tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90445218063444695452024-03-13T19:04:06.979-07:00The Platinum DonkeyTHE PLATINUM DONKEY:
The Online Stories of Rhys HughesRhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-55105826635174462182020-01-02T04:06:00.002-08:002020-01-02T04:20:03.651-08:00When Pushkin Came to Shovekin (2013)<b><i>This story originally appeared in my book of cat stories and poems, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/More-Than-Feline-Hughes-2013-12-11/dp/B01LPDTZMY/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=more+than+a+feline+rhys+hughes&qid=1577966616&sr=8-1">More Than a Feline</a>. I have always thought that Pushkin was a superb name for a cat. The man Pushkin was a great writer, no doubt about that, therefore this story concerns a cat with the same name who is a great cat. Not a great cat as in a lion or tiger, but a wonderful house cat. You know what I mean.</i></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They were moving from the town of Small Mercies to the
equally small town of Denial and they were in a mighty rush. The reason they
were in such a rush was because rushing is more appropriate on the day of a
house move than sitting in soft chairs calmly sipping sweet tea.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">More appropriate and more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stylish</i>, it must be admitted.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dust and clattering arose everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan paused for a moment, stood with hands on her
hips and her chest heaving in the hallway. Her chest might have been heaving in
the hallway but the rest of her was in the lounge, which indicates how generous
her bosom was. But this isn’t that kind of story, so forget such details and
just be aware that she was angry. “Where is the removal truck?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“For what time did you order it?” came the meek voice
of Tommaso, her mate, who was packing his feather dusters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I didn’t order it for any time at all. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> were the one who was supposed to
order it. That was your task, not mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Ah, I see. You’ll have to forgive me but—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Forgive you?” Bethan extended her long and powerful
arms and began rotating them at high speed from the elbows, as if they were
mechanical flails on a collectivised farm. She always did this when she was
exasperated but she didn’t know why. Nobody would ever know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I will order one now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Better late than never, I suppose?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes, that’s a good attitude. I will just finish with
this pile of red dusters before moving onto the blue ones and—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Save yourself the trouble!” snarled Bethan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She turned and strode to the telephone on the little
table, picked it up and dialled the number of a reliable removal company that
she had used before. An impressively deep voice answered her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“How may we assist you? You wish to hire one of our
trucks? State your name and town of residence clearly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Bethan K. Fullfor, Small Mercies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Well, I generally am.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan winced, having heard that joke too often.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">More information was exchanged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We will be there as soon as humanly possible.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Only humanly?” said Bethan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The voice didn’t bother answering that one. It had a
busy day ahead of it, that voice, and could indulge banter only in short
bursts. Bethan replaced the receiver and turned to confront Tommaso. She
snatched one of the red dusters out of his hands and slapped him with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You worthless dolt! Take this and that and this
again!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Ten minutes later she desisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He was bruised but there wasn’t a speck of dust on
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The truck arrived one hour later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan threw open the door and allowed the two
muscular men standing on the threshold to enter and begin carrying the stuff in
relays out of the house and into the back of the truck. Tommaso was the last
item to be packed. One of the men lifted him up, held him horizontally under an
arm and stowed him with the furniture, ornaments and carpet rolls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan rode in the front of the truck between the two
men, one hand on the left thigh of the right one and the other on the right
thigh of the wrong one. The vehicle bounced down the potholed road and her
hands sometimes slipped up the legs they rested on. But nobody complained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Tommaso could be heard somewhere far away in the back
of the truck. It seemed he was singing or whimpering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“He doesn’t like the dark,” explained Bethan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Maybe he should ride up here then?” the driver
suggested.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Oh no,” she said. “The fact he doesn’t like the dark
is the reason I put him in the back in the first place. I’m not a nice person,
but that doesn’t much matter because I have wonderful hair.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You do indeed. It’s very curly,” said the men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes and auburn,” agreed Bethan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That settled the matter. They trundled out of Small
Mercies and into the country and down numerous lanes that were only just wide
enough for them. It was lucky that nothing came the other way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The sun was setting when they finally arrived in
Denial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The new house greeted them and it was an empty shell
but the men soon filled it with the objects in the back of the truck, including
Tommaso, who was shaken but not fatally, and who helped with the rest of the
unloading to the best of his limited ability. Then the task was done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan ostentatiously kissed both of the men farewell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Go on, it’s your turn!” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“But really, I don’t know if I should,” spluttered
Tommaso.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You’d better!” she rumbled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So Tommaso stood on tiptoes and kissed the men too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“On the lips, you idiot!” cried Bethan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He didn’t dare disobey. The men got back into the
truck and drove off in low gear, wiping their mouths with their grubby sleeves
and feeling grateful for the dirt that coats the cotton shirts of working men.
Not that Tommaso was the worst kisser in the world, just that his tongue had
been fluffy, as if he’d bitten a feather duster to mad pieces in captivity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan watched them depart, then she explored her new
home. “Exactly the same size as our last house and the view through the windows
is similar. It almost feels as if we haven’t moved at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Something’s missing,” ventured Tommaso.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan narrowed her eyes and her eyebrows stood erect,
each hair like a poisoned quill on the back of a specially prepared porcupine. “Oh
yes? So you don’t like it? Think it lacks character?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Not that, not that at all! I meant it literally.
Something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> missing. It’s not the
telescope or the gramophone or the pianola, nor is it the spittoon or drest of
chaws (I’ll be perfectly honest and confess that I still don’t know what a
drest of chaws <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>) or the
solar-powered kettle or the hatstand that can hold hats from any period in
history, or the clothes horse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan rubbed her chin. “So what can it be?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Don’t you have a hunch?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“No, but I will.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was the cat. These things are easily done. Cats get
left behind just as often, or more frequently perhaps, than dogs, rabbits,
canaries and goldfish. Pushkin had been sleeping in the garden during the move.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When he awoke, he stretched his paws and body, yawned
wider than the cave of a mouse, padded to the back door and pushed through the
cat-flap that always swung open with an astonished squeak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The house was empty. Pushkin blinked and went
wandering through the rooms. As far as he was concerned some disaster must have
forced Bethan and Tommaso to flee. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would move
for such feeble reasons as a new job, which actually is why Bethan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> changed towns. No, it had to be for
something more visceral than that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Maybe a bear had entered the house and chased them
out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But if so, where was the bear now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And what was a bear anyway? Pushkin had never seen
one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He searched for food, found none.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“The bear, whatever one is, must have eaten it all,”
he decided, “and also taken all the furniture, so there’s no option for me left
but to find my owners. I will have to embark on a hazardous journey. I had
better prepare myself for such an epic voyage in the traditional way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And he licked himself six times in six ritual places.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I’m ready now,” he told himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was getting dark, which was the perfect time to be
setting off, so with scarcely a glance behind him, Pushkin returned to the
garden through the noisy cat-flap and weaved silently between clumps of long
grass on the badly tended lawn all the way to the crumbling brick wall that
formed the garden’s boundary and then he leaped onto this and over it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He landed in a foreign garden and was instantly on the
alert, for cats that weren’t him, namely other cats, owned this territory, or
rather they claimed it as part of their own kingdoms, whereas it fact it
overlapped with his own and with others. It was on the margins of the civilised
world and needed regular patrolling to prevent incursions from rivals, but he
didn’t have time for that now. He had to keep going in a highly unnatural
straight line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pushkin distrusted straight lines. They seemed
awkward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sometimes straight lines were necessary and useful and
even essential, as in the top of a garden wall that one wished to use as a
path. But Pushkin’s quest now would take him over such walls, not along them.
He felt an insistent pull in one direction only and decided to keep going that
way. His whiskers twitched in rhythm to the undulations of his agile body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He crossed a dozen gardens and then cleared the last
wall into an alley. It was extremely dark here and the way was obstructed with
abandoned objects of inconceivable function and it was not an easy matter even
for an experienced cat to negotiate the full length of the way. But Pushkin
managed it. It disgorged him into a meadow on the edge of Small Mercies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He had escaped the town. But how far did he have to
go?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The countryside was a place that was both enthralling
and frightening. He heard the bark of foxes in a nearby wood, the flap of wings
that might have been those of hungry owls, the slither of snakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But at the end of the day, and the day really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> over, he was Pushkin, an
indefatigable sort of feline, not one to be cowed by cows, made to feel sheepish
by rams, unresistingly badgered by badgers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Am I a man or a mouse?” he asked himself, and his
reply comforted and encouraged him. “I am neither. I am a cat!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yes, he was Pushkin and no more need be said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He walked all night and went into a trance so that the
distance became the detritus of a dream, the miles dispersed behind him like
smoke, and even though his exhaustion was acute he kept going, following a
particular star, following the point of celestial light, that distant sun, even
when the clouds came together like spoilsport curtains and covered it from
prying slitted eyes. He still knew where it was and was determined to use it as
a guide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But it wasn’t the North Star and it moved gradually
across the sky like all other stars, so the route of Pushkin’s voyage was
actually a gentle curve over the landscape that only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felt</i> like a straight line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then the stars began to lose force as if they were
suffering from twinkle fatigue and they dimmed and the sky grew lighter in the
east, which was the east <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> the
sky grew lighter there, and Pushkin found himself standing on a hill, more of a
grassy knoll really, looking down at a town, a town that wasn’t Small Mercies.
He hadn’t gone in a giant circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But it wasn’t Denial either and he didn’t yet know
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was Shovekin, a strange place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No roads led into this town, only mud paths that were
baked hard or slimy and treacherous depending on what the weather did. At the
moment they were a bit soft but not like linear quagmires. It had rained in the
past week but it hadn’t poured. No clouds had burst. Most of the water had been
absorbed, drunk deep into the earth and only a few bubbles had been hiccupped
back out, where they swirled around each other in the very narrow ditches on
either side of the paths like liberated cuckoo spit, dancing waltzes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As he walked down the hill, refreshed by the sight of
the town despite the rigours of his journey, his tail held high, Pushkin heard
the solitary whining of a dog rising like sonic smoke above the chimneys of the
houses, and he felt a little fear but decided to suppress it and continue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog in question was standing at the end of the
path and he was clearly guarding the space between the town and the rest of the
world on this side of the compass, not that he really knew what a compass was.
Pushkin stopped when he caught sight of the big brute, but the dog’s nose
twitched a few times and his tail began wagging and then he said jovially:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Good morning! Have you come to live here too?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You can speak!” gasped Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog rolled his eyes in mock alarm. “So can you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pushkin relaxed and purred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I am looking for my owners,” he explained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Your owners?” said the dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“They vanished yesterday. I think they ran away from
an acquisitive bear. I am searching for them. Are they here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Your owners, you say?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“My owners are Bethan K. Fullfor and Tommaso.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">owners</i>!
Ha ha!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Why are you laughing at me?” asked Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I’m not laughing at you but at your naivety. Don’t
you know that you are their owner, not the other way around?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“No, I didn’t know that,” admitted Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog continued, “Human beings are the rightful pets
of animals. That’s the way nature intended it to be, that’s how it works, but
this truth seems to have been forgotten in most parts of the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“How do you remember it?” Pushkin wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Because this town is Shovekin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What difference does that make?” persisted Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“A big difference, believe me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Won’t you reveal what I ought to know?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog took a deep breath and said, “It often happens
that human beings move house and forget to take the animals that share their
homes with them. The animals are forced to set off on long voyages in order to
find those humans. It is not uncommon for them to find this place instead,
Shovekin, the town where the rightful order of things is preserved. For
example, you have found it. Here, dogs and cats and all other animals are in
charge and men and women are their pets. I am glad you have found your way
here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You are inviting me to join your community?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog bowed, bending its front legs until its noble
head nearly touched the ground, then it straightened. “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pushkin licked his lips. “May I look around first?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You may indeed. Follow me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog led Pushkin into the town. It looked similar
to Small Mercies and the streets and buildings were almost identical. Cats and
dogs walked along the pavements and many were leading humans on a leash.
Sometimes those animals were in a hurry, perhaps on their way to an important
meeting, but their humans would stop to greet other humans, shaking hands and
discussing the weather for ages, until the exasperated animals would jerk the
leash and pull them apart and set off again at an even more rapid pace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They passed a garden in which swung a cage from a tall
pole and in the cage was a man. He was unable to stand up or stretch himself
and he seemed to be very unhappy imprisoned like that. He was dressed in an
expensive business suit that was frayed and creased, but a parrot was perched
on the top of the cage and was calling down through the bars:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Johnny wants a salad? Who’s a clever adult then?
