Lights off, power off.  Where can I hide?

I hold myself tighter and tighter, until I am wound like a child’s toy, and it takes everything to keep the handle in place- I am not ready to release, and I cannot stand being wound again.

Hands shaking, I tip-toe to the kitchen.  Empty cupboards laugh at me, the dark corners act as haunting eyes watching my every move.

My stomach growls, but I can’t hear it over the noise in my brain.  My hands still shaking, my heart skipping beats, I slide against the wall to the floor.

Tears pour from my eyes, and I bite down on my fist, trying to hold it together, trying to hold it in.

I am in control, I refuse to release.

So wound I stay, and as blood from my knuckles mixes with the salt from my tears- I pray for sleep to come and take away this invisible, blaring pain.

I’ve been busy the last couple of days re-writing, editing what I’ve got, though I still haven’t written more of the dialogue that I want to for later in the story, I still fell that this way is right…for me. I know other writers advocate writing the whole story then edit. For the moment, this feels right for me.

This is the first 3 paragraphs, re-written and heavily edited compared to the 1st draft.

My working title is ‘Between the Dark and the Light’.  

It describes the first experiences of the afterlife, when only the emotions are the guide to assess reality.

“And then I found myself in absolute nothingness. A veneer of blackness occupied my immediate surroundings, consuming and disorientating me so much my stomach immediately started to swirl, churning with uneasiness, causing high levels of panic and confusion. I tried to twist and turn my body where I stood, desperate to seek landmarks of any kind, to give some clue as to where I had been taken. To my surprise, I found that I was unable to do so; no neural information was leaving my brain to the muscles of my body, forcing me to stay still and listen instead, in this complete darkness, hoping that I may hear something that would give me a clue as to where I was. The only thing I could hear was my staccato, heavy breathing, the predictable panic from the shock of finding my-self in this foreign outpost. The void was unresponsive, preferring to keep its secrets and leave me to wonder in the suspense, to speculate on an uncertain future, to become prey to my imagination, which was beginning to kick in. Strange, hovering shapes sailed in front of me, appearing then disappearing in quick-fire fashion, confusing my mental attempts to grapple with my new found reality. With such unreliable facilities, I was unsure and feeling frustrated with the lack of anything to work with; a desperate situation in a desolate, dessert of darkness, where fear of the unknown ruled, a tiresome enemy to me and a faithful servant of the empty void.

I became tempted by my growing anxiety to react in some way, and before I could think logically I was shouting at the blackness. As I recall, I was unsure if I was shouting for help or purely reacting to the intense and ever growing fear that I felt. But I soon found that no recognisable words came from my mouth, but emerging instead, unintelligible guttural grunts. The disconcerting fact, which at the time seemed oblivious to me, was the complete absence of knowledge, memories and language skills, which have, thankfully, since returned to me. At the time I can recall that I was not too concerned about the loss of these vital functions, such was my apathetic and naïve nature. My brain was empty, as if picked clean by some burrowing, information-hungry bug, leaving a useless shell, disabling my ability to think and talk. Simple and innate, I was a creature of pure inefficiency, devoid of purpose, and questionable humanity.

I was as innocent and defenceless as a new born, vulnerable, open to attack and incapable of defending myself. My incapacity to perceive anything worked in tandem with my incompetent, muddled mind. My biggest concern was the uncomfortable feeling of being in the dark and not being able to see anything. It was my innate fear of the dark that produced my demons, my imaginary foes. Although I had lost vital motor and mental skills useful for my survival, I had somehow kept my emotions intact. I was reliant on them as blind man trusts his guide dog, my constant, inconsistent companions. Somehow, my carnivorous insect had lost its appetite when it arrived at my amygdala! “

As a very novice writer I am very pleased with this, but would welcome any comments and constructive criticisms. 

Amongst fluttering gilded banners depicting great victories, a woman looks to a mauve sky, her emotions unwilling to show themselves.

By her side, a mastiff part bronze and part flesh, follows her gaze with its tongue lolling.

There is a shape of the darkest blackness up there.

And though it is still but a speck in the sky, she knows in a few hours, it will be the largest man-made structure to ever pass before her eyes.

It will be a malevolent thing of spires topped by leering gargoyles and buttresses pocketed with the byproducts of man’s capacity for hatred and brilliance.

It’s iron skin will be black from its travels through the void and the atmospheres of a thousand planets but underneath the ash from the death throes of a thousand worlds will be an intentional black to inspire terror.

War has come to her world.

The time for her to feel anything will come later.

Preparations are to be made.

Their death will not simply be a kill tally like the others.

No.

She will honor his name by laying down a defense the likes of which these bringers of death have never seen.

But for that, the Bonesingers will need to be summoned.

Awakened.

-To be continued-

Part I

The Endeavour

Me Mam, before she died, always used to say; ‘never get too into anything, our Tony,’ she’d say, ‘it’ll eat you up,’ she’d say.  ‘It’s even in the word Tony, endeavour,’ she’d say, ‘en-devour’ see?’ she’d say.

I loved me Mam, really, but she couldn’t spell to save her life.

Thing is turns out she were right.

When I was thirteen, Martin Almsley took up train spotting. Got so into it he walked right under the X15 Leeds to Manchester (express), except it wasn’t that day – obviously – ‘cos they had to scrape Martin off the wheels. At sixteen Danny Bradley got obsessed with buying a moped, worked every spare minute he had to buy it. Then, first day, he rode it right under a truck taking pigs to Castleford for slaughter.

So when me Mam died and everyone asked me, ‘what would she want you to do with your life, Tony?’ I knew exactly what it was.

Nothing.

Not as easy as it sounds either, doing nothing. Requires real commitment.

Me Dad weren’t so keen on the idea but a quick trip to the woods and a mushroom stroganoff sorted him out. Also provided me a tidy little inheritance and a ‘let’s-keep-this-between-us’ payment from a large supermarket who I may have given the impression I bought me ‘shrooms from. Then I started affecting a limp in an effort to get a car from the DSS but they were annoyingly pedantic: wanting forms and visits to the hospital and doctors. Far too much bother so I hit upon a solution. Given a supply of illegally imported Russian novocaine and a dirty stick it’s surprisingly easy to get gangrene to set in. And as long as you can put up with the smell it’s not that bad, worth it in the end too. I mean, who’s going to argue mobility with a man with no legs?

Pedants, that’s who. ‘Oh no Mr Keely, we can’t move the toilet downstairs even if you do sit in your own faeces.’

Anyway, it’s amazing the damage a handful of glass will do to your innards and once I had a colostomy fitted I didn’t even need to go upstairs. Of course when I lost my right hand in a carving knife accident the nanny state started interfering and had me moved to a psychiatric hospital ‘for my own protection’.

Which was great.

Didn’t even have to cook then. Though those bloody people will not leave you alone. Try doing this, Tony. Try doing that, Tony. Keep yourself stimulated. Not even knitting needles in the ears will stop them. Then they start writing notes.

And the sun’s so weak now, what with global warming an all. I had to stare at it for hours before I went blind. Still all done now and here’s me living the life of Riley, no effort involved.

Though eating and talking’s a bit tiresome isn’t it?

Did you know you can chew your own tongue off?

Click here for more of RJ’s work

It’s funny how those feelings don’t seem to change. I mean, I haven’t had that much published, but every single time I get an editing email I feel the same way. I hope that never changes!

It shouldn’t be too long before the cover for Regeneration gets released as well and I can’t wait to see that and share it with you, and then… well, not too many weeks before it’s out into the world and I can devour the stories from the other amazing writers I get to be published alongside.

I guess I’m still buzzing but it’s such a great way to feel, I don’t think I want to let it go just yet.

In the meantime, here’s an old sketch of mine that was the inspiration for one of the characters in the tale I’m working on:

‘Mediocrity is an ongoing struggle for excellence.’ (Unknown philosopher, 21^st century)

So it’s like this. The moment John Smith crosses the traffic lights confident it turned green just for him, he glimpses a pair of lips walking beside him, all covered in a warm camel coat. Not a face with a big pair of lips, not a woman with flaming red hot fiery lips. Just a single, faceless pair of lips.

