We're joining in with the Friday Flash challenge for altered film titles this week. Gaie's playing along too so we've got a double dose of flash for you. We wrote our stories without any consultation, but strangely they both feature a bad harvest and alternative muscle power.
I owe a big nod to Jasper Fforde for my story. But it's also partly the fault of "The Secret Life of Elephants". The story's going out pretty raw.
From Tusk Till Dawn (923 words)
I heard this story once that the green parakeets in London were all descendants of a pair Jimi Hendrix let out to brighten up the place. These days they’re so common that people don’t know they haven’t always been here. So you’d think that we’d’ve learned by now - let life get a toehold in the great outdoors and there’s no shoving it back in its box.
I lived in the city for a while, but my ambition was a sickly, undersized thing, that withered in the light of boardroom politics. I drifted sideways to this half-way house of a satellite town, to my telecommuting job and one bedroom starter home and regulation-sized garden that will keep one diligent person in vegetables.
The early summer light lingers on the horizon, orange under deep blue. I pick up a folding chair, and a torch, and take it out to the strip of front garden. A warm breeze blows by. Sally and Andy, my neighbours, are out there already. Andy has got an air horn from somewhere. Melissa on the other side has her three red-haired kids with saucepans and metal spoons. Should I say something? A man was killed two days ago, further down the route. Yeah, he’d been an idiot, but still. I’ll keep an eye on the kids. People are settling in all along the road. Andy pops a cork on some home-made blackcurrant wine and hands me a glass over the fence, and suddenly it almost feels like a festival.
They made the pygmy ones first, back when I was wearing pink frills and pigtails. But even a pygmy mammoth isn’t all that small, you’re still looking at 900 kilos of animal for a full-grown adult. The oil crisis, the increasing divide between the rural poor and the techno-industry city rich – that was the justification. Take deep-frozen DNA, add a dash of elephant for zest and voilà, an endless supply of biofuel and muscle power adapted for our climate. But really, they did it because they could. Then they made the big ones and expected them to stay where they were put.
When the kids next door thunder up and down the stairs, trailing a stream of Melissa’s “No!”s behind them, my dad’s phrase always pops into my head “like a herd of elephants”. Now I see I’ve been unfair to the mammoths. They appear on soft shuffle feet, swaying gently. This is the very first migration to pass our way and we stare in silence. The matriarch carries curved tusks high, the arc of them like the prow of a viking ship. A tiny calf bumbles beside her with that half-falling over its own feet baby gait. The very last of the light glows in their shaggy copper fur.
I realise I am standing with my mouth open. They are so big, so unreal, against lamposts and garden gates.The matriarch lifts up her trunk and snuffles through it and everyone in the street holds their breath.
Our terraced houses, jammed shoulder to shoulder, shelter tender pea plants, corn and beans behind them. Sullen wet summers and late frosts have had the poorest of us eating plain rice and pickled cabbage for months. And there are alleys that lead round to the backs of the gardens. Nobody wants to be the first to shine lights, make noise. They guy who died swung a baseball bat. I don’t even want to move. We hold our breath in silence as the mammoth sniffs the air.
Clang! Melissa’s smallest kid, Poppy, smacks her saucepan with a spoon. She manages to do it a few more times before Melissa grabs her arm. The matriarch swings her giant head towards the noise. I vault over the wall to stand by Melissa, and we drag the kids behind us.
The middle kid, Ben, falls over in the panic, and while we’re soothing him, Poppy dashes around us, still gripping her spoon and pan. The little calf trots straight up to her, and Poppy bangs the pan again. The matriarch rumbles at the back of her throat and follows, right through Melissa’s low wooden fence and into the tiny front garden. I look up, up into beady eyes. I grab for the back of Poppy’s T-shirt as the matriarch reaches down with her trunk. Fearless Poppy holds out the wooden spoon.
The matriarch wraps her hairy trunk around it, and gently pulls it from Poppy’s grip. She whisks it up into the air, and it brings it down, smack, on the saucepan. She’s done it softly enough that Poppy doesn’t even drop it. Poppy just laughs. “Do it again!”
The matriarch drops the spoon and raises her trunk. The wind is blowing from the oil seed rape fields to the north of the town, and the air is heavy with the pollen. The calf fumbles his trunk around the dropped spoon. I pick it up and hold it out, and for a second his trunk brushes my hand. Then the martriarch rumbles again, turns back into the street and the stately procession moves on. All of our gardens are safe, but I’m sorry to see them go.
Later, I look up the migration path on Google Earth, cutting a swathe through our little plots and boxes of surburbia and up into the wild Scottish Highlands. I picture them there, great dome heads and curved tusks a primal silhouette against the rising sun. I think about them a lot. And I’m hoping they come this way again next year.
Another idea that's been with me for a while. I'm hoping that using up the old ones is making room for lots of new ones.
Lame (825 words)
Of course she didn’t really believe him. But it was Friday night and she was a little bit pissed and he was the sexy new American manager at work and he looked so worn out. So she put her hand over his, had to be her left on his right apparently, and repeated “I willingly take this curse from you”.
He turned up at her little flat the next morning, with a pile of books under his arm. He talked about guilt, but a smile lurked around his lips and his steps were dancing.
“The curse can’t be taken back,” he said. “Only passed on, and you know how to do that. The thing travels slowly, on foot everywhere, and it follows your path. It never sleeps. It never stops. Never.”
