Bugger


One The city, the Dream and Sofie,

The dream filled my childhood. There was this enormous and beautiful city – which was odd, because before it appeared in my mind I didn’t know what a city actually was. This city was vast, and stood along the skirt of a bay in front of two enormous green mountains that could just be seen in the distance. This too was odd, as at the time I didn’t know what a mountain was either. The city was made of tall towers and domes that glittered as sunlight reflected off the windows. This too was also very odd, as all the building’s I had seen were about three horses high and made of horse shit, human shit and cow shit, simply mixed together then slapped on wooden wall and then painted white. Furthermore, the windows in our homes of Bricken-‘ell farm were simply holes made of wood and had no glass in them whatsoever. Then there was the sea that ran along the bay, because, at that time, I had never seen such a huge expansion of water before. The only large expanse of water I had seen at that time were the river’s “Boundary” and “go no further” which ran through the small towns of “Bricken-nell” and “Wallout”, and “Stay Indoors” and this river was usually filled with various forms of shit and the odd sick looking fish, while the estuary just outside of “Wallout” had a “do not go beyond this point,” sign written in large friendly looking letters, above this sort of brown syrupy sludge that smelt bad and you could not drink because if you did, you would be sick for months. At that time it was only my uncle Fisher, who had seen the sea, and he would come back to Bricken-nell farm occasionally to tell us, that is my sister and I, how truly awful the sea was, and how no one should ever cross the sea, or even leave Bricken-nell, as there was nothing but “…this utter blackish wasteland that seemed to go on forever” and when he did meet other people, in similar seaside towns, he defined them as “simply the most horrible people that I have ever met and not as nice as the people of Bricken-ell.” I must say though, that I found Uncle Fisher a bit odd, as most of the people I met at Bricken-nell, were either unpleasant or scared of me; which at that time of my life, being 10 years of age, really didn’t make much sense to me. This sea, that I saw in my dream was a deep green. It slammed into the large dark coloured jagged rocks that transformed it into huge plumes of white water spray that also glittered in the sunlight; Also in the dream, the city by the bay was also filled with strange shaped craft that either curled into the bay where the city stood, while in the sky above the towers and domes of the cityscape, I could see long fish shaped machines that flew; while long horseless carts slid almost noiselessly through the streets. I used to see the city mostly in the day, though occasionally, I saw it at night. When I did, it was spectacular! The towers and the domes would glitter with a light that was magical and the horseless carts would speed though the streets leaving fiery dragon tales in long lines as they passed. When I told my sister about the dream, she pulled this odd face, as if I had said something that she found disturbing. ‘You might be dreaming of the time before May brought tribulation…’ she said quietly, ‘…Perhaps you had not better mention it, as it was unlikely that any other child –or adult- would have such a dream.’ ‘But why?’ I asked She simply said in rather hushed tones that nobody talks about the time before May brought tribulation, and it was so far long ago, that it’s not worth talking about really. Besides Father would find such talk, against the town, possibly heresy dangerous disturbing and against what everybody else thinks. I took this advice to heart, especially as I began to feel that my mind picture conversations with my cousin Lucy were possibly heresy, dangerous disturbing and against what everybody else thinks too. At the time I found it odd, but only for a short time, as my world revolved about the small town of “Bricken-ell and the farm of Bricken-ell and the endless fun we as children had, as we climbed the huge mounds made by the old people before Tribulation to roll down them into a huge pile of shit at the bottom.

It has to be said that my early childhood was full of shit in one way or another; if it wasn’t the shit we had to collect for the houses to build, with it was the shit to keep the fires going to help boil the water so we could drink something without dying of shit related diseases. Back then I was innocent in many ways. That was until I met Sofie.

