Commitment to the Cause

Light from the hallway shone through the glass of the door.  A signal to say it wasn’t safe.  She turned away straining to stay calm when time was running out.  The next place was easily a mile away.   Not too far in daylight, but in the dark and with what she carried under her cape it would be difficult.  Nudging the weight into a different position, she cautiously moved on, her arm numb.  The road was quiet, but sensing danger, she slid into the shadow of the wood.  It wasn’t much safer.  If she was caught it would be said that a woman alone at night was asking for trouble. 

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The Commitment

Opening my eyes, keeping my head still, thinking of the night before. Oh no, I agreed to take part in a fun run. Sliding out of bed I stand in front of the mirror, something I always try to avoid. I look like a gnome, skinny legs and a pot belly. Adam, my husband, walks in.

            ”Morning beautiful.” 

            Turning, blubbering, I tell him I’ve signed up to a fun run with the girls. Ever practical he tries to convince me that it will be fine and he will help me.

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The Twelfth House

Woman holding taser - pigs in the background eating human remains. Pisces sign emblazoned in blood in the foreground.

Gerald and Cynthia stare at each other across the bare living room. Both are seated on dining room chairs pre-dating the Scandinavian conquest of British showrooms: dark split-cane curved into tense arcs ready to spring into injurious action at the loosening of a bracket. They were fine once, but now serve as little more than metaphors for the relationship playing out in this stark, damp room at the rear of number twelve Star Street.

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They call me “Father”

They call me “Father”, for I am king of my own little world.

Why rule over these sheep? Isn’t it obvious? Better to be rich than poor, better to be adored then despised. I’ve robbed these fools blind, yet they still worship me.

And this job comes with so many perks.

I convinced a gullible girl to marry me, telling her: “An angel of the Lord proclaimed in a vision, that if you don’t become my wife, then Heaven will send a curse to kill you and your entire family!” and the weeping sixteen-year-old gave in, all because I was convincing enough.

That’s power I can never give up.

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The Piano Killer strikes again

“I mean,” she said, “clearly there’s something not quite right here, something’s missing.”

DI Jenkins sighed and bit down a sharp retort. Of course there was something missing. In fact, there were a few things – eyes, fingers, liver, lungs, kidneys, and, possibly most disturbingly, the victim’s trousers. His dentures had also been removed and were in the middle of a damp stain on the carpet.

He was just grateful that whoever had done this had stopped the mutilation there. After all, he already had one young constable throwing up in the back garden, and his sergeant was looking a bit queasy too.

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Fly Away

Rose settled into her nest, another busy night, sighing as she turned to the others.

            Lily poked her head up: ‘Hard night Rose. You wouldn’t believe it. I had to rummage under the bed to find the tooth, all those dust bunnies’ bits of food. It was disgusting’.

            Marigold piped up: ‘Last time that happened to me there was a mouse there, eyeing me up.’ Gasps from the girls.

            Lily shuddered: ‘What did you do?’

            ‘Chucked a bit of biscuit at it, grabbed the tooth and scarpered.’

            Hyacinth joined in. ‘I had a fright not long ago when a dog came sniffing around sucked me halfway up his nostril. Thankfully it tickled his nose, he snorted and blew me across the room,’

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Holiday from Hell

I was on my way home at last, I’d been counting down the days to my return flight since I arrived.  The ‘Call of the Wild’ was overexaggerated as far as I was concerned. I just could not wait for that blissful moment of sleeping in my own bed.  As it turned out, Africa had different plans for me.

The airport tannoy crackled into life. 

“The flight to Nairobi has been delayed.”

There was a groan from all the passengers.

“More information will follow.”

I looked down at my dust-encrusted attire, I really needed a shower; even I could smell how disgusting I was.  I just hoped that we would be aboard the turbo prop soon. 

“Today’s flight has been cancelled.”

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Still Cooking, Still Kicking

Wednesday

“I still take her a cup of  bed tea every morning and cook the evening meal and do all the cleaning…”

Chess looked at the blob-blank faces of his 2 drinking companions and raised a glass of Best.

“Since that first morning of our honeymoon….” Faces kindled in anticipation of the oft repeated salacious details to come. Except they didn’t.

“35 years I’ve done it. She just lies in bed all day.”

