Gunga - hejtejp
Nothing Is R E A L - Becca
Introduction Welcome to the second edition of Tailspin, the online magazine of www.tailcast.com. Featuring a selection of members art and writing from the site. This month we bring you the results of the ‘Introduce Yourself Contest’, and information on the upcoming ‘Collaborate’ competition, where we would like members of the site to get together and create something new. Artists, writers and musicians unite! I am delighted to say that we now have a new member of the Cast who is heading up our technology side. Catalin aka ‘Cat’ agreed to join us. Last week he visited us to talk through the web design we have and help structure the technology required for our new platform, which we are now busy working on. Also we hit the 1000 member mark! Congratulations and well done to everyone who is involved for helping us grow. Only Connect! The Cast
Girl - Klarabella
Contents Milas - When Beauty Breathes 9. ManDartin - Let It Go 10. Johanna - The Water Beckons 11. Armida - Undergraduate Unconditioning 15. â€˜Introduce Yourself Contestâ€™ Results 16. Penitent - A Dream Of You 20. Steff - The Unnamed 24. Sevenlamps - Soliloquy 26. David Barron - A Warm Wind Blew In The Bakers Today 30. Claire - Dysfunction 32. Heather - Stolen Kiss 34. Pete Dooley - Beach Town Boom 38. Rosemarie Short - Forever 45. Manyonerise - Music 48. Marie Fullerton - The Dawning 50. Collaborative Poem 54. Robyn - Your Friendly Local Drunk? 56. Pete Hood - An Alternative Fall 58. Mikedelic Brownage - Music 60. Collaborative Poem 61. Great Made Up Modern Booktitles 62. Luke Rowett - After the Rain 64.
Portrait of my Mom - Ben Spees
abe - Juniperlillie
Milas - When Beauty Breathes
Alabaster skin, eyes dark as night Moonbeams dance across her thighs Silken hair fall’n out of place Allows me to gaze upon her face! Shadows keep watch, as she lies in slumber Oh fortunate dreams of one so fair Which whisk her off to stars unnumbered Come back to me, my Beauty rare! Unclad chest does rise to taunt me With every breath fair Beauty takes As it falls, my breath does want me When next she breathes - then mine I’ll take Alabaster skin, eyes dark as night Moonbeams dance across her thighs Silken hair fall’n out of place With determined eyes - her form I trace Restless visions arouse my lover My heart leaps as she begins to stir With only moon-light as her cover My passion now begins to burn Eyes stay fast on flesh inviting Beauty breathes deep – and draws me in. To see! To touch! To feel! To taste! Her every breath - I breathe again. Alabaster skin, eyes dark as night Moonbeams dance across her thighs Silken hair fall’n out of place My flesh does yearn for her embrace Her splendor compels my cravings primal Damned, this hunger for her beauty fair! Only give me the sword if she’ll not have me I’ll die without her prize so rare! I must repent as my heart screams - Liar! I’d forfeit all to keep her near If never I touch nor taste nor breathe her Her beauty alone shall hold me here Alabaster skin, eyes dark as night Moonbeams dance across her thighs Silken hair fall’n out of place My eyes shall feast on Beauty’s face
r e n in
ManDartin - Let it go I wrote this about a hiking trip I took today, specifically when I was sitting by myself, with nobody even slightly nearby, on top of a rock face. ***For Milas***
Close your eyes. Try to suck in full lungs of quiet. Then exhale. Let it go. The wind will carry it away. Birds will soar upon it. Open your eyes. A picture painted with creation. With brush strokes built of time. Rest. The world holds you with steadfast fingers. What need is there to worry? SS850653 - ManDartin
Johanna - The Water Beckons
Dark surf at my feet reaching out to touch the undertow fluttering about my feet abstaining no more withdrawing all that is me me, freely submitting Dark surf â€˜round my head gracefully my hair dances in the throws of the current willing forever
Water Series - Emily
Pylon woot - Fia
MaitreyaMantracopy - Armida
Undergraduate Unconditioning 101 - Distancing Anger rose like a flash within Bottled in a surprising moment No where to go. Feel it. Hold it. In the mindful gap, Look at it From a distance With repeated patience, Like a wave Hitting the beach, Not dragging you. Back away fast, Not confused by its energy. 201 - Seeing Clearly, jealousy must not stay. Seeing it for what it is, its charge, Multiple dots out of focus, focused again. Zoomed back Landscape of a happeningó Awareness: No positive result will come from it As an enemy. Immediate, transformed as a support, Rejoice in this good fortune. 301 - Releasing Passion ever strong Knowing its movement source, Raw. That’s all you are. 401 - Just as it is. It just is.
Introduce Yourself Contest Here are the results of the â€˜Introduce Yourselfâ€™ Competition. Voting closed at midnight on the 15 June.
CheekyChen Pete Oli Jon Cat
- - - - -
$100 Edward Garvin $100 Mis-BUG $100 Velvetlugs $100 ICK $100 Becca
Comunity - Eveliiine
Big thankyou to everyone who viewed and voted and to those who took the time to produce such amazing quality work. Thanks to the population of Belgium too.
