The following is a shortie I wrote back in 1999.
‘Gemma, we’re going now. You be a good girl for Grampy, won’t you?’
Mrs Haines bent down and pecked a lipstick kiss onto her eight-year old daughter’s cheek. The smell of her perfume enveloped them both like an invisible scented cloud.
‘Don’t go out tonight, Mummy.’ Gemma begged, ’Pleeeeease.’
Gemma hated it when Mummy and Daddy went out for the evening and left her with Grampy. She didn’t like Grampy: he was old and scary and smelt of wee. She threw her arms around her mother’s legs to stop her going.
‘Now come on, darling, don’t be silly.’ Mrs Haines chided gently. She prised Gemma’s hands loose carefully so that the child’s nails didn’t ladder her stockings. Gemma burst into tears.
‘But if you go, Gary will come and set our house on fire.’ she whined.
‘What?’ Gemma’s mother was surprised. Gemma always played up when she and Richard were going out for the night, but then usually went and cuddled Big Ted and cried herself to sleep. This was a new tactic.
‘Gary said he’s going to set our house on fire.’ Gemma repeated.
‘Gemma, who’s Gary?’ Mrs Haines knelt down so that she could be face to face with her daughter.
‘A boy.’ Gemma mumbled.
‘From school?’
Gemma shrugged. Gary was just Gary, she didn’t know what school he went to. Mrs Haines gently held her daughter’s shoulders.
‘Answer me, Gemma. Is Gary from your school?’
‘I don’t know.’ the little girl answered in a small voice.
‘What’s his second name?’
‘I don’t know.’ she repeated.
This is serious, thought Mrs Haines. She would have to phone the school tomorrow.
‘Well, don’t worry, darling.’ she said in a reassuring voice, ‘I’ll talk to your teacher tomorrow and we’ll find this naughty boy, OK?’ Mrs Haines gave her daughter a hug and another kiss, and stood up to go.
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘Grampy’s here so nobody’s going to do anything to hurt you. Now say bye-bye to Daddy.’
Mr Haines had just come down the stairs and was standing by the front door, jingling the car keys.
‘Ready?’ he asked brightly.
‘Yes, let’s get going.’ his wife replied, preceding him out the front door. ‘You’ll never guess what Gemma just said to me.’
‘Tell me in the car.’ he said, ‘We’re late as it is’
Mummy hadn’t believed her. Gemma knew she wouldn’t. She had gone out with Daddy anyway just like she always did, and now she was all alone with Grampy with his wee smell and his cold hard hands.
The next day, Gemma’s teacher, Miss Bean, took her to one side.
‘Gemma,’ she said, ‘your Mummy’s just phoned and told me that you said a boy called Gary threatened to set your house on fire. Is this true?’
‘Yes, Miss Bean.’
‘Which Gary was it. Was it Gary Powell?’
Gemma shook her head.
‘Gary Summers?’
Again no.
‘Gary Hurst?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Well, that’s all the Garys in the school, are you sure it was one of them?’
Gemma shrugged.
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him?’
Gemma shrugged again.
‘Gemma,’ Miss Bean said in her Serious voice. ‘You’re not making this up are you?’
‘No, Miss.’ Gemma replied.
‘Alright. Go and sit back down.’ Gemma did as she was told.
Miss Bean sighed as she watched the little girl return to her seat. The child was probably lying – she was certainly being evasive. Perhaps she was just looking for a bit of attention. It was a shame: she was such a bright child and a hard worker too.
Miss Bean decided she would phone the child’s mother and reassure her, encourage her to maybe lavish a little extra affection on the child for a few days, that should sort it out.
Gemma sat in her seat. Miss Bean was nice, but she couldn’t tell her about Gary. Gemma toyed with the idea of telling Miss Bean that it had been Gary Summers after all, who had made the threat, but she was an honest child at heart and didn’t want to get the boy into trouble for nothing. Perhaps Mummy and Daddy would stay at home tonight and she wouldn’t have to talk about Gary any more.
‘OK, Gemma, we’re going. Have you got a kiss for Mummy?’ Mrs Haines bent down and pecked a lipstick kiss Gemma’s on cheek, just like last night.
‘But Mummy,’ Gemma protested. ‘Gary’s coming!’
‘Now Gemma,’ said Mrs Haines firmly, ‘Miss Bean told me you made that story up.’ Miss Bean had not actually said that, but Mrs Haines was impatient to get away and could not think of a better way of putting it.
‘But it’s true!’ insisted Gemma, tears springing to her eyes.
‘Now settle down, or Mummy will get very cross.’ Mrs Haines said firmly. ‘Say bye-bye.’
Gemma said the hated words and watched her mother close the door.
A few moments later, she heard the car start up and drive away, carrying off the two people in the world that she wanted to have close by, that could keep her safe. Why wouldn’t they stay with her?
Not long after, Gemma noticed that Grampy had fallen asleep in the chair She tiptoed over to the little side table next to him.
She picked up the box of matches that Grampy used to light his smelly old pipe. She opened it, took out a match and struck it.
Gary’s coming, she whispered to herself, letting the burning match drop from her fingers.
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Grounded
It's a truism that sometimes the most well-meaning acts can have the most unfortunate consequences.
The patient before me is one Andaz McClintok, although he doesn't answer to that name – none of my patients will answer to their birth names – but I will not humour him by addressing him the way I know he wants me to, the way he is used to being addressed. This is not spitefulness on my part, believe me. Andaz and the other thirty-three like him have got to adapt to their new lives now, whether they like it or not, and part of that adaptation involves having and using a personal name.
A course of intensive physiotherapy has reversed some of the severe muscle atrophy in this patient, but underneath his white hospital gown, his arms and legs are still stick-thin and he cannot as yet walk unaided. His skin is still dead-white and it will take some time for the pigment to build up enough for him to go outside safely. His hair will never grow back, of course - all his hair follicles were destroyed to prevent hair growth interfering with his Interface. His scalp is a smooth white egg apart from the tracery of thin red scars spidering over its surface where the Interface connections were surgically removed.
He eyes me dully as I sit down opposite him and wish him a good morning. His breakfast tray lies nearby, untouched. His gaze drifts down to his hands folded neatly in his lap - still thin and clawlike despite the therapy.
"Andaz. Andaz?" I repeat his name until I manage to break into his reverie and he looks up at me – either that or he's just fed up of hearing his name over and over, "Andaz, you have to eat. We talked about this, didn't we? You agreed to start taking your meals last time I was here. Don't you remember?"
He looks at the tray with the same lack of interest as he looked at me – and at everything else, then allows his gaze to settle once more on his folded hands.
"Andaz, look," I say, trying to bring him back to the here and now once more, "I know you're not used to eating. I know it must be strange and distasteful, but this is how things are now, you have to accept this. Dr Maddizon says your digestive system is fully functional now so please, at least try something."
I place the tray in front of him. The food's not bad, actually, and smells appetising even to me. Maybe the smell gets to Andaz too because, after a minute of so of incurious staring, he gropes for the plastic spoon next to the bowl and guides a wavering spoonful into his mouth. I can see his jaw working as he moves the food around inside his mouth, getting all the different flavours – or so I think.
He lets the spoon fall back into the bowl and pushes the tray away again.
"Don't you like it?" I ask, "I can get something else brought in?"
"No flavour," he replies. His voice, so long unused, is hardly more than a croak.
Suddenly, he buries his face in his hands and does the most human thing I have observed him do so far – he begins to weep, his body convulsing with great wracking, utterly abandoned sobs.
