SURRENDER
By George Holmes Sept 2010 copyright
Gleaming iridescent dragonflies, gold, crimson, blue and emerald swirled about her. She felt drowsy as though of hemlock I have drunk she thought remembering a distant lesson about Keats. She seemed numb but not unaware. She gave into her drowsy state, into that surrender to rest, to find that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. How proud Miss Tiddington would be of her, she thought. She had played Ophelia with Miss Tiddington giving her private lessons. She had loved poetry and romance. She let go her worries, her cares, her anxieties so often assuaged with pills; she abandoned them and suddenly was alive in the moment, carefree, light as she faded into the reality of the present, where the light was. In front of her, a door, old, studded, gnarled and heavy, the top rounded, a large metal ring for a handle. Slowly as if drawn by her own desires and perhaps something else she put out her hand and grasped the large cold iron ring. She gave a push, more unconscious than aware and slowly opened the door. It creaked and swung wide revealing a room suffused with soft amber and peach light. The room seemed to glow on its own and especially over the long dining table in the center; like the door it was made of wood and bespoke great age. And on the table she saw a groaning board of cakes and fruits, candies and sweets, custards and jellies, pies and puddings, biscuits, ladyfingers, macaroons, rich fruitcakes and petit fours. Huge platters of fruit invited. Peaches, oranges, lemons and limes, bananas, kiwis, salads of fruit, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, loganberries and black and red currants.
Where am I? She said out loud.
No one answered. Was she alone? Why was the table ready for a feast? Where were the guests? She looked down and saw to her astonishment she was wearing beautiful sandals and a long silk gown in shimmering colors. A golden mirror revealed her hair dressed in plaits and loops, woven with golden thread. She saw she was beautiful. Something she had never seen before. People won’t pity me now she thought.
How beautiful I am. But am I alone? Is there no one to see me?
Stretching out a jeweled hand to take a peach she was stopped by a sound, a sort of mew, half human sigh, half slither, half song. Looking up she saw at the head of the table a large caterpillar wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a green hat.
What is your name? commanded the caterpillar.
Puzzled, she shook her head. I don’t know. I have no name, she said.
No name? said the caterpillar. Then I shall call you No name and you shall be my servant and do as I say.
She moved forward in a daze, sliced the peach and placed it in front of the caterpillar.
Thank you, No name. That’s a good beginning. He smiled. Was it a smile? She shivered but she was not cold.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
STETSON
STETSON
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
Friday, May 28, 2010
REBIRTH
REBIRTH Friday, May 28, 2010
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
BABY
BABIES (May 28 2010)
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
Friday, April 9, 2010
CIRCUS
CIRCUS
Copyright; George Holmes April 9 2010
--You know you really make me laugh, Erica. Well, laugh and weep at the same time. You are the center of your own little world-oh I know it’s not little to you. You think your life is a constant soap opera, that everyone wants to know what’s going to happen next. But, let me tell you, no one is interested; you have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. No one wants to know about the tawdry life of your wretched conniving mother, the pitiful efforts of your drunken father. Is it any wonder you crave attention all the time with your hysterical behavior, by wearing clothes only seen in a circus and a hairstyle reminiscent of the nineteen forties. Your husband walked out; your children are in foster care. You are forty-five. Isn’t it time you grew up?
--Have you finished demolishing my life, Clarice?
--Oh no I haven’t even started. Let me see. Have you…..have you…eeeerrrrr Oh fuck what’s the line?
--OK OK everyone take five everyone except you, Angie. Angie, this scene is the crucial one of the play. Clarice holds the secret to making this clunking play work but it’s only going to happen if you know your fucking lines. This is the last time. Next week, dear Angie, you’ll be back to walk-ons. And one other thought, in case you are thinking of that bottle of gin in the dressing room, we open tomorrow.”
Copyright; George Holmes April 9 2010
--You know you really make me laugh, Erica. Well, laugh and weep at the same time. You are the center of your own little world-oh I know it’s not little to you. You think your life is a constant soap opera, that everyone wants to know what’s going to happen next. But, let me tell you, no one is interested; you have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. No one wants to know about the tawdry life of your wretched conniving mother, the pitiful efforts of your drunken father. Is it any wonder you crave attention all the time with your hysterical behavior, by wearing clothes only seen in a circus and a hairstyle reminiscent of the nineteen forties. Your husband walked out; your children are in foster care. You are forty-five. Isn’t it time you grew up?
--Have you finished demolishing my life, Clarice?
--Oh no I haven’t even started. Let me see. Have you…..have you…eeeerrrrr Oh fuck what’s the line?
--OK OK everyone take five everyone except you, Angie. Angie, this scene is the crucial one of the play. Clarice holds the secret to making this clunking play work but it’s only going to happen if you know your fucking lines. This is the last time. Next week, dear Angie, you’ll be back to walk-ons. And one other thought, in case you are thinking of that bottle of gin in the dressing room, we open tomorrow.”
Sunday, March 21, 2010
FIDELITY
FIDELITY:
BY George Holmes 3/20/10
They’d been married twenty-two years. Then she was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. The progress of the illness was rapid. Nurses came and went, the doctor shook his head. Jack did not know what to do. Marie lay there in bed, often in a daze and gazed at him as if she was not quite sure who he was. What was the protocol? What does one do? He’d never been in a situation like this. She was his only wife. She slipped away peacefully one afternoon, Nurse Harrison announcing to the ward sister that Mrs. Weatherby had just died.
He was down in the lower fields attending to a hedge that had been broken by two of his cows that were sick. Cows are large and can be destructive when nervous or ill. His cell phone rang. He let it ring a couple of times.
