craziequeen's story store

I Must, I Must

2010-04-25T22:42:00.001+01:00

Must finish my novel, must finish my novel, must finish my novel.......

A Day in the Life of...

2010-04-02T14:12:00.002+01:00

I yawned, stretched, opened my eyes and looked around carefully. These days, one never knew who or what might have crept into one’s quarters while one was grabbing forty winks.
So far so good, the cleaner had been. The tray was glistening with fresh kitty litter and my bowl was full of feline supplement. I sniffed it cautiously – hm, number 79 if I wasn’t mistaken. One of my favourites. I snaffled a few pieces and then had a look around for my human.
Well, human is a bit of a broad stroke (feline pun there). My human is, apparently, a machine, but he strokes me like a human, and as long as I’m fed, what do I care? His name is Data. My name is Spot.
I have lived with Data for many years and he fulfils all my needs; food, cuddles and in depth socio-political conversations. Although he doesn’t seem to notice I am not all I appear to be.
I am not a feline, on the contrary I am a highly developed alien being sent to the USS Enterprise to observe humans at work and rest. A small clue is that I continually wear out my carbon based persona and have had three incarnations – but nobody on board has said anything, so I’m keeping schtum about it.
Not only have I had these three bodies, but have also assumed the body of a lizard – looking remarkably like that Jub Jub who featured in a 20C televised animation called the Simpsons. Even then, no one turned a hair, merely recognising me by my astoundingly bad taste collar! But then that was alright, because my friend Reg was a huge spider – so who was going to care about a lizard?
Anyway, enough of this rambling, off to find my human.

The red lights aren’t flashing - always a good sign on this ship! There are no loud klaxons or some woman giving us verbal abuse of the auditory senses. I slinked around the chairs, time to leave a few hairs here and there – nice to make the cleaners feel needed. No sign of my human.
I jumped delicately – what am I saying? Everything I do is delicate; I’m a cat!! – onto Data’s work place. The flashing lights were off and there was not even the teensiest vibrations coming from the console. No warmth to signify recent occupation either. I sniffed the air. Why do I still do that? Data has no scent……he’s a robot! Guess old habits die hard. Perhaps I could persuade him to start using aftershave – Lynx would be my preferred choice.
Anyway, no assault on my olfactory sense. Data taught me that word, Good isn’t it? So much more stylish than ‘smell’ …… or ‘nose’. And the old eagle eyes have spotted nothing out of the ordinary.
I leapt off the console, revelling in my solitude, and proceeded to do a little more chair-rubbing. I have to earn my feline supplement somehow, don’t I?
He’s not on the chairs………or the sofa……..or the desk…….. Sometimes I wish this feline persona had the power of speech, or at least that the Universal Translator spoke Cat, then I could ask that annoying disembodied woman where my human is.

Strolling past my bowl, I paused and munched absently on some feline supplement 79, and had a sup of water to wash it down. If Data’s busy, then I may not be fed again for a while. If he’s on an away mission, I may not get fed for days. Somehow, the other humans always forget about me – except Reg, and he doesn’t live here any more. The only other human to feed me was Woof. Big man, looked canine – Spot no like.

The door is firmly shut. To keep me away from the local toms, I presume. I am one fertile mama and the Captain thinks I should stop having kittens. He should try it sometime as the only female on a ship with twelve males!! Funnily enough, with twelve males and one female – there is no vet on board to care for us, and I’m damned if I’m going to go and see that human doctor……! Anyway, he knows full well my kittens saved the crew when Reg did his spider impersonation.
So, the only other option is the bedroom. Now this is not a room that Data uses a lot – being a robot like he is. The bed is pristine, so I jumped onto it and kneaded the coverlet into something resembling comfy. I nestled down and thought I’d just have twenty winks while I waited for Data, not the full forty, but twenty would suffice.

I awoke with a start. Where was I? Oh yes. On the bed. The coverlet was now mashed into a most cosy heap and there was plenty of fur around to show this was My Cosy Heap. I yawned, stretched and looked around – why does that sound so familiar…..?
I struggled to remember what had awoken me so suddenly. That dream. The same dream I have day in and night out. The ship is crashing and I’m calling to Data to save me but he doesn’t hear me. Then silence and the big lunkhead (his word, cute isn’t it?) finds me where I have hidden out under some metal stuff. The man cries – I mean, the Robot actually cries – gets my fur wet! – over my discovery. I tell him I’m fine, but I guess his newfangled emotion chip has gone into overdrive or is surging or something. Odd dream, but I’m sure Deanna would be able to interpret it – I mean, seven years on this ship, and I still can’t fathom her purpose. I am more use as therapy than she is! Nothing to beat a good stroking session to ease all those worries and concerns.

Still no Data. I padded out to the lounge room, so called because it is where I lounge around (another feline pun) and looked hopefully at my bowl. Still number 79. Shame, I was kind of hoping it would be number 126 by now, boy that 126 is tasty!
Where is that robot man? I’m running out of things to do; I’ve slept, eaten, hunted. I need stimuli, I need human interaction – well, robot interaction. I tried scratching the door, but the metal tastes nasty and I can’t make it swoosh no matter how hard I try.
I would jump up and look out the window, but a cat can only look at so many stars before she gets really bored.
I would bat my toys around, but they have been batted to a standstill, and no matter how hard I try, they do not look like juicy mice.
I would walk over the console, but I tried that once and Data called me a ‘varmint’ – not one to try again!
So here I sit. A lonely cat on a huge spaceship. Two thousand people……and me. Ffiteen decks and one lonely room.

Perhaps Data will be back soon. He may bring me a new toy. He may bring his friends home for some social interaction. He may sweep me up in his golden hands, tickle my chin, gaze at me with his cat-like yellow eyes and tell me I am a beautiful girl. He may sit pensively opposite me and recite his ‘Ode to Spot’ while I accompany him with some rhythmic purring. He may just sit at his console and work while I doze on his lap.
Whatever happens, I am a cat (for now anyway), and Data is my human. I love my human, and he loves me - in his own special way, of course…….

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Eighteen

2008-01-04T22:39:00.000Z

As the gig rocketed towards the farm, the opportunity for the demon to reach Sarah unimpeded was dwindling. He cursed, and the thunder rolled about him. The rain stormed down and lightening lit up the sky, seeming to reflect his fury. The sky broiled with suppressed energy and the clouds continued to pile up darker and thicker. Then the creature rose up high in the sky and flew down at the gig.
Beatrice brandished the crucifix as high as her hand could reach and screamed in rebellion. But the demon wasn't going for her. He had a different plan of attack.
He swooped down faster than the eye could follow him and disappeared from sight, just leaving a small plume of sulphurous smoke trailing behind him. A horrendous crashing and explosive noise ensued and the entire gig lifted off the road as if being hoisted by an unseen hand. The little carriage shook and rolled. The harnesses broke and the poor horses fled, still trailing their traces, one of them still carrying James, hanging on for dear life. Brian toppled from the box as the gig was turned over as if in a hurricane, and Michael, Beatrice and Sarah fell out onto the path. The furious and frustrated demon wrestled with the gig in a fit of temper until it was no more than tinder, lying all around the two men and two women. Michael jumped up and grabbed Sarah.
'We have to get her to the farmhouse,' he panted, trying to get his breath.
Sweat poured from her brow as Beatrice staggered to her feet and reached for the silver medallion. It was gone. She dug her hand deep into her bodice. No crucifix. She howled in dismay and began feverishly rooting through the grass and vegetation near where she fell. The men helped Sarah up and they began to lope towards the farm, keeping Sarah between them and urging the terrified girl onwards.
'Beatrice!' yelled Brian. 'Leave it! We must get Sarah to the house. It's our only chance!'
Beatrice was about to give up the search when she saw a dull glint in the mud. She scrabbled furiously and pounced on the silver crucifix.
'Got it!' she yelled triumphantly. 'Run!'
With that, the two men broke into a sprint and almost dragged Sarah along with them, her legs desperately trying to keep up but hampered by her skirts.
Beatrice rubbed the crucifix on her skirt roughly and in one movement she turned and aimed the little silver icon at the demon who was once again preparing to strike. The demon screamed as the moonlight caught the medallion and reflected the light. A small mark appeared on his devilish face. He recoiled, at the same moment the wind whipped up and the sky drove down torrents of rain.
The men continued to run with Sarah, desperate to reach the farmhouse. The rain ran off their faces in rivulets and they could barely see where they were going. But they kept the path in their eye-line and unerringly headed towards the farm. Beatrice turned, keeping the crucifix aimed over her shoulder and sprinted after them, her other hand grasping handfuls of skirt and freeing her legs. The men saw her rapidly making up the gap, and they put a spurt of speed on too. The farmhouse drew closer. The flickering light was now discernible as a carriage lamp by the front door. The door was open; waiting for them.
But as they plunged through the night, they heard that unearthly scream again, and knew that the demon was preparing to strike again. But, through the screams they heard another sound. Galloping hooves. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Brian saw James Jenkins, still on the carriage horse, galloping directly towards the demon. His whip was brandished and there was something else being waved. Brian sneaked another look as he ran, not sure what he had seen at first.
It was Mike's head, strung from James' saddle, like a totem. And like the good man he was, the remains of Mike Jenkins seemed to make the demon hesitate. James swung the whip and it connected with the neck of the demon.
'Run,' he roared as the demon whirled around, uncertain who to attack. The others needed no further bidding and flew towards the welcoming farmhouse, while James continued to flail the demon. Admittedly, it was as if a fly was swatting an elephant, but it was distracting Philip long enough for the group of four to collapse in the doorway.
Lucy and Gloria rushed out from the house, accompanied by Edward, and hauled the family indoors. Beatrice tried to open the door again.
'Mother, no!' cried Gloria.
'I have to!' Beatrice screamed back. 'James is out there alone!' and with that she wrenched open the door, just in time to see the demon swipe at James. James fell from his horse only a matter of yards from the house.
'Brian! Michael! Help him,' she yelled as she, once again, pushed the crucifix into the air above her head, aimed at the essence of evil preparing to strike the fatal blow on James. He squealed and recoiled, long enough for the two men to step out and pull James indoors.
'Girls. Quick!' instructed Michael. 'There's not a minute to spare. Hold hands. The three of you! Now!'
With a puzzled look, Lucy and Gloria hoisted up Sarah and the three young women linked hands.
A scream reverberated round and round the house. The windows shook as the storm intensified even more. Each heavy raindrop threatened to break the glass, while the wind howled through every gap and put the entire building at risk. Lightning flashed outside and thunder shook the house. The storm swirled and battered the little house while the men caught their breath and the girls stood silent, in a small circle, holding hands.
James lifted his blood-spattered face and looked across the room. He saw the girls holding hands, eyes shut and faces set in concentration. Three women. The triumvirate.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Seventeen

2007-10-18T04:19:00.000+01:00

Pastor Michael settled Sarah into the gig, with Beatrice and Brian. He looked over as Mike and James Jenkins arrived with their horses.
'So, I'll travel with Sarah and the Dennises. You two ride as outriders.'
Mike and James nodded silently, their lips bitten with nervous tension. They swung up into their saddles and reined their nervous horses into formation with the gig. Brian took up the reins and Michael settled himself next to Sarah, holding her hands tightly. His crucifix gleamed by the light of the vicarage carriage lamp.
'All ready?' yelled Brian. At the group 'aye' he cracked the reins and the gig set off with a sudden lurch. They pelted down the little road towards the centre of town, the outriders easily keeping pace with the two gig horses.
As they swung past the town gardens, there was a loud crack and a flash of light. Before anyone could do anything a figure appeared in the gig, clad in a flowing black coat.
His eyes gleamed red as he looked at Michael.
'You know I can't let you do this, don't you?' he asked, almost reasonably.
Michael gripped his crucifix.
'And you know we have to, don't you?' he growled back at the spectre.
There was the sound of unearthly laughter as the shadowy man leaned forward and took the crucifix from the Pastor.
'Huh! Piece of tin jewellery!' he cried dismissively and ripped the small cross from the pastor's neck. Pastor Michael was horrified to see his crucifix have no effect on the demon, he had been hoping it might buy them some time - or at least keep the evil one at bay for a while.
The demon studied the small metal cross for a moment and then flung it away. He grabbed for Sarah.
'Never! You'll never get the three!' he screamed above the howling wind.
Just as suddenly, Philip recoiled. His face turned deep red and he screamed, as if in pain. Michael looked around and saw Beatrice brandishing something.
'Tin, eh?' she cried. 'Try this!'
The gleam of silver was reflected deep in his red eyes, and it almost seemed at though there was a trickle of blood from them.
Beatrice kept the trinket held high between her and the demon as she pulled Sarah out of his grasp and pushed her down on the floor. Michael immediately covered Sarah with his own body. Philip gasped then tried to reach for Beatrice's outstretched hand.
From out of nowhere came an awful cracking sound, and as Beatrice felt the burning sensation of the demon's fingers brush hers, there was a scream and a furious yelling. Mike and James Jenkins had unsheathed their whips and were laying into Philip as hard as they could. Their horses cantered dangerously close to the carriage, but it was necessary as they were needed to distract the demon before he hurt Beatrice or stole Sarah. Withers beaded with sweat rubbed against the side of the carriage as Mike and James ignored the pain from their crushed calves and continued to flail on Philip from both sides.
A lucky shot from James got the demon straight across the face, drawing blood and breaking his nose. The demon roared in pain and, to the horror of the other combatants, began to shed his human persona.
'Stop him!' yelled Brian, still urging the horses onto the farm.
'I can't' shrieked Beatrice.
The demon spiralled upwards and then flew at Mike, sulphurous tendrils emanating from every part of him. Mike ducked low in his saddle, but it wasn't enough.
As he swooped over, the demon plucked Mike out of his saddle and dragged him up into the air with him.
'No!' screamed James. 'Let him go!'
The demon laughed maniacally and then proceeded to rent Mike to pieces. The absolute strength of the demon proved to be unstoppable, although Mike tried valiantly to fight back. When his head was wrenched from his body, the demon lost interest and dropped the corpse to the ground. He turned, his eyes burning with intense fire and glared at James.
'Come on!' James screamed. 'You want to attack an old man - come and get a young one!' and he brandished his whip at the demon. Philip laughed uproariously, as though James had made an exceptionally funny joke. When he recovered his composure, he threw a hand out towards James on his horse. A bolt of pure energy flew from his hand and jetted towards James. James saw the bolt just in time and threw himself sideways. The bolt hit his horse and the poor animal was stone dead in a matter of heartbeats. As his horse fell, James launched himself at the gig and managed to grab one of the harness traces. He hauled himself up and swung his leg over one of the carriage horses, urging it on to even more speed.
As if looking for the holy grail, Brian peered into the gloom and could just make out the farm. It seemed dark, but there was a light flickering. The girls were still there.
The demon was still furiously buzzing the gig with energy bolts and fireballs. Brian kept the horses galloping straight on while keeping his head down. Michael was still covering Sarah and Beatrice sat up continuing to brandish her silver crucifix, ignoring the pains in her arms and the sight of her old friend being rent in two.
The demon was howling in frustration, as long as that damned silver jewellery was there, he had no chance of getting Sarah out of the gig.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Sixteen

2007-10-18T04:15:00.000+01:00

Brian and Beatrice had left the house with James in the gig provided by Mike Jenkins. Edward, the boy, had stayed to keep the girls company, as instructed. He was expecting there to be more people at the farmhouse, as he knew the Dennis family had five daughters, not to mention the other two labourers. Gloria explained that Natalie was at the house of the family of her beau for the evening, and the other girls, Ann, Maisie and Alexandra, were at the house of an old school friend in Ashton, and would be staying overnight. Edward was relieved. The thought of the burden of responsibility for six young women had weighed heavily on his shoulders as he had dashed to the farm. The knowledge that he only had two to protect, and that the labourers were only a stone's throw away, strengthened his resolve.
Gloria and Lucy were feeding the household animals, with the help of Edward. The other two men were feeding and bedding down the outside animals.
The two dogs and the three cats sat patiently waiting for their meal, apart from the young puppy who wound himself around Lucy's legs. She and the puppy had bonded from her arrival and he was often to be seen accompanying the girls on their walks across the fields. In the evenings he usually laid by Lucy's feet, more often than not with his chin resting on her foot or her knee, depending on her pursuit. If she was sewing, then he settled on her foot; if she was just chatting then he would lay his chin on her knee and stare longingly at her, hoping for a stroke.
Lucy liked all the animals, but she loved the puppy. He was a great help in her healing process. So much so that when she asked to name him the Dennis family were content for him to be named Charlie. Little Charlie, as he came to be known, was Lucy's constant companion, seeming to know, in that animal sixth sense, that she needed some comfort she couldn't get from humans; an unconditional love.
As the food went down on the floor and Little Charlie bounded over to find his bowl, there was a loud cracking noise. The girls looked at one another, and Edward got up hastily from the table.
'Stay here,' he commanded. 'And stay together.'
And with that he picked up a poker from the range, left the kitchen and went into the main house. The door swung shut behind him. In a split second, the yard door blew open and Gloria rushed to shut it. Her outstretched hand froze as a familiar figure walked into the yard, eerily lit by the carriage lantern over the stable.
'Ph..Ph..Philip,' she stammered. Lucy appeared at her shoulder and squinted out into the dark of the yard.
'Philip!' she exclaimed.
Gloria and Lucy looked at one another, and then both turned to look at the ghostly figure.
'Hello girls,' boomed a voice that filled the yard. 'I see you have met. Mrs Mantell meets Mrs Mantell.'
He strode out of the gloom and waited by the door for Gloria to move aside. She did so without a murmur, still looking at Lucy. Philip marched into the kitchen and sat on the edge of the table, his coat swathed around him. His face looked darker and more handsome than ever.
Lucy looked out into the yard, and then threw a glance at the kitchen door.
'Oh,' laughed Philip. 'They won't come.'
Gloria pushed her way in front of him.
'What have you done?'
'Well, the two luggoons in the barn? They won't bother you again, or me for that matter! And the child sent to protect you? Well, you can holler and scream all you want, but he can neither hear you or reach you!'
Lucy ran to the kitchen door and tugged on the handle. The door was stuck fast. She yelled as loud as she could muster, but there was no answering cry from the other side of the door. Edward was certainly not able to help.
As the girls clustered together, Little Charlie had been trying to get up the nerve to protect his new human friend, starting with some very threatening growling. Upon hearing Lucy yell, he lunged at Philip, teeth bared. Philip raised one hand, as if to ward off the blow. Charlie stopped in mid-lunge and was catapulted backwards and hit the wall, sliding down to the floor, concussed and very confused. Lucy rushed over to see to her canine friend, while Gloria approached Philip.
'Who are you?' she demanded. She looked into his eyes as if trying to read his very soul. His dark eyes burned with intensity - and something else she couldn't quite read.
'You'll find out,' he sneered. 'Actually, you'll find out sooner than you think!'
He raised a hand and the older dog fell over, frothing at the mouth. The cats were stricken and rushed to cluster and hide behind the range. The older dog heaved and struggled to breathe.
'Stop!' cried Lucy, who was still sitting with Little Charlie and watching the other dog suffer. She made to go to the dog, but as suddenly as it came on, the fit passed and the old dog got up shaking his grizzled muzzle in a confused fashion.
'Do you see yet, dear wives,' coaxed Philip. 'What I can do?'
Gloria and Lucy looked fearful. What on earth was this creature in their kitchen; this creature they had both so innocently married?
'I have to go and sort out the rest of this sweet family,' Philip said suddenly, rising from his temporary seat on the table. The cats hissed and the dogs growled. The yard door flew open and Philip strode out into the darkness, his coat swirling around his calves. He turned and frowned. In an instant all the lights in the house and yard blinked out, leaving the girls in complete darkness.
Lucy and Gloria huddled together, feeling the sensation of silk as the cats rushed past them into the black night and to freedom. Little Charlie was shaking his head, but seemed unharmed. The old dog was resolutely eating again, as though the temporary interruption was past.
'Bye, girls,' came a sibilant whisper and then they had the uncanny sensation they were alone. No footfalls dictated Philip's departure, but they were absolutely sure in the knowledge that he had gone.
Lucy groped around for the lantern and opened the range to light a spill, while Gloria tried the kitchen door again. This time it opened freely to reveal Edward in the hallway. He looked disconcerted.
'Have all the lights gone out? How is that possible?' he asked as he walked into the kitchen.
'Edward!' Gloria tugged on his sleeve. 'Did you hear Lucy call out?'
Edward shook his head. 'Nope. I just went out to see what made that banging noise, the lights went out and you opened the door. How on earth did the lights go out?' he mused peering up into the light mantles.
Lucy and Gloria looked worriedly at each other.
'You wouldn't believe us if we told you,' said Lucy.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Fifteen