CheekyChen Edward Garvin
Pete - Mis-Bug
Oli - VelvetLungs
Jon - ICK
Cat - Becca
miserere iron sculpture - Joaquin Restrepo
details coming soon on the 'competitions' page.
lca st tai
Find a member on tailcast and work together, create something new. Artists, Writers and Musicians unite!
>> co llab
Penitent - A dream of you I had a dream, about you. Honestly, you, reading this, now. You. No, this is not a pathetic attempt at gripping my audience, or involving you. I’ll explain. I sat up, on a black slab the size of my mattress, but solid, as a brick, and made of something like stone, but also similar to metal. It was cold, and it was bending light around it, so that everything the other side of it was curved. Anyway, the scenery was such as space, but multi-coloured in waves, as though I was moving through a vast plethora of different features. The colours all had a corresponding object. So, I am sitting on a slab of black stone, (that is bending light), that is rising very quickly among a almond-beige sky backdrop. Then it was a aged paper brown, then tree bark. The slab stopped moving, noticeably, as I was thrown into the air a few feet, only to land back on it in a sitting position, to find myself under the waters of a stagnant lake. I gently floated to the surface of this murky, filth-ridden pool, and walked to the shore. This is when you approached, but you kept changing appearance, blindingly fast. I would blink and miss a hundred thousand people. The height, colour, gender, everything, changed. As you walked, the changing height of the people you were gave the impression of you bobbing your head, and the weight changes made it look as though you were bouncing back and forth, from a very large person, to someone as thin as a rake. I asked you why I was here, and what you were doing here, and you replied “You don’t usually have boring dreams, do you?”, so I replied that
I didn’t, but this one was worth writing. As this comment, you became upset, but angry, as the person you were changed, so did the emotion, people react in different ways, and so you did. You told me that I should not share some of the things that happen, and that private meetings should be kept private. I told you that there was little point of keeping things private, seeing as you were everyone already, and you grinned, lots of different grins, quickly. So I took a walk with you, and everyone else, along the edge of a cliff, picking up interesting rocks and talking idly about each other. What we wanted, what we hoped for. We kept this up for a few hours, until the cliff edged out onto a desert of orange brown sands, as those you have seen in Mars moonlander pictures. The sands shifted underfoot, and were warm, there was no sun, but it was light. We began to slide, instead of walk, across the sands, with no apparent means of propulsion. I then realised, that I had not seen my face in you. We had talked so long that who you were began to repeat, once or twice, so I assumed that I had seen you all. You told me that it was because I wanted to be a part of you, and that being a part of you is not something you can want, it is just something that happens. Upon this instant, I felt the warm sands grow until each one was a universe, and we were floating next to each other. I saw in you then, why I wanted to be you, so much. I told you
I loved you, everyone. You said that you felt nothing, but were indifferent to me, and didnâ€™t really care what I felt, but that it would be a shame to waste the view, as no-one else is going to see it. So I kissed the shifting faces of humanity, and it turns out if you kiss everyone, you donâ€™t feel them changing bodies. The thousands of faces that fade in and out every seconds are seamless. The black slab reappeared, you wished me farewell, I asked if you were staying here. You just smiled, as the obsidian mattress carrying me plummeted back through every colour of the rainbow.
Mood 4 - Willowing
Les Tailleurs - Gillian Permuy
Steff - The Unnamed
Haunting2 - Steff
Floating free before you I shimmer as I fly Did you glimpse my shadow? From the corner of your eye Did you sense a feeling? As my spirit brushed your skin? Did you succumb to nausea? Of sickness creeping in Did your neck produce those tingles? That jettison down your spine When you hear unearthly whispers Do you wonder if they’re mine? Lurking amidst your darkest thoughts Do I sense a gripping tension? Materializing in then out Like some horrid apparition Head jerks sideways in a fright Don’t glance into that mirror I’m right behind, don’t hesitate I’m swiftly drawing nearer With forearms on your shoulders Hands clenched around your throat I’ll drown you beneath black waters Of your filthy self made moat This ghost that you’ve been running from This presence passing through All the self inflicted tortures Are the entity named you
Sevenlamps - Soliloquy
Thinking is best done when walking in the woods or fields. I don’t know if it’s the feeling of your feet sinking into fresh blooming clover or maybe the smell honeysuckle sheds when in the last throes of life. Gaither Mountain, all blue hazed and dependable, leant it’s own quiet thoughts to the mix. My dogs running around like mad banshees exploring every rabbit den and fallen limb, pushed me further than I had planned, but even they don’t bark in the woods; as if they respectfuly know it’s a place for contemplation instead of jubilation. Coming home is still an acceptable option, but arriving with more of a cleansed heart than when I left.
The Desert - Zane
runn er up
er nn ru up
n ru up
r e n run p u
Solbrillor - Hejtejp
David Barron A Warm Wind Blew In The Bakers Today
It was high noon at the bakers shop, Heat unbearable, I thought I would drop, Stood eating a great cream cake, Loved the shops where they actually baked. I’d more than eaten one or two, The assistant thought that I was through, No way I gave her that don’t put those cakes away stare, I’d eat till I left that counter bare. That was it there was no more, I’d eaten everything in the store, Then suddenly like the crack of a whip, My body twitched, I had too dip. I held my stomach, something’s queer, That feels like gas from last nights beer, Then the dread sound escaped from me, A FART, A FART, it wasn’t me it was my tea.
