The Dream

For audio click here 

I was dreaming of those Elizabethan girls. Burlesque dancers, with their soft, downy feathers and leather gloves that slapped across my face. They smelt of vinegar, salt, and rotting burgers and they sang in a deafening squawk as they moved across my dreams. It was another hot night. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of Cardiff and, even with my windows open there was barely a breath of breeze. The dancers were moving closer to me, sexy, seductive, sweaty. Their feather boas brushed my face; they were closing in. I was being suffocated by them. They started laughing, a squawking, Janice from Friends type laugh.

I woke in a pool of sweat. At first I thought I was being suffocated by the humidity. But humidity isn’t soft damp and smelly like the weight on my head and as far as I knew humidity doesn’t have feathers.

When you have your window open at night you might expect the odd moth or mosquito to fly in and irritate you, but what do you do when you wake up and there is a seagull sitting on your face?

Seagulls are nasty bastards. If one has ever swooped down and stolen a bag from your hands, you’ll know that they don’t take no for an answer. They’ve got strong wings, dead eyes and beaks that would be classed as illegal lethal weapons in 143 different countries worldwide and I had one sitting on my head like it was king of the castle.

“Sqaaaaaawk,”

Should I move? I wanted to move, I wanted to shoo the bloody stinking bird off me. But what if it attacked. I was naked and didn’t think I’d like a gull pecking at me. But if I stayed still, I would have a mouthful of feathers and a nose full of the smell of the sea in my nostrils, and when that sea is next to most polluting power station in Europe, it’s not the most alluring of smells.

“Sqaaaaaawk,”

The bloody thing was moving. It stood up, I took a deep breath while I could.  The leathery webbed feet slapped my face as the bird turned around, it ruffled its feathers and then nestled down again. The smell got worse suggesting my nose was rather too close to the cloaca for comfort. Although the bird seemed perfectly comfortable.  It was time for action. I had to hatch a plan before the bloody gull hatched an egg.

“Sqaaaaaawk,”

The idea was simple, move down the bed as fast as I could and wrap my whole body in the duvet to protect myself from the counter attack the bird would no doubt launch. I counted myself in, three, two, one.

I scrambled. The bird flew off my face and I managed to get the duvet around me. The gull was mad. The wings flapped, the mouth roared its disapproval. A wing thumped me in the back. I rolled off the bed and onto the floor and with the duvet still around me managed to get the bedroom door open and get through it. I slammed it shut hoping to god the seagull hadn’t come out of the room with me. I listened for a second, before deciding the noise was coming from behind the door. I dropped my duvet defence and was relieved to see I was alone in my flat. Okay, there was a seagull trapped in my bedroom but I could deal with that problem in the morning. For now, I just wanted to wash the smell of the sea off my face.

Calon Lân

For audio click here  (worth a listen today me thinks) 

The factory that towered over the town was shrouded in the smog that it had helped to produce. The tyrannical building dominated the skyline like a gothic castle casting a shadow over all of those who lived in the terraced houses below. But the chimney was no longer bellowing smoke across the dark skies. Men no longer worked the machines, women no longer made the teas. An eerie silence hung over the deserted halls. Water dripped from a leaky pipe, a rat scuttled across the grimy floor but otherwise, all was still.

The town was also empty; an old lady taking in washing from her garden was the only sign of life.  Light rain hung in the air, too lazy to fall to the ground.

Like a lullaby the sound of song drifted on the breeze. Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus. Louder and louder it got, deep baritone voices and fragile Sopranos, men; women and children singing beautifully. Calon onest.  Calon lân. The old lady could see them now. All the towns folk in their Sunday best marching up the hill towards the factory. Calon lân yn llawn daioni.  They carried their banners, and their placards demanding justice. They marched with their heads held high and in the middle, the pallbearers took precise measured steps, the coffin proudly on their shoulders. Dim ond calon lân all ganu.

Inside the factory, laughter came from a plush office - at odds with the rest of the grime. Cigar smoke hung in the still air. The voices of the townspeople grew louder and louder, but the laughter grew louder still.

They were at the locked gates now. The people fanned out around the factory walls. Canu’r dydd a chanu’r nos. The voices trailed away as the pallbearers reached the gates. They stooped and lowered the coffin to the floor.

“Comrades,” Carwyn Lewis’s voice boomed.

“We are gathered here to day to celebrate the life of…”

Deep in the bowels of the building the cigar smoker could hear the muffled voice of Lewis and the cheers of the crowd, but he didn’t care. A rowdy rabble couldn’t harm him, not now His laughter became harder still. There was a clink of glass and a glug of liquid.

“Comrades, we must fight this battle and the next and the next.” The crowd cheered. “Together, united, a band of brothers and sisters, we will find strength, we will win our struggle.”

No order was given, no signal made, but as one, the men, women and children charged the gates. The rusted hinges soon gave way and the masses flocked into the courtyard that they’d crossed so many times before. No one really knew what they were going to do, but that didn’t matter, they were doing something.

A fat finger flicked a switch. The factory speakers crackled into life and the haunting laugh rang around the grounds. People froze, stopped to look at the laughing sky. Fear formed on faces. Eyes darted around. Then the fat finger flicked another switch.

Boom.

The explosion could be heard in Cardiff. Debris rained down on the courtyard. Flames leapt. Children screamed. Laughter cracked and died in the rubble of the factory.  Calon onest.  Calon lân.
To hear the song a lot better than I sang it click here

The Fairground at night

Click for audio click here (and I really recommend the audio)
Another very short piece inspired by a writing task on my course. 

Locked away behind swinging doors, ghouls, ghosts, witches and warlocks scare no one but themselves. The fears hidden, the trains are empty - stopped at signals for the night. The white spirits dance on the dark walls and the luminous lettering gently loses its memory.

Next to the Ghost Train the Waltzers have stopped dancing, no flipping stomachs with snatched kisses. No longer spinning to a merry tune, they sit apart from each other, noting the others have seen better days with slashed seats, bruised bars and garish paint chipping off stainless steel.

The pirate ship hangs upside down in the air, to empty the terror built up after a rough night on the high seas, and to save it from being sunk by the rain that is beginning to pitter-patter, spit and splatter around the park. The pirates have all gone home to mum, but some of them left their tea behind.

Once the tallest ride in the fair, the Ferris Wheel sulks below the pirate ship. The gondolas sway in the breeze admiring the views, the lights from Weston and the orange glow of Cardiff. It creaks and groans, showing its age; it doesn’t like it when the breeze whips around its rough seats and through its arms.  

The stuffed bears stare out at the rides. Gaudy colours, cheap fur; rumour has it they’re made from pet cats that go missing in the dead of night. The guns that people pop to try to win the toys hang forlornly in their holsters; battered and bent, even the sharpest of shooters could never shoot them straight.

And finally the Funhouse. A silent hall of mirrors reflects itself into infinity, the moving stairway is stationary while a giant slide is going downhill fast. At the bottom, his body lies bleeding, lifeless, dead.

For more Barry stories click here