Bright burning falcons of the north have touched my soul as I begin to narrate this tale. The northern populaces of Middle Earth uttered all their might as I sang songs from beyond the battlements. My life, and our treasures, bloom further than the dwindling stars at the far reaches of the nebula. Our tokens are ours… so join me, kind folk, as the we venture forward on this tale like a hike alongside a lonely bear.

 

The time I found myself in was a battered snow storm upon our souls. The days were dwindling into spring and the first shoots of daffodils were beginning to appear around the greenery. Yet, despite this lacklustre procrastination, clean air was beginning to permeate the local village with newfound impetus. 

 

For it was that time when strife could no longer compete against the accomplishments of those inhabitants, who woke each day with their better natures inside them. Ripe and riotous merriments and other jocose revelry, like the first five pints of beer each weekend, overcame any deluded soul like a nibbling stout upon a moor.

 

Yes, yes, for you see the harvest had disintegrated…and what was left was a disintegrating ice bucket of wine. But two-a penny filtered the intoxicants into the realms of this neighbourhood and, I beseech all of you, it must be observed with the most stringent focus.

 

Nay, lest the fiddler leads us all into Orion’s Belt, the time we find ourselves in is an ongoing strife against the temptations of those serpents dwelling ayonder! Cascading waterfalls against our fiery hearths, we are beguiled and besmitten by these phantoms like there is no tomorrow! 

 

For, you see, they are wretched and beautiful like a far-flying mare, who touches our face gently as it races past. The corner post of this chariot race is beyond our comprehension… nor can we observe its magnificence, except the brightly blooming tomorrow it sets before our feet!

 

But we are met at our feet by this strange artifice! It towers above our citadels in skyscrapers and scurries beneath our feet in underground caves. But do not think we are always welcomed amongst these litanies. Yet sit back… and let me unravel a newfound and beautiful trail in which one young man at last came out victorious!

 

 

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Paul was a surreptitious young boy, who cowered away from most things in his life, preferring much more to frolic in meadows of dandelions every new summer that stretched out in front of him. He vocalised his cries into the shadows of the forest and took the tokens of the night sky as he sat below the stars in solitude. It was like he had a bond with the wilderness, catapulting him light years away into the endless cosmos.

 

Furious feather thistles caressed his longing like the shadows of the dark night sky. He rested amidst a proud, adorning tree trunk that grew onwards far higher into the sky as he sat circumspect at its base. A twist of his right hand, as he jostled a torch from side to side, the lugubrious toils of his folk seemed unravelling in front of him, before he paced back through the park forest and returned to a single bed flat he rented atop a hill.

 

There, sat dejectedly upon a cotton sofa, he rummaged through a bowl of pasta as the TV glared in front of him. Idling flicking with the remote, he lit up a cigarette as the beers perched on the table began to take him to the holy land. The spiced notes of the beer delicately met his appetites, and he lit up a cigarette like it was heaven in front of him. Two hours later, after this continual bevving and smoking, he delightfully collapsed to sleep where he was - upon the sofa. 

 

He dreamed of dreams like he was in no man’s land, swept away by the Edwardian battalions sending him righteously over the muddy trenches. The tokened vodka bottle lit up ablaze, as the night phantom of his brain traversed the Flanders’ field like it was infinite. Whispering soldiers darted through the muddy wilderness like the ghouls they were, unabated and alive. 

 

But talk yee of honour, talk yee of sacrifice!? Talk you of the far reaches of the nebula!? For they were very much alive… and listening attentively. But we darted and traversed the skies faster than they could ever catch us! It was a landing bay in the infinite… a cerulean sky like the giant bosom welcoming us into its shores! 

 

I would recommend a double vodka red bull at this point… circling endlessly like a dart board in front of you… or a much obliged bottle of Prosecco, that drives your souls onwards like a foaming white stallion. For the trickster comes two-a penny and towers behind us all, hoarding the fruits of our labour. Yet anointed atop the pulpit, the treasures of a self-righteous esquire, none other than the very cob web is turned asunder! 

 

Alright, alright… but let us talk with dutiful diligence of the scope of our ancestors, and the testaments they have left behind. Paul awoke the next day, opening and locking his door, before he stumbled to a nearby delicatessen, a withered wreck to all those who observed him. The centre of the town was busy and he stood idly in the queue for a sandwich for roughly ten minutes, forlornly like the wreck he felt himself.

