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                 Let Me Tell You a Story

If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!                                                            A Little Monkey Business
 

     ‘James, will you please stop calling and messaging me. I’ve told you so many times that although I really value your friendship, I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes. You’re a lovely guy but just not my type.’

     James read the tweet from Jane for at least the tenth time before he could bring himself to accept that despite what certainly had been a great friendship, it was now pretty clear that it could never develop into a more intimate or romantic relationship. To say he was gutted was an understatement. In his anguish he realized that he could no longer live in the presence of the only woman he had ever desired as every meeting from now on would be like a dagger through his broken heart and the only way he could ever forget her was to get as far away as possible – And Africa beckoned….
     It was some four years later before Jane received further news of her erstwhile friend James and it came via his older brother John. He had called at her little cottage in Barton Bottoms, where in her position as a primary school teacher, she was attempting to get her head round the latest school reading record – and not making much headway.
     John’s news about her old friend was not good. It appeared that he had contracted a severe disabling sickness due to a dodgy tanning mousse that he had applied to liberally, a sickness which had left him partially paralysed and for which there was no known cure. Jane was deeply saddened at the news and inquired if there was anything she could do to help. John then informed Jane that James had never stopped caring for her and that there would never be another woman in his life and in the hope that she would remember him with fondness, he hoped that she would accept one final special gift from him; a living token that would forever keep the bond of friendship alive.
     Now Jane expected that this ‘living’ gift from James would probably be a kitten, a puppy or some small exotic creature from the jungles or plains of the dark continent. It is easy to imagine her complete surprise when John informed her that the gift was in fact a 3-year-old male gorilla that James had found as a new born, clinging helplessly to the lifeless body of its mother, cruelly shot down by bush meat hunters who were beginning to be the new scourge of Africa. John further reported that James had personally reared the infant primate with such love and affection that it had become almost human in the way that it behaved.
     On hearing this news, Jane found it difficult to understand how James could bear to be parted from this creature that he had reared so tenderly. John then explained that to add to James’s rare and tragic condition, one of the side effects of his medication made him extremely allergic to all animal fur and although this meant that his heart had been broken for a second time, his dearest wish now was that Jane could find it in her heart to take in and look after the almost human primate, who he had named Guy, as he was confident that given time, they also could form a special bond.
     Jane was naturally apprehensive but also curious and when John told her that Guy was outside in the van, she could hardly believe it. She expected Guy to be caged and was more than a little surprised to find him sitting calmly in the front passenger seat, chewing contentedly on a bamboo shoot. As she opened the door, their eyes met and her once callous and uncaring heart melted instantly and from that first moment, she knew that she and Guy were destined to be the firmest of friends.
     John then explained the logistics of living with a hand-reared gorilla. Guy would be happy living a domesticated life for long periods but there was no denying that as a great ape, no amount of domestication could ever make him human and there would be times when he would yearn for the arboreal life of his ancestors in order to keep his muscular frame conditioned. During these periods, John agreed to take Guy to a forested area nearby, where, for a couple of days each month, he could swing through the trees to his heart’s content.
     And so, Guy moved in with Jane and it was not long before she realized that what John had told her, although hard to believe, was undoubtedly true. Within weeks, Guy was performing most of the domestic tasks around the little cottage, allowing Jane to concentrate on her scholastic duties, including getting her head around that blasted school reading record. He did the washing up to near perfection and broke very few pots, took the bins out every Thursday and became a dab hand at mowing the lawn and then consuming the cuttings. He even assisted her when she decorated the spare bedroom, scraping off the old wallpaper far quicker than she could ever have accomplished it. She even allowed him to do the ironing,
     Then there was the night when a political canvasser knocked on the door of the cottage. He was already with his spiel on the dangers of allowing to many unwelcome ‘foreigners’ into the country who contributed nothing to its prosperity, when the door slowly opened. At the sight of a 6ft gorilla who had been rudely disturbed while watching ‘Planet of the Apes’ and was displaying his anger in no uncertain terms; the terrified canvasser dropped his clipboard, turned tail and ran as though his life depended on it.  
     Each evening, Guy would lay out her slippers and night attire. In time they would sit on the sofa and watch TV together and Guy even appeared to be enjoying the experience, especially the nature programmes and he grunted excitedly every time David Attenborough appeared on the screen. He had little time for some of the other presenters and it was almost all Jane could do to stop him throwing her ornaments at the screen whenever a certain male presenter appeared.
     Guy was so gentle, soft and cuddly that she often snuggled up beside him and in return he would often place his muscular arm protectively around her shoulder. She would often talk to him about her former friendship with James and again he appeared to be listening intently to her every word and would rumble softly every time James’s name was mentioned.
     As time progressed, the bond between human and ape grew ever stronger and she came to dread the periods when John took Guy away to exercise in the forest and found herself waiting impatiently but with eager anticipation for his return. It was easy for Jane to imagine Guy being raised by James as he possessed many of his owner’s traits and mannerisms which were such that she often found herself thinking fondly about him.
     After many months of a growing and congenial relationship and seeing James’s personality in many of Guy’s Day to day gestures, she became remorseful and began to regret being so cold and heartless with him and even wished that she could turn the clock back and perhaps make a different decision after James had expressed his undying love for her. She even went as far as making the confession in Guy’s presence and his animal empathy for her situation was almost human in its intensity.  
     Then there was the night when she woke with a start to find Guy sharing her bed. She should have been alarmed or at least uncomfortable at this turn of events but after giving it much thought she convinced herself that people often shared their beds with their pets – and that’s just what Guy was – wasn’t it? The occasional invasion of her bedroom soon became a nightly occurrence and although she would never have admitted it to her friends and colleagues, she began to look forward to bedtime; even when he threw his big hairy arms across her body and she sighed contentedly if not a little guiltily, she put it down to pure animal instinct and perhaps misjudged affection – but never once did she object to his over amorous attentions.
     With a tear in her eye, she waved off John as he once more took Guy away for his arboreal exercise. However, the forest was by-passed, and the van pulled up outside John’s apartment on the other side of town. John unlocked the front door, flopped on the sofa and said to Guy inquiringly.                                                                                                                                               “Well, what progress this time?”  Guy unzipped the cleverly hidden fastener of his tailor-made gorilla suit and removed the extraordinary lifelike head to reveal – a very hot and sweaty James, who turning to his brother and with a huge self-satisfied grin on his flushed face said,   “Well John, I think it’s time for our James to make a miraculous recovery and catch the next available plane from Africa – I think this ‘guy’ has cracked it!”

    

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                      The Dying of the Light

Day 1   
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.

Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.

Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.

Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.

Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!

If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.