Pretty Johnny, pretty Johnny. Can you say that? Pretty Johnny.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The man in the cage mumbled something unintelligible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What was that, Johnny? What are you going to offer me
for a salad? Do you want to make me an offer, Johnny?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Stocks and shares,” croaked the helpless prisoner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Good <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">businessman</i>,”
said the parrot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“It might seem cruel, but apparently humans don’t have
souls, so it’s not at all cruel really,” explained the dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pushkin was very impressed by the fact there was no
motorised traffic on any of the roads. Humans that had been let off the leash
frolicked in the middle of the street, brewing tea right there and reading
newspapers, all the silly games they enjoy so much. “Amazing,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Further along, two hedgehogs were nailing a human into
a box. This was because it was that person’s hibernation time. Then they passed
a man who was wearing a uniform and cap and was standing to attention behind a
gate. “Do you have an appointment?” he snapped at them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What did he ask me that?” said Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Oh, he’s just a guard human. Some animals keep them
to deter intruders and burglars. Do you like this place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“It’s like paradise,” replied Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We will give you a house and you can choose a pet
from the abandoned humans’ shelter if you feel the need for one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Assuming I’m accepted into the community?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I feel confident you will be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I think I adore this place already.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog nodded. “Good. All that remains is for me to
introduce you to the ruling committee of the town. All of us found our way here
after our pet humans moved house and left us behind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Humans really are rather stupid,” said Pushkin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“That’s why we love them so!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes, yes, I suppose it is. But there’s one thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What is it?” asked the dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I do miss Bethan and Tommaso. It wouldn’t feel right
having any other pets. The substitution would be inadequate.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You never know. You might still get them back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“How is that possible?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The dog flung a paw around Pushkin’s shoulders and in
a conspiratorial voice said, “Where do you think all the humans who live here
come from? They dwell in their distant towns for only a short time before they
wake up to the fact that their ‘pets’ are missing, that they forgot to take
them along in the move. So they get frantic and start searching for them and
frequently they end up here, in Shovekin, reunited with their beloved animals
but with the proper relationship restored between them. In your case—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“No,” said Pushkin sadly, “I don’t think my humans
will do that. There is something a bit peculiar about them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Humans can be incomprehensible. Ah well! You can only
wait and see. Incidentally, I haven’t introduced myself formally yet. I am
Shako. Follow me and I’ll present you to the committee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And he trotted down a narrow alley and through a hole
in a fence. With a spring in his step, Pushkin kept close behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan finally had her hunch but it didn’t help her to
work out what was missing and to be honest the hunch didn’t suit her. So she
removed her cardigan and the hunch fell out. It was a large purple pillow and
it landed on the floorboards with a satisfyingly plump and comfy sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan bent forward and stared down intently but she
wasn’t scrutinising the pillow. It was the varnished floorboards she was more
interested in. Why did they seem <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i>?
They were smooth and shiny and unscratched. Was there any clue in the fact of
their pristine condition to help her decide why this new house had an inferior
atmosphere to the old?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Tommaso!” she bellowed. “Tommaso!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He came running, slipping on the polished wood in his
pink slippers and struggling to untie the knot in his apron.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes,” he panted anxiously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She knitted her brows, the only thing she ever cared
to knit. The task of darning socks in this domestic setup was done by him. “Do
you still think we might have left something behind us?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I have learned not to attempt to think.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Idiot! I am ordering you to do so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>. Tell me, did we forget something
when we moved from Small Mercies?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He visibly seemed to shrink, but his mind was working;
his ears glowed as they always did when cogitating. “Could it be,” he ventured
mildly, “that we didn’t bring the cat along with us?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Pushkin, you mean? Don’t be absurd!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“It’s just that I haven’t seen him around lately and
in fact I don’t think I have seen him since we arrived here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bethan folded her arms under her bosom, threw back her
head, laughed at the ceiling until the ceiling started to get paranoid. “You
are most amusing, dear, like a mediaeval clown or jester. Like a fool. You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> a fool, aren’t you? A silly and
pointless buffoon. But that’s why I value you. I would have sold you years ago
to the slaughterhouses or into slavery if you weren’t so darned entertaining.
Annoying, certainly, but in a good way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Thank you.” He curtsied somewhat clumsily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“However,” she continued, and her tone became icy, “there’s
a time and a place for everything; and right now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t</i> the time for humour. So be sensible and answer my question
properly or you will be horribly mutilated by these hands of mine. Look very
close.” And she lifted them up like solid yeti footprints in front of his pale
face with its quivering muscles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I can’t think of anything that might be missing,” he
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Good.” She nodded vigorously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Tommaso noticed the pillow on the floor and he
squatted to retrieve it. He was in this position when Bethan suddenly rested
her hands on the crown on his head, preventing him from rising again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“It couldn’t be the cat. How could it be? We still put
out cat food and it is eaten. That proves Pushkin is still around. Or are you
going to suggest that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> cats come
in at night illegally to devour it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You know best,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes dear, I do. I see you have found my hunch. It’s
your turn to wear it. If you take it off without permission I will have you
sent to the recycling depot. I want you to shout ‘the bells, the bells’ at
intermittent intervals until I tell you to stop. Do you understand? Do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes, yes, anything you say, anything at all!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She removed her hands from his head and strolled over
to the window and gazed into the garden. They would never go in search of
Pushkin because as far as she was concerned there was no need and Tommaso
wouldn’t dare disagree with her. In fact he was now equally convinced that
Pushkin still resided with them. Unlike many other couples they would never set
off on the quest to locate their absent cat and they would never stumble across
the town where he was. He simply wasn’t missing in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There was a logical reason why they had this attitude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They were living in Denial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i></i></b></b>Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-20523018010420453042019-12-19T05:06:00.000-08:002019-12-19T05:06:02.000-08:00Six Characters in Search of an Executioner (1994)<i>This story was an attempt to create a linked series of vignettes, some of which are highly compressed reworkings of other stories I have written, in order to see if I could devise a sum greater than its parts. The end result pleased the publisher of my collection <a href="http://aardvarkcaesar.blogspot.com/2010/07/at-molehills-of-madness.html">AT THE MOLEHILLS OF MADNESS</a>, where it appears. I too have a fondness for the portmanteau story. The fourth of the six vignettes is actually my earliest surviving story idea. I wrote a first version of the tale when I was perhaps ten years old. The expanded rewritten version is called 'Learning to Fall' and can be found in my NOWHERE NEAR MILKWOOD book.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(1)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The first death
involves a gallows that operates upside down. The rope is one of those lengths
of mystic hemp and human hair that jumps erect in the old Indian trick. So the
executioner will have to be a fakir of sorts; probably a toothless ascetic with
ribs like the bars of a cage and a matted beard. When he claps his hands
together, the rope will spring into the air. But this is too barbaric for our
purpose, so there will have to be modifications. Now the fakir pulls a lever
and a series of weights are set in motion, wheels turn and fan belts whirr. A
mechanical set of hands comes together with the required clap and tradition and
progress are both satisfied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As for the condemned
prisoner, he is doubtless an insurgent or political rebel. Petty criminals are
separated from their limbs and left for the crows in the barley fields.
Religious dissenters are quartered in the circus. Republicans alone (and their
anarchist brethren) are preserved for the noose. The affair is an outdoor
event; all good spectacles are available these days for public consumption. It
is the old excuse for a knees-up; songs and dancing and ribaldry. This fellow,
our present doomed specimen, makes a noble speech about justice and morality.
He has obviously never been to Cwmbran.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The drum rolls, the
trumpets fanfare, the crowd throws rotten fruit and cruel jokes. The
executioner pulls the lever, but nothing happens. One of the mechanical hands
has been stolen. The other hand flaps aimlessly: the sound of one hand clapping
is finally revealed to be that of near-death. It begins to rain. An engineer is
called. Later, in the puddle left by the downpour in front of the gallows, you
can see a man who hangs the right way up, towards the stars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(2)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In the second
instance, there is a cannibal family somewhere (picture the wilds beyond
Carmarthen) who, for some unspecified and patently ludicrous reason, do not yet
realise that cannibalism is not the norm. So they continue in ignorant bliss in
their old crumbling mansion, snaring hapless travellers in nets laid across the
road and eating them, boots and all, in a stew (invariably a stew) washed down
with Adam’s apple cider, a godawful pun and a godawful drink. They are an odd
family; one of them is certainly a vampire (the grandfather?) while the others
are assorted horrors and cranks. They sleep during the day and, once again,
believe it normal to dream in individual coffins, the lids screwed down tight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">One time, they receive
a letter from Cousin Stefan, who says that he is coming to visit. There is
gaping panic. Cousin Stefan is a vegetarian. How can they possibly serve him
person broth? No, it will not do! They will have to make a special effort;
Cousin Stefan is a respected relative they have not seen for more than a
decade. After leaving the old country, he became a successful funeral director
out East. So he has found his niche; and they must do their best to satisfy such
an esteemed guest. Traveller soup is out of the window; or down the sink
rather, and Pa and Ma must put their heads together (not difficult considering
they are unseparated Siamese twins) to find an alternative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When Cousin Stefan
arrives in a turbocharged hearse, Pa and Ma and Vampiric Gramps and the little
but horrible ‘uns and the mythical pet (a cockatrice perhaps, whose look can
kill) and Purdy Absurdy are standing on the dilapidated steps of the porch.
They greet Cousin Stefan with a smile and mumble a few words in Hungarian to
remind themselves of their origins. Cousin Stefan follows them into the house
and, before long, dinner is served. Connected to a life support unit by a score
of wires and tubes, a suitable vegetable dish, in this case a crash victim,
waits for grace and the sprouts and salt and pepper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(3)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The third case is
similar except that here we have Karl and Julia, who live on an abandoned farm
after some global disaster has wiped out most of civilisation (or so they
believe.) Nature is reclaiming the land.
So Karl goes out hunting while Julia turns what he captures into sausage. They
are not fussy, of course, so Karl brings back in his sack such delicacies as
Robin, Panda, Rhino and Beetle. One day he says: “Jaguar in the hills. Heard it
last night.” Language too has decayed and Karl was always terse at the best of
times. He loads his rifle and adjusts his necklace of fish bones and scratches
his greasy louse ridden hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Julia gnaws on an old
skull and snarls, her broken face writhing and contorting in a savage attempt
to formulate an opinion. She snorts and throws the skull away with a menacing
gesture and bares her rotting teeth. “Jaguar too noble to destroy. Karl leave
it alone.” But Karl shakes his head. “Karl kill. Jaguar die. We eat.” Julia
snatches up a femur from the rubbish strewn floor and lunges at Karl, who
grunts and moves out of range. Julia throws the bone at him. Karl disappears
through the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Julia struggles with
strange ideas. Why should anything be too noble to destroy? As she ponders, she
hears a shot. Ten minutes later, Karl is back, holding up a sack. “Jaguar,” he
says, beaming. He moves into the corridor and then into the room where he keeps
his trophies. Meanwhile, Julia sighs and takes out her knives. There is a knock
on the door. Two people are standing there, on the threshold. One says: “You
must help us! There’s a madman out there, a madman with a gun.” And Julia nods
sympathetically and invites them in. At the same time in the other room, Karl
reaches into his sack and pulls out his latest trophy, which he nails to the
wall next to the others: a gleaming chrome hubcap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(4)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The fourth example
concerns a rather depressed young man, Billy, who takes himself to the edge of
a sea cliff and throws himself over. What he is really trying to achieve is
anyone’s guess, though the obvious should not be overlooked. He spins through
space and loses consciousness; so relaxed is he now that somehow, miraculously,
he survives the landing with no more than a dozen plum bruises on his legs and
torso. Billy is not to know this, however, and when he awakes he assumes he is
dead. But he is aware of his surroundings, so he finally decides that he must
be a ghost. There is no other explanation. He stands up and brushes himself
down and flexes his ghostly muscles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It is necessary, he
thinks, for him to adopt his role completely. He will become an evil spirit. He
will do his best to harm people. So he makes his way back towards the nearest
village and waits for his first victim. An elderly man, with a false leg,
totters out of the post office, unsteady on a gnarled stick. Billy kicks away
the stick and, once the man is on the ground, removes his false leg and
proceeds to batter him to death with it. Next he wanders into YE OLDE TEA
SHOPPE and forces a dozen stale scones into the maws of the entire cast of the
local Amateur Dramatics Society’s production of <i>Blithe Spirit</i>. They
choke slowly, spitting crumbs and turning blue in real deaths as corny as any
they have ever acted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Several outrages
later, as he is in the not entirely unwarranted process of forcing the vicar to
eat Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s pink poodle, collar, leash and Mrs
Featherstonehaugh included, he is apprehended by a vengeful mob of cribbage
players, retired shopkeepers and ex-servicemen (medals all affixed to jackets
at the shortest notice) who chase him out of the village and scream indigo
murder. Billy is surprised that they can see him, but is not concerned in the
least. They hound him towards the very cliff he earlier had leapt off and this
time he does not hesitate: he is a ghost and ghosts can fly. It is a pity that
he is now so tense, with anticipation, with triumph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(5)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The fifth item is both
rather more sombre and perverse. We have a loner who lives in a garret, or a
bedsit, and who never speaks to any of the other tenants in the building. He
has no close family (they have all died in mysterious, and truly grisly,
circumstances) but he is deluged with aunts. There is Aunt Emily and Aunt
Theresa and Aunt Hilda and Aunt Eva. At the funerals of his mother or father or
brothers or sisters, they each take it in turns to mumble such platitudes as “you
have your father’s eyes” or “you have your mother’s nose” or “you have your
sister’s ears” or some such thing. The loner merely nods and purses his lips.
