An Easter Story

FIRST ROMAN: "This seat taken?"
SECOND ROMAN: "No. My mate's just gone on his rounds. He shouldn't be back for a bit."
FR: "Cheers." (Sits) "That's better. These sandals are killing me."
SR: "It's the thongs."
FR: "Tell me about it. Fancy getting us to work Easter Sunday."
SR: "It's 'cause o' that Jesus guy."
FR: "Mexican?"
SR: "Nah. Nazarene."
FR: "Oh yeah. Heard about him. Apparently he was even causing strife when he was a kiddie. Winesellers were saying he was costing them money."
SR: "He's the reason they started selling bottled water?"
FR: "So they say." (Sandal free, he wiggles his toes) "So why is he messing up our day off? My missus wanted to go on an egg hunt. She's not best pleased I've had to come in."
SR: "It's not him. It's in case his cronies play up."
FR: "Oh aye. I'd forgotten he's got a gang. Why would they be any trouble?"
SR: "Well, they're a bit miffed we crucified him on Friday."
FR: "I didn't know that. I suppose it would put a downer on their weekend."
SR: "You'd think so. But it's been quiet. A bit of wailing, but..."
FR: "To be expected, I guess."
SR: "Poking him with a sword didn't help."
FR: "Aw no, that spoils the whole crucifiction process. Whose idea was that?"
SR: "Don't know. Probably head office."
FR: "Typical. No appreciation of tradition."
SR: "Yeah. Even Jesus didn't know what was involved until we told him about hauling the wood to the site."
FR: "Cross?"
SR: "Yeah, he wasn't best pleased."
FR: "Good one. So what've they done with the body? Given it to the family?"
SR: "Oh no. Bunged it in a cave and rolled a boulder over the entrance."
FR: "Why on earth would they do that?"
SR: "Now that WAS Head office. Prophet motive, apparently."
FR: "So is your mate..."
SR: "Checking the boulder, yep. Wouldn't do if his cronies nabbed the body."
FR: "Hey. What would Head Office do if that happened!"
SR: "Oh they'd be totally embarrased. But they'd try and blame us."
FR:  "But if the paperwork backed us up?"
SR: "They'd be knackered with their own bureaucracy."
FR: "Wouldn't that be great?"
SR: "Serve 'em right for forcing Sunday working. Hey.Grab your sandals..."

Happy Enough Bryn?

A short tale set in the fictional Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, England, during a time when three conferences - science fiction, medical, and pigeon-fanciers - were booked.

This was a creative writing task - and each student had to invent a character, and tell a story from their point of view. They may encounter the characters highlighted by other students. When the tales were read out aloud, it was amusing to see the crossovers. Anyway, this is my tale - and my character was an attended at the science fiction conference. His name is Bryn Johnstone.

Happy Enough Bryn?

They called it Paradise but it wasn’t angel wings I saw on that last day. Last day of the conference that is. Perhaps I should explain.

First of all, my name is Bryn Johnstone. I was staying at the Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, attending the sixth MultiVersiCon, and yes - I am a self-confessed sci-fi geek and don’t apologise for that.

It hadn’t been as good as the last two gatherings I’d attended, but was still reasonably good fun. Part of the reason was that the hotel, in their wisdom, had decided to book two other conferences at the same time. One was some sort of medical or pharmaceutical jolly, and the other was full of the flat-cap brigade and cages of what I later discovered to be pigeons. As a consequence of this we had less meeting rooms allocated to us than usual, so it was a little more … intimate. We still had the main hall though, so the celebrity guests could address us all and share their anecdotes.

It was a quarter-of-an-hour until the next luminary was scheduled to appear, and the autograph queues were too long to join until then, so I’d gone to the dealers’ room to have another look around there. It was packed. Amongst those clad in black tee-shirts displaying slogans and promoting their favourite shows, there was the usual quota of costumed attendees, cosplaying their roles to various degrees. I saw all variations of Klingons – from those sporting the fishnet costumes and questionable fake tans, through the Mars-bar-bonced next generation, to the newest unusual incarnation. Between two stalls I even saw Wonder Woman and a Wookie closing a deal – under the disapproving eyes of the hotel concierge. I myself was clad in a uniform reminiscent of Space 1999 – I’d unpicked the sleeve from a grey track suit and replaced it with that from a black one.  Well, you’ve got to make an effort, haven’t you?