John Smith freezes right there in the middle of the street, eyes popped out, and watches the lips who tucked inside their coat and lip balm land securely on the pavement, across the road. With no feeling on his legs – even though he still has them – in contradiction to the lips which have no nose, no eyes and no ears – he reaches the pavement too and grabs a pole struggling not to lose his senses. He can’t be right. It must be the after effect of the nipping cold. Frozen grey cells and illusions. But if this is all a mental twitch, then why are the lips walking toward him, stay ajar for a couple of seconds, and speak with a warm concerned voice?

‘Are you all right?’

‘…’

‘Can I help you in any way? You’re white as a sheet.’

John Smith pulls his tonsils together and utters sound.

‘No, I’m fine…,’ and as he leans to the right he moves to the left, almost falling under the wheels of a speeding sewage truck.

The lips cringe and their ruby red colour seems to fade.

‘You definitely need a hot cup of coffee, and I’m not taking no for an answer.’

John Smith is tugged two streets down to Zanzibar Café. He looks at the passing crowd, but detects no signs of reaction. He is walking side by side to a pair of lips and no one gives a shit. Either people have entirely lost their ability to be surprised or he’s gone nuts and he’s not walking with a pair of lips at all but alone. He talks alone, sits on the Zanzibar Café stool alone and orders cappuccino and a cup of jasmine tea with brown sugar in perfect solitude.

‘Are you feeling better?’

The lips lean tentatively toward him glowing with warmth and kindness. John Smith decides to clear out the situation. He looks down at his undone shoe lace, looks at the barman serving the cups indifferently and looks at the lips licking a drop of tea that shamelessly tried to escape.

‘Well… don’t take me wrong… err, I mean… it’s just that… you know, you are a pair of lips. Not that you’re missing anything. There’s loads of people around called people with special needs though we all know they have special capabilities. And certainly, I’m not insinuating anything when I say you’re special. I mean, don’t take me for a racist or anything. I don’t put people into categories according to their colour or anything. The fact you’re brand red is not the issue here. It’s just that it’s the first time I meet someone who shares your, err… morphology. Not that I’m an expert when it boils down to genetics. Or geography for that matter. It’s not like I’ve travelled to the end of the world. I’ve done my share of London and Paris, and I’ve popped to Budapest for a business trip. It might as well be that the inhabitants of a distant island look exactly like you. As a matter of fact, they probably do. What do we know? So, please forgive me if I sound kind of ignorant and indiscreet…’

Pause for breath catching and sweat sweeping. The heat is torturing his Adam’s apple. He bites his lips waiting for an answer.

A roar of laughter fills the bar and saves him from his agony. The lips show off their sparkling white teeth and the bar transforms into a happy place.

‘I should have realised you were surprised by my appearance,’ they say smiling graciously. Surprised by their appearance? What an overwhelmingly  modest way to describe that a pair of lips lives among us.

‘What do you thing a person who has a lot to say should look like?’ He becomes serious all of a sudden. ‘Should he have big, melancholic eyes? Or maybe bushy eyebrows for a defiant look? What about a long, hooked nose which distinguishes a sophisticated person from the mass?’

He bites his lower lip and leans over to John Smith as if entrusting him with an important secret.

‘No, my dear man. He who has a lot to say possesses above all a big mouth.’

‘But you have nothing but this.’

‘Imagine how much I have to say then.’

John Smith thinks it over for a minute and finds it quite sensible. The man wants to talk. And the fact he, John Smith, is not a huge ear doesn’t exhibit mammal perfection but weakness to take the act of hearing into a higher level. The reason he hasn’t got anything great to show is in fact proof of his insufficiency. No part of his body sticks out. His eyes, nor large nor small, don’t let him envision far enough. His nose, nor long nor short, cannot sniff the unique. His palms attached to their indifferent fingers, neither give more nor take. And with these legs there’s definitely no hope of taking a great leap. He’s condemned to oblivion from his insignificant birth to his absolutely mediocre death. How terrible.

‘Terrible,’ he exclaims, hitting the cup against the saucer.

‘Yes. I kind of understand what you’re getting at,’ the lips say tightened. ‘It’s nonsense to talk today. Not where the world is heading. Political correctness, CCTV, religious wars. They make you feel like a terrorist for just handing them your airline ticket. Back to the Middle Ages. You’re right. What’s the point?’

The lips curve and order a vodka shot. ‘Shall I order one for you?’

‘No, thanks.’ John Smith rushes to solve the misunderstanding. ‘You know, when I said horror, I didn’t mean…’

‘Leave it, my friend. You don’t need to try and comfort me. A pair of lips doesn’t have saliva even to spit these days. This whole talking business is more like a daydream.’

And with a sharp movement they gulp the vodka like cough medicine.

‘Get me one more,’ he orders the barman. ‘It took me many years to erase all unnecessary features and concentrate on the one I thought – the fool – would help me make a change. Achieve something. I’m so thankful I bumped on to you. You, my friend, with your realism and honesty made me realise how pointless the whole thing was from the beginning. So obliged. Are you sure you don’t want a shot?’

And he gulps the second one down like a crocodile feasting on wildebeest.

John Smith tries to explain.

‘When I said ‘the horror’ I was referring to something that crossed my mind. For me, not you.’

‘One more vodka, please.’

‘I lack your audacity and imagination. I’m afraid I’m a mundane and common person, while you are… how can I put it… extraordinary entirely. I mean anyway you see it, you are completely different than the rest and the role models imposed by, you know who.’ He points to the ceiling and its polyester stars. ‘It’s impossible to escape the laws that want us made in His own image.’

‘Too damn right impossible!’ The lips catch the miniature glass with their tips and devour it along with the liquid. As they crunch the slivers like ice cubes, John Smith notices two small nostril like holes at the top of the upper lip which weren’t there before.

‘Oh my God!’ he exclaims.

‘Spot on,’ the lips exclaim. ‘And who am I to challenge the existence of God? Why is it so bad to behave like sheep? It’s not a big secret he’s got a soft spot for the animal.’

He turns to the barman. ‘Bring us a bottle of Stolichnaya.’

‘This is just a terrible misunderstanding,’ John Smith objects. ‘I just used a cliché phrase to draw your attention to the…’ and he points at the nostrils. ‘Something’s growing over there that I think needs your attention.’

‘Yep! Growing like vegetables in the field. So what? Vegetables in their ignorance live in bliss. They enjoy the sun and the rain and don’t even think about it when they see the blade of a knife. I’m sure they take it for the sun and sway in happiness as they see it coming closer and closer until,’ he slides his thumb across his neck, ‘their life’s cut before they know it. Vegetables are the answer to the problems of the world.’

He grabs the bottle and downs it while John Smith witnesses, even though he’s hopelessly trying to cover his eyes , nose, eyes, ears, hair popping out one after the other until a perfectly normal and plainly looking man stands next to him squeezing the bottle of Stoli to its last drop. The man turns and looks at John Smith as for the first time.

‘So glad I met you, pal. What’s your name again?’

‘John Smith,’ he mumbles. ‘And you?’

‘Tom Brown,’ the man answers and pats him on the shoulder. ‘How do you feel grabbing a beer tomorrow evening? My treat.’

‘…If you insist.’

‘Cut the formalities, Johnny. You did something great for me today.’

And they step out of the bar walking in average strides, shutting their eyes to the blinding winter sun while getting sucked in by the vacuum of city noise. Two men of average height, one relieved and one slightly tortured by the suspicion that his great achievement doesn’t smell of success. On the contrary, it emits an unpleasant odour, which of course may be coming from the sewer the lid of which stands ajar by their side.

(Continued from “The Darkness Comes”)

“He makes his way here now… He is coming alone…”

Anger writes his face as he listens to the news

“Let him come then… Let him speak the order of his disrespect to me”

“There is one more thing my Lord…”

“He wears a Mask…”

—————————————————————-

The mood of the room has shifted.

Celebration has been replaced by the fear of the unknown.

She is confused by what is happening.

Her Lord places his hand upon her shoulder to provide her with comfort.

All eyes are now fixed upon the door that awaits the arrival of one who comes.

Quiet mumbles wander the room.

Who is this man and what message does he bring?

“SKREEEEEEEEEEEK”

The door to the Great Hall opens

~

In the shadows appears the silhouette of a single man.

As he approaches, his footsteps weigh heavy on the ground.

His pace is steady beat of confidence.

He approaches with a purpose that will not be swayed.

