Tuesday, 1 August 2017

A Fine Line in History

My attempt at Sci Fi.  Written in my early days as a writer.

A Fine Line in History
The year is 62,000BRW (Before Roger Waters) and time is a very unfamiliar thing. Days are not even invented, life is ungovernable. Day comes, day goes, and night comes and stars twinkle, as they have always done. Nature's creatures go about their ritual of survival and reproduction, foraging for the plentiful food supplies that abound.
In a distant land that would one day become Yugoslavia, a tribe of CroMagnum men, women, and children cower under the sky, the threatening spring thunderstorm hovering over their very existence. The cluttered, heavily forested landscape hides their existence from prying eyes of the great predators overhead, and muffle their sounds from the forest creatures seeking the weak and infirm for prey.
Hunkered down in their sparse cave, the tribe is going about their daily ritual, the slaughter of the deer being butchered and hung to mature, and the hides being expertly crafted into fashionable clothing for the children and mothers. The menfolk are all gathered around the fire, patiently talking of the hunt, sharing in the ritual of the sherbet root, and the Daytura leaf tea. All the men that is except one!
Hunkered back in the group, almost lost to obscurity, is the young thinker in the tribe, Crickstigbo. The eternal dreamer, the reluctant hunter, the predisposed painter and recorder of the tribes history on the caves walls, the drawer of the sky and the orator of the tribes history. Crickstigbo rarely gathered with his fellow hunters, finding the fascinating world of his dreams more to his liking, and the artistry of his daubing his main pleasure.
But poor Crickstigbo was disturbed this wondrous evening by an event from the night past gone. His mind shifted now to his drawings and the recognition of the disaster he had drawn. It had troubled him all day during the hunt, forcing his mind from the activity going on around him. So much so that he had almost become sabre tooth tiger meal, if not for his lightning fast youthful reflexes, and the timely interference of his brothers skilful lance thrust. The thought of the chaos he had created had totally overridden his normal survival processes and caused his premature departure to the after world.
One of the elders, Crickstigbo's Uncle Trughotjk, spied the troubled youth sitting back from the gathering, and noted the tense stress marks on his weathered and tanned brow. He excused himself from his fellow hunters, and limped over to the far off figure.
"Huh, Crickstigbo, what's troubling you my boy?" The low guttural grunting sound so deep it nearly shook the cave and all in it, but the sense of warmth and worry strained every vocal utterance.
It drew Crickstigbo's attention, washing away the deep thought of his dilemma, if only for a short while.
"Huh, hello Uncle," replied the troubled orator, his voice laced with serious contemplation. "I'm just thinking you know."
"Yeah, I noticed, but what on Grafdesgat's back have you been thinking about. Been at it all day, haven't you?" The old man, almost bent double as his forty three years sagged under his decaying strength, reached a gnarled hand to his favourite nephew, grabbing the younger man's hand and pulling him to his feet so that they could talk eye on eye.
"Come, tell me your problem, it must be very grave indeed to trouble you so, and if it troubles you, it troubles me."
"Uncle, I did something last night, and I am very afraid of what I have done, very afraid." The normally placid Crickstigbo was shaking as he said these words, his fear obvious for all the tribe to see.
Of course, in a society where very little vocalising took place, the long discourse now had the whole tribes attention, all gathered in the cave now aware of the young mans' discourse.
Trughotjk placed a great hairy arm around the poor boy, and sensing the import of his words, and the nervousness of his fellow tribal conclave, he ushered Crickstigbo back towards the darker end of the cave, to the cavern offshoot that was Crickstigbo's room and the repository for his paintings. They both skirted through the deerskin-covered portal, and into the lard lamp-lit room that the door led to.
The old man surveyed the room, marvelling at the talented work on display, the history of his group. As the leader, he felt a sense of pride that his tribe could record their life, as no other group he knew of had attained such dextrous skill yet. The drawings of deer, birds, eagle, beer, and wild cattle abounded, as did the latest fascination of the boy, the sky pictures.
He also marvelled at the thoughts his historian had expounded, the sounds he made that paralleled nature's song, and his attempt to tame the day with signs signifying parts of the daytime and night-time too. But he also thought the poor boy crazed at times with his attempts to get other members of the tribe to follow his lead.
"Uncle, I have done something that will alter life as we know it forever, something that is so against nature that it will through everything into chaos, and I can't get rid of it, no matter how hard I try." Crickstigbo's staccato admission immediately grabbed the old man's attention.