 

His career was centred around delivering pizzas for Domino’s Pizza, which was nestled delightfully atop Mount Ephraim to the north of the settlement. His day would entail refreshing himself with a sandwich, sitting idly in the park for a couple of hours, before retrieving his car and jumping on shift for several hours. 

 

There he ruminated about the nature of love, the hill tops of virtue and the caverns of eloquence as he glided his hatchback through the town’s empty streets. He was the parochial man at leisure, operating his tasks like a wild squirrel. Conversing on a narrow point in the road, he ruminated to himself about his evening’s entertainments. Ever the optimist, he judged to himself that a trip to the local pub would suit him perfectly. 

 

Two hours later, and sauntering around in an enjoyable soirée, Paul perched upon a bar stool in front of the bar, and sipped casually on a beer in his local tavern. The prevailing smell of fruity alcohol illuminated the room, while the vibrant intoxicant he had in front of him caressed his inner inhibitions. 

 

The room was occupied with fellow drinkers who spanned the length of the bar table, each nursing a beverage, while the bar maid stood behind the bar at the centre, casually polishing glasses with a 19th Century finesse. Paul stood up and leant over the bar with a gentlemanly compassion. The bar maid, named Hannah, was musing about the local night club on the other side of the table, before she turned around and glanced at Paul before he began to utter some words. 

 

“How does the roof tower so far above your head?” Murmured Hannah at last. “It’s like there’s an invisible gap between you and eternity!”

 

Paul continued leaning over the bar table and uttered some words in reply. “I was born scraping in the shadows,” he said with a smile. “I’ve never reached the top of any temple I’ve ever been in.” He paused and took a sip of his beer. “It’s like Arabian crystals have fallen down every street I’ve ever walked across!” He perked up and looked at Hannah compassionately. “There’s always a blue moon across my presence!”

 

“Well, surely you have to fight against it!” Uttered the bar maid in defiance. “A world like this would fall to pieces if no one ever learnt how to solve a problem!” 

 

“I have!” Interrupted Paul suddenly. “Long ago in my past,” he continued solemnly. “But time starts to erode your accomplishments away,” he murmured again, “and before long you are stuck in the desert, nothing growing like the way the world first started!”

 

“You shouldn’t think like that!” Cried the bar maid adamantly. “Riches… riches… you talk of riches, but who are you to say how my life is gonna go… or what pathway I’ll walk down!” 

 

“Look down into your heart!” Murmured Paul subsequiously. “That’s all the advice I can give!” And with that he flocked away out the door into the alleyway, pacing several metres until he found his front door.

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Two days later, Paul found himself driving his very fine Ford Fiesta nonchalantly in the abyss. Second whispers of the tune were always almighty upon his hearth, not to say that he couldn’t operate the vehicle sufficiently, but he had, at least, kept his job at Domino’s for two years, gliding like the experienced phantom he was. 

 

Yet, superfluous to his needs, was a lingering end of siecle pessimism that loomed over his day to day life. He felt wretched and cold, and disorientated in the overarching business world. What could have been and what was a casual stroll through the High Street felt like a solemn walk in the Artic tundra. He was dispirited, solemn and heartless, like his own pathway was dwindling solemnly into the clouds. 

 

How had something so oblique turned inwards towards his life? Resting gallantly upon a hill top, how had a river diverted course so hungrily towards his own inner citadels. He was bereaved in himself, festively infuriated with frustration, and, in accordance with a book Jeeves had bought for him last Christmas, ready to make some hefty changes to rebuild his life. 

 

And it was, five hours later, that Paul found himself sat behind the bar in Beau Nash Tavern once again. He yearned to speak to Hannah some more. He wanted to know what made her feel like she did. He wanted to know what mountains out there he had to climb to feel better again. He lunged forward as Hannah faced the wall pouring a portion of vodka. It felt like a small nibble of a pen, as he drew a breathe of air to utter some words to her. 

 

“The drinks always flow when you reach a pinnacle in your life, eh?” He muttered sombrely. “But what know you of the caverns of depression?” He continued wretchedly. “Aside from love,” he gestured with his hands. “What else do we have to live for in this solemn old town??” 

 

Hannah shoved the vodka to the side and looked at Paul with caviler disbelief. “And old Nick wasn’t built as a strong man?!” She bludgeoned at last. “He certainly wouldn’t have you talking that way!” She picked up her polishing cloth and continued working in her own vicious way. “Say… it’s open mic night this week,” she muttered professionally. “It gets in a crowd of about 40 of those festive drinkers.” She looked at Paul perplexed. “No one’s ever been depressed there before… that much I can assure you!” 