Eyes fixed on his destination, he arrives…

“Pardon my intrusion” he speaks in a low haunting tone.

” I have come to claim what is rightfully mine” he continues.

The Lord becomes agitated with this display of disrespect.

Stepping closer to the intruder, he demands…

“Who are you”?

“What madness has driven you to risk your life to speak such words to me”?

Unmoved by the approach of the Lord,

The man in the mask stands his ground.

“I am Aragon of the lands beyond the Southern borders” he announces.

“It is not madness that brings me here. Instead, it is the calling of my dreams”.

Silence fills the air as he continues to speak.

“It has been written, that I shall come to claim my prize”.

The Lord grows restless with every word he hears.

He knows that what he speaks is truth, yet he defies the telling of the prophecy.

What Aragon has come for is what he has just found.

He will fight to keep her.

~

“What is it you claim as your own Aragon?”

Aragon replies “It was not until I laid eyes upon her, that I knew it was she”.

Surprised by what she just heard, she leap to her feet and said…

“I will never be yours… My heart belongs only to my Lord…”

“Silence woman” Aragon commands

“Look deep into your dreams and you will know what is to come”

Reaching for his sword, the troubled Lord comes to her defense.

“Your words will cost you your life Aragon” he growls

Without reaction, Aragon calmly turns to leave.

As he begins his exit, he turns with on last statement.

“I will give you until mid-day on the morrow to say your parting words”…

…”When I return, you will be MINE”!

Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he slipped back into the shadows…

“After him” the Lord cries out in desperation.

It was too late… He was gone…

Carried by the wings of the darkness that brought him,

All that was left behind was his message,

and there in the doorway, unnoticed till now…

Lay the Mask of the stranger…

People walked on, not minding the person beside them, acting as if nobody else was around.  “Allahoo Akbar” sung the melodious caller.  Oblivious, no one paid any attention.  Preoccupied minds filled with shattered dreams and family needs.  Despair filled every pair of eyes connected to an empty shell.

Rain started to fall upon the desolate people.  The pace of their walk quickened to get home and out of the wet, dirt filled streets.  Soon the streets were emptied of all its pedestrians, only a few cars remained.

Brown spots formed on my shirt from the mud-rain.  Steam rose from the black pavement and the cobblestone sidewalk.  I stepped to the door of the pink colored mosque.  I noticed one person on the inside bowing down to the east.  Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead but were absorbed instantly when he touched it to the ground.

I turned from the empty room to face a lone woman holding a child in her arms.  She was clothed in a dark brown robe and a black veil covered her face.  Her son was clothed in naught but rags too worn for any use.  She held him close to her bosom, him asleep in her arms.

I walked over to where they sat and knelt down in front of her.  I looked into her sad dark eyes.  Years of hunger and thirst, anger and sadness, loss and hate spun in circles in the windows of her head.  Her lips mouthed the words to a lullaby but no sound was heard.

I looked down at the child in her arms.  I could hear the coo of his soft breathing.  I took my hand and wiped the rain from his face.  He stirred and slightly opened his eyes.  I smiled at him.  He never looked directly at me but soon closed his eyes back and drifted into dreams of a brighter future never to be reached.

I stood up and the rain ceased to fall.  I walked home and laid down.

Yesterday I returned to the same corner in the shadow of the minaret.  The same mother sat there with the same child.  I tried to catch his attention by waving my hand in greeting.  He kept on staring off into the distance.

The Beast of Kirk Ella

A Short Story by Andrew Reid Wildman

It started, as these things invariably do, with a first piece of irrefutable evidence. Mrs Barbara Fritsby looked, at first, quite mortified, to the point where Inspector Nansford felt horribly guilty. He had first called at the charming, semi-detached house as part of a routine investigation, a simple follow up to a missing person inquiry. He had returned there at the request of the Environmental Health Department a month later, and it was at that point that things had become tricky.

“I am so sorry, but I do appear to have run out of fresh milk,” gushed Mrs Fritsby. She looked at the inspector over the rims of her spectacles.

“Quite alright, Mrs Fritsby. I’ll take it black,” he said.

“Biscuit?” she added primly.

“Wouldn’t say no,” the elderly detective answered. “But if we could perhaps get back to the matter at hand.”

“Quite so,” said Mrs Fritsby, popping a lurid tea cosy over the pot. “You’ve come about the head in the pond, have you not?” She handed over a rose-patterned plate of Rich Tea biscuits. She felt digestives were too heavy for the summer months, and Nice and Bourbons were a tad lower class.

Inspector Nansford shook his head. “The head, Mrs Fritsby?”

“Yes, I imagine you want to know where it came from,” she said.

“That would be useful, if you don’t mind,” he replied. He glanced out over the back garden. The garden gave way to the golf club at Kirk Ella. A robin landed on the bird table, then flew off.

“It belongs to that beastly sister of mine,” said Mrs Fritsby, matter-of- factly. “Dreadful woman, terrible taste in clothes, and men. I had no choice, you understand?”

“Might I suggest you have a lawyer present, Mrs Fritsby?” said the inspector. He opened his notebook.

“A lawyer? Whatever for?” she asked. “Never trusted lawyers. Not after that terrible business of Mummy’s will.” She sipped her tea. A large marmalade cat slouched into the room and joined his mistress on the divan. “Actually, that was the reason I felt I had to behead her.” She smiled sweetly. “She’d contested the will, you see. Mummy had promised it all to me, and then Mirabel came along and demanded half, if you please.”

“So you killed her?” probed the inspector.

“Quite so. It was all very humane. I cannot abide cruelty, Inspector, you must understand that. And I trained as a land girl during the War, you see. So I was able to wield the axe quite expertly. Very quick, very dignified. She didn’t suffer. Unlike with Mary Queen of Scots, of course. Botched job.” Mrs Fritsby absent-mindedly stroked the ageing cat with her long, manicured fingers. “I used the hose to clean up, hygiene you see, terribly important, especially in a hot summer.”

“And what did you do, with the rest of her?” asked the inspector. He took off his jacket.

“Please feel free to take off your jacket, Inspector,” said Mrs Fritsby, her tone arch. In her day, gentlemen always asked a lady’s permission to remove their jackets. She blamed the new Labour Government.

“Thank you,” muttered the Inspector, chastened for his lack of manners.

“I buried her on the golf course, Inspector,” Mrs Fritsby said at last, rubbing her temples, as though the affair were positively tedious. “In one of the bunkers.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mrs Fritsby? It might make things go easier with you. Later on. When it comes to trial.”

“Will there be a trial? Oh dear me, how terribly vulgar,” sighed Mrs Fritsby. “I suppose you are aware that I killed Mummy too?” She smoothed down her skirt.

“I suspected as much,” said the Inspector. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“If I must,” she sighed, “though of course she was so terribly old, and frankly I was doing her a favour. Mummy was such an independent woman, you see. She was head of the Conservative Ladies’ Club, you know. And a fearsomely tough woman in her day. But one felt her time had come, so I despatched her.”

“Meaning?” said the Inspector, stirring his tea.

“I struck her over the head with a saucepan,” smiled Mrs Fritsby. She frowned. “Or was it with the frying pan? One finds it hard to remember at our age, does one not?” she chuckled. Barbara Fritsby was not, in fact, particularly old, a tad frayed at the edges perhaps, but by no means ‘past it,’ as one said.

“And where is she now?” he asked.

“Who? Mummy? She’s in the garden, of course. It’s what she would have wanted, to be close to her family.” A chill took hold of the police officer’s stomach. Mrs Fritsby continued, oblivious. “Next to Daddy. So terribly romantic, isn’t it? They were devoted to each other.”

“Your father is also buried in the garden?” he asked with a gulp.

“Absolutely. Daddy did so love the garden, you see. He used to devote all his free time to it. Daddy believed in hard work, Inspector. It was he who planted all the bushes. It was just earth when we moved in, believe it or not. But you see, Daddy did so terribly let the side down rather. What with his dalliances, and so forth. It was that affair with Mrs Hardwater that finally brought things to a head.”

The policeman nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“The dreadful woman had quite besotted Daddy. He was always a weak man, Inspector. When it came to women. It was not the first time,” she whispered. Mrs Fritsby gazed over the flowerbeds and sighed. “I had no choice, you understand. So I arranged for him to fall down the stairs. Quite painless, a little uncomfortable perhaps, until I finally smothered him. I used one of Mummy’s embroidered cushions.”