CheeseCake - Gee
Leave me Alone - Zane
Claire - Dysfunction
The boy who taught me about dysfunction Cleverly concealed his malfunction Living in a crafted fourth dimension Did not walk but wade in his pretension Deluded and caught quite unaware A care to me but he did not care For him he made up what he lacked With a hidden but vast stream of attacks Both bleak in sense and bleak in wit Collectively oblivious to what he depicts A day to change a lifetime of what, Replacing what he has not got? It degenerates back to familiarity Of once you have nothing that’s all you’ll be Spontaneous decisions left to impair The one thing you want but can not bear Advice is given not to abuse Freedom of speech freedom to choose Take what you will but return the rest A trial’s at hand to get out of the mess Can you conform to reality? When disorders all you’ve ever seen Honestly think about what you can give When your bodies left counting the hours you’ll live
019 - One Women Army
Heather - Stolen Kiss A touch given to forever, a kiss stolen only momentarily from death... Glistening skin shimmers like a flower with beaded rain upon its petals-tears from fallen angels helping you to see the sun... without staring directly into its brilliance. Are you still there? Do you still lie next to me when I sleep? When I sleep... These hands that once cradled two beautiful babes, now cradle the face of sorrow. Is that tomorrow? What flashes of light are these in the corners of my eyes? Pain has to have a home too, not such a far cry from the heart-but an eternity away from the light of day, days that echo into forever more. I watered the garden with your love, there beneath the desert sky... stars winking their all seeing eyes. Gabriel took the form of a woman on that night... showing you what Heaven might feel like. Then you knew.... Wisdom lingered on my lips as if to help me to speak-help me to say what I already knew. Help me to say what you saw in my eyes... deep gray-blue. Moments like these that bring about the change of silence, with a great inhale of longing...the infinite memory embedded like a nail-a nail in the cross that we carry. Exhaling only to let the eyes rest.
Study of Colour Form - AlicesPallette
I remember your only request... Stay with me until I sleep. Of course I stayed until you slept, and you sleep still. You know....I often ponder an awakening. To wake up from the dream-as Eros and Psyche scream. Away to a better place, away to the grace of enlightenment. I’ve stayed on for act II, a numbing repetition of hide and seek... feelings. A swarm of worker bees buzz about in my honeycomb mind-I the queen of this honey-hell. You showed me where it hurt, allowed me to kiss the scars to make them better, to make them not hurt as much. They say there’s a comfort in being numb. I say it’s just an uncomfortable silence without a reflection... a one-sided mirror where your image once gazed. Yes, I know you’re there, but where is there if not on the other side of mourning? What is touch without feeling? Emotions manifested... You took my breath away on that night. How could I know it would be your last? For had I known, I would have given you more with which to breathe...
Painting 1 - Jaredknightcom
Pete Dooley - Beach Town Boom In the beginning.... There is a town, a community, an existence of natural beauty cast on a shore beside the ocean. Verdant billows of growth cover the shoreline, citrus abounds, bananas, springs and a plentiful sea. In a flash, a naked man-child swings past, charging through an idyllic garden. Looking down from the blue sky above, a circling osprey scans the scene below. There is an ancient beach house close to the shore behind it a huge tract of land. A young carpenter is on the beach house roof putting the final touches on a repair. He pauses and looks up. His T-shirt reads; Greg Reed, best carpenter you ever (there is a drawing of a saw where the word saw should be). Adjacent to the beach house is a huge beautiful garden in which it seems anything can grow. The youth dives into a crystal clear pool. Bordering the beach house compound, of home, garden, and lush setting, is a small town. This town, is not fully configured, its governing body is housed in a small building with only a rudimentary governmental uberstat. Observed from above, in our bird of prey magnification, we see in a small room, in chair one, the skinny and diminutive hair trigger (trying to sleep with one eye open) Randy Bolus. Though no such designation has been created, he carries himself in what he considers is a chiefly manner. New to the force of two, is Andy Botchis. A young man honorably discharged from military adventures abroad. Andy had been in the presence of flying projectiles of death, though only in boot camp. Andy, sleeps more soundly, dreamily assuring himself, eyes closed, that he would be at the ready, should any malice with forethought occur.
runn er up
runn er up
er nn ru up
er nn ru up
The city center, a small shack, is housed at the main crossroads of Crescent Beach. On the building’s east side is a narrow highway; A1A, running north and south, parallel to the Ocean, the length of Florida’s east coast. On the north side slicing East to west, river to sea, is Minuteman Causeway, named after a revolutionary war force, touted to be ready at a minutes notice. A more apt name, in this town, might be “Just a Minute” Causeway. Across from the small wooden building housing city hall, in contrast, stands the Mai Tiki gallery and studio. The two Mai Tiki buildings are a constant explosion of activity, the fuse, Y. A. Wayne. He is the creator/curator, wood carver, stone carver, maker of waterfalls and dinosaurs. Throughout the studio and gallery are carvings and drawings, faces and beings, expressions of joy and anger. The buildings are crammed full with an endless assortment of carved emotive states. Short note: Always known as Wayne or Wayno, the Y. A. is dropped as unspeakable because the rumored response to, “What’s the Y. A. stand for?” Does a large chisel, shortly follow “Your Ass”, and hatchet-swinging fist resembling a small ham, stopping only inches from the uninitiated potentially flattened nose. “Wayne, stop that,” The petite, always calming, rescuer of many a witty inquisitive tourist, is Wayne’s soul mate, Rebecca Wisdom. Rebecca, in southern circles of familiarity, has always been known as “Bek” or “Beki”. Rounding out the center of creation are two young men, Mike A. Engle and Lu Cipher. Michael, large, strong, blond, and ruddy, is always at the ready, always at work.
