Tuesday 30 March 2010
Wednesday 24 March 2010
The Boy who Cried Wolves
Once, long ago, there was a boy who told lies. He never did it to be cruel however. In fact every single lie told was made to make the ears, and the person attached to them, happy. This was the sole concern of the boy, for it seemed to him the only way to be, and the fact that making others happy caused him to feel the same seemed reason enough for this belief.
When walking through the village he did his best to say the things he thought his fellow villagers wanted to hear.
“Hello Farmer Blight, your crops are looking healthy and good this year.
“Why thank you my boy” replied the rake thin man.
“Your cream looks so fresh Miss Curdle, what’s your secret?”
“Sun, and plenty of it” She declared confidently.
“Mrs Wrinkles you get younger each day I see you, surely you don’t need that crutch.”
“What a kind child. You remind me of all the suitors that used to call at my door.”
“And I’m sure they still do.”
“Oh you” she said with a girlish giggle and a toss of her frail, chicken neck.
And so it was that the villagers loved the boy and his lying ways, often showering him with all manner of gifts and praises. Indeed it seemed clear to them all that he would grow up to be a great man one day, perhaps a barrister or even a Lord. And if not, then a new mayor was
needed, so strongly did they all care for him.
Except for one. She was a bitter old lady, who took comfort in loneliness and delight in pointing out the flaws of others. She hated the boy, while he in turn was terrified of her. She appeared to look in him rather than at him, and no matter what kind things he said to her she never once smiled. He have would never visited her at all if she hadn’t been his grandmother.
“It’s good to see you again grandmother” the boy would say every time he called, only for her to hit him promptly with her walking stick.
“You’re cottage is looking clean.”
Stick.
“That’s a fine collection of books.”
Stick.
“Father sends his love, and wishes he has time to see you. He misses you so much.”
Stick. Stick. Stick.
The boy would go home, covered in cuts and bruises, blinking back tears.
“What happened to you?” his mother would ask.
“I offered to shoe Grandmothers donkey and he kicked out. It was my own fault.” Each time the boy told a different lie, wanting for his parents to not worry about him. For as you know, his lies were only told to make people happy.
His mother would shake her head at how accident prone he was and gently chide him to be more careful. The boy’s father would remain silent.
But this time, when once again the boy called on his Grandmother, something very different happened. She had baked him a cake, and beseeched him to take a bite while it was still warm.
“It tastes wonderful Grandmother.”
“That’s strange. All that is in it is dirt, hair and ditch water. Now run along boy, go tell your tales.”
The boy did as he was bidden; amazed that he hadn’t been beaten this time. As he walked home he met the woodsman.”
“A fine day is it not?” the boy asked, gesturing up to the overcast skies. His words were slightly mocked by the raindrop he felt spring on his face.
The woodsman smiled at this vague pleasantry, but then his expression quickly turned to fear. He pointed at the boy’s face, who confusedly made to brush away the raindrop. He felt a sudden pain in his finger and brought it away to examine. There were tiny droplets of blood, looking very much like teeth marks.
The boy looked up to see the woodsman roughly brush past him, making the sign to ward off evil as he went. Thinking it had been some sort of beetle, the boy went on.
He came across Mrs Wrinkles, who was now wearing heavy make up and no longer walked with her crutch.
“Looking as lovely as ever” he said.
An even larger raindrop fell on his eye, and he felt it spring from his cheek. He blinked and rubbed his face to clear his blurry vision. He heard Mrs Wrinkle cry out and when he was finally able to look he saw her on the ground, bleeding.
“Get away from me!” she screamed at him.
Fearfully the boy ran home, slamming the door behind him when he entered.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, brought to the commotion by all the noise”
“Nothings wrong mother, don’t worry.”
How could it rain indoors? More water blinded his vision and the boy felt something spring from his face. His mother cried out and there was stamping and snarling. When he could once again see he saw his father standing in front of his mother, deep scratches and bites all down his arms. On the floor was a broad puddle of water.
“Why is this happening? Why!?”
His father looked at him. “Did you cross your Grandmother?”
Old habits are hard to be rid of, especially ones we have had our entire lives. “Of course not, I love her.”
The boy felt his eyes being squeezed dry, and it seemed something massive and wild was trying to jump from them. He shut his lids tightly to cut it off, but he felt two snouts push their way out from each.
And there they were, two great and terrible wolves, built from shimmering water.
“Go to her! NOW!” his father shouted, turning to face the wolves.
The boy opened the door and fled out, but one of the wolves gave chase. He could hear its wet footfalls splashing off the ground and as it drew closer it gave of a gurgling howl.
He reached his Grandmothers cottage and desperately threw open the door, forcing it to closed against the drenched padding of the wolf.
And there she sat in her old wicker chair, staring in him rather than at.
“Why did you do this to me?” he asked her. “I was nothing but kind to you”
“You did nothing but lie to me” she said.
“But I just wanted to make you happy”
“Who could be happy with a lie?”
“Please help me. Change back whatever it was you did”
“I can’t.”
“I hate you! I hate you so much!”
There was a loud splashing sound outside. The boy cautiously peered out the window. Where the
wolf had been was now a deep, wide puddle. The boy turned to his Grandmother.
“I think you know what you need to do” she said.
He nodded, and made to leave. Before he did however, he turned and stared into her.
“You’re a mean old woman”
She smiled.
“I am” she said
When walking through the village he did his best to say the things he thought his fellow villagers wanted to hear.
“Hello Farmer Blight, your crops are looking healthy and good this year.