The boy turned towards a dim end of the cavern, pointing to a strange object drawn on the wall. Trughotjk's incomprehension spread across his face at the strange drawing, and a trickle of fear sweat edged its way across his cheek. His nephew's thought telepathized to his mind, and the concepts that entered frightened him, breaking loose in his mind, the destruction of their life as plain to see as day was against night.
"Get rid of it, now!" commanded the frightened CroMagnum Chief. "Get rid of it, I say, I see nothing but bad coming from this."
"But Uncle, I can't, no matter how I try it just won't go away, and I fear it will never go away now. You have seen it, and I have seen it, and it is there forever now, in our minds, and in the future of our lives."
The exasperated leader crouched to the floor of the cavern, the thoughts of the strange drawing clouding his mind, confusing the shapes of his natural world. He had seen something of it before, but never like this! The trees were almost the nearest to the shape in his world, or perhaps the odd crack in a rock, but this one was starker, more distinct than anything he had seen before. And yes, in his mind, he too saw chaos coming from it.
"What do you call it, Crickstigbo, this linear interference to natures existence, this mind numbing threat to our sheer existence, what is it called?" Trughotjk's grizzled gruff question eating into the heavy air of the cave.
"Well, Uncle, I haven't really given it much thought, but there may be something in what you say that would adequately do. I like your reference to lineal interference in nature’s existence, something rings about that." The orator mused for a second, then looked at the figure again, realising the straight drawing needed a proper description, and the thoughts started to flow, eventually settling into a logical pattern. L for lineal, I for interference, I for in, N for Nature, E for existence.
"How about we call it a LIINE, Uncle, L, I, I, N, E. The sounds match the drawing and the thoughts I have had match the connotation of those sounds."
Plato was foraging through the ancient scrolls unearthed from the capsule in the cave. His travels had taken him many miles, and the cave he had found had provided good shelter for the night, and as it turned out, a treasure trove of such great wealth that it made him wonder at the chance discovery.
The word had been around for some years, the shapes of design also, and all had been attributed to the Sumerians, and to the other ancient cultures of the near past. But the scrolls he now surveyed with his keen brain outdated these by so long he shuddered to think how old they were. The drawings in the cave certainly showed creatures he had never seen before, and amongst them, strange manlike figures in the pursuit of their prey, and in the tasks of their everyday life.
Judging by the work, it was all done by the same artist, the shapes having very similar styles and lines, the work of a great mind. But his attention was repeatedly drawn back to the drawing in the corner. The line, with numerous scratches and smudges on it as if someone had deigned to remove it, stuck out like a sore thumb in the gloom, it's starkness testimony to another's work. Or was it?
Plato was puzzled. This was the first time that he had seen such a line in any cave art, everything before having that flow of nature in its style. So had someone else found this cave since, and done the graffiti to this treasure trove? If that had been the case, then it would be probable that other drawings would have been similarly damaged, and in his inspection of the hidden grotto, there appeared to have never been any life in here for centuries, or longer! His logical mind thought immediately to the line again, and the importance of his find. Did some early ancestor of man already know about the line, contrary to popular belief? If so, why had they tried to destroy what they had created?
Plato mused on this for some time, and finally he reached a decision. Up until the time of this drawing, everything, he assumed, in cave art was shaped to nature, and straight lines were never to be seen when one looked at nature. Almost-lines everywhere, but nothing anywhere that could be deemed dead straight! Ah, eureka!! They were afraid of that line, because it wasn't natural!! Hence the need to get rid of it. Bu they never did. It was evident in all walks of life now, in everything man did. It was the guide to the existence of Homo sapiens. It formed the letters of language, measured the time, moulded the environment of human life, and created the boundaries of existence and conflict.
Head heavily burdened by this thought, Plato lay down on the cavern floor, and suddenly realised that above the invention of tools, the wheel, alchemy and mathematics, the greatest single destruction to nature on earth was a CroMagnum line drawn on a cave way back in the ether of time.
And he wept. As Trughotjk and Crickstigbo had so long ago in the same room, and as Man would for years to come, without fully realising why.