Once back in his tiny room, he digs up the floorboards and removes the plastic
bags concealed there. He is all despair. “How do they know?” he wails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(6)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Now we are back in
some grim cold city, ramshackle and asthmatic, during the depths of winter. A
hunched figure moves out of the blizzard, wrapped tight in a threadbare cloak,
complete with hood. He takes a tiny key out of his pocket and opens a door onto
muted warmth and light. Surely this is the interior of a toy shop? There are
puppets and automatons, wondrous animals suspended on cords from the ceiling,
jack-in-the-boxes and life-sized dummies. With a contented sigh, the hunched
figure throws off his cloak and rubs his hands together (fingerless gloves
naturally) in glee. He has a parcel under his arm. Lovingly, he places it down
on a chair and unwraps it. There is a mechanical arm, gleaming and strange in
the faint illumination. The hunched figure takes it over to a puppet sitting
quietly in the corner and fits it on carefully. Now the puppet is complete. Now
it has two arms. The hunched figure winds this puppet up and, after this one,
all the others. Soon the shop is full of dancing animals and people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There is a sequence of
savage blows on the door. The hunched figure pauses in his own dance and rushes
to unbolt it. It is pushed open and three sinister men in heavy overcoats and
pork pie hats force entry. “Dr Coppelius?” they cry, “we have a warrant for
your arrest.” They thrust a crumpled piece of paper under his nose. “We have
reason to believe that you did today wilfully steal part of the execution
apparatus erected by the city council for the punishment of lawbreakers.
Namely, one mechanical arm. Because of this action, the sentence on an agitator
had to be delayed by nearly two hours!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dr Coppelius allows
himself to be led away in chains. His trial is brief and to the point in every
respect. As an acknowledgement of his standing in the academic world, it is
judged that to slice off his limbs and abandon him in a barley field would be
inappropriate. So too the quartering in the circus and the public noose. He is
given the rare honour of facing a firing squad. On the appointed day, shots cry
out and ten bullets strike his heart all at once. Springs sprout and not a
little oil trickles out of his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-89457587847197332502019-12-17T04:19:00.000-08:002019-12-17T04:19:32.879-08:00Moth in a Daydream (2019)<i>This story appears in the paperback edition of my book <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Arms-Against-Sea-Other-Troubles/dp/1700654144/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=rhys+hughes+arms+against+a+sea&qid=1576584929&sr=8-1">Arms Against a Sea</a> (but not in the deluxe limited edition published by <a href="http://raphuspress.weebly.com/arms-against-a-sea.html">Raphus Press</a> in Brazil). I have long been fascinated by the variant dowry arrangements of different cultures. The African and Indian traditions are opposites. Along the Swahili Coast of East Africa these two cultures overlap. The following story therefore tries to imagine a possible outcome of a specific romance in that region.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I am flying over East Africa
with a sack of letters in the seat directly behind me. My engine is working
smoothly, there’s no turbulence, it is a delightful day and a luxury to be
aloft, a pleasure to be so high over the world. Yet my business is official. I
must deliver the mail on time. The sun has started to decline in the west. The
light is softer. I seem to be gliding rather than powering my way towards the
mountains. I will cross them soon and adjust my course as necessary. Before
midnight I’ll be in Lamu and the mechanics will be swarming over my craft. Then
I will stroll along the waterfront to my home, to a bed as deep as a cloudbank.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I
set off from Kampala in a light rain shower. My goggles misted over and before
wiping them clean I drew an asymmetrical heart in the condensation of each lens
with my gloved finger. One for you, one for me. I knew I would be with you
again before the next dawn, unless mischance interfered. I take nothing for
granted. There is a ring in my pocket. At last I have decided to ask you to
marry me. The time is right, it has probably been right for months but it is
even more right now. The clarity of the view is extraordinary. My mind is clear
too. My clothes have dried fully, the rain is only a memory. Now I must pull
back on the stick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Climbing
gently, I nonetheless rapidly rise above the altitude of the highest peak. For
the first time the engine splutters a little. The air’s thin up here, but I
remain calm, breathing deeply and slowly. The DH.60M is certainly an
improvement on the earlier Gipsy Moth model I flew last year. The fuselage is
metal, heavier than plywood, but more sturdy and easier to maintain. It cools
rapidly at this altitude, true, but I never stay very high longer than is
absolutely essential. And here on the equator it is simple to warm oneself back
up by losing a few hundred feet or even just by banking toward the sun. African
sunbeams are molten gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Now
I have levelled out. A small amount of vibration as I pass over the range but I
am tempted to take my hands off the controls so I can turn in my seat and peer
down at Batian, that magnificent tower of rock and ice, and Nelion, almost as
high. As they glitter, I am reminded of your smile, then I remember that I am a
pilot, not a poet, and I return my attention to the flight, my mission. Letters
and parcels must be delivered. This is always of vital importance! Words
scrawled in ink on paper are worth the rush and risk, it appears. Who am I to
disagree?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When
I arrive in Lamu, the mail will be transferred to another plane and flown to
Aden. The pilot for that flight is already waiting, sitting in the mess,
looking out onto the airfield. The waterfront of Lamu is across a narrow
channel from the island where the runway is located. The dhows catch the soft
breeze in their lateen sails, the sailors work the rudders, and spices in sacks
are conveyed up and down the coast, across the ocean, part of the vast trading
networks that radiate from this part of the world. Then I will be able to relax
for a few blissful days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The
hours pass in a haze of anticipation mixed with nostalgia. It is rather
idyllic. I picture the magical times of the past and project them into the
future and observe how they are transformed. Now the sun is very low. I am far
past the mountains, they have receded over the horizon behind me, and I note
something intriguing below. A sparkle and shimmer on the edge of a village. I
am near a point where the culture of the coast, which is quite different from
the cultures inland, has finally spread like spilled coffee to overlap this
thinly populated region. As my altitude decreases and my speed slows, I
understand that I am witnessing a wedding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The
white canopy of the marquee ripples and the celebrants flow out around it. At
last the drone of my engine attracts their attention. I am in a position to
make a noble and chivalrous gesture. I move the stick from side to side,
dipping my wings as I pass in order to acknowledge them, to wish them health
and prosperity. I’m low enough to observe many details of the occasion, and I
am surprised, just a little, when I see that the bride and her family are
African while the groom and his family are Indian. There are more mixed
marriages these days and that is a good thing. They wave up at me. I salute
them as I pass and then I smile fondly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It
has occurred to me that in one respect at least there will be a clash of
traditions down there. It is the African custom for the groom’s side to provide
the dowry and the Indian custom for the bride’s family to do so. What will
happen when the time comes for the transaction to take place? The woman will
expect the man to pay but the man will be waiting for the woman to provide the
gold, silver, bronze or whatever is used for money in the village. The end result?
Nobody will pay anything and maybe they’ll be all the happier for it, as they
will be on equal terms, neither obligated to the other. My fond smile turns
into a boisterous laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I
am obliquely reminded of a ghost story that I was told a few years ago by a
pilot based in Dar es Salaam. He had responsibility for the route between
Madagascar and the mainland with a stopover at Comoros on the way. In the town
of Moroni he was given a room in a hotel one night and he climbed his way up
the creaking stairs of the old building. There were no lights because the
electricity had gone off again and even candles were in short supply. He was so
weary that he went straight to bed, pulled the one thin sheet up about his
neck. A cool wind was blowing from the sea and it wasn’t as warm as it ought to
be. Then he fell asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In
the middle of the night he felt the sheet slipping down his body. He reached
out to grip it but the sheet kept moving. Some force was tugging it off him. It
was dark in the room but not quite silent. A faint moaning was audible. With
strength boosted by panic, he applied both hands and yanked the sheet back up
to his chin. The moaning stopped. But only for a minute. And once again the
sheet began slipping down. What followed lasted an hour or two and before long
he was moaning too. It was a fight for possession of that sheet and he had the
unreasonable feeling that if it came right off his body, something appalling
would happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">His
arms were aching, his hands were cramped, and finally the first light of dawn
seeped through the windows. The room turned from black to grey and it was
possible to see the force he had been battling with. It was another man in the
same bed, a man stretched out next to him but aligned in the opposite
direction, with his head near the footboard. They were parallel but offset.
This is why the sheet wasn’t long enough to cover both of them adequately,
hence the tussle. Neither of them had suspected the presence of the other. They
had assumed a phantom was responsible for the moaning and sheet pulling. A case
of mistaken identity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The
other man turned out to be an airmail pilot heading in the opposite direction,
from Dar es Salaam to Madagascar. The room in the hotel had been doubled booked
and the management had failed to inform either guest. In the darkness the
exhausted men had climbed into bed without checking whether the room was
already occupied. Once in bed they had felt cold and the tussle with the
bedsheet began. This tale was told to me as a humorous anecdote, a ghost story
that isn’t one, but it bears a relation to the wedding below. Listen. This is a
short report, the exact same number of words as the year in which those events
took place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Both
men had regarded the bedsheet as rightfully theirs. As for the couple I had
flown over, both partners had considered the dowry to belong to them. There
must have been a similar pulling of expectations during the wedding celebration
as in that hotel room in Moroni, as if hopes were sheets too, with a final
equilibrium achieved when it had dawned on them, literally or metaphorically,
that everything was fine and right. Neither side had relented or relaxed but it
worked out well nonetheless. This is a comforting thought as I near the end of
my flight, as Lamu island comes into sight like a purple jewel in the
slumberous ocean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I
reduce my altitude yet again, turning to orient my plane with the runway of the
airfield. I know you are standing now to observe my approach, your wait over. I
land with no fuss at all, switch off the engine, unstrap myself and spring out
of the cockpit before the mechanics can reach me. Time is short and I
desperately want to see you. I enter the administration building, push open the
door to the mess, and you are there and you receive me in your arms. I dip my
hand into my pocket for the ring and drop to one knee. There is no hesitation.
You are my true sweetheart and you are also the next pilot, who must carry the
mail to Aden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But
there has been a mistake, you tell me. A clerical error. You have brought mail <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> Aden. You landed a few hours ago.
You were told that it would be transferred to a fresh plane for the journey to
Kampala. So both of us have carried cargoes that are going nowhere unless we
exchange all the sacks of letters and parcels and I return the way I have come.
We both are required to give something to the other, something of equivalent
value, for the weight of your airmail sacks and mine are identical. Instead of
two people pulling a sheet in opposing directions, we are throwing our own sheets
over each other. There is no ghost anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">No
one should be surprised that you are a woman. There have been female pilots
almost since the dawn of aviation. No one should be surprised that you are
Indian and I am African, and when we marry you will attempt to give a dowry to
me and I will attempt to give a dowry to you. Our situation will be ultimately
the same as that other couple I flew over. Equilibrium. I thought I would only
have a few minutes with you before you took off in your own plane. But the
error will take a long time to resolve, and it’s no longer our responsibility.
Thus we can stroll along the waterfront together, to our home, to a bed as deep
as a cloudbank.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<i></i>Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-16094932743093051772019-12-11T05:21:00.004-08:002019-12-11T05:22:17.025-08:00All the Waiting (2017)<i>The modern Western world is designed around road traffic; and the humble pedestrian is at a disadvantage in cities and towns. Despite a growing awareness of this disadvantage, and various small urban schemes to restore a proper balance, the pedestrian is still at the bottom of the social heap. He has no power over traffic but must give way before cars and lorries like a second-class citizen. This story first appeared in <a href="https://aardvarkcaesar.blogspot.com/2017/11/yule-do-nicely-2017-gloomy-seahorse.html">YULE DO NICELY</a>, a Christmas themed book, though there is little about it that might seem festive and appropriate to the season.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The man is a pedestrian and waiting is a fundamental
part of his daily life. He does not drive or ride a bicycle or take giant leaps
on spring-loaded legs over rooftops. He walks everywhere and the rain knows his
shoulders well. He does not own an umbrella and why should he? The wind that is
a typical feature of his city likes to turn them inside out and snatch the
fabric canopy off the struts, leaving only a stick sprouting spines. He trudges
and waits and crosses the road and the puddles lap over his eroded shoes.
Through the holes in these shoes his socks drink the water, quenching their
fabric thirst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If he had the money he would
relocate to somewhere warmer, drier, calmer, to a place where waiting is a
pleasure and not an imposition. But success is required for money and he has
none of that. He is a pedestrian by necessity rather than choice, and for so
many years has this been true that he often forgets the fact, forgets that he
would exist in a different manner if he could, and when he remembers he stops
and frowns, and this pause is an addition to the waiting. He waits for the
frown to disperse on his face and then he proceeds to the next kerbside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The cars hurry past him,
metal boxes in which people sit with frowns of their own, velocity grimaces,
eyebrows speeding with their attendant faces to some temporary destination. The
road is a river of huge bullets that will knock him high or flat with the same
result. He must wait. The lights will change, if not this minute then the next,
or the next after that, and these minutes slowly accumulate, pile up, add to
the pressure of the raindrops on those shoulders of his, hunched a little more
every year. The traffic will stop, drivers will scowl as he crosses before
them, some will enjoy revving their engines to make him anxious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Walking in a city is quite a
different experience from walking through a rural landscape. The rhythm here is
staccato, the ambler must constantly interrupt his flow, his measure, his
tempo, because of the numerous and unavoidable streets full of moving traffic
that must be crossed. The cars and lorries and motorcycles themselves care not
about his cadence, about the pace of a pedestrian, and the drivers and riders
and passengers of the vehicles give not the slightest hoot for the dislocations
in the joints of the one who must constantly stop moving and start again. City
perambulation is not walking in the purest sense. It is striving, not striding,
striving for a harmony that never arrives. Its music is dissonant and atonal.