Deprived of oxygen, interest flickered then died. Disclosure time, Chess decided.

“Our sex life is dead. That’s why I’ve booked myself a flight to Bangkok. One way. After Friday you won’t see me till I’m fully re-trained.”

Eyes focussed, necks lengthened, ears strained, cheeks rosied. Gratified he continued but in a conspiratorial voice so low I could catch only occasional words –

“Jade Buddha, temples, lady-boys, kick boxing, massage parlours,” -plus “Ohs” and “Ahs” punctuated with laughter.  

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Missing bits

I wish I was more savvy. As a child, I could have joined more dots and avoided being completely gaslighted via the medium of song. These were supposed to be songs about real people who we were expected to feel sympathy for.  In part I blame the News Chronicle Book of Songs for providing the lyrics and not-too-challenging piano scores for not remotely accomplished teachers to aid our indoctrination.

Take  the ‘Skye Boat Song’: lovely tune, romantic story, you forgot to ask just what happened to Bonnie Prince Charlie and his devoted Flora once they arrived in Skye. He was a hero, fleeing the massacre on Culloden fields (or did he decide to give Culloden a miss that day?).

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Bad Eggs

Charlotte takes another sip of champagne and tilts her face towards the sun, letting the chatter and children’s laughter wash over her. The annual Easter festival at the Red Lion is always a blast, bringing everyone in the town together. But this year feels extra special with the unseasonable heatwave.

She’s jolted out of her reverie by a sharp poke in the ribs from her daughter.

“We’re going on an Easter egg hunt!” Meg giggles, trailing a chocolate-covered hand over Charlotte’s lap.

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JIGSAW

In the park she said: ‘Tell me a story.’

            He looked at her round red face that had once suggested an arse. Then he had fallen in love with it, and all he could think of were apples, strawberries, ripe fruit, things sensuous to the tongue. Lately though a falling off, and rotting and withering slithered about his brain.

            ‘There was a man who considered his life was like a jigsaw.’

            ‘That it?’ she said.

            ‘You want more, Rebecca?’

            ‘Have you got more in you?’

            ‘A couple lunched out on a death anniversary. He, Bren, was thinking of a childhood conversation with his late mother. “That’s Nanny in Ireland,” she’d said as a sound like a distant earthquake rumbled in her belly.

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Rankin Vanishes (2000): Fact or Fiction

Celebrity biopics sell movie tickets, although it’s never a guarantee that any particular superstar has led an interesting life. So, if you’re a Hollywood scribe, you can squeeze your subject into a readymade template. Celebrity had a career decline? That calls for a Citizen Kane style rise and fall. Your famous figure OD’d? Great! Turn it into a tragedy, driving home some point or other about addiction. What if their life involves an unsolved mystery on par with the Mary Celeste? Dream up a solution.

Norma Rankin, twice grammy nominated singer-songwriter from Chicago, comfortably slotted herself into category three by vanishing off the face of the earth in 1992. Thus, esteemed director Ivan Shanks, auteur of such classics as “Your Mother and a Cow” (1985) and “Die Slowly and Painfully” (1988) made the acclaimed, highly speculative “Rankin Vanishes” (2000), which nabbed three Oscars, and a golden globe.

It did so by fudging the facts.

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Narrowly Missing Death

She heard a low rumbling as she walked along the cliff top. It sounded like thunder, but came from deep below, a guttural sound, almost like the Earth was groaning. There was a shudder and a loud crack as rock splintered. Grass twisted beneath her feet and the pathway crumbled to nothing. She stepped onto icy air, then she was falling; her backpack scraping against rock, its straps catching on roots and jagged stone. Wind snatched her hair. The sandy shore, littered with clumps of rock and jumbled shells, drew closer. She wondered if it was the last thing she would see.

When she was a child, she collected shells like treasure. She remembered a queen conch that she’d carried from a distant beach. Every time she wanted to hear the waves, she’d held it to her ear, comforted by the gentle swish. Her bedroom held shelves filled with glistening razor clams, ridged limpets, pretty cockleshells and periwinkles in different hues, olive-green, deep red, primrose yellow and delicate pink. Cockleshells were her favourites. She distracted herself from the drop, trying to remember every tiny detail of them; their delicate fan shape, the pattern of fine lines etched in burnt umber on their backs, and the smoothness of the inside where she liked to rub her thumb. If only she was safe in her childhood bedroom now, admiring the cockleshells and conjuring the roar and hiss of the sea with the conch shell.