I’d made some decent purchases. Within my Forbidden Planet rucksack I had a set of Babylon 5 Minbari/Earth-Alliance trading cards, a Stargate keyring, and an old magazine from that 80s cult show “Spark Farmers” that I’d had signed by Val Dirmitage himself. Oh, and a TARDIS pencil case.

Speaking of the TARDIS, when we filed back into the main hall, I noticed that they’d erected a blue box at the corner of the stage. Fans were milling about, making their way to get seated on the conventional – no pun intended – red plush chairs. Someone dressed in a cat costume – don’t ask me why – was weaving their way through the crowd in the opposite direction to everyone else, when I heard a commotion nearby – through an open doorway to the side of the hall.

When a flock of pigeons flew through the doorway, I was in their path. Two or three flapped in my face before gaining height, one even leaving me a present on my head. Unfortunately – although I didn’t know it at the time – I seem to be severely allergic to pigeons.  I was finding it progressively hard to breathe and I dropped to my knees feeling disorientated, the black marble-effect vinyl floor looking – appropriately – like a star-scape. Someone shouted for a doctor, and the last thing I saw was Sylvester McCoy looming up, carrying an umbrella.

It was just as well the medical conference had some doctors who hadn’t originated on Gallifrey. They gave me something which brought me round. I think someone mentioned epinephrine, although it’s quite possible they were asking “Happy enough, Bryn?” After all, when you’re in paradise, and paradise is in Scarborough, you have to make allowances for the Yorkshire accent.

Punky Visits the Village - a Sylvanian Tale

Some of the Babblebrook Grey Rabbit family

Punky Burroughs

When I was assigned a creative writing exercise to write a short tale with a twist, I decided to set it in an idyllic environment - and what can be more idyllic than the homely world of Sylvanian Families? Family units of cute little animals living in harmony and happiness, Far distant from this hectic world. Surely we can't disrupt this? Well maybe temporarily...

Punky Visits the Village - A Sylvanian Tale

It was a bright sunny day in the Sylvanian Village, but then, it was always a bright sunny day. It was rare that anything disturbed the good life the happy little critters enjoyed there, but one such rare occasion occurred a few years ago. This lasted a few weeks, causing the inhabitants to be quite unsettled, and this was all due to a single visitor from out of town.

Rocky Babblebrook and his family owned the general store, and as the busiest shop on the high street, it often became a place for random social gatherings. It was one such busy day when the visitor descended upon them. It was a grey rabbit called Punky Burroughs, and he was the eldest son of Rocky’s brother-in-law. Straight away, he didn’t leave a good impression elbowing his way through the customers in the shop, announcing, “Hey, Uncle Rockmeister. I need a crib for a few days.”

Now family is family, and Rocky couldn’t refuse the young bunny a place to stay. A brief word with Crystal, and they made up a bed so her nephew could share the room with their middle son Bubba. Bubba, being a good natured lad, was happy with the company and welcomed Punky. However, there were problems even from that first night.

Punky had the habit of playing what could be considered avant-garde music at any hour of the day or night. He performed this by blowing into an ocarina fashioned from a carrot. Unfortunately Punky did not have any aptitude for music, not realising or caring that the holes in the ocarina were misplaced and producing disharmonious sounds. The noise grated, especially since Bubba was used to the wonderful music from his friend Rusty Wildwood, the Wildwoods known for their regular recitals. Punky ignored all poor Bubba’s pleas – with the result that Bubba overslept the following morning.

When Bubba came downstairs, he had missed breakfast and then discovered that his delivery bike had gone missing – presumably borrowed by Punky. Hs sister Breezy thought it was funny, and he didn’t want to tell tales to his parents, so the disruption continued.

It emerged that Punky was visiting all the bunny families in Sylvania, attempting to romance all the young girls – Holly Wildwood, Sophie Snow-Warren, Tilly Dappledawn, Kirsty Corntop amongst others. Only Ingrid Blackberry seemed immune to his charms, but she was always somewhat of a tomboy. When Ingrid told Bubba that Punky was smoking some foul-smelling plant substance, he decided it was time to tell his parents. Grass on grass – karma.