“And what happens if it catches you?” she asked, laughing.
He shrugged. “Who wants to find out?” He shoved the books at her. “Diaries. Some stuff on ritual magic and demonology. No help to me, but you never know. And here’s some atlases and maps. Get to know your oceanography; the Marianas Trench really slows it down.”
“So all you’ve got to do it stay ahead of it until you die. Can’t you think of something scarier?”
“I’d get going if I were you.”
“Whatever.” She shut the door on him. As a joke, or a hoax, it was totally lame.
She worked, she hung out with her mates and she ran on the treadmill at the gym. After a few months she felt itchy and jumpy. Her stomach got upset, and she’d be sitting in the pub and her heart would pound until she could hardly breathe. Stress, said her mates. It only made sense to take a holiday. She didn’t have much money, but Greece was cheap and she’d always wanted to go. The white ruins, bones of buildings against a delphinium sky. She brought back ouzo and cooked moussaka for her friends.
She felt better for a couple of months, and then it started again. This time she went to see the Northern Lights in Rejkyavik. The fluttering electric ribbons in the sky were worth the last of her savings. She listened avidly to folktales of elves and trolls and bought some anthologies to read at home.
When the feelings started again she saw her doctor, who referred her to a counsellor, who taught her relaxation techniques and meditation. She put a chain on her door and tried a protection spell from a book. But she still slept uneasily.
When she heard the thump-shuffle on the stairs in the night it was almost a relief. She cracked open the bedroom door and peeped. Something snorted, a blast of heat and stink. She became instinct and reflex. Her next thought was as she dangled and dropped from her bedroom window – shit I’ve left my purse. She didn’t notice the pain in her ankle as she stumbled into the road, shouting for a car to stop. She screamed once, in casualty when they reset the break. It left her with a shade of a limp.
She terminated her lease without ever going back to the flat; her parents collected her things. She had enough money for a ticket to Amsterdam. Everyone spoke English there anyway, there would be something she could do, and it was a place to start.
She didn’t talk about it until Tokyo, drinking beer in a little mirrored bar in a forest of neon, staring at her reflection and wondering who it was. A guy plonked himself down opposite, handed her another bottle and asked why so sad and she told him the whole thing, deadpan. Of course he didn’t really believe her. He reached out to put his left hand on her right. As he started to repeat the words, she jumped up, spilling beer and knocking over chairs as she bolted.
After that, she found she was lingering in places, long enough for the feelings to get strong. She came back to London, but her old friends bored her. When she wasn’t working, she wandered the city.
She heard the sound again on a dense, foggy night on the Embankment with the cold mud smell of the Thames in the air and the glowing balls of the Victorian lights hovering in the mist. Thump-shuffle. A towering shape shambled in the fog. She curled her hands into fists in her pockets and forced herself to stand fast. It dragged one crippled leg as it came. Silver droplets sparkled on its brindled shaggy fur. Two pairs of horns curled from a dog-like head, blocky and blunt like a Rottweiler’s. She looked into its bronze eyes, and they were a thousand years weary.
It never sleeps, she thought. It never stops. I doubt it chose this.
The demon held her gaze, dipped its head in an odd little gesture, but it still came on. She nodded back, then she ran.
The Lego catalogue has a rather splendid troll warship, but everywhere the trolls are mentioned in the description, they are "evil trolls". Seems a bit unfair to slap that label on an entire mythical race just because you only hear about the club-happy ones.
Fantasy Date (718 words)
Remember, you have three minutes for each date. I’ll ring the bell when your time is up. Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats. #
You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re a troll. What are you doing here?
I crossed the border some time ago to -
I mean here in this room.
The invitation was made to all the fey in London. We too are part of the fey.
Yeah, the big, green tusky part.
I have heard tell of the courtliness of elves. It is justly famed.
Do you know the hot chick on the next table? She looks like my type.
Yes. Jenny took the fancy of the King, once. She is also green, all the way to her teeth. She would eat you for breakfast.
Heh. If she was lucky. I might even stick around for breakfast with that one.
Do you like to read?
What?
We have three minutes. We may as well pass the time in conversation.
I don’t know. I don’t really... Hey, are you vetting me?
I have not spoken to another fey in some time. You do not wish to talk?
Have you seen me? What else do you need to know?
Sigh. What brand of shampoo do you use?
#
Ladies keep your places. Gentlemen, move one table widdershins. #
I’ve never done this before.
Your first time? I will do my best to help you enjoy it.
I’m an ogre. You can probably tell. Heard you trolls can see straight through a glamour.
That is tr –
You won’t get any nonsense from me. I’ll come straight out with it. So, what are you doing over here?
I came to get away –
On holiday eh? I’m here on business myself. Import and export. I spend one month here, one month back home. I’ve got a big castle out in the Wildwood, acres of land, plenty of servants. I’m looking for a woman to share it all with me, someone I can spoil. All the dresses and shoes and shopping you want, never have to lift a finger. Got to be better than lurking around under a damp old bridge.
I live in Balham. In a studio fla–
Got any hobbies? I like to run. Won the seven leagues race five years in a row now, got the medals to prove it. A healthy lass like you doesn’t want a slob, eh?