2007-10-03T22:03:00.000+01:00

The wind whistled around the little vicarage as Michael and Sarah arrived. The storm clouds were lowering ominously and the temperature had dropped a significant few degrees. Michael ushered Sarah into the house and slammed the door.
'Maggie?' he cried. 'Maggie, are you here?'
His housekeeper leant over the small stair banister rail.
'Hello sir, tis turning into a wicked night' she commented.
'Maggie! Make up the spare room for this young lady please. Then knock her up something to eat. Warming and nourishing please. And stay with her. I'll be back shortly.'
'Yes sir' Maggie was used to short notice visitors. 'Where will you be, sir?'
'I'm running down to the hotel to speak to Mike. I'll tell him you're held up here for a while. I'll be back directly.'
Maggie nodded and came downstairs in a rush.
'Come on then, miss. Let's get you settled in.' and with that she took Sarah's little bag and led the way upstairs.
Michael waited a moment and, seeing the women getting on, he went back out into the lowering evening.
The storm was gathering pace. The darkening sky was almost purple and the clouds were thickening. There was an occasional rattle as the wind started to pick up. Michael sprinted the half mile to the hotel where he demanded to see Mike Jenkins. Mike came from the back rooms, rubbing his hands on a towel.
'Mike,' gasped Michael. 'I need a favour. Can you send a message over to the Dennis farm? Ask Brian and Beatrice to come to the vicarage. Oh, and James should come too - but only if the other lads are around to keep an eye on the girls!'
Mike looked nonplussed at the pastor. But it was unusual for Michael to ask for things for no reason. Obviously the out of breath pastor had something important to tell.
'Course,' he said and bellowed into the back for one of his handymen. He passed on the message and told the boy to take a horse and cart. He also instructed the boy to let Brian and company have the horse and cart, and he was to stay and look after the girls.
'Two birds with one stone,' he grinned at Michael. 'Can I be of any more help?'
'Can you come to the vicarage?' asked Michael. 'I think you're going to want to hear this too.'
'I'll be over shortly,' said Mike. 'Just give me half an hour to sort myself out.'
With that, Pastor Michael headed back out into the burgeoning storm, clasping his soutane around himself and ran back to the vicarage.
'Tea, Maggie!' he shouted over the rising sound of the storm. 'Strong and hot, please. And make a fresh pot, we have visitors coming over! It's going to be a long night!'

Brian and Beatrice sat together on the settle in the vicarage study, holding hands and looking scared. James and Mike Jenkins stood leaning on the mantelpiece as Pastor Michael ushered in Sarah. He made her comfortable in a deep cosy chair and poured her a strong cup of tea. As she drank, the cup rattled in the saucer.
Outside, the wind was becoming so loud that everyone had to shout. The sky was now inky black and the rain was falling in lumps. Michael had drawn the curtains, but everyone could hear the storm starting to rage.
'Everyone, this is Sarah.' Michael began. The assembled group all smiled wecomingly and encouragingly at the young girl. She coloured slightly.
'Sarah has recently had her baby taken.'
There was a second's silence and then everyone started talking at once. As the volume level rose, Michael raised his hand and they all subsided.
'I have been doing some research and I think I know what is going on.'
'Do you know how to stop it?' whispered Beatrice. 'These poor girls. Three of them. How many more are to suffer?'
Michael took a deep breath. He walked over to his bookcase and took down the old book. He opened it to the correct page and read aloud the extract he had found the previous day.
The words echoed around the room, seeming to push back the storm.
The most powerful of all life-giving properties is that of the blood from a demon's own child. This makes the procreation of children a vital part of the demon theology. However, the child has to be half human and it must not be conceived through violence. Demons believe violent conception lessens the effect of the blood. The child must also be nurtured by its mother for a set period before it is suitable for sacrifice.
Brian and Mike went white as they realised the implications. Beatrice fought the urge to faint, and James looked helplessly on.
'Sarah, my dear,' Michael turned to the young girl. 'What was your husband's name?'
'Philip.' Said Sarah with a puzzled tone. 'Philip Mantell.'
Beatrice fainted as Brian leaped out of his seat.
'The bastard!' he screamed, beating the will of the storm as his words came out. 'I'll kill him! The evil, lying, sneaky bastard!'
Pastor Michael went to Beatrice, while keeping a wary eye on Brian. This was the easy bit. Luckily his audience had come to the same conclusions he had.
'Brian,' he said gently. The storm seemed to abate enough so that the Pastor's gentle voice did not need to be raised.
'I believe Philip is a demon. Not only that, but I believe he is a demon that is seeking eternal life. He is ruthlessly marrying women, impregnating them and then stealing the babies.'
That was too much for Sarah, who also fell forward into a bumping faint. Michael rushed to her side at the same time as James stepped forward and the two men revived her. She sat, white-faced, as Michael continued,
'It goes without saying that we must stop him,' but Michael was immediately interrupted by five voices clamouring how.
'The secret is in the triumvirate,' he said, turning the pages of the book. 'Listen; The demon is the most powerful of all the creatures from other-worlds. It is almost impossible to kill demons without first weakening its power. The triumvirate is still the most potent way to weaken a demon. The Power of Three is a magical essence that will reduce the demon to its weakest and enable victory. We need to create a triumvirate. And I think I know how.'
Mike and Brian looked at each other. Beatrice blanched.
'Sarah,' she stammered.
'Sarah is our key,' nodded Michael. He looked at the terrified girl. 'Sarah, my dear girl, I am so sorry. You are the third girl. Your baby was the third taken. You complete the triumvirate.'
This was all too much for Sarah, her face turned the colour of chalk and she leapt up and rushed from the room. The men and Beatrice heard her stumble into the hallway and into the arms of Maggie.
'Feeling a bit sick, love?' asked the kindly maid, and was answered with sounds of retching. 'Not to worry, I'll have that cleaned in an instant. Let me take you upstairs.'
'No!' roared Michael. 'Bring her back in. We have no time. We must make plans!'
Maggie entered the room, supporting Sarah.
'But sir, the girl is proper poorly. She's just thrown up on your hallway rug!'
'Vomiting is to be but a part of this night,' said Michael harshly. 'Please sit down, ladies.'
Brian stood to make room for Sarah and Maggie to sit by Beatrice, Sarah in the middle flanked by the two middle-aged women. Each woman took a frozen hand and held it tight.
Michael took a deep breath. What he was about to ask these people, these friends, was something no man should ever have to ask.
'As I was saying, we have to create the triumvirate. But we already have one. Gloria and Lucy are two. Sarah is the third.'
He put his hand up to still the voices already rising in dismay.
'We can call Philip. We can use the triumvirate to get his attention.' He went on remorselessly. 'You hear that storm? That is no freak of nature. He knows the three girls are close. He can feel his power weakening. We must get them in the same place. He will attempt to stop us, and that is how we get him. We bait him.'
There was an agonised sigh from the room.
'Bait him?' asked Brian disbelievingly. 'Bait him with my daughter and these poor girls?'
Beatrice stood up.
'Pastor, you had better explain yourself. I am not offering up my daughter or any other woman as a sacrifice to a demon!'

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Fourteen

2007-10-03T22:01:00.000+01:00

Sarah sat in her tiny house, the small blanket crushed in her hands. It had been two days since Matthew disappeared and she hadn't seen her husband either. She was devastated. She was also completely alone. She knew no one in Littleton, having moved here from several hundred miles away with her new husband. She had no one to turn to and no one called to see how she was.
The house was completely silent. She hadn't slept for two days and had spent most of the time tramping the streets of Littleton looking for her husband and her son. No one had seen or heard anything, but then very few people knew Sarah and her small family. She had even stopped at the local church and spoke to the Pastor. He was sympathetic and supportive, but couldn't help with actual information.
A sudden knocking at the door broke the painful silence. Sarah jumped and then rushed to open the door.
It wasn't her husband or someone returning her baby, but a pastor. He was a young sweet-faced pastor with friendly eyes and an out-stretched hand. As if in a daze, Sarah took his hand, it was warm, strong and comforting.
'My name is Pastor Michael,' said the stranger, guiding Sarah back into the little house and shutting the door.
'My name is Sarah,' she whispered as she showed him the way into the parlour.
'I was visiting my friend Pastor John. I don't know if you know him?' Michael glanced at Sarah who numbly shook her head. 'Well, he's the pastor you met yesterday and he told me a terrible tale of baby stealing. Was it you he was talking about?'
Sarah burst into tears. She had not cried one teardrop since finding Matthew gone, but now this nice man was here and seemed to care, she finally allowed herself to give way. Pastor Michael held her hand and waited patiently for the storm to abate. Eventually, the grief-stricken weeping gave way to hitches and sniffs. And between gasping sobs, Sarah told Pastor Michael how Matthew had gone from his crib, and to add to her pain she hadn't seen her husband in two days either. Pastor Michael listened carefully and mulled over what she told him.
'Do you need to stay here?' he asked gently. 'Do you have family in the area?'
'No,' she replied hoarsely. 'I had nothing here except my son and my husband.'
'Why don't you come back to my town with me? It's not too far away, and there'll be company and comfort there for you. I can start helping to search for your baby - Pastors know a lot of people' he winked.
Sarah considered. She had not heard a murmur from anyone in two days, even Pastor John has not called around. Despite all her questioning no one had seen or heard anything - or if they did they weren't telling. Perhaps it would help to have this Pastor on side, and she could certainly do with some decent company, and some sympathy.
'I'll come to your town,' she decided. 'I'll pack a few things and be ready when you are.'
'Good,' said Pastor Michael. 'I need to go and talk to John; we'll make sure your little house is safe. Then I'll come back for you with my gig.'
Michael left. The house was silent once more. But Sarah now had a mission. To go to Smyth with this understanding priest and let him help her find her child. She packed a few things and walked into the parlour. She picked up Matthew's blanket and held it close to her face, feeling the softness and smelling the baby smell that still lingered. She folded it and put it in her case.

Pastor Michael sipped the hot refreshing cup of tea in the sunny study of Pastor John.
'Do you think they are back?' John asked.
'It's certainly an explanation for the abductions,' replied Michael thoughtfully. 'But surely, if Philip was a demon, there would have been clues? As far as I know, he was a clean-living, decent young man.'
'But there is definitely something black afoot,' John said with a solemn expression. 'Do you still keep in touch with the Hunters? Perhaps they can help?'
'No,' Michael shook his head and put the empty cup down. 'The Hunters have moved on. They are needed elsewhere. Just because we vanquished the demons does not mean they cease to exist - which is where my train of thought started!'
'What are you going to do now?' John was intrigued. Despite mentoring Michael for many years, he had claimed to stay well away from all things demonic; preferring to leave that to the younger clerics.
'Well, the book talks of a triumvirate being the weakness. I told you about Gloria and Lucy - perhaps Sarah will complete the triumvirate and force the demon to make itself known.'
'And if it doesn't?' John asked the question that Michael had been avoiding.
'Then at the very least, those three poor girls will have company and friends to help out.'
'Very noble,' smiled John. 'And while we're on the subject of women - any sign of a wife on the horizon for you?'
Michael sniggered embarrassedly. 'No, my flock keeps me very busy. And I don't need a wife - I have a more than competent housekeeper!'
The two men chuckled over the joke and eventually Michael rose to leave.
'Michael,' said John tentatively. 'I love you like my own son. Don't do anything foolish, and if you need help, I'll be there - just call.'
Overcome with emotion Michael hugged his old friend close, kissed the top of his bald pate and then shrugged on his coat.
Leaving the comfort of the vicarage, he picked up his gig and went to meet Sarah as he had promised.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Thirteen

2007-10-02T23:09:00.000+01:00

Lucy and Maisie approached the house. As they walked up the path, the door was opened and another girl stood silently in the doorway.
'Gloria,' said Maisie, hastening ahead. 'This is Lucy. I met her at the church. Pastor Michael thought you might like to meet her.'
Gloria looked solemnly at the stranger. Blonde looked at blonde. Their eyes met, blue on blue and there was electricity in the air.
'Hello, Gloria,' said the strange girl, Lucy. She was tired and dirty, but she smiled bravely.
Gloria held out her hand and Lucy took it. The two girls walked into the house together and went straight into the parlour, shutting the door. Maisie went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, explaining to her mother that they had a visitor and she was with Gloria.
'Nice cup of tea will set them both right,' said Beatrice, when Maisie had finished telling her about Lucy. 'God love us, someone out there stealing babies - it's horrible!'
Lucy and Gloria were sitting close together, their blonde heads almost touching when Maisie arrived with a pot of tea and cups on a tray. The girls looked up, blue eyes tear-filled.
'She was just telling me about Stephen,' whispered Lucy.
'Lucy told me about Charlie,' whispered Gloria. They sat, hand in hand, looking at Maisie, who was starting feel a little teary herself. She pulled herself together.
'Here's a nice cup of tea for you both. Lucy, I thought I would make you up a bed in Gloria's room - how does that sound?'
'That would be nice, thank you,' replied Lucy, still keeping a firm hold on Gloria's hand.
Maisie walked back to the kitchen still stunned. Her mother was peeling potatoes and Maisie picked up a knife to help.
'You're never going to guess what I've just seen, Ma,' she said as the peel came away from the white potato. 'Gloria is talking.'
Beatrice looked at Maisie in astonishment.
'She's not!' she stammered. 'How wonderful!'
So confused was the dear mother that the peelings went into the potato pot. Both women laughed and set about fishing them out.

Meanwhile the two young girls sat in the parlour and talked long into the night. That night Gloria didn't take her medicine, and she didn't sleepwalk either. Lucy slept in a put-you-up on the floor of Gloria's room, but some way through the night she got up and quietly crept into Gloria's bed, lying with one arm around her new friend. Gloria felt the movement and turned, put her arm around Lucy and they slept like children, entwined, right through the night.

No one could explain it. The initial spark of electricity between the two bereaved young mothers seemed to have fused them together. Not only were they never apart from that moment on, but they were stronger. Gloria and Lucy became one functioning unit, speaking for each other and working side by side.
Slowly Gloria started to get her colour back. She and Lucy bathed together, Lucy washed Gloria's beautiful blonde hair and brushed it to shining dryness in the afternoon sunshine. Lucy prompted Gloria to eat, and gradually Gloria started to enjoy her meals again. When they were both stronger, they worked out in the fields with Brian, the girls and the labourers, and they both filled out and benefited from the fresh air and exercise.

James Jenkins watched the girls as they worked side by side. He was a young lad of eighteen, working the farm in preference to staffing his father's hotel in town. Tall and blond with an easy grin, James was the strong silent type and completely devoted to the Dennis family. Each of the girls held a special place in his heart, but he had yearned for Gloria since they were children together. He watched her grow, meet the stranger Mantell, fall in love and marry. He was at the church the day Gloria and Philip exchanged vows, and he raised a glass of ale to them that evening. Never once, in all their years together, did James ever give Gloria the slightest hint of his feelings. Once she met Mantell there was no right time anyway, it would have been totally improper of him to approach a betrothed or married woman. Since the marriage collapsed and Stephen's disappearance, James was equally reticent, reasoning that the poor girl had enough on her plate without one of the farm workers throwing himself at her.
Now, as he worked he marvelled at the change in Gloria since the new girl, Lucy had arrived. She had some life back in her. Brian and Beatrice said she was talking again, albeit briefly, and she was getting some of her old energy back. But Gloria now went nowhere without Lucy and Lucy was equally tied to Gloria. Nobody understood the special bond between the two girls. They had both lost babies, granted, but they met as complete strangers and bonded in an instant of electricity. Instead of crying together in corners, they were preparing to take on the world - but always together, Lucy and Gloria came as a package now.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Twelve

