I stumbled across an old notebook at the back of the cave the other day, in which I’d written a few quick stories, poems and book ideas.  Most of them weren’t really useful for future projects, but one silly poem was fun to read back – so I thought I’d post it here and give you the chance to add to it.

—

How Do You Sleep?
by Tommy Donbavand & you!

How do you sleep?

Igor the boar does nothing but snore

Drake the snake simply can’t stay awake

Mark the shark likes to snooze in the dark

Sandeep the sheep sometimes sings in his sleep

Honey the bunny sleeps with carrots – how funny!

Pat the rat watches out for the cat

Mog the dog always sleeps like a log

Gayle the whale tucks up under her tale

Bruce the goose dreams of cranberry juice!

Zack the yak sleeps with birds on his back

Claire the bear snuggles up in her fur

How do you sleep?

—

Now, it’s over to you.  Feel free to add to this silly little poem in the comments thread…

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the cave
Not an author was stirring, for none were that brave.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the Santa-Claws soon would be there.

The monsters were nestled all snug in their pits,
All hairy, or slimy or covered in zits.
And I wearing only my thin Summer gear,
Shook in my prison with cold and with fear.

When in the main chamber there arose such a clatter,
I slipped from my chains to see what was the matter.
Away to the cell door I flew in a hurry,
Wading up to my waist in a mound of brown slurry.

The unsettling light of the Flickertoad’s glow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But eight slavering demon-like monstrous reindeer.

With a malformed old driver who was bent almost double,
I knew in a moment that we were in trouble.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and screamed out their name!

“Now Masher! now, Mauler! Now, Crusher and Killer!
On, Hatred! On, Loathing! On, Spite and on Cilla!
To the edge of the fire pit! To the giant slime ball!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to my cell roof the coursers they flew,
With that sleigh full of evil, and Santa-Claws too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The stomping and scraping of each cloven hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Straight through the ceiling he came with a bound.

He was dressed in black leather, from his foot to his head,
And he stunk of sour milk and of things too long dead.
A sack full of entrails he had flung on his back,
I watched as he swallowed some whole as a snack.

His eyes-how they glared! His talons how nasty!
His nose – like a well-past-its-best Cornish pasty.
His skin had the texture of thick metal mesh,
And his beard had been carved from burnt human flesh.

A small human finger he held tight in his teeth,
He chewed it and chomped it as if it were beef.
He had a broad face and a thick, scaly hide,
When he opened his mouth I heard screaming inside!

He was rancid and rotten, a right wicked sight,
And I wondered if I would survive this dark night!
He suddenly leapt and grabbed hold of my head,
And I knew in mere minutes I was sure to be dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Flashed his sharp fangs and bent down with a jerk.
And chomping and chewing he bit off my nose,
Then gulping it down, through the roof hole he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a yell,
And away they all flew like a bat out of Hell.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!”

For your further edification I present the following tale of woe. Prepare yourself, gentle reader, for the grisly saga of Alexander Gordon Smith (author of the awesome FURNACE: LOCKDOWN, reviewed here) and his valiant, imaginative yet sadly doomed attempts to rescue us all from captivity.

His last words as he disappeared head-first into the bucket of monster solids were “It reads better if you imagine The Two Ronnies singing it.” Let us hope these cryptic words don’t prove to be this terrific author’s epitaph.

NOW READ ON…

ESCAPE!

by Alexander Gordon Smith

-

Eight intrepid authors met up one winter night,

To write a book of horror lore and give the kids a fright.

It was meant to be a tome of monster pain and slaughter,

A terrifying nightmare for our nation’s sons and daughters.

(Yet soon it would be these poor souls who found out about torture!)

-

Trapped by monsters in a cave, so far beneath the ground,

That even when they screamed for help we could not hear a sound.

Forced to do their captors’ bidding in their cells of slime,

Made to write – dear god forbid – poetry that rhymes!

(And doomed to serve their beastly masters till the end of time…)

-

They’re only let out now and then to spread the monsters’ word:

“We monsters truly aren’t that bad” – it’s really quite absurd!

On such a day, in London Town, I met Sam Enthoven,

And nervously he challenged me to come up with a plan.

(“Get us out, for heavens sake – just save us if you can!”)

-

Now I really am no hero, I’m the opposite of brave.

“There is no blooming way,” I said, “I’m going near that cave!”

But then I watched as poor old Sam was dragged into the drains,

By a brutish beast with forty toes that loved inflicting pain.

(And then I vowed: “Sam don’t you fear, you’ll see the sun again!”)

-

My first plan of action was to blow up all the doors,

So I packed my bag with detonators, fuses and C4.

I’d blast their prison open, my brilliant plan was flawless!

