NaPoWriMo2017, Real Toads

a message to you holm(ie)

So for today’s prompt at Real Toads Rommy asks us:

to give a voice to a villain (fictional only please). What makes them so villainous? Do they feel justified in their villainy? Or perhaps, like in the Wicked Witch’s case, is there part of the story we may not have been told?

Please be sure to let us know the name of the villain and the story in which they appear in the process notes. And as always, stop by and enjoy your fellow poet’s words.


there could only ever be one

such as i

( despite YOUR protestations )


you (all) must understand that

this is not

a contrivance on any part

of mine


but quite (simply) the facts as presented

here for you  ( pay attention! oh why do i bother?)


herein lies the issue that has

plagued me since the book* was writ


[writ large

i might add]


none of (YOUR) race of



are capable of  dining at this high table


although (YOU)

make a spirited case




i shall dispose of


as and when

i choose to


justification of any kind

is for the idiotic

and requires an understanding


i am elevated so far beyond your ability

to comprehend

that conversing with you all



rendered useless


a situation quite impossible


however in the spirit of the chase

i offer (YOU) a glimpse into the heart

of the matter


a final problem to solve


why am I so?

i shall impart but two words

to (YOU)


anthurium magenta**



poem notes:

*Professor James Moriarty is the celebrated author of ‘The Dynamics of an Asteroid’ 

Upon it’s publication Sherlock Holmes is quoted as having said that the book ” ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics…..that there is no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it?”

** Early in Moriarty’s career and before he became ‘despicably evil’ his servant oversaw the death of his favorite flowering plant. Seeds of despicable sown here perhaps? Moriarty directs his poem in parts at Holmes. Luring him perhaps towards one final encounter.


research notes:

The adventure of the final problem is a short story by British writer Arthur Conan Doyle featuring his detective character Sherlock Holmes. It was first published in Strand Magazine in December 1893. It appears in book form as part of the collection The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle later ranked “The Final Problem” fourth on his personal list of the twelve best Holmes stories.[1]


napowrimo 15/30





Mr Angry: the conclusion

He found it easy to talk. There was a stillness about her, a knowing and understanding kind of presence. He reviewed the events of the day. The separation talk, the punch, the police station.

She listened well and he appreciated it. When he was done she leaned in and said to him, “I think I can help you”

‘Yeah, sure you can” he answered her sarcastically.

‘I understand your scepticism, but I see with a different set of eyes these days”

She turned her head in my direction. Me, the ghost, the witness. Could she sense my being here?

As if to answer my question, she spoke, whilst maintaining her sightless stare.

“You are not who you think you are”

Mr Angry spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“You are not all there. It is as if a part of you is missing”

Her gaze was still fixed firmly on my position. “Maybe you are hiding a part of yourself ”

Mr Angry looked up. ” Funny you should say that. I have always felt incomplete, unsettled, anxious.  Like I was missing a piece.”

He swallowed a mouthful of Guinness and then rolled his head in a circular motion, cracking stiff vertebra in his neck.

“How can you know that though? We just met”

“Like I said” she clarified, “I see things differently.”  Her gaze had not altered once whilst he spoke.

Her hand whipped out towards me suddenly and I felt myself being pulled. How could this be happening on my first day? No one had said anything about this sort of occurrence. I would be complaining to my supervisor. I was spinning, falling, sliding and then I stopped. Abruptly. It felt like hitting a wall. I lost consciousness.

As I came too I noticed that my perspective had altered and that I felt different. The woman was still looking at me but was smiling.

“Welcome home” she said.

What was she talking about and why was she talking to me?

“Can you see me” I asked.

“Of course” she said, “You have been here all the time. You just didn’t know it”

Didn’t know it? What on earth…..???

She reached across the table and touched my arm……MY ARM!!!!!!!!

I looked down and saw hands, attached to arms, attached to a body…..what was happening? When I scanned the bar I realised Mr Angry was nowhere to be seen. I was sat where he had been sat.