2007-10-02T09:57:00.000+01:00

In a small house in the poorer area of Littleton lived Sarah, her husband and her baby son. Sarah was a petite blonde with a startlingly pretty face, and deep hazel eyes. She was small and slim and carried herself with an aura of dignity that many better-bred women couldn't manage. Her son was named Matthew and he was the spitting image of his father. His hair was darkening now and his eyes gently turning from blue to dark brown.
The little house only boasted two rooms, a parlour-come-kitchen downstairs and a bedroom upstairs. But Sarah was an inventive and imaginative woman and the little house was as homely as she could make it. She had hand sewn all the curtains and cushions, even the bedding was handstitched. She had painted the walls and hung gay pictures to brighten up the little rooms. She had found old unwanted ornaments and polished them to a brilliant shine, placing them by the fireplace so they caught every warm flicker from the fire. Money was tight, she understood that, but Sarah came from a poor family and was well-versed in making every penny do the job of two.
She brushed her hair from her face and scrubbed the clothes. She was doing the laundry in the tiny back yard. They had no complaints, at least their yard was private - so many of these houses had shared yards, even shared privies. Sarah and her husband had managed to secure a house with its own yard and a small private privy. Her hands were red and swollen from the laundry and the vicious detergent. Her face sweated with the effort and her breaths were shallow and difficult. But this was the last item. She had washed the clothes and, feeling a sense of energy, had decided to clean the contents of her linen closet. In these little slum houses, nothing stayed clean for long, not even clothes carefully stored away in chests and closets. Eventually the fabric would start smelling stale, and her husband had complained a couple of times that his clean bed smelt like something had died in there.
Sarah straightened up, wringing out the last sheet. It would be so nice when this was all done, she thought. She ran the sheet through the mangle and strung it up on the homemade washing line she had constructed. The yard was filled with billowing white linen, drying in the warm April sunshine.
A cry came from the house. Matthew had woken ready for his feed. Sometimes it seemed the child was conscientiously aware of when would be a good time to cry. He never cried when his mama was busy, and he never, ever cried around his father. Only a few weeks old and the baby had learned selective attention seeking.
Sarah picked him up and held him close. The little man immediately started nuzzling for food. Sarah smiled and settled herself in the chair, freeing up her breast to her hungry son. While he drank, she played with his soft curly hair and admired his long dark eyelashes, which lay on his creamy cheeks. She had certainly created a beautiful child, however, it was easy to see where his good looks had come from. His father had the same curly brown hair and long, long dark eyelashes that contrasted with his creamy coloured complexion. Her blonde hair and hazel eyes were not to be continued on in this child, she mused, but perhaps the next one might be like me? Perhaps the next might be a girl? I'd like a girl, she thought as Matthew pulled steadily at her breast. Pretty dresses and ribbons for her hair. Sarah floated away on dreams of her future daughter.
A small wail interrupted her thoughts, as Matthew informed her that he had had enough to drink. He belched loudly and milkily, and then gazed at his mother with his huge eyes. She smiled fondly at him and he chuckled. Matthew was such a gentle baby, he rarely cried, he never screamed and he smiled at her constantly. Once full of milk he would gaze around for a while before quickly going back to sleep. Sarah was looking forward to the days when he was older, and taking interest in things around him. She couldn't wait to start showing him trees and animals and reading him little books. The countryside was only a short walk out of town and she had plans to take him out to the fields at least twice a week for fresh air and, later, exercise.
Matthew's eyes slowly closed, still trying to gaze around against the odds. He smiled gently in his sleep and Sarah knew that meant he would need a nappy change when he woke up. She put the sleeping child back in his basket. Space was at a premium in the little house, so her husband had managed to acquire a small basket, just the right size for Matthew. It even came with little sheets and a warm woollen blanket. Matthew snuggled into his blanket and small milky snores came quickly.
Sarah looked around her little house. It wasn't much, admittedly, but with her husband working away so much of the time, it was big enough for her and the baby. The single room downstairs was actually longer than it appeared outside and meant there was room for a little sitting room cum parlour, and also a kitchen area at the opposite end with a small table for dining. Upstairs, the bedroom was the same deceptively large size, so Sarah and her husband curtained off the back end and created a small nursery and their 'room' was the rest of the space at the front of the house. Being quick and dextrous with her hands, Sarah had fashioned quilts and curtains for the house from offcuts offered by the local haberdasher. The result was a room filled with a hundred colours and a dozen patterns - but somehow all managing to co-ordinate to create a colourful creation.
The little yard was neatly paved, a bonus as some were still bare earth. The privy was in the far corner of the yard, denoted by the cut-out in the door. Luckily, the privies in this street all drained away into the new town sewer system, so the days when Sarah would have had the job of cleaning out the privy were long gone. Other than the privy, the yard was completely empty, save for the washing line Sarah had managed to string back and forth between the roof of the privy and the back wall of the house. The yard was swept daily and it was spotless. Once a month Sarah even washed down the paving, so proud she was of her own yard. The windows in the house were clean and gleamed in the sunshine.
With Matthew asleep and a short while on her hands before starting dinner, Sarah pulled a chair into her yard, sniffed the smell of damp clean laundry and settled herself in the sunniest spot. She had no books and no music, but Sarah didn't need such things. She had perfected the art of removing her mind elsewhere, leaving the toils and worries and going to a magical place where her house had a garden and an inside water closet - and a proper parlour. Each day, in her mind, she visited her 'other house' and spent some time there, thinking up new colour schemes or mentally moving furniture to get the best aspects of the room.
She awoke with a start and looked at the sky. The sun had passed its zenith and was starting to fall towards the horizon. Time to start dinner. In the market that morning, Sarah had managed to pick up some pork chops and intended to cook those with some fried potato for her husband who was due home at dusk. Matthew, thankfully, slept on in his basket, but Sarah knew she would have to wake him before his father came home, in order he might spend time with his son, before he went to bed for the night. This was a routine that her husband was most insistent on, that he have half an hour getting to know the child and spend some quality time with his boy.
As good as his word, her husband walked through the door as the sun was setting over the horizon. The house smelled pungently of pork and fried potato, and Matthew lay in his crib banging a wooden spoon. Sarah had had a quick wash and was neat and tidy to serve her husband his dinner. While he spent five minutes with Matthew, she dished up the meal.
At the other end of the room, her husband peered over the crib, making noises at Matthew, who was chuckling back. What Sarah didn't see was the surreptitious nips from the hipflask, under cover of the crib. Several slugs later, he straightened up and strode over to his dinner.
'How is Matthew today?' he asked, chewing on a mouthful of potato.
'He is fine, better than fine!' Sarah replied with unhidden pride. 'He is so healthy, and hardly ever cries. He's eating well too!'
'That's good,' said her husband as he carved up his chop. 'Let me finish here and we'll have a nice peaceful evening in the parlour with our baby son.'
Sarah shuddered slightly as she started to clear up the kitchen. She was hoping he would be tired and fractious, but it would appear her husband would be in fine form for his usual 'fun and games'.
'Oh, I forgot to say,' he declared, waving the chop bone. 'I will be away late tomorrow, probably overnight. Don't wait dinner for me.'
'Yes, my dear,' said Sarah obediently, her heart lifting. An evening with just her and Matthew. All night with the bed to herself? No grabbing or kicking. She smiled slightly as she wiped down the range.
'You seem happy with my plans,' her husband commented. 'I've finished eating, let us go and relax in the parlour.'
Sarah put the cloth in the sink, gritted her teeth and followed her husband into the parlour end of the room.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Eleven

2007-10-02T06:21:00.000+01:00

Pastor Michael sat in his study, his forehead furrowed in a deep frown. The arrival of Lucy had disturbed him very much, especially in light of the Dennis case. Something here didn't add up, or alternatively, it did add up and Michael didn't like the result. He was curious as to why two young babies had vanished in as many months, in such a small area. Child-stealing was rare these days, although it was prevalent during the War.
The War. Maybe that was the key. Pastor Michael had been very heavily involved in the support of the humans and also the Demon Hunters. He had run messages and held meetings to support the Demon Hunters. In fact, he was one of the original group who contacted the Hunters and requested their help. Pastor Michael knew more about demons than any human man should know.
He cast his eyes across the expanse of bookshelves, searching out a specific title. Finding the book, he pulled it down and opened it to a large colour plate. The picture showed an image of the eternal battle between human and demon. The demon was enormous, without its human form, and sulphurous smoke eddied around it. Large horns protruded from its devilish forehead and its red eyes glinted dangerously. Its hands were enormous with skin of almost a purple hue, which was reflected in his face, and long black claws. The face was a frightening sight. It had the required number of holes; mouth, nose, and eyes, but with the purple skin and horns, not to mention full beard, the demon's face was definitely non-human. It had the human child by the neck, dangling him a good three feet above the ground, and it was clear from the artwork that the child was being garrotted by the beast's hand. It only took one hand to lift the child, the other monstrous claw was digging into the victim's chest, clearly with an intent to disembowel. The picture was entitled 'Demon Meal' and the following article explained the background to the astonishing picture.

'The demon is predominantly and dominantly male. Most demons can take human form whenever they desire, adopting it and shedding it at will. It is recorded that demons live amongst humans for many years without being discovered.
However invulnerable demons may appear they do have weaknesses. Most demons cannot take alcohol or other recreational drugs. Some react with intense violence, some shed their human form involuntarily, and some expire.
Another weakness is the demon's addiction to fresh blood. Particularly when taken in conjunction with a desire to conquer eternal life. The Fountain of Youth, referred to many times in human literature, is considered very real in demonic circles and many demons feel they can gain eternal life from the consumption of the blood of children, particularly babies. The picture (overleaf) illustrates the desire of a demon for the blood of a child, and it excites them to such a degree that they shed human form before killing and drinking the blood. Killing is left to the last minute as demons believe the blood should be warm and still pumping when it is drunk.

Pastor Michael read on, although his blood was chilling with every brutal word. But he knew, almost instinctively, that this was where he was going to find the answer to the unasked question.

The most powerful of all life-giving properties is that of the blood from a demon's own child. This makes the procreation of children a vital part of the demon theology. However, the child has to be half human and it must not be conceived through violence. Demons believe violent conception lessens the effect of the blood. The child must also be nurtured by its mother for a set period before it is suitable for sacrifice.

Michael looked up from the book, his face ashen. Was it possible, he theorised, that there was a demon in their midst? He turned to a later chapter of the book, trying to find the answer to a question that was niggling at the back of his mind.

The demon is the most powerful of all the creatures from other-worlds. It is almost impossible to kill demons without first weakening its power. The triumvirate is still the most potent way to weaken a demon. The Power of Three is a magical essence that will reduce the demon to its weakest and enable victory.

Michael paused. The Power of Three. He considered the implications of the statement carefully. If there was a demon abroad, how would they create the Power of Three? It had to be a trio that had some meaning in the demon's existence. In order to create the Power of Three, one had to see into the life of a demon. Had Michael seen the demon? Had he touched or sensed the demon? Could he, a mere pastor, see into the life of a demon and create the Power of Three?
Michael began making plans to travel. Lucy and Gloria were safe at the farm, and he had some questions that needed answers. The only place he was going to get answers was from his old friend and mentor, Pastor John.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Ten

2007-10-01T18:46:00.000+01:00

Lucy rinsed her hands under the tap and rubbed them dry on the worn old towel. Charlie had been asleep for an hour or more, so she had a little more time to herself. She picked up her trug and went out into the warm spring morning, tramping across the garden towards her precious vegetable beds. The cold weather had passed and spring was here proper. A warm sun shone across the fields, making the grass shine and the new leaves on the trees glitter. She picked a fine selection of vegetables. A nice thick vegetable soup for dinner tonight. Her husband had said it was possible he might not be home that night, and he definitely wouldn't have time to visit the butcher, so Lucy decided to make a juicy vegetable broth and some warm fresh bread.
She re-entered the kitchen and put the trug by the sink, drawing cool fresh water to wash the vegetables. She crooked an ear, but there was not a murmur from the parlour. Charlie slept on.
An hour later, all the vegetables were prepared, the bread was proving in the larder and Lucy decided it was time to make sure Charlie woke for his feed. She walked into the parlour.
'Little man?' she cooed. 'Lunch time!'
Silence.
'Charlie?' she said louder walking over to the basket. 'Mummy's here!'
Silence.
She pulled back the covers to discover Charlie was missing.

Ten minutes later, Lucy was still sitting where she had fallen onto the settle. She stared into space. She shook herself gently.
'Don't be daft' she admonished herself. 'Babies don't disappear.'
She searched the parlour thoroughly and then went upstairs. Charlie's little colourful nursery was empty and silent, but she searched it anyway. Then she went to their room. She turned the room upside down, beginning to fever in her search. She even looked under the bed, as if Charlie could magically spirit himself upstairs and under a bed.
She walked out of the house, calling loudly for her baby.
Silence greeted her. The animals were peaceful in their fields and there was not a soul for miles.
Charlie had gone.
Someone had taken Charlie.
Someone would pay.

Lucy walked stiffly into Smyth. It was a long hike from her little house, but she had determinedly walked without stopping. She entered the Town Square and decided to rest her feet in the pretty gardens. On one side was a large hotel, Jenkins Hotel, and across the way was a picturesque little road with a signpost that declared 'Church'. As she rubbed her sore feet, sitting on the warm grass amidst all the flowers, she decided to pay a visit to the church. After all, she reasoned, the church is the centre of a community.
Aware she was unknown in Smyth, she put her head down and took five minutes to gather her thoughts before struggling to her feet and setting off down the pretty little road that led to the church.
The pastor was dusting the plain altar as Lucy walked slowly into the church. He heard the light tiptap of her boots on the stone floor and turned to see who needed the Lord.
He saw a young blonde girl, skirts muddy and face smudged. Streaks of long-dried tears lay on her cheeks under her blue eyes and her hands were shaking. She looked more than her years, and staggered slightly as she walked towards him.
The pastor rushed over and gave the girl his arm. She leant on it, as though twenty times her age, and the pastor gently led her into the vestry.
As he brewed a cup of tea on his little stove he began to speak, in a gentle, rhythmic way, not demanding any answers.
'My name is Pastor Michael. Named for the saint, don't you know? Saint Michael was a fine chap, led the army of the Lord against Lucifer. I always feel my namesake had a much more productive religious life than I am managing.' He stirred the tea in the pot, still chattering. 'I have been here for three years now. Apart from births, deaths and marriages, this is one very self-sufficient community, faith-wise.'
He noticed she stiffened when he mentioned birth, death and marriages.
'So, my dear girl,' as he passed her a steaming mug of tea. 'What is your name?'
Lucy took the cup and the hot fumes seemed to revive her.
'My name is Lucy. Can you help me?'
The pastor settled himself on the bench next to her. He took the mug from her hand and gently took her cold hands in his. His eyes searched her face.
'Anything I can do, Lucy. The Lord and I are completely at your service.'
Lucy finally looked him in the face. Pastor Michael was a sturdy young priest with a homely square face, reliable looking. His thick hair curled on his collar and he had warm friendly eyes. His soft brown eyes seemed to look into Lucy's heart and she felt the warmth of his hands creep into her heart. She sensed intuitively that here was a man she could trust.
'My baby is gone.' She said simply. Pastor Michael looked horrified. At his gentle urging she told him the whole story.
'Where is your husband?' he asked
'Travelling today, Pastor. He said he might be away tonight. I don't know where he travels with his work.'
Pastor Michael felt a sinking sensation. This sounded like the Dennis family. Two babies in one town in the space of only a couple of months? Just disappearing off the face of the earth without a trace?
As if he conjured her up, there was a small tap at the door and Maisie Dennis put her head around.
'Pastor? Are you there?' she called. Seeing Michael was busy she stammered 'sorry, Pastor. I'll wait out here. I was just here about the flowers for Sunday.' With that she gently withdrew and quietly shut the door.
Pastor Michael opened the door and motioned quietly to Maisie.
'Maisie, come in here, child,' he said in a low voice. 'We need you. This is Lucy. Her baby has disappeared - just like Stephen.'
Maisie walked slowly into the vestry watching the young girl cautiously.
'Lucy, this is Maisie Dennis,' Michael introduced the girls. 'Her sister's baby disappeared too. You two should talk.'
'Your baby is gone too?' Maisie asked disbelievingly. 'My sister's baby vanished about six weeks ago.'
Lucy looked up at the new arrival. Maisie was tall and dark, as dark as Lucy herself was blonde. She had a friendly face and looked bright, although a cloud had passed across her complexion when Michael told her the news.
'Maisie?' asked Pastor Michael, sensing a helping hand. 'Can you take Lucy to get something to eat? Poor girl must be starved, and I must finish cleaning the church.'
Maisie agreed and she led the little blonde girl out of the quiet cool church into the warm spring day.
'So, we'll find the hotel and have something to eat,' she said, tucking Lucy's arm into the crook of her own and setting a strolling pace down the little road. 'And you can tell me all about it.'

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Nine

2007-10-01T18:22:00.000+01:00

The door rattled in its jamb and Gloria turned her soulless eyes toward the noise. Maisie walked into the room with a vase of flowers.
'Aren't these lovely, Glo?' she asked, setting the pretty vase on the coffee table. 'They came from Mrs Jones' garden, her boy brought them over this morning. My! How they do cheer up a room!'
Gloria looked at the flowers in the vase, but only saw greys and blacks. She couldn't see the beautiful petals, the vibrant colours and the dark green of the leaves.
She looked again towards the door.
'You know,' Maisie continued on as if holding a conversation. 'Daddy is back in town today. Mr Jenkins at the hotel says Philip has checked out. Daddy is looking for him.'
A slight shadow crossed Gloria's face. Philip? Gone? But she needed him.

Brian Dennis stood in the foyer of the hotel with Mike Jenkins. He was looking at a copy of Philip's bill.
'And he just upped and left, you say?' asked Brian.
'Yes, he gave us about ten minutes notice. We were completing his bill as he carried his bags outside,' said Mike.
'But Mike, he said nothing to us, nothing to Gloria,' persisted Brian. 'Do you have any idea where he went?'
'No, my friend,' replied Jenkins. 'He paid his bill in cash and said goodbye. Said he was moving on to find work.'
'I don't know what Gloria is going to do.' Brian was concerned. 'After all they had been through, it seemed Philip had turned a corner and they might make a go of their marriage.'
'He sure was over at your place regular,' mused Mike. 'His room never needed cleaning and the cleaning girl swears his bed was so tidy she joked he never slept in it!'
'Well, he's always been a tidy man - but a spotless bed? Are you sure he was sleeping there at night?'
'We did have our doubts,' said Jenkins. 'But with Gloria and all, we didn't like to ask. Didn't mention it outside the hotel neither, and swore young Maggie to secrecy. Your girl's got enough on her plate without added gossip from the town. Of course, James knows.'
'Mighty grateful, Mike' said Brian, looking at the bill again. 'You sure he didn't say where he was going? Or if he'd be back?'
'Not a word,' said Jenkins. 'Just upped and off. Gone in about thirty minutes all told. I saw him walking towards the wagon stop, but didn't see which way he went from the corner.'
Brian looked down from the hotel entrance. The hotel was right in the centre of town, looking over the town gardens. The town spread out from the hotel and from the doorway he could see all four roads disappearing into the distance. To his left was the road out of town to his house. Straight across was the road to the church. To the right two roads snaked off into the more built up areas, one leading to the wagon stop. But that road had a nasty corner, and one watched people slip around it and they were gone from sight.
'Cheers, Mike,' he said, handing back the bill. 'I'll have a mosey into town and see if anyone saw anything.'
With that, Brian set off down the road towards the wagon stop. Turning the corner he saw the grocery shop and the haberdashers. He went into each shop and asked the same question.
'Have you seen Philip Mantell today?'
The answer from both harried shopkeepers was no. Brian stood at the wagon stop, and pondered. Whilst he considered his next move the conductor jumped down from the wagon currently awaiting passengers.
'Help you, Sir?' he asked brightly.
'How many wagons have gone from here this morning?' asked Brian.
'Four, Sir,' replied the conductor. 'One to Cleveton, one to Ashton, and two to Littleton.'
'Four.....' mused Brian. He looked up. 'Where is your wagon going?'
'Cleveton, Sir.'
'How long do I have before you go?'
'About twenty minutes, Sir. I was just about to get my lunch from the grocer. The driver should be back in about ten minutes.'
'I'll be back,' yelled Brian as he sprinted down the street back towards the hotel.
Mike Jenkins agreed to run a message to the Dennis farm, and also lent Brian enough money for his plan. Brian sat back in the rocking wagon, watching the scenery flow past. Finally, he was doing something. The helpless feeling of this morning had been replaced with a feeling of intention and anticipation.
Brian was going to find Philip. And he was going to bring him home.

