Whenever I Wake. I awake to the sun and warmth of the day. It is May now and summer smiles at me from the horizon. People fly by thoughts and cares crossing through the air some lingering smiles, some distant stares. Sea meet shingle, earth meet air. On the rise I find a pew and agree with the hill, its a magnificent view. My feet find their way to my bed and I follow. The midday sun counts time as I wallow, then wakes me thereafter it's words kind and cool. There is breath on my back a hand on my hip. I love you she sighs. My fingers touch only memory. Eyes tear above stone chin. I know when I turn she's not there. So I wait for the summer. The third to come and carry me on. Won't it wait awhile and let me stay longer. Theres no comfort in the time it carries me from her.

Tidying up my bedroom, I feel like I need a Pith Helmet & a compass.

My Dad is so bad with computers, he could cause an error message on an abacus.

The Trouble With Aliens. It was about half past two on a Sunday afternoon when the Aliens invaded. The shiny ovoid space ship decelerated through the Earths upper atmosphere with barely a sound as it gracefully descended towards the unsuspecting blue green world that lay beneath it. Captain Fribble-Widget, commanding hexapod of the Star Destroyer Snafupop and noted ambassador of the Gribblesnarf species, flexed his six tentacles across the controls of his magnificent warship, the scales on his many ears vibrated with anticipation and a quiet satisfaction. Soon the Earth planet would belong to the Gribblesnarf Imperial Empire and Fribble-Widget would be proclaimed throughout the home shells as a conquering hero. ‘Hyperdrive baffles spinning down. Engaging Anti gravity propulsion systems Sir.’, Chirped first officer Bungle-Wort. ‘Excellent work Wort,’ said Fribble-Widget clapping two of his tentacles together. ‘Prepare the invasion battalion and land destroyers. Arm the photon cannons and prime the antimatter mortars. This will be a day of triumph and honour, my pimply scaled friend.’ Bungle-Wort nodded one of his heads in agreement at his commander, ‘Approaching the landing zone now. Deploying defensive counter measures.’ Fribble-Widget flicked a tentacle up into the air with a snap, ‘Onwards to Victory!’ he chirped and so the invasion began. *** It was about this time that in a small Somerset village called Crickwood an irascible portly chap by the name of Silas fell out of the Six Bells Inn, propelled by both the visceral high pitched braying of the landlady’s verbal tirade whilst being simultaneously nudged along by a Golden retriever called ‘Dog’, he stumbled along the footpath with a falling motion that soon brought the ground to meet his face head on. He observed the pavement. Rosey Rushmore he thought, that landlady. Like that Mount Rushmore in the US of America only more stoney. What a cheek. Can’t even have a pint or seven of a Sunday afternoon without being pillared from post to idiom. Drunk indeed. He felt Dog’s wet tongue licking a ruddy cheek on his face and thought of what his dear late Pa might say if he could see him now. ‘Son yer baint drunk, if yer ken lay on the ground without helding un!’ Wise words, he thought. Well he was laying on the ground now proper and he wasn’t holding on at all… Much. So he wasn’t drunk then and that made Rosey a proper old stick and make no mistake. Silas hauled himself to his feet, pulled his belly out from under his trouser belt, ‘thaz berrer’ and vaguely brushed himself off across stomach and chest, before plodding off and away from the Inn with a stoic determination that only the truly foxed can possess. Now then, he thought. Where is ee? His podgy hands rummaged from one pocket to another and back again. Come on yer bugger! The rummaging continued. Dog padded along beside him sniffing the ground as he went. Presently they approached the village green, a verdant oasis of English #life, alive with the occasional sound of a bored duck quack emanating from the token duck in the duck pond and precious little else. Whereupon he found it. ‘Yes!’ Silas unscrewed the top of the flask of Gin and raised his lips in supplication. It was as he tilted his head back to take a good swig, that he saw the Gribblesnarf Imperial Star Destroyer Snafupop. ‘Oh lore!’, he squeaked. The shiny ovoid spaceship descended from the heavens in silence. It’s mirror like surface ripped in the light of the afternoon sun. With a quiet ‘pfft’ six legs extruded from the body of the craft just before it touched down on the Crickwood village green directly between the duck pond and the coppice of sycamore trees. Silas’s flask slipped from his fingers and narrowly avoided twonking Dog’s upturned nose on the way down. *** ‘Touchdown Sir!’ stated Bungle-Wort triumphantly. ‘Commencing external environment checks.’ ‘Very well Wort. I shall address our Comrade Snarfs before battle. Carry on!’ ‘As you wish Sir.’ Bungle-Wort turned and saluted with three tentacles as Captain Fribble-Widget left the bridge. Descending sixteen levels in a transit tube, he arrived at the assault deck. Before his multitude eyes Fribble-Widget witnessed the enormity of the Grumblesnarf invasion force in all its manyfold majesty. Truly eight million Snarf Warriors tentacled and resplendent in battle colours filled the cavernous expanse of the assault deck hanger. In the vaulted galleries that lined the walls of the hanger lay the machinations of war. Machines of immense destructive power. Land cruisers, mobile gravity cannons, artillery destroyers, air assault tanks, these weapons and many more punctuated the walls as far as all his eyes could see. In the mists that veiled the very far recesses of the back of the hanger some many clicks away, he could even see the outlines of the mighty battalion carriers, each of which represented an entire war force in there own right. Fribble-Widgets gills glowed purple with pride. He retrieved a scroll from his robes and unfurling the papyrus to great extent, then read from his prepared speech. ‘Comrade Grumblesnarfs.’ He paused for effect. ‘Murder! Death! Kill!’ Surprisingly this was the full extent of the speech. The Snarf army of minions roared in approval and so the gears of war engaged. [ End of Part 1 ]

