The Ruddock

appearing always like an afterthought,

this blood-breasted, cocked head semicolon

skips before me as I light a cigarette.

Adjusting my sweat-rimmed bunnet

and sighing the fumes in two columns

to the rolling slate-grey sky;

the Ruddock arrives to help weather

the storm.

Is it a practitioner of aeromancy –

this muse of Christmas –

or merely a comforter of the broken?

Will it sing into my soil-stained ear?

Though I am not the son of G*d,

and I have no wounds to use as stain;

I am still a son.

Will it bring water to my chapped lips,

as it seeks to ferry the contents

of my freshly-filled pond to the parched souls

of Purgartory?

I hold my beer up as if to say “I’m fine”.

Will it string the first falling leaves

of autumn into a pastoral-patchwork

shroud; anticipating the end of grief?

I am not a prettye babe in the wood though.

I am a man in my garden surrounded

by pales of boulders,

spade-scraped markings,

reusable-rubble,

warm-glass bottles, label peeled;

the catalyst for change.

The Ruddock – content with this afterthought –

blood-breasted and cocked head,

it skips away as I crush my cigarette.

Adjusting my sweat-rimmed bunnet

and shivering as the wind strikes up

from the rolling slate-grey sky;

we retreat to our homes

of house or hedgerow

to avoid the storm.

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016

January Second

is when you see the city

return to the humdrum:

standing in long queues at Starbucks,

selling the Big Issue  –

head garbed in a hand knitted hat –

by bins brimming with post-pub mulch.

Soon, shaky-pale students

will hand out Shortlists for free,

cleft-eyed; split from sleep,

whilst a commuter decants

from her shiny-new bicycle – its wicker basket

gleams empty from the mist-hung air –

unsure where to chain her prized

gift on the fence of grit-weathered specimens;

box-fresh ankle boots stamp.

But then the homeless man –

the one who wore glasses

and had front teeth before Christmas –

points out a gap where it’ll be safe,

unlike him, who sleeps in any space

to shield from the grit-weathered streets.

Her flushed face shakes:

lined-eyes stream past her coral nose,

her coral nose streams into lined-lips,

her lined-lips mouth words unfit for children,

box-fresh ankle boots stamp once more;

the homeless man waved away.

January second is when the city

returns to its apathetic ways;

to its grit-weathered routine;

unwilling to squeeze into new gaps.

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016

Medicine Men - In the Breeze

     I’ve not long finished listening to the new Medicine Men track In the Breeze for what can’t be too far away from the twentieth time.  It is now time to try and put words to this wonderful experience that will do it justice.

     The first thing to comment on is how director Jonathan Magowan has set the scene.  There is a distinct semblance of tranquillity to the vibrant woodland surroundings, and it is here where we meet the pale and alluring Rachel Menzies, who, unbeknownst to her, will soon begin a journey of discovery driven by the Psyche / Dance machine that is Medicine Men.

     It leads in with the watery god like riff from Ian Mackinnon’s Organizer pedal; the tones proffered could easily be an offering to Poseidon himself, but it’s the introduction of the bands exciting and exceptionally clever rhythmic parts that start to bring the song to life:  thick and thunderous bass lines, a brisk and shoulder-popping drum tempo which allows the Hammond Organ to warmly weave between both.

     The band stand before a graffiti stained, dilapidated pillared mansion, and are the picture of quintessential cool.  When Mackinnon bellows out “Youth is on your side from the man at the top / Don’t get on that wheel cos you work till you drop” we see the wandering, exploring gaze of Menzies as she gently moves through the forest; it is from here that I am hauntingly hooked.

     Emphatically singing “Your star won’t sleep in the shadows / Not time for me but it’s time for you”, Mackinnon and in turn, Magowan take us to a dark ritualistic scene that is steeped in pagan symbolism. 

     The subtle musical phrases provide beautiful counterpoints to the composition that soon build as Ian Stroud – portraying the devil – offers, at first, the classic forbidden fruit and then appealingly, the more modern sin; money.

     Breaking down, the final scenes are signalled with minimal ambience, especially with the fine resonant hits on the bell of the cymbal which lead back into the steadfast groove that’s been prominent throughout.

     The closing vocals are emphatic, the music becomes almost rapturous, there is no hope or escape for our fair maiden; the apple was consumed and with it, a realization settles on her that there never was any hope; not in the classic context anyway.  Mackinnon punches home hard with the final lyric “If I see you in the gallows / Long time no see, but it’s fine for me” to ensure there is no doubt in this.

