A Work in SLOW Progress!

[Tonic The BARD]

I'd stick this in the Writings/poems/et al section but not sure what the Traffic is like there. "Ah Hope Ya Don't mind?"
(LoL OUR fave Elton song at numerous sites - I introduced it to some - was
"
You could never know what it's like
Your blood like winter freezes just like ice
And there's a cold lonely light that shines from you
You'll wind up like the wreck you hide behind that mask you use

And did you think this fool could never win?
Well, look at me, I'm a-coming back again
I got a taste of love in a simple way
And if you need to know while I'm still standing you just fade away


Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did?
Looking like a True Survivor, Feeling like a Little Kid
And I'm still standing after all this time
Picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind

Bravo, Reggie Dwight! He was friends with Pete Townsend from The WHO as kids..


On to ME and This Project.
I am NOT a Novelist, mostly 1 to 4 page stuff, but in my second mania I made about 30 pages of Construction notes for a Series of Books about a young boy brought up by his wonderful Custodial Grandfather, who brings him up to be a Bard of the Secret Society of Bards. Modern times. Grandad would be MY wonderful Dad, writes himself. Taught me to play harmonica at age 6. It made me a *bit* more popular at school, or at least an object of Positive Interest. You need Every tool, in The Playground.

Harry Potter, sans Magic and Merchandise ($20 *Vibrating" plastic Wands. Wonder if those worked any magic for young fans? LOL )
No magic to imagine, and Imagination is Dying, thanks to Tik Tok and Phones.

Real stuff Kids can do. Tell stories. write poems and songs. Grow a Good sense of Humour. Sing and play an Instrument, ANY instrument. Learn to CHarm people, and do Kind Acts, and Mediate Disputes with Wisdom. Bards did ALL of those things and More. The POWER of PRAISE and RIDICULE (real Schadenfreude stuff). I THANK people and compliment them all the time, out and about, sales assistants, etc, and They REMEMBER Me as a Happy Customer. I know many of their names. And I can RIDICULE too, Sarcasm that SCORTCHES the Earth! Don't do that MUCH these days, but the Barbs can be summoned out of the Right Drawer in my head, PRONTO! LoL

As I put it back then, Crazily:
"A Wizard would BLAST a Hole in the Ground.
A BARD would CHARM 10 people into digging it FOR him." Thinking Mark Twain/Tom Sawyer/ The Fence-Painting incident..
Bards move PEOPLE with Emotion and reason, not elemental Forces and Wishful Thinking.

Write What you Know....
MYSTIC RIVER...

MY Boy is kidnapped and missing for 3 days, around age 10 - 12. Damaged Goods. Grandfather has already Passes On and is not there to use HIS Love and SKills (as My dad would have done for ME). So a Substitue is Dispatched, with EXPERIENCE in "This Kind Of Thing". Uncle Angers is part ME, Part Dad, and part Billy Connolly and Hugh Keyes Byrne - Aussie actor who played The Mad Biker boss in Mad Max1, and Imortan Joe in the Last one.

I hope you find the One Chapter I have a few pages of here a Gift, and food for thought.
No Trigger warnings. It is meant to be SCARY but HEALING! And HOPE!. See Below
Djinn & TONIC

 

[Tonic The BARD]

CHAPTER 13, 20 something COLUM narrating...
For YOU, New Friends! an' .seity
I need a Story Collaborator, or it is just going to have to be all short stories, not Plot ARCs..
--

Chapter 13 – One who knows...
Alright dear friends, for effect once more it is best I do not write this story from my own point of view, so we must shift to third person once more. I did not fully understand what was happening, and i feel it would not have worked if i did, if that is not confusing? In committing this episode to paper, I discussed it at length with the remarkable man you are about to meet, and he explained SOME of his tricks, why he did what he did and to what effect. My very sanity and balance today are testiment to his effectiveness, but then Uncle A knew his subject well and is something of a miracle worker. He was not about to give ALL the game, or all his secrets away so best you do not try this in your home without expert advice!
Colum


Grandmother entered the room and made up the bedroom fire, and set two large candles on the bedside tables and lit them. Her grandson stirred fitfully in his bed and came awake. He did not smile to see her there, for he had forgotten how.