“Would you be able to shed light on the whereabouts of Mrs Hardwater?” asked Inspector Nansford. He ran his fingertip around his shirt collar. Sweat was trickling down his neck.

Mrs Fritsby sighed, her features cross and stern. “If you must know, I was forced to butcher her, Inspector. I was adamant that the woman would not be buried in our family home. One has standards. No, it was quite unthinkable.”

“So you killed her?”

“Well, of course I killed her!” exclaimed Mrs Fritsby. “How else would I have been able to butcher her? I imagine you wish to know how,” she added, her tone more conciliatory. “I cut her throat. I used a rather sharp knife, which I had bought especially for the purpose at Hammonds. No, I lie, it was from Thorton Varley’s. They do such a good line in kitchenware, do you not find?” She chuckled. “I imagine your wife takes care of such things, does she not, Inspector?”

“My wife passed away last year,” said the policeman sadly.

“I am sorry, Inspector. How perfectly gauche of me. Did you dispatch her yourself, or was it natural causes?”

“Are you asking me if I murdered my own wife?” gasped Inspector Nansford, his rheumy eyes dilated.

“Murder is such a judgemental term, is it not? Help her on her way, perhaps?”

“Good God, of course not,” cried he.

“I seem to have offended you,” said Mrs Fritsby primly. “Please accept my apologies. I will return to the less sensitive matter of Mrs Hardwater. I invited her to tea, nothing fancy, just a refreshing watercress salad, some soup, and a little chicken. One eats lightly in the summer. Whilst she was eating, I quickly dispatched her. I did not wish to distress Daddy of course, so I wanted it all done before he returned from the Masons. By the time he got home, I had fed her to the pigs, down at Skidby. Do you know the place I mean? The large farm with that delightfully quaint chimney stack? Elizabethan apparently. I butchered her in the bath. So much easier to clean up. The carpet is new, you know.”

“And that’s when you killed your father, is it?”

“Quite so. More tea, Inspector?”

The man shook his head. “Can you tell me anything about Miss Clare Abertorsworth?” he asked, consulting his notebook.

“Under the hydrangeas,” replied Mrs Fritsby as quick as a flash.

“Mrs Dorothy Pupswade?”

“Head in the Humber, body in the golf course.”

“Your brother-in-law, Morris Tightsworth?”

“In the cellar, next to the Reverend Chewston, Miss Thorsmoor, and the Grimston twins.”

“This is truly horrific, Mrs Fritsby. Have you any idea what you have done?” The Inspector sipped his remaining tea.

“I have been quite the little beast, have I not?” demurred Mrs Fritsby. “Still, it does no good to dwell. You seem unwell, Inspector,” she said.

“I feel a little sick,” agreed the inspector. Suddenly, he gripped his own throat, trying to breathe.

“It will go easier for you if you don’t struggle so, Inspector. Honestly, what a fuss over a little poison. One would think I had caught you unawares.” The man fell to the floor, thrashing helplessly until he at last lay still, like a cod on the marble counter of Mr Collins, the fishmonger.

It all came out in the end, of course. Such things always did. Another policeman had come around, as he must, duty being paramount. Mrs Fritsby had been arrested, and taken by car to the police station at Willerby. After a little chat, over coffee and biscuits in an interview room, men had come to dig up Daddy’s beautiful garden.

“Jesus, it’s like a plague pit in here,” gasped a horrified PC Fromeby, pulling out the remains of Mrs Gidleminster, the postmistress.

“There’s more,” groaned PC Hodson, digging his spade into the final resting place of Mrs Fritsby’s niece, Pricilla.

When questioned, Mrs Fritsby had justified her actions thus. “Dreadful girl. She’d taken up with a musician, if you please. One had to protect the family name. If you are looking for her beau, you might wish to try the incinerator at the cottage hospital in Cottingham. They do have the most lax procedures. I was able to dispose of my first, and sixth husbands there. Not a question asked. Medical waste. Easy as pie. With the others, I had to make do with using the municipal rubbish tip. Not ideal, but that’s life. Fortunately, I have a motorcar, a Standard Eight. Good storage. Oh, and before I forget, Mrs Arbleforth is resting at Spurn Point, along with her sister, and that dreadful nephew of hers.”

It had come to trial. Mrs Fritsby had chosen a nice twinset for the occasion, from her wardrobe before being arrested. It went rather nicely with a hat she’d bought at the millenary section of Carmichaels the year before, just after killing her former friend, Geraldine, but before drowning that crushing bore, Mr Doncastle. It set the right tone, nothing vulgar, but smart nonetheless. It had not really helped matters, but at least Mrs Fritsby looked smart and presentable as she was sentenced to death at Hull Crown Court. The judge played golf at Kirk Ella, a matter that did little to further Mrs Fritsby’s cause, especially when play was cancelled to exhume Mr Potters and Mrs Wilberson. Mrs Fritsby felt it best not to mention her erstwhile neighbours the Motherwells, and that dreadful dog of theirs, who were all buried under the rough, not so very far from the Hamilton Brothers. But it was rather a foregone conclusion, what with doctors’ reports, and toxicology reports, and a somewhat critical statement from that boorish detective.

On the day of her execution, Mrs Fritsby cut an elegant figure, and appeared for her final appointment with her face washed, her hair brushed, and a dab of cologne on her wrists. She wore a rather pretty dress, a tad conservative for the time perhaps, and her best shoes. She was hanged just before eight on a Tuesday morning, a dreadfully antisocial hour, she felt.

The End

If you enjoyed this story, please check out my other book, Spicy Green Ginger, a collection of similar stories that are all set in Beverley, Hull, and the East Riding, available at Amazon.

There is a Facebook page at:

https://www.facebook.com/SpicyGreenGingerShortHullAndEastRidingStories

As I drew the curtains off, a group of sparrows, flying back to their nest, caught my sight. The breeze of the impending dusk and the harmonious chirping of the little birds rejuvenated my senses. I turned back to the white-painted room; Rekha had kicked off her sandals and was trying to adjust pillows on the couch.

“Oh, what a hectic day it was!” she exclaimed.

“I think you have one more appointment today,” I said while opening the windows. The sun appeared as an orange sphere trying to dive into the horizon.

“I don’t think I will be able to take it,” she yawned. “Shaan dear, please massage my feet.” Her hands went over her closed eyes.

“Yo mam! Dr. Shaan Mathur at your service. You want tea or snacks too?” I laughed as few clouds appeared in the sky, all of a sudden. It might rain.

“I am serious, honey,” she stretched her body.

I sat on the floor to massage her feet. They were as soft and tender as a bag full of cotton. As my hands went above to massage her legs, I saw her relaxing.

“Shaan, this is the life I always dreamt to have,” she sat and smiled like a flower blooming in the spring.

“What? You always wanted a servant to massage your body?” I asked surprised, staring at Rekha.

“No duffer! I always dreamt of having a life-partner like you.” She took my head in her lap and drove her fingers through my hair. “Let us sue these priests. They are bad people,” she said suddenly, irritated.

I laughed as my hands went to enwrap her waist, “Why?”

“First, they got us engaged so early and then set the marriage-date so late,” her voice turned into a complaining tone. “Honey, do something na,” she shook my body.

“Sorry. I have studied biology, not astrology. I am of no help,” I grinned as I felt her stomach.

“No no, you are,” she said, excited.

“How?”

“You can run away with me,” she patted my back.

Surprised, I jumped on the couch, “And what would be the news headline then? Dr. Shaan eloped away with his fiancée, Dr. Rekha?” I laughed and kissed her forehead.

She hugged me.

“Rekha, I love you,” I whispered in her ear.

“I love you too, dear,” she rubbed my back. “Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“I promise you, we will always be together.” My hands went over her chest; I could hear her heartbeats go loud.

“We will be together even if death drifts us apart. We are …”

“Soulmates,” I kissed beneath her ear. In the next moment, her pink lips had embraced mine. A strong wave of air brought the tiny drops of water in the room. It started to rain. I kissed the raindrop residing on her cheeks and slowly leaned forward on her. We kissed again, this time more passionately. Her eyes glimmered like a pearl and breath smelt minty.

