Pasta

Pasta

(with apologies to Longfellow)

By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini,
And the plains of Fegatini,
Through the valleys in betweeni,
Where the flowing Canneloni,
Meets the wandering Marscapone.
In amongst the Machiato,
Near the fading Tinto Rosso,
‘Neath the shading of Lambrusco,
South of Castle Osso Buccho.

Here a local pasta maker,
Bought out by a corporate baker;
Reputation keeps it going,
Striving but the tide is flowing.

Now they have a brand new master.
In his office, white walled plaster,
Lined with busts of alabaster;
Wants to make the pasta faster.

On the floor they were aghast-a,
"We have always made our pasta
To our recipes down passed-a
But we cannot work too fast-a!"

"Things are changing," said the master,
From his room of white walled plaster.
"We must make the pasta faster,
So our rivals are outclassed-a"

So the master strolling past-a
Turned the speeds to very fast-a;
Higher throughput, faster pasta.
More cash in the bank amassed-a.

"Faster faster!" screamed the master
From his room of white walled plaster.
"Got to make the pasta faster,
Jump to it you idle basta's!"

As the workers felt his blast-a,
They knew that it could not last-a;
Cogs were whirring far too fast-a,
Flying belts went whizzing past-a.

Soon the place was filled with pasta;
In the office of the master;
Even on the white walled plaster
And the busts of alabaster.

Now that frantic stage has passed-a,
Packed his bags and gone the master.
Now they can return at last-a,
Once more making finest pasta.
By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini.



© Dave Carr

Creative Writing Coursework: Short Story

David Helm

A Night Out

An unnamed city, somewhere…wherever.


The 24-hour digital clock on the bedside table flicked over to 20.00. As if he was somehow connected to the clock, Adam Frost’s eyes snapped open. Yawning, he got up and stretched. Time to get ready. He moved over to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room and pulled open the doors. He reached in and pulled out his black shirt. He held it up to himself as he looked at himself in the mirror. Smooth. He hung the shirt on the wardrobe door and walked into the shower. Ice cold spray at first to wake himself up, and then once he was awake, onto the hot water.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the cubicle. Pulling his dressing gown from its hook behind the door, he fastened the sash around his waist as he stepped out of the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror as he walked out- why bother? He knew he looked good. He got dressed slowly, taking his time as he pondered what the night ahead would bring for him.
The phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”
Paul Vine’s voice came from the other end. “You ready, man?”
“Give me half an hour,” Frost replied. “I’ll see you in Electricity.”
“Cool.” Vine hung up.
Frost pulled on his leather coat- the long one that came down to his boot heels- and walked out of the door.


