Said Eve:


“the problem with Adam was that he was so boring, never wanting to stray beyond the confines of the garden. I mean, he was just content to wander around purposeless, thinking he was important by giving creatures names and getting messages from something he called God…and he Adam reckoned himself to be the mini version.  If you ask me, it was just Adams way of trying to control me and pumping up his own ego at the same time.

Understandably it got on my nerves. I could not be content with this, such a safe, cloying existence. I needed a challenge and as for the apple, well I told him straight, I looked him in the eye and said, “don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot eat” “I will eat whatever I want, when I want and in any way I want, so there, that was that.

Oh, and by the way, there was no serpent…that was just another story he made up to explain to himself why little old me, who was supposed to be made from his rib broke the rules. From his rib? As if…don’t make me laugh!… and yes, he was that possessive.

According to him I was meant to be as obedient and tamed as he was. Not a chance, and as for being banned from Eden, let me tell you loud and clear, I walked. For after all had been said and done, I’d certainly had enough and was ready to welcome new horizons with open arms.
©K Barr


Demeter’s dance… A Thoroughly Modern Mythology


The truth is that Demeter’s happy to hock her daughter to the cruel and sadistic whims of the Dark God in exchange for her freedom from the slavery of motherhood.

Demeter likes to dance, a free spirit and frolic aloft with the imperious Olympic Gods of the sky, forgetting the responsibilities she so hastily forsakes.

Persephone is left to do the moaning and be-wailing, the grieving of the unfair fates, held captive without a mothers love or care in the midnight halls of Hades spite.

It is always dark down there in the depths, the cold walls dripping with blood and the rats sucking at her naked, frail bones.

Her mother busy whirls away up stairs into a merry jig, giddy with the rush of her flight from the maternal ties that had once bound her. Mesmerised by the thrall of her many admirers Demeter dances and dances and dances…

Bark For Freedom


Shirley Poodles had been called by her surname ever since her mother had the errant effrontery to plant the said appellation on to her small, somewhat irregularly placed daughter’s shoulders.

To add further insult to the proverbial  injury incurred, Shirley Re: Poodles had an ever curly, effervescent, buoyancy of massive protruding, tinged with bright springs of crude, rude, ginger hair that perfectly complimented her canine allure.

Unfortunately this was combined with Shirley’s galloping gait, which merely reinforced the application of that once so fond juggling of proper nouns.

Its usage eventually became practiced by the wider and less biologically primed to love community. Therefore, having extended from the nucleus of her cosy, family hub, the pet name, pardon the pun, stuck fast and Shirley’s fate became irredeemably sealed and shut tight.

“What’s in a name after all?” said Shirley, shrugging uneven poodley shoulders, whilst raising her corkscrew eyebrows somewhat quizzically to quote by rote “a rose by any other name” in a misguided attempt to convince herself of the belief she clearly didn’t have.

People would courteously nod in marked and too agreeable haste with an affable cordiality, so eager to please THE POOR UNFORTUNATE WERE THEY!

Deep down however, in her privately secret self Shirley was not, nor could be pleased. Ever!

Shirley nursed a malign and fervently fermenting resentment towards people, poodles, hair, shoulders, ginger tinges and any discernable length of stride a person may in any event exhibit. In short, Shirley was in the unremitting firing line of her own attack with no defence.

Nasty, spite ridden, plotting, planning, unexpectedly waylaying and abducting self hatred barred her any and every attempt to interact in the wide and can be so wicked world at large.

In fact, it could be said, the unavoidable collateral damage we all collect through our embarkation into the thrusts, throes and busy throngs of living existence pale to an insignificant hue, when compared to the self-mediated damage inflicted by the red raging bull of Shirley’s habitually activated self-hatred.

Members of the anonymous conglomerate of public persons, looming largely unaware of Shirley’s own inflicted afflictions, would assume on initial encounter that Shirley was an empowered woman of positively radiant and assertive confidence. Over weaned on self regarding appreciation and fully enamoured of her own er?… charms, despite her  poodley  behaviour and appearance.

But no, Alas! Shirley’s utter self-loathing had thoroughly fenced her off with remarkable effectiveness from all other possibilities to reappraise her status.  She could not alter the fated course of her destined and defeating tendencies, nor possibly procure any path through life’s vicissitudes and some may say character building challenges.

Character building my arse” retorted Shirley to the life coach she once enlisted to conjure a miraculous release from the imprisonment of her punitive mental confinements.

Opportunity to Grow “Fuck my tits and suck your own nob off you spindly louse” was her parting repartee to the wiry therapist, steeped in bookish lore and recent theory based on empirical evidence.

Shirley clearly was an individual who needed no enemy to take down in envy the mast of her little life’s ship. An accomplished mistress in the dark art of self sabotage, she was busy sinking her own boat and refusing to swim before anybody could even get a chance to shipwreck the character she so dearly deplored.

Every career plotted after every career attempted came ignominiously tumbling down. Each early promise of relationship or social network inevitably tensed, frayed to shreds and collapsed to oblivion.  Dreams hopes and wishes shattered repeatedly to land flat at her despairing feet.

Shirley finally could tolerate the situation no longer and intensely scrutinizing her hated features in a mirror opted for the plastic route to liberation.

She would cash in all her investments, harvest as many loans as possible and hocking all her goodly chattels seek a surgeon to re-mould her appearance.

Oh Yes! Off would toss the ginger curls. On with the transplants, implants, pump ups and outs, nips in and tucks to stitch her into acceptable cutedom.

A bit more here and a lot less there would do and better do the trick at all costs.

Costs it did.

The surgeon was extremely happy with the result for his heaving bank balance became extra hefty with Shirley’s hazardous and varied schedule of treatments. Even the private and personally assigned, expensively paid nurse was rather impressed with the unexpected, but magnificent outcome!

For when the last surgery had been committed and the coiling bandage unwound, people exclaimed in awe at the tremendous, stupendous beauty that sat before them.

The mirror was duly handed to Shirley to inspect the results with all breaths bated.

Shirley peeked hesitant and nervous at the reflection, then full face beaming on she lit up like a Christmas tree streaming with fluorescents.

Heartfelt tears of gratitude scrolled rapidly down her cheeks, as she was greeted with the unbelievably stunning image in the mirror.

Years of unalleviated self hatred simply evaporated. The tight, loathsome and so tormented grip from the deepness of her once unreachable and very personal innards had loosened and simply left, as she appraised her new features with unadulterated pleasure.

Shirley felt light and bright and happy for Shirley was free. Shirley was beautiful and could love herself.  Shirley had recast her fate along with the surgical plaster that painfully had encased her limbs.

As she leapt off the vetinary couch Shirley gave a woof of delight, shook her bobbing doggy mane and trotted into her canine and happily drooling future.