I like origam–
Healthy body makes for a healthy mind. It’s all about the regimen. Early to rise, and a good diet. None of that fee fi fo nonsense with the state of humans these days. Far too much fast food, full of saturated fat. What you want is lean organic chicken breast, plenty of fruit and veg. Now, what else do you need to know about me?
I am sure you will tell me. There is nothing like good conversat– #
Gentlemen, move on. #
Well met, my Lady.
Well met, sir phooka. Is not the city too tame a place for you?
I have never favoured freezing my assets on a lonely mountain top. I heard there were many fey in the city. I came here seeking – something.
I believe we have met before. You wore a different form then.
I did not think you would remember.
I would not forget such a service. The King will bed whom he wishes and I did not wish to be dosed in my sleep with tincture of pansy. Your warning gave me a choice. I chose to come here.
You would have been in love, and happy.
Deliriously so, I believe. Dose an indifferent other and he is your slave. Dose yourself and burn with passion for your comfortable, dull husband. An instant remedy to all problems of the heart. I wonder why I do not trust it.
It is no reflection on your charms to say that the King’s butterfly fancy has flitted elsewhere. So why do you stay?
Sushi.
I do not understand.
It is raw fish, prepared in the Eastern style. Also, action movies, with many explosions. Broadband connection. The Tate Modern. And the city itself. It has its own life and character. There is much to explore.
I look forward to exploring the secrets and hidden places.
But not until our third date.
The basic idea for this has been with me for a long time. I had a whim to write something seasonal, and grey skies and bare trees worked for this story. Despite the title, it's not very festive.
A Gift (695 words)
Brinn straightened slowly from chopping firewood, and rubbed the small of her back. The bare black thorn bushes around her garden scratched at the watery yellow and grey sky. A crow scudded overhead. Near dark. Time for someone to come up from the village if they wanted to scurry back to the the herd before it was full night. Sure enough, the bell at the gate clanged.
She rubbed her fingers together. Never could get warm, this late in the year. Ha! This late in life. The old injury on her ear throbbed in the wind. She hoped they’d left something spicy tonight, something with plenty of fire in it, plenty of meat. The cold had sunk into her bones in a way that spelled danger. She loped round the winding path to the gate, and then stopped. Whoever had brought the food was still there.
They were supposed to leave it and go. It had to be one of the little ones, on a dare or a game. Sometimes they just looked. Sometimes they threw stones. It made sense. Their parents threw stones if she got too close to the village. Sometimes they wanted a story. One day, one of them would ask the right question.
Brinn crept a little further, crouched painfully. A scrawny boy, a knife in his belt. Old enough to be fancying himself a man. Even now, she could see the way to be on him and snap his neck before his knife cleared its sheath. The beautiful economy of movement, the angles, the pressure needed. What he’d expect her to do, what she’d make him expect, and how she’d strike him all unfurled before her, with the clarity of a fine engraving. She knew too, how to pull the fire up from her depths to power the actions, even with these old bones. She’d always known. It was a gift. But soon she would be too weak, she knew that too.
“I want some gloves,” Brinn shouted, making the boy jump. “Some other things to keep me warm. Tell them that.” He backed away a few steps as she approached. She grabbed the pot left on the shelf by the gate, took the lid off and sniffed the steam.
“You’re old,” the boy blurted. “But they said you killed the raiders only three years ago.”
Brinn shrugged. She didn’t need or want conversation. But she had to see if he’d ask the question. She unlocked the gate and went into her cabin with the casserole. She could hear the boy shuffling his feet at the gate. Brinn ate and waited. After a while, he came in.
”You’re not even that big,” said the boy. “They said you tore them up with your hands.”
“Yes.” Ah, that’s when she’d last been warm. The fire blazing through her. The blood singing from their torn flesh, washing her arms and face in its heat. The raiders would come back. They always came back. And she would be too weak.
“They said you killed Rachel Turner’s uncle. That’s why you live up here.”
“Yes.” The first time. A blazing June day, and she had been chilled to her bones. Elfric Turner leaning against a tree, laughing with his head thrown back. The fierce joy as she beat his skull against the bark until it cracked. So easy then, so much strength. They’d branded her and sent her up to this cabin with the daily offering. When the old man shuffled to the gate, she’d asked the right question. After that, for Brinn, the raiders didn’t come often enough.
“I suppose you want to know why I did it,” said Brinn. “Or how.”
“They say you’ve got a demon.”
“Ha! They like to think that. Some of them could do it. Maybe even you.”
The boy smiled. “I want to know - what did it feel like?”
Before the boy knew it Brinn had him pinned to the wall by the neck. She ripped a small chunk from his earlobe with her teeth. His eyes were wide, but not with terror. She tipped her head back to expose her throat.
“Find out,” she said.
There's a long and convoluted story behind this one. It started when I noticed that an advert in my local paper offered "TTWF for naughty boys." Strangely, the internet couldn't tell me what "TTWF" stood for in this context. But it led me to some interesting places. Tea and Vigilance (973 words)
Edna saw her opportunity, concentrated her will, and gently put Florence in a half nelson.
Outside the wrestling ring, Rose watched them from her chintz armchair, eyes sparkling. “The Turning of the Snake.” she said. “I used it to win the League of Vigilance national in ‘66, you know.”
