Dreamers of Literature
Pal and Polly are human, well almost, he is a Bogger (from the midland bogs) . The rest of the characters are slugs, frogs, hares and assorted bugs. Hedda Hopper the intrepid reporter is a frog. And Jimmy Magpie on air is just: well Jimmy the TV star. Sports reporter. The Gunship Bismark is Pal's wife. Whether she is human or not is up for discussion!
Polly, Pal, Slugger, and an assortment of eves-droppers sat in the dripping-dew of the dazzling moonlight.
They were silhouetted eerily on the side of the potting shed. A late night revelling Leaving Cert. Student on the way home from a “Having Failed - I Will Party” party saw the tableaux and started making notes. He went away wondering should he write a book about the apparition of call on the bishop.
Pal was smoking pipe tobacco he had rolled from some leaves that has mysteriously grown in the Polytunnell. Probably a seed that was blown in on the wind or carried in by a bird and left as a deposit.
Slugger was casually munching on the pieces Pal had spilled when he rolled the flakes: now his eyes were closed as thoughts filled his head: a rare feat, about as rare as feet on a slug, or a one-leged man in a backside kicking contest.
Smiling he formed the words to describe Pal as he filled the pipe bowl - as solemn as any old-time priest of pipe and plug: he pared and rubbed between his palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air and scattered the gardens on her bed. And told her he was sorry and called her his first love. Slugger was away writing his great masterpiece of a buke: the whacki backi was working.
Polly, who was now in a Southern Belle phase, was trying to whisper to Pal that their great romantic, Scarlet O'Hara relationship was gone with the wind. But to no avail: Pal was away with the fairies too.
Strangely it was even the same buke - same chapter and paragraph: I gave her soft air born of pine fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the swaying bark of ash and beech.
Even the eves-droppers dropped their heads and slept into the night.
Hey! Hold on a second! It's me Fly On The Wall and this Buke is getting' outa hand. Leave that kinds stuff for the Chicks to Lit. Let their Mother Hen tell them dem kinda stories. Hubba! Hubba! Back on plot here.
“Hey! Pal! Snapouta it. She says she's coming back. Yer woman - your woman. Bismark, says she is coming home.”
Ah! Ha! Thought Pal; this backi is powerful – a talking fly tellin' me the good news. And it was that: good news – well it's only after when you really think about it that good news sometimes is not as good as it first seems. You know: you just inherited a million squids from an uncle Jeremiah. Who? But you hafta email a fello' first and give him access to your Bank Account.
“Me Missus, who rarely misses,” he said, carried away and rubbing his forehead, where she had brained him with the heavy frying pan. “Wonder am I still Made in China?”
“Wha' abit me?” Polly cries: in all her Southern Charm.
“Wha' abit me ….your own litter' honey chil'. My! My! What will Pappa say?” She knew Pappa Don't Preach. But it was a good sound bite.
“Ashley. Ashley. My Ashley” she called as she tripped lightly away through the Rod and Dendrons. “Ashley..Ashley....” The rest was lost in a scream as she fell into the nettle encroached compost heap.
There she goes, thought Pal, another Polly: you wally; your canoodling's gone away. Ashley? Who's Ashley? Another footballer I'd say. But even as he shouted “Good Riddance.” He stared to miss her.
Pal glugged out of a bottle lying on the ground outside the potting shed and instantly grew another finger. “Bloody Miracle Grow...” He roared as he threw it after her.
Always one to look on the bright side, Pal thought: now I can count to eighteen on my fingers.
“Eight, nine, ten, eleven …..” And the rest was lost as the invisible dog, now promoted to invisible watchdog, growled to warn of approaching danger.
But it wasn't danger approaching: it was only Hedda, as out of breath she said.
“ I c-have sss-news. Harry's ttt-rying to.... to KILL US ALL."
See…. She wasn't too bad when she spoke without her mouth being full of creatures who were trying to do an Alcatraz Escape.
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