The first writing exercise I picked said; 'follow the course of a ten pound note for a day'. Given the current circumstances, it seemed appropriate.
Money (914 words) Someone got a bonus today.
The notes slide out of the cashpoint as though dealt by a croupier; their temporary owner tucks it into an Aspreys wallet; initialed, (not on the outside, that would be vulgar) but under the flap.
The man pulls a tenner out again in low light, flattering to ageing complexions veined, like port-soaked stilton, with overindulgence. He is surrounded by men in suits, all nearly identical to his own, all very expensive. Their shoes, brogues to a man (women are rarer than trainers here) have a subtly lavish gleam. He leaves the company credit card in the back of the wallet - it's use is not considered appropriate in the current climate. Until the token few have been thrown to the wolves, until it’s business as usual again. He nods at the other members of the club as he hands the tenner, with a bunch of its fellows, over the bar.
It goes as change to a younger man – his wallet is initialed on the outside. He doesn't know there's a wolf at his heels. He's seen the mess all around him, but he's confident he can continue to walk the tightrope. Other people may fall, but not him. He has a highly expensive, professionally decorated flat, a highly expensive, professionally decorated girlfriend, and a car that makes other men shudder with envy. He's a survivor; he calls for more champagne. He's just the sort of irritating, brash young fool the tabloids love to rage over; someone will slip them a copy of his drinks bill.
Next the tenner goes as a flashy tip to a weary waitress, who puts up with the accompanying grope because she needs the job. Off shift soon, thank god. She hides the note. The boss isn't beyond swiping their better tips, and she's bloody earned it tonight. Her arse feels covered in smeary fingerprints. Leaving, she transfers the note to her purse, next to the receipt for the designer jacket she bought last weekend; she's going to have to get a new credit-card, that one's hit the limit. She’s heard they’re not handing them out like sweeties any more, but it’s never been a problem before. And she’s bought so many clothes partly because she can fit into a size ten now; the one good thing about serving food all day is that it's ruined her appetite. Just to make sure she doesn’t get hungry, on the way home she buys a packet of fags.
There aren’t many other notes in the till at the newsagents; he takes most of them out as soon as there's £100 in there, shoves them under the floor. He has safe, for the more persistent, professional criminals; it holds £500 which is the most he reckons he can afford to lose. The insurance bastards still haven't paid up after the last robbery. He wishes he could give it up. His back aches, his wife is too scared to work the nights; but the kids like to have the same stuff as their friends and he hates to deprive them. Why shouldn't they have nice things? Though last Christmas he looked at the presents, stacked up and spilling across the floor, and he did wonder. He'd had a stocking and one big present, when he was a kid, and glad to get it. But he’s doing this so the kids can have a better life than he did. He’s been socking the odd tenner away in a Christmas club – it’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
The woman buys cheap wine and bananas. The note gets shoved into an ancient purse, held together with a rubber band. She managed to save a bit this month. She’s hoping to afford a holiday next year. She sometimes wonders if she should put the money in a pension instead but a tenner a month is hardly worth it; besides, she's only 30. She hurries to get home and tries not to see the man sitting on the pavement. There's so much dirt on his face the lines look as though they've been etched with acid and oh, God, his feet are bare. It's November and brutally cold. His filthy feet are shaking with it.
She shouldn't give him money. He could spend it on drugs and die. She'd have to get close to him, he’ll smell awful and he might be dangerous. And she was saving up to go away, somewhere warm and pretty. It’s the feet that do it, the horrible pathetic feet. Angrily, she snaps off the rubber band. Angrily, she opens her purse, digs out the tenner, leans down. She wants to say something pithy, something that will penetrate, make sure her tenner, her tenner, dammit, doesn't go to waste.
"Here," is all she can manage; she shoves it into his hand and stalks away, before he can pull her in, make her try and do more.
He stares at it. A tenner. He has problems thinking straight, always has; there’s a lot of noise in his head. He used to be in a place where they gave him stuff to keep his head quiet, but it closed. There wasn’t any money in there; but he knows a tenner when he sees one.
It gives him the impetus to get up. He walks on feet he can’t feel, remembering that somewhere in a nearby street is a place where he can get tea.
Someone got a bonus today.
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.
