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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! The Greeks Have a Word For It
I reckon that at sometimes in our lives, we have all pondered those two insoluble mysteries regarding life and death; ‘Where do we come from?’ and ‘Where do we go to?’.
Timothy Titterington was no exception to this ideology, in fact so obsessed was Timothy with these twin mysteries that they consumed a major proportion of his life. Well, especially the latter, as he conceded that as he was obviously here, there was no way he could alter that fact. However, he was more concerned as to what would actually happen to him when the light went out for the final time. This became an overwhelming obsession and consumed many hours of his rather humdrum life.
He had explored many of the various religions from all corners of the globe. However, apart from thinking that they couldn’t all be right regarding the deity that they worshipped or their beliefs regarding the afterlife, he conceded that the answer was probably in there somewhere.
Timothy had this recurring dream of a Rabbi, an Imam and a Bishop, passing through the pearly gates, only to find the old Norse God Odin sat on the golden throne. It made him smile as he imagined the shocked and puzzled look on the faces of this religious trio, and he wondered just how far from reality this vision could possibly be. The one conclusion that was currently uppermost in his mind was the possibility of reincarnation. In his research he had noticed that this phenomenon figured in many of the world’s religions and to him had a certain ring of truth about it.
This particular thought was running through Timothy’s restless mind as he was crossing the busy high street and never even saw the 38-bus coming - until…
When consciousness eventually returned, Timothy felt as though he was having an out of body experience. He remembered all to well the moment the bus struck him and surmised he was in some sort of medical coma. He was conscious of the presence of another person in the room, as although he could see nothing, he could hear plainly the voice of one, who he presumed was a medical practitioner of some kind.
‘I’m just looking at your all-time record old boy and it’s hard to believe the bad luck you’ve had over the last 40,000 years,’
‘Well, I’ve had my ups and downs like most people, but surely you mean the last 40 years, not 40,000. Even old Methusaleh didn’t live for that long,’ Timothy chuckled in reply.
‘Oh, I assure you, there’s no mistake old boy. You’ve had quite a torrid time since your first appearance in Cro Magna days,’ the medic assured him. ‘But there again I’m forgetting myself. Perhaps it would help you come to terms with your current situation if I gave you a little more information about where you are now and see if it’s possible to give you a more pleasant reincarnation next time, although it’s really out of my hands.’
Timothy cottoned on immediately as he realized the significance of what he had just been told.
‘So, I was right in my thinking all along,’ responded Timothy, with more than a hint of smugness in his voice. ‘I always believed that the soul or essence of the human body never actually ceases to exist, but is reborn again and again through all Eternity,’ he added.
‘Well at least for as long as the boss Zeus is amused by spinning the great Wheel of Fate,’ replied the ‘doctor’, who in fact was nothing more than one of the many attendants who looked after the recently deceased until their next reincarnation.
Timothy was rather taken aback by what he had just heard. Of all the world’s religions, it looks like the ancient Greeks had actually been right in their beliefs after all. Once again, he tried to imagine the look on the faces of the aforementioned religious trio if they had been privy to this information.
‘You mentioned that I’ve not had the best of times in my previous reincarnations,’ Timothy inquired of the attendant. ‘Can you be a little more explicit about my unfortunate experiences.’ He added.
‘While you are in the in-between state then this is permissible as you won’t recall any of these situations in your next life. I cannot possibly relate all your experiences in the time available to us as Zeus is, as ever, eager to spin the wheel to determine your next rebirth, I can therefore reveal to you some of the more exciting demises over the past forty millennium.
So, as an early man in the Cro Magna period, you were out hunting with members of your tribe, when you were caught up in a stampede of Woolly Mammoths. The results were inevitable. In Egypt about 3,000 years ago you were an overseer of the slaves engaged in building pyramids. It appears that you and some of your fellow overseers were a bit to handy with the whip and the subsequent revolt resulted in your early demise. In 490BC you were Pheidippides at the Battle of Marathon and dropped dead after running 26 miles to tell of the victory. In 122AD you were a Roman soldier patrolling along Hadrian’s Wall when a well-aimed slingshot from sneaky Pict knocked you from the wall and you subsequently broke your neck. There’s not many who are reborn into royalty but in 1066 you were King Harold and got an arrow in the eye at the Battle of Hastings. In 1478 you were the unfortunate Duke of Clarence, who met his end when suspended in a butt of malmsey wine. It was said that when they fished you out, half of the wine was gone. I reckon that if you had survived this ordeal, you would have had a very sore head the following morning. In 1830 you were William Huskisson and were sadly in collision with Stephenson’s Rocket. It turned out to be an historic moment as you were the first person to meet his end as a result of the railway. In 1854 you were again a young Hussar in the Crimean war and in the forefront of the charge of the light brigade, doing your best to dodge cannon balls. Sadly, you were not quick enough. You also served gallantly in the first world war and almost made it. However, with your luck, it was never meant to be. A German sniper got you two hours before the armistice was signed. These are just a few of the unfortunate incidents that happened to you over the centuries. Let’s hope that the next spin of the wheel gives you a chance to at least reach a decent age.
As Timothy was attempting to come to terms with his rotten luck, the attendant broke his reverie to announce that Zeus had once more spun the wheel and in his next life he was destined to become an astronaut – Well a few do get to live to a ripe old age – don’t they?
It was 2051 and the spacewalk should have been little more than routine for the experienced 26-year-old astronaut. How and why his safety cable became detached from the harness remains a mystery. Equally mysterious was the last message he relayed to the mother ship that no one could explain.
‘Open that pearly gate Zeus, I’m coming in. Get ready to spin that big old wheel again!
The End
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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.