It is a pain in the frame, a jerking of souls in their vessels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our pedestrian knows all
this and resents the waiting at each kerbside. He wonders how many hours, days,
weeks, even months, have amassed in this manner over his lifetime, not only in
rain but all kinds of weather, and he dearly wishes that he could obtain a
refund, have the waiting given back to him, all of it, every moment, perhaps at
the end of his life. And he wishes this so fervently that it becomes a prayer
that actually works. The pedestrian dies, an old man at last, worn out by his
attritional wanderings through the city, demolished by age, alone in his
bedroom one night with the beams from the headlights of passing vehicles moving
across the wall, for he has forgotten to close the curtains, and an antique
clock ticking on the bedside table, no need to give further details.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And his soul passes to the
afterlife, which is an unspecified place, and he finds himself arguing with a
nebulous authority there, an administrator of some sort, an officious angel,
and he requests repayment of the wasted time, the hours and hours used up in
waiting to cross streets and roads, in waiting for cars to take their turn
first, as if they are superior to him, those metal, glass and rubber
aristocrats that he must submit his human flesh to, and the angel negotiates
with him, but he finds himself unable to settle for anything less than every
single instant of the time wasted, and remarkably this boon is granted to him.
Who knows why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps he is so favoured
because there is supposed to be some sort of lesson for him in the outcome? He
decides to be satisfied with his victory no matter what else transpires. The
angel has added up all the time wasted on kerbsides waiting and the final sum
stands at exactly four months, two weeks, six days, eighteen hours, twelve
minutes and thirty-eight seconds. These will now be returned to the pedestrian.
The walls of paradise gleam in the distance of the cloudy plain, but with the
tip of a wing the strange angel points away from them. “You must go the other
way, my friend, for the world and life are back in that direction.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The pedestrian nods, because
this angel has no hands to shake, and he sets off across the featureless
landscape and his walking has an unbroken rhythm, the beat he has yearned for,
and he is using it to return himself to a second life where he will reclaim the
time stolen from him and cheat the traffic that cheated him. His step is
joyous. The clouds swirl around him and then they begin to part like shredded
drapes and he understands that he is approaching the frontier between the
afterlife and the mortal world. He breaks through the final wisps of mist and
at last finds himself facing the border and it is not at all what he expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is a road, an immensely
wide road, and on the other side is the world but he is stuck on this side and
the road is so busy it is fatal to pedestrians and the traffic that speeds down
it in both directions is moving so fast that it is a blur, a scream. There is a
central reservation but it is so far away he will never reach it. This road has
hundreds or even a thousand lanes, each one an awful roar, yet he can see the
remote world beckoning to him, the smiles, the spires, the cafés, the flavours
and sensations he never properly enjoyed while he was there, and they are all
out of reach. With a sigh and a shrug, he resigns himself to waiting at the
kerbside until all his refunded time is exhausted. A cross man unable to cross.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-57054670226254238912019-01-22T05:49:00.003-08:002019-01-22T05:56:46.762-08:00On the Deck (1992)<i>In the mid 1980s, long before any of my stories had been published, I went through a phase of trying to write tales that had a particular tone, perhaps that of Noel Coward or Ronald Firbank, certainly that of the very early stories of Katherine Mansfield. They were light-hearted, droll and concerned with upper class or upper middle class life, but although I wanted satire to be present, at this stage they also had a certain affection. They were a form of escapism, of course, for at that time my situation was penurious and unsuccessful. By the time my work began to be published I had moved on from this phase, but occasionally it resurfaced.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After
dinner, they went out on deck.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Money
is the root of all revel," said Laura, as she sipped the last of
the champagne and tossed her glass casually over the side. "Don't
you think so?"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Absolutely."
Jerry felt sick. He grasped the rails and bent his head forward. The
Beef Chasseur in his stomach began to churn.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"And
how delicious the moon is!" Laura added, leaning back and
pouting, her fingers idly worrying the beads that looped around her
swan's neck. "Big and round."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Enormous."
Jerry clutched his sides and gasped. His cravat had come askew, his
cufflinks glittered in the 'delicious' light. He was enjoying himself
but little.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"And
the swell of the sea, the splash of the fish..."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Extraordinary."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Laura
sighed and lit a cigarette. There were, in fact, no fish to speak of,
nor swell of the sea. But there </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>was</i></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
a moon, so massive and heavy that the proverbial lunar man must
surely have filled his cheeks with apples...</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jerry
turned his sallow face towards Laura and said, in a voice not unlike
a croak:</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I
will be happy when we reach land."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh,
really!" Laura was exasperated. She inhaled her cigarette in
languid disappointment, the curl of the blue smoke rising up to kiss
her kiss-curl. "Sometimes I think that you don't really enjoy
travelling."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"It's
not that," Jerry protested. "It's just that I can't shake
off the feeling that something is not quite right. I mean, where are
all the other passengers? And why does the Captain keep changing our
destination?"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"He's
a wonderful man," Laura replied. "All this was his idea. I
never thought I would travel. Especially not in such style. We owe
him a lot."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jerry
expressed doubt.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"He
winked at me tonight," Laura said, realising it for the first
time, according it exaggerated significance as a result, and trying
to repress a hot flush and a giggle. "He might even touch my
knee tomorrow."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Bah!"
Although Jerry was jealous, he did not feel left out. He too had an
amorous secret. The Captain had also winked at him...</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I
think we're heading for Ceylon," Laura said, "where the
girls are lithe and mysterious and their hair smells of sandalwood."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"It's
Sri Lanka now," Jerry corrected. "Besides, you're thinking
of Burma. They wear little bells around their ankles and they capture
little birds in cages just to release them again. Rather odd, don't
you think? Just a trifle odd?"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Not
at all. I think it's very beautiful. If only I could find a man
strong enough to capture me and then let me go again, I would be
happy. To be enticed and then rejected out of love..."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"You're
such a decadent!" cried Jerry.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Laura
smiled a wry smile and adopted a decadent pose. She had read enough
French novels to know that true decadence is affected, and that it is
the pose that counts. "Alas!" she said, for no good reason.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Music
drifted on the still air, a suitably romantic waltz that washed over
them, and over the rails, into the night.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"The
band!" Laura squeaked. "How perfect! We must dance
immediately! Take me in your arms and spin me around, your sensuous
mouth fixed on mine!"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'd
rather not." Jerry turned green at the prospect. "My
stomach is not up to it at present. And you've got to maintain a
sense of proportion."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"On
the contrary! You've got to dream!" And Laura snatched him by
the hand and dragged him close, clasping him savagely and whirling
him in a tight spiral. Although he struggled mightily to loosen
himself from her clutches, he only managed to free one arm, and this
flapped like a flag as she spun him faster and faster.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"How
exquisite!" she cried, as they crashed against the rails and
rebounded. "How gorgeous! My darling, my swallow, my monstrous
orchid!"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually,
of course, it was all too much. Jerry threw up.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm
sorry," he panted, dejectedly. "It was all too much."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"You
wretch, you sombre wretch!" Laura was in tears. She pounded her
fists against his chest and wailed. "I'm never coming on another
trip with you again! I'm going to seek comfort in the arms of the
Captain!"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jerry
had collapsed in a pool of nausea. "I refuse to play any more!"
he groaned.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Laura
ignored him and left the deck. The Captain was waiting for her in an
easy chair. He had seen everything. "Oh Captain!" she
hissed. "It's not fair! You've got to dream, haven't you?"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Indeed."
Smiling gently, I tugged at my magnificent beard and stood up. I was
feeling in a benevolent mood. I had already cleared away the remnants
of the meal and washed the dishes.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Sometimes
it's the only way to cope with life." She fell into my arms and
nestled there like a child. "When life seems drab what else is
there?"</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"What
else?" I echoed. "Yes, you have to dream."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh,
Captain! You're a sweet darling. My husband doesn't understand me..."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
were interrupted by an angry knock at the door.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"What
was it this time?" I asked her.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
gazed up at me with puppy eyes and blushed. "A champagne glass,"
she said.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
shook my head disapprovingly, but she could see that my fondness for
her had not dissipated. I patted her on the head and winked again.
"China tomorrow," I said. "And then Japan."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before
answering the door, I doffed my cap, moved over to the gramophone and
lifted the needle off the record. I hoped that the unexpected caller
would accept a bribe. I inspected my wallet. Maintaining the dream
was proving expensive. I cast doubtful eyes out onto the deck and
listened for the swell of the sea, the splash of the fish.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Twenty
floors below, the London traffic flowed onwards.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<br /></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-14082562628241548972018-12-04T08:14:00.001-08:002018-12-04T08:18:03.700-08:00His Unstable Shape (2017)<i>Christmas is coming, so I thought it would be nice to put up here a Christmas story that I wrote last year. I wrote it for a book called <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Yule-Do-Nicely-Ghostly-Calendar/dp/1976234832/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1543939976&sr=8-1&keywords=yule+do+nicely+rhys+hughes">Yule Do Nicely</a></b> which is entirely devoted to my Christmas stories, even though most of them don't really mention Christmas. The following story features that excellent fellow Humpty Dumpty, who logically should perhaps be more associated with Easter but for some reason isn't. Ah well!</i><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Most of us
know that Humpty Dumpty was a large sentient egg who liked to sit on
walls despite his unstable shape. He fell off and was broken and that
is all that is certain about his life. Various apocryphal stories
have become associated with him since his accident. Some people
insist he was a philosopher as well as an egg. Others claim he
invented a new emotion quite unlike any other emotion in the history
of the world, but they are unable to describe what it might feel
like. One professor has insisted that he was not an egg but the hull
of an alien spacecraft from a distant star or a time machine from the
future.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">My aim
today is not to add to this unhappy catalogue of fictions. I have no
tales to tell about the kinds of antics he performed, nor can I offer
insights into his character, beliefs or aspirations. Instead I wish
to ponder something that is talked about too seldom. If Humpty Dumpty
was an egg, what thing would have hatched out of him? Had his shell
not been shattered by an external force, we may assume it would have
been broken by an inner one, for the ovoid stage of his existence
could only be brief and something within must have emerged to escort
his identity further along the path of natural development.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">No
forensic evidence was collected in the wake of his death and our
speculations remain purely notional. Yet I think it is possible to
construct a plausible scenario using inductive logic alone. First we
must attempt to establish what kind of egg he was, reptilian,
amphibian or avian. One clue is his propensity for sitting on the
tops of walls. It is true that lizards are accomplished wall climbers
but they tend to cling to the sides rather than dominate the summits.