I …..was….. sat…. where…. he…. had…. been…. sat.


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Mr Angry: Chapter 1

A piece of free writing I have just completed. A snip of an idea running around in my head…this is what just tumbled out. Any thoughts?

The pain was almost physical. It was as if she had punched into his stomach, the interior part, twisted her fist and left a ghost print of it there. Knotted, entangled, emotive stew. Just below boiling point, not enough to erupt, but enough to send streams of acid into the higher reaches of his oesophagus, where they had lain in wait for him…until now…now they bubbled like a witches cauldron and carried with them the pain of the truth that she had imparted.

She was leaving him.

At first the words had sounded like an echo, somehow unreal and he had laughed. Wrong response, although hindsight would eventually show him that no response would have made any difference. Her choice. Her moment of pure power. His moment of unreality. Total and utter shock.

He had left her before on a number of occasions. That was the dynamic. He was always in control. Not today though. Not anymore. She was gone.

That was where the acid streams in his throat had their root. In a sense of anger, a sense of injustice. He couldn’t see the irony or the fear for that matter. He was too wrapped up in himself for that.Too wrapped up in the pain body, the whirlwind of emotion that had coiled itself about his intestines and was squeezing.

“How could she leave him? How fucking dare she?”

This was going to be a tough assignment. I’d only been  a Witness for a day. It had taken me a year to get to the point where the boss felt sufficiently comfortable with me to assign me a client.What a client! Of course I had been given this job because he was a reflection of my former self. I too had fought with an inner anger that threatened to destroy not only myself but those around me. I had won my personal battle and found inner peace. Then I died. Life huh? It had been a bit of a surprise after the event to find I still inhabited the same consciousness. The same awareness but a different form. No one talked about Heaven or Hell around here. There were just departments and a whole lot of choice about what you could do. Think a thought and you found yourself in the right department. Being a witness was a way of giving something back. A bit like a therapist or counselor, except the client couldn’t see you. If they were in tune they might ‘feel’ you and we had, in the course of our training, begun to learn  a few tricks like knocking books from shelves, blowing stuff into the path of the client and making the hairs stand up on the backs of their necks. Small stuff but powerful in the right moment and when it worked. I was still perfecting some of it and I was also currently working on changing TV channels by thinking about it. Crossing dimensions was tricky though.

All the work we did with the client themselves, had to be via the unconscious. A bloody minefield. So much already going on in there, it was very hard to try and direct awareness to a particular area. Even with dreaming time. Somehow I had to get Mr Angry here to stop and listen to himself, locate the fear, feel it and hopefully release it. Then, and only then, might there be  a chance of recovery.

Mr Angry thought all therapists were morons and that feelings and expression of emotions were for wimps. A few shots of Whiskey here and a night out there with the lads, was all he needed to feel better about things. That’d always worked. Until now. Mr Angry swilled the last of the coffee around in his cup and swallowed it. The acid in his stomach growled in anticipation. More fuel for the fire. He stood up and walked to the counter, paid the bill  cursing her for not having done so, and turned to leave the cafe.

This was my chance. The cafe had been one of her favourites because of the book exchange. People brought in finished books and took away others to read. There was always a good selection and a healthy rotation and most of the tables had a selection of books on or by them. She had loved books about personal development and change. He hadn’t. Time to change his mind.

I focused on a book by Thomas J Harbin called ‘Beyond Anger: A Guide for Men: How to Free Yourself from the Grip of Anger and Get More Out of Life’

I focused hard and to my delight the book began to move slowly at first but then suddenly. Unfortunately, my utter and total focus on book poltergeistian motion prevented me from observing the possible path of the book. The book hit the coffee cup and it, not the book, flew into my client. It was fresh and hot and hit him just above the knee.

‘Arrrggghhh….For fuck’s sake’ he shouted and looked accusingly at the man sitting at the table.