Until I went and realised that the bloomin’ cave was doorless…

(The cells are locked up tight with goo, it’s really quite a raw mess.)

-

Plan B: trick the monsters, it couldn’t fail to work!

“Sam,” I said, “just dress up like an ogre gone berserk.”

Sam spread himself with bogeys, an incredible disguise,

He was so convincing that the monsters let him by!

(Until Gwyneth took a fancy and made herself his bride!)

-

Next I thought I’d bake a cake and smuggle in a file,

Those eight pour souls could saw right through their windows with a smile!

But I passed the cake to Gurt Theeg, that wretched bad luck goblin,

And the goblin gobbled it down his throat, even with the file in!

(And judging by his groans of pain it’s filing his intestines…)

-

“Ali, why don’t you charm them with some of your poetry?

Sing them a nice lullaby and make them go to sleep.”

She composed a masterpiece and sung it to her guard,

But when he fell asleep she didn’t manage to get far.

(The beast had fallen on her and squished her with his a*$e!)

-

I started watching prison shows to get some fresh ideas,

And thought of drugging monsters with some chloroform tortillas.

It would have knocked them out for hours on that cold cave flooring,

But Joe scoffed all the poisoned snacks, it really was appalling.

(He’s been asleep for three weeks now and hasn’t once stopped snoring!)

-

“Why don’t you try and sneak out through the prison laund-er-y?

Jump into the trolley and then soon you’ll be home free!”

Andy followed my advice, he thought he had a chance,

But ended up beneath a pair of slimy monster pants.

(He needed to be rescued by a digger and some clamps!)

-

I told Mark and David: “You can get out through the sewer!”

Not knowing that inside it was a world-class monster poo-er.

As soon as they dropped through their loo they found it overflowing.

Are they still alive down there? There is no way of knowing!

(Except for the occasional sound of something human groaning…)

-

“Tommy, try to start a fire and set off the alarms.

You’ll be evacuated before you all come to harm.”

But the instant that he lit a match and held it to some dry rot,

A monster aimed his snozzle in, extinguishing it with snot!

(And now poor Tommy’s covered, there really was a lot.)

-

“I know what to do,” I cried. “Tunnel through the walls!”

But when Barry tried to do so he found there was no wall at all –

His cell was a vast stomach, a gooey gloop of guts,

Belonging to a monster who had tried to eat him up.

(“Argh, the only way I can escape is crawling out its butt!”)

-

Yuk!

-

Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh dear, I thought, this isn’t going well,

All I’ve done is make those writers sleep or sink or smell.

If I’m going to break them out I’ll have to risk my health,

Sneak into the prison, take those monsters on myself.

(And hope that I’m rewarded with a great degree of wealth.)

-

So that very afternoon I ventured to their lair,

With every single trembling step I’d offer up a prayer.

With stakes and silver bullets, and holy water too,

I stepped into that cave to do just what I had to do…

(Although quite how to do it? I didn’t have a clue!)

-

The moment that I entered, I came under attack,

I knew I was in trouble but there was no turning back!

My weapons were all useless, the beasties were too tough,

My holy water scared them but it just wasn’t enough.

(Though it did manage to make them smell a little less like guff!)

-

Then just when things seemed futile, when I thought that I was dead,

I threw down all my weapons and tried something else instead.

Monsters do love poems, perhaps they’d like this one?

And whilst I read it out to them my dear old friends could run!

(And somehow we would ambush them as soon as I was done.)

-

So I began to read aloud, the monsters crowded round,

The writers slipped out of their cells, they didn’t make a sound!

As soon as I had finished I said, “Now it’s time to fight!

Come on writers, finish this… Let’s give these beasts a fright!

(Er… Hello? Is anybody there? Please don’t leave me behind!”)

-

Guys?!

-

Guys!!!!!!!

-

Aaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!

I was trying to avoid rising to the bait of any poetry challenge. But you can’t stay curmudgeonly forever. So here I am, with my effort.
the question I had to answer was ‘Where’s that smell coming from?’, and I had to use the word ‘LUNAR’.

I hope you (and the monsters) feel that I have succeeded…

A stinky cloud of toxic gas descended on the earth
Asphyxiating millions and terrifying scores.
Scientists and doctors searched for all that they were worth
But none of them was able to identify the cause.

At first they thought the answer lay beneath the briny sea:
Perhaps a plague of salmon or a stinky type of tuna?
They never even realised what’s plain to you and me:
Any source of toxic gas is always – always – lunar.

One scientist was fool enough to sail right through the cloud
Armed with just a microscope, aboard a little schooner.
He never made it back to land, but in his death was proud.
He drowned with one phrase in his throat: “This toxic gas is lunar!”