     It has been a very long time since I’ve listened to a single track on repeat for a full weekend.  This truly does have everything I want from a song and it was very near impossible to write a review as quite frankly, I couldn’t sit still.  The music, the structure, the transitions and linkages between sections and Mackinnon’s profound lyrics are echoed perfectly against the dark themes of Magowan’s vision; easily one of the best Sunday’s I’ve had for a while…what an absolute pleasure to write.

     In the Breeze is released on the 11^th of November 2016 via Neon Tetra Records and will feature on Medicine Men’s debut album which is due for release in spring 2017.

Their next gigs to promote In the Breeze are as follows:

Sat 12^th of November – Glasgow, Hug & Pint

Wed 23^rd November – London, The Victoria

Sat 26^th November – Edinburgh, Voodoo Rooms

I categorically implore you all too at least make one of these gigs.

Tomas Bird – Oct 2016

The Beginning of a False Prophecy

I await the blood.

The moon, immaculate,

sets forth across the bay window.

The fourth in the tetrad,

fear and hope boil down in the same blue-grey pot;

prayers steam and rise across the world.

My whisky glass fills,

distilled from grain-grown

in the fields of life,

where top soil tears are turned,

rocks of regret removed,

time is the till, friends the furrow,             

and the soul-searching-seeds planted

together have ripened;

tonight’s silver is relied upon to harvest reflections.

One more season to endure

till Spring next year;

only if we survive tonight of course.

My whisky glass fills.

I await the blood.

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016

Landscaping October

No time!  The hours of light recede to dark

sketches, but finger swept with charcoal marc.

The year is dying, but that’s nothing new,

it only means less hours to hack and hew

next seasons paths for spring bulbs and chipped bark.

In time, rockeries turn spiral from arc,

upcycled brick, columned; silhouetted-stark

against the cold hunters dawn; greyish-blue.

                The hours of light recede.

But time moves fast for the garden toparch,

soon morning fog will deny the suns spark.

At best, the skyline will be tinged ecru.

The cold, incremental.  Winters curfew

extends to the timeless pitch black of dark;

                recede, the hours of light. 

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016 

And So the Fish Gave Away the Hook

A brief synopsis of how I approached this project as written documentation is absolutely key for remembering creative endeavours in later life; the game of drink is the chief corruptor of all things memory related.

     So, as it has become custom now – well, at least in 2016 anyway – that any period of time longer than a few days spent away from work is utilised within in a recording studio; the 13^th – 23^rd of August was no different.

     The basic premise – which as always, was devised a short while before actually heading in to start tracking – was to write four songs loosely based on Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea and also scribe and record an original poem to go along with it.

     To add to the randomness of this project, I asked the four lads from Fife band, Moonlight Zoo to each pick a page from The Old Man and The Sea, as it would be these pages from where I would draw inspiration from for each song.

     From there, I decided that each song would be titled – to some extent anyway – after a fish and that each song would have its own tuning.  To challenge myself, I created a brand new tuning – well, brand new to anything I’ve tried before – and gave each tuning the same title.  This led to the following:

Albacore – Eb F C Eb Bb F

Crushed Dolphin – E B D C A E

Dentuso – F F F F F F

Dead Mako part 1 – D D D E A D

Dead Mako part 2 – D E A D D D

NB:  The reason there are two parts for Dead Mako is that the full song itself is in two parts, thus two tunings…plus, as above, there are at least two ways to get the word DEAD in a tuning and these two instantly worked; Dead Mako part 3 is still up for grabs to anyone reading this.

     Finally, to bring the overall piece into context with the title, I decided that each of the songs main hooks would then feature in between each track to provide the ambient vibes for me to recite a stanza of the poem over.  For everything to work as I wanted, I bastardised the poetry form of Chaucerian Roundel, i.e. instead of reading Abb abA abbA, it’s abb aba abba.

Tomas Bird

Domiciles - 100 Miles

I’m sitting here in the back room of my Craigbank Ranch in the Kingdom of Fife.  It’s 6.17am, I have a powerfully strong black coffee and I’m listening to Domiciles; a relatively new and young band that hail from the same region as I.

     100 Miles is the first You Tube search to grace my ears and it’s a legitimate peach of a song.  The opening keys and simple drum pattern set the tone and are soon followed by the catchy 60’s guitar riffs that echo the warm melodic harmonies of Nick (Young) and Rory (Cowieson).