Betty waved impatiently at Edna and Florence from a nearby table. They climbed out of the ring, and as they passed Rose she said, “You did remember to do the other half, didn’t you dear? State of mind is so important.”
“Don’t keep Edna, dear,” said Betty. ”We’ve got important things to discuss.” Florence and Edna sat down, and Doris poured their tea.
“She’s getting dottier,” said Florence.
Edna tinkled her teaspoon in her cup of Earl Grey. “She really did win in ’66. I looked it up. There must be something in what she says, about using your mind for the moves.”
“Load of mumbo-jumbo,” said Betty, reaching over to grab three scones. “It’s addled her head. It’s all about concentrating and keeping up your form. Building up your constitution so the Pink doesn’t poison you.” She patted her substantial tummy.
“I expect you’ll want some cream with those,” said Edna, pushing it over. Betty favoured the belly splash and other moves that allowed her to throw her weight around.
“Rose was the best in her day,” said Doris, “But she won’t be here forever. And we lost poor old Jessie last year. We need new blood. Who’s going to fight the Cabal when we’re all gone?”
“Buck up, Doris,” said Betty, dolloping cream on her scones. “We can’t have that kind of talk.”
“I’m just saying,” Doris went on. “Someone’s got to keep the Lore.” She glanced over at Rose. “She can’t even remember what she had for breakfast.”
Rose noticed them all staring. “It’s just a half nelson if you don’t do it in your head,” she said. “I’m going to use it on Freddie tonight.” She grinned. “He likes it.”
“Freddie’s dead, dear!” Betty shouted, then hissed to the room in general, “Don’t let her have more sherry.”
“Oh leave her be,” said Edna. “Where’s the harm?”
Betty pursed her lips. “We have intelligence that the Cabal is making a push,” she said frostily. “I don’t suppose your Emily’s turned anything up.”
Edna’s granddaughter worked at the local paper, and visited often. “Not unless the library book amnesty is an evil plot,” said Edna.
“Your report, Florence.”
“Last week there was all those young men going round, selling cheap electricity. Some company called Powermongers. Never heard of them.” Florence sniffed. “One of them knocked on my door. Shifty so-and-so, talked to me like I was daft. He told me I had to sign up then and there. I told him, I’ve been with my company thirty years, why should I change? I sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
The ladies nodded. It sounded like the work of the Cabal.
Florence leaned in and lowered her voice. “Now someone’s set up one of them fancy pastry shops in the High Street. It’s ever so cheap. There’s Battenburg cake in the window. And...there’s French fancies. Proper ones.”
”They wouldn’t dare!” said Betty. “We’ll go in for a reccie tomorrow.” #
The patisserie was painted in pale blue and gold, and set with dainty tables covered with pristine white cloths.
“I can feel it already,” said Rose.
“Quiet, now dear,” said Betty patting her arm. But Edna could feel something too, nagging at her like a toothache. She helped Florence escort Rose to a table while Doris paid.
The Ladies ordered Battenburg and French fancies, and just to be on the safe side, the strawberry cheesecake. The Cabal had been using the Pink for centuries, but they couldn’t change its colour. They’d slipped it into kings’ cakes, merchants’ wines and peasants’ jams, anything that was sweet and had a rosy hue.
“Rose is right, said Doris with a mouthful of cheesecake. “There’s Pink in this.”
Edna bit into a French fancy and felt a lovely warm well-being wash over her, the feeling that all was right with the world as long as there was more cake. She focused her mind and imagined a sequence of moves, half nelson, arm lock, twist of the wrist, tying up the pacifying influence of the Pink in steel bonds of her will. She snatched her hand back as she found it reaching for another pastry.
Rose patted her arm. “Well fought,” she said. “Your family’s got the gift.”
“How are the funds, Doris?” said Betty.
“We’ve got a bit put away from poor old Jessie’s house. And our shares are doing alright.”
“There’s only one thing for it, Ladies,” said Betty. “We’ve got the training, and we’ve got the constitution. We’ll draw up a duty roster. Four of us will come in every day and bear the brunt of it. That should upset the Cabal’s plans.”
“I’ll do for the Battenburg,” said Florence.
#
Doris poured the tea while Florence spread the local paper out on the table and poked a finger at an article. “There. I told you they was shifty.”
Betty put on her glasses and snatched up the paper.
“My grand-daughter wrote that,” said Edna. It was a report about Powermonger. Their customers hadn’t got the deal they thought they’d signed up to. Powermonger lost paperwork, claimed the salesmen responsible had left the company and routed all complaints through their call centres with half-hour waits and ‘accidental’ disconnections.
“It says here that the customers are outraged.” said Betty, triumphantly. “So we did our bit. If the Pink had got to them, they’d all be happily paying up. Humph. It also says your Emily’s getting them all together to take Powermonger to court.”
“What a clever girl. I must speak to her next time she visits,” said Rose. “The Lore must pass on. And Freddie likes her.”
I've been given a very specific Friday Flash challenge, and I put a few hours in on it when I realised it wasn't working at all. I've concluded that it's because it just isn't silly enough. I hope to produce a suitable tale of tea and wrestling in a couple of weeks' time. In the meantime, here's one I prepared (quite a lot) earlier.
