nothing like I expected.
It’s just cosmetic

Wrinkle treatment.

Disaster happens often in our lives.

I like the use of the word disaster because disaster is such a widely abused term. Also it mostly overstates any event it is used to describe. In fact a disaster is coined for anything from leaving your keys at the pub, to a population destroying tsunami.
Such a flexible word.
Disaster.
It's on a personal scale the real sense of the word can be felt. A disaster, can be a death, or an accident or a health catastrophe. In these shaky times it may be a financial disaster played out in a microcosm of the world’s present fiscal calamity.
When disaster does happen, the person usually experiences a series of emotions. Initially denial, then anger, negotiation, sadness and finally, acceptance. (REF: Kübler-Ross Curve theorem of human reaction to grief)
I see large and some personal disasters played out on the screen of my wide HD and it never ceases to amaze me how concise these reactions are when displayed upon the faces of the ones experiencing the disaster.
The reactions seem not to be of any differing nature regardless if it is a person or a group.  As the story is progressed through persistent journalism I commonly see creased looks of shocked disbelief flash across the screen as their reality dawns. Next we witness contorted grimaces of refusal or resistance, shown from a distance usually, with the mouths blurred, to prevent offending the lip readers in the audience.
It is then frequently the case that I notice an individual or group who, finally having realised they hold the lesser force, take their taught-faced countenances into discussion either directly or via an intermediary journalist.
Some time later we are shown either a forced smile of concession stretched over a loser's expression or, if the cameraman was lucky, a quick close-up of a tear rolling down a cheek from the eye.

I regard these emotional facial portraits as a predictable progression but I also note that the process leaves a trail of worn lines on the countenances digitized on my screen. I call them facial creasing, you may refer to them as age, worry lines or wrinkles, depending on your sensitivity.
Face creasing not only happens to the people on my TV but can be seen on everyone.
I became interested in this facial record of responses to life and I see the people I know, even myself, performing true to this 5 point emotive script in any occurrence of what each of us calls our disaster.
We all wear the lines from random acts of chaos on our faces in lines and overworked skin and I think they simply record the usual wear and tear from life.

It is good therefore my HD provides, handily, a wonderful variety of topical rectifications to cover these time worn histories, or which promise to de-etch the record of the past from our external facial covering.
I note there are creams, and scrubs and oils and cleansers and covers and fillers and un-blockers and dissolvers and highlighters and glosses and attachments and procedures and exercises and sounds and lights and pluckers and vibrators and removers and … well, an endless assortment of facial record alterers.

Mainly, I have to say, these are targeted at the female disaster facial record, a susceptible audience it seems as study shows females have been rubbing and peeling and smearing and dabbing and soaking and filling and covering for as long as history can track such things. Males on the other hand mostly wash their countenances and lament the passing of their looks and abilities. Although recently my HD is telling me now men really should be doing the same sort of countenance rectifications that their female counterparts have been doing for centuries. Why? I do wonder at the necessity for this as, by and large, males have not been doing much of it in the past and I am thinking the people I know of a certain age, regardless of gender, all appear to be,,, about that certain age.

It has been difficult I will admit, but I have separated myself from the HD on some occasions to visit with people I know and to witness some don’t know in order to substantiate my theory.
I have been scientific about this.
I have sought input from males and females whom I have not told of the purpose my observational exercise.
It has been with no small satisfaction that my research has revealed that when asked to estimate the approximate age of groups of people, all of a similar known age, both genders make a guess at the ages to within 5 years of the actual age of the group or person targeted.
I have set up meetings of old school friends, all of the same age and asked passers-by to guess the ages of the females and of the males. The same applies, reliably 4-5 years within the age for both genders. So the rubbing and creaming and cleansing and, and,… that the females dedicate so much time and resources to has no effect what-so-ever.

Well that is my conclusion.

To this end I was all ready to be starting a national awareness campaign that a few thousand years of rubbing, cleansing, spreading, scraping, etc…. has done nothing to make females look any younger than they are.
But then I thought if I took the international cosmetic economy apart before we sorted out Greece, Spain, Ireland and Portugal, and recovered from tsunami, nuclear contamination, crop failure, climate change, Afghanistan, the Arab spring and middle-east disasters,,,, my timing might be considered irresponsible.

I initially reasoned it was not that important. denial, But it did make me cross that so much money and time is wasted for no effect anger,. I tried to talk to Unilever about it negotiation, but got rather sad sadness as they ignored my calls and emails, so I guess I’ll just watch some more TV. and finally acceptance.

REF: Kübler-Ross Curve theorem of human reaction to grief :

Guess the emotion

Task for the June 15 meet was to write a piece that others had to guess the emotion of.
I chose to set a scene and write two different emotive responses to the scene.