This was partly born out of an old idea that's been hovering waiting for a voice, and partly sparked by one of Sarah's pieces - wonderful thing, creative partnership, innit? The Temple ( 985 words) The temple stood in the desert; a small, plain building, baking in the sun. An acolyte, tall and shaven-headed, bowed Javed in to coolness and soft light. Javed left his guard in the outer chamber, and walked to the altar past the wooden screens carved with processions and sacrifices. Though he always came here at the same hour, it seemed the light fell, every time, on a different carving. He paused, and frowned.
The priestess appeared. She was like a carving herself, cool, ascetic, smelling of some pleasantly astringent soap, her robes falling in simple folds.
“Look there,” Javed said. “That caddell, spirit of battle, urging the men forward.”
“My Lord?”
“She is wearing a mask. See?”
The priestess bent closer. “Why, I believe you are right, my Lord.”
“It is slipping. Look, she is weeping under it. That is no spirit to send men to war!”
“Perhaps that is why she wears a mask. So they will not see her tears.”
“Hmmm.”
The priestess often remained silent, unless he asked her a direct question. He found it restful. But today she broke with custom.
“What troubles my Lord?”
“The barbarians,” he said. “Trade is all very well, but they are a corrupting influence. I’m told their howling music is heard now even in our own villages, and their customs…” he looked at her calm pale face, so untouched and pure. “Well, I should not mention such things to you.”
“Many people come here to tell me their troubles, my Lord. I am not quite ignorant of the world.”
“Their women choose their own mates, and fight beside them in battle!”
He saw one of her eyebrows rise a little, but that was all. “Indeed?”
“Yet they none of them read. Not one. They despise it. Why, even our women are taught to read! No man wants an ignorant wife! How they ever run a household…but of course, they don’t have households; they live like wild dogs.”
The priestess said nothing; but she, like him, was looking at the caddell, with her frantic gestures and downturned, sobbing mouth. A young man lay broken at her feet. “She is like their women,” Javed said.
“Perhaps, my Lord, they lack the refinements of mind that an education can bring.”
“Perhaps…”
***
Biradex cracked his head guard across the jaw. She had been about to go into the temple ahead of him, checking for trouble. “Stay out here.”
She stepped back. “Lord,” she said, through swelling lips.
“No respect,” he growled to the acolyte. “Let ’em raisin in the sun for an hour.”
The priestess lowered her painted eyelids, the acolyte bowed. Biradex eyed him with disapproval. The man couldn’t have done much today but sweep the temple floor, yet his bald head was gleaming with sweat and his breath came short.
Biradex followed the priestess, eyeing with appreciation the ample hips dressed in not much but gold. He’d wait to be asked, though; he knew priestesses. Sink your dick there when it wasn’t wanted and you might not get it back.
Outside, the temple was plain as a skin tent; inside, it was rich night. Heavy carved screens across the windows kept out the sun. The air swirled with incense; the carvings flickered and danced in the torchlight.
Biradex flung the deer on the altar. The priestess sunk her hands in its guts, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “You are troubled, great Lord,” she said, her voice gutteral and somehow insinuating. Biradex felt a shudder up his spine, but squared up to the spirit that possessed her; it wasn’t in his nature to do otherwise.
“Yes, by the balls of Lodek, I’m troubled. We should have attacked as soon as we arrived in this land.”
“After that trek, with your warriors half-dead of thirst and gut-rot? A fine show you’d have made.”
Biradex growled. “Well, well, I admit, your advice then was good. But these soft city dwellers are sucking the life out of my people. First, it’s trade; fine goods and furbelows. Now…we have to invade, and soon.”
“And what has given you this panting eagerness to stick your head out for the axe?”
“You think I don’t have reason? Listen to this. Adrek, my own sister’s son, came to me asking for permission to go study in the city! My own blood, a scribe!”
The thing possessing the priestess growled. “And for this you will invade? I never took you for a fool, Biradex.”
Biradex snarled; he didn’t like being called a fool, even by a demon.
“A scribe?” the voice went on, “a spy! A gatherer of secrets! The scholars in this city know more than its battle leaders. You’d have the place in your hand in a month, without a fight.”
Biradex opened his mouth, and shut it again.
“Hmm.”
*** The acolyte brought another jug of water and poured it over the priestess, scrubbing the scented oil out of her hair.
“Gaaaah,” she said. “That’s good. No, I’ll do it, I can tell your back’s hurting.”
