May 08, 2012

And even more

CHAPTER FIVE

In which your humble narrator flies into a terrible rage, accuses the Rev. R. Mole of heresy and attempts to burn him at the stake.

I must confess, dear reader, that at the commencement of the Reverend’s tale, I was somewhat nonplussed.

“You must forgive me,” I said, rising clumsily from my chair (for the port had been rather good and had sent me into a near-comatose stupor) “I believe I should retire. It has been an instructive evening, and I thank you for it. Goodnight.”

“You needn’t take it like that, old chap” the Mole replied. “It is only a matter of ecclesiastical differences, nothing more.”

I suspected at this that he felt himself snubbed, and went to great pains to reassure him of his own powers of narration, and my unworthiness as a listener for such a complex tale.

“Control yourself, young man!” shrieked the Reverend, clambering up the back of a chair with his great claws. “I am a man of the cloth, I meant no harm!”

At this, I was utterly bemused, and began to wonder whether, during the course of the noble Reverend’s tale, I had in fact dropped off into slumber. I asked him if I could perhaps get him a brandy to settle his nerves.

“MURDER!” cried the Mole, “A MURDER is taking place!” and, fixing his great dark eyes upon me, his pince-nez flashing menacingly in the light from the fireplace, shouted:

“You’ll never take me alive!”

I tried to assure him that I had no intention of taking him anywhere, at which point he pulled a great knife from a sheath concealed under his trousers and waved it furiously in my face, putting me in grave danger of a nasty scratch. I felt rather injured by this show of ingratitude for my hospitality and I am sure that if he had asked for the brandy at that point I would have found some way to refuse him on principle.

Panting heavily, the Mole (who after all must have been exhausted from brandishing a knife much longer than himself) wheezed “I’ll kill us both before you burn me, villain!”

He then inexplicably strapped a small device on to his back, and began vibrating at great speed, rendering him almost invisible but for a small portion of his buttocks that was completely stationary. I showed him out, but, as he appeared to be in no condition to find his way home, I was compelled to call him a cab which I then had to carefully lift him into, receiving several deep cuts for my pains.

It was with a sensation of great relief that I watched the cab drive away, but my questions remained: who were these small Gods? And were they such blackguards as the Reverend had suggested? Perhaps that was the reason for his mysterious frenzy. I retired to my study in deep thought.

CHAPTER SIX

In which the Rev. R. Mole breaks the fourth wall entirely and starts taking questions from the audience


More more story

CHAPTER 3

In which the Rev. R. Mole tells his story without interruption

“The Shrew God and the Vole God met each other unexpectedly in a wooded hollow.

“Greetings, Brother Shrew!’ called the Vole God,

“What brings you here, away from your dutiful foraging in undergrowths, your ritual consumption of the beetles of the wayside, your miraculous appearance before the eyes of small humans, surprising them with the infinite variety of beings?”

“I have been called here, Brother,” replied the God of Shrews. “The God of Foxes has, with great dignity and grace, humbly begged my attendance at a banquet in my honour.

But what of you, Brother Vole? What brings you here, away from the fallow land of your kindred, from furrows among the blessed grass, from the happy duty of startling lady gardeners on neglected plots?”

“It is strange,” said the Vole God, “for I too have been called here by the God of Foxes, and to a banquet in my honour.”

There was a pause.

“I cannot but wonder,” mused the Shrew, “what business is it that disturbs the God of Foxes, such that he forgets the arrival of two most honoured guests?”

The Vole considered. “Perhaps he is caught up in the rituals of his kind? In gruff barking at the twilight hour, in scenting the district of his burrow, in feasting on the hapless creatures of…the…forest?

“Oh balls.” said the Shrew.

At that point, on the same day as he appeared to them last year, as he had each year for thousands of years before, the God of Foxes arrived and ate them both.”

“You mean to say--” I interjected, curiously.

“Shut up!” replied the Reverend. “You are ruining your chapter titles. I have not finished.”

CHAPTER FOUR

In which The Rev. R. Mole finishes.

“…At that point, on the same day as he appeared to them last year, and on many thousands of years before, the God of Foxes arrived and ate them both.

It so happened that Buddha and Jesus Christ were walking together past that very same glade.

“How silly!” laughed Christ, wiping small beads of blood away from his be-thorned brow.

“To think that every year, these poor and muddled Gods, of no importance but to the meagre vermin of the field, are tricked into enacting the bloodied rituals of their race.”

“Ye-es,” replied Buddha, sweating profusely in the close air. “Forgive me, for I have not much sense of time, having forsaken the mortal calendar in my quest for enlightenment, but what day is this?”

“Oh, Friday.” Christ said, carelessly. “Is it important?”

On the horizon, a troupe of purposeful Romans appeared.”


Experiment in Anti–Narrative pt 1

The Gods of Small Things.