“Why thank you my boy” replied the rake thin man.
“Your cream looks so fresh Miss Curdle, what’s your secret?”
“Sun, and plenty of it” She declared confidently.
“Mrs Wrinkles you get younger each day I see you, surely you don’t need that crutch.”
“What a kind child. You remind me of all the suitors that used to call at my door.”
“And I’m sure they still do.”
“Oh you” she said with a girlish giggle and a toss of her frail, chicken neck.
And so it was that the villagers loved the boy and his lying ways, often showering him with all manner of gifts and praises. Indeed it seemed clear to them all that he would grow up to be a great man one day, perhaps a barrister or even a Lord. And if not, then a new mayor was
needed, so strongly did they all care for him.
Except for one. She was a bitter old lady, who took comfort in loneliness and delight in pointing out the flaws of others. She hated the boy, while he in turn was terrified of her. She appeared to look in him rather than at him, and no matter what kind things he said to her she never once smiled. He have would never visited her at all if she hadn’t been his grandmother.
“It’s good to see you again grandmother” the boy would say every time he called, only for her to hit him promptly with her walking stick.
“You’re cottage is looking clean.”
Stick.
“That’s a fine collection of books.”
Stick.
“Father sends his love, and wishes he has time to see you. He misses you so much.”
Stick. Stick. Stick.
The boy would go home, covered in cuts and bruises, blinking back tears.
“What happened to you?” his mother would ask.
“I offered to shoe Grandmothers donkey and he kicked out. It was my own fault.” Each time the boy told a different lie, wanting for his parents to not worry about him. For as you know, his lies were only told to make people happy.
His mother would shake her head at how accident prone he was and gently chide him to be more careful. The boy’s father would remain silent.
But this time, when once again the boy called on his Grandmother, something very different happened. She had baked him a cake, and beseeched him to take a bite while it was still warm.
“It tastes wonderful Grandmother.”
“That’s strange. All that is in it is dirt, hair and ditch water. Now run along boy, go tell your tales.”
The boy did as he was bidden; amazed that he hadn’t been beaten this time. As he walked home he met the woodsman.”
“A fine day is it not?” the boy asked, gesturing up to the overcast skies. His words were slightly mocked by the raindrop he felt spring on his face.
The woodsman smiled at this vague pleasantry, but then his expression quickly turned to fear. He pointed at the boy’s face, who confusedly made to brush away the raindrop. He felt a sudden pain in his finger and brought it away to examine. There were tiny droplets of blood, looking very much like teeth marks.
The boy looked up to see the woodsman roughly brush past him, making the sign to ward off evil as he went. Thinking it had been some sort of beetle, the boy went on.
He came across Mrs Wrinkles, who was now wearing heavy make up and no longer walked with her crutch.
“Looking as lovely as ever” he said.
An even larger raindrop fell on his eye, and he felt it spring from his cheek. He blinked and rubbed his face to clear his blurry vision. He heard Mrs Wrinkle cry out and when he was finally able to look he saw her on the ground, bleeding.
“Get away from me!” she screamed at him.
Fearfully the boy ran home, slamming the door behind him when he entered.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, brought to the commotion by all the noise”
“Nothings wrong mother, don’t worry.”
How could it rain indoors? More water blinded his vision and the boy felt something spring from his face. His mother cried out and there was stamping and snarling. When he could once again see he saw his father standing in front of his mother, deep scratches and bites all down his arms. On the floor was a broad puddle of water.
“Why is this happening? Why!?”
His father looked at him. “Did you cross your Grandmother?”
Old habits are hard to be rid of, especially ones we have had our entire lives. “Of course not, I love her.”
The boy felt his eyes being squeezed dry, and it seemed something massive and wild was trying to jump from them. He shut his lids tightly to cut it off, but he felt two snouts push their way out from each.
And there they were, two great and terrible wolves, built from shimmering water.
“Go to her! NOW!” his father shouted, turning to face the wolves.
The boy opened the door and fled out, but one of the wolves gave chase. He could hear its wet footfalls splashing off the ground and as it drew closer it gave of a gurgling howl.
He reached his Grandmothers cottage and desperately threw open the door, forcing it to closed against the drenched padding of the wolf.
And there she sat in her old wicker chair, staring in him rather than at.
“Why did you do this to me?” he asked her. “I was nothing but kind to you”
“You did nothing but lie to me” she said.
“But I just wanted to make you happy”
“Who could be happy with a lie?”
“Please help me. Change back whatever it was you did”
“I can’t.”
“I hate you! I hate you so much!”
There was a loud splashing sound outside. The boy cautiously peered out the window. Where the
wolf had been was now a deep, wide puddle. The boy turned to his Grandmother.
“I think you know what you need to do” she said.
He nodded, and made to leave. Before he did however, he turned and stared into her.
“You’re a mean old woman”
She smiled.
“I am” she said
Wednesday 10 March 2010
Tuesday 9 March 2010
just think of that view
Do you ever feel like the current level of coolness at which you are currently standing at is just a few rungs down from where you would ideally pefer to be?
Also I overheard a girl bitch about her ex to her friends and boy are we men bastards
Also I overheard a girl bitch about her ex to her friends and boy are we men bastards
Monday 1 March 2010
we're at that stage
There comes a time in everyones relationship, and there is no telling when or indeed where it might be, yet it will inevitably happen that your better half ends up filming you while you're alseep just to prove that you do indeed snore.
which is why i'm not allowed to sleep on my back
which is why i'm not allowed to sleep on my back
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