“Stop now!” she put a pillow on my face.

“Why?”

“We aren’t married yet.”

“But we will be, soon,” I snatched her pillow. She slid beneath me, through the smooth couch, and rested on the ground. Even though she did not let me do anything more, my lips curved a smile. I closed my eyes and thanked The Almighty for sending an angel in my life. Then, I caressed her. She held my hands and asked me to dance with her.

“We are responsible doctors. We cannot play music in the hospital.”

“I know that stupid!” she elbowed me. “Listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat and follow my steps.” Her head rested on my chest. I put my left hand on her waist and she put her left hand on my waist.

Listen to the rhythm of your heart which beats with your name etched,
Soulful music caressing me with your smile bewitched.
Gently kissing my passionate dreams, your spirit softly speaks,
Words of eternal love in harmony, my heart sneaks.
With fragrance of your soul I dance with you my dear,
To live for aeons in your arms even our breaths vanish in the air!
(Verses by Soumya Ma’am from http://soumyav.wordpress.com)

We danced in the eerie silence of the hospital as the sky bestowed on us its loving drops of water. Our love was an ocean of ecstasy filled with these tiny droplets.

As the sky roared to make its presence felt, Rekha clinched my fist. “Ouch, you pinched your nails in!” I exclaimed.

However, she did not seem to care. “Hey! It’s beautiful. Come.” Her eyes glanced outside the semi-circular balcony.

“You will catch a cold,” I said, concerned. The floor had become slippery.

“Stop it Shaan! I am not a kid.”

“OK. Then let me bring the chairs.”

“Don’t behave like an uncle. Just come and have a look,” she held my hand and pulled me to the balcony.

The sky had turned red and the rain was waning away.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Shaan?”

“Yes it is. And the most beautiful of all is you,” I smiled. Her white apron over her blue dress made a beautiful contrast with the dusky scenario. Rain had stopped now. It seemed like playing hide-and-seek. The earthy smell and the cold breeze made me feel like there were endless tickles creeping inside me. I turned to Rekha. The breeze was constantly playing with her, causing strands of hair to move on and away from her face. It seemed as if they were playing piano on her cheeks. She passed her hands over her wet hair and smiled to me.

“Rekha, thank you for accepting my proposal,” my emotions were willing to get out of my cool body to reach for her heart.

“You know what, I am so excited to get married.” She took a deep breath as she wiped the water off her dress.

“So that you can ask me to massage your feet all the time, right?” I playfully made an angry face.

“No. Not just feet, whole body massage, Shaan,” she winked.

“Huh!” I turned away.

She laughed as she sprinkled some water on my face. “Dr. Shaan, I have some other plans.”

“What plans?”

“To wake you up daily with a kiss.” She rested on the parapet.

“Just that?”

“Then, to hum the headlines of the newspaper like a song.”

“And coffee?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll make that too,” she laughed.

“And then?” I closed my eyes.

“And when you will leave for the hospital, I’ll be so lost inside your love that I’ll whiff your presence on the bed, the pillows and the sheet.”

I could see everything she was saying.

“I’ll learn to make the best dishes for you, and even if I fail, I will hear your sweet curses. I’ll listen to your heartbeats and your breaths.” Her words were like honey pouring into my ears.

My body shivered in the cold ambience. With my eyes closed, I stretched my arms to embrace the whole world. “Rekha, I love you.”

I turned and opened my eyes to her eyes. They were moist, I observed.

“Shaan, we must run away. Now!”

“Yes!” I stepped forward with a smile on my face.

Suddenly, a strong wave of air came with a mass of dust. The wind shook me and the dust went straight into my eyes. She mocked as I struggled to open my eyes. The dust pinched me. Before I could open them, I heard her loud cry, “Shaaaaaaaannn!”

My eyes opened to the biggest horror of my life; Rekha slipped from the parapet and fell off the balcony. A thunder flashed in the black sky. The beautiful rainy dusk had turned furious. It started to rain heavily. God couldn’t do this.

I leaned to see Rekha in the parking area under flash of the thunder. My senses went numb. All I could do now was not to just stand here but run for her, my Rekha, my love.

I slipped as I turned to the room. It hurt badly but I stood and ran. The door, my enemy, knocked me down; Rekha had locked it. There were stars dancing over my head. Collecting my senses, I opened the door and ran skipping breaths.

“Come to the parking area with a stretcher, immediately. Also, get the ICU prepared,” I shouted as I saw Anil, a ward-boy.

However, he did not move, just stared.

The elevator was busy; I took the stairs. Sachin, another ward-boy, was coming. “Sachin, come with a stretcher to the parking area,” I shouted.

“What happened? Where are you running to?” Sachin held my wrist and asked.

“Rekha fell,” I snatched my hand.

“No sir, come,” he held my wrist again, this time tighter.

I protested but failed. He was stronger. He put his arms round my stomach and pulled me back to the corridor. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted furiously and kicked him between his legs. It was a very cruel kick, I knew, but I had to.

With his hand over his hurt part, he said, “You, son of a …” He kicked me and I fell on the stairs. My ears rang with a noise and my nose bled, I was badly hurt. Anil and Sachin dragged me again.

“Asha, they have gone mad. Rush to the parking. Rekha fell from the balcony,” I struggled to breath. The blood, flowing from my nose, was passing to my mouth and my head strained.

Asha, the nurse, stared at us with fury in her eyes and shouted, “Are you both out of your mind? What have you done?” She ran closer to me and wiped my blood smeared face with her dupatta. She rushed back, probably for a first-aid box.

I was having a dizzy spell. “Not me. Save Rekha. Fell. Parking area,” I struggled with every word. The two devils laid me on a stretcher and tied my limbs. Even my best efforts were not fruitful; I jumped but fell back on the stretcher. My loud cry came out like a travailing woman.

Asha came back running with Dr. Zoha. She slapped Sachin and Anil and held my wrist. She looked for my vein and cleaned the surface with spirit. I looked at her, astonished, “What is this?”

“I am giving you anaesthesia. It will soothe you and you will sleep,” she said as Asha gave her the compound.

“Everything will be fine dear. It will reduce your excitability,” she rubbed my forehead.

I could not figure out anything. The world was playing with me. I jumped again and pushed her. The medicine fell on the floor. “But, why? Why are you all doing this to me? Why aren’t you all saving Rekha? You all love her,” tears started to flow. I was helpless.

“Listen, I will make you sleep now,” she said in a commanding tone.

“But I don’t want to. Please save Rekha.”

Tears approached her eyes as she spoke, “Sorry dear, but Rekha is no more.”

But how? She just fell! I squalled.

“I know how hard it is for you. We all loved her but she left us. She left us three years back.”

“Three years? Have you gone mad? Set me free. All you liars,” my eyes reddened and blood, flowing in my nerves, rushed with my scream.

“It’s indeed true. You have a hallucination,” she choked. “So was the night of your marriage, rainy. You were so happy. Everyone was so happy. You, both, were doctors here and in love. It was a celebration when just before your wedding Rekha slipped off her balcony. We tried our best but couldn’t save her,” she gulped her lump.

“Since then, you are admitted here. You are no more a doctor but a patient here. Patient no. 380. You always think that she is with you, talking around you, loving you, dancing with you, singing for you, but it’s not true, Shaan. She has left us, forever,” she broke down.

It’s conspiracy against us. I could not accept this.

My neck twisted in denial; and I saw her again. Rekha was there – smile on lips, tears in eyes and the charming glow on her face.

“Honey, they say I have a delusion of your presence. They say you are no more. Is that true? Are you really my imagination? Are you a ghost?” the unforeseen was happening. My head felt heavy as Zoha injected the tranquilizer in.

“I am… Your soulmate. I will… always be with you,” she came closer and pecked on my cheek and everything went black. The tranquilizer had shown its ataractic properties.

__END__

Granny’s Jugs

“Nice jugs,” said the man.

“I beg your pardon?” snapped Fenella Rickmansworth-Smith.  She was enjoying a pot of tea at her favourite café, the English Muse, a discovery she had stumbled across on Newlands Avenue quite by chance. Her back was to the window.

“I said the jugs, they’re nice, no?” he indicated the delicate milk jug on Fenella’s table. He was American, guessed Fenella. East Coast? It was hard to tell as he had his mouth full of scone. Mind you, she could hardly blame him, the baking becoming more heavenly by the day. She dabbed her lips, hoping perhaps to set an example he may wish to follow. A chocolate brownie lay half-finished on her plate.