“We need lighter screens,” said the acolyte. “That was too damn close. Javed’s rearguard had barely got out of sight. One of these days they’re both going to be headed this way at the same time.”
“We managed in Travisten.”
“Only with the help of a handy rainstorm and thirty-three runaway mules.”
“We should have kept those mules,” the priestess said, stretching.
“If all it needed was stubbornness, we’ve got thirty-three mulesworth right here.”
An undignified tussle resulted, in which they both got very wet.
***
Two days later, the young man eager, his female guard glaring and suspicious, with one hand on her knife, the first two barbarian students entered the university.
A year after that, the temple stood abandoned; and in a distant town, two short-tempered twin queens, and one anxious warlord, began to hear rumours of a new shrine to their favourite gods…
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 came out of a picture prompt of an incredibly complex machine. When I thought about the picture there was a small human figure staring up at the machine, dwarfed by it; but when I went back and looked at the picture the figure wasn't there. Funny thing, the mind. Thomas and the Machine (992 words) Thomas frowned. There was a smudge on a pipe he was sure he had already cleaned. He sighed. Once, he had been able to keep up. It seemed that the older he got, the bigger the machine got.
This was, of course, true. When he first began to work on it, it only covered one wall of this underground room…at least, so he thought.
He stretched, to ease his aching back, and looked around.
The machine now covered three of the walls; a great intricate mass of pipes, joints, valves, and dials. It crept up into the echoing darkness of the roof. The ladder Thomas used to clean the upper reaches stood, in narrowing perspective, ready for use. When had he got the ladder? Who had brought it?
Thomas shrugged. The same people who left his food, and his clothes. It wasn’t his concern. He could see no more smudges, so he could go to bed, now. “Respect the machine,” he said, and went to the bathroom cubicle. He always shut the door, even though there had been no-one else there for as long as he could remember. To do otherwise would be disrespectful.
He folded himself neatly onto the bed in the corner of the room. The machine hissed and creaked, thudded and roared. It had grown louder at the same pace as it had grown larger, so Thomas barely noticed, and usually slept easily amid the cacophony.
Tonight, though, he found thoughts chasing themselves around his mind. He was getting stiff in the joints, at the end of a busy day the small of his back had started to develop a hot, low ache. How long would he be able to keep up with his duties? And what happened when he couldn’t? He knew, of course, what should happen; the machine would take care of him, as he took care of it. But sometimes, other, treacherous thoughts crept in.
The new boy appeared one morning; he had messy hair, hazel eyes so bright they almost seemed to glow, and a dazed look. Thomas was pleased; obviously someone had realised he was getting on, needed help.
“Right then,” he said. The boy only looked puzzled. He raised his voice. “Over here!” He showed him the cloths, polish, wrenches, all neatly laid out. He took pride in his tools.
The boy nodded, but didn’t actually do anything until Thomas put the cloth in his hand, showed him a smudge, and set him at it.
Another bed had, of course, been provided; but the constant presence of another being took some getting used to. And the boy, James… the boy was sloppy. Thomas caught him more than once sitting on his bed, staring at the walls, running his hands through his messy hair, when he should have been working.
And he asked questions. “Where does this pipe go? What’s this dial mean?”
Thomas didn’t like these questions. They weren’t respectful.
The machine, however, seemed to like the boy’s presence. It roared louder, the windows into its raging heart glowed hotter, it thudded and steamed with enthusiasm. And it grew faster; whole new sections appeared overnight.
James quieted, eventually. His hair settled down, he started to comb it neatly. The light in his eyes dimmed to something more appropriate. He stopped asking so many questions.
Thomas was pleased to note the way James began to copy his own methods; the way he laid out his tools, the way he folded his cloths. Sometimes he heard the boy scream, in the middle of the night, but he would settle down. Thomas had done, after all.
Thomas felt himself slowing. Not only his back, but his hands ached; his knees weren’t up to the ladder any more, and though he didn’t yet quite trust James to do it properly, he had to let him do the climbing.
One morning Thomas was carefully polishing the face of one of the big dials, the one with a needle as long as his forearm; the dial was glossy with health. Thomas’s hand looked ancient; the knuckles swollen, blue veins standing out under the fragile skin.