‘I never touched it’ said the man. ‘The book just moved’

‘The book just moved’ mimicked my client in a weasely kind of voice that suggested he had already decided here was a fitting target for his anger. Probably one of those Philosophising types SHE had liked. Full of opinions about life the universe and everything. Soft bastards. Hittable. He grabbed the man by his lapels and hoicked him out of the chair.

‘You’re going to regret that sunshine’ he sneered.

This was not how today was supposed to be going.

My client punched the man. Hard.

This was going to be much tougher than I thought.



The final chapter in my short story.

Jenna was approaching her final lap of the park. Once past the entrance where she came in then she knew it was home straight time. The next time she saw the bollards that lined the opening to the park  would be as she ran through them on the way back to her flat. It had been an effortless run. She was in really good shape and she couldn’t wait to get home, shower again and head off to meet Simon for lunch and hopefully hot sex too. She was certain he was ‘it’ for her. Her soul mate.  A true enlightened being with whom she could grow and change and with whom she could help to make the world a better place. In reality, Simon was a bit of a predator and Jenna was the latest in a long line of ‘student’ conquests. He just kept reeling them in and they kept falling for the same old act.

Jenna passed the gate and turned left to head towards Speaker’s Corner one more time. She lifted her head and looked toward the guy on the box. Something was different. She could not place her finger on what it was but there was definitely a change in the scene. The two drunks were there as always, and for this she was grateful because they had no time for cat calls and whistles  when they were listening to him speak. They seemed more focused on the man on the box than normal. She slowed a little as she got closer and pulled out her earphones. His eyes were closed and he was emitting a low hum. His arms were outstretched and he appeared to be glowing a little. Glowing a lot actually. She had stopped running now and was as transfixed as the drunks. One of them looked across, smiled and offered her the bottle of cider. She lifted a hand to decline, thinking to herself, ‘Do I look like I drink Cider in the park, you idiot?’ She turned her attention back to the man on the box who was really starting to turn a sort of bright white. Like a light bulb. The humming intensified and the light brightened until there was a sudden flash. A silent flash and there was no longer a man. Just the box.

The traffic had opened up a little and Dave had his foot to the floor, just edging above the 50mph speed limit. He knew where all the speed cameras were so he could speed in between as long as there were no patrol cars about. He was approaching Hyde Park now and so once past here he could cross the river and be at the clients. He had already fabricated an excuse and made a call to the client to back it up. They were unhappy but understood that he was en route and likely to be with them shortly. Dave almost allowed himself a smile. Almost. The only time Dave was likely to really smile was when he was drunk or winning on the horses. There were other things that caused him to grimace pleasurably. As he passed Speaker’s Corner he was aware of a bright flash in his rear view. ‘Shit’ he thought, New Camera. Bastards’ Another £35 fine made this delivery hardly worth bothering with. As usual, Dave’s day had gone from bad to worse. He wound down the window and let out a scream of frustration.

Jenna had stood dumbstruck for a few moments and then began to look about. Where had he gone? He could not just disappear. It had to be some kind of trick. She was starting to freak a little. The two drunks were staring a the floor where the broken remains of the cider lay, trying to work out which incident was the more worrying, no alcohol or no man! They headed off towards the park entrance minds made up. Alcohol might have been responsible for what they just seen but it sure as hell would be responsible for helping them cope. Their movement seemed to spark Jenna into action. For whatever reason, call it her deeply held sense of intuition, she too felt that the gate was the way to go. The entrance led home and by default to Simon, via lunch of course (and hot sex) and she knew he would know what to do. Simon was already having hot sex, post breakfast, with a darker haired, darker skinned  version of Jenna, unbeknown to her of course. She sprung forward and sprinted towards the gate.