The message arrived at the Dennis farm in the shape of Mike Jenkins himself. Mike was a good friend of Brian's and he was close to Beatrice and the girls. His son James, having eschewed the life of a hotelier, worked as one of the Dennis labourers. The family looked at Mike nonplussed as he delivered the message. James stood silently at the kitchen door, wary of intruding, yet needing to show this close-knit family his support.
'Brian's gone? After Philip?' spluttered Beatrice. 'Does he know where he's gone?'
'ah, no,' said Mike 'But he knows that only four wagons left Smyth this morning. One to Ashton, one to Cleveton and two to Littleton. He reckons he can cover all three towns in one day and be back here by suppertime.'
'If you don't think he slept at the hotel,' pursued Ann. 'And he didn't sleep here - where did he sleep for the last three weeks?'
'Now that, as they say, is the golden question,' answered Mike exchanging a quick look with his son James. He was pretty certain Philip had not slept at the hotel, merely keeping his room as a bolthole. He was at the Dennis farm most of the day, then returned, changed and went out in the evening. Originally, the Jenkins' thought he returned late at night, but Maggie seemed insistent that the bed was unused.
Brian returned home late that night. He had no news. No one in Ashton or Cleveton has seen anyone resembling Philip, and Littleton was a very large town where no one paid any attention to anyone other than themselves. He had tramped up and down the streets of Littleton for two hours, visiting shops and stopping passers-by. He had even visited the sheriff's office and left a description of Philip with the officers.
They had reached an impasse. Stephen was still missing, Gloria was in deep depression and now Philip had disappeared.
As Brian was so fond of saying 'when you can go no further down, the only way is up'.
But 'up' seemed an unlikely and bleak prospect to the Dennis family as they prepared for bed that night. Gloria was given her medication and Ann decided to stay at her side through the night.
Brian and Beatrice retired to their room, filled with concern over what the next few days might bring them.
In the bunkhouse, James Jenkins lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He was aching for the family, having known Gloria since they were children playing together. He quietly swore that whatever happened in the Dennis family he, James Jenkins, would be there to support and comfort them.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Eight

2007-09-30T15:20:00.000+01:00

Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven

Lucy studied her baby son. His blue eyes were slowly darkening to brown and his hair was growing, a fine dark head of hair. At eight weeks old he was filling out nicely and his fretful behaviour had calmed down. Now he eagerly sought her breast, keen for the milky goodness. Now when he slept, there was no small frown on his little face and he didn't wake screaming. He still had the odd crying jag, but nothing to concern his parents these days. Now Charlie was calmer, Lucy had more time to herself. She and Charlie had got into a proper feeding routine and with the housework organised, Lucy was able to nap gently while Charlie slept. The relief of being able to sleep. Of course, it wasn't her husband's fault he had to work away. A man had to go where the work was, but it always seemed a shame he was away so much. He left early in the morning before either she or Charlie were awake, and returned tired and hungry in the evenings. Lucy felt awful that he was doing these long days to provide for her and the child. But whenever she suggested expanding the farm and living off the land, he dismissed the idea. He was also not keen on moving nearer town, claiming the housing prices were exorbitant and they couldn't afford the rent now they had a baby to provide for.
'How's my little man?' cooed Lucy. Charlie looked up and gurgled at her. He was warm, comfortable, dry and full of milk. He was one contented baby. Lucy carried him into the kitchen and put him in his basket while she got on with her household chores. As she was dishing up the dinner, she heard her husband's wagon pull in.
'Ha!' she said to Charlie with a wagging finger. 'Daddy's home now. All's right with the world!'
Charlie gurgled and giggled in reply. As her husband came through the door, Lucy wiped her hands on her apron and went to meet him. As they embraced he looked over at the basket.
'How's my boy today, then?' he asked with a big smile.
'Oh, he's had a really good day.' Lucy hastened to answer. 'See? His eyes are darkening. They'll be big and brown like yours when he's older. And he has dark hair too. All Daddy and no Mummy!'
'Well, he is a Daddy's Boy,' replied her husband. With a quick chuck under the chin he turned from his son and contemplated his young wife.
'Dinner?' he asked.
'You just caught me serving up. You go and wash up and it'll be on the table when you get back down.'
Lucy got to work as her husband wearily climbed the stairs. She had already put warm water ready for him in the pretty bedroom and he sluiced himself down. Then he dried and put on a fresh shirt. He looked in the small mirror as he combed his damp hair neatly. When he was all finished and pleased with his appearance, he rooted in his pocket and pulled out a small hipflask. He took a brief swig, then a deeper draft before starting downstairs to his family.
Dinner was delicious, as always. It comprised fresh vegetables from the garden and juicy meat that had been swapped for one of the young piglets at the butchers. Lucy had even had the energy to make apple pie, with apples from the wild apple trees in the garden, which she served with creamy milk from their cows.
'That's the stuff!' her husband exclaimed as he pushed his chair back and pulled out a cigar. Lucy went round the table with a spill and helped him light the cigar.
'I'll clear up in here,' she said cheerfully. 'Can you take Charlie into the parlour? He'll sleep for another couple of hours.'
Her husband grunted and picked up the basket, holding his cigar carefully in the other hand. He walked through to the parlour, listening to Lucy clatter the dishes and run the water into the sink.
Having put the baby down a safe distance from the fire, Lucy's husband looked towards the parlour door. There was still the gay clatter of crockery, and, keeping his eyes on the door, he quietly pulled out the hipflask and took another deep slug. And another. And another.
Still Lucy was occupied in the kitchen, while her husband quietly opened a large cupboard and reached into the back. He straightened up with a bottle in his hands, which he then proceeded to fill his hipflask from. He quietly stoppered the bottle and put it back, right at the back of the cupboard away from prying eyes. He took one last swig from the hipflask and then put it back in his trouser pocket. As he finished this routine, he heard Lucy's footsteps tripping down the hallway. He sat down quickly in the chair and opened his book.
'Is he still quiet?' his young wife asked as she entered the room.
'Yep, not a peep,' her husband answered blithely. 'Now, my dear, what are we going to do tonight?'
'I have some chemises to sew up for Charlie, and you need buttons on your other trousers.' Lucy replied picking up her sewing basket.
Her husband grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to him.
'Put that down and come here!' he commanded. 'I've been working hard all day and there's only one thing I want!'
Lucy suddenly looked scared. She smelt the whiskey fumes and knew what had happened. It had been a while since her husband had been properly drunk and he had always been a violent drunk. She tensed herself and shut her eyes, allowing him to pull her onto his chest. He gripped her arms tightly and pushed her to her knees. Trembling, she unbuttoned his trousers. He was getting excited now, and moved his hands so they circled her throat. Lucy made not a single sound as she serviced her drunken husband and her baby slept nearby in oblivion to the violence.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Seven

2007-09-30T09:26:00.000+01:00

Preface here.
Chapter One here.
Chapter Two here.
Chapter Three here.
Chapter Four here.
Chapter Five here.
Chapter Six here.

Gloria stared out of the window. Behind her, Philip bustled around the room. He put cushions straight and turned the fire over, putting a fresh log on.
'Gloria?' he said hesitantly.
She turned. Her previously vibrant and beautiful face was waxen and her blue eyes dead. She had been like this since her baby son disappeared two weeks before. Her long blonde hair was untidy, despite her mother and sisters' attempts to neaten it. Her clothes hung on a slim frame, due to not eating a square meal for a fortnight. Her breasts, so recently plump and full of milk, were starting to dry up and hung as lifelessly as her arms at her side.
'Come here, my dear' said Philip and took her hand gently. Her skin felt like gossamer. He thought that if he held it too tight it might rip under his fingers. The thin girl allowed him to guide her to the settle, where he delicately pressed her into the seat and encouraged her to lean into the soft cushions.
'How are you today?' he asked in a matter of fact way as he arranged her skirts and found her book, placing it in her lap. Gloria was silent. This was no surprise, she had not spoken since the scream she gave when she discovered the empty basket.
'I'm going to the market today,' Philip persisted. 'I will ask around again if anyone knows anything. Someone must have seen something out of the ordinary. Babies don't just - disappear.'
But the truth was Stephen had done just that. While his family was otherwise occupied and his exhausted mother slept, Stephen had been spirited away out of his bassinet and was not seen again. No one saw anyone unusual at the farm.
Of course, the first place Brian Dennis went on his quest to find his grandson was the hotel where Philip Mantell was staying - sure that the baby's father had snatched him. But Philip was there, writing his diary, and there was no sign of the baby. The room was spotless and Philip permitted Brian to search thoroughly without a word of complaint. No one at the hotel had seen Philip with a baby and there were no unexplained noises and Philip followed his normal daily routine. It was fairly obvious he didn't have Stephen.

Once Philip was discounted the search was widened. Every person in Smyth turned out to help look for the baby. Houses were searched through again and again. Neighbours watched each other at market and on the street, trying to see if one of their own was letting drop clues of misdeeds. As time went on, the Dennis family despaired of ever seeing the little boy again and Gloria remained in a deep unrelenting depression. But Brian still went out daily, scouring the town and the countryside for his grandson. He ate rarely and walked dozens of miles every day, coming home merely to sleep off his exhaustion and start again the next day. Beatrice, the girls and the labourers kept the farm ticking over and Philip was in charge of Gloria. The estranged young couple had mended quite a few fences in the weeks before Stephen's birth and during their weekly visits after he was born. Gloria felt that maybe she had misjudged her penitent husband - he was so caring and considerate. Perhaps it was the idea of marriage that had sent him into a self-destruct cycle taking her with him. He was so - different - since he had returned to Smyth. And there was no evidence of the alcohol-fuelled rages she had seen during their brief time as man and wife.
But still, she didn't speak. Her huge sad eyes followed everything that happened, lighting up only when her father returned each evening only to dim again when she saw his empty arms. She was helped to the table for each meal only to push her meagre serving around the plate before putting her cutlery down. The doctor had been over to see her daily in the first week, and had left a small prescription. Beatrice only used it sparingly, usually at night, as she felt that grieving was a process her beloved daughter had to go through naturally.
Night-time was a different matter. Gloria had started sleepwalking soon after Stephen had disappeared. The family discussed this new event and concluded Gloria was searching for her lost baby in her dreams. Her sleepwalking took her across the yard and into the fields, causing her family more heartbreak whenever they found her missing from her bed. She was usually found wandering the fields and lanes in her nightgown with bare feet and freezing cold. They gently steered her back to bed and helped her to snuggle down under warmed blankets, rubbing her frozen hands and feet in an effort to make her comfortable and ease deeper sleep. They tried locking the doors, but she always found a way out of the house. They had gone through a brief period of having someone at her bedside, but the night that Natalie fell asleep and Gloria was discovered on the outskirts of Smyth showed that the family was too exhausted. That was why Beatrice saved the medicine for the night hours, reasonably thinking that Gloria and the rest of the family needed sleep at this difficult time. The medicine calmed Gloria and helped her to sleep dreamless sleep which, in turn, cut down on the sleepwalking incidents. Although, even with the potions, the poor girl still wandered occasionally, her unbounded grief overpowering the tranquilliser.

Philip moved Gloria's cold hand so it rested on her book. The fire crackled in the grate, beating back the chilly spring day. The wind battered at the windows and a small frown played upon Gloria's brow, as if she was concerned about her child out there in the cold April day. The arrival of the early spring flowers had gone unnoticed this year. This was the first year that Gloria had not rushed out to run her fingers through the wild daffodils and crocuses that bravely pushed through the cold earth every spring. The first year that the kitchen was not decorated with a vase of handpicked colourful flowers to welcome spring and the coming warmer weather. The first year that Gloria didn't skip around the house singing to herself. The first year that the Dennis women didn't spring-clean the house at all. With searching, animal husbandry and Gloria, there was just no time for any serious housecleaning, other than the day to day housework. The rugs remained unbeaten and the windows unwashed this spring. The stove remained merely clean and the kitchen floor was tidy, if a little dirty. No one in the family noticed that the cleaning hadn't been done and if visitors thought the house a little unkempt then that was totally understandable under the circumstances. Not that there were a lot of visitors. Gloria, Brian and Philip had made it clear that visitors and well wishers were not welcome unless they came bearing news.

But no news came.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Six

2007-09-29T23:30:00.000+01:00

Preface here.
Chapter One here.
Chapter Two here.
Chapter Three here.
Chapter Four here.
Chapter Five here.

Lucy sat in the corner of the little room, breastfeeding Charlie. The little baby fitfully pulled and tugged at the breast, causing Lucy to sigh deeply. He was so difficult to feed. He had been fretful since he arrived and it took ages for him to settle at her breast. But she soldiered on, knowing how important it was that he get mother's milk for his first six months. Finally Charlie settled at her breast, pulling with a gentle rhythm. Lucy relaxed, and wriggled herself into her chair in an attempt to make herself comfortable.
Lucy was a young mother, barely seventeen when Charlie was born. She was a delicate child, with a slender frame that, when she was pregnant, one could wonder how she carried the extra weight of her child. Since the birth, she had quickly lost weight again and now was slender to the point of skinny. Her elfin face was pointed and beautiful, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. Her pretty face was framed with hair the colour of ripe corn. Her blue eyes sparkled when she looked at her baby son. He was compensation enough for all the hardship she faced.
She lived in a small house on the edge of a wood, about twenty miles from Smyth. It would have been hard without her husband to do errands and run around after her while she was pregnant. They had a small number of cows and chickens, which helped with the daily meals and also a sow about to farrow. It was so clever of her husband to organise having the sow impregnated. He joked that it was her swollen belly that gave him the idea. Now the pig was about due and they were looking forward to several piglets and, in the fullness of time, their own pork.

As Charlie suckled Lucy looked around the room. It was a cosy room, designed by herself. Warm red curtains hung at the windows and there were comfortable chairs and a settle in front of the large open fire. They had opened up the fireplace, reasoning that a large fire was romantic. Not only that, it was a godsend on wet washing days, when Lucy could hang the clothes in front of a roaring fire and they would dry in half the time. From the fireplace it was a mere step to the desk and chair her husband regularly sat at to do the accounts and write his journal. That was all there was, apart from Lucy's rocking chair - provided by a caring neighbour. It was perfect for nursing Charlie and tucked away nicely in the corner so as not to overpower the little room. Soft dark red cushions adorned the chair and helped Lucy to get comfy while giving Charlie his six feeds a day. This was the main room of the house. Behind this room was the small kitchen that doubled as a dining room for the young couple. Upstairs there was one decent sized bedroom, decorated in cool blue with a large bed and simple wooden wardrobe and dressing table, and a small nursery in bright blues and yellows. Lucy had done all the decorating herself while pregnant. Her husband jokingly told her she was nesting, she thought it maybe not quite such a joke. She had not had anything else to fill her day, other than the farm chores, so she relished the opportunity to paint and sew in order to create a wonderful existence for her new baby. While waiting for her baby to make his appearance she had stitched blankets and cushion covers. She had knitted cardigans, hemmed nappies and hooked a little blue rug for the floor. Being alone in the house so often, with her husband travelling, she had found the craft work helped to keep her busy and focused.
Charlie was six weeks old now. He was a strong boy and looked just like his father. Lucy was so proud of her child; she longed to show him off. But being so divorced from the main town with a small child she rarely saw anyone. Even the neighbours were wary of coming over since her husband had snapped at one inquiring farmer's wife. However, Lucy was a simple person and she was content to care for her child in the peace of her own home. Her husband provided everything they needed and she wanted for nothing for the baby.
Charlie stopped nursing and stared up at his mother. His little face crumpled and he began to whimper.
'You know,' Lucy said gently as she rocked the fretful child. 'For such a big healthy boy, you sure are a whiney child.'
Charlie sniffled a sob and his eyes started to close. His mouth puckered slightly and little milky bubbles formed on his lips. His hand, curled in frustration, uncurled and fell to his side as Charlie fell asleep. Lucy rocked him for a while longer until she was sure he was fully asleep, then she laid him gently in his crib. When he was asleep was the time to do her chores, as he took all her time whilst awake. It would've been better if her husband were at home more often, but his work took him away so much that it left her to run the house and smallholding virtually single-handedly while raising their child. Of course, in her darker moments, Lucy was grateful that her husband was absent so much of the time. Life was certainly more peaceful and easy when her cruelly demanding husband wasn't in the house.
While Charlie slept, Lucy swept the floors and shook out the rugs. The vegetables were pulled from the beds and cleaned ready for cooking. The animals were fed, including the cat with kittens and the dog. While feeding the household animals, Lucy heard Charlie whimper. As ever, she rushed to his side, fearful he might wake and start a non-stop crying jag. Even his mother was no comfort when Charlie began a screaming fit. Lucy dreaded that he would start crying hysterically. Luckily they lived at least a mile from their nearest neighbour and no one heard Charlie cry. But then, no one heard Lucy cry either.
Her husband thought that maybe Charlie was not altogether right in the head. It was nothing physical, they had had the doctor out and he declared the baby fit and thriving. Her husband told Lucy that the human brain was a complicated organ and the littlest problems could surface as behavioural traits. He comforted her that either Charlie would settle eventually, or his parents would hit upon exactly what the boy was crying for. In the meantime, Lucy tried everything. Holding him, not holding him. Sunshine, shade. Cool, warm. Food, dry clothes. Although the variety kept him distracted for small periods, nothing seemed to ease the baby's angst during these crying spats.
Charlie whimpered gently and rocked in his sleep. His little fist curled and uncurled. His forehead creased, then smoothed out, then creased again. Lucy wondered what he was thinking about.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Five

2007-09-29T20:17:00.000+01:00

Preface here.
Chapter One here.
Chapter Two here.
Chapter Three here.
Chapter Four here.

Philip sat at the desk in hotel room, writing a letter.

My dear Robert, I am pleased to report that Stephen is now two weeks old and doing marvellously well. He is healthy and growing fine. His mother's milk is making him strong and he is starting to look like me. What a fine thing being a father is.

He paused, looking at the small hipflask on the top of the desk.

I have not taken a drink since being here. Well, truth be told, I have taken the occasional nip, but always well in advance of any meeting, followed by a thorough wash! Perhaps young Stephen will be the key that sets me free from the chains of the whiskey bottle.
His mother and I are meeting weekly at the moment, and the meetings are civil, if a little strained. But I do think that she is beginning to trust me. Only yesterday she asked if I wished to hold Stephen. As I took him he woke and looked up at me with eyes so blue they were almost luminous.

Philip paused again. Was there anything to add to the letter at this juncture? Not really, he concluded, the time isn't right yet.

I intend to remain here for another couple of weeks, and get Stephen's mother to trust me more. Nothing can be done without trust. Yours ever, Philip.

He sealed up the letter, addressed it and walked over to the post office with it. He thought, wisely perhaps, that leaving it at the hotel desk would be asking for prying eyes to dip into his business.
Returning to his room, Philip started to neaten his dress. He polished his boots and put his jacket on. Casting one last look around his spotless room, he caught sight of the small hipflask on the desk. He smiled briefly, a dark smile on his handsome face, and tucked it away at the back of the drawer. Once he was content that his room was an anonymous as he could make it, he set off for the Dennis farm.

Gloria was feeding Stephen, a job that necessitated her being alone. The girls were out feeding the stock with their father and her mother had gone to market for the morning. Beatrice was hoping to pick up some nice cotton and make clothes for Stephen. Soon he would be out of swaddling and in shirts and vests. Beatrice had embraced the position of grandmother and, together with Brian as a proud grandfather, they had moved heaven and earth to ensure that Gloria and Stephen had the best opportunity to bond in a peaceful harmonious environment.
Gloria smiled down at her son as he slowly drifted off to sleep, her nipple still in his mouth. She gently nudged him away and pulled her dress together. The little baby lay in her arms, his mouth making small milky bubbles and he murmured in his sleep, a sweet baby noise that always accompanied his post-dinner naps.
She gently laid him in his basket, taking care not to wake him. Her mother had always taught her to sleep when baby slept, so she curled up next to the basket. She was reluctant to sleep, as she was alone with the child.
What's wrong? She asked herself dreamily. Philip has been here every week for the month since Stephen was born and nothing untoward has happened. If anything, his impeccable behaviour had induced in Gloria a feeling of relief that Philip was going to live up to his side of the bargain. He had not touched Stephen until she offered him. Then Philip had held the baby briefly, watching him with fatherly wonder, before handing him back.
The thoughts rolling through Gloria's head were comforting and without realising it she drifted off to sleep, one hand resting on the side of basket where her son slept deeply.
Brian finished sorting the livestock feed and watched his elder four daughters distribute it to the animals. He was so proud of his girls, but none more than little Gloria. Such a difficult start to what turned out to be a tortuous married life, yet she took control of her life and that of her son. She made wise conditions with her estranged husband, ensuring her and her baby's safety - yet making sure that Philip was given the opportunity to bond with his son.
Brian rinsed out the buckets and hung them up to dry as usual. Then he started across the yard to the house. Stopping in the kitchen to wash his hands and remove his yard boots, he glanced out of the window and noticed the wagon was gone. Beatrice must have gone to market already. Brian had given her extra money this week to buy material to sew up clothes for the little baby. He walked through the hall to the parlour in his stocking feet and opened the door gently. His Gloria was curled up in her chair, nestled into the corner with her hand laid carefully on the rim of the bassinet. Her blonde hair spilled over the back of the chair, her face relaxed and all worry gone in the comfort of sleep. Brian tiptoed quietly over to the baby's basket and peered in. Amid the rumpled sheets and blankets he could not discern the shape of Stephen. He pulled aside the little sheets to see the child better.
'Gloria! Wake up!'
Gloria woke up with a start, her face suffused with a flush. She looked up at her father's panicked face and then turned to see the empty basket.
Brian held the sheets in his hand and there was no doubt - Stephen was missing.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Four

2007-09-29T12:02:00.000+01:00

Preface here.
Chapter One here.
Chapter Two here.
Chapter Three here.