Back at home they wondered why his boat had started sinking.
They blamed the King! They blamed the French! They blamed a famous crooner!
Was Sinatra’s rotting flesh the source of all this stinking?
No. If only they had known. The cause of death was lunar!

By now the gas had sent them mad. They’d lost all grasp of spelling.
One of their reports lays all the blame on a ‘Hyuna’,
But misspelled laughing dogs can’t make the gas the world was smelling!
Of course not. Only one thing can. The cause of gas of lunar!

So whether you be old or young, unpleasant or seductive,
Or lover, mother, father, friend, or wide-eyed honeymooner
If ever you should sense a cloud of gas that seems destructive,
You must remember this: THE SMELL THAT’S KILLING YOU IS LUNAR!

I thank you.

Following Mark’s poetry challenge (posted April 20th), here’s my mournful effort…

 

CLOUD

Upon the air there hung a cloud,

A most unpleasant smell.

Could it be my Grandma’s feet?

It’s very hard to tell.

 

Or maybe next door neighbour’s pet,

A llama, white as snow.

They call him Loony Lunar,

But why? I do not know.

 

 

THE LOST HORN

“Rhino Bill, what have you done - 

What’s happened to your horn?”

 

“It was not me but Marjorie,

That’s why I sit forlorn.

 

“All I did was grab and squeeze,

her wobbly, bobbly thighs.

 

“She turned to me and snapped it off,

With evil in her eyes.”

I’ve never claimed to be any good at poetry, but I’ll try anything once several times. Here’s my attempt at a poem for Ali’s Poetry Challenge.

It was like that when I found it, son, I promise that it was,
I don’t know how his head came off, or what happened to his claws,
I’m not sure why his leg is bent, or why that arm is snapped in two,
Or how those plastic shards got stuck to the bottom of my shoe,

I’ve no idea how his paint got scuffed, or where he got that crack,
And your guess is as good as mine about what happened to his back,
I know I’ve sometimes mended toys you’ve broken in the past,
But I fear that bobbly-head wee guy has bobbled his very last.

‘Tell Dad that his present don’t work.
He’s made me feel like a right burke!
That bungy elastic ain’t quite so fantastic
It snapped when it should clean and jerk.

I should have suspected foul play.
The box was all dusty and grey.
The rubber was knobbly, the suit was all bobbly
I hope that I’m not stuck this way!’

Trapped in a cave by monsters,
I’ve been stuck in here for yonksters,
I doubt I’ll ever taste fresh air again.

I’m feeling flippin’ famished,
Our food supplies have vanished,
These hunger pangs are driving me insane.

Andy’s arms are nice and white,
I might just have one bite,
To see if they’re as tasty as they look.

And if that stops my rumbling belly,
Well that will be just swelly,
Let’s see which of the others I can cook.

I’d eat Mark’s ears as snacks,
There’d be two in every pack,
And they’d come in cheese and onion or in plain.

Joe’s lungs might be too chewy,
And his spleen a little gooey,
I’d probably just feast upon his brain.

I could make a soup from Tommy,
Though it might be quite consommé-y,
I could thicken it with eyes and bits of heart.

Ali’s toes I’d eat in threes,
I’d just chuck them back like peas,
Though like beans I fear they might cause me to fart.

David’s fingers look delicious,
I’d serve them up in little dishes,
They’d crunch each time I bit one clean in two.

Poor Sam I’d just devour,
It’d take me several hours,
After that I’d come and start to chew on YOU!

Oh I hope they bring some food,
For it would be rather rude,
To eat my fellow captives up like pork.

But there’s no-one on the way,
With my dinner on a tray,
Oh well, that’s it, can someone pass the fork?

It’s strange what sitting in a cave so long will do to you.

Obviously there are ointments for some of the effects  – but not for others. I am regressing… hurtling back to my youth to where this whole sorry situation must have begun.

Like many a teenager I wrote poems. But not romantic angsty ones. No. Poems like Horror Fridge. And illustrations. You can see where it was leading even when I was 15…

No wonder Mills & Boon didn’t want me…

Horror Fridge

Deep behind our fridge-freezer,
Like behind most fridges
Where you shudder to delve your fingers deep,
For fear of spiders and gungey ridges,
Where the vibrating demon lurks and laughs
And gurgles while you’re in bed
And everyone knows,
And everyone shows that they knows
But nothing is said.
Who knows what lies behind,
What secrets there do dwell?
What groans in the dark,
What sundry shark
Swims through this dusty hell?
What waits a silent vigil
In the crannies and the nooks
Nobody knows and nobody will
Because nobody ever looks…

(from The Fridgeside Book of No Hope)