On an intellectual level, of course, I know perfectly well what this poor shrivelled man must be going through – I am a trained psychologist after all - but it is only now that the full force of the loss he has endured, and the utter hopelessness he must be feeling, really hits me.
The Compassionate Uses Act of 2657 was meant to do good. It was meant to put an end to what was essentially a form of slavery.
It had long been the case that only the human brain possessed the necessary complexity and processing power required to navigate a starship safely across the void – and only the rarest type of brain, at that. Children were tested at age seven – and those precious few who passed the tests were Interfaced, becoming, in effect, a starship's living heart and brain. Their frail human bodies were replaced by a sleek metal hull, as their ears and eyes were replaced by long- and short- range sensors, able to scan the full width of the electromagnetic spectrum, not just the tiny slit of the visible available to ordinary humans. Their limbs were replaced by Tachyon-Ion converters and all of space was theirs to roam.
They had had no choice as children.
We gave them no choice as Ships.
With the advent of sufficiently advanced neural net AI to replace them, it was decided that we, as a society, would undo the injustice we had perpetrated against the ship-children as they were called. We would free the poor creatures "trapped" inside the remaining thirty-four starships still in existence.
The ships were ordered home and, once there, their human pilots were disconnected and brought here. The ships themselves were dismantled.
As I say, sometimes the most well-meaning acts can have the most unfortunate consequences. We have freed their bodies, of course, but in so doing, we have deafened, blinded and crippled them.
How can the flavour of a bowl of soup compare with the subtle 'taste' of millions of different particles as they stream through your detectors?
How can seeing the most beautiful landscape compare with being able to survey the majesty of the very stars themselves in all their glory?
How can walking or running compare with gliding along the curve of space at near lightspeed?
"Oh, Ship," I whisper, "What have we done?"
The patient before me is one Andaz McClintok, although he doesn't answer to that name – none of my patients will answer to their birth names – but I will not humour him by addressing him the way I know he wants me to, the way he is used to being addressed. This is not spitefulness on my part, believe me. Andaz and the other thirty-three like him have got to adapt to their new lives now, whether they like it or not, and part of that adaptation involves having and using a personal name.
A course of intensive physiotherapy has reversed some of the severe muscle atrophy in this patient, but underneath his white hospital gown, his arms and legs are still stick-thin and he cannot as yet walk unaided. His skin is still dead-white and it will take some time for the pigment to build up enough for him to go outside safely. His hair will never grow back, of course - all his hair follicles were destroyed to prevent hair growth interfering with his Interface. His scalp is a smooth white egg apart from the tracery of thin red scars spidering over its surface where the Interface connections were surgically removed.
He eyes me dully as I sit down opposite him and wish him a good morning. His breakfast tray lies nearby, untouched. His gaze drifts down to his hands folded neatly in his lap - still thin and clawlike despite the therapy.
"Andaz. Andaz?" I repeat his name until I manage to break into his reverie and he looks up at me – either that or he's just fed up of hearing his name over and over, "Andaz, you have to eat. We talked about this, didn't we? You agreed to start taking your meals last time I was here. Don't you remember?"
He looks at the tray with the same lack of interest as he looked at me – and at everything else, then allows his gaze to settle once more on his folded hands.
"Andaz, look," I say, trying to bring him back to the here and now once more, "I know you're not used to eating. I know it must be strange and distasteful, but this is how things are now, you have to accept this. Dr Maddizon says your digestive system is fully functional now so please, at least try something."
I place the tray in front of him. The food's not bad, actually, and smells appetising even to me. Maybe the smell gets to Andaz too because, after a minute of so of incurious staring, he gropes for the plastic spoon next to the bowl and guides a wavering spoonful into his mouth. I can see his jaw working as he moves the food around inside his mouth, getting all the different flavours – or so I think.
He lets the spoon fall back into the bowl and pushes the tray away again.
"Don't you like it?" I ask, "I can get something else brought in?"
"No flavour," he replies. His voice, so long unused, is hardly more than a croak.
Suddenly, he buries his face in his hands and does the most human thing I have observed him do so far – he begins to weep, his body convulsing with great wracking, utterly abandoned sobs.
On an intellectual level, of course, I know perfectly well what this poor shrivelled man must be going through – I am a trained psychologist after all - but it is only now that the full force of the loss he has endured, and the utter hopelessness he must be feeling, really hits me.
The Compassionate Uses Act of 2657 was meant to do good. It was meant to put an end to what was essentially a form of slavery.
It had long been the case that only the human brain possessed the necessary complexity and processing power required to navigate a starship safely across the void – and only the rarest type of brain, at that. Children were tested at age seven – and those precious few who passed the tests were Interfaced, becoming, in effect, a starship's living heart and brain. Their frail human bodies were replaced by a sleek metal hull, as their ears and eyes were replaced by long- and short- range sensors, able to scan the full width of the electromagnetic spectrum, not just the tiny slit of the visible available to ordinary humans. Their limbs were replaced by Tachyon-Ion converters and all of space was theirs to roam.
They had had no choice as children.
We gave them no choice as Ships.
With the advent of sufficiently advanced neural net AI to replace them, it was decided that we, as a society, would undo the injustice we had perpetrated against the ship-children as they were called. We would free the poor creatures "trapped" inside the remaining thirty-four starships still in existence.
The ships were ordered home and, once there, their human pilots were disconnected and brought here. The ships themselves were dismantled.
As I say, sometimes the most well-meaning acts can have the most unfortunate consequences. We have freed their bodies, of course, but in so doing, we have deafened, blinded and crippled them.
How can the flavour of a bowl of soup compare with the subtle 'taste' of millions of different particles as they stream through your detectors?
How can seeing the most beautiful landscape compare with being able to survey the majesty of the very stars themselves in all their glory?
How can walking or running compare with gliding along the curve of space at near lightspeed?
"Oh, Ship," I whisper, "What have we done?"
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Another Failed Attempt at Getting Published
Back in December, I sent off the story below to a Flash Fiction competition, the winning 20 entries of which would be published in an anthology entitled "Thieves and Scoundrels". The stories all had to be 1,000 words or less and had to be SciFi, Horror or Fantasy.
This is the same competition that Don't Feed the Pixies entered and wrote about here. He was not successful and, gues what? Neither was I.
Anyhoo, here's the one they didn't want....
Nature Abhors a Vacuum
Hello, Padre. Is it that time already? My, how time flies when you're having fun. Sorry, that's just my little joke. The condemned man can have a little joke, can't he, Padre?
No? Oh, well.
I know I'm supposed to confess all right about now and seek redemption or something, but I have to tell you Padre, I'm not about to do that. I've lied, cheated, stolen, fornicated and murdered my way around the Ninety Worlds all my life, and if that slimeball Soleki hadn't ratted me out, I'd still be out there doing it right now.
I won't lie to you, Padre, I've done nothing good with my life - and I don't regret it.
That's not what you wanted to hear, is it? That's not how the script goes. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, Padre, but I've loved every minute of my life!
Okay, I can see you're not buying the bravado and the bullshit, that's very perceptive of you.
There is one thing I did – a theft, actually - that I would undo if I could. Just one, mind, I'm not going soft or anything just because it's my last day.
I just need someone to know this one thing before I go. It's the least I can do.
I once worked aboard Premier Spaceways' holiday ship, Vivace.
Ah, I see you remember what happened aboard that ship. Well, that's the thing, Padre, the authorities never did work out what caused all those deaths, but I know.
It was me.