“What is it gran, what are the candles for? They smell funny...”
“You are to have a visitor, darling boy. A very important visitor.” Colum's face immediately became petulant.
“NOT another DOCTOR?”
“No,” said his grandmother,”Not another doctor. A man of great learning none the less, but of great EXPERIENCE also.” A fake patient sigh from the patient.
“What does HE want from me? Will he try and make me tell all those awful things too like all the others?”


“Wsst!”, an impatient sound from grandmother, most unusual thing with her ill boy. “He is a very great and important man from the Society of Bards, and he has only now found the time to cross OCEANS just to see you!”


“Oh!” said Colum, instantly contrite at both grandmothers tone and her content. Crossed oceans just to come and see him! For the first time in what seemed an age, Colum felt just the tiniest bit important.


“He...” grandmother had a slight catch in her throat, a mist in her eye, “he is the very man your dear Grandfather would have wanted you to see. And that he is coming here is as much a tribute to your grandfather Fergus as to the good he often wrote of you to this man.”


“Who is he? What is his name?” asked the boy, engaged for the first time in so long.


“Ah, sweet child, his instructions, like the placement of the candles, is that I do not reveal anything more to you until he has sized you up! He says he alone will know what to say and what not to say to you. But he is... a GREAT Bard and a fixer of broken Souls, ....or so his business card says....”


Despite himself, Colum sniggered, and was rewarded by a twinkle and a beam from his doting grandmother.


“And now he says I must leave you to the fire and the candles' light and scent and the to expectation of his coming.” and she kissed her beloved, damaged boy gently, and felt the slightest response, again for the first time in so long. Ah the power of the man, to be working already! She had such high hopes for the evening, for the coming few days with this magical guest, but feared what she knew of his methods. “A wee bit CONFRONTATIONAL!” said the letter in his own fine hand.


Grandmother stood at the door a moment; the boy was already preoccupied, looking at the dancing shadows of fire and candle light, wanting to return to the safety of his misery but intrigued. The words GREAT BARD had done a little magic of their own, reached deep inside and reminded the suffering child of what he was himself, what he might become still. If this man was here to see him, perhaps he might STILL become a Bard and a tribute to his grandfathers teaching. No, he put THAT thought aside, he was RUINED, the Society would not have the likes of him sweep the steps...surely..?


In her own reverie, Mary O'Carollan watched the expressions play over her treasure's face with the eye she had inherited from her late husband. Wonder. Hope? Denial of hope, glimmer of hope again. Colum would never have gotten away with lying to her or to her beloved Fergus, and it was to their delight he had so rarely ever tried. Once or twice Fergus had let the boy “get away with it” but with a tiny ambiguous sting in what he said to tweak the boy's conscience. “He has to learn to lie after all,” Fergus had said reasonably, “or he'll quickly be a beached fish in this wicked world.”


To see hope there at all, even fleetingly, tugged at her heart. Quickly she remembered herself, and closed the door and left the boy to prepare himself for The Visitor. She checked the grandfather clock in the hall, and went to prepare a light tea for this same worthy. She was taking the kettle off the hob when she heard a noise, and went out onto the verandah, knowing it to be her expected guest. The noise grew into a clattering roar like a precambrian chainsaw cutting through her woods and finally she saw a dim headlight below begin to climb the hill towards the house. Even the boy would be hearing this din now, she thought, and saw that this would be part of the experience too, to whet anticipation.


The ancient bike and it's large rider stopped below the front steps, and when a gloved hand switched off, the silence was deafening. Also for effect? The rider rose, just a little stiffly from the oversized bicycle saddle. A badge proclaimed that the bike, like it's singular rider, was Matchless. Standing now, the figure seemed huge in the dim lights from the windows and the moon, even though she stood well above him at the top of the steps. A huge full face helmet covered the rider's identity still as he stretched his legs and removed his gloves. The brown leather jacket and trousers were worn almost to suede in some places, a little cracked in others. This, the size of the figure and of the bike made for a figure of the distant past, a marauding Viking perhaps. Certainly, a mane of long and bulky hair fanned out from the helmet added to the effect. “This one is all about effect”, thought Grandmother, but then quickly thought, “No, not by a long way, but he USES it to the full”, and was happier with this judgement.


