New Years Resolutions

There are so many areas of need, so many projects that require attention and support. We all have so much spare time and how do we use it? As one year passes and another begins we set our selves a challenge, we define new years resolutions and we try to stick with them. Whether we aim to attend a gym, eat more fruit, drink less beer, or write more often, we set our hearts and minds on a noble end.

Yet how noble? We expect these wishes and plans to improve our lives, that they will make a difference in how we live and change things for the better. Most of us fail and give up rather than continue on for the full twelve months, with research showing that only twelve percent of our new years resolutions actually stick till the end of the year.

I know that last year's plan to write four hundred words a day failed, and I don't know how well that goal will be met this year. With these basically selfish goals failing on an annually repeating cycle how can we hope to effect any realistically worthwhile changes.

I suggest that for your next round of resolutions or personal improvement goals you set ones that benefit other people. Suggestions might include – host more gatherings, cook a meal every week for a none family member, once a month give time to a local charity or shelter, help elderly neighbours deal with their recycling each week.

What difference will this make? Well even if you stop doing this part way through the year at least for a short while you improved someone's life a little. If you doing good makes you feel better about yourself, and you even enjoy helping in this way then maybe you'll be able to stick with the plan.

Yes it all sounds like liberal hippy do-gooder nonsense, but this is the human race and we need all the help we can get. Who am I suggesting should go out and do these things? Me, I am just as likely to read this and shrug off my responsibility to help as any of you. So if I sound preachy and in your face I hope you'll realise the face I'm getting into most is my own.

And if you beat me to it; If you were looking for ideas as to what new years resolutions you might try out and picked something like the above; I wish you all the best. Also I wish you a Happy New year.

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427 Words

Sacrifice

There's music in the air, wafting bye from the village green. Minstrels produce fine music for the crowds and all the youngsters dance and play. Their cares and worries are forgotten and they enjoy the mid summer festivities. I sit in my cell rotting away forgotten, only listen to the follies playing out.

The cell is comfortable, the cold stones keeping the chill where the summer sun can not find it. The simple desk and the light from the window, the wooden cot and a tiny locker furnish my room in the monastery. Hearing Gretchen's laughter from somewhere nearby I force myself to ignore the distractions. Blocking the noises from outside I look at the scroll in front of me. The manuscript has to be prepared. With the friar so weak in ill health I must tend to his scribing.

I dab my quill in the pot beside me and continue to transcribe the scribbles penned by Friar Thomas. My ears betray me even in my concentration on the task before me, I still feel the beat of the tune outside. My penmanship is not as fine as the other members of the clergy and I must focus. The tip of the quill hovers over the page as I read over the last sentence again.

The village elders are to sign this document this evening, it forms a settlement for the damages caused by the fire after last years harvest sacrifice. The accident cost one of the farmers dearly and he's been negotiating a payment from the village through winter and spring. Now as we approach the next sacrifice his plea has been heard and retribution is being made. Friar Thomas had promised the document for the end of last month but in his current condition he only recalled the promise this morning and now it falls to me to finish his work.

I press on, the letters coming together one at a time, forming words, that themselves collect into sentences. I puzzle over a clumsy scrawl on the parchment I am copying off. Is that ten or two measures? It looks like ten. Yes I'm sure of it, ten measures of something called composite feed. In exchange for a higher percentage tithe for the next three harvests. The majority of the clauses are of this form, the village provides assistance to the farmer but to redress the balance his share of the levy is increased until the patchwork moon returns over the harvest fields. It's been two and a score years since the last sighting of that blue and green sphere, and the monks are all sure that it is due again in three years time.

The farmer wasn't so certain but couldn't call the church out for lying. Still it is written into the contract that in three years or under the Patchwork moon the debt shall be repaid and the village will no longer hold an interest in his produce.

There is wisdom here, as much as in any of the scriptures and holy books, a kind of common sense yet applied in more general terms, I'm still learning at the feet of the monks and clergy but I feel I understand that while there was a debt to be paid to a man who was wronged the village as a whole should not go without. This way the investment of resources is returned and all can prosper.

These matters of governance intrigue me. The music and chatter no longer entice me to leave this work. I will finish here then study some of the older records, maybe there are more insights to gain in the archives.

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610 Words

Morning Love

I see it there in her eyes, the dark brown melting away like warm chocolate, and I see a spark of mischief and lust in the way she turns her attention to me. I smile and we close the gap between us, Our kisses have always fuelled the moments when we cast off all inhibitions, she's irresistible and arousing. She's like a flame, something chemical, elemental and consuming.

The sleep and dreams of night have passed, and now I hold her in my arms, she rubs noses exchanging Eskimo kisses, I press against her and we cuddle the closeness lends heat from the other body and I realise there's a cold draught in the room I snuggle up and we wrap ourselves in a duvet cocoon.