Don't look so shocked, I never killed those people, they died just the way the Tri-Dee news reported it. It was my fault is all I'm saying.
I was flat broke and in debt up to my eyeballs with all the wrong people. Back then, I had a lousy poker face, an addiction to gambling, and a misplaced belief in my own luck – a most unfortunate combination, I'm sure you'll agree.
Anyway, there was a pair of plasticrete overshoes or an involuntary stroll out of an airlock sans spacesuit in my near future when Temple Jai offered me enough money to get clear and, like a fool, I jumped at it.
Jai said the device was harmless, just some piece of alien tech-junk he'd picked up offworld. I should have known better than to believe anything Temple Jai said, the rat-bastard. I heard he once sold two of his own mothers just for beer money.
Anyway, all I had to do was get a job on a certain ship, using the fake ID Jai gave me, and take this little thing aboard with me. Each day, I was to hide it in a different passenger's cabin, then at the end of the trip, give it back to him. That was all.
It sounded like easy money.
Did I ask him what the device was? Of course I did, but he point-blank refused to tell me and threatened to call off the deal if I didn't shut my yap.
It was a funny-looking thing, about the size and shape of an egg, but very heavy with a kind of translucent pearly shell. The innards - what you could see of them through the shell – were always slowly swirling around. There was a hint of wiring in there too if you looked real close, and a couple of button-like studs on the outside that you could press with your finger.
Maybe that's where it all went wrong. Maybe I fiddled with the thing a bit, I don't remember for sure anymore. Or maybe Temple Jai knew exactly what the thing did and didn't give a shit - I wouldn't put it past him. He's dead now though, so I guess we'll never know.
We were about a week out from Lumiere when the killings began. One morning, Mrs Soraya Ahmed stabbed her husband to death over breakfast. Sarr T'kel bludgeoned his new Sarra to a pulp the next day, then the day after that, Ikk 'ut set fire to the cabin it was sharing with its mates, killing all eight of them.
Now, I'm no genius, but even I managed to work it out. All the passengers that were doing the killing and those that died were ones in whose cabin I had hidden the egg-thing. Now, I've done some killing in my time, but only people who crossed me, only people who deserved it. Killing strangers for no reason has never been my bag, so you better believe I quickly put the egg-thing back into its box and hid it in the ship's hold, well away from people.
There were fifteen more deaths after that, all from the rest of the cabins where I had hidden the egg-thing before I realised what was going on. The captain put us back to port immediately and there was a massive investigation, but no-one ever figured out what had happened.
I heard they had to scrap the Vivace not long after that: no-one wanted to travel in a boat where so many newlyweds met such a tragic end.
You see, Padre, that was the saddest part. As luck - or Temple Jai, maybe - would have it, I'd been assigned to work on the deck where all the honeymoon suites were - where the love was strongest and freshest.
The egg-thing was some kind of syphon: it just drank up all that love, every last drop. Temple Jai had an eager market for that rarest of commodity and stood to get very rich selling the love I stole for him.
The thing is, Padre, nature abhors a vacuum. When all that love got sucked out of those people, something else rushed in to fill the void, something as fierce and strong as the love had been – except it was the exact opposite of that love.
So there it is - the one thing I ever regret stealing.
You can tell the guards I'm ready to go now.
This is the same competition that Don't Feed the Pixies entered and wrote about here. He was not successful and, gues what? Neither was I.
Anyhoo, here's the one they didn't want....
Nature Abhors a Vacuum
Hello, Padre. Is it that time already? My, how time flies when you're having fun. Sorry, that's just my little joke. The condemned man can have a little joke, can't he, Padre?
No? Oh, well.
I know I'm supposed to confess all right about now and seek redemption or something, but I have to tell you Padre, I'm not about to do that. I've lied, cheated, stolen, fornicated and murdered my way around the Ninety Worlds all my life, and if that slimeball Soleki hadn't ratted me out, I'd still be out there doing it right now.
I won't lie to you, Padre, I've done nothing good with my life - and I don't regret it.
That's not what you wanted to hear, is it? That's not how the script goes. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, Padre, but I've loved every minute of my life!
Okay, I can see you're not buying the bravado and the bullshit, that's very perceptive of you.
There is one thing I did – a theft, actually - that I would undo if I could. Just one, mind, I'm not going soft or anything just because it's my last day.
I just need someone to know this one thing before I go. It's the least I can do.
I once worked aboard Premier Spaceways' holiday ship, Vivace.
Ah, I see you remember what happened aboard that ship. Well, that's the thing, Padre, the authorities never did work out what caused all those deaths, but I know.
It was me.
Don't look so shocked, I never killed those people, they died just the way the Tri-Dee news reported it. It was my fault is all I'm saying.
I was flat broke and in debt up to my eyeballs with all the wrong people. Back then, I had a lousy poker face, an addiction to gambling, and a misplaced belief in my own luck – a most unfortunate combination, I'm sure you'll agree.
Anyway, there was a pair of plasticrete overshoes or an involuntary stroll out of an airlock sans spacesuit in my near future when Temple Jai offered me enough money to get clear and, like a fool, I jumped at it.
Jai said the device was harmless, just some piece of alien tech-junk he'd picked up offworld. I should have known better than to believe anything Temple Jai said, the rat-bastard. I heard he once sold two of his own mothers just for beer money.
Anyway, all I had to do was get a job on a certain ship, using the fake ID Jai gave me, and take this little thing aboard with me. Each day, I was to hide it in a different passenger's cabin, then at the end of the trip, give it back to him. That was all.
It sounded like easy money.
Did I ask him what the device was? Of course I did, but he point-blank refused to tell me and threatened to call off the deal if I didn't shut my yap.
It was a funny-looking thing, about the size and shape of an egg, but very heavy with a kind of translucent pearly shell. The innards - what you could see of them through the shell – were always slowly swirling around. There was a hint of wiring in there too if you looked real close, and a couple of button-like studs on the outside that you could press with your finger.
Maybe that's where it all went wrong. Maybe I fiddled with the thing a bit, I don't remember for sure anymore. Or maybe Temple Jai knew exactly what the thing did and didn't give a shit - I wouldn't put it past him. He's dead now though, so I guess we'll never know.
We were about a week out from Lumiere when the killings began. One morning, Mrs Soraya Ahmed stabbed her husband to death over breakfast. Sarr T'kel bludgeoned his new Sarra to a pulp the next day, then the day after that, Ikk 'ut set fire to the cabin it was sharing with its mates, killing all eight of them.
Now, I'm no genius, but even I managed to work it out. All the passengers that were doing the killing and those that died were ones in whose cabin I had hidden the egg-thing. Now, I've done some killing in my time, but only people who crossed me, only people who deserved it. Killing strangers for no reason has never been my bag, so you better believe I quickly put the egg-thing back into its box and hid it in the ship's hold, well away from people.
There were fifteen more deaths after that, all from the rest of the cabins where I had hidden the egg-thing before I realised what was going on. The captain put us back to port immediately and there was a massive investigation, but no-one ever figured out what had happened.
I heard they had to scrap the Vivace not long after that: no-one wanted to travel in a boat where so many newlyweds met such a tragic end.
You see, Padre, that was the saddest part. As luck - or Temple Jai, maybe - would have it, I'd been assigned to work on the deck where all the honeymoon suites were - where the love was strongest and freshest.
The egg-thing was some kind of syphon: it just drank up all that love, every last drop. Temple Jai had an eager market for that rarest of commodity and stood to get very rich selling the love I stole for him.
