TONY ON BIG, WAX & MORE

Including ReadWritePoem and Manic Monday.
Have you had a go yet?

Welcome to my Monday Magazine post.
Regular readers will know I have a thing about ‘big’. The bigger an organization is, the more dictatorial it can become. Well, now it seems BA and AA are to cooperate to grasp the lion’s share of trans-Atlantic air travel.

Good for customers, they say.

Really? I rather think it is good for them, for now they will really squeeze smaller companies out of the market. And that means the death of competition. But ‘big’ is getting bigger in other areas.
A major think tank in the UK has just advised the millions of residents of northern cities to migrate to the south east, ‘cos their cities are beyond revival. Welcome to the Super-Metropolis of London, where everyone will disappear into obscurity!

Just as Russia flexes its muscles in Georgia, a new warning comes.

Moscow reserves the right to attack Poland with nuclear weapons if it hosts the new generation of US rockets. Bluff? Most likely, but bluff can be a dangerous thing.
During the Cold War I supported nuclear deterrence. Indeed, I was in the forces for nine years during the period. But this was a lesser evil due to the way the world was following the end of World War Two.
Today, things are different – or they could be, if we let them. Russia, by its very nature, is paranoid over its defence. This is due to the lack of geographical defences on the way to Moscow. Hence, corner a rat, and it bites.
The west has continued to try to stretch NATO eastwards. This was bound to raise the temperature in Russia. World War Two is a long time over. What is going on today is a game of bluff and counter-bluff more reminiscent of the insanity that led to World War One.
Don’t forget my Tuesday Essay. Next Magazine post, Wednesday. See you soon.

© Anthony North, August 2008

A LITERARY MIND

I sit here, thinking – in my usual space,
my mind’s eye takes me to another place,
where the books about me speak out loud,
of writers, ancient, so very proud,
of characters, creations, denouements great,
of moral dilemmas to relate;
Poe and Hardy and Dickens, too,
Shakespeare, Lawrence, take me through,
stories that come from mighty minds,
as brilliant plots begin to unwind,
genres proliferate as they write,
space trips, detectives, no respite,
as genius is portrayed in glorious prose,
love stories, tragedies, heroes repose,
within the pages until read,
coming alive as your mind is fed;
Inspirartion, one and all,
constantly they do enthrall,
the wannabe writer such as me,
surrounded by literary divinity

(c) Anthony North, August 2008

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WAXY WITCH – Horror Fiction

Waxy and Wane were sisters of the Moon. At least, that’s what they liked to call themselves. But most people would just class them as a couple of eccentric old witches. Complete with long black skirts, pointy hats and craggy, warted faces, they certainly looked the part.
Waxy was definitely the dominant one of the pair, Wane less confident and more the practical joker. Such as the time she added her smalls to the cauldron. At first Waxy thought they had produced ectoplasm, but it turned out to be the addition of washing powder.
‘You really must take it more seriously,’ Waxy used to say. To which Wane would reply, ‘but it’s only in the mind, anyway’ – which was definitely not what Waxy wanted to hear.
The latest commission had come in on the night of the story, and Waxy had worked hard on the effigy. Wane had selected the subject’s nail clipping and lock of hair from the National Witchery Database, and the waxen model was taking shape perfectly around them.
Finally, they were ready. Holding the effigy in one hand, Waxy cast the spell and added the flame. Red hot drops of wax began to plop to the floor.
Suddenly, Wane shouted: ‘Oh, hoot!’
‘What?’ replied Waxy.
‘Wrong samples. They were yours.’
Waxy looked at the dripping effigy, a look of horror on her face. Slowly, green steam seemed to rise from her, beginning with her feet and rising upwards. And as the steam rose upwards, Waxy’s body dissolved downwards, hissing at it fell.
Finally, a distorted, manic face peeped out from the pointy hat on the floor, and in a final fizz, she let out a blood curdling scream and was gone.
Wane looked on in horror. ‘Just kidding,’ she said.
It seems it may well be in the mind, of sorts.

© Anthony North, August 2008