Grarwk.
I spat out a mouth full of gritty pap and drew in a desperate breath. A stabbing pain stopped it at a gasp.
There is a bloody and shattered hand right in front of my eye, I can’t look away. The flesh is ripped from its stark white bone and the pulsing blood is forming a pool in the dirt. Searing pains arc my back and I feel like I'm twisting out of shape. I can’t seem to move but there are now other things I’m aware of, the hand is hurting.
Its my hand.
I can’t move it. I can’t stop looking at it, I can’t blink, my eye hurts to move and now everything is blurring with a red haze.
I move my head and an agony stabs white hot tendrils through my face. My other hand comes and smears dirt and blood across my skin. The flesh on my face is shredded, my left eyelid doesn’t close and my eye is stinging madly and now goes dark.. Something soft but incredibly heavy is pinning my legs together and I want to roll away from the torture. Muscles spasm and I am in a world of woe and trouble.
A thicker blanket of agony descends as my life fills with a sound of tearing metal and a huge mass slides upwards and away. My body is lifted momentarily then flopped agonizingly supine and I can now see from my other eye. A flaccid human form hangs grotesquely suspended from a torn metal opening above me. I make a guess it was that softened lump of flesh which had cusioned me from the crushing mass. The twisted heap creaks again and settles with a shudder from it's graunching slide. The hanging body sways, ruptures, slumps momentarily then drops down towards me. I try urgently to escape but a wall of pain blanks me into unconsciousness.  (so that's the scene, not the emotion)
(First Emotion , using that scene)

I am snapped back into my hellhole of agony. I am screaming and swearing . My body is getting tortuously moved. In a flash I am cognisant. I am freezing and wet but I recognise the strobe flashing of emergency lights. The air is rank with the smell of burning , I gag on the reek of charred flesh, flaming oil and smoldering plastic.
Now I am yelling again with the pain of being pulled at roughly and I cough up a putrid paste of bile and blood. I try to raise my hand but it's trapped and the effort drives a wave of indescribable agony forcing another inhuman scream from me..
An hoarse voice from somewhere near yells, “ Hold it! ... Morphine!, Vent kit!, Over Here!” and then closer and less urgent, another voice, firm, female ,
“Hi there, we need you to keep very still. You are badly hurt. We are giving you something for the pain. Please don’t try and move. Do you understand?” I can’t reply but I try to nod my head. It is trapped in a cage and I panic for a moment or two, then a sickly wave of euphoria sweeps over me. I give up all attempts to move, my body fails me and I lie, still, calmer.
Kind faces wearing hard hats are looking at me. A hand places something on my blank left eye and then other things are put on my face. The heads in hats move around as the scene moves and a voice says,
“Close your eye we are going to cover your face while we move you to safety”.
I am on a plank and I am floated to a brighter place which is quiet and smells clean.
A new voice keeps asking me to squeeze my hand if I can do things and it talks calmly to me and says many things. My plank jostles beneath me and I hear a muffled siren.

I am told it has been four weeks since the accident but my reflection in this mirror is still horrific to me. There is a slight familiarity as the swelling is going down but I still can’t recognise myself. Perhaps when the stitches come out and all the tubes are removed…..
I have had visits from the police, family, some mates have come. They all ask questions I can’t answer. Slowly, gradually, small fact at a time, I have been informed about that Friday night. I honestly still have no recollection of anything around it. I find the events as they are drip fed to me all but impossible to believe. As I look at the torn face in the mirror and I think of who he is, I can’t believe I am responsible. I wonder if there has been some mistake in the evidence, if a witness has got it wrong, if the blood tests got mixed in the lab. If half of it is true then the loss of a hand and an eye goes no way towards a just penalty for the devastation and destruction I caused to their families. 
(regret)

(Second emotion, using the first scene again)
Grarwk.
I spat out a mouth full of gritty pap and drew in a desperate breath. A stabbing pain stopped it at a gasp.
There is a bloody and shattered hand right in front of my eye, I can’t look away. The flesh is ripped from its stark white bone and the pulsing blood is forming a pool in the dirt. Searing pains arc my back and I feel like I'm twisting out of shape. I can’t seem to move but there are now other things I’m aware of, the hand is hurting.
Its my hand.
I can’t move it. I can’t stop looking at it, I can’t blink, my eye hurts to move and now everything is blurring with a red haze.
I move my head and an agony stabs white hot tendrils through my face. My other hand comes and smears dirt and blood across my skin. The flesh on my face is shredded, my left eyelid doesn’t close and my eye is stinging madly and now goes dark.. Something soft but incredibly heavy is pinning my legs together and I want to roll away from the torture. Muscles spasm and I am in a world of woe and trouble.
A thicker blanket of agony descends as my life fills with a sound of tearing metal and a huge mass slides upwards and away. My body is lifted momentarily then flopped agonizingly supine and I can now see from my other eye. A flaccid human form hangs grotesquely suspended from a torn metal opening above me. I make a guess it was that softened lump of flesh which had cusioned me from the crushing mass. The twisted heap creaks again and settles with a shudder from it's graunching slide. The hanging body sways, ruptures, slumps momentarily then drops down towards me. I try urgently to escape but a wall of pain blanks me into unconsciousness.
I am brought suddenly back into a world of dust by the call of “MAN DOWN! Man Down!” The call goes back down the line and I try to repeat it. I choke on a lump of phlegm but cough up thick blood. I realise I am the man down.
I look around to see if I am alone.
Grant is lying beside me, at least half of him is.
I hear the sound of small arms fire nearby and wince as Mike dive-slides in beside me.
“Stay still mate” he yells as he drags me clear from what is left of Grant and the APC*.
“The boys are providing cover.  Firing at fuckin' nothing they are.” 
Then, closer he says “You caught an IED** dead centre mate.
We’ll get you clear, no worries, but keep quiet and don’t move”.
I do as he says.
I know he is risking his life but I know I’d do the same.
I also know I never want to have to. 
(gratitude)

* (APC) Armoured Personnel Carrier
** (IED) Improvised Explosive Device