Amphibians have no interest in walls that are not made of water and
while they might congregate at waterfall tops they are disinclined to
balance on narrow brick ledges.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">There
is always the possibility that he was the egg of some organism
hitherto unknown on the surface of our world, that he might have come
from outer space, from subterranean realms or an alternative
dimension. But there is no need to multiply entities beyond necessity
and without evidence to point us in that direction, it is safer to
continue to assume that he was the egg of a phylum familiar to our
zoologists. Personally I favour the avian origin as the most
realistic. Birds are constantly perching on our walls and sometimes
they fall off too, when icy winds howl or rascals in the
neighbourhood acquire new catapults.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Most
of us are familiar with impetuosity and impatience. We might be
reckless individuals ourselves or have friends and relations who
embody the blurred spirits of haste and risk. Humpty was eager to
become the bird he was destined to be, whatever kind it was, so keen
in fact that he acted prematurely. Instead of remaining in the nest,
wherever that was located, he left it and engaged in activities that
were too old for him. He perched on walls, yes indeed, but perching
high safely is the prerogative of those with wings. He was an egg and
probably ignorant of the laws of physics. His fall was almost a
foregone conclusion.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Now
it is appropriate to turn our attention to the kind of bird he would
have become if circumstances had been different. He was a large egg,
one sizeable enough to hold audible conversations with human
interlocutors</span><span style="font-size: medium;">,
so we may immediately dismiss the vast majority of our feathered
friends as candidates. This leaves us with the ostrich, the rhea, the
moa, and that extraordinary bird from the island of Madagascar,
</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Aepyornis maximus</i></span><span style="font-size: medium;">, so
enormous that it inspired the fable of the roc, the bird that swooped
down to seize elephants in its talons. No sentient examples of these
birds’ eggs have been found, however, which is a pity.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">All
those birds are based in remote countries, and we are compelled to
wonder how an individual egg might cross the oceans that separate
these species’ homelands from our own, for it was in England that
Humpty had his crisis and those birds are flightless. The ostrich and
rhea are too small anyway, and the others went extinct before Humpty
existed. The more we consider the matter, the less likely it appears
that he was the egg of a bird known to science. Thus we draw the
conclusion that he was the egg of an undiscovered bird. What might
the bird have been like? Because there are no clues there is no
reliable answer to this.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But
there is one solution that has an elegant absurdity about it and for
that reason alone I am inclined to favour it. Some years ago I
happened to be strolling through the city of Cologne. I stopped in
order to check the time on my wristwatch, for I am one of those
unfortunate fellows who are unable to read numbers and dials while on
the move. As I lifted my wrist to my face, a dull but loud creaking
above my head made me fear that an object was about to fall on me. I
looked up. It was a cuckoo clock fixed to the exterior wall of an old
clock shop, one of the largest cuckoo clocks in the world. And it was
striking the hour.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
hatch doors were opening, ponderously and painfully, and when they
were fully agape the monstrous cuckoo came out. It emerged with a
great deal of mechanical effort on an extendable trellis that sagged
at its furthest reach. Then the cuckoo widened its beak and after an
unsettling pause gave forth a cry of astonishingly dismal cadence. It
repeated this sound three times to indicate that the local time was
three o’clock in the afternoon and then, as exhausted as a
senescent gran, it withdrew into its sanctuary, the hatch doors
slamming behind it and the whirring of internal cogs ceasing as
abruptly as they had begun.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I
was astonished and affronted. I felt an outrage had been committed
against my consciousness, that this clock was an insult to public
decency, and I found myself wishing some other bird occupied the
clock instead of an unmusical cuckoo. And it occurred to me that a
different bird </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>had</i></span><span style="font-size: medium;">
once done so. Certainly it must. We all know the cuckoo’s life
cycle. It hatches in a nest not its own and destroys the other eggs
in order to be the solitary recipient of all the attention from the
bereaved parents. If cuckoos occupy clocks then it logically follows
that some other bird once lived in them. A bird of magic. But
probably not a phoenix.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">What
bird lived in the clock before the cuckoo? This question is the key
to understanding Humpty Dumpty’s true identity. That is what I now
believe, at any rate. Somewhere in this peculiar world of ours the
decayed remains of a cuckoo clock may be found, a cuckoo clock vaster
by many orders of magnitude than the one I saw in Cologne. The bird
that was its original occupant was the one who laid Humpty Dumpty and
eggs similar to him. A cuckoo invaded the nest and left an egg that
hatched first and rolled out the others. Humpty Dumpty did not break
on that occasion. The start of his life was a rehearsal for his
death.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-75218443859132431242018-11-01T06:37:00.002-07:002018-11-01T06:45:38.114-07:00In the Margins (1993)<i>This story is very 'Fortean' in theme. When I was young I distinctly remember being on holiday in an English seaside resort (I think it was Poole or Weymouth) and seeing large clumps of grass raining from a clear sky. The clumps fell very gently, almost like parachutes. Since that time I have believed without question that rains of frogs, fishes and other peculiar objects are perfectly possible. 'In the Margins' was published in a magazine in the late 1990s and also appears in my </i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tallest-Stories-Paperback-Rhys-Hughes/dp/1908125160/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1541079369&sr=8-1&keywords=rhys+hughes+tallest+stories">Tallest Stories</a><i> book.</i><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">At
the bottom of our garden lies a pond, ringed by gnarled and ugly
trees, and at the bottom of the pond lies a cottage. The waters swirl
around the crumbling stones in little spirals, foaming over the
ruined chimney as if reluctant to press in too close. In the troubled
mirror of this pond, the cottage stands tangled in the reflection of
the trees, netted in their twisted branches as if it had been lodged
there by an unnatural gust of wind.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">How
the cottage came to reside under the waters of our pond remains a
mystery. Is there any truth in the assertion that a witch caused it
to subside by slow degrees for arcane and unfathomable reasons? And
if so, who was this witch? There are no records to shed any light on
the matter; there is only conjecture and speculation. I, for one,
prefer this ingenuous explanation to those suggested by the more
prosaic members of our community. I refuse to accept that it was
built there, in its present location, as some sort of liquid joke.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Not
that this would have presented any problems to the patient trickster.
The pond could have been drained easily enough, the cottage
constructed and then the water pumped back in. But the sheer
obscurity of the joke causes me to frown and make many a harsh
grimace when I consider this option.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Instead,
I often languish by the side of the pond, peering down into the
depths, and repeat the word "subsidence" as if it were a
mantra. A slow subsidence, as slow as the growth of a dead man's
fingernails or the twisted trees themselves, would have sufficed to
preserve the cottage intact in its descent. No beams would have been
shaken loose, no thread of thatch unravelled. They rot now, it is
true, but such decay is quite a different matter.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">One
evening, taking some kittens to the side of the pond, to save them
from the knife of my brother, I witnessed a peculiar and disturbing
sight. No sooner had I tied the little weights around their necks and
dropped them one by one, like depth-charges, into the glinting water,
than an unusual commotion began far below.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
am not a superstitious being by nature, but my senses are keen, and
so, not wishing to waste an opportunity to initiate gossip, I threw
myself to the ground and, ducking my head into the icy water,
strained my eyes to discern the origin of the turbulence.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">A
second later, I regretted my decision. As my eyes adjusted to the
gloom, I perceived a tiny man standing at the door of the cottage. He
was holding a large net on the end of a pole. Such nets were familiar
to me: I had spent many happy hours on the moors with an identical
net, collecting moon-moths to be ground into powder in the
apothecary's shop. I had developed a certain skill in utilising my
net; a skill not shared by my aquatic counterpart far below.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Gasping
and wheezing, he aimed the net at the kittens that floated down past
him. His frantic motions were the source of the disturbance. He
utterly failed in catching a single specimen. The kittens struck the
bottom of the pond and disappeared into the sinuous weeds. Bubbles
erupted from each mossy collision. The tiny man shook his fists and
snapped the pole of the net over his knee. Then he threw the pieces
away and pulled his hair in a parody of rage. The pieces floated up
towards me and broke the surface tension of the pond inches from my
face.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">While
I was questioning my sanity, and just a moment before I could bear
the noxious waters no longer, the angry homunculus chanced to gaze
high above and spotted me looking down. The expression on his face
must have mirrored my own. We were both paralysed with astonishment.
For long moments, our eyes were meshed together by fibres of emotion
impossible to understand. And then he darted back into his cottage
and returned with an equally tiny woman. I assumed that she was his
wife. He pointed up at the sky and together they gaped at me.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Panting,
I pulled my head out of the pond and took a long deep gulp of air. I
resisted the temptation to take another look at the submerged
cottage. I had decided that I was suffering from a form of madness or
delirium. I resolved to forget the experience and make an appointment
with a doctor as soon as possible. I left the pond and made my way
slowly back up the garden-path to my house.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Yet
as I walked, I started wondering again about the peculiar sight I had
just witnessed. Supposing that I was not mad? Supposing that the
phenomena had been real? I had heard many stories about falls of
strange objects from the sky. There had been reports of fish, ice,
betel nuts, coins, worms, eels, snails, snakes and frogs. This last
item on the list made me shudder. I repressed this shudder and
stroked my chin. Such objects were supposed to orbit the world in an
eldritch region in the sky before falling. A region that lay in the
margins of reality.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">If
this was true, then it was possible that I was living in such a
twilight realm myself and had been the cause of a strange shower in
another world. The tiny man had obviously been trying to collect one
of the falling kittens as proof of his bizarre experience. Probably
he would have as much difficulty convincing his neighbours and
friends of my existence as I would have convincing my own neighbours
and friends of his. I decided to say nothing and to resume my mundane
life without ever mentioning even the submerged cottage again.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">As
I approached the door of my house, I heard a thud behind me. I looked
over my shoulder and saw the body of a tiny man slumped in the
bushes. I thought at first that my diminutive neighbour had tried to
follow me and had drowned in the air. But then another body fell into
another clump of bushes and I looked up. The sky was full of little
men sliding through the atmosphere with weights tied to their feet.
And higher still, to my complete amazement, the face of an enormous
kitten gazed down at me with eyes the size of seas.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">My
first reaction was to rush into my house and return with my wife, so
that there would be at least one other witness to this miracle.
However, it occurred to me that if I could simply catch one of the
tiny men alive it would be evidence enough. I had no nets, but I
could use the old-fashioned method. I had a sudden ludicrous image of
a host of different dimensions impinging on each other, kittens
hurling down men, men hurling down snakes, snakes hurling down frogs
and frogs hurling down kittens...</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I
called out to my wife and then opened my mouth wider. My long sticky
tongue snatched the little men from the air before they hit the
ground and I stacked them in a little pile by my side. Naturally I
swallowed a few. Life in the margins of reality does seem to have its
advantages. It is not every day that guests just drop in for dinner.</span></span></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-77151971384922311112018-09-21T07:34:00.001-07:002018-09-21T07:37:48.552-07:00Heavy Rain on a Slow Train (2017)<span style="font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">The two brief texts that follow can be regarded as chapters that were
lost from my novel </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Cloud Farming in Wales</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">. They weren’t lost from there,
of course, but I had to do something for the sake of symmetry. My novel is a
tribute to the writer Richard Brautigan and his </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Trout Fishing in America</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">
book. He genuinely misplaced a pair of chapters, which he later rewrote and
included in his collection, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Revenge of the Lawn</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">. This is precisely why I
also require two lost chapters, and why they had to appear in a separate story
collection of mine, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The Seashell Contract</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic;">. And here they are:</span><br />
<div class="MsoTitle">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-size: large;">Escaping the Rain</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We had to leave Wales or go mad. We were already crazy perhaps, crazy
to escape, to get out of the endless downpour. Our umbrellas were dented
canopies on twisted poles. They had endured too much, and so had we. It was
time to flee, to hurry into the rain and rush to the train station, and to
catch a train, any train, heading east.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The English border is only an hour
away. We just had to cross the big river that marks the frontier; and we knew
the torrential rain would cease at that point, or at least slacken
considerably. Rainfall in Wales is about eighteen times as heavy as it is in
England, according to the latest figures released by the meteorological office.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">But we all know how they tend to
underestimate things. Probably they had received bribes to downplay the
downpour. The truth of the matter is that in Wales it never stops raining, not
even for one minute, and on those days when it seems not to be raining it
simply means that a very big flock of birds is migrating directly overhead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We headed for the train
station and bought tickets to Bristol. The train pulled into the station and we
jumped onto it. Then we searched for seats in the crowded carriages. The train
was bursting with commuters. Maybe other people had decided to escape from
Wales too. At last we found free seats in a carriage at the rear of the train.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One seat faced forwards and
the other seat faced backwards; and both of them faced each other across a plastic
table. Chloe lowered herself into the seat facing forwards before I had a
chance to object. That was the seat I wanted! But no point being childish or
churlish about it, so I sat down in the other seat, the one facing backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Travelling backwards in a
vehicle often makes me feel nauseous and I much prefer to face forwards and
look out of a window to see where I am going. But this seemed to be a trivial
detail at this stage. The crucial thing is that we were together, Chloe and I,
and escaping the rains of Wales. It was a relief to have finally taken this
step.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The guard blew his whistle
and the train pulled out of the station. We waved farewell to Cardiff and its
dripping relentlessness. We held hands across the table, and this felt nice and
romantic and special, but there was a persistent tugging, as if a force was
trying to break our grip. I fought it and noted that Chloe was fighting it too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Something is yanking at my
arms,” I informed her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mine too. Just keep hold of
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I wonder what it is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Probably the inertia of the
train’s motion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pesky laws of mechanics.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so we held hands,
fingers in gloves intertwined, until an inspector came to check our tickets. He
punched a hole in them with a little device, returned them to us and lurched on
his way. Then we resumed the holding of our hands, both of mine in both of
hers, or both of hers in both of mine, across the table. It felt important to
do this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I wasn’t sure why it felt so
important, but it did, and even when a very powerful itch tormented my nose I
refused to scratch it. I endured it until it went away, which it eventually
did. The time was passing. At long last we were approaching the tunnel that
would take us under the river, and on the far side we would be in sunny
England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The train hurled itself into
the tunnel mouth and the view beyond the windows went black. My ears popped. I
frowned at my reflection in the glass and saw that it was holding hands with
Chloe, but I wondered why her reflection was out there, in the window, and I
feared I was losing her; that she was on the other side of a barrier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What are you doing beyond
the window?” I asked her, and I jerked my head to indicate her reflection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“No, I am here. You are the
one in the glass!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I froze at her words. She
knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The train emerged from the
tunnel. No rain streaked the windows. It was a dry sky that confronted us, blue
and speckled with clouds that were white rather than an angry dark grey. This
was England, a country where it doesn’t rain every second of every minute of
every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a place where it
would be possible to make a fresh start without squelching, without growing
mouldy. The train pulled into the station at Bristol. Then Chloe disengaged her
fingers from mine and stood up, and smiled at me. “Time to get off. We’ re
here,” she said. Then she noticed the tears in my eyes, like substitute rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, you have arrived, but
I haven’t,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What do you mean by that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I was sitting the wrong
way,” I explained. “I have been travelling in the other direction all this
time. You were facing forwards and that’s the way you have gone; but I was
facing backwards and I’ve ended up going west instead of east. I know it
doesn’t look that way, but appearances are deceptive. We are further apart than
ever!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Where are you now?” she
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Almost at Swansea. Should
be arriving in a few minutes. That’s what happens when passengers sit opposite
each other instead of side by side. I realise we didn’t have a choice. These were
the only free seats. It’s a real shame. Don’t forget me, Chloe, please!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Take care in the rain,
dear,” she begged me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I promised her I would. She
couldn’t linger any longer. The train was about to depart. With a tender look,
she broke away and got off the train just in time. She stood on the platform
with a raised hand and I raised my own in a melancholy salute. I shut my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I opened them again. The
train was pulling in to Swansea. The heavy rain was beating against the
windows. Everything was greyness, mist and blurred lights. At least one of us
had managed to escape! That was better than nothing! I listened to the bark of
dogfish as the train came to a stop. The flooded city was infested with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-size: large;">It Goes Without Saying</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="font-size: 14pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Mondaugen has invented many different
kinds of vehicle and it was thus inevitable that he would eventually turn his
attention to designing a new kind of train. There was nothing special in the
way it looked when it was finished; but he insisted that the power source was
something quite new and that it would save a lot of money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He couldn’t interest any of
the authorities in investing in it, so he was forced to pay for the
construction of a prototype himself. This is normal when it comes to
Mondaugen’s creations. He spends all the profits that he earns from his
successful inventions on his unsuccessful ones. But at first his new type of
train seemed promising.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Silence is the fuel of the
future!” he announced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We craned forward to catch
these words, because he hadn’t made this announcement very loudly. In fact he
had merely mouthed words silently and we were expected to lip-read them. Some
of us managed to do so. A few of us can’t even read newspapers all the way
through, let alone lips, and they remained as confused as ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“The engine of this
vehicle,” he continued silently, “runs on smooth air, on undisturbed
atmospherics. In other words, even the vibrations of the barest whisper will
disrupt the fuel that it feeds on and ruin it. That’s why I insist on no
talking in its vicinity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This was a lot to ask from a
crowd of curious Welsh onlookers. Most of us had squeaky or squelchy shoes and
dripping noses from the endless rains of Wales, and total silence was an
unknown ideal in our damp lives. I thought that Mondaugen was going to be disappointed,
but we tried our best not to make a sound, to be inaudible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">How the engine processed
silence into motive power is something he never explained in detail. Sometimes
I wonder if Mondaugen knows how his own inventions work, but that doesn’t really
matter. The main point is that they <i>do</i> work, and work well, although
they often go wrong later. But this one seemed to go wrong from the start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He pulled a lever on the
side of the engine but the vehicle just refused to budge. It stood on its metal
wheels on the rails and slowly rusted in the rain. Mondaugen waited and we
waited with him. Then he placed a finger to his lips. He assumed one of us was
rustling or making some other faint noise and polluting the fuel, but we
weren’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a vehicle that ran on
absolute silence. Talking would bring it to a dead halt. It was a train that
goes without saying; and such an invention is doomed in Wales. Not only is
Wales a garrulous country in terms of its inhabitants, but the rain doesn’t
just pitter-patter like normal rain in other nations. It makes conversation
when it falls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The raindrops in Wales have
tiny mouths that utter a word when these drops bash themselves open against the
ground, roofs or umbrellas. They cry out in joy or surprise or fear or just for
the hell of it. Although a man with a stethoscope might be able to hear these
words clearly if he’s lucky, he won’t understand them. They are inhuman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And that’s why Mondaugen’s
train was doomed to failure. The instant he realised the rain was responsible for
sabotaging his project, he made a few half-hearted efforts to fix the problem.