Swimming in the Electric Ocean
(100 words including title) Yellow and orange scribbles on black, the city’s reflection scattered on the waves. Below luminescent colours answer as the creatures rise. Their language is written on their skin, pulsing in spots and patches. My own skin itches with the changes we have made, the new growth under the surface. I see the eyes of the clever hunters like saucers of ink. Deft arms weave the dark water. My thoughts fire new connections, electric pulses that are seen on my surface. Glowing like the city, I slip into the black water to learn to say hello.
Do you remember the first person you had a crush on? Do you now slap your forehead and think, "Ye gods, what if I'd married him/her?" It could be worse.
Til Death Do Us Part (995 words)
Weeks of preparation, all those sit-ups, and Eva had to admit, her abs were looking pretty good. The hour spent on make-up was wasted, though. Her face had been crushed by the impact.
Hammond McKnight stumbled out of the Lamborghini, clutching his hair. “Fuck! Where the hell did she come from?”
She’d even got lucky with the weather; London felt wild and otherworldly in the lashing rain.
A white-faced blonde tottered from the car. She wobbled to Eva’s corpse, squatted next to it, felt for a pulse.
The thing is, nobody talked about the undignified things that happened when you died. Eva’s body stank of shit.
“What am I going to do?” said Hammond.
The blonde leaned away from the body, puked, and then took a tiny pink phone from a tiny pink purse.
Hammond said “What are you doing?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the blonde. “She jumped right out. We have to call the police.”
“The premiere’s tomorrow.”
The blonde looked sick again, and turned away to make the call.
Eva could feel the guilt radiating from Hammond. Goddess! It worked, they had a bond. But it wasn’t the darkly romantic start to her haunting she’d dreamed of. #
“So I’m not batshit?” said Hammond.
“Oh, she’s definitely here,” said the psychic, returning Eva’s wave. She wasn’t Eva’s idea of a psychic at all. She had sensible cropped grey hair and wore a mumsy skirt.
“Right. You can do that thing, make her go into the light or whatever?”
Eva sighed happily. He wanted to help her. She could stare forever at his soulful ocean-blue eyes, was desperate to stroke the curve of his jaw. She hadn’t touched him, hadn’t spoken. The first move had to be his.
The psychic plumped down in a squashy white leather chair. “You say she followed you, Mr. McKnight?”
“All the way from London to L.A.”
“She’s a very determined spirit. And she sealed her will with sacrifice. But there’s no malice here.” The psychic sighed. “Only love.”
“What?”
“I don’t think she can move on. Is there any reason she’s so bound to you? I sense guilt too. That can be a powerful tie. If there’s something...”
“Thanks for coming.” #
“I know you’re there,” said Hammond. “Look, I’m sorry. It was one snort of coke. If anything, it makes me drive better. Nobody knew about it. How the hell did you know?”
He gulped. “Can you speak?”
“I didn’t know,” said Eva, and Hammond went very still and pale. “I just wanted a way to be with you. Ever since I first saw you on screen, I knew we were supposed to be together.” She brushed her hand on his. He flinched. “I can do things for you. Anything you want.”
“Let me see you.”
Eva put her will into it. Sunlight flooded everywhere, bouncing from the waves outside and through the glass wall. It was a bitch to shine brightly enough to compete.
“That’s really you? No ghost tricks?”
“All that’s left of me.”
“You’re kinda cute. The little goth girl thing is different for me.” He put his hand out tentatively at breast height. #
“Eva!”
“I’m right here.”
“I don’t see why you can’t bring me a goddam drink.” Hammond peered into the mirror while Eva straightened his bow tie.
“I told you, it’s hard for me to move things. It uses up my energy.” And he’d had enough booze already. He’d make a total arse of himself again at this high profile party. Big producers, big directors, big fat bore. Eva sighed.
Hammond heard her. “Jealous? Don’t worry, I’m about done with Rachel, just a few days of the shoot left. You’ll always be here.”
“I like Rachel. She talks about philosophy, she loves snakes and she listens to kick-arse music.”
“Don’t try and speak to her again. It really freaked her out.”
“Noone can hear me except you and the psychics. And we’re not around them much.”
“So talk to me, baby. How do I look?”
“Gorgeous.” And he did.
Eva walked out of the room, and kept on walking. “I release you,” she said, just as an experiment. Of course she was still wild about Hammond. But where were the hidden depths she’d seen in those eyes? Very, very hidden, that’s where. She only got so far before she smacked into an invisible wall and psychic’s words whirled in her mind. #
Rachel had talked about sins of omission. Eva didn’t have to whisper in Hammond’s ear to have one more drink, snort one more line. She could just do nothing and sooner or later he’d have enough to kill him.
He puked and rinsed his mouth out with whiskey. She watched him, stony cold.
“Get away from me, bitch!” he said. “Spying, judging me.”
“I’d go if I could,” said Eva. “Please, drink and snort yourself to death. Then we’ll both be free.”
“You don’t know what it’s like for me,” Hammond said.
“Take a bucketload of pills with your vat of booze.” The glasses on the table rattled with her rage. It was a struggle to hold herself together. “Let me go. Do it!”
“Oh yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Us together forever in the afterlife.”
Shit! She hadn’t even considered that. She assumed it was til death do us part, please Goddess. What if their link went beyond this world? The anger drained from her, leaving weariness.
“Hammond, you’re a fucking idiot. Admit it, you’ve got exactly what you wanted and it’s a big disappointment. So find something else that isn’t. It’s not too late for you.”