The thing is, Padre, nature abhors a vacuum. When all that love got sucked out of those people, something else rushed in to fill the void, something as fierce and strong as the love had been – except it was the exact opposite of that love.
So there it is - the one thing I ever regret stealing.
You can tell the guards I'm ready to go now.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Saturday Wordzzle 84
Each week, Raven gives us a set of 15 words - 5 for the mini, 10 for the 10-worder or all 15 for the mega challenge. The idea is to create a passage which includes the words
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were challenging, to say the least! I said this last week, but boy!
Most awkward words this week: blood drive, powder puff
The Mini (the sky is falling, variations on a theme, bravery, powder puff, empty soda bottles)
Powder Puff was not known for his bravery. In fact, he was afraid of just about everything, including his own shadow.
Mophead and Haggendass, who were old enough to be orange, would tease and bully poor little pink and fluffy Powder Puff mercilessly. Their pranks were always variations on a theme. They would lie in wait for Powder Puff behind a pile of old tin cans or inside an old cardboard box (the dump where all the gribbles lived had plenty of these) and they would then jump out at him with ear-splitting yells, pulling hideous faces. They would then fall over laughing as their victim shrieked and ran off in terror.
Eventually Powder Puff had had enough. He trekked across the dump to the Westinghouse Snow Palace where the Great Gribble lived. The Great Gribble was old and very wise so Powder Puff hoped he would help him deal with the problem of Mophead and Haggendass once and for all.
Eventually he obtained an audience with the Great Gribble, who was so old he looked for all the world like a rather large untidy dust bunny. His two little black eyes, though, were bright, kind and intelligent. Once Powder Puff had explained his predicament, the Great Gribble thought long and hard before giving his advice. Powder Puff listened intently. Yes, he thought, it just might work.
"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" Yelled Mophead and Haggendass, leaping out from behind a pile of soggy newspapers. Despite being really quite scared, Powder Puff bestowed upon them his sunniest smile.
"That's OK," he said sweetly, "the Mighty KolaMonster will save me."
"What?" cried the two bullies in consternation. This was no fun: where was all the shrieking, the running, the laughing?
Powder Puff gave a shrill whistle and from around a great big pile of old TV sets lumbered a hideous beast. Its head was covered in shining, clanking metal plates, its body was covered in thick hairs of all different colours and lengths and the beast was making a shocking racket with its tail.
Mophead and Haggendass took one look and ran for it.
Now it was Powder Puff's turn to fall over laughing. The KolaMonster was in fact a stray dog that had recently taken up residence in the dump. Powder Puff had made friends with it and over the weeks had trained it to accept having flattened tin cans, old electrical wire and whatnot tied to its head and body. He'd even trained it to wag its tail, rattling two empty soda bottles, now half full of old washers and nails to make a fearful din.
Powder Puff had not been altogether certain that the Great Gribble's advice would work, but the old fluffball had been right: bullies are cowards at heart and all you needed to do was stand up to them.
The 10-worder (plaster, cottage cheese, hallowed, hard working, food for thought, blood drive, broken finger, ceiling fan, pastry chef, production)
Betty had a great idea to get people to come along to the local blood drive, she organised a promotional event called Food for Thought. People could come, donate their precious pint and then they could stay and help themselves to food and drink, and watch a light-hearted stage production featuring songs, sketches, poems and whatnot all on the subject of blood.
She managed to rope in a friend who was a pastry chef to create some delicious pies and cakes, while she and a team of hard-working volunteers put together all kinds of buffet dishes - vol-au-vents filled with cottage cheese, sausages on sticks, vegetables and dips, sandwiches, chips, nuts and suchlike. Meanwhile, the performers had been diligently rehearsing their show.
Eventually the hallowed day came and they were all set. Fortunately, it was a fine evening and lots of people showed up to donate, most of which stayed around for the food and the show.
It was during the final rousing song-and-dance number that disaster struck. The cast had been encouraging the audience to stamp and clap along to the music - which they had been doing with great gusto all evening. Unfortunately, the building was old and the plaster had weakened over the years. All the bumping and stamping jarred loose a large, old-fashioned ceiling fan which crashed down onto the stage in a great cloud of dust.
All was dead silence for a few seconds then a lone voice piped up.
"I think I've got a broken finger"
It was Mr Henderson. Everyone burst out laughing and a spontaneous round of applause followed: Mr Henderson had been wearing a huge papier mache costume in the shape of a hand. The fan had sliced clean though the outstretched "index finger", missing his head by inches.
It was the best blood drive ever!
The Mega (plaster, cottage cheese, hallowed, hard working, food for thought, blood drive, broken finger, ceiling fan, pastry chef, production, the sky is falling, variations on a theme, bravery, powder puff, empty soda bottles)
New to Harold's story? The story so far is here Apologies in advance for the length of this post.
Mr Teeth was not happy at having to meet Mr Peck so early in the morning, but the latter had insisted as he wanted to provide an update before leaving town for a couple of days.
The two men met for breakfast in the Mayflower Hotel. Mr Teeth didn't go in for the sort of fancy breakfasts these places dished out, usually contenting himself with some crackers with cottage cheese and a protein shake. He had to admire the artistry of the pastry chef here though. His creations, all variations on a theme, were little short of stunning. Glazed pastry animals of all kinds were set out alongside the more usual fare of bacon, eggs, beans, toast, fruit salad and whatnot. They must have had to set up a veritable production line to turn these things out in such numbers. Hard-working waiters bustled about the place, getting coffee and toast for the patrons while overhead, an old-fashioned ceiling fan turned lazily under the intricately moulded plaster of the ceiling.
"What have you got for me?" said Mr Teeth, setting aside his orange juice.
"Well, the person we're looking for left town by train at about four in the afternoon, the day of the fire." replied Mr Peck, flicking a pastry crumb from the sleeve of his Armani suit with a perfectly manicured fingernail.
"You sure?" asked Mr Teeth. Mr Peck looked at him in silence for a few moments before replying.
"Yes. I have seen camera footage taken at the train station which confirms it. I have some still images if you wish to see them."
Mr Teeth waved the offer away. If Mr Peck said he'd seen that little trumpet-playing punk get on a train, that that's what the little punk would have done, you could bank on it. That's what fifteen hundred a day bought you: certainty. So he was probably out of town when the fire got started – unless...
"Maybe he snuck back into town later by bus or something," he rumbled, "keep checking."
"As you wish," said Peck smoothly.
The little trumpet playing punk in question was passing time mentally composing his latest jazz piece. He was going to call it The Sky is Falling and it would feature some deliciously creepy harmonic minor scale runs. Yeah that ought to do it. Harold wondered if these hostile, hard-eyed humans would actually let him have his trumpet back any time soon. Probably not, but at least composing music kept his mind off what was probably coming.
If he had understood the situation correctly, they were going to send him back to the Basement. Most demons really hated this, it was a badge of abject failure to be so summarily ejected from the world of men and, because of the way a Dismissal worked, they could not return for at least a year and a day. Harold knew that his father would be furious with him for messing up so spectacularly after such a brief spell on the Brightside - and Harold's father's wrath was legendary. Demons with more bravery than Harold possessed had withered under it.
It wasn't entirely his fault though, surely. After all, no-one had told him about the crazy humans and their crack-of-dawn raids. Come to think of it, he had not really been told that much at all about what to expect once he got here. Harold was self-aware enough to know that he was not the most attentive and focused pupil that had ever lived, but he could absolutely not remember anything about these agents with their tasers and hallowed words of power. Food for thought, indeed! He made a mental note to ask Teatime about it if they ever got the chance for a private talk.