Mike lives in an apartment above the gallery. Luis Cipher, dark, handsome and talented, known simply as Lu, carves art pieces signed with an artistic flourish, a black heart and the letter U. His carvings, dark and brooding, are not produced with much proficiency. Wayno (acceptable) has always looked aside at Lu’s shortcomings in hopes of developing and strengthening Lu’s artistic reservoir. A seeping and leaking reservoir that is constantly under attack from the bottomless pit of his dark side. The huge natural compound and beach house south of town is Wayne and Beki’s home. The beach house land runs from ocean to river east to west encompassing the lot on which garden lies. In a second floor room, behind the beach house resides Mark, a painter of watercolor fantasy. His work is on permanent exhibit in the Mai Tiki Gallery. A burly man with a gray beard, gruff and reclusive, he works in one small room. Over the doorway, leading into his small, but deep world, reads the word “nature”, it is painted in aqua, on a curve, fitting the top of a worn, worm eaten piece of driftwood. Nature is written NVTURE; the “A” is upside down, looking like at the letter V, Mark is after all, an artist. In the room are paintings and buckets of color precariously perched throughout, fine papers, beautiful washes of color on unfinished drawings and pencil notes pinned on color smeared walls. Wayne loves Mark, because he loves beauty. Beki loves Mark as well but says, “If he doesn’t clean that place up something is going to crawl out of that mess and bite his ass.” Beki is a lady, but around men (especially men in the art community) nowadays women can say ass. In this more open society it has come to light that within the secret society of >> New Zealand Secret Island - Frances
40. women “having lunch” the word ass is bandied about quite often. As in: her big ... or He is SUCH an ... Well SHE can just kiss my ... Much of this attributed to coffee and cake, sugar/ caffeine overload. Returning to Mark; such admiration and love has Wayne for Mark that the artist has been given the run of the beach house and its peaceful deck over looking the ocean, during the day. Most days Mark just wanders around in an oversized billowing night shirt, splattered with coffee stains and colored by blue/purple/ greens of hand swipes, unconsciously made during gifted moments of artistic serendipity. Mark’s free time is used to create, Wayne and Beki’s time is spent chopping, hacking, painting and displaying in the studio and gallery, midtown. Not bad, considering Mark’s rent is paid for the occasional painting displayed and soon sold in the gallery. Mark’s days are spent catching his muse on the beach house deck, cup (bowl) of coffee in hand staring in privacy out over the vast sea. Beki swears this privacy is a by-product of the occasional ocean breeze blowing up Mark’s nightshirt as he dozes off. Mark’s daily naps were not the beautiful tropical scenes depicted on any of the real estate catalogs or chamber of commerce portfolios. An old pirate in a mid day snooze, night shirt unfurled and flapping in the onshore breeze would cause the most dedicated of the meandering tourist shell poachers to circle back towards Crescent beach proper. Most tourists avoided this, “Scary over grown” (natural) part of the beach. Today, as is often the case, Mark’s doze is disrupted by thrashing and laughter, running and swooshing, from the garden next door. With snort and snuffle, he brushes his nightshirt down in one swipe. He cranks himself up and out of the beach chair, rounding over to the south, using the right elbow as a fulcrum. The pivot, perfected over years of repetition, always
displays Mark’s rather unattractive rear view in the direction of any unfortunate shell-poaching tourist meandering to far from the main beach area. The visitors, unfortunate enough to be in the sights of such a weapon wisely retreat, waddling at an even more fastidious pace with each look over the shoulder. Mark rolls his eyes and mutters “JEEZ” huffing and lumbering off to his studio/cot-of-muse, scowling in the direction of the garden on his trek du repose. The ball of energy is young Adam. From whence? Adam is another magnanimity of Wayne, a kid whom Wayne and Beki see all future growth and potential. He has been given free reign of the garden and nearly all in it. Adam excels in its abundance. Fish in the ocean, fresh water in the spring fed pond, grape fruit, bananas, tomatoes, and coconut trees growing wild. Sun bleached hair, bronze skin, unworn by the worries and much less the burdens of labor and living, as in: earning a. Water man supreme, swimming and surfing are his art of expression. Drawing strokes, carving, punching and caressing across waves as his mentor Wayne might wood or stone. Halcyon days, sun and breezes; clothing optional. Adams contribution? Gifted with a wit and eye, Wayne brings his creations to Adam who blurts out names for each carved piece. Names that only enhanced the humor, strength or nobility of each of his creations. Beki told Wayne “If that kid doesn’t start wearing some clothes, something is going to bite him on his bronze ass.” Nature draws supreme beauty; this beach this garden is a beautiful masterpiece unto itself. Well, almost to itself. Through wind swept hair, beneath the shade of the tree lined shore, is an observer. A young lady not so readily turned away as most tourists. Wayne and Beki have no immediate offspring of their own. The opportunity to pass an infant back and forth with loaded diaper
41. never occurred. Beki cradles the phone, while shuffling orders dealing with customers. Wayne chops great chunks of wood from tree trunks, fathering creations far and wide of stone and wood. They do love children, Wayne; a giant kid himself, many days would put on a show, carving in front of the studio. He would continue his carving until the crowd of local school children grew to large or got out of hand, climbing, touching, questioning. The scene altered only slightly from day to day, Wayne would choose the best moment and turn screaming after one great cha-thunk of the carving hatchet. He would lift his right thumb up covered by the right forefinger at the knuckle, keeping the left thumb folded over. To the uninitiated this resembled a chopped off thumb. With great hacks of laughter he would watch as pigtails and schoolbooks scattered. Ear splitting screams ensued, part of an, on the way home from school, daily ritual. It is not that they didn’t try the gift of procreation; the creator and Wisdom had a special part of the garden just to themselves, off limits to even Adam and all else who ventured in.