Nothing helped. At one point he persuaded us to stand on the roof of the train
with umbrellas, shielding it from the rain. But there was too much noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Everywhere there was splashing
and the utterances of those tiny damp mouths, the background hum and buzz of
Wales, wettest land in creation, and silence stood no chance. We dismounted
from the roof and cast aside the useless umbrellas and waited for him to
acknowledge defeat. But he’s always the most stubborn inventor imaginable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He kept tinkering to no
avail and finally I approached him, tapped him on the shoulder and broke my vow
of silence. I said, “A train that runs on silence is a totally unfeasible
device here. Why not convert the engine to run on a more practical and
plentiful fuel, such as rainwater? Can you try that, do you think? Invent a
kind of rain train?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He could, of course. He was
Mondaugen, the most ingenious inventor ever to plod through the puddles of
possibility, or wade the waterlogged vales of wonder, in this saturated land of
ours. He could take his spanner right now and make the necessary adjustments to
the mechanism without delay. Because that’s the kind of genius he was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He stood back, panting. The
rain streamed down his face, but he was happy. He had converted the engine from
one that runs on silence to one that was powered by falling rain. It was ready
already. He reached out to pull the lever. We watched him in trepidation and
leaking shoes. Down went the lever and the train simply disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It vanished in a blur; and
all that remained was an afterimage that was so persistent it is probably still
there. There is so much rain in Wales that a train powered by the stuff is
going to fly off at the speed or light or even faster than that; and it will
vaporise or go backwards in time. No one can guess exactly what happened to it,
not even him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We all turned away and left
the scene. We walked without enthusiasm and our knees shone in the rain and our
feet squeaked in the rain and our chins dripped in the rain and our ears
flapped in the rain and our nostrils quivered in the rain and our souls rotted
in the rain. I made an apology to the great inventor. I felt it was my fault
and said:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wales is simply too rainy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“That also goes without
saying,” he answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Well, there you have the lost chapters of </i>Cloud Farming in Wales<i>.
They weren’t really lost, because to get lost you have to go somewhere and in
order to go somewhere you have to exist; and these chapters didn’t exist until
after I had decided they were already lost, which is the wrong way around. But
that doesn’t matter much.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<br /></div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-722172777800458242018-05-22T07:28:00.003-07:002018-05-22T07:31:08.273-07:00A Dame Abroad (2013)<i>I have written many unconventional crime stories over the years. I have written several linked sequences of them, including <b>The Long Chin of the Law</b> and <b>The Sticky Situations of Zwicky Fingers</b>. The following tale was dashed off quickly for an editor who put out a call for unusual crime fiction. Many different private eyes are mentioned in the adventure and I intend to write a story featuring each one as a main character. Heston Furball has already had his moment of glory in a story called 'The French Lieutenant's Gurning'. The others will get their chance in due course.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">She
was a dame. She talked like a dame, moved like a dame, smelled like a dame,
breathed like a dame, slept like a dame, yawned like a dame, coughed like a
dame, dusted like a dame, cooked like a dame, had the metabolism of a dame,
knew about as much astrophysics as a dame would, had a selection of hats
typical of a dame. She was a dame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">No
doubt about it. A dame through and through. Her hips were as wide and curvy as
a concert piano and her feet were like pedals, so if you stood on one while she
was talking her voice would become a swelling overlapping echo and if you stood
on the other her voice would be muted and soft. But no man could play her well.
She was out of tune.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Her
lipstick was a dame’s lipstick and it was the colour of the edges of a bullet
wound or some sort of massive head trauma. It could even be said that it was
the shade of blood that gushes from a busted lip. It wasn’t the lipstick of a
homunculus or panda. She left her apartment and swayed down the length of this
sentence to the end of the paragraph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Her
hips kept getting stuck between the margins of the story, that’s how wide they
were, but she finally arrived on the street and headed downtown, a part of town
under uptown. She was going there because the plot told her to and she had no
choice. She was without choice, without even a dame’s choice, but she had
everything else a dame should.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Yes,
she was a dame. She was also a broad. A broad is a certain kind of dame and in
fact I don’t think there’s any difference between them, but I’m not really an
expert. Maybe there is a miniscule arcane difference, something to do with the
atoms of the ankles. Who knows? I don’t. Maybe you do. Maybe you are a dame or
broad who knows. Well done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
am a private eye. That’s who I am. I used to be a public eye, but people got
upset and complained to the authorities about my appearance. They didn’t like
to see a gigantic eye rolling along the pavement towards them. It disturbed
them that the rest of my head was missing, that I had no body or limbs, that I
was just an eye with the diameter of a cottage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">So
the authorities forced me to go private and encased me inside a brick pyramid
and now I blink out near the summit of the structure and you can find me on the
hill overlooking the town. I don’t solve many cases these days, to be honest,
but that’s because I’m too busy living a fantasy life. In my fantasy life I’m a
man with all my parts fully functional.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">These
daydreams are starting to occupy all my waking hours. I imagine that my name is
Sergio Surges and I have a moustache so big that a policeman can conceal himself
inside it. This is helpful when confronting lethal criminals with their deeds.
For example, at this precise instant I’m about to enter a bar where a notorious
gangster is playing pool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
watch him splashing about with the rubber ducks and toy boats but it’s rude and
dangerous to stare so I turn away and order a drink from the barman, who
happens to be a midget pygmy.“Rum.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Pygmies
are quite small already, but the midgets amongst them are really tiny, no higher
than the knees of a freak spider.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What
kind?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The
kind that begins with the letter B,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Brandy,
you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Sure!
Make it a double on the rocks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">He
places a selection of pebbles on the bar and slowly pours the alcohol over
them. I nod and pay him. I also tip him. Over the edge of the tall stool on
which he stands. He plummets through an open trapdoor that leads to a very long
passage that passes through the world all the way back to where he came from,
which is the Pygmalion Republic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">That
passage is so long it goes on for umpteen hundred thousand pages. This is the
highly condensed version.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What
did you do that for?” cries the notorious gangster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“He
was corrupt,” I answer coolly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“And
what the hell do you think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I
am Sergio Surges, the private eye who is more than just an eye, and I am not
corrupt at all, partly because this is just a daydream, but I know for an
unchecked fact that he, the barman, was taking bribes from you in order to let
wicked things happen on the premises.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Oh
yeah? What sort of wicked things, buddy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“No
idea. I don’t bother with little details like that. It’s too much effort. Maybe
he allowed you to fight the shadows of gibbons on that wall over there. Or
maybe he let you to use a freshly baked pizza as an indoor Frisbee and the
toppings were pineapple and chocolate.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Is
this some kind of joke?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Do
I look like an Englishman and Scotsman and Irishman? Of course it’s no joke.
You are under arrest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I’m
going to kill ya with my heater!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">He
gets out of the pool and plugs a portable electric heater into a socket on the
wall, taking care not to drip on the wires, and waits for the filaments to
start glowing. But he is far too slow. The policeman in my moustache instantly
reveals himself and blasts him with a truncheon that is actually a mini-bazooka
and I watch him burst like applause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">A
round of. Very satisfying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
door swings open and the dame walks in like a baby grand. My jaw drops open. What
is she doing here?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“This
is my daydream. Get out!” I bellow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Her
lipsticked lips curl in a sneer that is half smile. “A daydream? Fine. I am a
day-dame, so I belong here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
despise it when confusions arise and unplanned things happen in what is
supposed to be my personal fantasy. I usually escape them by going into the
next level of daydream, by closing my eyes and imagining I am Hugo Lobes, a
private eye with ears so large that a couple of pygmy midgets can hide behind
each one, both armed with blowpipes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
am sitting on the top deck of a tram and reading the newspaper and the front
page headline screams at me that a terrible gangster is sitting downstairs on
the same tram at this very moment, so I get up to make my way down the curving
set of metal steps, but my way is blocked by a woman who is coming up. To my
dismay I recognise her...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
dame! She followed me into this fantasy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“This
is most unfair!” I roar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I
go wherever I please,” she retorts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“But
I thought you didn’t have a choice. It said earlier in this story that you were
a dame without choice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Precisely.
I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no choice</i> but to go where I
please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“You
mean that your free will is—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Predetermined,”
she says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">So
I vanish into the third level of daydream, the level where I am Bogie Clubs, a
private eye with such a big mouth that gibbons could bake pizzas in there
without anyone getting suspicious, and I am on the deck of a cruise ship that
is heading to the Bermuda Shorts, a pair of islands where a gangster has taken
refuge in one of the deep pockets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">A
steward approaches. “Would monsieur care for a drink?””<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Gin,”
I answer languidly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What
kind?” he asks in a high voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The
kind that begins with the letter V,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Vodka,
you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“No
thanks. Vermouth please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">But
he doesn’t go to fetch me my beverage. Instead he pulls off his cap and
unbuttons his jacket to reveal—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
dame! It’s the dame again! That damned dame!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
vanish into the next level.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Now
I am Griswald Jerkins, the private eye with a chin dimple so deep that a tram
driver with a halberd could conceal himself and pop out and swing it most
effectively at the drop of a hat, especially one of those very heavy hats that
make a clanging noise when it lands. I am furiously pedalling a unicycle up a
mountain path in pursuit of a gangster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Another
unicycle catches up with me, draws level.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
rider is the dame again!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
escape into the next level. I am Morton Punchbowl and—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
dame, the dame, the dame!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Through
all the daydreams she follows me and each subsequent fantasy has slightly less
detail in it, is less fleshed out, sparser, bleaker, less real then the one
that preceded it, and each private eye is less convincing, because I’ve spent
less time working on their identities and environments than I might have done.