“I see what you mean,” she chuckled. He was quite nice, she decided. Not exactly an Adonis, but then neither was she God’s Gift to men. She quickly checked her lipstick in her tiny mirror.

“I was being facetious,” he chuckled. His eyes wrinkled endearingly. He took another mouthful of scone. His masticating was less endearing, quite ovine, if truth be told. And as a moral philosopher, Fenella did so believe in the truth.

“I thought you might be,” she replied, smiling, and then returning her gaze to the stack of marking which lay barely touched on the polished wooden table. Fenella taught part-time at the nearby university, a job she enjoyed, but which she was starting to find beyond her. It was like trying to iron a parachute, she decided finally. Susan Mary Abercrombie, or Apple Crumble as her colleagues knew her, was quite unteachable. Arrogant too. Fenella imagined she was quite a flirt too, with her long legs and sweet (for men only) smile. She scrawled D on the top of her essay, quite bitchily, and aggressively scooped a mouthful of brownie towards her mouth.

“You teach, don’t you?” asked the man. Fenella looked up, her pulse quickening.

“Yes, do you?” she replied. She had never seen the man before. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea. Such lovely cups, she thought. It made all the difference, did it not? Her granny had always had nice cups. And jugs too, she thought, giggling suddenly at the thought. Granny’s jugs, it would be an ideal name for a short story, if one were of literary bent.

“I am here on a Sabbatical,” said the man. “And what’s so funny?” He laughed too, catching her mood.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I say, would you like to join me?” Fenella was being dreadfully forward, quite out of character.

“Sure,” replied the man. He picked up his plate and cup and crossed to Fenella’s table. The mood changed. There was an electrical charge, like the whiff of lightning. Fenella felt a tightness in her chest, and she nervously sipped her tea.

“I’m Leonard,” said the man. “From Boston.”

“I thought as much,” said Fenella. Boston was such a lovely town. She could see herself living in Boston, she thought. It had a nice ring to it. Nicer than Hull. Not that there was anything wrong with Hull of course, she added hastily, not wishing to think uncharitable thoughts. A perfectly decent little university, good restaurants if one were prepared to drive out, and some charming nightlife for younger people. But Fenella was getting too old for ‘nightlife,’ she mused sadly. Unless one counted a night of Radio 3, a bottle of Chianti, and a good book as nightlife. In which case, Hull was ‘smokin’ for her, she imagined herself saying in a gangsta accent. She toyed with her hair, and smiled. “Have you been in Hull long?” Was that too forward, she suddenly thought? One did not wish to appear overly eager. Quite vulgar in a woman, she felt, a tad Victorianly. Was ‘Victorianly’ a legitimate adverb, she pondered.

“Just a month,” replied Leonard. “Say, do you fancy another pot of tea? I could do with a top up.” He looked at her expectantly.

“I’d better not, I’ll wet myself,” she gushed. Oh, Christ on a bike, thought Fenella. What have I just said? She blushed, trying to think of what it might sound like. Perhaps it did not happen, she mused. Perhaps words did not exist if one willed them not to. She’d have to leave, she decided. She’d get up and leave. Not look back.

To her relief, Leonard’s mouth opened in surprise, and then he guffawed. He slapped the table, an unnecessarily earthy gesture, thought Fenella, who did not wholly approve of table-slapping. It was quite Nordic, she felt. However, she too laughed, a tad hysterically, as though a horse had just been given a powerful stimulant intravenously. “I was only joking,” she added, somehow making the whole thing worse.

“Just an espresso perhaps?” he asked. “They do nice espressi here.” He spoke gently, his voice as soft as a spring breeze. Fenella felt utterly bewitched.

“Alright,” she replied. She watched how his eyes danced. He had such lovely, piercing blue eyes. And his grey hair was luxuriant too, like a silver mane. “What’s your field?” she simpered. Stop it, Fenella, said the stern voice in her head. You’re embarrassing yourself. Quite whose voice it was, Fenella did not know, but she imagined it were Mummy’s. She often heard Mummy’s voice in her head. Get promotion, Fenella, don’t wear short skirts Fenella, you’re too old for a bikini, Fenella. Cow, Fenella thought, instantly regretting such uncharitable thinking. Was it normal for a woman of fifty to still be haunted by one’s mother? Perhaps she needed counselling, she wondered. Then she dismissed the thought, imagining sitting in some patchouli-scented room, pouring her heart out to a bored therapist. There was something quite vulgar about paying a stranger to listen to one’s problems, she felt. Like prostitution for the emotions.

They sipped their espressi in silence. “How long are you going to stay?” asked Fenella at last.

“Maybe half a year,” said Leonard. “It depends on my wife.”

Fenella’s face froze in mid-smile, like a clown who’d just been zapped with a thousand volts. Her smile was stuck, she realised. She could not stop smiling in fact. Her jaw hurt, her muscles ached and yet she smiled on. Finally, she squeezed out a noise of sorts. Not her most scintillating contribution perhaps, but a start.

“Yes, I imagine she must like Hull,” she said, ice forming on her words, like droplets on an aircraft window. She suddenly needed a cigarette. Could one smoke at the English Muse? Probably not, she thought. No doubt there was some dreary little bylaw about it. Quite why a Bostonian would be compelled to like Hull was not clearly formed in Fenella’s head. Was it a requirement to like Hull? Fenella imagined the woman to be mousy, probably a mathematician or some such, her bespectacled face buried in some book or other at the library, beavering away, solving the mysteries of the universe and still finding time to be a cook in the kitchen, a whore in the dining room, and an acrobat in the conservatory, or whatever that dreadfully sexist little French saying was.

“You’d like her,” said Leonard, beaming smugly.

Somehow Fenella doubted it very much.

“I’d best be going,” said Fenella decisively.

“Must you?” asked Leonard, a look of surprise and hurt on his face.

“Yes, I must,” she answered. She gathered up her coat crossly. She did so hope Leonard was not going to make the café one of his haunts. Fenella had come to regard it quite as her own and was not minded to share it.

Andrew Reid Wildman is author of Spicy Green Ginger a book of 26 short stories from Hull and the East Riding.

First bright white, like a camera adjusting its iris for the sun, then a boy doused from a shower and barely past the threshold, walked away from a house he’d probably enter only once in his life.  He looked down to caution his steps then smiled a smile he had never been accustomed to, all from the realization that this feeling might be all too real, though he enjoyed it and even laughed, in true anti-romanticism fashion, at the idea of butterflies. When he turned around, a smile met his caught in the glare of the sun. He searched for something to say to have the last words without being too trite, while he held up his arm parallel to the ground over his forehead and opened his palm to shield his eyes from the brightness of a burning star.

He took one last deep breath and whispered, “play crack the sky.” Somewhere in the sky a cloud burst and began to envelop the earth in petrichor.

The third story bottled in the “San Juan Stories” series is called “The Pillory.”

I didn’t know it then, but it was to be the last message in a bottle for many years. Around this time (1996) I began working on a novel, and I let the short story project take a long rest.

This story contains allusions to some biographical footnotes in the life of Salvador Dalí–in particular, to his experiences with a crazy old woman named Lydia in his hometown of Cadaquez.

A few grammar problems have been improved, but otherwise the following is what I put in the bottle in 1996.

The Pillory

by Carlos José Camblor

Lydia is everywhere today,  telling me to write this.

She was sighing in the slide of the waves on the pebbles when I walked down to the shore this morning to feed my pet bird his breakfast, she was in my thoughts about jumping overboard and joining those friendly lights on the water while going over to Fairhaven later on, she was especially there on the walk up Harris street when I arrived there to visit with Pearl, and now that I’m back on Sucia this evening, having a drink in Endstown, it is as if she is actually sitting here next to me and she is whispering in my ear, “Remember to me.”

The Kalakala is rebuilt and plowing the waters around Puget Sound once again and it is the picture of this ferry that I begin remembering with. A sleek silver fish, like a prop from Metropolis, the Kalakala evokes peculiar sentimentalities with its aerodynamic curves of riveted steel. It was the bright new star of Washington’s ferry fleet in the thirties and now it is being admired again for the future it presents to us with its space-age styling. It is a prototype for a future that never arrived. A creation obviously from the past that still seems too soon. Everyone is happy this strange fish is back in the water. It did not deserve its early retirement as a dry-docked  processor, an exiled anachronism rusting in the seaside fog.