The chill night air was the first thing that he became aware of as he walked out of his front door. The moon- a pure white disc- was high in the sky, cutting like a beacon through the few thin clouds that scudded across its face. He looked up at it, appreciating its perfection. He’d always felt more comfortable at night- and this was a perfect night to experience.
It was a ten-minute walk to the centre of town, and the bar he said he’d meet Vine and the rest of his friends in. He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth- something to do on the walk. The peppermint flavour had just about disappeared as he approached Electricity, so he dropped it in a bin just before he went up the steps to the doors. The bouncer nodded to him as he pushed them open and entered. There was a bar and seating area on the right of the room, several two seater couches spread out haphazardly in front of it. The dance floor and second bar were on the other side, the DJ at the far end standing behind his deck, bathed in the flashing lights like some kind of satanic overlord. Frost’s eyes roved over the interior of the club until he caught sight of his group of friends, over on the right hand side of the room. Vine caught his eye and waved. Frost walked over to them. There was a group of six, sat on three of the couches that they’d obviously moved closer together to be able to hear each other. Ed Garrett sat on the left of the first couch, lolling against its back, his eyes watching the smoke that rose from the end of his cigarette as it rose in a languid spiral toward the ceiling to where it would be blown into oblivion by the fans. Terry Friar sat next to him, deep in conversation (or something- their heads were quite close together) with his girlfriend who sat across from him. Next to her, draining the bottle of Bud that he had pressed against his lips was Steve Ryan. Vine sat on the third couch, with Dave Morgan sat next to him.
Vine rose to his feet as Frost approached. “You made it!” he exclaimed. The rest of the group waved as Frost sat down. Vine leaned closer. “You sure that you can fit us in to your busy schedule?” he asked. He turned to the others. “Sleep all day, party all night, huh Ad? You never even see daylight, do ya?” That got a big laugh.
Frost smiled. “I’m going to the bar. Anyone else want a drink?”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah.” He got up, leaving a large indentation in the soft leather of the couch, which slowly returned to its original shape as the two men walked to the bar.
“What do you want to drink?” Frost asked as they stood waiting to be served.
“Bud,” Morgan replied. “It’s early yet.”
The barmaid came over to them. Young- looked maybe 25, long dark brown hair down to her shoulders, and green eyes. Her nametag said her name was Kelly. Frost turned to her, ordered two Buds. As she turned to get the beers out of the cooler behind her, both Frost and Morgan cast an appreciative glance over her. They turned back to each other and nodded. Nice. She turned back and handed them two bottles, carelessly brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes as she did so, a little movement that Frost found incredibly sexy. As he and Morgan turned to go back to their seats, Frost spoke. “Fancy a little bet here, Dave?”
Morgan looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll bet you that I pull that barmaid before the end of the night.”
Morgan shook his head. “Ain’t you got tired of this yet, man? Every night we come out you make this bet- and you always strike out. I’m starting to feel guilty about taking all these free drinks off you.”
“One more,” Frost said. “Come on. I’ve got to try and reverse the trend.” He sat back down on the couch.
Morgan looked like he was weighing up the options for a couple of seconds, and then nodded. “You got it. But it’s gonna be a big fucking drink this time.”
Vine leant over. “What are you two girls talking about?” he asked boisterously. “Come on- we’ve got a discussion going here. Best action film ever?”
“No question,” Morgan answered immediately. “Predator, Schwarzenegger, 1987.”
“Hell no!” It was Garrett from the other couch. Everyone else looked shocked- they hadn’t realised he was still conscious. “It’s got to be something with Seagal!” Garrett proclaimed, bringing his hand down on his knee for emphasis. His next words were drowned out as the rest of the group shouted him down.
“Come on!” Garrett said heatedly, struggling against the tide of derision. “Didn’t you see Hard To Kill? Where he put that pool cue through that guy’s neck? And what about Under Siege? “Nah- I’m just a cook.” How can you not give him the prize?”
“Well,” Vine said, shaking his head, “I suppose we’ve got to be grateful you didn’t go for a Van Damme.” He turned to Frost. “What about you, Ad?”
“I’d go for the original action film,” Frost replied. “Die Hard.”
Everyone else nodded at that. “Good call,” Ryan agreed. “Although I’d personally go for the sequel.”
No one spoke for a few minutes after that. Perhaps to break the awkward silence, Friar got to his feet, holding his girlfriend’s hand. “We’re going to dance,” he announced. “Anyone else coming?”
Ryan nodded. “I’ll check out the territory with you, my friend.” He slapped hands with Friar, and the three of them moved off towards the dance floor, Friar’s girl looking less than pleased.
Vine turned to Frost and Morgan. “She doesn’t like us, you know.”
Morgan nodded. “I know.” He looked at Frost for agreement, but Frost wasn’t listening. He was busy looking at the barmaid. Noticing this, Morgan nudged Vine. “Seen this, Paul?”
Vine snickered. “Don’t tell me you made that bet again!”
Frost looked back at him. “What?”
“You say you’re gonna score with the barmaids every time we come out!” Vine said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard about you actually managing to seal the deal. There’s barmaids all over this town that you’ve tried it on with. Although it’s probably better than saying you’re gonna score with the barman!” He pointed to the individual in question, slapped hands with Morgan, and then started laughing uncontrollably.
“Tonight’s the night, you assholes,” Frost said good-naturedly. He got to his feet. Vine looked up. “Good luck there, Ad. Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” He started sniggering again.
Frost approached the bar- quieter now that the greater proportion of customers had gone onto the dance floor. The barmaid saw him and came over. “What can I get you?”
“White Russian,” he replied. “And have one for yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I can’t serve myself on duty.”
“Then maybe I could get you one later?” he asked.
She regarded him for a moment. “Sure. Why not. I get off at 12. Come back here then.”
“Definitely.” He picked up his drink and went back to his seat. Vine and Morgan got to their feet, expressions of insincere commiseration on their faces. Vine extended a hand to pat him on the back. “Never mind, dude,” he said. “Maybe one of these days…”
Morgan smirked. “Like I said, Ad, this is gonna be a big drink. I think I’ll have…”
“Hold on,” Frost answered. “I’m meeting her when she gets off at 12.” With that, he downed his drink in one.
Morgan dropped his bottle, splattering beer over Vine’s trouser legs. “Fuck’s sake!” Vine exclaimed, giving Morgan an evil look. “Well done, Ad.” He extended his hand to Frost. Frost shook it, as Ryan came back to the table, so wet with sweat that he looked like he’d been swimming. Friar and his girlfriend were still out on the floor.
“What’s happening?” Ryan asked, running a hand through his hair, causing the sweat to fly. Most of it landed on Garrett. He didn’t budge. Ryan leant over him. “He’s asleep!” he announced, laughing. “So, what’s up?”
“Ad’s pulled the barmaid.” Morgan said through gritted teeth.
“Well done!” Ryan said. “Shot down there, Dave.”
Morgan said something that the rest of them couldn’t quite catch and sat back down. Vine looked at his watch. “It’s 10.30. Anyone wanna go somewhere else once we’ve finished these drinks?”
“What about Terry?” Ryan asked.
Vine cast a glance in Friar’s direction. “I think he’ll be fine,” he said. “And someone wake him up.” He jerked his head toward Garrett.