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

Another 2 poems from my archive July 26/7/2017

Both these poems I wrote very early on in my poetry foray whilst active on the Roger Waters Bulletin Board website (RWBBS)  I was raw with poetry.  The first was written when I was in Foxton around 2003 (about a homeless man walking the streets), the latter around 1999 is about seeing the future.

Sandal Shuffle Dawn on Daybreak Avenue

Old man, weathered,
leathered and gray,
Shuffles down the Avenue,
nary a thing to do,
For what's done
has been and gone,
Sandal Shuffle Dawn walks on forever,
All alone!

Daybreak Avenue, awash,
the posh strolling,
and leading their daily rituals,
waiting for death,
vying to breathe,
Sandal Shuffle Dawn stands all forlorn,
His last reprieve.

Sun up and days end, morbid,
The rigid stupidity
of the restless walk of the living,
heads bowed down,
the gauntlet thrown,
Sandal Shuffle Dawn catches the sting,
never knowing!
Lo, there's Daybreak Avenue,
revue of the lifeblood,
caked in the remorseless hopelessness,
of many blinded,
And dumbfounded, it seems,
by the mystical passing of Sandal Shuffle Dawn,
in their dreams.

Can you see that figure?
Caricature of self,
Strolling in your many blessed skins,
That drear feeling,
of life failing,
Can you see the poor men who seek the light?
humans ailing!
If you can,
Thank you,
after all,
ain't Sandal Shuffle Dawn

each of us in waiting?

The Brakeman on the Brain Train

Life, like the steel of the tracks
is unbending only
when you're looking back
'cause you can't see the future as
straight as you'd like
can't catch a vision
on your imagined plight.
I am the Brakeman on the Brain Train today
the signals are switched
pointing the direction my way.

Passed the corners, round everyone's fate,
The driver he sees it
is it him I hate,
or can the desire to forget what has gone
disrupt my scopes
cremate our hopes
and send me reeling as ashes to ashes.
I am the Brakeman on the Brain Train my friends
the line is continuum,
Life never ends.

Baying for blood, the hounds they are howling,
the diners perverse
and the waiters be growling
and the chefs chop the fox up into demeaning pieces
as the viewers look sideways
and dream of their new days
at the prospect of finding a future ahead.
But I am the Brakeman on the Brain Train you scum,
though I only see what's gone
I don't pick up crumbs.

The dreamers and innocent sleep off their fear,
and the Sandman is creeping
as the Reaper is reaping,
And the children and the elderly think of the night,
behind eyelids tight shut
as the Reaper he cuts,
their prospects of continuum to a millennium rent short.
Why I the Brakeman on the Brain Train do cry,
for the ones ahead,
who've been, yet to die.

And the weight of the baggage, the conscience of possession,
the bigger the case,
the larger the obsession
and the miseries contained in the bags of the poor
are reeking their sadness,
the insanity of madness,
and the delusions of grandeur are packed for the ride.
See me, the Brakeman of the Brain Train look back,
at the scattered pieces
Of everyone's sack.

But the signaler is silent and the train it roars on,
and the towns pass by
hear the children cry
why the millions are gassed by the fear of the Maniac,
is the direction tainted
and the signalers' words painted
as graffiti on rail-bridges right across the land,
nay, if I wasn't the Brakeman on the Brain Train no more,
would you hear my call
and the Wolf at your door.