The day I met Sofie, I had decided to leave Bricken-ell farm and explore the border of the fringes, where the unwelcome ones lived. I was sliding down a hill into a pile of soft mud, when I heard a voice behind me say ‘That looks like fun, can I join you?’ I agreed and so we played all that day. that was the thing about Sofie, she was always game for anything and everything, however, what was puzzling at the time was that she didn’t attend bracken-ll primary, or Bracken-ell secondary post post-modern alt/ Right fact reality faculty school, where my father taught conviction and condemnation studies, from “The Brexit book of sacred texts as given to us, after May’s Tribulation, Amen.” I recall visiting Sofie’s house that evening, and found it very different from Bricken-ell farm where I lived. For one thing there were no sacred texts on the wall to instruct us on how we should live, also there was a sense of warmth in the house, a warmth that I had never known before. Sofie’s father was a large, round faced man with green eyes and a solid brow, who like most people of the town didn’t take to me at first, as he knew I was Joseph Meek’s son, however, he slowly grew to like me. Sofie’s mum however was the kindest woman I have ever met. Her cornflower eyes shone from her oval face while her voluptuous breast had me feeling new exiting thoughts that filled my trousers. It was one day when Sofie and I were putting our feet in the river Boundary, when I noticed something about Sofie that made me realise why she wouldn’t be allowed to come to town. She had the mark of Corbyn on her foot. I looked at the mark and was shocked, as I had never seen one in real life before. There were many texts on the wall at home on what to look out for. The narrow head, the white hair the green eyes and the stubble on the face being a tattoo mark on any part of the body, went against the teaching of “The Brexit book of sacred texts as given to us, after May’s Tribulation, Amen.” It was also a heresy dangerous disturbing and against what everybody else thinks. And led to a trial and then to be sent to the fringes where the unwelcome ones lived. ‘How long have you had the mark of Corbyn?’ I asked ‘ Don’t you like it?’ Sofie looked sad. ’Its not my fault I was born with it.’ ‘-Yes I know, it’s part of the tribulation given to us by May, my father is the town teller of tales, and he has many texts on the wall as to what to look out for.’ I shook my head, this was my friend Sofie, she was really nice and her mum wasn’t bad either. I thought Why should I have to report her, simply because she has a mark on her foot? It was such a little mark too. ‘Sofie’ I began with a hug, ‘You could have the biggest Corbyn mark in the whole wide world, but I will still like you to bits.’ When I went back to Sofie’s house that evening Sofie told her mum and dad about what I had seen and what I had said. ‘You’re a good lad Simon Meeks’. Said her father gently, but now you know why Sofie cannot go to school, she would have to be taken in front of the teller of tales and he would call her unclean and we would have to move on again.’ I nodded gently and gravely, noting the seriousness in his eyes. I made my promise, and also promised that I would get her some scrolls from the pay per view library to read.

That night while I was mind imaging with my cousin Lucy I told her about Sofie and the mark on her foot. ‘The book of Brexit is utter rubbish Lucy stated. Its wrong to throw things and people away simply because they look and think different to other’s. ‘ I agreed.

That summer was a particularly bad one. The marks of Corbyn were all over our wheat harvest and our corn harvest also was also Marked My father then took to the streets of Brick en-ell to proclaim that we must all attend service to ask forgiveness from May For her tribulation gave us all the means to fight against the “Treachery that is Corbyn”. We were not the only county to suffer that year; for Fisher came and told us that the far flung city of Boarder control had been Corbyned so much that they would have to re-seed the fields. ‘ Its all the reforms!’ began the hired hand old Tom who scratched his grizzled beard and spoke from broken black or broken teeth. ‘…In my day, if we saw even a hint of Corbyn we would have purged the whole field and reseeded. But nowadays, with this genetic in breeding making bigger horses and fatter cattle, It’s just letting Corbyn in through the back door! May might even bring Tribulation again! Then where will we be? Remember the black guards, the truncations I do, I do!’ ‘We don’t need fear Mongering do we now!’ began My mother. ‘BUT That’s exactly what we DO need!’ Bellowed my father. Who slammed his flagon of ale upon the table with such ferocity that the dark brown heavily fermented beer slipped out of the wooden goblet and splashed over the table. ‘Come on Old Tom, lets go to town and tell these people what they need to hear By May we will end this season of Tribulation once and for all!’ And with that they both left the house. Leaving my mother to sigh over the dirty stone floor and the dirty round table.


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I'm tired, mostly tired, generally tired, and just plain tired. To start with I am tired of life. tired of living actually. Tired of the drum boredom of it all. Tired of the net, of face book telling

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