An hour and a half later, Frost walked back into Electricity. He checked his watch. 12.00 exactly. As he entered the main room, he looked over to the bar, to see if he could spot Kelly. She came out of the back just as he approached, wearing a long dark coat and with a bag slung over her shoulder.
“Hi,” he said, smiling.
“Hi yourself,” she answered. “So, where are you taking me?”
“Well,” Frost said, feeling the hot flush rise to his face, “I hadn’t really thought about that…”
She shook her head. “You really are clueless, aren’t you? Come on, I know a little place we can get a drink- I’ve wanted to go back there for a while, actually.”
“Fine by me,” Frost answered, admiring, in spite of his own embarrassment, the way that she’d just taken charge of this whole thing.


The little place that she knew was down a back street a short distance away from Electricity. Frost read the sign above the door as they approached.
“Harry’s?” he asked. “There are actually places that are called that? I always thought that they only appeared in cheap detective novels.”
She laughed. “They really do exist. Like I said before, I’ve wanted to come back here for a while- it’s so warm and full of life.”
They walked in. Inside, it was snug to say the least. The bar was crammed in a space approximately two inches bigger than itself at the back of the room, facing the doorway. There were perhaps six tables in front of it, three on either side, but only one was occupied, by a couple of middle aged men sat nursing what looked like small whiskies.
The barman looked up as they came in. “What will it be?” he asked. “You’re just in time for last orders.”
“I’ll have a shot of your best Scotch,” Frost answered. “Seeing as it’s late. And the lady will have…” He turned to her.
“A glass of red,” she replied.
The barman nodded. “Coming up,” he said, turning to get the drinks from the back.
“I always like a drink before I go to bed,” Frost said, as they sat down.
“Me too,” she answered, smiling. Frost saw that smile, and smiled inwardly himself. Maybe this would be the night- he just had a feeling that it would.
The barman put the two glasses on the bar. Frost got them and paid, handing Kelly her glass just as the bell went.
“Time, gentlemen, please,” the barman said, and the two customers still there got out of their seats, pulling on their jackets and beginning to move towards the door.
Frost looked at his whisky. “Just as I get this, we have to leave,” he grumbled.
“Then we’d better make this quick,” Kelly answered, and emptied her glass in one. “Like I said, I always like a drink before I go to bed.”
As she said that, she opened her mouth, to reveal the two long shining white fangs that had appeared from her top row of teeth. Frost laughed. This was the night. Then he tossed back his own drink, and got to his feet, his own fangs bared and ready.

Creative Writing.

The Gloves.

By David Helm.