Jerome was not Jerome anymore.He was aware that he was still thinking that he was Jerome but there was no Jerome to think of as such. It was as if he had merged with everything. Everything. This was a very pleasant  feeling but slightly disorienting for him. For it. He wasn’t sure anymore.What was he doing here? Wherever here was? Nothing seemed to matter. Everything was as it should be. All in it’s place. All perfect. He couldn’t feel anything but at the same time experienced everything. He could not see with eyes because he had no form but he was aware of it all. ‘I am that I am’ he thought and a giggle rippled out across the universe. Jerome had achieved a kind of cosmic unity with all things. ‘That was nice’ he thought. It then occurred to him as if a cloud would occur to the sky that he could now move anywhere because he was already everywhere simultaneously. How though? Awareness perhaps.Let’s try he said to no one in particular. He focused his new expanded mind, allowing for spontaneity but requesting a vehicle for his new found emergent consciousness. It was like that scene in Ghostbusters. Remember? Be careful what you wish for. They got Stay Puft Marshmallow man. Jerome got a white van. Dave’s white van.Dave had inadvertently screamed at the perfect frequency to ‘home’ Jerome in.

Dave had just finished screaming in frutration at what he believed was the speed camera flash when Jerome appeared in his passenger seat. The next scream was one of pure fear. Dave did not believe in this kind of stuff. Aliens. Religion. God. The Devil. All nonsense. Until now.There was no awakening moment here. There was a paradigm shift however. Essentially this means that Dave freaked out. Big time. He wasn’t built to have the very fabric of existence challenged. So he passed out. Right there. In that moment. Which is not good when you are traveling at 55mph on a busy road. In a van. Jerome just sat and smiled. He was in a place beyond good and bad. Right or wrong. He had just become a Master of the Universe. He giggled again. The van had swerved off the road by now and was heading for a direct collision with the cast iron bollards that guarded the entrance to the park. Jerome was prodding himself and giggling.

Jenna was approaching the park entrance when she heard the blood curdling scream. ‘This is all too weird’ she thought as she approached the bollards. She saw it then. The van. Hurtling towards her. Only the bollards in between her and certain death. There did not appear to be a driver or at least if there was he was sleeping or dead maybe. She recognised the passenger. It was the man from the box. He was grinning and looking right at her. Why was he grinning? Was he mad?Had he killed the driver? Was he trying to kill her? What the fuck was going on? It’s amazing how many questions you actually get to ponder whilst a van is hurtling towards you.Thinking is quite quick.

In Jerome’s case thinking and being had merged into a singular reality. Our concept of time no longer mattered to him. Nor space. He could be what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. In the moment that it would take most of us to think about blinking Jerome had brought the van to a standstill and was standing beside Jenna in the park.

Dave was unconscious still but unharmed. He would wake up in a hospital bed a few hours later and decide that the story in his head was way too far fetched to actually have happened, but from that day forward, Dave was a changed man.

‘Hi. My name is Jerome’ He said as he reached out a hand towards Jenna.
As her hand met his the two drunks walked by.

‘Hey’ he called. They turned and he handed them a newly manifested bottle of cider.’Enjoy. Sorry about the breakage’ and he smiled a smile that made them forget.

‘Cheers mate.’ They immediately headed back for their corner of the park and their happy drunken reality.

He turned back toward Jenna. ‘Who ARE you?’ she asked.

‘Jerome’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here. The driver will be fine, the drunks don’t know we were here and I don’t feel like talking to the Police do you? Let me buy you a coffee and tell you all about life, the universe and everything…oh and Simon, my brother.’

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A continuation of the passage of writing I have so far called Emergence…….