 

Sure enough, the maidens were waiting. They circulated around the bar floor, dropping perfumes of daisies and roses. The new moon ushers in the fertility of those brethren, who sprinkle angel dust like their decadent clothing in an affront to their celestial pastimes. Because nowt is written to besmirch our feline friends in this omnibus, for we are all captains aboard Noah’s pleasure yacht! 

 

Yet, way hay, the richly spiced perfume had taken its toll on Paul. He grasped his beer glass and wiped away the sweat from his brow as they all congregated in the centre of the room. He could see Hannah from behind the mass of people, rushed off her feet with an endless crowd waiting at the bar and a stack of glasses piling up on the left side. 

 

And wait for Hannah to rise surreptitiously from her fortifications!!! Leave the bastion ground to parlay with the devil??? Make haste to the smoking area to fornicate with Salem’s lot??? No option was clearly in front of him, dwindling like a parched Earth beneath his feet! The Elizabethan sailors on route to Spain had succumbed to the beguiling enticements of the Channel Islands! 

 

And with it, Paul caste aside the night and gave up on his merry adventures. He snuck out of the nearby door and trudged, forlornly, the hundred metres distance to his nearby flat. His withered and retched existence upon that pub that night had gone with the wind, a future of which he would have to assess dejectedly in the coming morning. 

 

 

******** 

 

 

Paul found himself repeating to himself the righteous blissful memories of the many occasions he had spent in Beau Nash, shunned like a retrograde as he drove his Ford Fiesta nonchalantly onwards. “Oh cavernous caves of the cliffs!” He stammered despondently to himself. “Why do the witches warrant such weeping!” He saw a dove fly by in front, before he directed his vehicle towards the collection of terraced houses with Domino’s Pizza at the centre. 

 

There, returning to his car, he had a two hour period in which he could contemplate his existence. He had a merry occupation in which he could sweep aside the burgeoning eagles like a Vulcan in the dark. He mused some more to himself. “Find Hannah,” he thought to himself. “Go back to Beau Nash and ask her for some more advice! Yes!” He thought to himself. “Let the paddling pools of their camaraderie shine brighter than anything known to man!” 

 

And there he found himself, five hours later, with riches… riches brighter than the dawn. He was alive… virulent like a penguin in the artic! He was written upon the door of the establishment, emboldening the hearts of all the folk gathered in a single moment! It was theirs to climb, the ones for the jesters to mime and encapsulating them all in an endless trance! 

 

“So what do you suppose I should do?” He uttered at last to Hannah, as he perched atop a bar stool on the far right side. “How, in your opinion, am I gonna break free of these shackles inhibiting the air I breathe?” He leant forward and took a large gulp of his beer. “What is it that is gonna release me onwards like a foaming four horse chariot!”

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“Enough of your tiresome ways!” Cried Hannah in reply. “I’ve never heard such tittle tattle as boys can sing and girls can rattle!” She paced over to the side of the bar table and reached up to procure a bottle of wine. She turned around and strolled over to the corner where Paul was sat. She then looked up at him defiantly. “Why don’t you perform yourself at the next open mic night?” She paced backwards and looked at the foyer in front of them. “Grab that guitar you’re always talking about and get yourself behind the mic!” She reached below the table. “Eh! How’s about a beer on the house to get us both in the mood!” 

 

Paul raised the pint glass towards his mouth idly with a delicate modesty before he ushered in his approval. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” And thereupon he left the very fine establishment assuring all present that he would return tomorrow ripe and ready to perform with his legendary guitar. The date was set! 

 

 

*********

 

A day later, at the much anticipated “Open Mic” night, Paul stood behind the bar, ready with his guitar in his grasp. The heralded evening involved a selection of local musical artists, who each, in turn, took the pedestal in the far corner of the room behind the microphone. The musicians ranged from country folk singers to acoustic guitarists or acapella singers. Each artists, whether inebriated by the bar’s beverages or caged up in their own emotions, proverbially sank their hearts out in a variety of show-stopping performances. 

 

Paul, himself, was fifth on the list of people to perform and took large gulps of vodka red bulls as he waited in front of the bar. Slowly and steadily he slipped into a merry drunkenness as he casually waited his turn. 

 

For what are we, young men? Are we stifling jousters curtailing those less fortunate??? Are we chauvinist fools goading women to our chambers??? Are we strict conductors of an unholy order??? None other than the vodka that seeped into his bloodstream could applaud his soul and goad him into the occasion he had in front of him. 