He looked up to see James swarming down the ladder with dangerous speed. Thomas felt his heart speed up. “What is it?” He shouted. “Is something wrong?” He imagined a leak, a break, steam from a joint, water dripping…rust, decay…
James shook his head, and pulled Thomas towards the bathroom cubicle. Thomas went, protesting, his polishing cloth still clutched in his hand.
James shut the door and leaned against it. His hair was on end again, his eyes furiously bright. He beckoned Thomas close.
“What is this nonsense?” Thomas said, carefully folding his cloth.
James beckoned harder. Thomas, sighing, went closer. James bent and whispered, “There’s a window. Up in the roof. I reckon we could get out.”
Thomas gaped. There was a strange feeling in his chest, pain, like something cracking open.
He pushed past James, without a word, and went back to his polishing, concentrating on the face of the dial, on its mysterious numbers. What did they mean? It wasn’t his business to ask. He went on polishing, until his arm hurt, until the dial gleamed like teeth.
James pulled at his sleeve, but Thomas ignored him. The machine got louder; all around them, there were roars and thuds and gushes of steam. James pulled at him one last time, and then ran for the ladder.
The floor shook. Up in the roof, things clanged. Thomas kept polishing. In the corner of his eye James’ thin legs were scrabbling higher, higher.
He kept polishing.
The dial glowed for a moment with a strange new light that stung Thomas’s eyes; a light from outside, an errant beam, finding its way all the way down to the depths of the machine.
Then the light was gone. Thomas kept polishing. His tears soaked his collar, but he ignored them.
They’d send someone else, eventually.
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.
We can all find excuses not to write. Sometimes, if we're lucky, someone might not take no for an answer... Font of Inspiration (984 words) “Pay what I ask or you’ll never see your baby again.”
This is not something you want to see.
I looked at the note again. Big letters, six different fonts.
Obviously it was intended to worry me.
But I don’t have a baby. Feeling more than slightly idiotic, I did a quick check; cats, two, for the use of. One was waiting with eternal optimism by the food bowl; the other perched on top of the printer, helpfully shedding hairs into it. And I’m not the sort of person who refers to my cats as my babies. Usually. Not when anyone else can hear me, anyway.
It wasn’t even as though the message had arrived through the door in a bloodstained envelope. It had just appeared on the screen, right in the middle of my ruddy novel. ‘Ruddy’ being the least of the epithets I’d recently been applying to it.
Obviously I was going mad. Trying to finish this benighted book had finally driven me round the bend.
I wondered about the origin of the phrase ‘round the bend’, and looked it up on Google. It wasn’t, in fact, very interesting. I looked at the manuscript.
“This is exactly what I mean. Pay up.”
Just one font, this time. Comic sans, bold, 18 point. Still pretty threatening if you ask me.
I looked up ‘signs of nervous breakdown’ and only succeeded in confusing myself and feeling even more paranoid. Back to the manuscript.
“Excuse me!” Impact, 24 point.
What was I going to do? Phone the NHS Helpline and tell them I was writing myself anonymous threatening notes?
Maybe it was a poltergeist. If I waited long enough, I might see the keys depress. I hovered the cursor over Google again, about to look up poltergeists, when it happened. No depression of the keys, just the words:
“DON’T YOU DARE!”
I had one hand on the mouse, and the other on a cat, for reassurance. So it definitely wasn't me.
I made a noise like ‘gblah!’ and leapt out of the chair. The cat glared at me.
When I approached the computer again, the words were still there. I didn’t even recognise this font, but it was in bold and at least 30 point. Someone was shouting.
Tentatively, feeling surreal, I typed, “Who are you?”
It came out in good old Times New Roman, 12 point. The editor’s favourite.
“Who’d you think, idiot? I’m your muse.”
For a moment I didn’t think I could breathe, never mind type. “But you sound like a gangster,” I managed.
“How else was I going to get your attention? It’s not like you’ve been listening to me lately.”
"Oh,” I typed. “Sorry.” Was I really having this conversation?
“Sorry my arse. Do you want to finish this book?”
“Of course I do.”
"Then why do you run off to bloody Google every five minutes?”
"Research, I…”
She cut me off. The keys actually wouldn’t work. Damn, it was annoying, like someone putting their hand over your mouth during an argument.
“It’s procrastination. I hate the internet. Do you know you spend at least three times as long on there as you do actually writing?”
“But sometimes I don’t know what to write until I’ve looked it up,”
She did it again. I bashed the keys fruitlessly.