Jenna was in a groove now, pounding out a rhythm to the accompaniment of her i pod, which was kicking out some cool r n b sounds. She ran past the guy in the corner on his box…always there…always a bit odd looking she thought…she kinda felt sorry for him….he looked lonely and surely anyone who needed to get up on a soapbox to tell the world whatever it was he felt they should know, was a bit on the weird side. She liked to think she was not a judgmental person but that was her flaw. She actually believed she was superior to everyone else. You wouldn’t hear her say that but deep down it’s what she thought. For years she had held such strong core beliefs.
Her parents had moved to England from the West Coast of Ireland in the late 1950’s and she had been baptised a Catholic, received Holy Communion at seven years old  and confirmed her faith by the time she was eleven. Her confirmation name had been Bernadette and she had fallen in love with the story of this young saint, which she was asked to learn about for the ceremony. At some level she still believed that Bernadette was her own personal angel who looked out for her. As she grew older she had became disenchanted with the church and eventually lapsed. Her belief in a divine being however stuck fast, and in Bernadette the guardian angel, and she had since dabbled with Transcendental Meditation, Rebirthing, Buddhism, Mindfulness Practice and more recently Yoga. All of this was part of her search for answers. For her Self. She firmly believed she was here for a reason, a purpose, and that the divine spark ran through her and that she would find her path if only she continued her practice and stayed open to the ‘answers’.
That was how she had met Simon, her Yoga teacher, and now her lover. Simon had told her she had a very pure aura and that she was one of the old souls that had incarnated on the earth to help with the world transition that had begun on Dec 21st 2012. She was at the vanguard of the New Age. This was her time to shine.

Dave was stressed. The traffic was slower than he had anticipated and he was running very late. ‘Bloody wife’s fault’ he muttered out loud. It was never his fault. Always someone else he could blame. Dave had never taken responsibility for his own life at any level. Everything that went wrong was because of some external force that had it in for him. The classic victim mentality.Dave against the world and the world usually won. Dave had come into the world in London’s poor East End, the son of a violent drunken docker and a mother who worked as a nurse and suffered her husbands brutality in silence. Dave was an angry man who believed that if anything could go wrong it would, and it would always involve him being on the wrong end of things. Life was a bitch and then you died.
He lit another cigarette, a new link in the chain he smoked daily and stared at the traffic jam ahead of him. ‘Fuck London.Fuck this traffic.’ He turned up the radio a notch and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Fucking wankers’ he said to no one and everyone at the same time. He looked at the clock on the dash. Why was it that time accelerated when you needed to be somewhere fast. That was about as deep a thought as Dave was ever going to have.

Jerome was almost ready to speak. He looked around. His usual crowd had showed up. Same two blokes. ‘Well’ he thought, ‘It may be better that it’s just these two. Later there will be more.’ Jerome had spent a lifetime studying. Mostly physics. Sub atomic physics. He wanted to understand how the world really worked. He had followed the studies at C.E.R.N for years and was an expert in the thinking around string theory and particle physics. Never got a qualification but could always hold his own in a discussion with those that had. He had become fascinated with the ideas that particles could be teleported. He had followed the work of Michio Kaku very closely and started then looking around for others who had worked on this area. Two years earlier he had found a Vedic scholar and meditation teacher called Paramahamsa Nithyananda who claimed he could teleport physical objects. Jerome had traveled to India to meet with him and discovered a system of knowledge older than anything in the scientific world of the West. He had returned from India just two weeks earlier, armed with a deeper understanding of the subject and ready he felt to attempt his Big Experiment. He had in this last fortnight worked incessantly on the practical aspects of teleporting physical objects of varying sizes. Now it was time for the world, or at least two of them, to see what was possible. This was his moment. He spoke to his audience, reminding them that he had vowed to return from India with an answer to the problems of teleportation. The two drunks grinned up at him and passed a bottle of merrydown cider between themselves. This guy was a proper nutter. Jerome began to chant, an ancient Vedic verse from the sage Patanjali, designed to help him access the Transcendental state required for the experiment to begin. The low drone filled his lungs and he closed his eyes. He began to enter into a trance.

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I am having body clock issues at the moment…it’s definitely stress related and I am coping to some extent by writing…but the writing is also the problem…it’s 2am now…I should be sleeping but I am not…I have been scribbling…no work tomorrow…again…this is at the heart of the matter…the economy is hammering my business…things don’t look good…in some way I am avoiding all of that…..delving into a new world….and writing…I came home this evening from watching a football game and was awake and alert…seeds of an idea in my head…the last 90 minutes I have sat here and written…’s not complete…it may never be…but it is writing…mine….it’s a beginning….no more…but I am too excited to hold the page…so here it is…raw and naive…simple but with promise maybe….let me know what you think.