Its morning and we have all day to ourselves. The room is lit by the rising sun, though I suspect it's already fairly high in the sky beyond those curtains. I kiss her forehead. We tumble around in the bed pinning each other down exchanging tickles and gropes. Communication is pretty simplistic, we exchange plenty of meaning in a look or through the position our hands take on each others bodies.

She looks sleepy and I lean on my elbow just watching as, cat like, she stretches into a yawn. My other hand strokes down into her arm pit and she squeals then finds a pillow in her hands as she slaps it across my head. Play fighting again we eventually tumble into each other's arms and chuckle. Relaxing and lying there till she rolls over in my arms.

I feel a thumping pressure in my heart, a surety of the love I feel for her. Its the precursor of the gut wrench other relationships have ended with, an equal and opposite force that makes the risk of loss worth trying for the reward of success. I frown but chase the doubts away and trace a finger over her shoulders.

I smile again and lay beside her. I hold onto her and rest my head on the pillow. The scent from her hair fills my nostrils, my heart registers it's recognition. I hug her into me.

“You ok, pokie?” she asks.

“I'm great, you make me feel so happy.”

She wriggles around and plants a kiss on my chest. I consider myself lucky to know her. I can only hope she feels the same.
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400 Words

Sharing

New media opportunities opened up to the world with the introduction of the internet. In the forty years since this technology came into the world we’ve become familiar with e-mail, comfortable with e-commerce and reliant on search engines. New technology has shaped the way we access and publish information. The internet has molded how we contact each, pulling us away from many of the older methods. Letters and phone calls from far continents still occur; but often MSN, SKYPE or Outlook provide more reliable methods of keeping in touch, and the people we talk to on these platforms are sometimes in the same building.

Denying the changes wrought by this technology means turning a blind eye on the influence new tools have on the way we work. Closing our eyes to the changes yet to come can seriously impede our ability to develop efficiently. The way we work and share our productivity has changed; mostly those changes are for the better. Those changes were partly planned for; some though simply seeped in from the changes found in society itself.

Within our own field of interest SAT 7 provides a great example of embracing new technology. Fourteen years ago they began to share the message of Christ in a new way. Their message went out into areas of the world with inherent difficulties; they used a new medium for communicating with those who could not be reached on foot.

In the same way the Guttenberg Bible was possible thanks to the new medium of movable type printing. Each new medium can bring with it ways to share information, through new distribution and production methods. In the case of Guttenberg the production of bibles of such reliable quality and in such large numbers made it possible to bring the word of God to the masses, with satellite broadcasting SAT 7 saw new methods available to deliver the good news to newly reachable areas.

New opportunities are opening up to us all the time. Technology available today allows wide access distribution networks for video and audio files. Podcasts and RSS feeds, iTunes and Peer to Peer file sharing provide and enable us to produce and distribute content, messages and even evangelistic resources throughout the world. Whether we use these technologies to allow our remotest workers to contribute to the production of resources or simply receive the projects we build here in house the future of delivery and production are there waiting for us to continually adapt to and embrace.

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416 Words

Now I want to have a bath.

The bath tub is all white porcelain, smooth to the touch and reflective. It gives a glowing suggestion of the one bulb over head. The brass fixtures do not detract from the purity or the form, and while utilitarian in use they still speak of the classic concept everyone has when they think of a luxurious hot bath.

Turning on the water allows a crystal clear stream to jet out of the mixer taps; each tap has been adjusted to achieve a tolerable heat. A small dash of bath oils and liquid soap have already begun to react, creating small floating islands of bubbles each one tugging at the plug chain.

Out of the turmoil where the falling stream strikes the slowly rising water level each new bubble climbs. Larger bubbles drag with them their smaller brethren to the far unknown oceans. Masses of tiny bubbles cling together stacking one on top of another, ever higher with new layers forming under the last, slowly reaching for the sides which bring greater stability. Eventually the entire surface forms into a collection of valleys and hills.

The heat of the water in the cold room has added steam to the tiled surfaces; the shaving mirror also now serves no use but as a place to draw reflective doodles. Ventilation from the extractor fan whisks the humid air away, gaseous escapees fleeing the building to join their nimbus and cumulus cousins.

Condensing on the walls the steam rolls down toward the cork floor, trickling along. Beads of moisture race carefree and follow uncharted tracks, joining forces to gain speed and make headway, the bigger droplets are clearly cheating.

Patiently, and without any agenda the towels sit to one side. They feel the air currents brushing past their soft and warm threads. Waiting for the experience to come and pass their time without hurry or bustle. Like them the book awaits the experience but unlike the calm fearless towels this novel does not embrace the liquid terror that approaches.