The ferry’s been assigned the Olga-Fairhaven run, connecting East Orcas and South Bellingham, and this morning I had my first chance to board the resurrected vessel. After the short punt between Sucia and Buckhorn at sunrise, I hitched into Olga just in time to catch the early boat. On the way to the new observation deck after boarding I stopped to look at a nautical map that was hung in the companionway and I was struck hard by a little notation that ran right across the North part of Orcas Island below Sucia. “Local Magnetic Disturbance,” is what it said, and what it meant kept me occupied most of the rest of the crossing. This was something I had never seen before and I remember thinking that it required some thought at a distance, outside the range of the warp rising from these islands. Could this disturbance be some kind of clue to my life’s recent emptiness?  Perhaps this abnormality–I imagine it like a compass needle spinning uncertain—points to new navigations for the paths I walk in this world. I strolled the deck with unusually light hopes fighting their sibling heavy memories in my skull. I was led to wonder about the nature of the relationship between lover Magnetism and rover Time.

Getting off the ferry and walking the hill up Harris there was a quarter-moon in the quiet cerulean sheltering the familiar nestle of old redbricks that is Fairhaven. There is a series of historic markers—flashbacks carved in stone—that follows the sidewalk up the hill on the left, and passing each one pulls the pedestrian further back, even while pushing forward, into a rare remote reminiscence. I find that it is not an easy walk up this hill. It is a walk of broken recall and mixed moments. The lapidary are stolen little bits of backwards and represent less people remembered than seconds forgotten. This morning I returned to Fairhaven for the first time since that weekend they locked up Lydia here last year. Now, because she is gone from me, I saw her amongst the phantoms and shadows of those moments forgotten on the stones. This simple walking wonder is quite curious in its choice of detail. The plaques read:

President McKinley in a Buggy 1901

Sam Lowe’s Opium Den 1898

Site of City Drowning Pool (Dogs Only) 1891

Here is where Matthew was Cut In Two by a Streetcar 1892

Freight Wagon Disappears into Quicksand 1903

How can one walk up this hill? Forwards and backwards but surely never up and down.

Further along, not far from where the old cobblestones cross Harris, and close to the former library, is the most difficult point of passage on this hill. Here is where the inspired of Fairhaven have dug up the dead in a desperate attempt to ask them how to fix our future, a place where they’ve opened up a chest of obsolete tools and oiled up a leftover evil machine to help mold their righteousness. On the cold side of the street, in the gravel between the sidewalk and the curb, and  perpendicular to the blacktop, stands the pillory.

Two wide fir posts support both the pillory’s lower block, with its three hemispherical cutouts—one small, one large, one small—and its upper block with its matching missing pieces. I noticed the top block, lowered in the slots of the posts with the lower and upper hemispheres aligned, was locked in place today, even though nobody was imprisoned in its rude jaw. It seems to hold tight to the spirits of its tormented and the empty holes intimidate more than when filled. When it is in use it transforms into spectacle. This is postmodern punishment, an example of ultimate exposure and forced publicity,  so much worse for the human condition than simple physical tortures. Here we have the opposite of a chastity belt and the reduction of a cage. Lock someone’s head and hands in place with these boards and you offer their very will up to the takers. This is where I came to comfort Lydia last year, a place where I saw her soul.

The plaque is there, “Town Pillory 1896,” and indeed they’ve erected the pillory in the same spot it stood in more than a hundred years ago. Such methods of justice were on their way out at the close of the 1800’s in America. Law and order were sanitized and universalized as the nation coalesced and became whole. Now, after the Disunion of the 1990’s—a wakening  after a long restless sleep with the television on in the background—the states have risen to a new mean morning where fears and angers are no longer hidden but expressed. In some places the fears and angers are running the show now.

It is a sad thing that these experiments have succeeded and caught on. More and more communities are installing these monuments of punishment, and more and more are convinced that they are working on our morals when all they actually do is satisfy our masked desires for pain.

Lydia was here in Fairhaven visiting Pearl last year when I received a phone-call back on Sucia from our friend Tamara. Pearl was with Lydia here at the pillory. Lydia had been arrested after purchasing illegal herbs for her abortion and was immediately sentenced by the council to a full day bent over in this jail beneath the sky, and so Ariel was cursed to a cloven pine.

It was a parallel course—the same as today’s. The sunrise sail to Buckhorn, the hitch, the ferry, the hill, and now I get to this spot and it is a humming hell-mouth of grief. This device was designed for more than one person’s suffering. A testament to my own wrongs and wrestlings, this machine is my own. I saw the shadow of her locked up there today, Despair sitting on the ground next to her and I remembered all the details of my arrival last time when there was still a small crowd milling about. The council and the jailers, the hate mongers who brought their children to teach, the mourners and the protesters. People were gathered for all their different reasons, but Lydia was the bleeding heart of the whole.

The stocks and her screams broke her voice before I arrived to join Pearl in sitting with her, but for hours she continued to talk in-between her quiet moans. There was almost-laughter in her sobs and, like a sleepwalker, she mixed foreign things together in delirious tones. Those claws were in there, those lonely scuttling claws were mentioned, as were the flightless gull and the fishes speaking in tongues. Her watery, gentle, malleable madness, filled with images of her dead sailor husband and writhing hands in the widow’s watch, was occasionally punctuated by a barking dog in the distance. If you listen closely there’s a barking dog in every scene. Everything came out—a soul seeped flotsam—and hidden parts of her life—the deepest parts of dreams—were birthed, unfiltered into this world. Pearl and I sat with her through the night. The crowd filtered away as the shops closed down and left the three of us to our still street-side shrine.

When Lydia was released at dawn and we walked away weeping I saw this wooden fountain of tears become a sublime monument and I felt angered by my traitor eyes. I saw the flowers along the sidewalk come out of nowhere as we led her, shivering, back to Pearl’s and I felt ripped between the forced pain that I thought I should feel with her, and the free-fall oblivion right over the edge. I saw thyme growing in the cracks between the stones at my feet and I knew not what sky I stood beneath. Did that moon wax or wane?

You must understand if I describe it as a beautiful thing. Perhaps the only way to help is to write it as a beautiful thing. What I saw there washed over me, and baptized me, and blessed me, seeing the ocean in all her tides and storms. Today I read the plaque, and  looked at the pillory, and  walked on and visited for a while with Pearl, and tried not to talk with her about the past or the future.

The sixth glass of wine—the last one delivered from the bottle—is growing a brilliant blood-red with the final amber light cast over the islands, and my best friends—those flickering spots of gold out on the water—give me solace and warmth while I reflect upon the turning of another day.

The most brilliant sunset might be a torture if associated with particular things and this one was cast with the ghost of a woman sitting next to me, a holy spot where Lydia, my Gala, sits and cries while a symphony plays its sad accompaniment, composed completely from the sounds of trees rubbing against one another in the wind. Imaginary calipers in my head are measuring the speed of the falling star and dizzy me with the implied revolutions of our oversized tellurion. We are spinning so fast.

I was thrown backwards by these things today—taken up onto those high empty plateaus that are  scattered with the darlings of  oblivion, where my abstract airy madness drifts about playing with gravity’s things. I was reminded of a time to come, of strange segments out of dreams. A wind on the moon. An empty frozen landscape with wasps and flies, and the earth covered with black clouds in the distance. A gamelan orchestra ringing out its searching twangs. Whether these were moments somewhere in the opposite direction or hopes somehow ahead I was not sure.

Those lights down on the water are the present, though. Celebrating the now, they show up sometimes to keep me company and help me hang on.

The tangible things, are gone now and they’ve left behind sore holes in my mind where there exists in allegories and images the remains of a person. The woman from Cadaquez. The woman who used to sit next to me here at the bar. What keeps her from me today is the prison she has locked herself inside. She has closed herself up in her leave-me-be shell, but this does nothing to hold back her questioning whispers that I hear in wind and waves. “You’re writing me, aren’t you?”

