Sexton Ming

Winter at it’s deepest, long, dark nights.
7 AM and barely dawn.
But the sky gives nes of a beautiful day,
if not chilly, blue, milky silence.
Apart from early morning worm trucks and
grumble suitered go-getters… Both pumping adrenaline
and stress against the clock.
She looked unfocused and focused on the church spire
as was her custom.

Vicar Mygrain is always up early in the morning.
A bored insomniac toasting his tootsie by his batchelor’s
Baby Belling.
‘God knows we are evil when we see things…’
begins the stream of conciousness for yet another
sermon for the day…
But tiredness,
like opium dens with no ventilation will finally lay
him down to rest.
Feotal position.
At one with his Mother.
Not with god.
He will sleep through the whole day.
But will wake in time for evening Mass.
And will feel like shit through out the proceedings.

Mrs Ale chuckled to imagine such fun,
She sneezed evil into her doily hankie
and wickedly smiled her braided teeth.
She thought of the villagers water supply she contaminated.
It would take effect soon…
You see
she was in the middle of doing a PHD in childhood pranks.
She wanted to gauge what scale of devestation
(If any.)
would result if mature adults practised silly,
mindless japes.
Her body twitched as she imagined the pain.
The trauma.
Cries forlorn yet filled with terror.
Oh and their crazy paving eyes as they realise
their windpipes are closing up like melting inner tubes.
Occasionally she would belch and spasm
‘rah rah rah’ deep from within her frame.
So off putting coming from some one so prim and tweedy.
‘Billingsgate and Grumblewheat,
Gurgle burgers and mutton magots squashed
in a garlic press.
Chunda chop suey
and stale pickled eggs in pubs.
Chocolate bars in cow plop plops,
These are just a few of my favourite things.
Rah rah rahhhh.’
Mrs Ale fell back to sleep.

Then she woke again.
‘Rah rah rah I was having such a lovely dream.
About silence.
Before my noisy husband entered.
I’ll cut his face rah rah rah.’
Her bedroom solid oak door was splintered into matchsticks.
There stood Mr Ale.
‘Herruck herruck’ he bellowed like an opera ape.
Then with harsh lines he stepped towards her
‘Oh husband man’
She guffed and glinted with glee.
‘Wife’ he proclaimed singingly.
They embraced lovingly.
His overbearing square pecks flattened her munchkins further.
He breathed down upon her Brandy.
She liked it.
To her it was a sign of leadership.
Ooooh what a cruel man.
Rigid strict unflinchy crispy
but not flakey.
To his lady fair he was chivalrous.
Gentle protective brick girder onix
yet warm.
The kind of man who would lay down his cloak
over puddle pungent.
The kind of shining knight who might
walk on the curb side just incase birds of mischief
jettison their deposits.
The kind of captain who would demand women and children first.
Or the good doctor who demands buckests of hot water.
‘This is my Mr Ale. He cannot fail’ twirled his wife
from his embrace.
‘Divine wife.’
‘Rah rah rah husband man’ she toyed.
‘Hurruck hurruck’
‘When do you want dinner?’ aked Mrs White-Bag the cook.
‘Osserlate’ he dismissed her with a flappy hand.
‘Suit yourself’ sniffed Cook.
Mr Ale shuffled closer to his wife.
Looked down at her like an upstanding pillar
and breathed more cognac on her brow.
‘I must hide my modesty’ he husked low…
‘Then take your clothes off’ she lollypopped back.
‘Umpth. Fatty gay’ he herumpthed.
‘My lust for my plan superceeds our lust for each other’ she spoke.
‘But I could do with some rump steaks.’
‘Mrs White-Bag is it time for Tiffin?’ he asked.
‘Do what you like’ came her reply from the kitchen
‘I’m not listening. I’m not the slightest bit interested.
I’ve got more important things to worry about.’
His wife jumped upon him with gusto.
Knocking her husband upon his back.
‘Ride a Cockhorse’ she rejoyced.
Ripping at her garments like a bad review in “Good House Keeping”.
‘Bequeath’ He licked.

The day in the village was beginning to fill up.
Crisscrossing wet roads before on looking traffic.
Vehicles whose eyes looked hungry.
Motorbikes rasping spitfire fumes in faces
at bus stops.
Then zing away like fickle wasps.
In the Police station which was basement level
the only Bobby in the Village. P.C. Firearm.
He handled all crime single handedly. Literally.
He lost his right arm some time in his life
but had replaced it with an artificial one customised
to have an I2 bore sawn off shotfun in it and one
of those scaple sharp Kung Fu star thingies
that spun around at 78 rpm motored by a whisk.
But rarely he used it, if at all. Not much crime
that warrented excessive force happened here.
He tilted his head back and glanced through the basement
window.
‘Pissy time off year this is. I’m not going out in this.
The crime will have to come to me. And this bullet proof
vest made of sack cloth is begining to chafe’ he scratched.
He took it off before the high window.
Now he was bare chested and stumpy.
Sooth Sayer Sam’s face appeared smiling. He tapped on the glass
and indicated he was coming in.

Sexton Ming

Rust

Only Slowly

Chang’s Gang

Mr Green

Buildings in fire

Ming News

Village Life Forms Part 1

Test