The smell of sweat and liniment was all-pervading. Bouncing nervously from foot to foot as Kenny tied his gloves onto his hands, Mikey Howell sneaked a glance at his opponent, standing on the other side of the ring, listening intently to whatever his trainer was whispering into his ear. Solomon “The Anvil” Irons was huge- not tall, but sheathed in muscle that looked like steel plates had been placed under his skin. Mikey blew out his air in short puffs, nervously detaching and reattaching the gum shield to his teeth.
“Now listen,” Kenny’s voice broke through his thoughts. “This guy knows you’re just a beginner- he’s not gonna go at you like Tyson. Just try and move around, don’t let him hit ya too much, try and sneak a couple in when he ain’t lookin’.”
Mikey nodded. “Yeah...” He took another deep breath. “How the hell did I get into this?”
Kenny shrugged. “Guy likes a challenge. Just ‘cause he’s the champ don’t mean he’s forgot where he came from. He’s givin’ you a chance, kid, sparring with ya.”
Mikey raised his eyes to the ceiling in irritation. “Kid”. Kenny had been born three minutes before Mikey- and he thought that gave him license to act like the grizzled older man. Mikey shook his head. “Thanks, Burgess Meredith. You’re really inspiring confidence in me.”
Kenny took a good-natured swipe at his younger brother’s head. Mikey ducked. “Hey!”
Kenny laughed. “If this guy don’t take you apart, maybe I’ll have to knock some respect to you myself, kid.”
Mikey grinned. “You’d have to grow a set of balls and get in the ring first, old man.”
On the other side of the ring, Solomon’s trainer pulled the ropes up to allow his charge to climb in. “Looks like you’re up, bro,” Kenny said softly. “Good luck.”
Mikey stepped forward. “Let’s do it.”

Faced with Irons in the ring, Mikey’s opponent seemed even larger than he had at a distance. The ref- an older guy named Frankie Silver, a regular at the gym- stood between the two men. He raised his hands above his head to signify the two men shake hands. Irons- who despite his reputation as a killer in the ring, was a genuinely nice guy out of it- stepped forward, fist extended. Mikey blinked the sweat from his eyes and glanced behind him. Kenny gestured toward Irons- go on! Mikey turned back to face his opponent. He swallowed- just because Irons was a good guy out of the ring didn’t mean he wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him- but finally extended his own gloved hand. Irons nodded, and the two men tapped fists. “Ring it!” Frankie Silver croaked, and the bell was rung. It was on.
Fists up in defensive position, Mikey and Irons circled the ring, feeling each other out. Mikey’s heart was going like a jackhammer, but in spite of himself, he threw the first punch- a blow to Iron’s jaw. He regretted that precisely two seconds later- Irons turned his head so the blow glanced along the side of his jaw and hammered Mikey in the ribs. One punch to the right side, then to the left as Mikey gasped for air. Mikey staggered under the blows, but stayed on his feet. Irons looked impressed. For a second. Then he delivered another devastating combo- a left jab to the face, and a huge right hook to the jaw.
It occurred to Mikey, as he fell on all fours, desperately trying to clear his head, that although landing that first punch may have shown guts, staying on his feet after the first two punches was pretty dumb. He’d probably just annoyed the champ. Through the buzzing in his head, he could hear Frankie Silver counting. He was up to six, and out of the corner of his eye, Mikey could see his brother willing him to get up.
He got up. Irons looked mildly shocked, but came in again. His shock seemed like it cost him though- his first punch was wild and mistimed. Mikey slipped the punch and managed to land one to the side of Irons’ head, causing the champ to stagger momentarily. He recovered quickly, landing a solid blow to Mikey’s ear. Mikey stayed on his feet, blocked Irons’ next punch and landed one of his own to the centre of the champ’s chest. That earned him a right to the jaw- out of nowhere- that loosened a couple of teeth. Felt like he’d been hit by a train. He now knew- if he hadn’t already- that he was totally outclassed. But what was he gonna do- pussy out? He cursed Kenny briefly and moved in again, aiming a couple of punches to Irons’ side. Landed two, but had the third one blocked and took another punch to the side of the head.
After that punch, Kenny winced. It might be better if the kid stayed down if he was getting hit like that. He was already staggering. But Mikey refused to go down, coming back for more punishment. At that, even Kenny- standing outside the ring- saw it. A red light briefly flared in the champion’s eyes and he started firing punches- drilling Mikey in the arms and chest, pushing him back until they were tangled in the ropes.
Frankie Silver was in in a second. “Break it up, break it up!” Irons backed off Mikey, breathing hard. Seeing his chance, Kenny gestured to Frankie Silver for a time out. Frankie nodded. Mikey backed into his corner, as did Irons, their eyes never leaving one another. Kenny passed Mikey a bottle of water. Mikey spat out his gum shield and took a long swallow, pouring more over his head. Kenny passed him back his gum shield. “You’re doing well, kid.”
Mikey turned to look at his brother. “He’s killing me!” He spat. “Giving me a chance, huh? A chance to visit the fuckin’ hospital!”
Kenny placed his hands on Mikey’s shoulders. “Ya didn’t stay down when he hit you with that big combo. You got him rattled!”
“I got him mad,” Mikey replied. He got back to his feet. “Time out’s over.”