CHAPTER 1

In which the Shrew God and the Vole God meet each other unexpectedly in a wooded hollow

There are a number of things that, if you cared to look it up in an encyclopaedia, or consulted your grandparents on, or possibly even asked your tealeaves, you could find out quite easily. Among these things are approximately how many tigers are alive in the wild at this moment in time, whether said tigers are or are not Coming To Tea, and precisely how brightly they will burn, if or when they turn up (this is highly pertinent in the event that you should need to purchase flame retardant chinaware). 

Other things, like How To Lose Seven Pounds in Seven Days, One Single Mum’s Cheap Trick For Whitening Teeth, or the bustiness of any given Russian Girl Looking for Love in US, can be discovered on the internet, often whether you want to or not. On this score, tealeaves can be next to useless, and although grandparents have their own ideas about these things, it is in your interests to never, ever ask them.

If you want to know the waist to hip ratio of a hummingbird, or which celebrity field mice have the best bikini bodies, or to hear Gerald the Corn Snake’s Harrowing Tale of Survival Against All The Odds After His Break Up With Gary the Corn Snake (best not to speculate why all corn snakes have names that begin with G), then you need to track down, or possibly subscribe via the internet, to Okay We’re Really Small Magazine.

It was here that I found out about the existence of the Gods of Small Things, crammed into a tiny advertisement in the corner of a page that also suggested that my life might be lacking fur implants, tail straightening powder, and a tiny machine that, if strapped to my back, would vibrate my entire body at a frequency that would make me 90% imperceptible to hawks.

The advertisement read: REMEMBER YOUR GODS! YOUR LIFE IS BRIEF AND FUTILE! It was signed by a Rev. R. Mole and underneath was a phone number so tiny that I had to barter the use of a powerful microscope from a passing scientist in order to read it. Once I had deciphered the minute script, I decided to contact Rev. R. Mole at once and question him on a number of issues that had come to my mind, such as the number of tiny Gods in operation, and whether the patrons of Okay We’re Really Small Magazine were a multi-faith community.

I wanted to know, if I were to be suddenly transformed into a water vole, or an edible dormouse (which I personally suspected was more than likely due to certain genetic predispositions in my father’s line), what my options were.

It did take some time to track Rev. R. Mole down, partly because he often suspected, due to some defect in my telephone manner, that I was a hawk, or at the very least some kind of kestrel, in response to which I pointed out that hawks using telephones would just be silly. The other problem was that he was a mole and therefore very, very small.

When we finally did encounter each other, it was entirely by accident. I was attending a minor tea party held by a dear friend, which was unexpectedly spoiled by the arrival of a number of brightly glowing tigers. I glanced wearily across the table and happened to catch the eye of an outstandingly large mole, possibly the size of a man, wearing a dog collar and a pair of rather lovely gold pince-nez.

I may have expressed some astonishment as to the handsome stature of the Reverend, who, being a mole, I had expected to be rather a lot smaller. To this he replied with some dignity that God was Great, that nothing cannot be done by those who respect the will of God, and that he was standing behind a particularly large magnifying glass.

Despite this somewhat inauspicious introduction, we were to become fast friends, and he courteously accepted an invitation to dine with me that very evening. When the time came to sit down to our meal, he was not much impressed with my diet of rich beef wellington, fine floury potatoes roasted in goose fat, and a green salad composed of asparagus and deep fried broccoli, he did enjoy the port.

It was with the commencement of the cheese course that we settled down beside the fire and began the real business of the evening. Not without some misapprehension, I began asking him a number of questions about the diet, habitats and breeding habits of small Gods, where they took their tribute, what the rules were on litters before marriage, and the possibility of resurrection from the hawk, to which he replied by gracefully holding up a single paw, and telling the following parable:

“The Shrew God and the Vole God meet each other unexpectedly in a wooded hollow.


CHAPTER 2

In which the Rev R Mole is suddenly interrupted whilst telling his story

“The Shrew God and the Vole God meet each other unexpectedly in a wooded hollow…” The Rev. R. Mole began.

“And each of them—”

At that moment, a number of tigers burst into the room in search of caffeinated beverages. Finding only port, they swiftly left again, morosely incinerating a 200 year-old chaise longue on their way out.



January 26, 2012

Because everyone loves Gordon Brown in a short skirt.


Because everyone loves Gordon Brown in a short skirt, they need to check out this comic:


http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/images/judgekirsty/2012/01/26/outlines2.jpg


Yay for mental scarring.


Pantoum or just pants?


On the roof of the world the bears are waiting


On the roof of the world the bears are waiting,

for when the ice sheets shudder like a wind-shot tablecloth across the land

and we part ice-torn mouths, hungry for the surf, lash dogs to makeshift sleds

and scatter like marbles, rotund with fox fur and whale skin, a feast for sweaty paws.