      I truly love everything this song has to offer me.  The verse, bridge, chorus; back to the opening riff and then repeat sequence is testament these fellows understand where the song wants them to take it.  It’s the outro, which is denoted in the video as “And now…intermission”, that really seals this effort though…it’s not too far off a modern, upbeat psych twist on Procal Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale; well, sort of ; )

      100 Miles is four hundred shorter than The Proclaimers journey; is this how one should judge a song though?  Categorically not.  If anything, I’ve travelled to far greater places in my mind this morning than any number of BAH RAH DAH’s could ever take me; of course, that’s no slight on the aforementioned Edinburgh based duo; this is just the psychedelic reality of the world we choose to live in today.

     In summary, read, listen, download from the Domiciles BandCamp and then listen many times more; it’s what Charlie and Craig Reid would want.

Tomas Bird 

Tomas Bird & The Madman's Cabaret - Bloodlines

Last Exit - Tomas Bird & The Madman's Cabaret

A Sculptors Psalm

Be still, not wild on the fresh morn opaque,

before coffee and sunlight, quiet calms

and compliments the first smoke of the day.

Though torment is sharp and your mind is splayed

into streams of soiled filth down channelled malm,

be still and balanced; then go forth please wade.

Let murk not linger, nor heaviness weigh

around strides powered by shoulders and arms;

let it flow back, back into the grey.

Fresh water the present, crystal not gley,

cleanses your hands from the thin sculptors balm,

it recedes to the past; times misshaped clay.

Push on, hammer north and conquer the brae:

cold feet, soaked shins, locked knees, skyward raised palms.

Be brave; be a man. Be strong; never fleyed.

Then be still, not wild, just still; not afraid.

Your now empty cup fills with sunlight-psalms,

spoken in silence,

from the heart of today.


Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

Waiting for the Soil to Warm

Fostered cabin culture

normally hosts waxed

moustached patrons
sup-slurping on artisan

brewed brown ale;

a vast industrial space

filled with neutral

woodland shades.

Tonight though, outside

the street is a funnel;

the weird wait to be distilled

into the furnace.

Reverberating music will replace

smoked malt wheat that has

been sweetened with honey

free from elitist pesticides –
the International Festival of Psychedelia

beckons us.

We are like the cicada that waits for

the perfect soil temperature before

surfacing into the world…a world

where musical priests stand with

straightened backs and proclaim

their vision is cocaine.  Where

South American women glide past

their shoulders, with a rhythm that

is steeped in ancient mystique

and seek a sermon that is not

forthcoming. 

Their eyes state

detached lunacy

that transcends

understanding.

Unable to see Austin-inked arms

lock for a moment’s memory;

they miss the union between

the beautiful and the veteran –

both seasoned with wisdom

that cannot be taught. 

They await a

higher purpose.

Subterranean excitement pulsates

until contact is lost with external reality.

 

Cigarette skins and kaleidoscope glasses

bring magic into our life,

Cicada psychosis in segments;

the soil now warm

enough to burst free.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

Diary of The Zambezi

He breaks away from the herd,

brave young bull.

The matriarch bellows goodbye;

perhaps to her only son.

I feel his splash-thump steps,

before he trunks me

over his parched-leather hide;

I’m too shallow to swim in you see.

Part of me ripples

towards the scorched shore,

and there I see them:

khaki-killing machines,

crouched-aiming cruelty;

takers of life.

Bright sunlight catches

the white one’s Rolex;

a blood-tourist.

The poor hearing herbivore

paddles and grunts,

blind to the bead drawn on him,

as I do my best to cool his feet.

“Good munee in dem tusks, Sabib”,

the Mahout turned traitor whispers.

More paddling.  More grunts;

just an oblivious silhouette

on my blue

till the shot

and the final splash.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

Another Day in the Office

No quiet respite for me today,

instead the pressures crept

into my spine of servitude;

my brow bled beads of sweat.

With no mentor I can turn to,

my inner strength has left.

Now days seem vast as oceans;

my problems fill their depths.

No sweet relief for my tired eyes

from sluggish, heavy air.

I sit upon his well-worn seat,

and fight the urge to care

‘Bout never ending work-streams,

and what my colleagues think

of past actions soaked in whiskey;

my dark side’s favourite drink.

But all things change, they do not last;

this cycle never ends.

Fourteen years I’ve lived like this,

lived like this my friend.

No stopping now, it’s all I know;

a life of constant toil.

I praise the "what’s" and curse the "how’s"

then chill my blood that’s boiled.