Bad feelings are uncommon in Sylvania, so the confrontation between Rocky, Crystal and Punky was uncomfortable to say the least. Punky eventually agreed to stop smoking and taking Bubba’s bicycle, but the secret night-time serenades were to continue. To Bubba’s dismay, Punky showed no sign of moving on from the Babblebrook household.

After a week, PC Bobby Roberts – the badger who policed the village – called to see the Babblebrooks. Small valuable items had gone missing from many homes and Punky Burroughs was the main suspect. The items were found in a potato sack – itself purloined from Bob Blackberry’s premises – amongst Punky’s belongings. He protested his innocence, but was taken away. Bubba smiled. He had his room back.

With next to no crime in Sylvania, there is neither jail nor judiciary. This means that rare miscreants have to be transported out of the area when appropriate transport is available. In this respect, the Renard fox family offered to help by temporarily holding Punky captive. Eric Renard was a DIY expert, and it took no time to fashion a cage as a makeshift jail.

Sadly, Punky escaped and was never seen again. This did not concern the Renards; there’s no room for guilty feelings in Sylvania. They simply settled down and had meat pie for supper.

Arthur Podge

Arthur Podge

The room was old-fashioned. The décor in assorted shades of caramel, the dado rail supporting a row of painted plates denoting birds of prey, the record player and integral speakers built into a piece of Sixties’ period furniture, the wooden standard lamp topped with a shade of autumnal foliage; the only nod to more modern technology was the digital set-top unit attached to the huge wooden box that was a television. The three piece suite had seen better days as well, but it suited the small rounded man who sat in an armchair near to the gas fire. He was old-fashioned too.

Arthur Podge tapped his foot in time to the music. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass were playing Spanish Flea. The slight smile on his fleshy face showed he was enjoying the tune. It was a mild diversion from the trad jazz music that usually occupied his turntable and, after all, it wouldn’t do to be too stuck in his ways. Any sense of irony in this thought would have been lost on him.

The song reached its end and the stylus arm clicked and returned to its cradle. Arthur sighed and heaved himself out of his chair. He pulled at his grey corduroy trousers where they had wriggled into his groin, and walked towards the window. The evenings were getting a little lighter and it was notable that the inhabitants of Little Benton were taking full advantage of the extra daylight.

He saw Johnny Perry turn the corner by Mrs Whelk’s bungalow. Johnny had calmed down since his arrival in the village two weeks ago. The youth no longer repeatedly kicked his football at Mrs Whelk’s door. The requests to stop had been ignored, but when every kick of the football began to rebound into Johnny’s face, the habit was cured. Arthur noted that the two black eyes were starting to fade.

A shadow flitted across the window, interrupting the evening sun. The door chimes echoed down the hallway. Arthur pulled the edges of his cardigan forward and shuffled to the front door. He looked down at his slippers. Nearly worn out, he would need new ones soon.

In the hallway he saw a figure distorted by the frosted glass panels in his door. Arthur nodded to himself. It was his neighbour, Ellie Mayberg. She’d said she would come when she had an update on her current domestic situation. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Was he suitably dressed for company? A button on his shirt had loosened due to the strain imposed by his belly, so he moved his knitted tie accordingly and tucked it into his pants. His hair was neat enough, premature balding helping in that respect. Yes. He would do. He opened the door. Ellie was smiling.

“Mr Podge, I’ve got some great news. Can I come in?”

“Yes, Miss Mayberg –“

“Ellie, I’ve told you.”

“Ellie. Yes. Come in.”

They moved into the room Arthur had recently vacated. Ellie sat down on the sofa, clearly eager to speak. Arthur eased himself back into his armchair.

“First, that weasel Barry Harwood was found out. His manager came across from Manchester and called me back in to work, told me that Harwood shouldn’t have fired me, and that they want me to replace him. He’s out on his ear.”

“When did this happen?”

“The firm found out about him yesterday, around the time I was in here talking to you. They told me this afternoon. I can hardly believe it.”

Arthur nodded. “That is good news, Ellie.”

“I was so worried. Sorry for being a mess yesterday.”

“I’m pleased it’s worked out for you.”

“It has, hasn’t it? And that’s not all. Paul has been dumped.”

“Paul who used to be your Paul?”

“Yep. And he had the gall to come crawling back to me this morning.”

“And?”

“No one treats me like that. I gave him the knee.”

“Ouch.”