Jenna rolled a lazy arm across the bed and with a practiced finger swipe, turned of the alarm on her mobile phone. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and stretching her arms up above her head sent a signal to her body that it was wake up time. By her third step towards the shower she was alert. The combination of Yoga, jogging and a balanced diet meant she was in the best shape of her life. Hot water caressed her as she lathered with a bar of eucalyptus soap and she watched as rivulets of white foam found their way south across the curvacious landscape of her form and into the showers base. Washed, she switched of the artificial rain and padded across the bedroom, lithe and almost feline like in her movements, dabbing  herself dry before throwing on a pair of Lycrashorts, a crop top and running shoes. I pod attached, she made for the front door, finishing off a banana at the same time.Her daily jog took her from the  flat in Knightsbridge towards Hyde Park, where she would negotiate heavy traffic before entering the park in it’s South East corner. Turning Northwards she set off on her regular four circuits of the park. London was sunny and warm today and Jenna felt at one with the world. She was in love. The I pod pumped out the strains of Crazy in Love and she fell into her stride to the sound of Beyonce and Jay Z. It was good to be alive.

Dave’s mouth was full of the last of  his breakfast. Half chewed eggs and toast washed down his throat as he gulped  the last of what had been hot tea. He was late again. He threw on a leather jacket and brushed his fingers through greasy shoulder length hair as he made his way out of the house. His wife had left half an hour earlier to get to her cleaning job. Dave’s van was parked across the road as always and he opened the door and pulled himself up to the drivers seat with a movement born of years of practice. His load for the day was aboard and he had a central London delivery to make first thing. Thirty minutes away without traffic but that was never the case. He fired up the engine and a cigarette, turned on the radio, shifted into first and was away. He fumbled with his mobile to try and get the Sat Nav working, one eye on the road, one on the phone. He knew it was stupid, but he allowed himself the thought that he was not really on a main road yet so it didn’t count. The phone spoke to him confirming his destination and he dropped it into it’s cradle. From Brent Cross he would head South past Hyde Park and over the Thames to his drop at Vauxhall Park. Nine and a half miles that could take him forty five minutes. He cursed himself for not getting up with his wife. That extra five minutes had ended up being twenty five. He was in for another bollocking from Terry, the courier firms owner. ‘What  a shit way to start the day’ he thought to himself as he turned South onto the Edgeware Road. The radio was playing ‘Rockin All Over The World. ‘ Dave cranked up the volume and put his foot down.

Jerome carried his box the last few yards along Oxford Street and walked through the park gates. No one else was there. Good. He found his favourite spot and placed the box carefully on the ground before climbing up on top of it. It was part of his ritual prior to speaking. Being up there wearing his vintage tweed car coat, light brown  corduroys and well polished brogues he felt powerful. He had the look of a professor with his disheveled greying hair blowing in the breeze and glasses perched on the end of his angular nose. Here on this very spot many had spoken their truth. Karl Marx, William Morris, Vladimir Lenin, George Orwell, and Marcus Garvey to name but a few. Men of resolve. Men of fortitude and unshakeable belief. Luminaries of Speakers Corner. Jerome was in good company. He had something important to say today. He liked to get there early so that he could warm up his vocal chords and get his thoughts in order. Mostly his audience would be the same two men, men of the park, men of the bottle and men who both thought he was mad. They thought HE was mad. He’d show them. Today.
There was always the girl too but she did not count really, as she just ran past him four times everyday without so much as a glance. One day, maybe today, she would notice him. He coughed into his hand, a pointless gesture in the centre of a park, but mother had always said it was rude to cough openly. Mother was always right. Always. He then began to sing a major musical scale to open up his vocal chords. Doh Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Doooooh. The pretty girl ran past him on her first lap, lost in her thoughts and music and the rhythm of the runner and paid him no attention. Doh Ti La Sol Fa Mi Re Doooohh. By the time she passed him on  her second circuit he would be in full  flow. Today they would find out that he wasn’t mad at all.

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