“Mary O'Carollan” said a deep, husky singer's voice with a pleasant Scotts burrrr. It wasn't a question; for him to have been lost would have been unthinkable! “Good evenin'. A fine night for us.” He unhitched what looked like a long wooden toolbox from behind the seat and carried it gently with him.
“Come in, Sir bard, and let us have tea.” She paused, and added: “Thank you SO MUCH for coming.”
“Aye, ah'll have a cup in mah hand after that ride. But the boy will have heard me arrive, and I mustn't dawdle. Ah must introduce mahself soon to make a good start of it. Trust me. Ah've done this before,” he said grimly.
“Will you not take off the helmet?” asked grandmother curiously. There was a deep chuckle in the visitors voice as he replied:
“Ach, ah'd not wish to frighten ye out here in the dark. Plus I must 'unveil ma' self”tae the boy.”


[Grandmother later told me she certainly was shocked by his appearance, but not by the person. From speaking to that clever man with his helmet still on, she knew she had nothing to fear from him. We shall take their tea and pleasantries – and unpleasantries regarding myself – as read, and skip to the chase. Colum]


As the canny visitor had predicted, staged even, the boy was arisen from his depressed torpor of the past weeks and awake with curiousity. The shattering din of the ancient bike had curiously thrilled him; the sudden silence made him alive to the slightest sound. He heard quiet voices. He heard cups chink and the oven door open and close. More voices. Then the snaps of a case and curious noises. He was so straining to hear any sound that the sudden skirl of a great highland bagpipe almost overwelmed him. With a yawning in his stomach and a dismay in his heart, he suddenly knew the song. A Scottish LAMENT “Hector the Hero”. The very song he had played himself on grandfather's Woof Irish flute to pipe that beloved man away at his funeral. He had played because he could not speak, but none of those present seemed to think this odd. “You said your piece as eloquently as any here today,” one kindly old bard had said. For his grandfather HAD been His Hero in every sense of the word.


Now that same sad, haunting song brought tears to his eyes and the memory of his Grandfather... and with it the awful feeling of what his grandfather would have thought of the despoiled creature he was, HAD BEEN even before he had lost his hero, and which had brought a distance between them when grandfather's days had been so numbered. He burst into real tears at the pain of it. So he did not see his grandmother's hand open the door to admitt the piper, and close it again after him, and retire to leave the two of them alone. The piper played another complete round of the song, then snatched his arm from the bag so that the music died suddenly with no comic noises. Still the boy cried, and the piper layed down his pipes beside the boy's small red harp, and snapped the visor of his helmet completely closed again. A beat, then:


“Aye now, save some boy, save some, you'll need plenty more this night.” The muffled Scotts voice broke the spell right enough, and the boy wiped his eyes with his fists to peer at the strange piper in his room.
“Who...Who are you?” sniffed the boy rather lamely, the best he could manage.
“What, did they noo tell ye I was commin'?” said the voice with no evident humour. “Are these not the candles I ordered be set? Have ye not the Bardic eye after all? Have ah come all this way fer nuthin?”


The words succeeded in stinging Colum into annoyance if not anger.


“Well I c-c-cant see you, can I? A fre-friend takes their hat off, indoors”


“BRAVO! Perhaps ah have'nae waisted mah jairney after all. This is a helmet. Ah need it where ah've just come from.”


“W-w-wheres that then?” Suddenly the piper's voice lost all banter, all warmth.


“The dark side of the moon”. He took off the helmet with a flousish, and Colum all but screamed at the sight, barely managed to control himself. This man was a Bard, not a monster, but....
“AH'M YER UNCLE ANGERS! AH'VE BEEN TAE HELL AND AH CAN SHOW YE THE WAY BACK IF YE CAN FOLLOW ME.”


The eyes were frighteningly angry and intense. The face was heavily burn scarred, though the skin was not thin or papery. Flames were tattooed eminating from his mouth, grew larger and curled back on his cheeks, grew larger still and engulfed his eyes, continuing on to the forehead. For a moment Colum thought of Gene Simmons from Kiss but in red and blue. At the extremes of the face, the flames turned orange and joined the orange streaked mane of hair, alternating with charcoal grey and ash white.. perhaps he MIGHT STILL become a Bard and a tribute to his grandfathers teaching.