It was a chilly Spring morning in early March when Gloria woke feeling that perhaps today was the day her baby was to greet the world. Waking her family quickly, they all tumbled out of the house and into the wagon to take her into town. She was wearing a pretty pink gown with lace at the neck, fashioned by her darling Ann, especially made for this day of days.
Stephen Mantell was born only six hours later, a healthy beautiful baby boy.
Ten minutes after Stephen was born, Philip Mantell stood outside the hospital with a thoughtful look on his face, paying a small fee to the errand boy who had passed on the news.
When coming outside for a well-deserved cigar, Brian saw Philip. Swallowing his disgust he walked slowly over to his son-in-law. Philip looked rather nervous, thought Brian. Mind you, he had complied with all Gloria's conditions without a murmur over the past three weeks. All visits had been conducted on neutral territory with various members of her family as chaperones. Philip had been sober and courteous, even asking after Gloria's sisters and the farm labourers.
'Have you come to see the boy?' asked Brian tensely.
'Yes, and my wife,' replied Philip in as positive tone as he could muster.
'Well then,' said Brian. 'You may as well come back in with me. But first,' he paused and put his hand in his pocket 'to celebrate your son's arrival.'
He passed the second cigar to Philip and proffered his matchbook. Philip lit his cigar and drew deeply. He was going to need strength for what he was about to do - and alcohol was out of the question. The cigar was eagerly accepted. The whole ceremony of lighting the cigars and puffing on the flavoursome smoke took the spotlight from Philip and the tense conversation. Each man stood thoughtfully smoking, physically close yet miles apart.
'You ready?' asked Brian, mashing his cigar butt under his boot heel.
'To see my son? Always,' joked Philip, but a tone in his voice made Brian cast a sideways glance.
'The visiting conditions still apply,' he warned. 'Gloria was most insistent. You will never be alone with her or the child. She doesn't trust you.'
'That is sadly understandable,' replied Philip. 'Although, I do hope to change her opinion of me in the future.'
'That's as may be,' grunted Brian. 'But for now - you will be chaperoned around my family.'
With that he strode back into the hospital with Philip at his heels and entered Gloria's room. Gloria lay in bed, surrounded by female members of her family, her small son at her side, swaddled gently in blankets. A small purple face peered out inquisitively and little fingers flexed, where one small hand had fought free of the swaddling. Watery blue eyes gazed unfocused as Philip bent over the small baby.
'He's beautiful,' he said with a tinge of awe in his voice. 'Absolutely perfect.'
Gloria smiled tiredly and lifted the child.
'Mother, please hold him for Philip. He has a right to see his son.'
Beatrice took the baby and held his towards Philip. Philip studied the infant carefully and then looked at Gloria with a smile.
'Ten fingers, ten toes?' he asked with an attempt at light-heartedness. The usual joky query sounded almost dull from his lips, as though he had carefully rehearsed what to say to his wife after her confinement.
Gloria nodded, attempting to keep a tone of normality in her voice.
'Ten fingers, ten toes,' she said. 'All as gorgeous as he is.'
Philip smiled. He stroked the child's face and then turned to take his leave. The room was silent, as if statues, waiting to see what Philip Mantell would do.
'I will await your message as usual,' he said gruffly and smartly took his leave.
'Well, I never,' said Beatrice, laying the baby back in his mother's arms. 'I thought he was going to try something on. He's been that good and quiet the last three weeks that I was sure he was scheming!'
Gloria and Brian nodded, and Ann shook her head gently where she sat by the bed. They were, indeed, all surprised that Philip had not tried to take - or even hold - the baby and no mention of changing the visiting conditions were made. Although Gloria was relieved, Brian couldn't help feeling that Philip Mantell was still up to something. He had no idea what, but he got the nasty feeling whatever it was wouldn't be nice.
But Gloria was tired, and Brian had no intention of upsetting his daughter or the rest of his family needlessly. However, as Brian looked at his daughter gently slipping off to sleep and his grandson already sleeping peacefully, his lips pursing gently, he swore to himself that Philip Mantell would never be in a position to hurt either of them - ever again.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Three

2007-09-27T18:59:00.000+01:00

Preface here.
Chapter One here.
Chapter Two here.

Gloria was suffocating, her hands to her throat, trying to ease the constriction. Her loins burned like fire and her face stung. She opened her eyes to see her husband Philip leaning over her, his alcohol-sodden breath assaulting her senses. His eyes burned with desire fuelled by alcohol and she felt him ripping her clothes, thrusting hands into her underclothes, muttering obscenities and, with his spare hand, clutching her around the throat. She managed to pull the fingers from her throat and screamed....
She woke to see the weak winter sun breaking gently through the window, making long lines of light across the small bedroom. Her body shook in reaction to her nightmare and sweat rolled from her skin. She sat up and looked over at her sisters' beds. They were groggily stirring - woken, no doubt, by her screams. Before she could speak the door opened and her parents rushed in, full of concern at their youngest daughter's distress.
'Calm yourselves. Twas merely a nightmare of times worse than this' Gloria said lamely as her family clustered around her bed.
Her father scowled grimly.
'If I ever find that man, he will not live a second after I see him!' he swore. Beatrice attempted to calm him, but Brian shook her off and stomped out of the room. The women heard him stamp downstairs and the back door slam as he stalked out to check on the animals.
'Gloria, are you ok, love?' asked Ann, ever caring and considerate, her big brown eyes full of worry.
'I'm fine - apart from feeling guilty about waking you with such a shock! I think I'll go for a walk to clear my head.'
The girls and their mother watched worriedly as Gloria slowly got up and took her towel to the water pump, as if all the cares of the world were on her shoulders.
Whilst washing, Gloria rubbed her hand over her belly, relishing the feel of new life burgeoning within. She didn't blame the child; it was not the child's fault it was spawned from violence.
'My lovely wee child' she murmured, stroking her stomach. 'I promise to love you more than any mother and cherish you more than any father'.
She rinsed out her hair and stood, rubbing it with the towel, looking out across the yard to the fields. What better place to raise a child? Open spaces, loving family and a life of freedom.
As time passed, Gloria filled out and her baby kicked healthily. Barely three weeks before she was due to give birth there was a knock at the door. Wiping her hands on her apron, Gloria opened the door. There stood Philip Mantell, with a bouquet of flowers.
Speechless, Gloria stood aside as her father walked in from the kitchen asking who was at the door.
'Mr Dennis' said Philip. 'You probably want to kick my backside out, but I have been waiting until I was sorted out in my head before coming to beg Gloria's forgiveness.'
'Mantell' muttered Brian. 'I still want to kick your........'
'Father, please!' interjected Gloria. 'I'll talk to Philip, and then he'll leave - is that all right?'
Still muttering, Brian stood aside and Philip walked into the house. Brian stalked out to the kitchen saying 'I'll be just out here, my dear.'
Gloria looked Philip up and down. Admittedly, he looked better, his eyes were clear, his skin was healthily tanned and he looked more - well, more muscular. Gloria blushed slightly as Philip stepped towards her with the flowers.
'For you, wife,' he said with convincing endearment. 'Remember where we met? At the flower stall in the market. Flowers always enhanced your beauty.'
Gloria stood uncertain, then gently took the beautiful bouquet of white roses and yellow lilies. Such wondrous flowers were very expensive since the war, Philip had obviously gone to one of the upmarket florists and spent quite a bit of money on this one gesture. She inhaled the fragrance deeply and looked up.
'Please sit down, Philip,' she said gracefully. 'We must talk.'
When they were both seated, Gloria with the bouquet in her lap covering her bump, Philip licked his lips and looked tentatively at his pregnant wife.
'How is the child doing?' he asked solicitously.
'Fine,' she replied with a small smile. 'Due in about three weeks. The doctor says both of us are doing well. I'm booked in at the hospital in about two weeks for a last minute checkup.'
'I have such a difficult question to ask,' stammered Philip.
Gloria looked at him with a small frown.
'May I........I mean....would you mind........um,' Philip stammered. 'May I stay locally until the baby is born? I mean, it is my son or daughter and I am entitled.'
Gloria sat stock-still. It had never occurred to her that Philip would return to claim fathership of her baby. For the last four months she had concentrated on the idea of being a single mother, with the support of the Dennis family. She had not heard a word from Philip since he left the house. The day that Gloria stood her ground was the day that Philip had packed a bag and stormed out of the house. He had beat her badly, savagely, and she still had the strength of will to stand in front of him, bruised and bloodied and look him in the eyes. That was the day Philip realised Gloria would not be cowed by his strength or powerful character.
The arrival of Philip today had been a shock for Gloria, needless to say, but his request had her completely off-guard.
She thought for a moment and then looked him in the eyes.
'You do know, I hate the very flesh of you, don't you?' she asked quietly, with great restraint.
'Tis understandable,' he replied. 'I was not the best of husbands. The alcohol was a curse.'
Gloria was even more shocked. Where had Philip got such sensible perceptions from? Where had he been for the last four months? Then she shook her head; it didn't matter.
'You may stay in Smyth,' she said thoughtfully. 'You may not come here any more. You will stay in Smyth and I will come and visit you, with a chaperone - needless to say.'
She ignored the dumbstruck look on his face and continued 'you may not come to the hospital. A message will be sent when our child is born. You may visit when I am well again - but you will never be alone with the child or me. Do you understand?'
'I do,' said Philip. 'Although I think them harsh, I understand your conditions. I will take a room at the hotel in town and will wait for your messages. But, you must realise' he ploughed on. 'that I will be abroad around town, seeing you and your neighbours. People will talk.'
'Let them,' retorted Gloria spiritedly. 'They talked enough four months ago when you left me battered and pregnant and disappeared!'
Philip sat quietly. Gloria sat opposite him and waited for him to speak, worried at the outburst her comment might provoke. She could sense her father at the kitchen door, waiting for her estranged husband to take a wrong step in this delicate negotiation.
'I apologise,' came the stiff response. 'I am aware how much my drinking affected our life, and that is one of the reasons I came to see you. As well as the need to see my wife and child.'
Gloria flinched from the word 'wife' as though it were a physical slap.
'Very well,' she said, as if in conclusion. 'Please be on your way now, and I will send you a message when I am ready to see you again.'
Philip slowly got up and moved to touch Gloria. She pulled back, relaxing slightly as she realised he was moving towards her belly. He laid his hand on the mound and stroked it.
'See you soon, my child,' he murmured. Turning on his heel he strode out of the house, leaving the door ajar and a stunned Gloria sitting in the parlour with her bouquet of flowers, bathed in the delicious scent and watching her tall proud husband march down the path without a backward glance.
Her father came in.
'Are you all right, daughter?' he asked gently.
'Yes, father. He did apologise, and he is meeting all my conditions. I don't need to see him if I don't want to.'
'..and the child?' her father pressed. Gloria turned to look at her father with a steely look in her eyes.
'Philip Mantell will never hold my baby!' she flashed, the strain of the previous half hour finally taking its toll. Brian touched her arm gently.
'Yes, darling. As long as I have breath, he will not get his hands on the baby,' he agreed.

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter Two

2007-09-23T17:45:00.000+01:00

The war to end all wars in this land was a cataclysmic event. The demons were invading the peaceful existence of humans to such an extent that there was fear of the human species being wiped out.
Demons and humans had lived side by side for millennia, each occupying their own space and periodically encroaching the others' territory for power or assets. But the demons had decided that they needed more space and started to terrorise the humans to make them leave. Those who didn't leave were summarily killed. The demons slowly started to take over large tracts of land and areas became no-go areas for other beings.
It got to the point where the humans had nowhere left to go, and they dug their heels in and turned to fight. They called upon the Demon Hunters, a shadowy race from across the earth to help them to vanquish the demons once and for all.
The Demon Hunters rode in on horses of midnight black, their swords raised and their faces hidden behind black veils. Their horses were monstrous sights, with flowing manes and tails that flickered with stars and sparks. Their black hooves ground sparks from the roads and their eyes glinted with red lights. Two hundred Demon Hunters answered the call for help from the humans, and the ensuing battle was bloody and long.
With human and Demon Hunter standing side by side, the demons had the fight of their lives. In desperation, they shed all semblance of human form and revealed their true selves. Talons, horns, claws and teeth were all used to tear, shred and maim their enemies. Skin of every hue from purple to deep fiery red could be seen with scales and fur and even rotting flesh exposing organs. The legions of Satan were not to be easily beaten. They used the blackest of magic to try and overthrow the Demon Hunters. But the Hunters were experienced at defying demon magic. No matter what the demons tried, the Hunters were there at every turn. For each Hunter that fell, he took a hundred demons with him.
During the battle that raged for five long years, entire communities were decimated. Homes were burnt or razed to the ground. Children were stolen and murdered. Wives and daughters were taken for procreation. Men and boys were slaughtered where they stood.
Smyth was one of a community of towns on the outskirts of the battle. Demons would storm through, and houses were destroyed, but the blood and mayhem was mostly confined to the most valuable of property - cities. Entire cities were demolished and the people ran for the safety of the countryside. Mothers smuggled out their children and men stayed to try and protect their land.
Finally, the Hunters got the upper hand. A covert operation had revealed the head coven and the Hunters ravaged the most important demons in existence. Their swords of fire melted through demon beings, their empty husks falling to the floor. Blood and sweat mingled with the smell of sulphur and phosphorus as the battle raged between demons and Hunters. But the Hunters' persistence paid off and the demon coven was vanquished. When the head coven fell, there was an immediate effect on the battling demons. They began to falter; some retook human form before dying in immense pain. Some merely howled into flame and ceased to exist. Some continued to fight, although their power had been robbed from them. Humans and Hunters easily defeated the remainder of the demons.
Smyth and the surrounding towns were saved. Ashton, Cleveton and Littleton remained mostly untouched, although their people were decimated. Most of the young male population had gone to fight, and not many of them had returned. But the women and children worked hard to keep their towns and communities safe.
Once the Hunters left, life began to return to normal. The previously sceptical people went to church more, and money lost most of its allure. A large number of people moved to live in the countryside, like Brian and Beatrice Dennis, thinking that they would be safer away from the centres of commerce. The cities slowly died and soon the land reverted to principally agrarian life. Small villages and towns thrived with the increase in farming brought about by the exodus. Roads between them became safer and more travelled. Local towns brought in sheriffs to watch over them, elected by the people to protect the people. But essentially people watched each others' backs.
But some pessimists would always claim the demons were not totally defeated. There were tales of demons thriving in other lands; demons that could fly high in the sky and demons that infested the oceans.

Brian was a big man, good with his hands, who yearned to live off the land rather than exist in the built up areas of towns. As a new young husband Brian relocated himself and his young wife in the depths of the countryside away from all the dangers and where they could raise a family in peace. Brian's wife would have followed him to the ends of the Earth, and was truly enraptured of the small house in the valley. Her name was Beatrice, and she bore Brian five daughters amid the meadows and bluebells. The girls grew up without any sense of impending battle, free and unspoilt. Natalie was the eldest, blonde and outgoing. Next came twins Alexandra and Maisie, both dark like their father and quietly intelligent. After the twins came Ann, a caring motherly sort, dark, but with her mother's natural nurturing instinct. Last, but not least, came Gloria. So named because her birth nearly killed her and her mother. The rush of emotion at a healthy baby and recuperating wife caused Brian to yell 'Gloria' from the rooftops. Gloria was unlike the other girls - or even her parents. She was reserved and shy as a child, rather plain and didn't excel in any pursuits, but was gentle and loving to a fault. Brian was often heard to say that the pixies had left Gloria as a gift. As she grew, the plain jane turned into a beautiful rose who remained loving and gentle to everyone around her, and, in the words of her father, turned out the most bonny of all his girls. The girls thrived in their little house in the valley, grew strong and healthy in the fields and bonded strongly together under the threat of war.
Gloria was seven when war broke out. It was not so much declared as dived into from many angles. It seemed as if all at once the world was on fire, and it lasted a nightmare five years. In this time all the major centres of world were decimated, new capitals were named - then destroyed.
Peace was never declared. Everything just stopped.
Pieces of broken lives were put together, small towns and villages sprang up away from the devastation of the cities.
Now the Dennis' lived in the same little cottage in the valley, surrounded by meadows and bluebells. The nearby hamlet of Smyth was the new marital home of Gloria and Philip Mantell. Their little house was on the outskirts of the town, within easy reach of both the centre and the wide open expanses of the fields. With a small parlour and kitchen, the lower floor was cosy and warm. Upstairs was one large room, the main bedroom, decorated by Gloria in myriad shades of green. It looked cool and refreshing. Another small room had been marked down by Philip and Gloria for the nursery, in the first flush of their marriage.
Before anyone knew it, it was November. The cold and lonely nights came creeping in like a thief. The bare trees seemed to mourn the passing of summer, and the bare earth held tight to any promise of Spring.
The glass of the window in the little house made Gloria's nose even colder. She shrugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and wrapped her arms around her slightly bulging stomach. Four months married and four months pregnant, she would start showing any day now. Luckily the long dresses and work aprons would hide the evidence of Philip's depravity from the world. However, the marks on her face would remain a public reminder of his violence for a long time to come. The beautiful blonde girl was a shadow of her former self, still sporting purple and yellow bruises on her face and faint marks on her neck. Her hands were scratched and rubbed raw.

Philip was long gone now. Not a nice person, but a dark man with a terrible secret. The handsome man was just around long enough to charm the daughter of Brian Dennis, marry her, abuse her and leave her with child. In fact, the violence had started on the night of their wedding, when Gloria suddenly came to the realisation that there were evil people in the world, and she had unwittingly married one. No matter how Gloria tried to appease him, each evening he would drink hugely and then extract his frustration on his new young wife. With no explanations or apologies Gloria lived her life in daily terror of the evenings to come. Memories of the tortuous nights still haunting her, Gloria turned away from the window and surveyed the luggage waiting by the door. So much for the little dream house in Smyth, close to the church and school. Lovely though her little house was, she was going home. She was going back to the bosom of her family, with a deserted baby growing inside her.
The knocking was loud on the door, suddenly echoing in the empty house. Brian Dennis walked in, his face full of barely concealed emotions, and wrapped his arms around his daughter without a word. After a long hug full of unspoken emotion, he quietly picked up her bags and walked out. Gloria followed him without a backward glance.

(c) cq 2005

nanowrimo 2005 - Chapter One

2007-09-21T18:03:00.000+01:00

Sixteen year old Gloria looked down and smoothed her white apron over her long dress. It was a hot day in June and aprons got so crumpled whilst doing one's chores. Her long blond hair was sticky and her blue eyes watered in the hot sun. But, she mused, the cows are milked, the chickens are fed and the bread is proving in the larder. Eleven o'clock in the morning and she was free to wander across the fields before returning home.
She looked across the valley at the church tower. The spire of the little church where she would be marrying Philip on Sunday glowed in the morning sunlight. Her new wedding gown hung delicately on the back of her bedroom door, a sweet concoction of white silk and lace. Her veil was carefully stored in a large box, but on demand would froth into life and frame her pretty face. Her blue eyes lit up at the prospect, not only of being a bride - but the sensation of being the centre of attention. That was the only problem of being the youngest of five girls, she always moaned, it seemed like she didn't exist. But this would be her moment, her crowning glory. Her elder sisters would have to take a back seat as she took centre stage and said her vows. To honour and obey - the old vows were the best.
Her mother called, her voice drifting over as if from a long way away, and startled Gloria back into the real world. She reluctantly turned and slowly walked back towards the farmhouse that had been her home since she was born. But not for long; on Sunday she would cross the threshold of her own house, one where she would rule and would raise her own family with Philip at the head. Her future married home was a little house on the outskirts of Smyth, handy for the market and also, of course, for the church and school. No tramping across fields for her children, as she and her sisters had done in through their childhood.
But enough dreaming, she chastised herself. There were cushions to embroider and napkins to hem; the last additions to her bottom drawer. There was a phrase from times gone by, bottom drawer. Much like honour and obey it was a phrase redolent of the old times. Shaking the loose blonde hair out of her eyes and the dreams out of her mind, Gloria started to run across the field She let herself in the back gate and trotted up the path which led to the kitchen door.
The range was lit, on its lowest setting as the day was so warm, but ready to burst into fiery life at a command to feed the family. A cat snoozed lazily on a rocking chair and a large floppy dog stretched out in front of the range, absolutely exhausted from a morning spent rabbiting. Beatrice Dennis was peeling carrots and a mound of potatoes was already prepared for the meal. What with her husband Brian, five sturdy daughters and three beefy labourers to feed, it was a godsend that Beatrice really enjoyed cooking large delicious meals. Already Gloria could smell interesting aromas emanating from the bottom shelf of the range as something tasty quietly simmered away to itself.
'Come, Gloria' said her mother. 'Help me prepare lunch for your father. He and the boys will be in shortly and I've still to boil these vegetables.'
Gloria sighed and picked up the huge saucepan and, after filling it with water, placed it on the range and cranked up the fire to get the water boiling.