Hammond dragged himself up against a sofa, and his eyes drifted closed. After a while, he said. “Go into retreat, maybe, work on my craft.”
“Learn to act?”
“Been getting by on my looks.” He half-smiled. “You really want me to kill myself?”
“No,” said Eva. “Just live an interesting life.” After all, she’d have to share it.
I used the "Creative Block" book by Lou Harry for this one. I opened it three times at random and got a picture prompt for a doorway, "Lie" as a 'sparkword', and a suggestion of writing about someone who discovers they're broke. It didn't turn out the way I expected. What Lies on the Other Side (1000 words)
Hartwell had lost a hundred gold on the unicorn races, hobnobbing and generally putting it about as number one goat. He’s got a front to keep up, the bold explorer, first man to the top of Kalijuri, tamer of wild beasts and savage women like me.
I saw my chance at Lord Greenward’s party. Hartwell always takes me with him. The Ladies glance slantwise at my dark skin, and giggle behind their fans imagining what we get up to. The truth, of course, is - nothing. Hartwell has his own Code of Honour.
Lord Breakspear was the centre of attention. “The Door was uncovered in an earthquake in March,” he said. “In the foothills of the Wolf Fang mountains. I set off as soon as heard about it.”
He described a carving he’d seen, a moon and a rabbit. I stood in the background, hands folded, until Hartwell gave me a nod.
“May I speak, your Lordship?” I said. “It sounds like a mark of the trickster goddess, Isot. In my studies of the region...”
“Studies!” said Greenward. “Hartwell said your lot believe in educating their daughters. Damn fool idea. Everyone knows that women’s brains overheat if they learn too much.”
“Steady on,” said Breakspear.
“Some benighted idiot has started a Free School for Girls. What good is that going to do?”
Breakspear broke in, his voice shaking. “Five thousand gold to any man who goes through that Door and brings me back something from the other side.”
That was it. When we got home I lied a bit and told Hartwell we were broke again. It was more of a prediction than a lie.
He stroked his luxuriant moustache. “Well, Mulog my girl, I have you to keep track of these things. A trip to the pole, I think. The Exploration Society will fund it.”
“I don’t think so, master. They’ve sent two expeditions there. We need somewhere new.”
“Nowhere left to go, what? Since the ruddy balloonists started harnessing dragons everyone and his maiden aunt’s an explorer. The Ladies will hardly sit still for my stories now.”
I gave him a well-practised languishing glance. “There is the Door, master,” I said. “I could sell some goblets discreetly and get enough for our travels.”
“Hrumph. Breakspear hardly set foot over the threshold. Hasn’t been the same since.”
“The Ladies were very interested in his story.”
“All right. Sort out the travel arrangements. Do you speak the language?”
“Not yet, master.”
And so we went, full complement of horses, mules and native guides, up into the cold, sunny shale of the foothills. The Door was just a hole in a cliff, outlined with three heavy strokes of rock, the symbol on the lintel.
“A rabbit, eh?” said Hartwell. “That don’t seem so frightening.”
“It’s a hare, master. It’s Isot’s symbol.”
“Get the torches, Mulog.”
Inside, the tunnel became a narrow oval. Wind gusted past like breathy laughter. A sense of presence grew, something vast and powerful and feminine. Hartwell walked in front, and his figure seemed to shrink and change in the dancing torchlight. I heard him gasp, and then he screamed, his voice sliding into a higher register. He dropped his torch, shoved me against the wall with both hands, and ran shrieking back to the entrace. His silhouette against the dim light was drastically altered.
Well, there was no blood and he still had breath enough to yell. He wouldn’t let me come back in on my own, the Code don’t y’know. If we wanted the gold, I’d have to get it myself. I picked up his torch and went on.
I stepped into a dazzling cave, light leaking in through crystal veins. Flowers twined around rock columns, the petals shaking in sudden breezes gusting from the tunnel. A small waterfall tumbled into a pool of fresh water. Just being in there felt like I’d come home and taken off a heavy load. Offerings were scattered by the pool: bowls with the contents long gone to dust, tiny sculptures of hares in wood and stone and clay.
“Great Isot,” I said. “If you’re here, you know what I want and why I want it. Please let me take one thing.”
The gusts from the tunnel got up again, and blew out the torches. In the near-darkness, the crystal light winked from something. I put it in a pouch at my belt, and made my way by feel down the tunnel. I found Hartwell lying at the entrance, looking as he always had, breathing, unhurt, and in a dead faint.
I opened my belt pouch, and found that I’d got a stone hare, holding an ancient coin in its mouth. Worth plenty, and proof enough of where we’d been. I slipped it into Hartwell’s coat pocket. Then I arranged myself in a comfortable fainting pose a few feet into the tunnel and waited for Hartwell to wake up and get me.
On the way back Hartwell was whiter than a ghost moon and jumpier than a poked frog. Finally, he said “Dashed odd, what?”
“Some sort of opiate gas perhaps master? I was overwhelmed, but your superior constitution fought against it.”
“Hrumph.”
“It was well you had the presence of mind to snatch up that trinket on the way out.”
Silence. Curiosity tugged at my tongue. “I saw such strange visions before I fainted.”
Hartwell’s expression was desperate with the need to confess, be reassured. “It seemed to me for a short while, Mulog, that...” he swallowed, “I believed I was a woman.”