But fleeing this way is my only hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Here’s
a short list of some of the private eyes I become:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Mickey
Stains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Hercule
Pompbustus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Heston
Furball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Flippy
Masters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Duckbreath
Chumptaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Ratleg
Smashy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Occidental
Brushtooth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Ajax
van Scruba.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Chickpea
Bunkerlove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Zippy
Buttons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Gusty
Nuts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Lemontoe
Thumbrag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">And
then I run out of daydreams and run out of names and run out of big body parts
and run out of time, energy and space, and I find myself, as I’m sure you have
already anticipated, completing the circle, closing the loop and becoming
myself again, a colossal eyeball inside a pyramid and I glance down and see her
climbing the hill towards me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Leave
me alone!” I scream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I
will now,” she says. “I just wanted to go on a journey, that’s all, out of this
story and around the world. I wanted to go abroad. I was a dame but a
stay-at-home dame. And now I’ve been abroad, so I’m a dame abroad and a broad
at home, and it feels just fine. I climbed up here to thank you but also to ask
your advice. I really need to know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What
is it?” I am frantic to get rid of her. I’ll say anything to make her go away,
answer any question. And then it comes, she hits me with it, and I’m more
acutely aware than ever before that she’s a dame, that she has the soul of a
dame, the heart of a dame, the plot of a dame, the metaphors of a dame, the
grammar of a dame, the power of a dame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“How
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> you curl your lashes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-68782447040035211842018-02-13T05:31:00.001-08:002018-02-13T05:45:29.089-08:00Billie Holiday on Vacation (2016)<i>This is a brief strange story that began with the title alone; and the title just entered my head one day, for no other reason than that it's a symmetrical and absurdist phrase. The title was the seed and the rest of the story grew naturally and rapidly from it. Jazz songs sometimes evolve this way too. The story is included in my book <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Seashell-Contract-other-stories/dp/1542722616/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">The Seashell Contract</a></b> which was published in 2017 in aid of charity.</i><br />
<div align="CENTER" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Billie
Holiday on vacation, it is said, once happened to meet Billy
Vacation, who was on holiday. It took place in a place that mended
shoes and cut keys. One of her heels must have come off or something.
Mr Vacation was leaning on his counter and licking his lips as if
they were located in another country. He said:</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">I adore all your songs.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Many of them haven’t been recorded or even written
yet,” she replied with one shoulder hunched higher than the other.
It was the right one. But there is no right or wrong when it comes to
shoulders.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He nodded in sympathy. “Future events. That’s nice.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She knew what he was probably thinking, which was that
she had a deformed shoulder, whereas in fact her posture was entirely
due to the fact that the heel had snapped off her left shoe. Mr
Vacation, for his part, was thinking that she was guessing what he
was thinking and was correct in this guess, but for the wrong reason.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mr Vacation had seen too many people totter into his
place with lopsided shoulders and they always had the heel of one
shoe missing. But he understood that one day this would not be the
case, that someone would approach his counter with a shoulder that
was biologically higher, or lower, than the other shoulder, a person
with asymmetrical shrugs. Do the laws of chance make this event
inevitable?</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Well, yes they do. And when he took his first look at
Billie Holiday in the flesh, even though he was aware that her
shoulders were normal, he decided that today was the day for the
prediction to come true. So he said in his most soothing voice:</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">There’s a hospital just up the street.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Billie had already stooped to remove her damaged shoe
and now she held it up and placed it down on the counter. “They
don’t fix shoes there. I already asked.” Her shoulders were no
longer lopsided, which meant she was standing on only one leg. He
couldn’t be sure, because the counter was in the way, but even when
there was no counter in the way he was unsure of so many things in
life. How to make soup, for example.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">His soups were terrible. They were solid.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He had once been able to use one of his soups as a
doorstop to stop a heavy door, but he couldn’t recall what he had
stopped it from doing, and that’s another story and another
suppertime anyway.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mr Vacation examined the broken shoe. It was a fairly
easy job but he made faces and made noises with the mouth of those
faces, just one mouth for all the faces, because it is good to
economise in these days of fiscal fretting, when old shoes are mended
more often than bought brand new, not that it’s possible to buy old
shoes brand new…</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">But you know what I mean,” he said to himself.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Why does this place mend shoes and cut keys?” she
asked. “I’ve always wondered why places that do the one also do
the other. That’s like a bread shop that also sells guns. I don’t
see the connection.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Just to be clear,” he replied, “this place
doesn’t mend shoes and cut keys. I never have and never will mend a
cut key. I cut new keys and that’s what this place does and why I’m
in it.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">An undertaker’s that is also a hat shop…” she
was musing.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mr Vacation continued to lick his lips but now it felt
as if they were on their way home, tanned from the sun, still sleepy
from lazy days on the beach and dancing at night. They tasted of
coconut and exchange rates. His tongue was like shoe leather, the
saliva that coated it like melted keys but cooler. It turned in the
locks of his mouth, causing it to open wide, and then he said, “The
machinery is the same.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">I beg your pardon?”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">The machinery used to mend shoes and cut keys.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Now I comprehend.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">They looked at each other. “What brought you to
Florida, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked mindfully.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">I am on vacation. And you?”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">I’m on holiday. It’s a working holiday. I mend
shoes and cut keys in Oregon. I traded places with the guy who mends
shoes and cuts keys here. It’s just for one month.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">A little trip to the Florida Keys, you could say?”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">He laughed. It had been the only joke a customer had
told him since he arrived. He gestured behind him at a wall festooned
with keys. He indicated the key furthest on her left. “That one
must be Key West,” he said, as he took it down and held it under
his nose like a robot’s moustache. Did it smell of marlin and
cocktails? In his imagination, yes, but undercut with a tang of
shotgun powder.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Is it true there’s a lock for every key?” she
asked.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">I’m certain that there is.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">In that case, why not attach a large key to the
bottom of my shoe rather than a heel?”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mr Vacation considered the unusual idea. He knew what
she was hoping would happen if he did this. There are doors
everywhere, doors of perception, doors of fate and opportunity,
invisible doors locked fast against our blunderings and gropings.
Some of these doors are like trapdoors, on the underside of the
ceiling of the sky, and others are like manholes, embedded in the
ground.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She might walk directly over the door labelled ‘musical
history’ and unlock it with her new heel. It would spring open and
she would plummet through into the safest of all safe spaces for
reputations. She didn’t yet realise she had already passed through
that door.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
“<span style="font-size: medium;">Yes,” she said when he explained all that, “but
maybe I didn’t lock it behind me. So I still need that key.”</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">If the machinery is the same, why not? He cut the key
for her and fixed it to the bottom of her shoe. She tried it on and
now her shoulders were straight even when she stood on both legs at
the same time. She paid him and walked out of his sight and he never
saw her again. She must have trodden on that lock and made that door
secure against being opened by a casual talent such as his own. And
thus she vanished from the gigantic room of this world into another.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">When his month was completed, Mr Vacation returned home
and an effort was later made to track him down by historians of the
great singer, but his trail, his Oregon Trail, like hot soup left
unattended on a doorstop too long, had gone cold.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<br /></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-90667029797975769272017-10-06T03:42:00.001-07:002017-10-06T03:48:11.899-07:00The Catastrophe Trials (1991)<i>One of my earliest surviving tales, I wrote this in one quick session at the end of December 1991 and it inaugurated a series of adventures featuring Titian Grundy, the absurdist Prefect of Police in a futuristic society located on the Isle of Chrome. This linked series formed a novella called 'The Long Chin of the Law' that was published as one of the three linked sections of my book <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/882116.Nowhere_Near_Milkwood">Nowhere Near Milkwood</a> in 2002. There are other tales set on the Isle of Chrome and perhaps one day I will write more stories about Titian Grundy himself. But this was the very first.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">In the old days, of course,
murderers were often locked away in dungeons while hurricanes and earthquakes
went free. And let there be no doubt that they took full advantage of their
freedom. They rushed and shook, shattered and toppled whenever it suited them.
They had no conscience.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
first Natural Disaster we arrested was the volcano that erupted on the
outskirts of our City when the President was making his inaugural speech.
Without stopping to retrieve his hat and coat, he raced to the scene with many
attendants and ministers. He did not hesitate to show his concern on camera. The
ash had engulfed one of the richer suburbs, the President’s majority.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">There
was a hung Parliament then, an economic crisis followed as share prices fell
sharply. The President took to drink and gambling. Women were a mystery to him.
His nose was too large. Before he had completely destroyed his liver, we
decided to take action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
trial was swift. Our Judges proclaimed the volcano guilty with due solemnity
and sentenced it to life imprisonment. They stood on the volcanic glass and
hammered off pieces as souvenirs. We solved the problem or removing the
remainder to a place of security by constructing the prison around it. We used
iron bricks. We threw away the key.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">To
be perfectly honest, the idea was not entirely my own. I knew a poet once who
suggested it. She had long hair and a winsome smile. I loved her, but I could
never give her any credit, not even of the financial sort, and thus it was I,
Titian Grundy, Prefect of Police, who became the renowned and much-loved one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">There
followed a period of prosperity then, hope, luxury even. There was a Golden Age
of sorts. We expected a Platinum one to be just around the next corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
blue Tsunami rolled in from the east, towering so (I gesture here with upraised
eyes) that we could not see the noontime sun. It bore an island with it, one of
the outlying Aracknids wrenched free from the Continental Shelf, palm-trees and
huts and village life all still intact upon the rich soil, although the latter
considerably disrupted, and it crashed down on our wharves with the force of
the Cosmic Serpent’s own heartbeat. Our crystal piers became shards, glistening
on the green waters of the harbour, a hazard to shipping for many years to
come. Very pretty they looked too, those shards, more pretty even than the
original structures, though that is missing the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">We
had greater difficulties with this one. After all, the guilty party had melted
away into the greater ocean again. We had nothing to point the finger at any
more. But we were not foiled so easily. We employed mathematicians to calculate
the probable volume of water involved and we pumped this amount directly out of
the sea. We were not above punishing innocent liquid if necessary, yet we felt
sure that at least some of the molecules we had acquired had been responsible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">We
took longer over this trial. We stored the water in a large outdoor tank and
adjourned often, fishing or boating on the accused, thus forcing some Community
Service out of it while we waited for the verdict. Naturally, the Defence
Lawyer was outraged. He was also frustrated. We cut his wages, handpicked the
Jury ourselves and let them make the correct decision. We tortured our captive
with red-hot pokers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">During
these revolutionary changes in the legal system, I never failed to miss my
poet. I tried to behave like an ordinary man: I visited the President and
played croquet on his lawns. I married a beekeeper and asked my poet to become
my mistress. She turned me down, however, having had enough of such romantic
entanglements. She adopted a cat and took in lodgers instead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">You
know the way I feel about my work. I have had doubts, but they have been few. I
do not believe that I must justify my actions. I have posed nude, grown a fiery
beard and learnt to juggle. I envy the arty set, I suppose. I can no longer
walk into a student pub without being jeered at. I love my poet more than ever.
I have not yet forgotten her name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
write this report as a story for good reasons. Last summer, a particularly
vindictive tornado escaped from its reinforced bottle and wrecked my office.
All my papers were shredded. My filing-cabinets were peeled back and my
secretaries stamped through the floorboards. I was left without a single record
of my achievements. That is why I must circulate this one more carefully.
Perhaps it might even find its way into the pages of a fiction magazine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">These
tornadoes, incidentally, were my first real mistake. We collected them in
barrels at first, but these were easily burst. We tried jars before bottles.
Our bottles were made out of stainless steel. We had to wait until the tornado
began to die and shrink to the correct size before pouncing. This did not seem
to deter others: they saw how much damage they could do before they were apprehended.