Catch the sound of the lonely as our whistle blows ghostly,
hear the sadness of the past
as it pounds along fast
feel the wind of change as the future blows in
raise your head to the sky
see the heavens roll by
and ask of the One who steers this great train
If me the Brakeman on the Brain Train is keeping
a modest bequest
for the dreamers still sleeping.

Ask the driver if he sees the two lines ahead
converging to one
lying dark in the sun
or shining out boldly for all to behold
is the future so clear?
are we getting there?
or are we just holding on for dear life today?
Because I am the Brakeman on the Brain Train you see,
my face is always,
out looking behind me!

Saturday, 22 July 2017

National Party First Eleven Football team.

The New Zealand National Party Football team.

Goalkeeper - Jerry Brownlie - Has the ability to block the whole goal.

Right Back - Jonothon Coleman - known for attacking the wrong goal and continual dribbling fails..

Centre Back - Bill English - has an ability to turn with the tide.

Left Back - Judith Collins - spends most of time taking selfies – a wallflower

Left Midfielder - Hekia Parata - Busy measuring the pitch for more funding cuts.

Centre Midfielder Steven Joyce - Keeps a quiet vigil but known to turn quickly. Only MP with the ability to pass the ball forward.

Right Fielder - Paula Bennett - if it ain't broke fix it (yeah conundrum)
Centre Forward 1 - Amy Adams – the show pony, has the ability to find the goal without too much fanfare.

Centre Forward 2 - Simon Bridges - Know's where the goal is, but reluctant to fire off a shot.

Left Wing - Nick Smith - Can dribble, can evade tacklers and familiar with the environment of the pitch.

Right Wing - Nikki Kay - Silent achiever, knows where and when to pass.

Coach/Manager Anne Tolley - Anyone that can keep WINZ out of the limelight is first choice Coach.

Friday, 21 July 2017

Two Poems about the Seas

First is written in 2007 whilst studying at Massey University. The last is a challenge from a friend in Austin, Texas in year 2000 and had never seen the sea.  He was impressed.

A Rollicking ol’ sea shanty

Those ten foot seafarers, riding White Horses
across an Ocean so blue the sun blinks,

across Pacific Islands covered perennially in palms
men stepping ashore and giving birth to Sea women,

across horizons bent with sun shimmer, mirage
the height of these men increasing the closer they get,

roaring Forties, and riding cascading water falls
some seven metres tall and oncoming, till CRASH

they hit the side of an abandoned Log Carrier
dive into the fucken hold and sinking the lonely beast,

the now 21 foot seafarers glee in their capability,
saving souls, sailors, and sailoresses, scion of the sea,

white horses now growing to charging elephants,
and lambasting a shoreline like a wild tsunami,

rotting houses, dead bodies, unwary populations,
the salted water deteriorating vegetation, as it does,

like the Royal Albatross, floating on mid air currents,
fighting for fish behind brave ships, in the Southern Ocean,

Back to the warm tropics, piggy backing on trawlers
the scurry of fish hungry sea birds scavenging food

45 foot tall seafarers growing apace, running on cyclones
the rage of wind and sea throwing it’s power at Fiji,

the bure’s washed wet, the populace on high ground
a white horse appears to reclaim it’s rider,

the riders make their home on Kilauea’s slopes,
the fire mountain and the sea farers, companions,

until another summer storm whips up the sea,
and off they go again, ruination and wreckage

into the realm of Tangaroa and King Neptune
into the real world of the hardened sailor, Ocean rave.

Seven Degrees of Sea


Look around, nary a sound,
Twinkling sparkling millpond,
Light dancing, no breath of wind,
Paradise before you,
Deep blue mirrors sky's hue,
Clarity supreme!
See bullet-like fish
dart and dash
for metres and leagues down.

Paradise mottled.

Wind breaks the calm of seas balm,
yet still no harm,
little ripples do break the serenity,
still paradise
not quite as nice but panorama
is churned, grayish tint
The blue is less clear,
Fish not there.