No wonder he was terrified. “How funny, master. How could your intelligence ever be housed in a woman’s brain?”
He stroked his moustache. It cheered him up enough to say, “Breakspear will have to eat his hat. It’ll be the high life for us.”
And so it will. But Hartwell’s household expenses will continue to be extravagant, as far as he knows. And some benighted idiot will carry on contributing to the Free School for Girls.
This isn't my favourite story ever. But it jumped the queue in my head and I had to write it to get it out. I hope you enjoy it.
P.S. Thanks to Dave, for spotting "Discordia" (and only Discordia) on the side of a van.
Mail Order (988 words)
Patricia stumbled down the stairs hissing, "Be quiet," at the chiming doorbell. Her boys needed their sleep, and what would the neighbours think? She put the chain on the door and cracked it open.
"I’ve got the phone right here," she said. "I’ll call the police."
A young man in a cap grinned at her through the gap. He wore a brown wrap-over jacket and loose trousers, and was holding a small package and a clipboard.
"Discordia Deliveries," said the young man, waggling the package at her.
"What? Do you know what time it is? I have to get up early tomorrow. My son Robert has an important interview."
"It’s oh three thirteen, madam. We deliver anything, any place any time, just like it says on the van," the young man said cheerfully.
"I haven’t ordered anything." She sneezed, and wiped her red nose with a clean hanky. Wretched cold was getting worse. "You must have got it wrong."
"Package from Eris." He held out the parcel.
"I don’t know any Eris."
"Mrs. Patricia Callum, 35 Millway Close. It looks like Eris knows you."
Patricia undid the chain, signed the paper in the space marked "Favoured, One:", and took the package. She watched the delivery boy get back in his van. There was no writing on it at all, just a strange blobby logo that seemed to vibrate in the orange streetlight.
She opened the box with little pecks of her fingers. Inside was a jointed teddy bear. Its fur was patterned with rainbow swirls, its black button eyes glinted evilly and it had a tongue poking out. She had a sudden impulse to snatch up scissors and cut it off. Was it supposed to be a joke?
Best get back to bed. Busy day tomorrow, Robert’s suit to iron, and Max’s lunch to make for college. Such clever boys. Her face relaxed into a smile for a moment. Then she sneezed again and shivered. She had to go to the office, despite her aching head and chills. They’d never manage without her. Kevin was a sweet boy, but he took his time over his work. She was sure he’d do better when he found a position that suited him. But Erica spent ten minutes a day on the phone to her boyfriend, Patricia timed her. And there was Christine, who she supposed worked hard enough when they had things to do. But when there were no forms to process, she’d be on the internet unless Patrica looked over her shoulder, keeping order. She’d had words with the supervisor about them both. Was that it? Was the teddy with the wagging tongue a message, to keep quiet?
Well two could play at that game. Erica didn’t have any get up and go, so it must have been Christine. She’d send the teddy back the same way she’d got it, in the middle of the night. Let Christine wake up with her heart pounding, wondering who was hurt. Wondering if she was being attacked. She’d look up the number for Discordia Deliveries tomorrow. In her lunchbreak, of course. #
Christine watched the alarm clock flick to "03:13" when the doorbell started ringing. She felt an odd little leap of glee. Probably just kids arsing about. She peered out between the curtains. A van with a fractal design painted on it was parked in front of the flats. A bloke in a cap and a brown martial arts outfit stood at the communal front door. Light spilled out of the flat below, and Christine hurried downstairs before someone could complain.
"Hello," she said. "I’m pretty sure I didn’t order a Jedi Knight." She sneezed, searched her dressing gown pocket for a tissue, and had to wipe her nose on her sleeve. Bloody Pat the Martyr, dragging her stinking cold into the office.
"Discordia Delivieries," said the man, grinning. He held out a small box and a clipboard. "Package from Eris."
"Really? I thought she was too busy with hurricanes," said Chris, signing the paper in the space under "Favoured, Two:"
"We deliver to Order. Just like it says on the van."
"Um. No it doesn’t."
The man made a pistol with his fingers, and winked, then passed her the package.
Back in her flat, Chris put the kettle on. She hadn’t been getting any sleep lately anyway, just lying staring at the ceiling, wondering how she kept getting sucked into the clockwork routine of work. She hadn’t made any sculptures in months. She was so desperate for something to change that she welcomed tonight’s bit of random weirdness.
She’d looked on the internet for some inspiration when Pat wasn’t hovering over her shoulder like the Vulture of Doom. Mayan art, Native America totem poles, something to inject some meaning into her work, but she didn’t just want to make ersatz copies of another culture’s art.
She made herself a cup of tea and opened the package. Inside was a multi-coloured teddy with a mischevious twinkle in his eyes, sticking out his tongue at the world. Chris smiled. He had the right attitude. Screw them all.
Maybe she’d got too serious about it all. When she was a teenager, she used to run around with a couple of mates collecting up people’s garden ornaments. They’d make them props and accessories, and set up scenes on the grass of the big town roundabouts: the neighbourhood gnomes do Hamlet, the Processional Avenue of Concrete Donkeys. They always put everything back, so they didn’t get into too much trouble until the Grand Bacchanal tableau. Apparently people had Views about concrete and plaster inter-species relations.