took to seed. One might say, in a poetic sort of way, they did have an offspring. On these nights, Mark would often shrug and chuckle, mumbling, “He and Wisdom are one.” Love among the palms inspired one of Mark’s finer pieces. It was a painting of a little humanoid being, a seedling under ground, sweet and pure, a sprout fed umbilically from the light on its leaves above ground. Ah, Art doth tell a story.
Wayne and Beki’s special place in the garden, a high ground where one (or two) could see the ocean through palm fronds. Wondrous nights and cool evening sunsets were enjoyed in a hammock strung between two large and beautiful cocoa palms, musically swaying under the stars to hidden rhythms in every ocean breeze. The hammock, wide and strong, joined the two great trees together, strung lazily at the bending hips of each palm. Some nights the rhythm of the ocean breezes seemed in misbeat with the huge palm fronds visible above the canopy of the garden. One could hear coconuts falling to ground and great peals of laughter as if thunder in the distance. On one such night in a crescendo of love and commingling, one of the most prime of coconuts fell and augured into the ground right beside the hammock. It immediately Beach11 - Reekfeel
Me Myself and I - Gary
Red - Lorna Jane Newman
Rosemarie Short - Forever
Is there anything in life, More fulfilling than love? A love which lasts forever, Which no mountain, Nor ocean, Can part. Have faith, As there is always dawn, Always sunlight, Always beauty. True love has itâ€™s way, Of finding you, If you wait long enough.
Let it go - Reid Sumner
KY Bus Window - ICK
The Soul Fish - Gary
Music - Manyonerise
Location Houston USA About Me: Jess is half of the Bottles of Mary music creators Jess and Cgee. Jess also does experimental works alongside the Bottles of Mary projects. I will be uploading a broad spectrum of art, some paintings, some poetry, writings, original music, and videos. Add me as a friend, I donâ€™t mind at all and I love experiencing all art. Also, please feel free to invite me to have a look at your newly uploaded art, as it is sometimes hard to keep track in a timely manner of all the things that I want to see, hear and read!! Thank you.
BillieVisiontje - Klarabella
run up Pink bubbles - Amy Jenkins
Marie Fullerton - The Dawning Jan looked around the Bistro; little vases of white and yellow flowers in the centre of each table stood out against the pristine, green tablecloths. She had seen the same cream walls and dark wood beams in a small bar she had visited in France. The canopy above the window outside sheltered most of the diners from the glaring sun but on one small table in the window corner, the sunshine streamed in. Jan took her cup and sat down there. She allowed the sun to play on her face as she watched tiny particles of dust dancing in the light through the window. Her mind wandered aimlessly. Enjoying the break, she sipped her coffee slowly.
“Excuse me,” Mark twisted round on his chair and called the waitress without noticing them.
“Hello Jan, this is a surprise.” Jan jumped at the familiar voice that had intruded into her thoughts and looked up to see Mark standing in the doorway; he held his arms wide as if to welcome her. She stood up and smiled weakly. He hadn’t changed, the same old Mark.
Jan checked her watch,
“Two coffees and two Welsh Rarebits, please love.” As she came across to take the order, Jan widened her eyes and looked directly at her over Mark’s shoulder, shaking her head with the smallest of movements, she fleetingly touched her lips with a forefinger. Mark turned back round to face her. “I can’t eat alone, you must eat with me.”
“I only have half an hour. I’m not hungry, a coffee will do fine.” Ignoring her statement, he asked, “Now, what have you been up to?”
“Mmm, not forgiven me yet I see?” “What do you expect?” She allowed her coldness to confirm his suspicions but her hands trembled as she watched him saunter across the floor and join her at the table. “Let me buy you a fresh coffee; this place is new, I’ve not seen it before?” “Yes, fairly new,” she smiled as she added, “ I hear the food’s good.” A family with two small children came in noisily and joined another couple already seated at a large table at the back of the room.
“Since you walked out on me you mean?” she cut in coldly. “Ah, come on Jan, we agreed to a trial separation.” He leaned across and picked a hair from her lapel and watched as it drifted to the floor. She was beginning to get irritable as she relived all the emotions that Mark had unleashed in her on his leaving. But then, she had done all right for herself. OK, she was still single but she liked it that way and she’d done a lot that she wouldn’t otherwise have done; college for instance. “So where did you go?