“If you actually bloody listened to me you’d know what to write!”
“But didn’t you help the guy who invented the internet?” I ventured.
“That was one of my sisters. We’re still not speaking.”
“Oh.” I was not going to get into a family argument between deities. I mean, that sort of thing always ends badly. “So what was all that about paying up and my baby?”
“Work it out! If you didn’t have an imagination I’d never have turned up. I don’t appear for people who are already lost causes, you know!”
I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. “OK is the baby my career?”
“Oh please.”
“My plot?”
“Duh.”
“So what about the payment thing?”
“DO…YOU…NEED…ME…TO…SPELL…IT…OUT?”
“Er…yes?”
This time the word was not just in 30 point, it filled the entire page. It was bright scarlet, 3D, and in no font I’d ever seen before. It vibrated.
“ATTENTION!” It said.
Then, just as big and shouty, “PRESENCE!”
Then, bigger and redder and even more 3d, “CONCENTRATION!”
My eyes hurt.
“Get it now?”
“Yes,” I typed.
“Then get off the internet.”
My hand hovered over the mouse.
“Do you want me to SHOUT?” she typed.
“No! Just, may I make a suggestion?”
“What?”
“You could use the internet. You do already.”
“I do NOT!”
The font had gone red again. I winced, but ploughed on. “But I’m always finding inspiration! Pictures, discussions, things other people have written. OK, some of the time I’m just faffing about, wasting time, I know. But not all the time. And it could help you, too. I was thinking - rather than turning up in the middle of a manuscript, which is, you know, a bit scary, how about instant messenger? Or you could have a look at Wikipedia…there’s all sorts of places you could give people a nudge. After all you’re on my computer. It’s all part of the same technological revolution.”
Blank. No words.
“Hello?”
Oops. Obviously I’d pissed her off. I hardly dared try and get back to my story, in case she’d left for good. But I did unplug the broadband cable, and something worked, because I got to the end of the chapter, and some of it was even usable.
And a few nights later, when I was just about to close down after a surprisingly productive evening’s writing, my Skype went ‘bloop’.
The name on the message was ‘Aganippe’.
There was just one word: ‘Thanks.’
Aganippe is a fountain associated with the Muses – but I made sure I finished my chapter before I went and looked it up.
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.
This is what comes of going for a run while you're desperately trying to think of this week's flash piece, and hearing strange noises. Some of which were probably just my joints objecting to the exercise...
Tempus Fugit (997 words)
Before he finished the first circuit Terry’s hip was grinding with pain. He had reached the far corner of the athletic ground, where the bushes grew densely below the railway embankment. Then he heard a sigh; smelled a brief waft of something sweet.
Young’uns, smoking dope, probably feeling each other up. Plenty of them around, kicking a ball about, showing off for a girlfriend on the sidelines. Girls playing these days, too; he tried not to be obvious about looking. A pretty arse could still brighten his day, but he didn’t fancy being beaten up for it.
He wasn’t, refused to be, some Daily Mail knee-jerk old fool who thought all the young were villains; but he did get angry at the ones who just seemed to hang around, looking threatening, wasting time that they’d never have again.
On the second circuit he caught the scent again. He slowed without realising. A throat-catching sweetness that made him think of religion, or mystery. He wondered where that had come from. He wasn’t even a lapsed Catholic; wouldn’t know what church incense smelled like if he sat on a censer.
Sometimes he wished he was religious. It had been a rotten week; an old friend had gone into a nursing home. Terry was working up the courage for a visit, dreading the smell of baby powder over pee and the bemused and whimpering occupants.
The third time around, he caught the same scent, and a sound; maybe a sob.
This time, he stopped, pressing his hand to his hip, half-glad of the excuse. “Who’s there? Who’s messing about back there?”
Whispers. His spine chilled, but he walked forward into the green darkness, cursing himself for an old fool.
There were two of them, a boy and a girl. Both inhumanly beautiful, like the Taj-Mahal or the moon, gowned for a costume party. “Who?” Terry said.
“Hello,” said the girl. She had silver bells on her gown, and in her voice.
“Hello,” said the boy. A golden voice, summer flowers, glades filled with light.
“Who are you?” Terry managed.
“We’re…” they looked at each other, and back at Terry. Their movements had a languid dreaminess. “Visitors,” the boy said. “From across the ferny brae.’”