A little inkling of mischief capered at the back of her mind, and she began opening her boxes of collected charity shop buys and discarded stuff. She’d play around and see what took shape. She only needed to be half-awake to do her job. Tomorrow could take care of itself.
I'm not making up the stuff about civet coffee, but Marcus obviously doesn't buy his online.
The Seven Year Itch (996 words)
The shower blasted icy water over Georgiana, but the red rash round her belly and back still burned and itched. She sighed. She’d been letting her game slip lately. A few months ago she wouldn’t have got into bed without checking. She used to change her bedroom lock every week so that Marcus only got in when she let him in, and she still did. Sex was a well-used weapon in the arsenal.
It had been a gleeful impulse that made her salt the whole bag of Marcus’s fifty-pound-an-ounce-shat-out-the-backside-of-a-civet coffee. And of course, Marcus had to drink it with feigned enjoyment every morning. One of the rules, unspoken, but understood was that the staff must never know. It had been a childish tactic, utterly without class. The crushed leaves in her bed, placed where the marks wouldn’t show, were a deserved rebuke. Poison ivy, perhaps, ordered from the States, or even brought back from their last trip just in case.
Georgiana towelled off, and dressed in the elegant pastel silk suit laid out on her bed. She was surprised by a fierce burst of longing for a scarlet dress with flounces, for red and black flashes in her gold hair. She ignored it.
The trouble was, she just hadn’t been inspired lately. When was the last time she’d had a triumph like Marcus’s thirtieth birthday party? Something that looked like heaven from the outside, designed as Marcus’s personal hell?
She had considered once, in a white heat of fury, having a child as another weapon, brought up as mummy’s girl, and taught to rub up against daddy’s principles in all kinds of ways. She’d seen exactly how that could be done. But that was just silly. Marcus would use their public front against her, she’d have to play the perfect mummy; she’d be chained to the house, isolated and up to her neck in vomit and shit with a screaming creature’s life in her hands. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.
She began the familiar routine that would turn her out into the world perfectly polished. What she needed was a campaign, something she could really get her teeth into. What she needed was an idea. What she had was a stupid society wedding to attend, as half of the perfect couple.
#
Georgiana and Marcus posed on the church steps.
“Had a good morning, darling?” Marcus asked as the cameras flashed.
“Invigorating. Thank you so much for the present.”
“I’d like to see how it looks on you.” Marcus took her arm gently. “Let’s go in. From what I’ve seen so far I’ll give you a straight bet. Twenty thousand that they won’t make a year.”
The vicar held forth at some length on what it meant to love, honour and obey while Georgiana and Marcus exchanged smirks. Georgiana toyed with the idea of making Marcus fall in love with her, then she laughed at herself. Marcus would never fall for it. Perhaps she could find somebody, instruct her, put her in his way. She wasn’t sure what, or rather, who would work, though.
A little voice from the back of her head said, “What if he leaves?” Georgiana laughed that off. They were both bound up in barbs of money, pride and reputation. But Marcus really hadn’t been trying lately either. She hadn’t cried with rage since he’d made sure she had to leave her weekly crochet circle. Was he giving up? Planning an escape?
She stared at Marcus, studying his expression, until he caught her eye and pointed discreetly at the happy couple. The gorgeous groom seemed to be eying up the bridesmaids over his bride’s shoulder. The bride’s smile looked pinned on and she fussed with her dress through his vows.
“No bet,” Georgiana said. #
At the reception, Georgiana asked Marcus for a Buck’s fizz. He brought her an orange juice but she barely noticed, her mind racing. Marcus drifted off to talk business.
What would she do if Marcus did escape? Breathe Georgie, breathe. You can’t think clearly while you’re frightened. Somebody tapped her on the arm.
The bride, Jocasta, was looking at her with an expression of creeping panic. “I’ve got to talk to someone.”
“Of course darling,” Georgiana said. “Whatever is the matter?”
“How long have you and Marcus been married?”
“Seven years.”
“And you still look at each other like’s there’s no-one else in the room. But do you, I mean, what do you do,” Jocasta dropped her voice to a whisper, “if you get bored.”
“Oh darling, your feelings for your husband will change in cycles. There will be calmer times and then the – the passion will come back all over again.” That was the answer. This was just one of the quiet times. Time for a temporary retreat, some intelligence gathering. She’d run out of material to work with. She needed to get to know Marcus better again, then she’d be able to plan a new campaign. “Just keep putting the effort in. Really. I’m never bored with Marcus.”
Jocasta smiled. “If I do get bored. I suppose I could always have children,” she said.
You stupid girl, thought Georgiana. Children shouldn’t be toys. And I remember the fuss you made when made when you cut your finger at the Hampson’s barbeque. How are you going to cope with childbirth? All that blood...
“Are you alright?” said Jocasta. “You don’t look well.”
Georgiana slumped into a chair.
“I’ll get Marcus for you.”
Georgiana felt cold. Two months ago, she’d been at some tedious gala, gritting her teeth through period cramps. She hadn’t had any since then, and Marcus had been in her room. All it took was one pill missed or tampered with.
Marcus took one look at her face and smiled. “Ah, I see you’re onto my latest move. No more champagne for you. But you’ll be able to put your crochet skills to good use.”
Georgiana smiled back. Marcus was still making the effort.
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