Agent Mercury appeared in the doorway to the break room.
"You." he barked, pointing at Harold, "With me."
Harold followed Agent Mercury out of the room. Agents India and Othello fell in behind him, tasers still drawn although there was no need, Harold wasn't about to try any "funny business". Teatime, perched now on Harold's shoulder, took the opportunity to have a good look around as the little group walked through the operations room to Opal's office. It didn't look good though, he had to admit: these Shepherds were annoyingly vigilant and well-prepared. Escape was going to be extremely difficult.
Director Opal was a distinguished-looking African American man of late middle age and if he was surprised to see a little monkey perched on Harold's shoulder, he didn't show it. As Harold and the others entered, he pointed wordlessly to a seat in front of his desk. Harold sat down and saw that they had emptied his rucksack onto the desk for some reason. There was a small pile of spare clothes, his shoes, a couple of paperbacks - The Case of the Broken Finger and Murder at the Blood Drive – that he hadn't got around to reading, two empty soda bottles and (hooray!) his trumpet. Opal leaned forward and indicated this last item.
"What is the purpose of this?" he demanded. His dark eyes boring into Harold's baby blues.
Harold was nonplussed, of all the silly questions to be asking! Surely the human knew what a trumpet was? Did he think it was some kind of secret demonic weapon? Its music could be beguiling for sure, but honestly, it usually took more than a pretty tune to ensnare a soul. OK, not much more in some people's cases, but still. As he pondered these things, Harold became aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation which was gradually worsening: a warning from Agent Mercury's Binding that he'd better play nice and answer the question.
"It's a musical instrument. I enjoy playing music." Harold explained. The prickling receded. "Would you like to hear something?"
Opal looked at him as though he had suggested something incredibly filthy. That would be a no then, thought Harold. He was beginning to wish that they would just do the ritual and send him back home already, if that's what they were planning. This relentless suspicion and hostility was getting old! Oh, wait, the human was speaking again.
"What do you know about the disappearance of the demon, Baron Samedi?"
That was an easy one for Harold. "Nothing at all," he said, "Except what I heard on the news." Opal frowned.
"You're in the club's CCTV film, what were you doing there?"
"I went to see if the Baron would let me play at the club, it is the best jazz club around, you know – or was, anyway."
Opal grunted, "And the Baron said 'no', I take it?"
Harold nodded. He was not proud of the stupid blunder he had made in trying to set up shop in another demon's turf.
"OK," said Opal, leaning back in his chair, "We're done here. Mercury, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir!" said Agent Mercury, pleased to be doing something at last.
Oh well, this is it, thought Harold. Back to the Basement. If he was lucky his father would get over his rage in a couple of hundred years or so. If he was lucky.
They had ordered Harold to pack all the stuff on the desk into his rucksack and bring it along. On leaving Opal's office, Agent Mercury took the little group towards the double doors leading to the reception area and the outside world. Seeing Harold's look of surprise, Mercury couldn't help himself.
"Bet you thought we were going to send you home, didn't you?" He said, "Well, we were going to do just that, but it seems that HQ has requested the pleasure of your company."
On Harold's shoulder, Teatime stiffened. Oh, this was terrible news! He would definitely have to do something now.
As they got outside the building, the first light of dawn was just beginning to creep across the sky, edging the powder puff clouds with pale light. Well, it's now or never, thought Teatime.
All of a sudden, the little monkey leapt off Harold's shoulder and was away around the corner of the building in the blink of an eye. Harold was about to go after him but Agent Mercury would have none of it.
"Get in the van!" he ordered.
"At least let me try and get him to come back," pleaded Harold. The prickling sensation was beginning again.
"Now!" insisted Mercury.
Harold reluctantly got into the van.
He hoped that Teatime knew what he was doing.
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were challenging, to say the least! I said this last week, but boy!
Most awkward words this week: blood drive, powder puff
The Mini (the sky is falling, variations on a theme, bravery, powder puff, empty soda bottles)
Powder Puff was not known for his bravery. In fact, he was afraid of just about everything, including his own shadow.
Mophead and Haggendass, who were old enough to be orange, would tease and bully poor little pink and fluffy Powder Puff mercilessly. Their pranks were always variations on a theme. They would lie in wait for Powder Puff behind a pile of old tin cans or inside an old cardboard box (the dump where all the gribbles lived had plenty of these) and they would then jump out at him with ear-splitting yells, pulling hideous faces. They would then fall over laughing as their victim shrieked and ran off in terror.
Eventually Powder Puff had had enough. He trekked across the dump to the Westinghouse Snow Palace where the Great Gribble lived. The Great Gribble was old and very wise so Powder Puff hoped he would help him deal with the problem of Mophead and Haggendass once and for all.
Eventually he obtained an audience with the Great Gribble, who was so old he looked for all the world like a rather large untidy dust bunny. His two little black eyes, though, were bright, kind and intelligent. Once Powder Puff had explained his predicament, the Great Gribble thought long and hard before giving his advice. Powder Puff listened intently. Yes, he thought, it just might work.
"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" Yelled Mophead and Haggendass, leaping out from behind a pile of soggy newspapers. Despite being really quite scared, Powder Puff bestowed upon them his sunniest smile.
"That's OK," he said sweetly, "the Mighty KolaMonster will save me."
"What?" cried the two bullies in consternation. This was no fun: where was all the shrieking, the running, the laughing?
Powder Puff gave a shrill whistle and from around a great big pile of old TV sets lumbered a hideous beast. Its head was covered in shining, clanking metal plates, its body was covered in thick hairs of all different colours and lengths and the beast was making a shocking racket with its tail.
Mophead and Haggendass took one look and ran for it.
Now it was Powder Puff's turn to fall over laughing. The KolaMonster was in fact a stray dog that had recently taken up residence in the dump. Powder Puff had made friends with it and over the weeks had trained it to accept having flattened tin cans, old electrical wire and whatnot tied to its head and body. He'd even trained it to wag its tail, rattling two empty soda bottles, now half full of old washers and nails to make a fearful din.
Powder Puff had not been altogether certain that the Great Gribble's advice would work, but the old fluffball had been right: bullies are cowards at heart and all you needed to do was stand up to them.
The 10-worder (plaster, cottage cheese, hallowed, hard working, food for thought, blood drive, broken finger, ceiling fan, pastry chef, production)
Betty had a great idea to get people to come along to the local blood drive, she organised a promotional event called Food for Thought. People could come, donate their precious pint and then they could stay and help themselves to food and drink, and watch a light-hearted stage production featuring songs, sketches, poems and whatnot all on the subject of blood.
She managed to rope in a friend who was a pastry chef to create some delicious pies and cakes, while she and a team of hard-working volunteers put together all kinds of buffet dishes - vol-au-vents filled with cottage cheese, sausages on sticks, vegetables and dips, sandwiches, chips, nuts and suchlike. Meanwhile, the performers had been diligently rehearsing their show.
Eventually the hallowed day came and they were all set. Fortunately, it was a fine evening and lots of people showed up to donate, most of which stayed around for the food and the show.
It was during the final rousing song-and-dance number that disaster struck. The cast had been encouraging the audience to stamp and clap along to the music - which they had been doing with great gusto all evening. Unfortunately, the building was old and the plaster had weakened over the years. All the bumping and stamping jarred loose a large, old-fashioned ceiling fan which crashed down onto the stage in a great cloud of dust.
All was dead silence for a few seconds then a lone voice piped up.