And so I leave to travel home,

my mode of transport’s train.

No turning back to face my day,

the hours have turned to rain.

And so I leave to travel home,

I’m soaking from the rain.

Retreat towards an early start,

then wake, repeat again.

Retreat towards an early start,

then wake, repeat again.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015

A Smile from a Rose

     Grave was his name, John Grave, which was very apt for a man in the grave digging profession we all thought; very apt indeed.  His sombre presence in the village had always terrified the children; so much so that the term “John Grave will get you” became our friends favourite threat to their children if they misbehaved. 

     It wasn't until my Annie – on the day of her mother's funeral – presented him with a bouquet of roses, that we saw him smile for the first time. 

     'Paul,' she said to me, 'would you mind giving us a minute?'

     'Of course not, my dear, I'll wait for you by the Chestnut tree.'

     I observed from a distance as Annie handed the man Grave an opened envelope. As he read the letter, his emotion became apparent, so much so that Annie embraced him until he regained his composure.  It was spring and the day was fresh and kind to both the young and the old, all of whom were grieving.

*

     On the anniversary of her mother's funeral, we decided to visit her grave.  As dawn soaked the hedgerows and broken walls with its golden sun, I felt a bittersweet happiness to be going home. 

     ‘Would you mind if I bought some roses?’ she asked as we stepped off the

train.

     ‘Not at all, darling,’ I said, ‘why don’t you get roses like you gave Mr Grave last time?’

     ‘Those were the ones I was thinking of getting,’ she said as she lightly squeezed my hand.

     We stood over her mother's grave and I held her close whilst she wept gentle tears from her clear green eyes.  The roses remained in her tight clasped hand.

     ‘What are you going to do with the roses, love?’  I asked.  I already knew the answer, even if I didn’t know the reason.

     ‘Do you want to come with me?’

     ‘Do you want me to come?’  She nodded whilst burying her head in my chest. 

     My stubble caught a few strands of her strawberry blonde hair and they came loose from her clasp as I drew up from kissing her head.  The soft breeze loosened more of her thick, barley coloured waves until it fell over her lightly freckled cheek.  Tucking it behind her ear, we crunched along the gravel path that led to his small, whitewashed cottage.

     She rapped her petite knuckles against the study oak door until heavy footsteps grew louder and then stopped on the opposite side of the door.  After a moment, the heavy door opened to reveal John Grave.  He had gone grey early in life; however, flecks of amber still graced his trimmed beard.  It was his bright green eyes that gave away his youth though.  His slightly stooped stance cast a shadow over us.

     ‘It’s you,’ he almost whispered.

     ‘I came to visit mother.’

     ‘I hoped you would.’

     ‘These are for you,’ she said as she shakily handed him the roses.

     ‘Thank you,’ he smiled, ‘will you stay a while?’

     'I can’t, not today anyway,’ she said, ’I’m not ready.’

     ’I understand, although I’m not sure your husband does.’

     ’He knows that I love him very much,’ she said looking at me, ’and hopefully that is enough for now.’

     I squeezed her hand and said that it was.

     'Perhaps you could…'

     'Perhaps I could write you a letter…an unopened one this time?' she asked.

     'I would like that.  I would like that very much.'

     It was another fine spring day and the smell of newly cut grass was fresh in the air.

*

     In the middle of summer came a warm but relentless rain.  In autumn, the rain turned cold, and by late November, the sky was a perpetual grey that

teemed nothing but a constant torrent of freezing sleet.

     'The doctor says you have to eat.'

     'I'm fine,' she said, 'can you fix my pillows please, my neck is all stiff and sore?'

     'Pneumonia is not fine,' I said as I fluffed the pillows behind her head, 'how's that?'

     'Much better, thanks.'

     'Right, how about some of my mum's broth now?'

     'I'm not hungry…maybe in a bit.'

     'Why are you so stubborn when it comes to your health?'  I asked.

     'I'm fine.  As soon as this horrible, God awful weather clears up I'll get better and then we can maybe take a wee holiday…maybe to Spain, yes?'

     'That sounds like a fine idea,' I said, 'for the time being though, how about you at least eat some of the bread while I phone my mum to tell her you're not eating her soup?'

     'Ha-ha, don't you dare say that.'

     'Well you better just get some of it eaten then,' I replied.

     ‘Ok,’ she said, ‘but I’m only eating so you shut up for a while.’

     Her pale lips smiled.

     ‘Ok, love, I’m sorry, I’ll try and not go on so much…I’ll be back in a minute, ok?’