 

An hour later, they reached the reckoning of wolves among an Alpine forest in the form of arriving at the destined time that was Paul’s turn to perform. With a cavalier confidence and a salacious relaxation, he strutted up to the microphone and lowered it into the position in front of his mouth. There, gazing forward, he looked at the crowd in front of him. 

 

“So… what is it that you all like about this town, eh?” He announced at last. He then stared around the room in front of him. “Is it the pubs on the corner of the roads?” He smiled and grasped the microphone. “It certainly ain’t the prostitutes sitting in the park!” Amidst the cackle, he perked up again. “Or the bus drivers never turning up for work!” Simmering down, he relaxed himself in himself. “I’d like to dedicate this one,” he said lovingly, “to my far flung lovers who have sat beside me every weekend in the smoking area!” He took a breath and articulated his words through the microphone. “Here’s one for the ones who stick it out!” 

 

Dripping dandelions across the delirious crowd, he assumed the pedestal and sang passionately with the pride he had inside him. He was energised, electric and scanned the room with soothsaying melodies like the prince of the Muses he was. He was the proverbial enchanter and seduced the crowd to follow his wondrous lead into Neverland. 

 

Thanking the crowd at the end with his typical cantankerous audacity, he made his way from the microphone as the room erupted in resonating applause. The ogled eyed pheasant, that he was, sat back in his chair with merriment and indulged solemnly in more of the drinks the bar had to offer. Before long, the night had come to a close and the drinkers were asked to finish up and leave. Graciously thanking Hannah, Paul exited out the building, feverishly delighting in his performance and the joys he had been a part of during that solemn, young night! 

 

 

 

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Two weeks later and Paul had become a very much different person. He breathed earnestness into his fellow drinkers like a kaleidoscoping sky, and fought the wretchedness among them like an archer destined for the Battle of Agincourt. He was a loud cavalier landing amongst the Battle of Somme like the member of the elite he was. 

 

Yet, his pastimes had grown more obsolete as the months passed by solemnly in the breeze. His job at Domino’s Pizza had dried up and he now traipsed along the boulevards like the vagabond he was. His scruff neck jeans were ripped at the seams and he coughed every other moment like the pauper he was who no longer felt the drive to exercise. 

 

He rummaged through his papers from day to day, scanning for job applications and half price takeaway deals. He now sported a long rough and wretched beard and seemed gripped to his cigarette wholesomely, keeping to it for large parts of the day. He coughed and spat at his substandard food like the man he was at both the edge of society and on the breadline as well. 

 

It had been two months like this and two months wasted, when suddenly Paul’s number rang instantly with a unknown number. It was something that would catapult this dust bowl far, far higher! He duly picked up the phone and greeted the caller with a surreptitious “hello”. 

 

“Yes, am I correct in thinking this is Paul Davidson?” Uttered the caller instantly.

 

“Yes, speaking,” replied Paul absent minded. 

 

“Well…” she continued feverishly. “I’m here to offer you something very special.  You see what it is, in fact, is a recording contract. I’m sorry if this appears out of the blue, but I watched you performing in that pub a couple of months ago and I was instantly mesmerised. It took me two months but I’ve managed to convince the board to take you on! If you want you can start tomorrow!” 

 

“For real?” Cried Paul immediately with an energetic exuberance. “That’s the best news I’ve ever heard. Yes, yes,” he continued. “I’ll call you tomorrow and arrange a time to come to the studio!” He paused like the euphoric buzz he felt. “I promise you I won’t let you down!” 

 

The caller smirked so much a ruffle could be heard down the phone. “This is the best opportunity out there to build a better life!” She cried enthusiastically. “I’m so happy to give you the opportunity… you’ll be working with the rest of our team hopefully for the next ten years!”

 

“Thank you! Thank you!” Murmured Paul euphorically in reply. And with that Paul put the phone down like the buzzing child he was.  Idyllically and strangely it seemed his life had turned around, his fears allayed and his pride rocketing into the motherfucking stratosphere!

 

While many had performed at Beau Nash that night, his dreams had come true and he promptly turned on the TV with the ecstasy he felt. His future, as he hoped for many others as well, looked ripe and riotous like the horizon forming into a red sky.   While so many remained out there, he at least had been one of the fortunate, lucky ones.  No longer would he have to drip through Beau Nash like the excrement put on fields as the scumbag he had been.  His saviour had come!  And as much he relished it.  That is the end of the tale and I wish you all goodbye!

 

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THE END