The ice sheets sweep a loving shroud over lonely cities,

We bind up our children, our treasures, our dead, tote them across continents,

scatter like marbles, glut our frozen skin with fox fur and whale skin, and feast

on the eyeless carcasses of vulture-torn cattle. The birds wheel endlessly in the frozen sky.


We bind up our children, hoist the dead over our shoulders, and hunt

an eider for our bellies, our fingers fumble rosaries over the bones of a narwhal.

The eyeless carcasses watch us toil, endlessly beseeching the frozen sky:

the sea sings a sweetness to the ears of hungry fishermen.


Fingers fumble rosaries over the bones of a narwhal. Wind-bit and bound

the dead call us to the sea; their voices ring hollowly across the lowlands.

The sea sings a sweetness to the wave-licked bones of the wicked.

As the ocean hugs the lonesome earth, the fishes leap at the edge of the world.



Falcons drove us to the sea; their wings squeaked hollowly across the lowlands

and we parted ice-torn mouths, hungry for the surf, as the dogs loped and the wind sang.

Where the ocean hugs the aching earth, our dead kissed the bitter waves; and sank.

On the roof of the world the bears are waiting.

Kirsty Judge


January 24, 2012

Adventures in Anti–Narrative

After a traumatic period of block, block, and more block, I'm finally starting to get things done rather than moping around looking at my brain and wishing it would do things, huzzah. The anti-narrative fun times expected this term are very appealing, particularly for someone still hobbling around on baby deer legs when in comes to pen and paper. So here's a few stories in imitation of a writer whose name I have forgotten but who is rather excellent (will update this entry once I replace my course pack, which dissolved in a recent downpour). Pantoums and yet another Boar comic to come. Enjoy!

1.

Once upon a time there was an old man whose legs were on backwards. Try as he might, he could never walk forwards; his legs would inevitably drag him off in the opposite direction. The harder he tried, the stronger they’d pull, until eventually they never stopped at all and he was swept off, never quite sure where his legs were taking him. He walked through cities and towns, past palaces and hovels, past men and women and children and dogs, over bridges and underground, past rats and cats and snakes and pigs. And then his legs broke.

2.

There once was a girl who was more beautiful than all the other women in the world. Her eyes glittered and gleamed a deep sapphire, her mouth was flush like coral, her skin as smooth as rose petals. When the girl sang, her voice was so sweet that all the birds in the land fell silent, and her song, nurtured by the wind, swept to strange countries. I had her in my pocket for a while, but I lost her.

3.

I met a man on the way to the market who was carrying seven pigs. I heard that he died a few days later.


January 11, 2012

Confusing Uploading Issues

I wished to upload a comic I did for the boar onto this page, but for some reason (possibly due to some new and rather exciting drawing software I've been using) it refuses to upload in a readable size or with any degree of image quality; rather, I seem to be posting an pixelated mess.


SO to get around this, please follow this link:


http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/images/judgekirsty/2012/01/11/draft4.jpg


and then this one to read a fancy article I did on North Korea:


http://theboar.org/comment/2012/jan/11/kim-jong-il-may-be-dead-his-korea-isnt-over/


Thank you and goodnight.


September 11, 2011

Back to Blogging Badly.

Jungle, my dog, in a smoking jacket. By me.

A post in defence of Staffordshire Bull Terriers coming soon! Because I'm fed up of people looking at our dog as if she's going devour all their loved ones and them vomit them up, trample on them, and post them to the EDL. No dog is born evil, although most dogs like having their bellies rubbed for some reason.


May 16, 2011

A Small Death in the Machine.


The cold ache of hospital light has stripped all colour from the hyacinths in my shaking hands.

Each quiver releases heady scent into the air, suffocating, sealing up my nose and mouth. But I can’t escape the dank, medical reek that coats her skin.

She is so

small,

the soft folds of her skin have ebbed into nothing

and we can already see the skeleton inside

rising up to take possession.

How lovely your bones are, grandma. We are arranged in triptych around you, we carry false hope, hyacinths and cards. The bed is raised high above the tacky floors and crackles with starch as we sit.

A low, omnipresent hum throngs the corridors, as if some huge bell has sounded.

The harsh light

bleaches us as white as the walls,

everything is inescapably white,

except

         

the gentle yellow crepe of her skin, shrouded in hospital blue, the birdlike hands that sweep up and say       hello.

The room is filled with doppelganger women, the place is a charnel house,

the bodies lie and silently

watch.


I taste the bitter machine coffee on my breath and I hope my kisses are not sour.


I Am No Poet


On Leave


HE HAS some

licked-silk river bones,

the shining teeth

of heartsease, and shepherd’s purse,

in a cut glass pocket watch,


unable to tick

for fear of breaking time.



Cherry Blossom at the Graveyard.


PUCKERED

with cicada feet,


the blossom sings for the small deaths,

of winter and the fireflies,

and you, Alexander.


Eclipse


THERE IS a fountain,

deep in the ivory claw

of midnight.


Come to me

when the wolf drinks


I am golden.


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