"I think I've got a broken finger"
It was Mr Henderson. Everyone burst out laughing and a spontaneous round of applause followed: Mr Henderson had been wearing a huge papier mache costume in the shape of a hand. The fan had sliced clean though the outstretched "index finger", missing his head by inches.
It was the best blood drive ever!
The Mega (plaster, cottage cheese, hallowed, hard working, food for thought, blood drive, broken finger, ceiling fan, pastry chef, production, the sky is falling, variations on a theme, bravery, powder puff, empty soda bottles)
New to Harold's story? The story so far is here Apologies in advance for the length of this post.
Mr Teeth was not happy at having to meet Mr Peck so early in the morning, but the latter had insisted as he wanted to provide an update before leaving town for a couple of days.
The two men met for breakfast in the Mayflower Hotel. Mr Teeth didn't go in for the sort of fancy breakfasts these places dished out, usually contenting himself with some crackers with cottage cheese and a protein shake. He had to admire the artistry of the pastry chef here though. His creations, all variations on a theme, were little short of stunning. Glazed pastry animals of all kinds were set out alongside the more usual fare of bacon, eggs, beans, toast, fruit salad and whatnot. They must have had to set up a veritable production line to turn these things out in such numbers. Hard-working waiters bustled about the place, getting coffee and toast for the patrons while overhead, an old-fashioned ceiling fan turned lazily under the intricately moulded plaster of the ceiling.
"What have you got for me?" said Mr Teeth, setting aside his orange juice.
"Well, the person we're looking for left town by train at about four in the afternoon, the day of the fire." replied Mr Peck, flicking a pastry crumb from the sleeve of his Armani suit with a perfectly manicured fingernail.
"You sure?" asked Mr Teeth. Mr Peck looked at him in silence for a few moments before replying.
"Yes. I have seen camera footage taken at the train station which confirms it. I have some still images if you wish to see them."
Mr Teeth waved the offer away. If Mr Peck said he'd seen that little trumpet-playing punk get on a train, that that's what the little punk would have done, you could bank on it. That's what fifteen hundred a day bought you: certainty. So he was probably out of town when the fire got started – unless...
"Maybe he snuck back into town later by bus or something," he rumbled, "keep checking."
"As you wish," said Peck smoothly.
The little trumpet playing punk in question was passing time mentally composing his latest jazz piece. He was going to call it The Sky is Falling and it would feature some deliciously creepy harmonic minor scale runs. Yeah that ought to do it. Harold wondered if these hostile, hard-eyed humans would actually let him have his trumpet back any time soon. Probably not, but at least composing music kept his mind off what was probably coming.
If he had understood the situation correctly, they were going to send him back to the Basement. Most demons really hated this, it was a badge of abject failure to be so summarily ejected from the world of men and, because of the way a Dismissal worked, they could not return for at least a year and a day. Harold knew that his father would be furious with him for messing up so spectacularly after such a brief spell on the Brightside - and Harold's father's wrath was legendary. Demons with more bravery than Harold possessed had withered under it.
It wasn't entirely his fault though, surely. After all, no-one had told him about the crazy humans and their crack-of-dawn raids. Come to think of it, he had not really been told that much at all about what to expect once he got here. Harold was self-aware enough to know that he was not the most attentive and focused pupil that had ever lived, but he could absolutely not remember anything about these agents with their tasers and hallowed words of power. Food for thought, indeed! He made a mental note to ask Teatime about it if they ever got the chance for a private talk.
Agent Mercury appeared in the doorway to the break room.
"You." he barked, pointing at Harold, "With me."
Harold followed Agent Mercury out of the room. Agents India and Othello fell in behind him, tasers still drawn although there was no need, Harold wasn't about to try any "funny business". Teatime, perched now on Harold's shoulder, took the opportunity to have a good look around as the little group walked through the operations room to Opal's office. It didn't look good though, he had to admit: these Shepherds were annoyingly vigilant and well-prepared. Escape was going to be extremely difficult.
Director Opal was a distinguished-looking African American man of late middle age and if he was surprised to see a little monkey perched on Harold's shoulder, he didn't show it. As Harold and the others entered, he pointed wordlessly to a seat in front of his desk. Harold sat down and saw that they had emptied his rucksack onto the desk for some reason. There was a small pile of spare clothes, his shoes, a couple of paperbacks - The Case of the Broken Finger and Murder at the Blood Drive – that he hadn't got around to reading, two empty soda bottles and (hooray!) his trumpet. Opal leaned forward and indicated this last item.
"What is the purpose of this?" he demanded. His dark eyes boring into Harold's baby blues.
Harold was nonplussed, of all the silly questions to be asking! Surely the human knew what a trumpet was? Did he think it was some kind of secret demonic weapon? Its music could be beguiling for sure, but honestly, it usually took more than a pretty tune to ensnare a soul. OK, not much more in some people's cases, but still. As he pondered these things, Harold became aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation which was gradually worsening: a warning from Agent Mercury's Binding that he'd better play nice and answer the question.
"It's a musical instrument. I enjoy playing music." Harold explained. The prickling receded. "Would you like to hear something?"
Opal looked at him as though he had suggested something incredibly filthy. That would be a no then, thought Harold. He was beginning to wish that they would just do the ritual and send him back home already, if that's what they were planning. This relentless suspicion and hostility was getting old! Oh, wait, the human was speaking again.
"What do you know about the disappearance of the demon, Baron Samedi?"
That was an easy one for Harold. "Nothing at all," he said, "Except what I heard on the news." Opal frowned.
"You're in the club's CCTV film, what were you doing there?"
"I went to see if the Baron would let me play at the club, it is the best jazz club around, you know – or was, anyway."
Opal grunted, "And the Baron said 'no', I take it?"
Harold nodded. He was not proud of the stupid blunder he had made in trying to set up shop in another demon's turf.
"OK," said Opal, leaning back in his chair, "We're done here. Mercury, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir!" said Agent Mercury, pleased to be doing something at last.
Oh well, this is it, thought Harold. Back to the Basement. If he was lucky his father would get over his rage in a couple of hundred years or so. If he was lucky.
They had ordered Harold to pack all the stuff on the desk into his rucksack and bring it along. On leaving Opal's office, Agent Mercury took the little group towards the double doors leading to the reception area and the outside world. Seeing Harold's look of surprise, Mercury couldn't help himself.
"Bet you thought we were going to send you home, didn't you?" He said, "Well, we were going to do just that, but it seems that HQ has requested the pleasure of your company."
On Harold's shoulder, Teatime stiffened. Oh, this was terrible news! He would definitely have to do something now.
As they got outside the building, the first light of dawn was just beginning to creep across the sky, edging the powder puff clouds with pale light. Well, it's now or never, thought Teatime.
All of a sudden, the little monkey leapt off Harold's shoulder and was away around the corner of the building in the blink of an eye. Harold was about to go after him but Agent Mercury would have none of it.
"Get in the van!" he ordered.
"At least let me try and get him to come back," pleaded Harold. The prickling sensation was beginning again.
"Now!" insisted Mercury.
Harold reluctantly got into the van.
He hoped that Teatime knew what he was doing.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Saturday Wordzzle 83
Each week, Raven gives us a set of 15 words - 5 for the mini, 10 for the 10-worder or all 15 for the mega challenge. The idea is to create a passage which includes the words
You can go to Raven's Nest for the rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were challenging, to say the least!