Great Scott These words so painfully earned will serve in inadequacy to describe the veracity of the storm that possesses our camp. It is a pagan force whose barbed breath tears at the fissured and frozen tundra that abounds, an unearthly landscape so barren and uncaring of the needs of men. As my ears hear the rasping wail calling out across the horizons, my heart feels it's eternal torpor. The sound of tempest and squall, a barbaric tone that reaches inside the cowed aspect of our expedition tent. Our timorous structure a squat resident in isolation, encompassed and bore upon by the unrelenting vigour of that white fury. Ever encroaching and unwaning this noise of barberry reaches into the souls of us dour men and constricts us each in our own personal misery. We five are now four. Evans is gone. I should say he fell, but those words would only peck at the heart of truth in this whole sorry endeavour. To fall so in more common lands would have posed little trauma. It is this epic land of absolution that has in truth seized upon our departed companion. It has flicked his #life away from our cares with a ethereal power borne of absolute majesty over mans existence. My being is all biliousness, my mind now ruinous of thought. Bowers, a husk of a man once proud, casts a jaundiced eye in my direction. I hesitate to meet his glance. Death is a close companion and I do not wish to catch its eye in the reflection of any of us. His breath wheezing and whistling is punctured by a stumbling coughing, dry and erratic. Each note seems to punctuate another cacophonous burst of squalling savagery that breaks against the sides of the tent, the flapping canvas beating a rhythmic discord crying out for a sympathetic companion. Then there is Oates. Dear Oates, ridged and proud. There is the cloying smell of sweat and scum that pervades us all. It reaches into the back of the mouth and coats the tongue with a grimy soiling stew. But even this is hewn at by the noxious decomposing finality of Gangrene. Oates feet and hands are lost to it. There is an end and it approaches him and how we dare not speak of it any of us. For it is as written in his pallid betrayed face as it is in my avoidance of his gaze. I am lost in my thoughts. Bound in misery and despair. When Oates to my great surprise rises to his feet, his once solid frame bent to his ailments. His voice cracks the deafening silence of communication that has risen above the clamour of the symphonic cacophony of elements around us. His words are borne across the frigid air with pride and pain. "I am just going outside and may be some time." The silence that follows these words, lasts but one moment which stretches to eternity with a power that quells the raging elements to a diminutive whisper. I cannot convey with my mortal tongue the feelings we shared as a single whole in that brief and levelling moment. Despair and proud elation at the courage to face ones fate with noble conviction. These thoughts merely brush the surface of the possession of humanity that encompassed our shared perception. It is as this fleeting moment in time passes from us and away into the dark beyond lost forevermore, that the last of our number of companions speaks. The resonant voice of Captain Scott rises above the colourless hue of melancholy that cloaks our collective souls, with these words. “Yeah. Nice one. See you later mate.” From the diary of Edward Adrian Wilson 17th March 1912, Antarctic