Paradise broken.

Grey clouds whipped by strongish gusts,
waves rolling
Whitecaps strolling incessantly,
Blue turns to dark green
picture once serene
now crazy with churning spume
clarity lost, murky water
Thoughts darkened by the haze
Cloudy wind-filled days.


Swells building, waves breaking, CRASH,
wind whips water
mad dashes across the surface
Black roiling cloudbanks, close the gloom,
leaves no room
for the fainthearted, motion started
sea boiling green and white
as stomach fights the crests and troughs
Battle soon lost.

Gut wrenching.

Death is near, no ocean clear,
Lunch is sent spewing
misery ensuing
As clouds now speed across your vision,
Gales, high wind precision
Swells stand up and confront
the fear of your dread,
White anger, grey green broth
Merciless ocean whipped to froth.

Passion Play

For as far as the maddening eye sees,
unrelenting danger
assails the stranger to the power of the sea,
Clouds one big procession,
wind obsession, your life at the mercy
of powers far greater,
and sooner or later the boat will sway
and rock and toss, and moronically ride
out the oceans passion play.

Natural Forces

You ride the Dancing Horses, on forces
not meant to be,
no one conquers the Sea,
but feel it's power and it's serenity,
be it Paradise, or majestic Glory,
take from it what you must
Revile it, revel in it's touch,
It will treat you, natures power
as it wishes, by Seven Degrees,

The Seas.

Thursday, 20 July 2017

Royal Commission of Inquiry

The latest outcry on the state of Mental Health in New Zealand is very disturbing. There are three organisations in the fray:

  1. Ministry of Health through DHB's
  2. Mental Health NGO's (essentially MoH funded)
  3. And organisations that work with no Public Funding (funded through public charities)

There is a major spat going on between 1 and 2, with 3 shaking the nest (Or cage rattling) The spat became very evident this week with The Key To Life's Charitable Trust being undermined by the first two. This had been foreseeable with reports that Mike King had been receiving from a small amount of schools being instructed by 1 & 2 not to allow his team into some schools.

But that's common knowledge. In the past few days Mike and his team were endorsed by former Chief Coroner Neill MacLean, no doubt after hearing about the interference from DHB staff in South Canterbury (Professor Annette Beautrais). I sense she (and the other ones at Taihape) are running scared “Chicken Licken the Sky is Falling”. Having been associated with academics, especially University qualified, there is a sense of Us and The Rest (plebes) In essence they fear being undermined and they think that way.

The best results for anyone is to place the experienced in the right position and work for the greater good. Mike King and KTL are experienced but not book trained, and therein lies the conundrum. Professor Beautrais doesn't see Mike's work, instead she calls upon years of proving the system she works under is flawed. It's very much like she is trying to justify her job instead of using all her skills to foster a way forward for all. And she is not the only one. DHB's are littered with archaic thinkers and no doers.

I for one feel a Royal Commission of Inquiry into ALL Mental Health services is urgently needed  so we can all work together and essentially to save lives. Remember Pike River (29) and Cave Creek (13) had a Royal Commission of Inquiry. So with suicides 500+ annually an inquiry should be high on the Governments priority list to address with all parties

The Open - New Zealand golfers in Top Ten.

We all know all to well Bob Charles Open win in 1963, but how have other kiwi's fared in Open Golf without winning?

Sir Bob Charles

1962  5th
1963  1st
1968  T2nd
1969  2nd
1973  T7
1979  T10

Frank Nobilo

1979  T10

Greg Turner

1996   T7th

Michael Campbell

1995   T3rd
2005   T5th

It's surely time for another top 10 as the last was 2005 (12 years).  Not putting a commentators curse on Fox and Hendry but the lads I hope will surprise.