     ‘Ok, tell your mum I said hiya, ‘she said, ‘oh, Paul…’

     ‘Yes, love.’

     ‘Thank you for looking after me.’

     ‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ I said, ‘anything for you.’

     When I came back, she was asleep.  By her side were the empty plates and two sealed envelopes.  One was for me; the other was for John Grave.  I kissed her cold, moist forehead and lay down beside her.

     Annie’s breathing grew shallow - her lungs seemed to be working hard just to inhale the clammy air.  I closed my eyes and wished for springtime.  Her chesty cough broke into my dreams and in my head the sky was a giant eye that was weeping slushy ice.

     When I awoke, I realised that I had been crying in my sleep.  I turned to look at Annie but she was not there.  All that remained was her still and lifeless figure.

*

     The train journey was a lonely one.  The sodden countryside of December sped by in a flurry of sunless, murky skies and snow spattered, muddy fields.  I had preceded my journey by writing to John.  I had not received a reply.

     As I walked towards his cottage, the door opened.  John Grave reminded me of a piece of large charcoal that been pulled from a pyre.  His green eyes

stared intently at me as I approached.

     ‘Good morning, Mr Grave,’ I said stretching out my hand, ‘My name’s Paul, I’m Annie’s…I mean, I was Annie’s husband.’

     ‘John…please call me John,’ he replied whilst gripping my hand, ’I’m very sorry for your loss.’

     ’I’m sorry for yours too, although I’m not entirely sure why.’

     ’Thank you,’ he said, ‘will you come in?’

     ‘I can’t just now, I have to see Father McLean shortly…Annie’s body is being brought down here the day after tomorrow.’

     ‘I understand,’ he said.

     ‘Did you get my letter?’  I asked.

     ‘I did,’ he said, ‘my apologies for not writing back but letter writing has never been my strong point.

     ‘That’s ok…was it a problem to lay her beside her mother?’

     ‘No…no problem at all,’ he said, ‘I think she would have liked that.’

     ‘I think so too,’ I replied hoarsely.

     I stood looking at him for a moment before handing over the letter Annie had written to him.  There was something familiar in those jade green eyes of his.

     ‘From Annie,' I said, ‘she wrote one to me as well.’

     ‘Thank you,’ he replied as he gingerly accepted the sealed, cream envelope.

     The skies began to darken and the shadows from the bare branches of the chestnut tree began to zig and zag as if they were attempting to scratch some invisible itch on the ground.  We shook hands again and agreed to talk some more after the funeral.

     I heard John’s door shut gently when I neared the bottom of the path.

*

     A light rain had begun to fall as I stood smoking by the chestnut tree.  When I was alone, I surveyed the empty graveyard, slowly taking in the host of lonely memories of others’ pain.  My eyes finally came to a rest on Annie's grave.  Kneeling in front of it was John.  His grief seemed to equal mine and I felt a pang of sorrow for him.

     He stood slowly and crossed himself.  Looking up, he saw me and with quiet respect made his way across to where I was standing.

     'It was a beautiful service,' he said.

     'It was a hard service,' I replied as I rubbed my right eye with the palm of my hand.

     John placed a calloused hand on my shoulder.

     'Are you ok?'  He asked.

     'No. No I'm not, but I guess that's to be expected,' I said.  'I want to thank you for coming today, John.'

     He stood quiet and looked at the ground.

     'I don't want you to take this the wrong way,' I said, 'but it meant a lot to see an unfamiliar face grieving as you've done today…it reminded me just how good a person my Annie was.'

     'She said some very kind words to me the day of her mother's funeral.'

     I wiped my eyes again and lit another cigarette whilst looking at her grave.

     'Do you believe in what the priest said about Annie's soul being everlasting?'  I asked.

     'Yes.  Yes I do, but I don’t think it’ll go to God straight away though,' he said.

     'How do you mean?'  I asked.

     'You were soul mates, so I believe Annie's soul will wait for you until you’re ready to join her.'

     'You're a good man, John.'  I said.

     'So are you, Paul.  So are you.'

     We stood there, stranger to stranger and embraced each other.

     'Annie's last wishes,' I said as I pulled away, 'were for me to visit you each year on the anniversary of her mother's funeral.'

     'I think I'd like that,' he replied.

     'She also asked if I would bring you a bouquet of roses and tell you something about her.'

     'I'd definitely like that,' he said, 'are you not curious as to why though?'