“Tell me, why do you run?” said the girl. “We see you, running, but you just go around, then you go away.”
“To stay fit,” he said absently. The phrase about the ferny brae reminded him of something. He wasn’t afraid; they were frail-looking, small, and seemed half-asleep.
“Fit for what?” said the boy.
Terry laughed, abrupt and bitter. “Wish I knew. Trying to hold old age off as long as I can.”
“But you’re already old,” the girl said.
“Yeah right. I want to stay active, is all. Not that it makes any difference. Age is a bastard. You’ll find out, if you stop smoking whatever you’re smoking long enough to live past fifty.”
“Smoking?” They looked puzzled.
“Why is age a ‘bastard’?” said the boy.
“It hurts. Everything stops working. If you’re lucky you go out like a light, if not, you end up dribbling your days away, not knowing your own name. Enjoy your youth while you can. You youngsters seem to think it lasts forever, but it doesn’t.”
He realised the girl was crying, tears slipping like silver down her perfect pale skin. “Hey, don’t,” he said. “You got years yet.”
“Yes,” said the boy. “We have years. Endless years before us and behind us; and we cannot change. We are as we are, and all that happens is that we thin, and fade. We have no children to carry the future, only a past that lies on us like lead, crushing the sunlight, silencing laughter.”
He got it, finally. “You’re…what? Fair folk? Fey?”
The boy shrugged. “If you will.”
“And you don’t age?”
“No. And there have been no children for so long…” the girl looked out at the field, where a young man with dreadlocks was shepherding eight or nine small children into a noisy game. Her face showed almost no expression, but her ache echoed in Terry’s own chest.
“And you can’t die?”
The two of them linked hands. “Only by iron, and it takes more courage than we have,” the boy said.
He brushed Terry’s cheek with a long, cool finger. “You,” he said, “you are so beautiful, do you not know it? It is your briefness makes you so.”
“You burn so bright and fierce,” the girl said. “You blaze.”
“Hah.” Terry looked down at his hands, rivered with blue veins. “Beautiful, eh? Well, there’s a thing.” He looked up at them. “Can you make me young again? Sprinkle me with fairy dust?”
“No,” said the girl. “We could only make you last longer.”
“Don’t ask,” the boy said. “Please.”
“Fairy gifts come with a price, don’t they?” Terry said.
“Always.”
“Well then.”
Terry was never sure how long he spent there, talking. Nor sure what was said. Only that he left feeling touched with mystery, feeling winged with joy and drenched with a profound sorrow that was almost sweet. #
He kept running as long as he could, though he never saw them again. He visited his friend, and took an old book of fairy tales, and read them aloud, while the nurses gathered in the doorway, listening.
Terry died, in the end, swift and clean, collapsed on his kitchen floor while he made tea.
The trains continued to rumble along the embankment, and in the bushes, the scent of somewhere else still hung. Two pairs of eyes watched the playing children grow, and the children after. Eventually the athletic ground was dug up and boxy houses grew where the bushes had been. One morning, the driver of the 8.15 froze in his seat, thinking he’d seen two figures on the line, standing with their hands linked, but when the train reached them they blew away like smoke, and the iron wheels pounded on, into the future.
These are hoodoos. The rest of my comments are at the end of the story.
Red Rock West (1000 words)
Red tracked the fugitive up into the foothills. The runaway had brushed out his hefty footprints and got in amongst a crowd of hoodoos, so it was tricky picking him out. Red slid from his mule’s saddle holding a rope, dropped a noose over a rocky pillar and tied the other end round his wrist. Then he waited for the sun to go down.
“One barrel I took,” said the troll, when it woke up, “for my brother’s century party.”
“Uh huh. I s’pose your poor sick granmama was there too,” said Red.
“I’ve been in service to Birchbane for ten years, never seen him drink a drop. Didn’t think he’d miss it, the joyless old turd.”
“You broke the law. Picked a bad time for it too, with the new Baron wanting to make his mark. Come quietly, and you’ll most likely get a few years hard labour. Unless you can pay the absolution fine.”
“Haven’t got any money.” The troll fumbled at the loop around his neck. “What’s to stop me taking this off and leaving you out here with a broken leg?”
Red shrugged. “Try it. That’s elf-made. Long as I live, it’ll do what I want. I hear trolls can last a while without breathing.” He patted his mule. “Old Obstinate can drag you til you come round.”