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Hitting Home

The immediate situation facing us was frightening.  Dank weather summed up the predicament perfectly.  On the way to collect Melanie I knew with certainty that both our lives would dramatically change.  Whether we could endure the physical and mental anguish was questionable. Could we overcome such an event? It would test our  love for one another to the limit.

          I arrived near the entrance to the room but was afraid to enter.  What could I possibly say to her. Someone in authority caught sight of me and came to chat.  Her words were powerful and I felt more at ease. ‘Come in Mr Thomas, you’re both going to need all your strength to recover from this.  Melanie is extremely fragile at the moment but with time you will both get through the ordeal. It’s not going to be easy but  you can give each other great comfort and support’.  My hands trembled as I entered, palms sweating, eyes focusing on her.  She was dressed and ready to leave. Her face tearful with unhappiness. 

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Councillor Consuela

Councillor Consuela addresses a gathering of supporters

Consuela Edda Luisella Maria Beneventi always wanted to be a councillor, and not just for the amusement of being Councillor Consuela either. Although, in inebriated moments at the pub after a tiring branch meeting, she admitted it had a bearing. But mostly it was because Consuela thought she could “sort things out”.

She was, everyone admitted, a bloody fearsome woman, and quite capable of sorting things out. But no-one ever thought it would actually be a good idea to let her play with council powers. Far too dangerous.

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Waiting for Mr Right

Happy Birthday Liz,’ Jane and Amanda chorused.

‘Thirty five, it doesn’t seem that long ago we were all in Uni.’

‘I’m really glad we’ve stayed in touch,’ Amanda confided.

‘The Three Amigos’ Jane toasted, ‘may we stick together forever.’

‘Liz, are you still seeing that guy, John or something, the librarian?’

‘No, another one that didn’t quite work out.’

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Life’s little pleasures

A little cafe in the centre of a large park was popular with the locals for its friendly staff and cakes you could die for. Amongst the regulars was an elderly gentleman, always smartly dressed in shirt and tie, trousers with a crease you could slice bread with, his shoes shining, not a smudge on them. He would arrive promptly at 10am and leave at 2pm and was always popular with the more mature ladies. The staff would watch amused as he charmed them, the ladies simpering at his flattery.

            It was assumed that he was just lonely, enjoying the company. Over time the staff learned his name was Gerald and his wife had passed away some time ago. He had recently moved into a retirement complex. During the summer months he would sit on the bench outside talking to an old drunk, buying him a sandwich and drink. They would sit and chat for a while till the drunk disappeared off into the park. Wondering why he took the time, Gerald replied to his questioner that it could easily have been him .

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No more waiting

After long years of working on tedious and inconsequential office  tasks, Bob was still rather puzzled about the end purpose of his job. He realized that he was a cog, but it was much harder to grasp which wheels he was helping to turn. So when the all-staff email asking for volunteers for redundancy slid into his inbox, Bob was uncharacteristically jubilant. He was first to volunteer.

‘What am I waiting for?’ he mused, ‘even if the deal leaves me a bit shorter than usual, it’s a relief not to do another 200 years on the same treadmill with no prospects’

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Blue

I can’t finish the game on my tablet. Usually I rattle through Patience, but tonight I’m flustered and keep putting the cards in the wrong place.

            My mind is at the pier where two fifteen-year-olds scan the stars. ‘Way things are progressing that might be you and me one day up there in a spacecraft, Jade,’ he says. I feel again my shuddering at the thought of darkness, of being eternally lost in the void.

            There’s a clicking noise. The monitor’s coming on.

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Mirror’s Eyes

We wait, biding our time.

Such patience tests us, but this interlude is worth it, especially considering the prize on offer.

You barely even acknowledge us; we are the passing glance in the morning, the image used to check that makeup is applied correctly, or your necktie is straight, before you head out of the door to your dreary, coffee-fuelled, miserable, worthless lives.

We are your reflection in more than just the shallow sense of the word; we mark the passing of your years, day by day, second by second. Yet it is only in moments of occasional lucidity that you see us, shake your head critically and wonder where the twenty-eight-year-old that still lives in your head has disappeared to.

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