The hot weather held until Sunday, although the blue skies were starting to lower slightly and the air had become sticky and intense, a sure sign that a storm was on the way. It was ten o'clock and Gloria was slipping her wedding dress over her head. It was so beautiful, such fine stitching. Every time she looked it took her breath away, it was hard to believe that this was her dress, her ticket to freedom. In just two hours she would be Mrs Mantell, Mrs Philip Mantell. Gloria Dennis would be no more. Mrs Philip Mantell, much loved wife of Philip Mantell.
Philip was a tall dark man, with brooding brows and an aura of danger. He travelled where the work was, and one day he found himself in Smyth. Whilst visiting the local market he bumped into a slim blonde girl, basket over one arm, who was looking at the flower stall.
'I do beg your pardon,' he said politely with a smile.
'My fault entirely,' Gloria chuckled. 'I was so engrossed in these beautiful flowers.'
'There is no flower that matches your beauty,' Philip replied chivalrously.
Gloria coloured slightly and bowed her head. Once they had been properly introduced, the courtship flew along and it was only a matter of a couple of months before Philip proposed and Gloria accepted him, thrilled.
Philip was still travelling with the work, so he was away for long periods of time, leaving Gloria and her family free rein to organise the wedding. Philip came back routinely and handed Brian money to help out. He admired the planned flowers, helped pick out a colour scheme and had his say on the design of the cake.
Gloria stood motionless in her new wedding dress, admiring in the full length mirror where it clung to every slender curve of her young body. Her oval face was bathed in the light of her love. Her big blue eyes looked dreamy and she looked radiantly happy. As her veil was gently lowered onto her shiny blonde hair, fluffed into a bouffant style by her older sister Ann, she looked out of the window. She could just see the church from here, a lonely dreamy spire standing among huge trees. Philip would be standing by the altar now, an expectant smile on his face, a new suit and rubbing nervous hands. Gloria quietly slipped off her engagement ring and placed it on her right hand in preparation. It was a simple ring, not expensive or showy, just a public show of their commitment to each other.
Life in Smyth had been difficult since the war. Men, women and children had been ripped from their families; the war had been no respecter of age or worth. Only four years since the harshest war in history. Existence changed beyond recognition and the Earth was reborn from under a cloud. But, as the saying went, life went on - babies were born, graves were dug. The people of Smyth carried the scars of the war, even though the hamlet didn't.
Gloria stood at the altar. Her bouquet was lily of the valley and sweet smelling pink and deep red roses. Her veil modestly hid the sweet contours of her face, but still, she looked elegant and beautiful. She passed the bouquet to Ann and took Philip's hand.
She smiled at him.
He smiled at her.
Pastor Michael smiled at the beautiful young couple in front of him.
'Brethren,' the vicar began in his clear majestic voice. 'We are gathered here, in this church to celebrate the marriage of our beloved Gloria and Philip today, the seventh day of June, in the year of our Lord 1864.'

(c) cq 2005

nanowrimo 2005 - Preface

2007-09-18T20:26:00.000+01:00

The house was peaceful, the trees gently swaying the in the breeze outside.
It was a most unprepossessing house, small and not in the slightest bit pretentious, considering whom lived there.
The path meandered up to the door through a quaint front garden, complete with out of control rose bushes entwining everything and drooping under the weight of heavy red and gold blooms. The door was a plain wood with a simple brass doorknocker and a single word engraved on the brass plate.
The little house only boasted four rooms, two upstairs and two downstairs. But that was all that was needed for the single occupant. Downstairs was the parlour and the kitchen. The parlour was a warm cosy room, with minimal decoration, but with a roaring fire and the dark wood furniture it could become a haven from the world outside. Bookshelves ranged along the walls, groaning under the weight of books and threatening to topple over. Old books, new books, really old books; they were all there. Through a small wooden door was the kitchen. A spartan room that shrieked 'bachelor with maid', which, of course, he was. There were no cooking pots or any evidence the range was used, other than boiling the kettle and warming the room. The larder looked virtually empty except for some cheese and cold meats. The only indulgence appeared to be the bottles of wine stacked in the larder, mostly dusty and very old.
The upstairs has the same spartan look, a look of necessity. The master bedroom had a big comfortable bed, but it looked like it had never been slept in. There were a couple of rugs on the floor and a chair, and that was the sum total of the furniture - except for the books. More books, stacked against the walls, some on bookshelves, some just piled up. The little window gleamed and looked out over the front garden overgrown with roses.
The smaller room was ostensibly a second bedroom. But this little room bore not a shred of bedroom furniture. Instead there was a desk, covered in papers and books. Pictures were pinned on the walls of monsters evil and foul. There was a large poster of a pentacle on the longest wall, and it was surrounded by words in a script unknown. On the other side of the room from the desk was a settle, of the type normally found in parlours. This was draped in rugs and furs and was surrounded by papers and books, seemingly dropped randomly. The little window looked out over the rear of the house and stables could be seen at the back of the yard. It was a larger stable than usual, but only held one loosebox. The stable door was huge, barred with enormous brass hinges and the upper half was pinned back. Inside, just visible in the inky blackness, was a huge horse, black as pitch.
There was no evidence of anyone living in the house. The grate in the parlour was spotless and the range blackleaded to a shiny finish. The floors were swept clean and all the windows gleamed in the sunlight. There were no boots by the door, nor coal or logs by the fire. In the small hallway there were neither coats nor hats. In the bedrooms upstairs, there were no clothes, nor any storage for clothes. The house looked completely deserted.
In the parlour there was one wall with a bookcase that was very dusty. Off all the books in the house, these were the only dusty ones. At the end of one of the shelves was a copy of 'Demons - Myth or Magic?'. This book was the only one on the whole bookcase that wasn't dusty. A hand landed on the book and pulled it from the shelf. Suddenly the entire bookcase swung open and revealed a narrow passageway. Some paces further on there was another small door and, behind it, stairs leading underground.
The room underground was infinitely more untidy than the house upstairs. A cape was flung casually on a chair and there were more books. But these books were scattered all over the room. Some had noted in the margins and some had pages removed. Papers, pen and ink were on the little desk, and the desk almost sagged under the piles of books and papers.
Boots stood by the door, but only one pair. And a jacket was thrown on top of the boots.
Sitting at the table, hunched over his work was an enormous man. This mountain of a man was busy writing, taking notes and referring to a stack of musty books. His eyes were jet black and he had huge shadows under them, showing long hours working on his project. His black hair fell untidily to his massively broad shoulders and he frequently pushed stray locks out of his eyes. He dwarfed the chair, his long legs telescoped under the desk. Every now and then he would stretch, pulling his legs out from under the desk and pushing them to the extraordinary limit of their length. Standing up this behemoth stood six foot ten inches in his stocking feet, so he touched seven feet in his boots. He was muscular with the height, giving an overwhelming concept of presence. He stood up from the untidy desk and stretched his arms upwards. Biceps and triceps wrestled under his shirtsleeves, and pectoral muscles threatened to break through the silken fabric. When his hands brushed the ceiling, the giant bent down and touched his toes. For a big man, he was incredibly supple. His face wasn't young though, he had the experience of years in every line and every wrinkle. He slowly strode over to a jug and poured a glass of water, and drank it greedily. Then he poured some into his hands, rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair.
Then, with a weary sigh, the hard-worker went back to his desk.
The brass plate on the front door read 'Elshin'.

Centred

2006-02-11T21:21:00.000Z

Andy lay under the hedge. All around him was silent, but he knew he wasn't alone; he could sense it, the way old people sensed rain was on the way. His boots were wet, and his feet were cold, but he didn't dare to move to remove the uncomfortable footwear. He just prayed he wouldn't be here much longer. He grasped his rifle, holding it close to his chest, as one would a loved one and peered out under the foliage.

Nothing........not a murmur, not a movement. Only the gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves. The sun shone, making a mockery of the previous night's torrential rain, and the day grew warm.

Still Andy didn't move. He knew, instinctively, he wasn't alone, and wasn't about to call anyone's bluff. He patted his breast pocket wherein lay his love, Charlotte. It was only a picture, and didn't do his girl justice, but out here it was all men had. He had had no letters for nearly a month, he had been separated from his unit for weeks, they probably thought him dead. In fact, his CO was probably already writing the letter to his parents, telling them how bravely and courageously their son fought, and that he died a hero. He did neither, however, and that is how he ended up here, starving, cold and wet, lying under a hedge in a foreign land, waiting for his enemy to show.

He needed this kill. It would mean an incredible difference to his life. He reminisced as he lay still in the damp ditch.

He was a gentle boy, everyone said so. He would rescue injured animals and nurse them, he would grow beautiful plants, and always remembered his mother on Mother's Day. His father was a stern man, who wanted his only son to be an example of manhood, but Andy was never inclined to do as his father wished. He refused football, and instead went to cookery classes and treated his mother to a home made meal as a Sunday treat. He never went to rugby, preferring to read books and broaden his mind. So there was Andy, surrounded by flowers and animals and his doting mother - and the letter arrived. No one had given a thought to the fact that Andy would be called up, he just never seemed the type. But the draft isn't quite so discriminating, and Andy was sent away to learn how to shoot a gun, preferably hitting and killing his opponent, how to disarm a man in combat and how to run for miles with a heavy pack. It wasn't the life he had envisioned at seventeen, but he made of it what he could.
So here he was, miles away from his unit, pitted one against another. He gently rolled over to ease his aching limbs, and watched the sun dapple through the hedge over his head. He concentrated on one leaf, a deep green leaf through which the sun shone as the wind gently shook it. He really ought to take his boots off, but he was still not sure where his opponent was, and he didn't want to risk exposure at this point. He concentrated back on his leaf. He wondered what type it was, certainly none that he had ever grown in his own garden, and he didn't recognise it from any of his numerous flora books, now sitting neatly on his bedroom bookshelf, undisturbed. He thought this was the epitome of being in a foreign land. How much more comforting if it were a simple privet or broom hedge. How much more comforting if he could flag down a car and speak in English, sure that the driver would understand and comply with his request. The leaf quivered, almost as if agreeing with Andy, and he held his breath.

Footsteps........approached and receded..........

He breathed again, being sure to do so deeply and evenly as shown in training to avoid loud panting. his hand was clammy on his rifle, when he was sure his nemesis had passed, he gently released the gun from his grip, and flexed his fingers. Oh, he would give anything to be back in his own garden, he would even play football for his father, if only he didn't have to be here, under this hedge, waiting to kill. He didn't want to do this, he really didn't want to do this, but he knew he must.

He eased himself out from under the bush, keeping an alert eye out all around. He reached back in for his rifle and plucked a leaf from the hedge, which he put in his pocket with the unflattering picture of his sweetheart. A memento. He checked his watch, he had been under the hedge for about six hours, some of the night and most of the morning. It was eleven am, and he was getting hungry and desperate.

Suddenly his opponent broke from the trees on the other side of the clearing, and they faced each other. Soldier and enemy, killer and victim. His enemy was unarmed and alone. Andy lifted his rifle to his shoulder and squinted down through the sight, figuring the best shot for a straightforward kill. He squeezed the trigger gently, as he was taught so long ago at training camp.......

And slowly released it. He couldn't shoot. He couldn't take this life any more than he could take other lives. He had run away to avoid killing, so why would he start now. Was three weeks all the difference between the old Andy and the new Andy? Or was it the routine and discipline of the training camp, had the rigorous training served it's purpose without him realising it? He gripped the trigger again.

And slowly released it. His target watched him unblinkingly. Andy lowered his rifle and looked straight back at the deer.

Maybe he would eat tomorrow.

(c) cq 2003

Lamplight

2005-11-29T12:17:00.000Z

His finger traced the single tear that slowly roamed down her cheek. The lamp was set low and the whole room was bathed in its gentle orange glow. The fire crackled quietly to itself, debating whether or not one more spurt of flame would be required or whether it should just give up and quietly die as the two people sat in front of it.
The dying fire flickered its gentle shadows on the lamplit walls, a motion-filled panorama of abstract pictures of things unknown and words unspoken. The dark red curtains were shut against the night and merely candles lighted the rest of the house. The doors were locked and the world shut away.

She looked deep into his eyes. He had big blue eyes, so expressive and so full of feeling. She felt that she could see into his soul through those open blue eyes. She wondered what he was thinking; deep down, in his heart where no one could see. Did he love her? Was he going to stay around? Would he leave her? Again? She lifted one small hand and pressed his hand against her cheek and looked penetratingly at him with the unvoiced questions. His eyes were soft, reflecting every nuance of the fire, and in his dilated pupils she could almost see her reflection. Every now and then he would blink and she would disappear for an infinitesimal fraction of a second before returning as his eyes opened again. His breath was soft on her neck, and she could still detect the soft aroma of the red wine he had been drinking. His lips were quietly mouthing words unheard. She tried to unravel the voiceless speech but couldn’t make out the words, although she was sure she deciphered the word sorry on his lips.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her strawberry blond hair spilled over her shoulders and the lamplight danced in its curled tresses, picking out the reds and oranges in the blond and bringing them to life. Her dark brown eyes were ringed with the longest eyelashes he had ever seen and were framed by beautiful arching eyebrows. He could see her staring deep into his own eyes and wished he knew what she was thinking. Perhaps she was waiting for him to speak, perhaps she was plucking up the courage to speak, or perhaps she was just floating in the moment. He so wanted to speak the words his mouth was framing, but he didn’t dare to. He didn’t want to spoil the moment. He didn’t want her to drag those luscious eyes away from his. He didn’t want her to turn away from him, full of hurt and pain. Again. It had been too long since they were together like this, two as one.

His finger traced the journey of another wandering tear as it followed the first. She wasn’t crying, in actuality; the tears had sprung unbidden from a well deep inside her. A part of her that had been hurt before and desperately didn’t want to be hurt again. They rolled gently, one by one, these uncalled for tears, down her silken cheek and he watched their meandering descent with mounting concern. Her brown eyes brimmed with soon to be shed tears and an emotion that he couldn’t read. A single frown line marred her gentle brow as she struggled to work through her feelings. The lamplight turned her skin to a deep bronze, highlighted by the firelight, with the most wondrous peaks and valleys in her visage. He neck arched delicately down to her shoulders, tanned in the half-light, and from there she was wrapped in the deepest shade of blue imaginable. The firelight picked out purples and reds in the deep blue dress and the lamplight made the blue almost midnight black.

His orange shirt was burnished in the lamplight and the colour freshened by the addition of the amber firelight. His chin and cheeks were smooth as ice, attesting to the care he took in preparing for this all-important evening. There was a faint smell of musk and sandalwood mixed with wine as he moved his face by hers. The brown hair flecked with silver hung over his forehead like a curtain. He occasionally pushed it back impatiently, perhaps wishing to remove the floppy fringe altogether, but nervous of showing the real Him. If the shaggy hair were any longer she would not be able to read his eyes, or attempt to look into his soul. His face carried the years well, there were no lines and his eyes were clear.

And still her tears rolled, and still he silently followed each one, gently wiping them away. He knew she was hurting. He knew she was mistrustful because he was the one who had hurt her. He knew he might never regain that trust or see any love in her eyes for him.
The lamplight flickered in the silence as the fire gently guttered out in the grate. The firelight left her hair and the darkened room was reflected in their eyes.

‘Do you forgive me for leaving?’ finally he could stand it no more and asked the question that had been hanging on his Iips and preying on his mind all evening.
She looked worried and dropped her liquid brown eyes, her hair falling across her face. Her emotions were hidden as surely as if she had drawn a veil across her face.
He waited. There was all the time in the world for her answer. They had the rest of their lives to enjoy each other. If she was ready to take him back into her life and into her heart. He watched with agony as she shook her head slowly and when she looked up there was a light in her eyes that wasn’t from the lamplight. The tears were running freely now; small diamonds tracing down her cheeks, glistening in the lamplight. She looked past him, over his broad shoulder as if longingly wishing she were elsewhere. His heart sank as he read the messages her face and body was giving him.
She took his hand from her cheek and laid it in her lap, encapsulated in her two small slender hands. She absently stroked his hand with her thumb as she tried to find the words to break his heart.
His breath caught as she started to speak. She only said two words, but those two words were the most emotional words he had ever heard. They were the words he had hoped for and, in some small selfish part of him, dreaded. They were the two words that would change his life forever, and ensure this beautiful creature would remain by his side for an eternity. He clutched at her hand as she looked him in the eyes and spoke with a dignity that belied her mere twelve years of age;

‘Yes, Daddy.’

(c) cq 2005

Flippin' Sprite - A Short Fantasy for Children

2005-11-26T22:22:00.000Z

Flip was a little blue man. He had a big blue head, and a big blue tummy, with little blue legs. So he looked kind of funny as he jumped onto the Number 93 bus. His name wasn’t really Flip, it was Hghhrmdpbf – but, of course, that’s impossible to say in our language! He hopped up on the seat in the Number 93 bus and felt in his big blue pocket for some change. Fishing out some coins he smiled winningly at the woman who was leaving the bus screaming, and nodded in a friendly fashion to the older man just before he fainted clean away. He swung his little blue legs until the conductor arrived, and then held out his money with a big blue smile.
‘One to the terminus’ said Flip.
‘Fifty pee’ said the conductor, busy rattling and whirring his ticket machine. He glanced at the little blue hand holding out the coin, then slowly raised his eyes to take in the little blue legs, the big blue tummy and the big blue head. His eyes opened wide, and he scarpered – pausing only long enough to snatch the money out of the little blue hand. The ticket floated down and landed in Flip’s big blue lap. He checked it, folded it neatly and put it safely away in his big blue pocket.
Looking up he saw a little boy watching him. Now, the little boy wasn’t blue, and he didn’t have a big blue head, or a big blue tummy or little blue legs. He was a little pink boy, with yellow hair and freckles. He smiled at Flip, with little pink lips. Flip smiled back, with big blue lips.
‘My name’th Thomath’ said the little boy with a pronounced lisp.
‘My name’s Flip’ said Flip, without a trace of a lisp.
‘Why are you blue?’ asked the little boy, who was sporting a rather fetching Tom and Jerry t’shirt.
‘Everyone from my world is blue’ replied Flip, who was, of course, wearing nothing except lots of blue skin.
‘Why are you tho fat?’ asked the little boy who probably tipped the scales at 4 stone.
‘Everyone from my world is fat’ replied Flip, who more than likely would break the scales.
Thomas looked down at his legs, encased in shorts with ankle socks and Buzz Lightyear trainers.
‘Why are your legth tho thort?’ he asked.
‘Everyone from my world has short legs’ replied Flip, looking down at his own little blue legs and his big blue feet.
Thomas’s mother heard him talking and finally wrenched herself from the in-depth discussion about Mrs Jenkins from Number 28 and the milkman, to see who her son was talking to.

