Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No 2 in C minor Mvmt. 1 - BBC Proms 2013 - N...

Desolation

We are but islands in a sea of desolation.

Knights In Ardour

The two knights, Sir Lancemenot in blue strip and Sir Gladhehad in red, faced each other at opposite ends of the jousting arena. Lances and shields at the ready they prepared to do battle.
Lady Guinowhere, in her seat in the King's stand stroked her growing bulge lovingly.
The bee flew into Lancemenot’s helmet just as he snapped the visor shut. For a few brief moments, metal clad limbs, thrashed about wildly, before toppling ignominiously off the horse in a clanking, groaning heap. 

The stricken knight ripped off his helmet just in time and smiled with relief as the bee flew off without stinging him, but it disappeared almost immediately as Gladhehad smashed his head in with a spiked ball on a chain.

 Lancemenot, eyes watering, tried to stand up but his armour was too much of an impediment. He watched helplessly as the red knight swung his sword to deliver the coup de grace. He had just enough time to scream ‘It’ll still be my bastard!’ before his head was detached and kicked into touch. 

Some spectators shouted ‘foul play’ and ‘we want our money back’ while Lady Guinowhere spewed up her morning sickness over King Arthur’s favourite hunting dog. The wedding was definitely off barring a miracle.

Copyright Harry Hunt 2014

Trapped

The carriage is almost full; just one seat half unoccupied. I make my decision.  The large, ginger haired woman it is then. Ignore the aggressive glare and try to avoid physical contact. I grope awkwardly in my pocket. Damn! No paracetamol.  Dirty, antiquated rolling stock, fit only for midgets. What’s the country coming to.

Valkyrie slowly turns a frog like head. Little creep has nerve; thought she’d covered both seats. Hate little city slicker types. Flabby buttocks gently vibrate. Get a whiff of that mate. She wrinkles a podgy nose and regards him with beady eyes.  Je vous accuse.

“What’s that bruise on your head?”

I blink. Is she talking to me? Is my small lump that obvious? What’s that awful smell? I want to tell the others it isn’t me.

What the hell’s it got to do with her? You don’t just interrogate strangers on trains. Try to hold breath and speak simultaneously. 

 “On the roof of a train…got hit by a low bridge,” I mumble.

Sarky little runt.  “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that. What train?”

Bad breath, BO, flatulence.  I glance round desperately, for salvation.

“…The one before this,” I reply, feeling queasy.

“What…the four thirty?”

“Yes, the four thirty.”

She snorts triumphantly. “Now I know you’re lying. There isn’t a four thirty.  I made it up.”

Dear God, give me strength. I wish there was. I’d have made sure I was on the bloody thing.

Copyright Harry Hunt 2014

The Beginning of Wisdom

There came a time when I looked out across a vast expanse of water and wondered if there was anything beneath the surface. As I wade into the shallows they gradually become deeper until eventually, I’ll swim - or drown.