A wooden sign hangs above the door here. Odysseus is carved into the surface, strapped to the mast beneath the word “Tavern”, and the harpies play their music to him from atop a piney bluff. I have been thinking more and more about their music and this sign of late. There are watercolors of sea-nymphs and mermaids everywhere around the bar and they are always swimming in my head now when I come here for a drink. There is one painting in which the water-woman swims wild with all the tiny detailed sea-creatures, and another that depicts her dancing in a tank beneath a crowded circus tent. There is one that shows her  having a drink in a bar much like this one, and another where she is only suggested by the castle submerged in the fishbowl on a night-stand, next to a sleeper having fitful dreams.

These are all pictures of my memories of Lydia. She has inherited from them her world. This sign and these pictures take on more and more weight as thoughts attach to them, settling down as strange, tired birds hiding in the trees, or gentle seaweeds floating on the surface of the waters in the compositions. They are objects locked into their futures by their pasts, proving the nature of symbols and signs is never known in full, is always changing.

While we were together, when we would come here to the bar, I thought Lydia was one of the sirens inside these  frames, but now I know that it is my memory, not her person, that is drawn into these pictures. There is a difference after all between her and my mind’s creation. The endless ever-forwards teaches me this. It teaches me so many things will be uncorked in time. New relics will be unearthed in the rubble of hurricane History. Here, for example, is another empty bottle of wine.

There was nothing new. They had run out of things to say to each other. If one would ask Christy which underwear her boyfriend was wearing, she wouldn’t need to hesistate to let you know in a jiffy. They knew too much about each other that predictability, in itself, became boring. Sharing their deepest, darkest secrets? That was said, shared, cried over years ago. Nowadays, conversations consisted of:

C: Have you eaten?

D: Yea… what about you?

C: Mum cooked this morning…

D: Sunny side up eggs with toast again?

C: Yea…

D: hmm…

AND…. There was silence. A comfortable one, but nonetheless a very long silence.

There was once upon a time, when eloquence was their forte. They talked about everything under the sun, from mercury to pluto and beyond, but, those times had long been fossilised. Christy wondered if they were going through some sort of age related mental digression. Damien wondered if talking about last night’s episode of ‘Survivor’ would result in some kind of deja vu in their conversation. Everything that have been said, or will be said sounded as if they have been said before,  probably repeated a few hundred times with just a touch of paraphrasing between those conversations.

C: It was the Singapore episode yesterday…

D: Huh?

C: The Amazing Race…

D: Oh ya… wanted to catch it… but was so caught up with the design… deadline’s tomorrow… the stupid client….

He was interrupted.

C: …the stupid client asked for a new version, yea, you’ve complained about it like… for a like a hundred million times this whole week…

D: Some sympathy I’m feeling here… so anything interesting happened?

C: What? In life? At work? At home? In general? Be specific!

D: …Amazing Race… in Singapore, so what happened?

Christy rolled her eyes, and sighed.

C: Well, what do you think? They ran all over the touristy parts. Took the slow flyer, wasted loads of time up there. Came down and flew off to another country. They covered Singapore in 3/4 an episode, the rest was travelling to and out of here…. it was that bad… anyways our 3/4 looked like a goddamn promotional tourist video more than anything else…

D: 3/4 of an episode… it’s a wonder they didn’t finish it in ten minutes…

Christy sighs dismally.

Damien was counting the number of tourist attractions that Singapore had with his fingers. There were shoes on his feet, but he knew that he wouldn’t need his toes.

Silence ensued… again…

Damien used to jerk off to those pretty faces in Korean serials, but as he watched more and more, the girls started looking the same in the different series, he couldn’t tell who was who anymore, it was frustrating trying to look for more material to work with. He told Christy once.

D: If there were a hundred me(s) walking on the same street today, I bet no one would give anyone of them a second glance. Seriously,  what’s all that fuss that people are making about the rights and wrongs of cloning… I mean, ain’t they already doing it? Or, are they protesting just for the sake of it…? Retards…

C: I would so love to see that day… sureee… our Yishun Street 61 could use so much more boredom with the many you(s) running around… and with your mediocre looks…

Looking at the huge wall mirror hung up in the living room. Peering closely at her face.

C: Anyways, I was thinking of going for a nose job next month, hate the look of it, looks fat, bleah… and boring. Any recommendations?

Damien, ever so helpful, grabbed a bunch of ‘Ceci’ and ‘High-Cut’ from the coffee table and placed them into Christy’s hands.

D: Here. Some inspirations.

C: I meant doctors, you idiot!

D: Ahh… dunno… I’ll ask around…

Silence. Christy still at the mirror, critically examining her nose.

From far away a.k.a downstairs, the ting-a-ling of the ice-cream man’s bell was heard from the 12th floor, Damien immediately thought of having some ice cream and rubbed his tummy. Surely one scoop will not make such a difference, he thought. Christy was now pinching the bridge of her nose. The nose looks horribly red now with all that ministrations.

D: How about some ice cream?

C: Hmmm…

Christy murmured. We can’t really make out what she says with her nose pinched like that.

D: That ice cream man is really irritating… but he’s really good at making people want to have ice cream. Good business sense, huh?

Christy is tired of prodding her nose and has moved on to her single eyelids.

D: Dear, don’t we have some Häagen Dazs in our freezer? Make me a double scoop ok?

Experience had taught Zeke that smaller monsters often followed behind the large ones. The smaller monsters were less frightening. They were his goal. His soon to be meal. Sure enough, a cohort of them marched down the street behind their masters. Before he could step out toward his prey, he heard a commotion that made him pause. Others of his kind were sweeping toward the monsters from the other side of the procession. The monsters reacted to this attack with swift retaliation. Fire flashed and several of his kind fell to the ground, cut to pieces by the might the monsters brought to bear on them. One of the behemoths roared its anger, and a great explosion evaporated several more.

Driven onward by his spiking hunger, Zeke shambled out into the street, intent on striking while most of the monsters were distracted by his erstwhile allies. He came up behind one of the smaller monsters who was crouched and looking away, preparing to deal more death. Zeke lurched forward and bit the beast hard where the back of its neck was exposed. Clenching his teeth firmly, Zeke ripped away, tearing off a large chunk of flesh from the monster’s neck. It shrieked in pain, flailing violently in an effort to dislodge him from its back. As others of its kind reacted to this unexpected danger in their midst, they were fallen upon by the growing number of assailants flooding the street. One of the behemoths bellowed again, killing its own kind and Zeke’s with indiscriminate outrage.

Zeke bore the monster he had attacked to the ground, feasting savagely on the warm flesh of its neck. It spasmed beneath him one last time and fell still. Zeke’s hunger began to subside as he ate. More of his kind died around him. He could hear the larger monsters coming back his way. Satisfied for now, Zeke rose and shuffled back into the alley. As he turned to look back into the street, he saw the monster he had attacked slowly rise and start to make its way toward him. Only, it was not a monster anymore. It was like Zeke now. Zeke let out a satisfied groan without realizing it. He would never be able to understand why.

This piece is just a fun little perspective swap. I am frequently interested in points of view we don’t get to see much in stories. That of the enemy, the bad guy, the alien, the ghost, the zombie. It seems like there are infinite stories waiting to be told there, but they are avoided, usually for a fear that they won’t connect with the reader (or watcher). That’s definitely an area I would like to explore more as a writer. 

สิ่งมีชีวิตนั้น มีจำนวนมากกว่าหนึ่ง และกำลังขยายอาณาเขตออกไปทางด้านข้างทั้งซ้าย และขวาจนเต็มพื้นที่ของทางเท้าที่กว้างขนาดสองคนสวนกันได้อย่างสบายๆ

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Rules:

1. Entries must be original and previously unpublished.

2. Must not be any longer than 10,000 words.

3. Must be 18 years old to enter contest.

4. Must proofread before submitting.

5. Must agree to allow KG Books Publishing to post the short story on this blog.

6. Only one winner.

7. Do not plagiarise anyone’s work.  Legal action can be taken against you.

8. Decision of the judges is final.

9. Submission should be considered for all ages.  Do not write something that you wouldn’t want a child to read.  No Adult themes.

10. Submit work to kgbookspub@yahoo.com   In the RE section write: Short Story Contest

11. Entries must include author, email address, and a Title

12. Must be in English.

13. Only one entry per person.

14. KG Books Publishing is not responsible for lost emails.

Good luck!