French Cafe Scene - Andrew Day
52. “I was in Australia for two and a half years and then!” “You mean you went ! on your own!” Realising she had raised her voice, she dropped it again and whispered, “Why, after all our plans, why?” “I’m sorry, please forgive me?” Her heart leapt at a sudden thought.
“Long time ago now, come on, eat up.” He picked up his knife and sliced the toast in half, in half again and again until he had eight little slices on his plate, he then picked each piece up with his finger and thumb before eating them noisily. Jan watched and sipped her coffee in silence. “ Eat up.” He repeated.
Mark looked down and brushed imaginary dust of the tablecloth. “I dunno, I guess it had all been getting too much, I, I really don’t know. I nearly wrote to you several times but, you know how it is!” “I do?”
“I did say I didn’t want anything.” “ You didn’t mean it, come on, eat with me.” Mark was insistent. “If you want it you have it, I’m not hungry.” She watched as he slid her slice onto his plate and proceeded with the cutting ritual as before.
“Two Welsh Rarebit and two coffees.” Jan smiled and nodded her head at the waitress. “ Thanks, Emma.” “Ah,” said Mark triumphantly, “still eating out I see, not learnt to cook yet then?” “Meaning precisely what?” His assumptions tangled in her stomach. “Well, you were always pretty hopeless at cooking, you have to admit it. Even that dog wouldn’t eat it, remember?” Jan recalled the picnic; how the sun played on the river’s surface. A small dog that she had thrown a stick for had jumped in and scattered the sparkling water. They’d fed it a sandwich and Mark had given it some of her quiche. He’d cut a small piece and, unknown to her until they’d got back home, had smothered it in pepper before throwing it for the dog to catch. How he’d laughed as it ran away sneezing. He’d laughed for days afterward every time it came to mind, ‘it’s only a joke about your cooking.’ he’d said.
“I went through Italy, had some really good food there. Mmm, love this.” He added and stuffed another slice into his mouth. The mocking voices of insufferable people echoed through Jan’s thoughts. The warm smell of toast materialized the tiny kitchen of their flat, friends sat around chatting, Mark’s friends. Geoff had said something and she turned to listen. The toast she was making for everyone caught fire under the grill. Someone laughed and from that point on it had been a standing joke. ëVisiting Mark and Jan, we’d better bring a take-away.’ Mark had laughed too. “Pity you never learned to cook, you never know, I might not have had to go so far for a decent meal.” Mark was laughing at his insinuation. His voice scattered the images. Jan sighed. “Mark, look, I have to go, I’m sorry, I’m working.”
He finished the last slice of Jan’s Rarebit and felt in his coat for his wallet. “Oh damn! I’ve left my wallet!”
“It’s OK, have this one on me, I owe you that much.” Jan got up and walked across to Emma, she whispered something and they laughed. As she turned to leave, Mark held his arm out for her but she brushed him aside and chose instead to walk before him. Outside the door she turned.
His arrogant, self assured face smiled at her and the knot in her stomach untied. Jan leant across, gently kissed his cheek and smiled back at him. “Actually we won’t; I won’t, and by the way, I’m ok and doing very nicely, thank you for asking”.
r Mark opened his mouth to speak. Jan gestured e n with her eyes to the sign above the door, in held up her hands in front of her, winked, and walked back into her Bistro.
er nn wi
“When shall we meet again?” Asked Mark.
The Door - Marie Fullerton
Collaborative Poem My game is that you have to add a line of poetry below the person before.
Today was one of those days... A somber day sun dripping in and out of a grey sky, Reminding me of those not so long ago British Mays A day for sepia drenched dreaming Things without beauty loose all meaning Yet we seem to dream in the same direction A candy floss dream, a rosie reflection Yet when daylight merges into dark, I find I’m strolling through the park, With no set course, no sense of home Born to wander, born to roam Is this the beginning or is this the end? Do I have enough time to make amend? Alas, the day fades, no time to discover Whether they are the one or if there is another But as I lay down to sleep in the clouds of my dreams I’m catching a fish, it’s a lovely big bream Thanks to... Pete, Rosemarie, Robyn, David, Steff, Milas, Marie, John and Johanna.
Colours 5 - Lapislazuline
Robyn - Your Friendly Local Drunk? Pushing the door open, the familiar scent of beer and old smoke slapped his nostrils. He shuffled to his usual spot: a table in the darkest corner of the pub. The proverbial battered wooden table and bench was more comforting to him than anything in the world. As he sits down, he removes his shabby coat and places it onto his chair. He leans back into the reliable chair and listens to it creak. Folding his yellow fingers into a knot, he sighs. The barmaid brings his usual pint of bitter over to him. They acknowledge each other silently. She knows him well, and understands his need for silence. She scuffles away to wipe the old tables, leaving him to his thoughts. This is my life. Has been for forty seven years. Will be for however long I last on this dam earth. He lifts the pint and places it to his lips, closing his eyes. This is where he belonged. In the shadows of life with the forgotten things of yesterday. He knew that he was the village drunk. Women warned their children to stay away. He was the man who always smelt bad, needed a shave, never bothered to talk to anybody. They can never understand. They donâ€™t want to understand. His wife was mentally ill. She spent all day in bed, waiting to be told she was normal, that her husband still loved her even though she was ill. He still remembered the days when they first met. Their wedding day. He smiled at the memory. Because he didnâ€™t pity her. He still loved her, perhaps even more now. But he hated seeing her so frail and vulnerable. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and make the illness leave her be. But he couldnâ€™t. He was helpless. He was just another man lost to the drink.