Saturday, 15 July 2017

NZRU Elite Premier League. (NZEPL)

Hairbrained suggestion but one that might save rugby in the Southern Hemisphere.  Forget South Africa, Australia, Argentina as rugby powerhouses, it's not working.  Let's create a Super Competition in our shores with similar make up of say the EPL (UK).  New Zealand has the infrastructure to host a very competitive NZEPL (NZ Elite Premier League).

How I see it.

1.  Competition (NZEPL) follows the Mitre 10 Cup (played from March to June.)

2.  There are 12 teams in this NZEPL.
a. Taniwhas - Northland and North Harbour
b. Auckland Blues - Auckland only
c. Chiefs - Waikato and Counties Manukau
d. BOP Geysers - Rotorua  and Tauranga
e.  Taranaki Ferdinands - King Country, Taranaki
f.  Central Vulcans - Taupo, Whanganui, Manawatu
g.  The East Costers - Ngati Porou, Gisborne, Hawkes Bay
h.  Hurricanes - Wairarapa, Horowhenua, Kapiti Coast, Wellington.
i.  Makos - Tasman, North Canterbury, West Coast,
j. Crusaders - Christchurch, Mid and South Canterbury
k.  Highlanders - North Otago, Otago, and Southland
l - PI Panthers - Tonga, Samoa and Fiji

3.  The beauty of this competition is that it's based on the EPL, teams already exist in some format and you have to introduce a roster for all teams that have this format as I see it.  Lets say all teams have a wider Squad of 30. There have to be 18 NZ players on contract, with the remaining 12 being contracted during the summer contract period from Aus, SA, Arg, and Jap players.  The PI Panthers will also fill places from without.

4.  The competition would be a single round of games with the top five going through to a Grand Final series. No Bonus Points - winner takes all and if tied scores, Points Differential and previous results.

Yeah hairbrained but SuperRugby is dead in it's tracks. And a top flight competition that has less rather than more is an option.

Figures -
Foreign players - 144
NZ Resident - 216

11 weeks round robin with 3 weeks of finals ergo 3 months of NZEPL Rugby.

I like the idea especially if you also introduce transfer windows and fees.  And the other international competitions can run concurrently and be a feeder to cover injury.  Plus the revenue for the competition is solely NZRU managed with a fee applied to those countries that feed into NZEPL.  We also have Sky as the Main (and named) broadcaster.

New Zealand can sustain this proposal  Rugby is strong here and with foresight can be even stronger.
Oh and yeah, the Quad Nations competition runs after the NZEPL with the June International games still being held.

Thursday, 13 July 2017

A Day In History - 13th July.

Captain James Cook departs UK on his second trip to The South Seas on HMS Resolution

Paavo Nurmi breaks World 3000m record in 1926

In 1930 the first Football World Cup is played in Uruguay.

1934 sees the Great Baseballer Babe Ruth hit his 700th career Home Run

1960 sees John F Kennedy win Democratic nomination for President of USA.

New Zealand's Bob Charles wins the  first Major won by a Kiwi securing the silverware at Royal St Lytham in 1963.

And finally the event of the 80's Live Aid in 1985.

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Bush Telegraph

Bush Telegraph


Chapter One Paralysed

Chapter Two The Fly Past

Chapter Three Dog fight of conscience

Chapter Four Bonjour Henri

Chapter Five Mummy

Chapter One

The grey oily smoke filtered up through the heavily wooded canopy. For three hours, it had wafted, initially a thick choking black smoke, but now more steady but weakening by the minute as the fuel that supplied it dissipated in to the dense forest floor.

Weka and Kea, both vocal in their confusion, watched the smoke from a distance. Their safe native existence had been temporarily rent asunder by the crash of the huge bird that the two-legged tribe liked to fly. The green miasma of beech trees swayed gently in the twenty knot sou'west wind being whipped off the Tasman Sea and tried vainly to cover the remnants of the accidental intrusion.