     'I'm just happy I can still do something nice for Annie,' I replied, 'besides, what else am I supposed to do…all I've ever been good at is loving her.'

     We embraced one last time and then I departed until spring.  I left happy knowing that for years to come I would be able to fondly reminisce about Annie to someone like John Grave.

*

     I rose from my seat wearily.  My stiff limbs creaked as I shuffled to the door.  It was early summer and the morning was already beginning to grow hot when John met me off the train.

     'Good Morning, Paul,' he greeted me heartily.

     'It is indeed, my old friend, 'I replied as I leaned forward to shake his gnarled, old hand, 'it's good to see you.'

     'And you,' he said, 'how's the family?''

     'Fussing as always,' I said.

     'I'm glad you've come,' he replied.

     'Me too, John.'

     'Are you up to taking a stroll to the grave yard?'

     'Absolutely,' I replied.

     The village was silent as we walked immersed in our memories.

     'Paul,' he asked as we drew near, 'do you remember asking me if I thought

Annie's soul would be everlasting?'

     'I do, John,' I said.

     'Do you remember what I said?'

     'I do,' I croaked, 'you said that Annie's soul would wait for me until I was ready to join it.'

     He smiled as he pointed to where Annie was buried.  Protruding from the heart of her grave was a single, crimson rose.

     'My God,' I cried, ' how is this possible?'

     'I planted the rose on Annie's request on the day of her funeral,' he said.

     John helped me to her grave.  Salty tears spilled down the crevasses of my old face whilst her rose quivered in the warm summer's breeze.

     'Thank you, John,' I whispered, 'thank you for looking after my Annie.'

     'It is I who should thank you, Paul,' he said, 'without you or Annie, I would be nothing.  Without you or Annie, I would merely be a name who could be traced back to nothing.'

     'His green eyes began to fill and he tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of his black woollen cardigan but they just filled up again.

     'Who was she to you, John?'

     'She was my sister,' he replied, 'she made…’

     ‘John?’  I gently pressed.

     ‘She made me realise that as her memories became my memories that I am not nothing…’  His tears flowed freely.

     'You're a fine man, John, and you've been a fine friend to me over the

years.  More importantly, you've been a fine brother to Annie.'

     We stood on that summer's morning and enjoyed the sun as two friends who are seeing each other for the last time should do.  Annie moved from side to side in the breeze and looked as beautiful as I had ever seen her.

Tomas Bird - Coaltown 2014

The Riot Girl

     Her name was Lucy Coyne and she was as famous as she was beautiful.  I had met her a few times but only in passing at her legendary parties.

     It was a rainy day when I saw her in the shop where I worked.  Stripped of her make-up she still looked gorgeous – maybe a bit more innocent and plain; but still breathtaking nonetheless.

     She slinked around the various displays of our new stock as I viewed her from a distance.  Her slim fingers would lightly brush against the silky dresses that clung to the size eight mannequins.  Every now and then she would smile secretively to herself.

     When she left, the sky had truly opened up and the street outside was filled with umbrellas and running feet.

     I decided to follow her.  I didn’t want to, but I knew that I must.

     She ambled straight through the centre of town, took a right and made her way to the building commonly known as Rumourville.

     Rumourville was a disused hotel that Lucy’s wealthy father had given to her on her twenty-first birthday for Lucy to use as she saw fit.

     It was in Rumourville that Lucy, with her sultry pout and piercing green eyes, planned her first riot.  Along with her friends - a collective known as the Rioteers - they welcomed in the freaks of the city to her idealistic safe haven for all creative minds.

     The famed legions of the cities varied underground movements would come and talk to her about their theories and she would sit and listen and smoke joints with them, never once batting an eyelid as to their fame.  I once even saw Mulholland Mornings there.

     The rain was deafening now as I caught up with her.

     ‘Excuse me, Lucy…can you stop there please?’

     She turned and smiled cautiously at me.

     ‘Can I help you…Sol, it’s, Sol isn’t it?’

     She knew my name.

     ‘Ehhhm, I’m really sorry to ask, but I need you to open your bag for me please?’

     ‘But of course, Sol,’ her seductive charms were intoxicating.

     There were only flyers for her next riot there.

     ‘I’m so sorry for troubling you…I’ve just started my new job and…’

     ‘Don’t worry about it, Sol,’ she winked, ‘see you at the next riot.’

     She handed me a flyer, turned and slowly continued on her way.

     A security tag hung loosely underneath her jacket.

Tomas Bird - Coaltown 2014