Most awkward word this week: laugh and the world laughs with you
The Mini (monsters in the closet, roughly, bowling, menu, Pennsylvania)
You are cordially invited to the Annual Monsters in the Closet Masked Ball the gilt-edged invitation card said. Chuck tore the card roughly into two pieces and dropped them into the wastebasket.
"Are you crazy?" cried Martha, "You can't possibly turn down an invite like that!"
"Can and will," replied Chuck with a finality that Martha had come to dread over the years: there'd be no changing Chuck's mind now. Mind you, that didn't mean she couldn't try.
"Have you even looked at the menu?" she sighed wistfully, retrieving the pieces of the invite, "There's caviar and smoked salmon and three kinds of –"
"Not interested," he cut her short.
"But –"
"No buts." he snapped, "You know it's my bowling night and I NEVER miss my bowling night." He stomped out of the room, putting an end to the discussion.
Martha sighed. The invite card was so thick and the finish so smooth and creamy under her fingertips. In beautiful golden lettering in the bottom right of the invite was printed:
The 10-worder (family, cheese cake, 20 years ago, refrigerator, laugh and the world laughs with you, bath brush, zombies, African violets, butterflies, holding hands)
About twenty years ago, a family of zombies moved in next door. Now, I know it's pretty commonplace these days to have undead living with the living (so to speak), but back then it was something of a rarity and folks didn't really know what to make of it. The Goldsteins were friendly enough though, in their slow way, and a few days after they moved in, they knocked on our door to introduce themselves. My mother grabbed up a bath brush and would have chased them down the street with it if my father hadn't stopped her. She was kind of old-fashioned that way. Live and let live, Dad said, but she didn't think that applied to people who weren't alive like us. Anyway, we invited them in and it turns out they'd brought us a gift of some African violets in a pot and a homemade strawberry cheesecake – very neighbourly, and all. We children were so excited to meet our zombie neighbours that we stood together holding hands with butterflies in our stomachs. They had just the one child, a grey-faced boy called Edward who shambled in wearing a tee-shirt with Laugh and the World Laughs With You on it, which seemed a little odd as I don't think I ever saw any of them laugh, ever. My mother put the cheesecake into the refrigerator "for later" and thanked our guests coolly but politely. They stayed for just a short while, long enough for a cup of tea and then they shuffled back to their home. When they were gone, my mother scrubbed the teacups with bleach and threw the cheesecake away uneaten because the thought of eating something a dead person had made was disgusting to her. She kept the violets though.
New to Harold's story? The story so far is here
The Mega (family, cheese cake, 20 years ago, refrigerator, laugh and the world laughs with you, bath brush, zombies, African violets, butterflies, holding hands, monsters in the closet, roughly, bowling, menu, Pennsylvania)
Even as a child, growing in a small town in Pennsylvania, Agent India had never been afraid of monsters in the closet; as a teenager, she had yawned her way through countless movies about zombies attacking small towns in search of the inhabitants' brains. These things did not scare her because she had always had a firm idea about what was real and what was not. Zombies and closet-dwelling monsters were not real. Demons, on the other hand, very much were. For as long as she could remember, India had been able to sense them when they came near.
At first, she had had no idea what it had been about certain people that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She had asked her parents about it and they had not known what to tell her. Eventually, she had plucked up the courage to speak to the priest in her local church. He had explained her gift to her and had put her in touch with the Order of the Good Shepherd, who, he said, could make good use of it.
How right Father Nolan had been! India was full of elation as she and the other members of Joshua squad, along with their captive, bounced around in the back of the van which was now bowling along at a good clip away from the warehouses and back to base.
Harold, on the other hand, was decidedly not full of elation. He had fallen straight into the humans' trap. Honestly, even someone with the IQ of a bath brush would have realised that they had left the doorway so invitingly unguarded on purpose, but not him, oh no!
The paralysing effect of the taser had not had chance to wear off before the leader of the humans was standing over him, reciting the words of Binding. Few humans even knew these words and fewer still had enough faith to make them stick, but stick they did. Harold could feel the effect of them like a cocoon of barbed wire wrapping him from head to toe. At the moment, because he was sitting quietly and not causing any trouble, the wire was only loosely wrapped and he could only just feel it, but he knew that if he did anything out of line, the wire would tighten. No wonder Teatime had been so insistent that he put as much distance as possible between himself and these humans. Harold hoped Teatime was alright - the little monkey hadn't said a word since the female driver of the van had thrust the pillowcase with him in it roughly into Harold's arms with the stern injunction that he sit still and keep the monkey quiet, or else.
Agent Mercury had been about to begin the words of Dismissal to send this fiend back where it belonged when the approaching wail of a police siren had interrupted proceedings. Someone, it seemed, had heard the noise and had called the cops. OGS agents had no more powers than any other private citizen and it was unlikely that the police would be even remotely understanding if they were to come across a small group of people performing some strange ritual in a deserted warehouse. There had been nothing for it, therefore, but to de-camp to base and do the ritual there.
Agent Prada brought the van to a halt outside what looked for all the world like a small industrial unit in a nondescript business park just outside town. A fading sign on the unit even proclaimed that this was the home of Aunt Aggie's Mouth-Watering Family Cheesecake. Cheesecake production had ceased more than twenty years ago, however, and the unit now served as OGS's local base of operations.
Agent Mercury slid open the van's door and ordered Harold out with a jerk of his thumb. Cradling Teatime's pillowcase carefully, Harold complied. He desperately wanted to talk to Teatime, make sure he was alright. He didn't dare risk it yet though because, although he had not specifically been told he couldn't, he wasn't sure how much leeway the Binding permitted, if any (if only he'd paid more attention to his teachers!). Also, the humans might be suspicious if he started talking to his "pet" in Infernal, which was the language the two of them had always used.
The deserted reception area of Aunt Aggie's was much like any other: there was a counter, some fabulously uncomfortable seating, a coffee table bearing out-of-date magazines and on the wall, a picture of a bowl of African violets and butterflies which was a triumph of anodyne mediocrity. This was, of course, all a front and Harold was surprised to discover, upon passing through a set of double doors, that a bustling, brightly-lit operations room lay beyond.
"...was actually holding hands with her, can you believe it? I know! Oh, wait, I'll have to call you back." A fresh-faced young man quickly put down the phone as the small group passed his desk.
"Sir?" He called out, "Agent Mercury, Sir?"
Mercury turned to face the youngster, a look of irritation on his face.
"What is it?" he barked.
"Opal wants to see you in his office right away."
"Tell him I'm kind of busy." Mercury gestured vaguely in Harold's direction.
"He knows that, sir. That's what he wants to see you about."
Mercury sighed. More delays! Was he ever going to get rid of this demon?
"Ok," he said, addressing the squad, "Go and wait for me in the break room. You –" he said, turning to Harold, who had been gawking like a hick tourist at the bright lights, computers and whatnot, "Go with them and don't try any funny business".
Funny business was the farthest thing from Harold's mind as he sat in the OGS break room with Agents India and Othello, et al eyeing him in a less than friendly fashion. On top of the refrigerator next to him someone had left an old Pizza Hut menu and an unwashed mug with a cartoon of a weeping clown on it, along with the words laugh and the world laughs with you. They got that right, thought Harold.
Feeling Teatime stir, Harold loosened his grip on the pillowcase and the little monkey poked his head out and looked around.
"Excuse me, can I let him out now?" Harold asked Agent India, "He won't be any trouble."
"I suppose so," she replied. He's just a little monkey after all, where's the harm.
You can go to Raven's Nest for the rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were challenging, to say the least!