This time he came out slow, fists up, playing defense. He had no chance of beating Irons in a straight fight- even he could see that- so he figured his best chance was to let the guy wear himself out then try and take advantage. Five seconds after that, he realized how dumb that strategy was when Irons smashed him with a vicious blow to the ribs. He dropped his hands and was immediately hit with another combo- a punch to the heart and then to the left hand side of his body that sent him staggering back into the ropes. Irons was just hitting him where he wanted to now- taking his time and delivering each punch with devastating precision. Through a red haze, Mikey aimed a weak punch at what he guessed was Irons’ face, and was rewarded with a huge left to the jaw. That did it. Mikey went down on all fours again, spittle and blood drooling from his open mouth onto the canvas. His limbs felt like rubber, and he was dimly aware of Frankie Silver counting again. The count was up to eight.
He got up.

The End.

Totally Lost It

Last night threw blue suede shoe out front door.
Pulled rug from under big black bug,
Nailed it flailing to the laminated floor.
Swatted one fat fly with my Freddie Flintoff cricket bat.
After that, set fire to coconut matting in porch,
Went up like a torch
Along with linseed oil, bails and stumps.
Jerked phone off wall, left huge hole,
Plaster in lumps.
Wiped ass on Madras brown drapes,
Pissed all over living room floor
Swam through the lake.
Left fake message for the wife,
Macdonald vouchered my kids for life.
Ran out through rhododendron bushes and hid
Blasted passing motorist through his midriff.
Drove straight over top of nearest cliff.
Lifted by some mysterious cyber force.
Landed in the gorse bush at bottom of rock garden.
Sneaked back inside placed luminous socks inside my money box
Collapsed on leatherette settee, started to snore.
Worm crawled back inside rotting apple core.

Old School Blazer

There was certainly a small book of Prayer
“Whatever his path take him safely there.”
To where? God only knows and amen to all that.
Heaven’s icy flow, meanwhile slowed then was shattered.

Matchstick, feather and peppermint drop,
additional flotsam smothered in fluff,
Cough sweet furred.
Watch that never ticked or tocked.
Marble? Maybe a gobstopper,
It all seems a bit of a blur.

A diary with no stuff in it.
No, sorry.(I have never been able to apologise enough)
Entry fixed in time “1st Jan. ’65-
Frog stuck in frozen pond,behind a log,
back of beyond, our pet dog whined.”

Every other line blank
So many other ways of passing the time.
One sprig of luckless heather.

Written, down line from a Beatles song.
Can’t remember exactly which one.
“Mother Natures Son?”
No; White Album still not come and gone.

Creased sheet, lyric of slow school hymn.
“Our honour defeats all sin and fame,
Behave like a bastard and you’ll end up insane."

Copy of receipt from clinic to pay,
35 pounds for her overnight stay.
It’s a terrible thing, such a terrible thing,
to have to keep running from a wild reckless fling.

A letter marked by a confessional tone,
Sat in school toilets, felt so alone.
Some things I care not to mention.
Like those lies, how I cried,
the mess of it all.

So there it is, plain as a day is long,
though now they seem impossibly short.
Rivers of regret continue to swell,
too wide to swim back over