The smoke did eventually cease. Over the chattering of the podocarp forest creatures, another sound emanated. Hours passed and still the sound continued. Reggie was in pain. He cried, continually, incessantly, and painfully. He cried and cried and cried. And for good reason. The front of the Cessna was impaled backwards into where the seat was normally situated. The hot steaming engine, now powerless, had been forced backward, or had the rear of the aircraft caught up with the front? Reggie's legs, once carriers of his athletic frame, were now a mangled mess of ripped flesh and bone. Blood vessels had been ripped away from muscle and were bleeding in a slow trickle. Arteries, still pumping away in rhythmic unison, were somehow still intact. Pain pulsed through damaged nerves and told his brain that he was in a power of shit.

He tried wriggling his toes and when the little fuckers, visible through the plastic mess of his Kaydee sandals, failed to replicate his wishful commands, he cried again. And again and again. He was fucked.

The smoke stopped. He could smell the forest now, a little at first, but as the smell of burning metal, flesh, and other by-products of the mangled aircraft crash dissipated, he could smell it. The dank smell of decomposing flora, the aged stench of decaying forest insects, the freshness of the recent rains, all started to permeate through the pores of what remained of his flattened nose.

The piece of plastic dashboard ungainly protruding from where his nose used to be was a fucking pain, though. Physically and mentally. Reggie could feel and see it, but by the fucking lord he couldn't bloody remove it. Didn't matter though. He had beaten it. He could still smell. Beyond the pain and the injustice of the situation he still had ALL his goddamn senses.

"Awhhhh Fuuuuuucccccckkk!!!" The plane slipped off the branch of the old beech tree and plummeted two metres to the forest floor. Ten thousand messages of pain all advanced on Reggie's brain. They didn't bother queuing and waiting to be processed one at a time. No, they stampeded, all at once. For three fateful seconds, the world went crazy, and as quickly as it advanced, it stopped. Unconsciousness blissfully enveloped him and the world stopped.

Chapter Two

The Fly Past

The dream was pretty bloody realistic. The Germanic hordes of Messerschmitt 109's flew incessantly overhead, the buzz of their single turboprop engines pumping out a continual thrum. The kid in the dream covers his ears, kicks his old mans shins, and scampers in to the cold stone house on the moor. He looks in the dark room for the security of his mother. She is nowhere to be seen.


He looks harder for her. The planes are scaring the shit out him and his hands remain clamped tightly over his lugs. He wants his mum and wants the noise to stop. Soon, oh, all to soon, he spots her. Slumped on the floor by the sink. Her green gingham dress has draped over her head, exposing her unshapely, cellulite-laden legs, her patched bloomers covered in shit and urine. He stares hard, willing her to move, to say something, to be mum. But he knows. In his most desperate hour of need, she's bloody died on him.


He removes his hand from his ears and runs over to the lump that was his mother. He leaps at her from a small distance of three feet, and lands fair and square on her limp body. He cuddles her cold torso, feels her now grey face. He kisses her blotchy cheek, over and over and over. He looks for his dad. He yells for his dad. He lets out a blood-curdling scream, but the old man is still being mesmerised by the hordes of airborne Hun. He eventually falls asleep, the smell of shit and urine permeating the last memories of mum. The flies gather.


The fly past has begun.

Reggie regains consciousness. The dream washes off him. The dead reality of light launches itself in to his now painless body. He hears it. At first very faintly. Then as waves of consciousness roll in, the sound becomes a torrent of awareness. He tries to sit up, to look up, but nothing moves. He looks straight out with eyes now in panic. The dead leaves and humus of the forest floor are clear and stark, being forced into his immediate vision not half a metre from his face. He moves his eyes around and sees a bit of the remnants of the crash.

"Awwwwwwhhhhhhhhh Ffffffuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk!!!!" The scream emanates forcefully from his dry, blood-caked lips. He hears the sound again.


He knows it's not planes. He knows they're not looking yet. He knows they have no shitting, crapping idea where the hell he is. He knows that noise. The flies from his mums' carcass zero in on his legs!