“Laddie, if ye survive this ye'll be Deeep one, a passionate one, perhaps Great in yer own right! Tae know sufferin' is tae know all. The one who damaged me left me tae die in the flames. But I did'nae die!”


[Note: This is the essence of Uncle Angers' message. “I was damaged even as you are, and I still became a Bard and a great one.”]

 

[.aseity]

(((Tonic)))

 

[.aseity]

(((Colum)))

 

[.aseity]

This is written on real life events? It is fitting to post in the Male Survivor forum or poetry, this is just as well

I'm not sure how much of the music thread you've traversed but that opening song to the thread is another musician and song very dear to me. Jackson C Frank was a burn survivor like Uncle Angers and I think you'd take a liking to his music.

JCF was there for me growing up though only through his music, on my heart I know that he was shouldering many of my pains, unless I was truly alone in my pains but I leaned on some musicians very hard.

Through times when perps offer suicide to their victims, I turned to music and when there was none available I turned to nature. Sometimes I am bitter of the music and nature but such emotional wealth invested into those memorable senses

 

[Tonic The BARD]

Hwy ((((Bro))) Will check him out. If you have posted some links there, I will listen Or do them here.
Fact AND Fiction, Bro. The colour and detail MINE, the story Mine, other's or pure fabrication. I owe Nobody THE TRUTH, I owe them the Best STORY I can tell. Add incidents together, make them a HAPPIER ending even, or Sadder. The EMOTIONAL SUFFERING is common to us ALL. I would not EXAGGERATE any Physical suffering of mine, but the flashback WAS BAD. But for the Emotional/Psych/SPIRITUAL suffering.

EVERY HOur of the Day, or NIGHT, for me... that's why I never forgot a lot of the earlier abuse. I was replaying it at night, Loathing it but Morbidly Fascinated for the pleasant sensations remembered, when he was gentle. Then would feel Horribly GUILTY about it, ANother Fantasy to be played back on JUDGMENT DAY... Fear, Misery and Hopelessness more important than how much my BUM hurt... I don't do much Graphic detail stuff. Anyone with a gram of Heart and Empathy can fill in the gaps..

I had it 10 our of 10. So did YOU.
So did everyone here.
My Letter, Used in the Healing Our Child Within Concerts - Manchester, Edinburgh Festival, London, Warsaw and future dates. They use my SONG "You Can Tell", my Horror story, here in the Our Stories section, and THIS:

I would like to speak to those of you THINKING of Joining a Survivor Site, but nervous, or shy, or UNDERESTIMATING Your Abuse.
This was a post from my first Lovely MENTOR, in my earliest days (2003). I'd love for you to hear HER words again, she is long gone now. A STRONG Lady Survivor from the Wilds of Canada, 8 hours from a CITY. She used to go walking with a big Staff, and would Bop BEARS on the nose with it, if they gave her any shit! I thought I was OUTCLASSED, that my thing was not THAT Bad by comparison (No memory of the Horrors at 12yet), and that these people were all braver and stronger than *I* was, some had FOUGHT IT OFF; I had said Yes.....

Dear David
Abuse is NOT a Pissing Contest as to Who had it Worst.
Everyone's worst experience is a 10 out of 10 to Them.
It's ALL about what DAMAGE you take away from It.
Some can get over YEARS of Systematic Abuse, and go on to lead happy lives, marry and make great NEW Childhood Memories with THEIR Kids.
Others can be DESTROYED by a Single Groping incident.
Its about Resilience too
Read, Write, LEARN and Teach. And enjoy the company of Friends who KNOW Your experience

Much Love,
AUNTY TINSEL
(He handle was Tinsel Cathedral)

 

[Tonic The BARD]

Yeah, I Piped MY DAD away with Hector, couldn't speak. I heard this full arrangement in MY head while I played, as he DESERVED.

And THIS Sad song too, a childhood favourite. Sir Edmund Kettlbey's "Bells Across the Meadow". It was on my Sad Music MIX Tapes to cry to, in secret....