Monday, 23 June 2014

Angel Yard

            All you have to do is kiss the bastard and say it backwards three times.

Did I make it too difficult?

Surely it's not rocket science! I'm not asking you to balance the sum of human kindness on the head of a pin. Go on, kiss me and say it,

                DRAY LEGNA

                DRAY LEGNA

                DRAY LEGNA

Is it too high up? Then use a ladder. Levitate. Jump!

Maybe it's an advertising problem. Maybe I didn't deliver enough leaflets. Stuff it, I don't do maybe's. Just kiss the bastard and say the magic words. How difficult can it be? 

It's been eighty years now. If I wasn't an Angel I'd probably be riddled with arthritis by now, sitting all alone like this inside my self imposed prison. It isn't very roomy I can assure you, barely enough room to stretch my legs. It's not as if I'm a bloody Genie. Genies have it easy I can tell you. All cosied up in their lamps with their wine and their doilies and their fluffy pillows.

I'd give my right wing for a fluffy pillow. 

Kiss me for God's sake, just kiss me and say the magic words.

Don't you want your own Angel? 

Ok so I'm not Archangel Gabriel or that bleeding moron Micheal, because as far as Angels are concerned I don't walk in those circles. They're celebrity Guardian Angels whereas I'm just your common Garden variety. Do you think one of them would be stupid enough to lock themselves inside a street sign?

No I'm just Gavin the Knob-head Angel and I was a bit pissed at the time to be honest. But seriously you don't know what you're missing. We could do things, you and me. Do you want to fly? Do you want money coming out of your armpits? Do you want every man and woman to fall in love with you even though you fell out of the ugly cart and landed in a puddle when you were born?

I'm your man. Go on kiss me, say the magic words. 

                DRAY LEGNA

                DRAY LEGNA

                DRAY LEGNA

Say it!

Let me out. Please I'm begging you. Let me out.


                                                           (C) Ally Atherton 2014 
                                                                                                 (361 Words)

This was written for this week's Light and Shade Challenge. If you love writing then why not give it a go? It's new, its fabulous and you don't know what you're missing.

Monday, 2 June 2014

Against the Ropes



                                It's not the mountain we conquer but ourselves

                                                            Edmund Hillary

I don't know anything about mountain climbing but every night I get a little bit closer to the top.

                Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night for a piss and I've still got all the paraphernalia stuck to my back and there's a rope stretching from my bed to the toilet. My wife is simultaneously sprawled out on her side of the bed that doubles up as a cliff edge. Sometimes I drop a pin or a hammer or some other object that celebrated nocturnal mountain climbers like myself use, and she wakes for a second and stares down at the the abyss, with a look of horror that is usually only reserved for my underpants.

I'm a crap climber. My left arm doesn't know what my right arm is doing. I have passed entire nights away before now in a complete tangle of ropes. I have used drawing pins, superglue, blue-tack, anything to keep myself pressed against the rock face. And the less I say about the sellotape incident the better. Let's just say it was a very long and bruising night.

My wife and family can't understand why I'm so knackered or why I've taken up a monthly subscription of Trek & Mountain magazine. How can I even begin to explain that I spend most days recovering from the after effects of altitude sickness, frostbite and occasionally a bout of snow blindness?

It's been going on for several months now. I should have reached the summit by now but after all my efforts I have a horrible suspicion that I am only moving a couple of inches a night. I think even my Grandmother could have got there faster than me and she's been dead twenty years. I am desperate. I need a good night's sleep to get over my night's sleep. I have Googled my predicament but as you can well imagine this doesn't appear to be happening to anybody else, although alarmingly there are a growing number of individuals who are knitting scarves in their sleep. I can cope with scarves.

I don't know the name of my mountain. I can't find it in Trek and Mountain Magazine. Edmund Hillary would know. I think I saw him once, one night when I was on my way up but he was on the far side and he couldn't hear me. I tried to memorise his face and when I woke up I looked him up in my recently acquired 'View from the Summit' but he didn't look anything like him. My Hillary looked more like Hillary Clinton.

God willing I'll reach the top soon and this will be all over. My wife is beginning to talk about me behind my back and our sex life is a joke. How can I explain that I need all the energy I can get and that the only peak I want to reach is currently covered in snow?


                                                                    (C) Ally Atherton 2014

Written for this week's Light and Shade Challenge. Go on, give it a go. Meet some lovely writers.

Other Entries so far this week


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