“I just had to come and thank you for listening.” She came to her feet and kissed Arthur on his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Mr Podge. Arthur.”

Arthur reddened. “Thank you. I’m happy things have turned around.” 

Ellie’s smile widened. “They have. I just had to tell you, but I can’t stay. I’m expecting a pizza delivery.” She moved towards the hallway. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

Arthur listened to her leave, reflecting on her words. A pizza delivery. The village was beginning to change. He slowly shook his head, stopping when the telephone rang. He reached towards the side table and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Mr Podgy?”

“Podge.”

“Ah. My name’s Eric. I’m calling from Microsoft support. We are detecting problems on your computer.”

“My computer?” Arthur sighed. Another scam call. He reached into his pocket for his briar pipe and gazed at it whilst the voice on the telephone continued to speak. He didn’t smoke, but it he found it soothing to handle its smooth wooden stem, a habit he had acquired many years ago. He resumed listening to “Eric’s” accented voice.

“…it is something that will not be identified by your virus control software…”

Arthur put the pipe in his mouth, clamping it with his teeth. The mouthpiece was cool on his lips. He breathed out through his nose, listening to the caller. Something was happening in the background – an increasing commotion of voices threatening to overwhelm Eric, who was still intent on informing him of a problem with a non-existent computer. The background voices grew in volume.

“…there’s a problem with the entire network… …something’s burning… …we’ve lost the entire database… …oh no, the sprinklers…”

There was a single tone as the line went dead. Arthur replaced the receiver, took the pipe out of his mouth, smiling as he put it back in his pocket.

He was still smiling as he made his way back to his record player and flipped over the Herb Alpert long-playing disc. Time to listen to this before he made his tea. Perhaps he would try a pizza one of these days.

He didn’t consider himself a superhero. Superheroes deal with international issues, whilst he was content to live in his old-fashioned house in Little Benton.

Arthur Podge. Karma Man.

[This short piece is in memory of my best schoolfriend Chris Simister who sadly passed away towards the end of last year. Chris created a doodle of Arthur Podge when the rest of us were drawing superheroes. I attempted to duplicate the drawing above. RIP Chris.]

Liposuction

The following was a writing exercise - a lipogram whereby the letter E is not used anywhere within the narrative. Perhaps this suggested the title of the piece...

Liposuction

Many folk talk about my habit of walking along woodland paths at night. Many say I am out of my mind, saying it is not as if colours will burst out from local flora. A fraction thinks my motivation for this unusual habit has a lot to do with my partiality for shadows. Dark and black. As black as soot in a – black soot bin. Possibly.

I’m also fond of sounds coming from nocturnal animals – owls hooting and so forth, sounds making my arms’ skin so rough that it is similar to that of citrus fruit rind. I find that particularly satisfying. No doubt you think this is slightly odd.  

Truthfully, I go to find victims. My companions and I join up to look for food. To sink our fangs into vagrants, though pickings don’t approach what you would call rich.

Throughout world history, you won’t find many of us about.

Now, Dracula and his ilk may suck blood from a victim’s throat, but my cohorts don’t go for that. I am part of a dying kind. Our compulsion is to suck fat. A stout guy’s stomach would do, but I must admit draining a plump girl’s thigh is gratifying. Why not a buttock with its additional fat, you may ask? It’s an alluring thought but I avoid that path. I don’t want folk to think I’m corrupt. 

A possibility is that, months from now, I will start up a liposuction clinic. My chums and I could work at such a clinic and finish our nightly woodland walks. Mmm, tasty.

The Meet

Tom looked across the laden table at Sally. She raised her eyebrows at the feast their host had set before them. It was far too much, but to comment as such could affect negotiations. As it was, they may be compromised by the absence of Derek, the third member of their team. A quiet cough grabbed their attention.

“Please. Eat.” The Councillor indicated the spread with his fork. “We can discuss business later.”

Tom picked up a serving spoon and added a selection of crisp vegetables to his plate, gradually forming an autumnal foliage of colour.

Lifting the gravy boat, Tom started to pour the rich stock over the meat, watching it flow around the irregularly placed vegetables like a chestnut stream. With each inward breath the aromatic steam caressed his nose - his mouth was already watering in anticipation.

There was a slight yield as his fork pierced a burnished carrot. His knife cut it to a mouth-sized piece, and he blew upon it before it passed between his lips. The balance of sweet and savoury, the texture – everything – was just right.