His cellphone, lying alone on the forest floor twenty metres from the mangled wreck, bursts suddenly in to life. It rings and vibrates incessantly, forcing the quick evacuation of weta and ant from the immediate scene. In the deadened life force that is the beech forest, the sound is totally alien, sharp and loud against the sound of the West Coast forest.

"Piss off" says Reggie under his now resigned breath.

Chapter Three

Dogfight Of Conscience

Two flies, sated from hours of gorging, sit alongside each other. Perched on the now lifeless legs of the human, they share anecdote on the tastes each has partaken in since it fell on to their section of the forest floor. The first fly is convinced that the rotten burnt and bloodied flesh is the best feed its ever had in its' short life. The other is convinced the smelly rotten diarrhea and urine mixed faeces are the top delicacy of the year. They argue, allowing for the time to pass and their own dietary tract to process the unexpected feast.

They agree to try the others preferred delicacy. Once again they hoe in to the banquet. After a while, they stop for another break. For some inexplicable reason, they both look up towards the hairy part of the feast, the area where the movement is. They both observe the orbs that serve to make the banquet see, and watch them turn toward them. They step back a little, ready to vacate the area should it decide to terminate their existence. But the orbs just stare at them. They both get a case of the guilt’s. The first fly spits out a piece of meat. The other disgorges its load of crap. They fly off into the forest searching for other carrion.

A conflict of conscience. Reggie is pleased they fucked off.

Chapter Four  Bonjour, Henri
"Floating down,
through the clouds,
Memories come rushing
up to meet me now,
And in the space between the heavens,
and the corner of some foreign field,
I had a dream,
I had a dream."

Between the ever-increasing bouts of unconsciousness, Reggie sings songs penned by Roger Waters. Apart from his passion for flying, his other obsession is Roger Waters. Reggie knows every song backward, frontward, and sideways. Not that they were of much use now. Physically that is. But as a mental backstop, the songs are bloody magic.

"Satellite buzzing through the endless night,
Exclusive to moon shots and world title fights,
Jesus Christ, think what it must be earning,
Who is the strongest, Who is the best,
Who holds the aces, the East or the West,
This is the crap that our children are learning,
But oh, oh, oh, the tide is turning,
The tide is turning,
Oh, oh, oh, the tide is turning.

Reggie hears the bloody cellphone ring again. A bug jumps in fright, sails nonchalantly through the air, and lands heavily on the send button on the phone. The voice leaps out from the ear piece, sending the insect into another aerial catapult.

"Hey, Reggie ya gormless dickhead, how the hell are ya?

Reggie tries to say gidday but as the proverb goes "Man who try to talk with mouth full of swollen tongue, not make a great deal of fucking sense."

"Awwwwwhhhhhhhhh Shhhiiitttttttttt" he screams silently.

"Hey Reggie, I know ya there. It's Henri mon, back from Jamaica. Got some good gunga for ya ta try. Awh, come on mon, talk to me." Henri pleads.

A heavily laden forest pause permeates the air. The cellphone crackles into life again.

" Awh get fucked ya shithead. Hope ya fucking kill yourself." The phone clicks as Henri hangs up.

Reggie mouths the words to himself. 'Bonjour, Henri. Ya wanking shithead.' And as he flakes out again, he thinks, "you never wrote that, Roger!"

Chapter Five

Reggie feels the hand on his cheek. He can't open his eyes anymore. The nerves have died there as well. The only thing he feels is his skin and the movement of his thoughts through his brain. He feels it again. Then he hears it. Above the sound of the forest and the rain. The silver rustle of light cloth on dead leaves. The light tread of footfalls. The scent that he once smelt before. It invades his senses. He's been in it. He's dreamed it. Over and over.

"Mother, do you think they'll drop the Bomb?" Fuck off, Roger. This is for real.


The voice rockets across time and space. She's here. All these years and finally, she is back. Great Balls of Fire. Yaaahhhhhoooooooo.
"Come on, Reggie, time to go."

Reggie lifts his consciousness as high as he can and whispers to her….


And dies.