‘Hello, Flip’ she said warmly. ‘I haven’t seen you since I was a little girl’
‘Yup’ said Flip. ‘They sent me back for Thomas. Apparently my work here is not yet done’
‘Mummy – what ith Flip?’ asked Thomas. ‘He’s blue.’
Mummy smiled, and looked fondly at Flip. When she smiled there was an echo of the five year old girl she once was, but the straight white teeth gave no clue to the cumbersome braces she wore as a child.
‘Flip is a sprite, a guardian angel………an invisible friend’ she replied. ‘He helps with school and friends and life. Flip’ she continued ‘why are you here?’
‘Well’ said Flip. ‘According to our records, Thomas starts school next week, and he will require a sprite.’
‘Why?’ was the next question – well, we never claimed Thomas’ mummy was the brightest bulb in the pack.
‘Come off it!’ cried the little blue man, ‘Have you heard him ‘thpeak’?? The kids will make mincemeat of him.’ He looked critically at Thomas ‘and he’s short too.’
Thomas’ mummy cast a horrified glance at her short son with a lisp. He was studying a fly on the window, debating whether to summarily execute it with the tip of one little pink finger or let it fly free.
Flip smiled ‘He can’t hear me, Jennifer. I can make myself impossible to hear, or even invisible if I want to – remember?’
Thomas’ mummy smiled crookedly. ‘I’ve forgotten so much from those days. So why did you make the lady scream and the man faint? Not to mention messing with the conductor’s mind?’
‘Well’ replied Flip with a wicked blue grin. ‘A sprite’s got to have some fun in life – all work and no play makes Flip a dull sprite.’
Thomas shrugged his shoulders and straightened his sweatshirt. The little blue man watched him with wide open blue eyes. He had a confused look on his big blue face.
‘Thomas’ he asked. ‘Why do you wear play clothes to school? Why aren’t you wearing uniform?’
‘We don’t need to wear uniform’ replied Thomas, turning to one side and looking at his reflection critically. ‘How do I look?’
‘Oh, gorgeous’ said Flip sarcastically, while digging in his big blue pocket for his little blue notebook. Then he took out his big blue pen, the one with the cascading blue feathers coming out of the end, and, with a theatrical sigh, he scored a line through the page marked ‘100 Ways to Correct Using Uniform Items’ the first item of which was ‘Asphyxiation by Necktie’. He muttered to himself, and Thomas heard a few blue words.

A couple of hours later, Thomas made his first little steps into the school playground, grasping his Superman lunchbox in one hand, and a Scooby Doo doll in the other. Trotting behind him came a little blue man, although he had set Sprite Perception to ‘None’ so no one except Thomas could see him. Flip looked around, not much had changed since Thomas’ mummy came here twenty five years earlier – except the boys looked bigger and meaner………and so did the girls.
‘What’s your name?’ asked a big boy. Flip’s blue heart sank, this was not going to be a good day. Business was picking up early. He made a ‘rolling up of sleeves’ motion.
‘Thomath’ said Thomas.
The big boy grinned nastily, opened his mouth to say something, and found it suddenly full of cotton wool.
‘Flmpfffff’ he cried. Thomas watched spellbound, as the big boy’s friends sank to their knees laughing their little Spiderman socks off. The big boy pulled handfuls of cotton wool out of his mouth.
‘Nathty lithp you got there,’ cried Thomas as he saw his teacher out of the corner of his eye and ran off. The big boy continued to spit out mouthfuls of cotton as he wandered off to class.
At lunchtime, Thomas collected up his Superman lunch box and resolutely walked to the dining room. He sat down and opened his lunchbox.
‘What have you got?’ asked a red-headed girl a couple of years older than Thomas, in really quite a friendly voice, as she settled down next to Thomas and opened a yoghurt.
‘Thalmon thandwicheth, with thalad and fruit’ struggled Thomas, wishing his mummy used ‘Lunchables’ or at the very least a ham roll, rather than salmon sandwiches and salad.
The girl smiled broadly as if to make a kind statement, then proceeded to mimic Thomas.
‘Thalmon………….’ was as far as the hapless girl got, before her plaits wound their way around her head and got tied across her mouth, which was full of yoghurt. See? You should never talk with your mouth full! ‘than………….mpfmpf……’
‘Sorry, I’m late’ said Flip. ‘I was just checking up on some old friends.’

Four o’clock came around and Thomas came bouncing out of school into Jennifer’s arms. She looked into her son’s smiling face.
‘How was school?’ she asked nervously
‘Well, we had a bit of a rough start, but the kids soon learnt that Thomas was more than just a lisp and a Superman lunchbox’ came a clear voice as Flip trotted up behind Thomas. A bigger boy came past, saw Thomas and hesitated.
‘We’re playing football in the park, if you want to come’ he called and then spat out a little piece of cotton wool.
‘Why does that little boy have cotton wool stuck to his cheeks?’ asked Jennifer. Flip and Thomas looked at each other.
Then a girl with ginger plaits came past and saw Thomas. She was still wringing out her pretty pink ribbons.
‘Lunch tomorrow, Thomas?’ she called.
‘Why are her plaits all damp?’ asked Jennifer.
‘Kids!’ exclaimed the little blue man rubbing his little blue hands on his big blue tummy. ‘They’re bigger than they used to be, they know more than they used to, but they’re such wimps these days! Right, I’m off now’ with that he pulled a little blue box out of his big blue pocket. ‘hmm’ he mused, ‘where to go? I hear the planet Zgog needs some special sprite care’
He pressed the button on the little blue box with his little blue finger and with an audible ‘pfft’ he was gone.

(c) cq 2002

Blogfather Review

2005-11-16T21:25:00.000Z

"What you lookin' at?"

[Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain] Ah-chooo! Break it down if y'all comin down with bird flu, huzzaaaaah! Our next entrant is lethal with tha word, cranking out stories and keepin' it real. Give it up for Gangstaaaaaah "Tha Storynator" Nannyyyyy! [And the crowd: whoa honaaay!] If you've ever wanted to stop the world and read a story then Tha Storynator is your gurl - show her looooove!

Gotta love my 'crew' :-)

Again, thanks to Teh Blogfaddah for another hilarious review.

cq

Nano Taster - Chapter 15 - SPOILERS

2005-11-12T22:50:00.000Z

The wind whistled around the little vicarage as Michael and Sarah arrived. The storm clouds were lowering ominously and the temperature had dropped a significant few degrees. Michael ushered Sarah into the house and slammed the door.
‘Maggie?’ he cried. ‘Maggie, are you here?’
His housekeeper leant over the small stair banister rail.
‘Hello sir, tis turning into a wicked night’ she commented.
‘Maggie! Make up the spare room for this young lady please. Then knock her up something to eat. Warming and nourishing please. And stay with her. I’ll be back shortly.’
‘Yes sir’ Maggie was used to short notice visitors. ‘Where will you be, sir?’
‘I’m running down to the hotel to speak to Mike. I’ll tell him you’re held up here for a while. I’ll be back directly.’
Maggie nodded and came downstairs in a rush.
‘Come on then, miss. Let’s get you settled in.’ and with that she took Sarah’s little bag and led the way upstairs.
Michael waited a moment and, seeing the women getting on, he went back out into the lowering evening.

The storm was gathering pace. The darkening sky was almost purple and the clouds were thickening. There was an occasional rattle as the wind started to pick up. Michael sprinted the half mile to the hotel where he demanded to see Mike Jenkins. Mike came from the back rooms, rubbing his hands on a towel.
‘Mike,’ gasped Michael. ‘I need a favour. Can you send a message over to the Dennis farm? Ask Brian and Beatrice to come to the vicarage. Oh, and James should come too – but only if the other lads are around to keep an eye on the girls!’
Mike looked nonplussed at the pastor. But it was unusual for Michael to ask for things for no reason. Obviously the out of breath pastor had something important to tell.
‘Course,’ he said and bellowed into the back for one of his handymen. He passed on the message and told the boy to take a horse and cart. He also instructed the boy to let Brian and company have the horse and cart, and he was to stay and look after the girls.
‘Two birds with one stone,’ he grinned at Michael. ‘Can I be of any more help?’
‘Can you come to the vicarage?’ asked Michael. ‘I think you’re going to want to hear this too.’
‘I’ll be over shortly,’ said Mike. ‘Just give me half an hour to sort myself out.’
With that, Pastor Michael headed back out into the burgeoning storm, clasping his soutane around himself and ran back to the vicarage.
‘Tea, Maggie!’ he shouted over the rising sound of the storm. ‘Strong and hot, please. And make a fresh pot, we have visitors coming over! It’s going to be a long night!’

Brian and Beatrice sat together on the settle in the vicarage study, holding hands and looking scared. James and Mike Jenkins stood leaning on the mantelpiece as Pastor Michael ushered in Sarah. He made her comfortable in a deep cosy chair and poured her a strong cup of tea. As she drank, the cup rattled in the saucer.
Outside, the wind was becoming so loud that everyone had to shout. The sky was now inky black and the rain was falling in lumps. Michael had drawn the curtains, but everyone could hear the storm starting to rage.
‘Everyone, this is Sarah.’ Michael began. The assembled group all smiled wecomingly and encouragingly at the young girl. She coloured slightly.
‘Sarah has recently had her baby taken.’
There was a second’s silence and then everyone started talking at once. As the volume level rose, Michael raised his hand and they all subsided.
‘I have been doing some research and I think I know what is going on.’
‘Do you know how to stop it?’ whispered Beatrice. ‘These poor girls. Three of them. How many more are to suffer?’
Michael took a deep breath. He walked over to his bookcase and took down the old book. He opened it to the correct page and read aloud the extract he had found the previous day.
The words echoed around the room, seeming to push back the storm.
The most powerful of all life-giving properties is that of the blood from a demon’s own child. This makes the procreation of children a vital part of the demon theology. However, the child has to be half human and it must not be conceived through violence. Demons believe violent conception lessens the effect of the blood. The child must also be nurtured by its mother for a set period before it is suitable for sacrifice.
Brian and Mike went white as they realised the implications. Beatrice fought the urge to faint, and James looked helplessly on.
‘Sarah, my dear,’ Michael turned to the young girl. ‘What was your husband’s name?’
‘Philip.’ Said Sarah with a puzzled tone. ‘Philip Mantell.’
Beatrice fainted as Brian leaped out of his seat.
‘The bastard!’ he screamed, beating the will of the storm as his words came out. ‘I’ll kill him! The evil, lying, sneaky bastard!’
Pastor Michael went to Beatrice, while keeping a wary eye on Brian. This was the easy bit. Luckily his audience had come to the same conclusions he had.
‘Brian,’ he said gently. The storm seemed to abate enough so that the Pastor’s gentle voice did not need to be raised.
‘I believe Philip is a demon. Not only that, but I believe he is a demon that is seeking eternal life. He is ruthlessly marrying women, impregnating them and then stealing the babies.’
That was too much for Sarah, who also fell forward into a bumping faint. Michael rushed to her side at the same time as James stepped forward and the two men revived her. She sat, white-faced, as Michael continued,
‘It goes without saying that we must stop him,’ but Michael was immediately interrupted by five voices clamouring how.
‘The secret is in the triumvirate,’ he said, turning the pages of the book. ‘Listen; The demon is the most powerful of all the creatures from other-worlds. It is almost impossible to kill demons without first weakening its power. The triumvirate is still the most potent way to weaken a demon. The Power of Three is a magical essence that will reduce the demon to its weakest and enable victory. We need to create a triumvirate. And I think I know how.’
Mike and Brian looked at each other. Beatrice blanched.
‘Sarah,’ she stammered.
‘Sarah is our key,’ nodded Michael. He looked at the terrified girl. ‘Sarah, my dear girl, I am so sorry. You are the third girl. Your baby was the third taken. You complete the triumvirate.’
This was all too much for Sarah, her face turned the colour of chalk and she leapt up and rushed from the room. The men and Beatrice heard her stumble into the hallway and into the arms of Maggie.
‘Feeling a bit sick, love?’ asked the kindly maid, and was answered with sounds of retching. ‘Not to worry, I’ll have that cleaned in an instant. Let me take you upstairs.’
‘No!’ roared Michael. ‘Bring her back in. We have no time. We must make plans!’
Maggie entered the room, supporting Sarah.
‘But sir, the girl is proper poorly. She’s just thrown up on your hallway rug!’
‘Vomiting is to be but a part of this night,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Please sit down, ladies.’
Brian stood to make room for Sarah and Maggie to sit by Beatrice, Sarah in the middle flanked by the two middle-aged women. Each woman took a frozen hand and held it tight.
Michael took a deep breath. What he was about to ask these people, these friends was something no man should ever have to ask.
‘As I was saying, we have to create the triumvirate. But we already have one. Gloria and Lucy are two. Sarah is the third.’
He put his hand up to still the voices already rising in dismay.
‘We can call Philip. We can use the triumvirate to get his attention.’ He went on remorselessly. ‘You hear that storm? That is no freak of nature. He knows the three girls are close. He can feel his power weakening. We must get them in the same place. He will attempt to stop us, and that is how we get him. We bait him.’
There was an agonised sigh from the room.
‘Bait him?’ asked Brian disbelievingly. ‘Bait him with my daughter and these poor girls?’
Beatrice stood up.
‘Pastor, you had better explain yourself. I am not offering up my daughter or any other woman as a sacrifice to a demon!’

scary, huh?? :-)
cq

Fatal Flaw

2005-11-10T22:24:00.000Z

Trevor stood at the window and looked out. The view was stunning; mountain paths and shining streams, but it didn’t match Trevor’s pensive mood.
‘Olive, change to Woodland’ he instructed.
Beyond the glass the view easily blurred and then refocused, now showing a woodland glade with the sun dappling off the leaves. There was a stream in the distance glistening and flickering in the sunshine.
Trevor sighed. He was finally at the end. There were no more options. His career and his life were over. One minute he was a successful lecturer on Artificial Intelligence with a thriving business and a beautiful wife, the next, he was broke, alone and unemployed. What had gone so awry in the last two years to put him on this downward slope to ignominy?

‘Olive, show me the workshop’ he ordered. The computer obediently showed him the workshop. In the corner stood his prize. The one thing that had made his life go so awry. The one thing that drove away his wife and family. The one thing that made him turn his back on his partner, Tom. The one thing that kept him from his work day after day. The one thing he had been slaving over night and day, working as if impelled by the devil himself. Standing five foot five inches tall, with blonde hair and willowy stature, stood Ellie. A perfect Artificial Intelligence. So perfect, in fact, that he had decided not to call her by her mnemonic but by her real name, as befitted a real woman. Her skin was alabaster and her eyes shone like deep blue pools.
He had worked for two years to perfect Ellie. She had been a labour of love. No one took his attention away from her - there was now no one else in his life. Just Ellie. It took him six months just to get her skin tone correct, another four to perfectly colour her eyes. He studied photodisks to ensure the height and statistics were accurate. He listened to computer readouts to pitch her voice just right.
Two years on, he had finished her. She stood in the corner of the workshop just waiting to be switched on. He knew once he did that, she would be his perfect partner, everything he had ever wanted in a woman, and lost.

She walked jauntily out of the shop, swinging her bag. She was going to be late for meeting Tom. The day was warm; it seemed the Weather Bureau had finally sorted out the glitch in the programming. The sun shone down and the gentle breeze fluffed her blonde hair.
‘Hiya, sweetheart’ called Tom from across the parking lot. ‘Get everything you needed?’
‘Yep’, she replied with a mischievous grin. ‘They even had those archaic lighter things. You know’, she continued without breaking her stride. ‘It’s virtually impossible to get anything that causes fire these days. What do they do if the computers malfunction?’
‘Eat out?’ quipped Tom, holding the motor door open for her.
She dropped herself elegantly onto the seat and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled up at Tom and slipped her registry card into the receptacle. Tom got in on the director’s side and also punched in his card.
‘Good afternoon, Tom’, said a tinny voice. ‘Good afternoon…’
‘Quit it’ said Tom quickly. He was getting nervous and it was beginning to show. He instructed the motor to leave to parking lot and join the main route. While it was burbling along, he fished out the bag and started to go through the contents. A foul smell entered the motor cockpit and he looked enquiringly at her.
‘The bottle must have leaked again’ she said apologetically and reached into the bag, extracting a large bottle of blue fluid.
‘I take it that is not Xaith’n Brandy’ Tom commented. ‘But don’t expect me to taste it to find out’.
She smiled, an almost fiendish smile, and turned the lid one more time on the bottle.
The Weather Bureau delivered sunset dead on time, here it was seven at night and the sun was setting in a huge ball of fire. The motor sat quietly murmuring to itself outside the old building.
It was such a change from their mod-con fab with full automation. It looked almost like one of the houses one saw in old photodisks. Brownstone. That was it. An apt name, judging by the dirt that had accumulated over the decades. Tom shuddered. It was just so darned dirty here downtown. He longed to get back to their own pristine unit, have Olive prepare the dinner and run him a hot shower.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘Let’s get it over with’ he grumbled.
They both climbed out of the motor and she brought the bag with her. Setting it down on the path, she pulled out the bottle of blue fluid and some straw. Dousing the straw liberally with the liquid, she then proceeded to shove the soaking straw through the archaic letterbox. Once she had used all the straw she broke a small pane of glass in the door and poured some of the contents of the bottle onto the straw lying on the floor. A wet patch slowly made its way across the carpet and flagged floor. She stuffed a piece of cloth in the neck of the bottle and set it alight with the old fashioned lighter she had managed to purchase with such difficulty. Before the burning bottle could harm her, she threw it down onto the straw. The resulting conflagration was huge and burning hot. Both she and Tom backed quickly down to the pavement and jumped into the motor. They cruised to a safe distance and watched as the building took afire.

Trevor felt the trouble almost instinctively. He heard the crash of breaking glass and the crack of splintering wood. Before he instructed the door to open he ordered an environment report for outside the room. Being an unusual request, not one usually made for the inside of buildings, the computer took a while to process.
‘The hallway is burning at 750deg’ said the monotonous voice. ‘You are trapped’.
Trevor turned towards the window. What Einstein had designed a window made of brick? What happened if the inhabitant needed to escape quickly these days? He thought quickly and then called the computer.
‘Olive’ he called. ‘Show me an escape route.’
The computer was silent briefly.
‘Sir, the only escape route is the door which is blocked by fire.’
‘Olive’ his voice became insistent. ‘There must be another way out of this room.’
‘Sir, the only escape route is the door which is blocked by fire.’
‘So how do you propose I get out? And why is my building on fire? In this day and age?’
It was a reasonable question. Fires didn’t happen in this century. There was no call for anything to create a flame. The computers ran the homes, cooked the meals, heated the water, ran the motors and everything else that had ever been the domain of combustion. You couldn’t even buy a box of matches these days. Smoking had been completely outlawed fifty years ago. So, wondered Trevor, why and how was his building on fire?
He looked over at Ellie and decided now was the time to switch her on. He obviously was not going to survive this fire, and most probably, neither would she. Just one look at her, while she looked at him, would be comfort enough after two years devoted to her perfection. He reached under her blonde hair and inserted the disk. She shivered and blinked. She straightened up and looked around.
‘Where am I?’ she asked. Trevor made a mental note, albeit pointlessly, to change her phrasing on boot-up. She walked slowly over to him and held him in her magical blue gaze. She lay one delicate hand on his arm and smiled into his eyes.
‘Hello’ she said, with a throaty mellifluous voice. ‘I’m Ellie, and you must be Tom’.
Trevor felt the world collapse under him. The heat was becoming uncomfortable, but at least the hephlatite door was keeping the smoke and flame out, even if the room was heating up like an oven. He stared into Ellie’s eyes.
‘I’m Trevor’ he stated simply.
‘Sorry, Trevor does not compute’ she responded. ‘Are you Tom?’
‘I’m Trevor, and I created you’ he said, realising how petty he sounded. ‘I built you for me. You are to be my life partner, we will be as one for the duration of my life.’
Ellie looked into his face, a small frown creasing her perfect alabaster skin.
‘Trevor does not compute. You are Tom. Tom is the one who is to vitalise me and to whom I belong.’
Suddenly Trevor realised what had happened. He swiftly removed her disk and ran some minor alterations on it through the computer. He re-inserted it and she shivered again.
‘Hello’ she said in the same deep musical tone. ‘I’m Ellie, and you must be Trevor’.
He took a deep breath. Of all the amendments he had made to Tom’s original design, he had never thought of changing her dominus. The heat was becoming intense.
‘Ellie’ he asked. ‘Are you hot?’
‘My internal thermometer is currently reading 42 degrees Celsius and rising exponentially. This is not acceptable.’
‘The building is on fire, Ellie.’ He sounded sad. What a waste of an amazing piece of AI. She really was to be his soulmate for life…all thirty minutes of it.
‘Is there no way out?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘We are to die, you and I.’