They plodded over the star-lit scrubland. “We’re going west,” said the troll. “Birchbane’s place is east.”
“The Baron wants all prisoners taken to him for sentencing by Longest Day,” said Red.
“Through the Badlands?”
“I’m getting paid forty gold to go through. Are you going to try and scare me with some old tall tales?”
They travelled on in silence until sunrise turned the troll to stone.
#
Red had heard the water in the Badlands was salty and stunk like rotten eggs. They stopped at a rickety trading post on the border that was open day and night. Red went in, the troll shuffling after him at the end of the rope.
The slick-haired clerk told Red, “All the fresh water your mule can carry for twenty silver.”
“Uh huh. And you’ll throw in the other mule I could buy for that?” said Red.
“Lot of demand here, sir. Pushes up the prices. You’ll be getting a big reward when you hand over that ugly rock you got there.”
Red gripped the rope, but the troll didn’t move. “I’ll take that water now.”
“New Baron’s coming down hard,” said the clerk, filling a canteen. “Heard they caught a rock that stole a cart and broke it into a bunch of pebbles.”
The troll still didn’t move, but Red could feel him shaking through the rope. #
They passed through bare hills like striped jelly moulds, by dead pools reflecting the stars, over cracked plains covered in salt that glittered and crunched like frost. The troll didn’t say much, just looked around. Red was glad of his shade to sleep in when the sun hammered down.
“A couple more nights, I reckon,” said Red as they took a break to eat. “You’ve given me no trouble. I’ll put in a good word for you with the Baron.”
The troll shrugged. “I think my sentence has been decided. I’m glad I took the best barrel, and my brother got to drink it.”
Red sucked from a canteen. “We’re getting low on water, that bastard sold me short. I think I see grass over there, reeds maybe. Could be fresh water.”
“I wouldn’t...” the troll said.
“What?”
“Never mind. The sun’s coming up soon.”
“Bring the mule,” said Red. Obstinate had other ideas. He dug in his hooves, rolled his eyes and made a racket. The troll slung all the canteens over his shoulders and they went on foot.
There was a big pond, a few silky ripples spreading on it. Red bent to taste the water. It was sweet and cool after the warm, leathery-tasting stuff they’d been drinking. There were more lazy ripples and then something whipped out the pond like a riled snake, and wrapped itself around Red’s ankle. He jerked back, trying to prise it off, as suckers sunk into his skin. Another tentacle lashed around his leg. Red struggled for the knife on his belt, was yanked and dragged, cool water closing over his head. He thrashed around, trying to pull free, but there was nothing to brace against. His chest burned with the need for air.
There was a tug at his wrist, then a wrench. The elf rope. Red grabbed onto it with both hands. The beast still gripped his ankles and legs, but the pull on the rope was unstoppable. It dragged them both to the surface, Red glimpsing dinner plate eyes and a razor-eged beak. The beast let go and Red skimmed over the pond at the end of the rope, gouged a trough through the reeds and on through the sandy soil. Then the sun came up.
The troll was frozen in a flat out run, rope in hand. Red stood in his shade, shook dirt and stones out of uncomfortable places and thought.
That night, Red said, “All you had to do was stand still. That elf rope’s got no power when I’m dead. Two minutes, you’d have been stone and that beast couldn’t’ve touched you.”
“I thought about it,” said the troll.
Red sighed. “I got to bring you in. I can’t go back on my word.”
#
The Baron was short and looked like he had a temper to match. His guards hustled the troll away.
“I may have more work for you,” the Baron said to Red. “Getting rid of the ... criminal element.”
“I serve the law,” said Red as he collected his gold.
The trial was short and pointless. Red said what he could, but the troll was sentenced to shattering.
“Unless,” said the Baron, laughing, “anyone sees fit to pay the troll’s absolution. It’s fifty gold.”
“Uh huh.” said Red. “That’d be me.” [End]
A while back, I wailed to my boyfriend "It's my turn to write the Friday Flash. What should I write?" He set me the challenge of writing a story that included beer, World of Warcraft and a squid. I didn't use it right away, but it sat there fermenting in the back-brain and this is what came out. Of course, if it was true to WoW, Red would have killed the troll and stolen its trousers, but that would have made for a very short story, even for flash.
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