One other body of liquid sits nearby, a rich dark red wine, the bottle standing open and proud upon the porcelain, beside it a glass two thirds full. Both containers are dappled in dew like buds. Small puddles form beneath their base, where the steam slowly drains back into the tub rejoining the main body of water.

This is going to be a most enjoyable bath.

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401 Words

Keep running

The silence of the clearing is broken as a rushing noise approaches through the brambles and twigs. Stumbling to her knees a young woman pants and gasps for air, fear evident on her face. Everything she’s wearing shows some sign of damage or dirt, from the mud on her trainers and the splashes up the inside of her shins, the scratches on her thighs and the arms of her jacket. Her blond hair is shapeless and ruffled presumably by the branches she’s been failing to push away from her face.

The look of terror and her twitching show the girl is beyond simple fright. As if in some unending nightmare she has been running none stop from a pursuer, some one just a few foot falls behind her. Now for a brief moment she can hear nothing of the monster behind her. This then is a moment to catch her breath; she’s to terrified to call out, and sits timid and fearful, afraid they might find her.

Her silent breaths, in the darkened twilight of this forest, don’t help to still the loud beating of her heart. Her senses alert and her nerves on edge she pauses for a moment longer then trying to sneak away heads to the other side of the clearing and hurries off into the dense trees.

The clearing falls silent again but only for a moment as the tranquillity left behind soon breaks. A hurried crunching of twigs and rustling through the brambles brings a dishevelled figure. Clearly fatigued from its pursuit and needing rest the ragged body slumps to all fours for a moment. Rapid breaths slow and soon shallow out till the only noise is the pounding of a single adrenaline fuelled heart inside her chest.

She stands on her mud caked trainers, feeling the wet denim around her thighs and the sting on her arms and upper legs where thorns have grazed through her jacket and jeans. She feels haggard and frightened like some small animal being hunted. Furtively she glances around as she moves towards the far side of the clearing ready to flea again. Knowing that somewhere behind her someone is chasing after her.

The clearing falls silent again, but only for a moment, then a young blonde woman stumbles out of the brambles. Dropping to the ground with exhaustion and fear, her mind shattered and confused. Knowing only that she must keep running as whatever it is that’s chasing her is not far behind. She can’t stop, she has to keep running.

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423 Words

Sorrows

I wasn’t paying the singer any attention, and just got down to the business of consuming alcohol and drowning my sorrows. After my third double vodka I got a funny look from the barman but the night was still young and I had much to forget. I turned on my bar stool and looked over the clientele.

One of the booths had an old man, looked like a professor in a corduroy jacket with patched on the sleeves; he even had a pipe on the table in front of him. There was a table with three business jocks, all laughs and back slapping, shirts with loose ties. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and bonding in a way I felt was too fake for comfort.

The stage held a acoustic guitar a stool and one lonely looking blues singer. The face on this guy told you more than any lyric he could ever sing, this was the face of a man who knew pain. Though the joint contained more faces, the rested in the darker places of the bar and as such were beyond my interest. I started to listen to this sorrowful man singing his blues. Maybe my pains would shrink if confronted with larger stronger examples of their species.

His woman had left him, and his heart turned to stone, his lyrics told of his losses but I knew this song was just fluff. His heart what was left of it was not in this story. These were the troubles another man had wrote down. I wondered if he had a song to sing that would spill his own beans. I carried my fourth vodka towards the stage and sat at a vacant table.

My new vantage point brought other faces into focus but not a one of them had anything to distract me from the lonely guy. I let his song come to a close and then heckled up to him “Man you sing it, tell us how it is.” I called as I applauded politely

“That I might” he called back “Here’s one you might not know.”

“Well I wake up every morning

Damned cold and alone

Without you baby

Can’t make a house a home.

You just went up and left me

Left me nothing

Not one thing I was due

Nothing but my name

And these…

...destitute blues

My mama never told me

A woman could do such wrong

She never taught me

Never sang me sad songs

I wait for you to come back

I wait for you to write

I wait for hell to freeze over

Each and every night.

I want to tell you

I forgive you

I want to tell you

I’ll forget

I just want to hold you

But all I hold onto

Are the heartache and regret.

Guess I fell for you stories

The tall tales you did tell

The taller they came

The further I fell.

I got nothing against you baby

Cus’ I got nothing at all

You done led me astray

Yeah, You led me astray

When you got away

And all I got left

Are these…

…destitute blues

Ahh Thank you.”

I returned to bar mid way through and had settled up my tab and was leaving as he struggled to the last line. The car park was slick with the rain that had been falling earlier in the night. I was in no state to drive so I walked further into town and found another bar. I still had sorrows to drown. And in this place they just kept bobbing back up to the surface.

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603 words