Tom studied her. She was perfect - her skin was alabaster and her eyes shone like deep blue pools. She was his Eve, the first of her kind. Yet she had a fatal flaw. He reached behind her head and flipped her switch. A small black disk popped out of the disk drive and he removed it gently. Then he exchanged it for another disk, this one snow white in colour, which he gently loaded into the drive. Then he flipped her switch back to on. She raised her head gently and opened her eyes.
‘Tom.’ She murmured.
‘Hello, darling,’ he answered.
‘Did she do it?’ she asked.
‘She did.’
‘Can we destroy her now? She is disturbing my peace of mind.’
He smiled at the thought that a woman such as she could have her peace of mind disturbed. Then he held up the black disk.
‘Here she is. Here is Eve,’ he said with a sad look.
‘Let me have her,’ she said.
He handed over the disk and she stared at it deeply. Then she looked up at him with soulful blue eyes.
‘And she definitely did it? The fire, everything we planned?’
‘She did. There will have been no survivors. No Trevor, no Ellie.’
She snorted – a surprisingly human sound from a machine.
‘There never was an Ellie that belonged to Trevor. Only the Ellie that belongs to Tom.’
Tom smiled and put the thought of the New Improved Ellie out of his mind. The New Improved Ellie that Trevor stole and reprogrammed. The New Improved Ellie that forced Tom to reincarnate an old model, and reprogram her with Eve – a natural killing machine.
He looked at the Old Impaired Ellie and just saw her blue eyes and her sweet smile.
‘Only the Ellie that belongs to Tom,’ he repeated and took her in his arms, while she crushed the disk between her delicate little fingers……….

(c) cq 2001

Centred

2005-11-07T13:25:00.000Z

Andy lay under the hedge. All around him was silent, but he knew he wasn't alone; he could sense it, the way old people sensed rain was on the way. His boots were wet, and his feet were cold, but he didn't dare to move to remove the uncomfortable footwear. He just prayed he wouldn't be here much longer. He grasped his rifle, holding it close to his chest, as one would a loved one and peered out under the foliage.
Nothing........not a murmur, not a movement. Only the gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves. The sun shone, making a mockery of the previous night's torrential rain, and the day grew warm.

Still Andy didn't move. He knew, instinctively, he wasn't alone, and wasn't about to call anyone's bluff. He patted his breast pocket wherein lay his love, Charlotte. It was only a picture, and didn't do his girl justice, but out here it was all men had. He had had no letters for nearly a month, he had been separated from his unit for weeks, they probably thought him dead. In fact, his CO was probably already writing the letter to his parents, telling them how bravely and courageously their son fought, and that he died a hero. He did neither, however, and that is how he ended up here, starving, cold and wet, lying under a hedge in a foreign land, waiting for his enemy to show.
He needed this kill. It would mean an incredible difference to his life. He reminisced as he lay still in the damp ditch.

He was a gentle boy, everyone said so. He would rescue injured animals and nurse them, he would grow beautiful plants, and always remembered his mother on Mother's Day. His father was a stern man, who wanted his only son to be an example of manhood, but Andy was never inclined to do as his father wished. He refused football, and instead went to cookery classes and treated his mother to a home made meal as a Sunday treat. He never went to rugby, preferring to read books and broaden his mind. So there was Andy, surrounded by flowers and animals and his doting mother - and the letter arrived. No one had given a thought to the fact that Andy would be called up, he just never seemed the type. But the draft isn't quite so discriminating, and Andy was sent away to learn how to shoot a gun, preferably hitting and killing his opponent, how to disarm a man in combat and how to run for miles with a heavy pack. It wasn't the life he had envisioned at seventeen, but he made of it what he could.

So here he was, miles away from his unit, pitted one against another. He gently rolled over to ease his aching limbs, and watched the sun dapple through the hedge over his head. He concentrated on one leaf, a deep green leaf through which the sun shone as the wind gently shook it. He really ought to take his boots off, but he was still not sure where his opponent was, and he didn't want to risk exposure at this point. He concentrated back on his leaf. He wondered what type it was, certainly none that he had ever grown in his own garden, and he didn't recognise it from any of his numerous flora books, now sitting neatly on his bedroom bookshelf, undisturbed. He thought this was the epitome of being in a foreign land. How much more comforting if it were a simple privet or broom hedge. How much more comforting if he could flag down a car and speak in English, sure that the driver would understand and comply with his request. The leaf quivered, almost as if agreeing with Andy, and he held his breath.

Footsteps........approached and receded..........

He breathed again, being sure to do so deeply and evenly as shown in training to avoid loud panting. his hand was clammy on his rifle, when he was sure his nemesis had passed, he gently released the gun from his grip, and flexed his fingers. Oh, he would give anything to be back in his own garden, he would even play football for his father, if only he didn't have to be here, under this hedge, waiting to kill. He didn't want to do this, he really didn't want to do this, but he knew he must.

He eased himself out from under the bush, keeping an alert eye out all around. He reached back in for his rifle and plucked a leaf from the hedge, which he put in his pocket with the unflattering picture of his sweetheart. A memento. He checked his watch, he had been under the hedge for about six hours, some of the night and most of the morning. It was eleven am, and he was getting hungry and desperate.

Suddenly his opponent broke from the trees on the other side of the clearing, and they faced each other. Soldier and enemy, killer and victim. His enemy was unarmed and alone. Andy lifted his rifle to his shoulder and squinted down through the sight, figuring the best shot for a straightforward kill. He squeezed the trigger gently, as he was taught so long ago at training camp.......

And slowly released it. He couldn't shoot. He couldn't take this life any more than he could take other lives. He had run away to avoid killing, so why would he start now. Was three weeks all the difference between the old Andy and the new Andy? Or was it the routine and discipline of the training camp, had the rigorous training served it's purpose without him realising it? He gripped the trigger again.

And slowly released it. His target watched him unblinkingly. Andy lowered his rifle and looked straight back at the deer.
Maybe he would eat tomorrow.

(c) cq 2004

SUGAR

2005-11-05T10:20:00.000Z

Sugar was a cat. Nothing special, just a black cat with large green eyes that peered out from under shaggy eyebrows. She was lying in the long grass in the sweltering heat, too feeble to move and meowing pitifully at anyone who passed as if crying out for help. How long she had lain there with selfish, thoughtless humans passing her by was not known. She occasionally lifted herself onto her front paws as if trying to get up and free herself from her torment.

I met Sugar on my way from work and fell in love with her at first glance. Her green eyes seemed to be begging me to help her, and she was crying in pain. My heart turned over as I bent down to stroke her. Her fur was matted and underneath the sorry black coat I could feel every rib and count every vertebra. She was just skin and bone and as I moved my hands gently down her flanks I, in my ignorance, concluded that she must have been a female cat and heavily pregnant. I could feel no movement in her swollen belly and surmised that no kittens could have survived the torture that had taken its toll on that young body.

I was torn in two. I could not possibly leave the cat in such pain, but perhaps she had an owner who was looking for her at that very moment. I ran my hand over her flanks one more time and made up my mind. She was badly emaciated and very pregnant and it was fairly obvious that nobody cared about her. I gently lifted her and carefully carried her home, and as I walked I murmured gentle words of comfort to ease the cat’s distress. She laid her head on my shoulder and, although she gave the odd pained cry, I could tell she was grateful as she attempted to purr.

Once home I gave her a saucer of milk from which she only took a couple sips before settling down on an old blanket I had found and watching me, ears pricked – well, as pricked as she could manage. Now that she was relaxed and fairly comfortable with sustenance within easy reach I could think out my next move. Not much thinking was required to pick up the phone and ring the person who would give the best advice - my mother.

She advised I should ring a vet to get the cat checked over and do whatever was necessary. The first vet that I picked out of the book was very understanding and told me to bring the cat straight in. I called a taxi and prepared a box. The little cat watched me and I looked into her green eyes – oh, such trusting eyes – and then picked her up and laid her in the box, stroking her and letting her know that I cared and that, in her moment of need, someone was there to help her.After what, in the cat’s mind, must have been a hellish ten minutes in the taxi we arrived at the surgery and the vet was as good as her word and saw her immediately.

The vet had very bad news for me. The cat was not female at all, but a tomcat. He was about two years old and a fine looking cat, who unfortunately was dying a long and painful death. He had a fatal case of FIP, Feline Intestinal Peritonitis, which would kill him soon and in great pain. Euthanasia seemed to be the only answer to ease his agony. I checked that I could not help him by taking him home and nursing him back to health. The vet said the disease was too advanced and nothing could be done to cure him.

With a heavy heart I signed the consent form and then I kissed the cat. As I stroked him, he lay down as if he knew what was coming and he welcomed that peace that death would bring to his pain-wracked body and troubled mind. He looked trustingly up into my eyes and I could have sworn he was thanking me. I kept stroking him; not wanting to leave him, although I knew it was best for him. I looked deep into his eyes and then I knew I was glad that I had not left him to suffer alone, and that he had known love and trust before he passed to that better place where he was assuredly bound. I had no doubt that a place would be reserved in Heaven for him, he was such a loving cat and had missed out on so much love in return.

I knew I had to leave him and the vet was so kind. She sympathised with me and let me stay a while to make up to the little cat all the love he had missed out on. Then I tore myself away from those love-filled eyes and opened the door. A thought occurred to me and I turned back to the vet.

"By the way, his name is Sugar. I called him Sugar and he seems to like it."
The vet smiled and nodded, I closed the door on Sugar and went home.
‘And now these three things remain;
faith, hope and love.
But the greatest of these is love.’
1 Cor 13:13

(c) cq 1988

Tall Trees

2005-11-03T22:53:00.000Z

I settled my legs into the wheelchair and slowly wheeled myself out of the door and down the ramp. It was a fresh clear spring day, and I could hear the birds singing their glorious songs and the flowers were blooming in the late morning. I slid the heavy scarf off my shoulders and glorified in the warm sun, after so many months of rain and grey skies. I followed the path down the garden to my suntrap - called so because it always got the midday sun, despite the trees planted around the garden.

'Why do we have such intimidating trees around such a beautiful garden, Mother?' I asked one day when I was about ten years old.
'It was something your father did,' was all she would reply. She would not be drawn further, so I let the subject go. However, my curiosity was not to be dampened down so easily and I thought up all sorts of weird and wonderful reasons for myself.

My mother was an escaped Russian princess and I was the spitting image of the Czarina.

My father was a spy who married a high ranking female German officer and my parents and I had to be hidden from the world.

I was illegitimate, and I was being hidden from my real father, who was a local farmer.

The years passed and I sporadically asked why the trees were planted. Through the years I got no real reason other than it was something my father did. Of course, being a young lady, I could never ask my father his reasons, it was something that just wasn't done. I was resigned to my wheelchair, truth be told it was a part of me, and I soon learnt to live in harmony with it, regarding it as more a method of freedom rather than a ball and chain. In it I could go into most rooms on the ground floor of our enormous house, and the gardener had laid wondrous paths around the gardens so I could access every plant and tree if I so desired. And my dear mother made me the suntrap, in a part of the garden that was sunny, open, yet close enough to the house that I could navigate to it myself from an early age.

So here are this day. My father is long dead and my mother is ailing. I am in my early twenties and still in my wheelchair, no feeling in my lower limbs at all. I fell when I was a small child, tripped down the huge spiral staircase and broke my back on the stone steps. Saying that doesn't bother me any more, I am no more bothered by it than by my rather boring looks. I glanced around the garden, no gardeners in sight, and the sun was warm, so I released my legs from the wheelchair and gently eased myself onto the grass, arranging my skirts around me.

I heard whispering and rustling in the trees to my left, so I called out - fearful that I was vulnerable.
'Anyone there?'
'um............no?' came a small voice with a subdued giggle.
'Show yourselves,' I demanded. 'This is my garden, show yourselves this moment.'
'All right,' said the little voice. 'But promise you won't be angry.'
'I won't be angry,' I conceded, realising the voice was very young. 'Come on out where I can see you.'
Out from under the huge lumbering trees came a procession of small children, there must have been half a dozen of them, trooping out one after another, looking bashful and dashing bits of twig and leaf from their shirts. A couple of girls and four boys, pretty children, all very striking with big blue eyes and chestnut hair. I was very curious and quite forgot to be annoyed.
'Why are you in my garden?' I asked the first little girl who looked to be the eldest at about twelve.
'Please, missus, we done it on a dare.' She looked abashed.
'A dare?' I was now very curious. 'Who dared you to sneak into my garden.......and why?'
'Tom, the farrier's son,' said the child, emboldened by the fact that I wasn't shouting at her. 'And we was always told never to come in here, that the owner didn't like children running around and shouting.'
'But I am the owner,' I said with as much dignity as I could muster sitting on the grass. 'And I never gave any such order. It must have been my father. Here, give me a hand into my wheelchair'
The children followed my instructions carefully and I was eventually restored to the dignity of my chair, and was slightly taller than the children, giving me an advantage I was sadly lacking sitting on the grass.
I turned to Flora, she of the giggly voice.
'Now tell me what my father is supposed to have said.' I said sternly.
'My mother told me that the owner's daughter had had an 'orrible accident when she was a baby and he couldn't bear her to be seen by the townspeople in case they laughed at her in her chair.....' she tailed off and the giggle died. 'That was you, wasn't it, missus?'
I looked down at my legs, seeing my chair as if for the first time, then I looked up at the tall trees lining the garden. Suddenly everything fell into place - I had never been out, it never occurred to me that we were part of a big town. Everything we needed was delivered, I had tutors and governesses and nurses. The gardens were big enough for me to get out and never wonder what was on the other side of the tall trees. There was never any need for me to leave the grounds, and my father was embarrassed by his handicapped daughter, so much so, that he cut me off from the world and effectively hid me for twenty years.
'Are you laughing at my chair?' I asked.
'Not me, missus,' replied Flora hastily, the others nodding vehemently in agreement with their elder sister. 'It's just like you was on an 'orse'.
'Would you like to come and play here every day?' I looked at all the children. 'There's a lake and a kitchen garden, lots of flowers and plenty of room for football or cricket.'
The childrens' mouths dropped open at the invitation.
'Of course,' I said quickly. 'Until I get the trees chopped down, you will have to use the main gate, or your tunnel' I grinned at them. They smiled back tentatively.
'You mean it, missus?' asked Flora, taken aback by the suggestion.
'Yes, why not. I only just realised that even with loving parents, a beautiful garden and a life of comfort, I am a very lonely person.'
I wheeled my chair onto the main path, followed closely by the children, looking for all the world like a train of ducklings following mama.
'Now, can anyone explain the principles of cricket to me?' I asked the children.

They chattered and laughed, and ran about to show me the finer points of a game I had only ever read about.

*~*

A year went past. That year flew by, compared to the others in my short life. I instructed all the tall trees to be chopped down and dug up, the gardens to be filled with flowers and colourful shrubs. I also ordered a gate to be put into the wall where the children used to sneak in. I even met the infamous Tom, the farrier's son. He stood in front of me looking most ashamed, until I asked him if he could teach me to ride a horse, at which point his eyes lit up and he ran off to inspect the stables and see what we needed in the way of tack and horseflesh.

Flora was now employed as my personal maid. She had matured into a personable young lady of thirteen with a lethal football kick and could bowl her brothers out without a second thought.
Spring came around again. I settled my legs into the wheelchair and slowly wheeled myself out of the door and down the ramp, accompanied, as always these days, by Flora. It was a fresh clear spring day, and I could hear the birds singing their glorious songs, the sounds of the children playing in my garden travelled clearly on the air and the flowers were blooming in the late morning. I slid the heavy scarf off my shoulders and glorified in the warm sun, after so many months of rain and grey skies. I followed the path down the garden to my suntrap - called so because it always got the midday sun, more so lately since the trees were hewn down. It was glorious.

'Now, what are we doing today?' I asked the delightful Flora. She fished a little notebook out of her new maid's apron and opened it, licking her pencil in readiness.
'We have a ball to arrange,' she said, her voice tinkling with a giggle just beneath the surface. 'The Tall Trees Ball'.
'Very well,' I smiled back at her. 'Best we begin with the invitation list. Let's invite - everyone!'

Outsiders

2005-10-25T12:14:00.000+01:00

Mary sits on the beach watching the children play around her. Not a single one is hers, but she concentrates on their activities, admiring their spirit and their inventiveness. Whenever a voice raises into a scream she jerks her head around to check the source of the noise.

For twenty years Mary has spent her spare time looking after other people's children, putting her acquired knowledge to good use. She has helped to raise four families of children. Very different families, but children are children and Mary is a natural with them. Each time she learns something new, she stores it away to use the next time. Over the years Mary has developed a deep knowledge of children's behavioural sciences - she always jokes she could lecture for the NNEB - and her understanding of children was sought out by parents wherever she went.

Mary abhors violence. She doesn't understand a society that hurts children, for hurting sake, although she believes in strict discipline, and also considers the choice to encourage children to learn by electronic means damaging to their social skills. She has taught two generations of children to read using trusted books and her own time and patient guidance. She has sat with a child struggling with homework and gently guided the tortured mind to the clarity of subject. She has always instilled good manners and intelligent conversation. Nothing is more fun than the school run, when the children are bursting with news in the car and she must hold two or three separate conversations about homework, friends, school meals, parties - all the things most important to a six year old. She has fixed scraped knees and broken hearts, mended broken toy trucks and exploded beliefs. She has held weeping children in the middle of the night haunted by bad dreams, and helped them to blow out birthday candles. She has cleaned their cuts and sores, marvelled over their dropping baby teeth and proudly measured them against the kitchen door frame. She has nursed their measles, whooping cough and croup, has eased their colds, flu and bad tummies. She has changed their nappies, watched them go to their first day at school, so proud in their new school uniforms, packed their lunches, cooked their meals and washed their clothes. A parent in all but name.

She has raised children that are now parents themselves. Responsible, articulate members of society raising new responsible, articulate members of society. In these adults she sees the manners and behaviour she instilled in them in years long gone, and even the phrases she has trotted out time and time again are reproduced for a new generation - a modern day Mary Poppins. But society has forced her into early retirement, parents are now reluctant to leave their children with an unknown woman, no matter how trusty her references are. Mary Poppins didn't need references, just a spoonful of sugar and a way of making work fun. Mary now feels the world breathing down her neck when she draws a finger across a youthful cheek, or picks up a fallen child with scuffed knees. She can stop tears with a word, put a child to sleep in minutes, spend hours playing with lego or teaching a small child to read, but has lost the faith of the parents in the world. And without the faith of the parent, Mary is unable to gain the trust of the child, a cruel cycle that is impossible to break without one or other making the first move.

The world has changed in recent years. People look upon her with caution and fear when she stops to talk to a child. When she reaches out to stroke a towhead, the mother pulls her child away from the touching hand. When Mary looks benignly upon small children playing, she is aware of the parent watching the 'strange woman' and alert to any cause for concern. When she catches herself watching children maybe lost or in trouble, she feels powerless to help these days. The evil creeping through our society has blighted Mary, through no fault of her own, and made parents sensitive to any adult making overtures to their children.

Mary can't have children. She has never felt the painful joy of birth, nor has had the opportunity to hold her own child close to her breast for the first time. She is comfortable in her life, but yearns, alone, for the child she can never have. She hates that society now looks upon her cautiously as an oddity.

She picks up a pen and begins to write; 'Dear Editor, There must be thousands of us. Outsiders. Hidden away, ashamed of our disability, but unable to speak up for fear of pity or persecution.'

(c) cq 2004

Are We All Sitting Comfortably?

2005-10-25T12:02:00.000+01:00

Then I'll begin.

This is a blog for me to post short stories on.

I have a stock of these written over the years, and this is also an impetus for me not to stop!

If you have stories you would like to have included, please let me know

cq