Man at the Bar - Oliver Day
Pete Hood - An Alternative Fall
Adam awoke in the Garden one day While the salmon and deer were leaping, And found the first woman in all the earth There by his side, still sleeping. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world When they fell to petting and kissing. He even forgot the ache in his side (As if there was something...well, missing.) They spent the day in making love And the first man learned to smile. And so, in the first relationship, They were happy for a while. Now I can’t tell you much about the fruit; It could have been apple or pear. But Adam would always regret that day Things went downhill from there. No lightning flashed when he bit the fruit, No thunderbolt knocked them flat, No flood, no ‘quake, no flaming sword. It was subtler than that. But punishment would happen soon They had disobeyed God’s laws. And the knowledge they had gained that day Was that of each other’s flaws.
Green - Marie Fullerton
She said he ought to wear some leaves For he was getting fat. And he was - what? A gardener? What kind of job was THAT? He told her how he thought her faults Were odious and many; How heâ€™d prefer another girl Except, well... there werenâ€™t any. She said if it were not for her The kids would be just frightful. (Even now, while Abel was quite a nice boy, Cain was sort of spiteful.) So the first couple in the world Could not be reconciled, And from the Garden, Adam went, Not banished, but self-exiled. He thought sometimes of the early days When all had been love and kissing. But the loudest sound in the Garden now Was the serpent smugly hissing.
Music - Mikedelic Brownage I am trying to throw my songs together into some albums. it is fun. while doing that i am also working on stuff for a fake cult of me concept album. also i have new software coming and will be experimenting up a storm. an electrical storm. yeah. I tried coffee and cigarettes, but without pastry the coffee tastes empty, and without food before a cigarette i just dont enjoy it.... i even tried freebasing cocaine and injecting crystal methamphetamine. would that they were more addictive than the devilâ€™s most insidious minion, FOOD. Damn you food, damn you to hell!!! With each passing day i experience more and more self-loathing and, even worse, hunger. i told my girlfriend about it and she said i wasnt addicted, that itâ€™s simply natural, but she is a codependent enabler in denial. oh what a tangled and soul rending web!! agony! O!
There we go again - RAF
Collaborative Poem Add a Letter Poetry - Milas How about a poem? Add the letters and let’s see what we come up with. I’ll start. A is for approval, and audiences - two things I love most B is for bannocks, and bakers who bake to make my toast. C is for churlish, childish and cantankerous hosts D is for daylight, dancing across the coast E is for enrichment and enchantment - of this place I boast F is for Freedom, its remembrance is a ghost G is for gravy poured from a boat H is for heartlessness, please do not dote I want to watch teevee, where’s the remote? Joker, why don’t you look under your coat? kuz, he’s probably too busy, peering through his Kaleidoscope L is for lasso to capture a stoat M for the Music that makes my heart float Not if you happen to play the wrong note! Oh please be careful youv’e stood on his stoat Please do not put me to death by a vote!! Q is for Quick now, close to the end, on the downward slope R is for Reeling was it something I wrote!! S is for the Sanity i lost somewhere along this road “Rubbish,” I said. “That stoat’s a toad!” Terrible John, it is clearly a stoat!! Unbelievable sure but it looked like a stoat Very good poem this, i have to say Well why didn’t you reply before today? xylophones caught my eye in a window display (?!) Y I’m admitting this I cannot say I had to look up the word stoat today Zebra now there’s a thing you wouldn’t mix up with a stoat in anyway. Z’s are for sleep and ending (he says with dismay...)
Collaborative - Great made up modern book titles 1. The tenderness of wolf buggery 2. A season in Bradford 3. Tantamount to philanthropy 4. The taxonomy of tears 5. Like butter for hot knives 6. The comfort of jumpers No prize but anyone fancy suggesting blurbs for these or any other titles?
