Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Things so Lost

I stumbled across an old file. Found some ancient scribblings. And this here text for a children's picture book. Methinks it will never get published. So I've gone and self published...right here. Anyone care to illustrate???

The Land of Socks

Yusuf wore a frown on his brow,
For the life of him, he couldn’t tell how
His favourite pairs of socks was a pair no more,
It was time for mum to return to the store
To replace the ones now oh-so lost
No telling how much that would cost

Yusuf sighed, a great big sigh
And pulled on a pair almost knee-high
Black with thick, ugly yellow stripes
That just increased his complaints and gripes

This sock- business was strange, for sure
He needed to try to discover a proper cure
For the socks that disappeared without a trace
Even though Mum had put them in their place

So he pulled out the drawers and placed them on his bed
Then went on all-fours and stuck in his head
The cupboard was a dark and gloomy place
So dark, that he couldn’t even feel his face
He peered into the darkness as hard as he could
Get to the bottom of this mystery, he certainly would

In the distance a bright light did he spy
Surely this wasn’t a trick of the eye
He crept into the gap, feeling his way,
This was turning out to be a very strange day

Then suddenly the ground was there no more
He was falling fast, and his body was sore
From knocking against walls, covered in cake
That smelt like Mum’s lousiest bake
Rock- hard it was and very stale too
He ate a bit and it tasted like glue

He landed on the ground with a mighty bump
And rubbed his head, it had grown a hump
The size of a camel’s, this hump felt
He rubbed it gently, trying to get it to melt

He looked around him, feeling rather peculiar
Nothing around him looked even slightly familiar
This land was huge as far as he could tell
With the number of socks there, it was just as well



It smelt heavenly though, remain in no doubt
With roads of foot powder spread all about
Flowers by the dozen bloomed along the roads
Thankfully, here there weren’t any toads
The flowers were pretty, lilac, yellow and blue
And colours of the rainbow, amazing their hue

A liquid dripped from their inside each flower
That seemed to possess a very strange power
For wherever it fell a new flower would grow
It’s colours amazing, it would begin to glow

But strangest of all was the sock choir
Their song so beautiful he had but to admire
They stood in rows straight and neat
And sang a song that none could beat
For their king, whom they called a Chowder
Standing respectfully on their road of foot powder

Before them the Grand old Chowder, he sat
He was their King and he wore a splendid hat
He was a huge grey sock with a bright red beet
Who could very easily fit on giant’s feet

Beside him sat the Grand Chowderess
Her purple hair all tangled, it was a mess
If truth be told, a woolly pom pom was her hair
And it looked so strange that Yusuf had to stare

White was her colour with yellow polka dots
Or was that Winnie the Pooh, his face covered in spot?
And she too was huge, this I must confess
A giantesses boot for her, no less

And talking of boots - these were their thrones
They were speaking to each other in low tones
Yusuf stood tall, and then looked around
Astonished was he, when amongst the choir he found
No less that four of his favourite socks
Even they grey one, with the navy blocks

He felt terrible to find that sock right there
For he’d just had a fight with his brother Umair
About this very sock, which now stood so proud
Singing for the Chowder and Chowderess so loud

So the next time your socks decide to take a walk
And feel that they’d much rather sing than talk
Know that they’ve found their way to The Land of Socks
They’re not simply hiding at the bottom of a smelly box

Their Sokkie Heaven is much more appealing
It’s not a case of your brother stealing
Your favourite socks just to have a hoot
So stay away from the boxing gloves and boots

Monday, April 20, 2009

A wonderful story



I was sent a story the other day. I wouldn't be lying if I said that it is, without doubt, the best short story I have read in a long time.

So I share it with you now...


AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN 5 SHORT CHAPTERS
BY PORTIA NELSON

I.

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost ... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out

II.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I am in the same place
but it isn't my fault
It will take a long time to get out

III.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in ... it is a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

IV.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

V.

I walk down another street

-------------

SO if I seem to have gone AWOL, don't fret. I'm pondering the paths. Wondering whether I want to fall in a hole again. Walk around it. Or just try an altogether new path. Being in unfamiliar territory is terrifying isn't it?





Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Lazeeza Chronicles IV - The Is-It-Fresh Brigade

Amongst the patrons of Lazeeza’s is a group that I have taken the liberty of christening the Is-It-Fresh Brigade.

Picture the scene:
The cherry wood shelves groan under the weight of trays of still shiny koeksusters, glossy chocolate doughnuts, sprinkled liberally with multi coloured hundreds and thousands or roasted peanut nibs. A hint of cinnamon teases your nostrils triggered by the warmth of the sugar encrusted doughnut. The clang of bread pans being emptied reaches you over the laughter of bakers somewhere out back.

You turn to the salesperson and ask, “Are these fresh?” The violins that orchestrated your movements until now grind to a discordant halt. The smiling face of said salesperson morphs into something grotesque. Smoke issues from her nostrils.

“Yes,” she grunts.

The rapidly morphing salesperson is yours truly. The patron being enticed to the harmonious strains of a violin is a member of the Brigade.

So tell me, dear member of The Brigade, why, oh why do you ask me this question when it is obvious, in fact more than obvious, that what you are buying is fresh.? When, with the aid of a pair of tongs, you can do a rudimentary press to ascertain this for yourself?

Why, when naan is still breathing cloudy breaths into the air do you turn to me looking for all the world like a poor replica of Dennis the Menace and ask the dread question?

There are days when I clench my teeth, grin and bear it. But there are also days when I want to scream.

So if my answer to you, dear Brigade member, is less than polite, you’ll forgive me. Since the other members of your Brigade, the ones who got here before you, they’ve milked me of all the polite grins I have in my mental storeroom.

And when I see your face, my mind shrieks, Please God, not another one!!!