Proper Followers

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Ninety nine words.


Some people count sheep to get to sleep
Not me I count daft things like tiles and floors
I've got thirty odd walls in my house
And three or four invisible doors

But I’m stuck in the attic afraid
Looking up through the crack in the roof
Waiting for the full moon to come back round
So I can make my way down before dawn

Outside I can hear the birds singing now
Must have fallen asleep or through the hatch
I tell myself as I reach for the clock
It’s eight thirty time to get up and go

Friday, December 05, 2014

Two fifty or bust.

The ancient bus stutters to a halt, I get out and start to run up the hill. It’s raining hard and someone’s chasing me. I hate running and I hate rain, but most of all I hate hills. I can hear a man behind me, he’s shouting and he’s catching me fast. I reach the top of the hill and jump over an old stone wall, big mistake I realise, as I reach out and grab the overhead electric railway cable to break my fall. Just then I sense a train coming towards me, without thinking I let go of the cable and land on top of the speeding locomotive. I lie flat, clinging on for dear life, I’m soaking wet now and it’s still pouring with rain. After a few minutes the train pulls into a country station and I manage to clamber down onto the platform. I make my way outside, and board a waiting bus. The driver looks familiar, but I sit down near the back and hope the heater will help me get dry. The bus starts to move, but I have no idea where we are going. It creaks and groans as it begins to wind its way up a long wooded road. We overtake a cross country runner; I know I've seen him someplace before, but when and where? The bus is making a horrible gurgling noise now, and it all comes flooding back to me as the ancient bus stutters to a halt.