Most awkward word this week: laugh and the world laughs with you
The Mini (monsters in the closet, roughly, bowling, menu, Pennsylvania)
You are cordially invited to the Annual Monsters in the Closet Masked Ball the gilt-edged invitation card said. Chuck tore the card roughly into two pieces and dropped them into the wastebasket.
"Are you crazy?" cried Martha, "You can't possibly turn down an invite like that!"
"Can and will," replied Chuck with a finality that Martha had come to dread over the years: there'd be no changing Chuck's mind now. Mind you, that didn't mean she couldn't try.
"Have you even looked at the menu?" she sighed wistfully, retrieving the pieces of the invite, "There's caviar and smoked salmon and three kinds of –"
"Not interested," he cut her short.
"But –"
"No buts." he snapped, "You know it's my bowling night and I NEVER miss my bowling night." He stomped out of the room, putting an end to the discussion.
Martha sighed. The invite card was so thick and the finish so smooth and creamy under her fingertips. In beautiful golden lettering in the bottom right of the invite was printed:
R.S.V.P
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
NW Washington,
DC 20500
The 10-worder (family, cheese cake, 20 years ago, refrigerator, laugh and the world laughs with you, bath brush, zombies, African violets, butterflies, holding hands)
About twenty years ago, a family of zombies moved in next door. Now, I know it's pretty commonplace these days to have undead living with the living (so to speak), but back then it was something of a rarity and folks didn't really know what to make of it. The Goldsteins were friendly enough though, in their slow way, and a few days after they moved in, they knocked on our door to introduce themselves. My mother grabbed up a bath brush and would have chased them down the street with it if my father hadn't stopped her. She was kind of old-fashioned that way. Live and let live, Dad said, but she didn't think that applied to people who weren't alive like us. Anyway, we invited them in and it turns out they'd brought us a gift of some African violets in a pot and a homemade strawberry cheesecake – very neighbourly, and all. We children were so excited to meet our zombie neighbours that we stood together holding hands with butterflies in our stomachs. They had just the one child, a grey-faced boy called Edward who shambled in wearing a tee-shirt with Laugh and the World Laughs With You on it, which seemed a little odd as I don't think I ever saw any of them laugh, ever. My mother put the cheesecake into the refrigerator "for later" and thanked our guests coolly but politely. They stayed for just a short while, long enough for a cup of tea and then they shuffled back to their home. When they were gone, my mother scrubbed the teacups with bleach and threw the cheesecake away uneaten because the thought of eating something a dead person had made was disgusting to her. She kept the violets though.
New to Harold's story? The story so far is here
The Mega (family, cheese cake, 20 years ago, refrigerator, laugh and the world laughs with you, bath brush, zombies, African violets, butterflies, holding hands, monsters in the closet, roughly, bowling, menu, Pennsylvania)
Even as a child, growing in a small town in Pennsylvania, Agent India had never been afraid of monsters in the closet; as a teenager, she had yawned her way through countless movies about zombies attacking small towns in search of the inhabitants' brains. These things did not scare her because she had always had a firm idea about what was real and what was not. Zombies and closet-dwelling monsters were not real. Demons, on the other hand, very much were. For as long as she could remember, India had been able to sense them when they came near.
At first, she had had no idea what it had been about certain people that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She had asked her parents about it and they had not known what to tell her. Eventually, she had plucked up the courage to speak to the priest in her local church. He had explained her gift to her and had put her in touch with the Order of the Good Shepherd, who, he said, could make good use of it.
How right Father Nolan had been! India was full of elation as she and the other members of Joshua squad, along with their captive, bounced around in the back of the van which was now bowling along at a good clip away from the warehouses and back to base.
Harold, on the other hand, was decidedly not full of elation. He had fallen straight into the humans' trap. Honestly, even someone with the IQ of a bath brush would have realised that they had left the doorway so invitingly unguarded on purpose, but not him, oh no!
The paralysing effect of the taser had not had chance to wear off before the leader of the humans was standing over him, reciting the words of Binding. Few humans even knew these words and fewer still had enough faith to make them stick, but stick they did. Harold could feel the effect of them like a cocoon of barbed wire wrapping him from head to toe. At the moment, because he was sitting quietly and not causing any trouble, the wire was only loosely wrapped and he could only just feel it, but he knew that if he did anything out of line, the wire would tighten. No wonder Teatime had been so insistent that he put as much distance as possible between himself and these humans. Harold hoped Teatime was alright - the little monkey hadn't said a word since the female driver of the van had thrust the pillowcase with him in it roughly into Harold's arms with the stern injunction that he sit still and keep the monkey quiet, or else.
Agent Mercury had been about to begin the words of Dismissal to send this fiend back where it belonged when the approaching wail of a police siren had interrupted proceedings. Someone, it seemed, had heard the noise and had called the cops. OGS agents had no more powers than any other private citizen and it was unlikely that the police would be even remotely understanding if they were to come across a small group of people performing some strange ritual in a deserted warehouse. There had been nothing for it, therefore, but to de-camp to base and do the ritual there.
Agent Prada brought the van to a halt outside what looked for all the world like a small industrial unit in a nondescript business park just outside town. A fading sign on the unit even proclaimed that this was the home of Aunt Aggie's Mouth-Watering Family Cheesecake. Cheesecake production had ceased more than twenty years ago, however, and the unit now served as OGS's local base of operations.
Agent Mercury slid open the van's door and ordered Harold out with a jerk of his thumb. Cradling Teatime's pillowcase carefully, Harold complied. He desperately wanted to talk to Teatime, make sure he was alright. He didn't dare risk it yet though because, although he had not specifically been told he couldn't, he wasn't sure how much leeway the Binding permitted, if any (if only he'd paid more attention to his teachers!). Also, the humans might be suspicious if he started talking to his "pet" in Infernal, which was the language the two of them had always used.
The deserted reception area of Aunt Aggie's was much like any other: there was a counter, some fabulously uncomfortable seating, a coffee table bearing out-of-date magazines and on the wall, a picture of a bowl of African violets and butterflies which was a triumph of anodyne mediocrity. This was, of course, all a front and Harold was surprised to discover, upon passing through a set of double doors, that a bustling, brightly-lit operations room lay beyond.
"...was actually holding hands with her, can you believe it? I know! Oh, wait, I'll have to call you back." A fresh-faced young man quickly put down the phone as the small group passed his desk.
"Sir?" He called out, "Agent Mercury, Sir?"
Mercury turned to face the youngster, a look of irritation on his face.
"What is it?" he barked.
"Opal wants to see you in his office right away."
"Tell him I'm kind of busy." Mercury gestured vaguely in Harold's direction.
"He knows that, sir. That's what he wants to see you about."
Mercury sighed. More delays! Was he ever going to get rid of this demon?
"Ok," he said, addressing the squad, "Go and wait for me in the break room. You –" he said, turning to Harold, who had been gawking like a hick tourist at the bright lights, computers and whatnot, "Go with them and don't try any funny business".
Funny business was the farthest thing from Harold's mind as he sat in the OGS break room with Agents India and Othello, et al eyeing him in a less than friendly fashion. On top of the refrigerator next to him someone had left an old Pizza Hut menu and an unwashed mug with a cartoon of a weeping clown on it, along with the words laugh and the world laughs with you. They got that right, thought Harold.
Feeling Teatime stir, Harold loosened his grip on the pillowcase and the little monkey poked his head out and looked around.
"Excuse me, can I let him out now?" Harold asked Agent India, "He won't be any trouble."
"I suppose so," she replied. He's just a little monkey after all, where's the harm.
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