--Yes, Jack Weatherby.
--Oh Mr. Weatherby, Sister McIntyre here. I have sad news. Mrs. Weatherby passed away half an hour ago. Nurse Harrison who was with her said she smiled as she faded from us and then stopped breathing.
He couldn’t speak but gripped the phone. Suddenly a chasm opened in front of him. All that fidelity, that devotion, that love of twenty-two years suddenly had nowhere to go. It all fell helpless into a vast abyss. It had no direction. Whereas once it had a purpose and a goal, now it did not know where to go and seemed to evaporate, an inchoate unformed mist which disappeared..
--I’ll come to the hospital.
The sister having made calls like this before said
--It’s all right Mr. Weatherby. Your mother and your son are here. Come in when you can.
She knew he was having difficulties adjusting, knowing what to say. Death is always a first for many people. For her, it was a working event and she had been in the informing situation often.
--Thank you Sister.
He stood there. He shut off the phone. He picked up his tools and continued to work on the hedge.
The dead can wait for they have limitless time ,but the living are short of it and demand attention.
BY George Holmes 3/20/10
They’d been married twenty-two years. Then she was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. The progress of the illness was rapid. Nurses came and went, the doctor shook his head. Jack did not know what to do. Marie lay there in bed, often in a daze and gazed at him as if she was not quite sure who he was. What was the protocol? What does one do? He’d never been in a situation like this. She was his only wife. She slipped away peacefully one afternoon, Nurse Harrison announcing to the ward sister that Mrs. Weatherby had just died.
He was down in the lower fields attending to a hedge that had been broken by two of his cows that were sick. Cows are large and can be destructive when nervous or ill. His cell phone rang. He let it ring a couple of times.
--Yes, Jack Weatherby.
--Oh Mr. Weatherby, Sister McIntyre here. I have sad news. Mrs. Weatherby passed away half an hour ago. Nurse Harrison who was with her said she smiled as she faded from us and then stopped breathing.
He couldn’t speak but gripped the phone. Suddenly a chasm opened in front of him. All that fidelity, that devotion, that love of twenty-two years suddenly had nowhere to go. It all fell helpless into a vast abyss. It had no direction. Whereas once it had a purpose and a goal, now it did not know where to go and seemed to evaporate, an inchoate unformed mist which disappeared..
--I’ll come to the hospital.
The sister having made calls like this before said
--It’s all right Mr. Weatherby. Your mother and your son are here. Come in when you can.
She knew he was having difficulties adjusting, knowing what to say. Death is always a first for many people. For her, it was a working event and she had been in the informing situation often.
--Thank you Sister.
He stood there. He shut off the phone. He picked up his tools and continued to work on the hedge.
The dead can wait for they have limitless time ,but the living are short of it and demand attention.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
FIRE
FIRE
Copyright. George Holmes 3/14/10
You know how unhappy I’ve been in that job, Sybil. I like the people, well, most of them, but not that Michael. He’d like to be boss. But the work, oh the work, has been so boring, filing and then flogging that magazine over the phone. I mean, who in their right mind, wants to buy something called NIGHT NURSES, THEIR LOVES AND LIVES. Well, would you Sybil?
--Well, I don’t know…but to get to the point, why don’t you just leave, Peggy?
Leave? I can’t do that. Let them fire me and then I’ll leave but I need the job. Anyway they’re not firing, they’re hiring. NIGHT NURSES L & L is going on TV. Everyone wants to read it and see it. There’s no underestimating the gullibility of the public is there? They’ve lined up Daphne Larue as head nurse. I hear Meryl Streep is slated for Matron, the one who’s having an affair with the head surgeon, Boris Mellors. The plots are more complicated than HOUSE. There’s even a comics version in the works and demand is high for that. Not surprising in a country where many are practically illiterate.
--Well, Peggy, why don’t you take a leave of absence?
What and let that Michael take over? He’s gay you know. Oh yes, very charming and a clever clogs but you can’t trust them can you? I heard him the other day on the phone and I quote “ Oh you’re a real doll, Eric.” I mean, really, calling another man a doll.
--Well, look, I don’t think that’s actually too bad. After all, Peggy, I think you’re a doll, said Sybil.
For once in her life, Peggy was speechless.
Copyright. George Holmes 3/14/10
You know how unhappy I’ve been in that job, Sybil. I like the people, well, most of them, but not that Michael. He’d like to be boss. But the work, oh the work, has been so boring, filing and then flogging that magazine over the phone. I mean, who in their right mind, wants to buy something called NIGHT NURSES, THEIR LOVES AND LIVES. Well, would you Sybil?
--Well, I don’t know…but to get to the point, why don’t you just leave, Peggy?
Leave? I can’t do that. Let them fire me and then I’ll leave but I need the job. Anyway they’re not firing, they’re hiring. NIGHT NURSES L & L is going on TV. Everyone wants to read it and see it. There’s no underestimating the gullibility of the public is there? They’ve lined up Daphne Larue as head nurse. I hear Meryl Streep is slated for Matron, the one who’s having an affair with the head surgeon, Boris Mellors. The plots are more complicated than HOUSE. There’s even a comics version in the works and demand is high for that. Not surprising in a country where many are practically illiterate.
--Well, Peggy, why don’t you take a leave of absence?
What and let that Michael take over? He’s gay you know. Oh yes, very charming and a clever clogs but you can’t trust them can you? I heard him the other day on the phone and I quote “ Oh you’re a real doll, Eric.” I mean, really, calling another man a doll.
--Well, look, I don’t think that’s actually too bad. After all, Peggy, I think you’re a doll, said Sybil.
For once in her life, Peggy was speechless.
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