Suggested by Chukwuma Praise for The Tenderness of Wolf Buggery “A triumph of craftsmanship . . . I will never look at a wolf’s behind in quite the same way” - Janet Crawford Alberta Evening Star “Incredibly evocative and deeply moving. I took my dog in my arms and cried myself to sleep.” - Kenley Prasad Mumbai Herald
Suggested by Tade The Comfort of Jumpers is a high-octane body-slam of a techno-thriller which hits you right in the gonads with highkicking, jumper-knitting grannies in a world where the retirement age has been abolished and MI5 exists in a post-cardiganterrorism world. It is the book Patriot Games wishes it could be; the cool cousin on PCP, but without the, you know, nasty nosebleed and psychosis. ‘I simply could not put this down!’ -Tom Clancy
Sushiko - Forgetting Dinner
Suggested by Mike Knowles: “The Tenderness of Wolf Buggery.” In his latest book the anthropologist and TV presenter, David Hattenburrow, describes how he lived for two years with a pack of wolves. At first David was ignored by the wolves and had to live on the few scraps of food they left. And it was only after an initiation ceremony involving the male wolves that David was finally accepted as a pack member. ‘They were very gentle,’ David said, recalling the incident with a fondness his wife and children found rather disturbing. “A Season in Bradford.” The book describes a season in the exotic Northern town of Bradford. The season is summer – a summer marred by almost continuous rain. The author, Pat McGinty, describes watching the water descend in rivulets down the slag heaps. Not that there was anything particularly beautiful about the sight. It was just the least boring thing to do. “Tantamount to Philanthropy.” Well, almost. The heart-warming story of multi-millionaire and IT guru Bill Grates who almost gave some of his money away to good causes. Until sheer greed made him see sense. “The Taxonomy of Tears.” In this massive 23,000-page tome, the Norwegian Nobel Biologist T.R. Dookt categorises the different kinds of tears produced by the human body. We learn that there are only two. Those containing
a lot of salt and those containing hardly any. So why is the book so long? Unfortunately, Dookt is one of those long winded scientists who prefer to use 100 words when only 5 are necessary. Warning: one reviewer actually died of boredom reading this book and another was driven stark, raving mad. “Like Butter for Hot Knives,” Barbara Cartlund’s latest romantic novel depicts the relationship between two lovers who discover they both suffer from spontaneous human combustion. “The flames of love have never burned so brightly,” said the Daily Mirror. “The Comfort of Jumpers.” Intrigued by Beachy Head in Eastbourne, psychologist Hugh Jarse has attempted to discover why so many people have chosen these cliffs to jump to their deaths. To his astonishment, Jarse discovered that there was a strong magnetic quality that drew people to this location. Even happy people have been tempted to hurl themselves to the rocks below. In fact, on three occasions Jarse himself had to be physically restrained from doing so! ‘On each occasion I was happy,’ explains Jarse. ‘Indeed, the last time I was almost ecstatic with joy! Yet there was a feeling that it would be a comfortable thing to do.’ Various theories have been put forward for this strange phenomena. From lay lines to the bracing sea air.
Luke Rowett - After The Rain After the rain the stones shimmered and blinked anyone hasnít tried it. On the hotter summer in the half light of the overcast spring evening. days when there is no wind to shake the branches or cool the masses, and space under It was cold but the heating was on and the old treeís shade is at a premium, an afternoon can wooden frame of my window jammed open with be spent on the bank watching the constant books I cared less about. The freshness from stream of people leaping. I dare say that yet the privet and the grass was astounding. It cut more people, if not everyone, habitually tilt back through the humidity, through the heaviness old their chairs, and I have never known even an wood and padded chairs are prone to wallow injury. There is always the story though, of a in. It cut through the balm that had lacquered my senses and held open my eyes to look out across gardens. I looked out through the stone arches, across the road to where the hill rose. I could not see to where it subsided but I had been there and knew that down to the river the grass would be pushed flat and saturated. Rain like that lifts the small flies from their leaves and makes them swarm in clouds over the bank and the shallow waters. The fish, of which I never took enough interest to consider their type, would surface, mouths gaping, and sink. I had left the window open through the rain but the heating was on, and the rain had spotted on the desk and on the headers of my papers. The books holding open the window had soaked up their share, but I had no interest to read them again, and they were of still less interest to anyone else. I pushed my chair back on its two legs and it creaked so I righted it again. It was always some fable Iíd never disproved ñ more deaths falling from tilted back chairs than jumping from the high bridge when the river was low. I have never heard of anyone dying from jumping from the high bridge, and rarely hear Dragonfly High - Belen Cromeleque
boy at a friendís friendís primary school. Iíd be prepared to believe only one boy fell foul and through myth and folklore it has become just two steps away for the whole nation. A small insect with lime green body landed on my hand shortly after I had ceased my wistfulness and turned back to my work. Its wings were longer than its body and its legs finer than the small hairs it moved among and I did not know its name. Of all the things in nature I know the name of very few, but I do love them. On that evening, after the rain, I began thinking that I favour the green, winged insect as the green, winged insect. I prefer to refer to the fish in the river as they leap hungrily for the small flies as the hungry fish. I love nature, not generations of previous peopleís considerations and labels. I wondered what nature would be without these things, without words and language and stories that make everything just two steps away. If it were just a green insect landed on my hand, and it was the greenness of it, the tiny sound of its wings, the feel of it among the fine hairs on the back of my hand and on the creases of my skin. There was a knock at my door to interrupt my thoughts, and I donít remember what it was they were after, or how I spent the rest of my evening after the rain on that overcast spring evening. Just that the light slowly subsided and the brightness of the streetlights took up its load. Though the heating was on I did take the books and let the window fall closed, to keep out the cold, and the larger, less colourful insects which crave the light and had also woken after the rain.
Oilncle Sam - Reid Summer
Vote Republican.... because inequality just isn't growing fast enough!
This advert was sponsored by Daniel Grosvenor. For details on how to anti-advertise please contact firstname.lastname@example.org
Jason Kenny - Broken Heart Ignore my Little Heart, As it tears Itself apart.
vadfint - klarabella
Tailspin is copyright of Tailcast. All work herein is copyright of the respective Tailcast members. Commercial use, publication or syndication without consent is prohibited.