The same went for everything on his plate. Urged to take extra portions, he couldn’t help himself. It was so good.

“Oh my God,” he heard Sally say, “this is absolutely delicious.”

The Councillor smiled in pleasure. “I’m glad you like it.” He paused, and nodded towards the decimated platter in the centre of the table. “And how do you find the Derek?”

A Message from Moriarty

     I wonder continually about Sherlock. He takes it for granted he can bank on me – which he can, of course – but once some new mystery is on his mind, he barges in like a rogue elephant, no thought of anyone else.
    Take this morning, for example. There I am in my underpants and vest, in the middle of getting dressed, and I look up to see him there. I’m getting the impression he doesn’t believe in door bells.
    “Ah, John,” he says, “I’ve been going through the condolence cards from my funeral.”
    I pull on my trousers and make an attempt to quip, “It must be interesting to see what people don’t think about you.”
    He looks up from something in his hand and, amazingly, for once my words seem to have penetrated his single-mindedness. But not for long.
    “Going for the jugular, eh? Well, get over it.” He waves a small card in the air. “There’s a cryptic message from Jim Moriarty.”
     My mouth must have dropped open, for he looks at me with one of those patronising stares. “Yes, I know he shot himself, but he was a man to think ahead. Here. Read this.”
    Taking the card from his outstretched hand I read aloud. It is unsigned.

    “Around, over the width of a circle, Hitler’s bodyguards are separated 
    from a unit of resistance”, the Danish prince would say logically.

    “How does that prove it’s from Moriarty?” I say, and attempting to decrypt it, continue, “Width of a Circle – that’s from the Bowie album The Man Who Sold The World. Is that anything to do with it?”
    Sherlock puffs out his lips in despair, then starts to explain.
    “Take each bit in turn. ‘Width of a Circle’, that’s the diameter. ‘Around’ – that’s the circumference. Divide one by the other, and you get?”
    “Pi.”
    “And Hitler’s bodyguards?”
    “The S.S.”
    “The unit of electrical resistance?”
    “Ohm.”
    “So that’s ‘O’. And Hamlet is the Danish prince. Who is famous for the quote ‘To be…’”
    “’…or not to be’. Yes, I know. Get to the point.”
    “The card says ‘logically’. So if we write the quotation as an expression using Hex numbers –
2B OR NOT 2B – and minimise this using some Boolean logic, what do we get?”
    “Enlighten me.”
    “We get ‘FF’.”
    “So?”
    “Put them all together, and that’s why I know it’s from Jim Moriarty – PI. SS. O. FF.”

The Unwilling Guest

My first post is a copy of a submission I made in response to a Creative Writing exercise. We were given ten particular words to use within a piece of short fiction. I won't bother listing the words, although you may be able to guess a couple. The piece is here because I had fun writing it.

The Unwilling Guest

I dropped the cruet in the punch bowl and the conversation around the table stopped.

Maureen, my wife, apologised on my behalf, claiming that I was suffering from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome – the annoying tingle of pins and needles that can result in numbness and pain in one’s hands. There was a collective hum of sympathy, but it was only a brief respite before the inane chat continued.

The truth was: I had needed to do something to relieve the boredom. Perhaps it’s something to do with age, a growing intolerance with people wasting what remains of my life. Perhaps I’m entering a second childhood – I don’t know. I do know I’d rather knit fog than hear about the latest celebrity gossip. And why this preoccupation about footballers and their teams? I know diddly squat about that and don’t want to.

Not that it would have been any better sat amongst the bride’s guests – they all seemed like they had corks up their proverbials. Or a number three wood, as they’re all golf fanatics.

I had told Maureen I didn’t want to come to the wedding. Of course, when she said I didn’t have a ghost of a chance of avoiding it, I wasn’t going to argue. Yet when we arrived and I gazed around the room at the range of numpties there, I decided I wasn’t just going to sit around.

Before anyone else came into the dining area I managed to switch around quite a few of the name cards on the tables. That was entertaining. I told a few guests that I am called John Royd, and my wife is called Emma. And that fake telegram I was able to slip into the pile: I can’t wait for that to be read out.

I’m sure Maureen suspects something is going on.

Ah well, they’ll be divvying up the wedding cake soon. I can flick sultanas at the bride’s mother.