They began to come in pairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
mistake I made was as follows: I issued instructions to bottle tornadoes before
they had formed. We collected them before they had committed any crimes, and
forged the documentation. The scheme seemed to work quite well. The number of
arrests increased dramatically. I was awarded a bonus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">And
then one day, I received a telegram from the pressure group Amnesty
Interstellar. They had been making the rounds of the prisons. One of the
developing tornadoes I had arrested had turned out not to be a tornado at all,
but a dust-devil. I was disgraced. I had to resign and move into politics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
President and I became firm friends. We both complained about the World, about
life, about women mostly. I drank espresso and smoked fat cigars. The President
wrote pamphlets and picked his nose, which were both tasks that could take all
day. My captive tornadoes were released. An independent body was set up to
monitor Police procedures. My statue in the plaza was defaced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
am no longer handsome, but my poet is still beautiful. She now works as a
Careers Officer. There is a man who wants to marry her. He takes her to
restaurants in a solar-powered glider. I know: I have seen them. I will follow
them one day in my hot-air balloon. I have kidnapped her cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
President keeps a typhoon in his cellar. A man I know at the prison smuggled it
out to us. In the evenings, the President, the cat and myself, creep down the
winding stairs and peep cautiously at it. We are careful not to open the door
too wide, in case it escapes. We feed it model towns which it devours with
great avidity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
World is going soft. We will soon return to the old days, when (as I said
before) murderers were often locked away in dungeons while hurricanes and
earthquakes went free. Sentences are being reduced everywhere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
hear that even the volcano on the outskirts of the City is due up for parole
next year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-56707877768769297592017-08-10T05:32:00.002-07:002017-08-10T05:32:30.285-07:00The Pig Iron Mouse Dooms the Moon (2012)<i>Whimsy is an essential part of the literature of the fantastic and indeed I am prepared to argue that it forms the most basic and essential foundation of any attempt to create a genuine work of imagination, because although it doesn't take itself seriously in thematic terms its proper rendering in prose is a serious endeavor in itself. In other words its existence is paradoxical. The most poignant archetypes of fantasy have frequently been inaugurated in whimsical works before transmigrating to more somber and portentous fictions.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ll tell you why I hate the moon so much, said the Pig Iron Mouse, his whiskers twitching and picking up radio broadcasts from far away. I don’t have any secrets, and if I did I wouldn’t keep them from my friends, and even if you weren’t my friends I would tell you anyway, I would, he added with magnetic sincerity.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The light, that’s why, that’s the reason! That mellow spreading on the charred toast of the shadowy landscape of night, it makes life harder for any nocturnal creature that fears predators. And I live in constant dread of the Molybdenum Cat, that prowling howling demon with the electric headlamp eyebeams.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> He can switch them off when the moon’s full and then he’s more dangerous than ever and only last year he pounced on the Cupronickel Vole and dented him to death with his teeth, and that’s not the way I want to go, no sir, no madam, not the way at all! Pounced on from behind a tumbled stack of science journals.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> So I decided to get rid of the moon, do away with it, break the blasted thing and even the odds a little, a smidgen, a sliver. And I thought of ways I might accomplish this feat and it occurred to me that maybe the best course of action would be to catch the moon as it touched the horizon on its way to bed. I decided to impale it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Now I’m not cruel, not at all, and I didn’t want to make the moon suffer, so I raised a very long thin sharp pole on the horizon and I greased it for the entire length, and I knew that the moon’s doom would be quick on that slick skewer and nearly painless. I used all my engineering expertise to make that deadly pole, truly I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then I waited for the moon to rise in the east and travel across the sky and settle down unawares on my lethal spike, but for some reason the full fool missed my trap, cunningly wrought and perfectly positioned as it was, and set behind the pole. I was dismayed, let me tell you! Had I made an error with my calculations?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Well, I set off on foot and reached the base of the pole and there I saw that it no longer stood on the horizon. Somehow the horizon had moved further away to the west. Maybe it was migrating for the season, heading elsewhere to breed or feed or do whatever it is that horizons do to keep themselves in line, I don’t know.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> So I made another pole at the place where the horizon had gone to, it was an identical greased spike, long thin sharp, and I waited again and once more the moon missed the point and set behind it. I puffed my cheeks and popped a rivet in the left one, that’s how exasperated I was, and I set off to locate the new site of the horizon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> This went on and on and I never succeeded in impaling the moon and one morning I reached the horizon and saw that a pole was already there. It was the first one I had fixed in place. I had gone right around the entire planet! That realisation annoyed me slightly and I felt despondent and very tired and I was embarrassed also.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> You are going to ask me where the Molybdenum Cat was during this time. It’s a good question and the answer is that I don’t know, no sir, no madam, but I guess he was around about, lurking smirking, metal fur bristling, waiting for the opportunity to pounce, but that opportunity clearly never came for here I am, still here, me, talking to you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to know, continued the Pig Iron Mouse, how the moon was avoiding my traps so successfully, so I decided to find out. What I did was this, he added, his whiskers drooping and the signal fading and the strange dance music from distant lands dying. I plucked out my left eyeball, the one above the cheek that had popped the rivet, I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I plucked it out and it was already loose, so it didn’t hurt much, and I made a rocket engine powerful enough to carry that eyeball, which after all was a minimal payload, out of our atmosphere, with its odour of buttercups and weasels, and into space, outer space, and through the void, the external void, all the way to the moon, and down.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> When the eyeball was safely down on the surface of the moon, it was able to peer up at our planet, the world we’re standing on right now, and watch as the Earth travelled across the sky and set on the horizon. That’s what it saw, and because it saw that then so did I, because it was my eye, still my eye, up there on the moon, our moon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And then I realised that it was all a matter of perspective. That’s why I had failed to impale the moon! From the surface of the moon things looked very different, very different indeed, yes sir, yes madam, and in fact it was the Earth that was doing the setting on the horizon, not the moon. Which explains why it wasn’t landing on my spikes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Perspective was to blame, that’s what I concluded after my eye saw all that, so I decided to approach the problem from that angle. I went to the government department responsible for perspective and I knocked on the front door but it didn’t open, so I knocked on it again even harder and it still remained shut, but a window gaped wide.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The window was high up, on the top level of the building, and an unseen voice called down at me, saying: sorry, no member of the public is allowed inside the Department of Perspective, please go away and don’t come back! And then the window was closed with a bang and I pretended to go away but in fact I hid and waited for nightfall.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then I entered the building by climbing onto the roof and sliding down the chimney. Once I was inside I located the room where they keep the machines that control perspective, devices that ensure that parallel lines stretching to infinity only seem to converge at a distant point but don’t really, and I adjusted the dials more to my liking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then I sabotaged those machines so they were stuck like that. And I climbed back out of the chimney and headed for home and now I noticed that the two parallel lines of the railway track I walked down really did meet at a point, and that point was next to my house. I turned my key in the door and it was very late when I went to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> When I awoke early in the morning I went to prepare my breakfast and I had broccoli and chocolate as usual, but something had changed. The pieces of broccoli looked like the trees of a rainforest and the triangular wedges of chocolate resembled alpine peaks, and because the laws of perspective had been changed they really were that massive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Needless to say, I only nibbled at them and then I went out and amused myself by filling my cheeks with air and puffing at distant towers that instantly fell down because they were only as big as they looked, whereas objects that were near my remaining eye seemed large and therefore were. A lost child’s marble was like a fallen moon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When the real moon appeared in the sky, continued the Pig Iron Mouse, I simply reached out and snatched it in my jaws. Then I crunched it to pieces between my teeth. Can’t say it was particularly tasty. No sooner had I finished than I spied the Molybdenum Cat far away, coming over the horizon like an idle thought. I seized my chance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I lunged at his tiny figure and I don’t rightly know what happened next but he vanished from sight. I’m fairly sure I didn’t swallow him. The only plausible explanation is that he jumped into my empty eye socket, the left one, and hid inside the cave it formed. Probably he still lives there, like something out of prehistory, warming his paws around a fire.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I bet he even invites passing travellers inside to sit around the flames with him while he entertains them with stories, tales about the Pig Iron Mouse, like this one for example, exactly like this one in fact, told from the viewpoint of the Pig Iron Mouse himself, just to be clever. And now the flames are dying down and I’ll bid you a moonless goodnight.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-38348487343537162012017-08-09T07:31:00.004-07:002017-08-09T07:33:10.584-07:00In Eclipseville (2008)<i>This brief tale is the third in a short linked series about impossible or at least unusual cities, Moonville and Sunsetville being the first two. Originally the main character was going to be Frabjal Troose, who turned into an inventor of improbable machines, but in my fiction the contributory elements often go off on their own paths and I am happy to let them do so. That shadows can have brightness seems illogical at first but on closer analysis this is seen not to be so.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.05cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In
Eclipseville the authorities have decreed that shadows are more real
than the objects that cast them. Substances have no value there: the
people would spit on them, if spit was not also a substance. The
shadows of spitting people flit rarely on walls in that city.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Some
grades of shadow are more highly regarded than others; this goes
without saying. The shadows of watermelons have great status, as do
those of clocks, scissors, very tall hats. The most valuable shade of
all remains to be seen: the shadow of the sun.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Not
all shadows are visual and cool. The authorities insist that musical
notes are the true shades of instruments, rather than those dark
outlines that pretend to be flutes, harps, dulcimers. The
implications of this creed must seem absurd to outsiders. Cymbals are
only symbols of their own tinkle.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In
Eclipseville most nocturnal activities take place in the afternoon.
Between lunch and teatime the lonely nightwatchmen poke about in
cellars and catacombs for evidence of the night, in accordance with
their contracts of employment, but never find any until they abandon
the search and switch off their electric torches.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile
lovers perspire, servants worry about ghosts, burglars prowl, lurkers
throb, pools of wax on tablecloths harden under stubs of candles in
recently closed cafés, astronomers squint through lenses on rooftops
and talented insomniacs generate soft piano music or gently pluck the
strings of muted lutes while uncultured neighbours snore.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Many
of those talented insomniacs learned to play in the famous Music
Institute, a building that is the grandest on the urban landscape. In
truth it is not a single structure but a cluster of old dwellings
sheltered by a translucent dome, a difference that is a question of
interpretation, for a sweet melody might likewise be defined as a
sequence of unrelated notes linked ‘only’ by a key signature.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Some
say the palatial mansion of Frabjal Troose is one of those clustered
dwellings; not I. Others say the Once Held Hands Crossing is also
contained within the Institute; I disagree again.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">My
name is Sacerdotal Bagge and I am one of the authorities of the city.
My disagreements are shadowy, like my policies, but I remain
undisturbed, for not all shadows are dark. One day a brighter star
will move behind the sun and the sun will drape its own shadow,
blinkingly bright, on our houses, souls and financial affairs. A
scorching umbra, shimmering.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Let
it be known that Eclipseville had a difficult birth, for it was the
result of a collision and meshing between two contradictory forces,
the rival cities of Moonville and Sunsetville. When the moon passes
before the sun the day becomes night, and wine, kisses, oddness, cool
breezes and nocturnes are suddenly necessary. An expensive business…</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">An
attempt was once made to freeze one of our best shadows. A hat taller
than the highest minaret was positioned so that its shadow fell into
a vat of liquid hydrogen. The procedure worked. When the hat was
removed its shadow remained in the cold fluid.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But
the shadow had turned brittle and when it was fished out it shattered
into a million tiny sharp fragments. These splinters were caught up
by the wind and swirled down the streets. Some specks lodged in the
eyes of men and women; others stabbed into hearts.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">With
those motes blurring their vision, the citizens of Eclipseville saw
hats everywhere. Teapot lids became sombreros, manhole covers turned
into berets, even eyelids were perceived as being skullcaps for
orbits. And soon I will have occasion to talk about other types of
orbit. As for people with hat shards in their cardiac muscles, they
soon found themselves brimming over, but not always with emotion.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Although
a success, the experiment was deemed a failure.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">That
is often the case in Eclipseville, and I, Sacerdotal Bagge, have
little desire to change our methodology.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">In
fact I backed the decision to make a second attempt, to freeze an
aural shadow instead of a visual one, to solidify a musical note. We
constructed a special machine. A hearing trumpet of immense size led
into the side of a gigantic compression refrigerator.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">A
lever worked gears that lowered extremely heavy weights onto a
piston. But first we needed something to compress. Musicians came and
played the same note into the mouth of the trumpet and when the inner
chamber was full I pulled the lever.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Slowly
the sound was crushed into an enormous black orb. The chamber was
broken open. Inside: solid music, smooth to the touch, humming
faintly but insistently. What did we do with it? We launched it into
space with a catapult, fixed it to the line of the celestial equator.
A note belongs on a stave. Only there will it play properly.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Imagine
many spheres of solid music – crotchets, minims, breves – in
orbit, pinned by gravity to the ecliptic and other lines of heavenly
latitude. An authentic prelude to the future…</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
globe orbited our planet like a swollen drone, crossing in front of
the sun and the real moon, increasing the frequency of eclipses
visible from our city, but it did not play for us. There is no sound
in a vacuum. No matter. The note was visible. We imagined it would
remain in place forever, but it began to fade. The same note
sustained too long becomes inaudible. We had forgotten that simple
fact.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually
it was gone. We did not care.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">A
big mistake. Just because an object is invisible does not mean it has
ceased to exist. Then something very unexpected occurred. A
delegation from a brighter star crashed into the note without
realising it was there and was destroyed. They had planned to offer
us admission to a galactic club of advanced civilisations. The
attendant benefits were consumed in blue plasma flames. For long
minutes shadows held no sway.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
authorities of Eclipseville no longer emerge from their offices. They
shamefully project their shadows out of little rooms over the
thresholds of thin doorways, down marble steps, into the streets.
They wag long flat fingers on flagstones, wavy fingers on cobbles.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">These
fingers form a musical stave. Shards of a broken moon fall on the
lines or between them. Such things must happen in a city where one
strange event is always eclipsed by another.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.7cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-168881650959014332017-07-02T02:57:00.001-07:002017-07-02T02:59:09.487-07:00No Fury (2015)<i>This story is the first in a linked series that play games with 'wise' sayings. The entire series was published as one story called 'Wise Man' in my book <a href="http://www.egaeuspress.com/Brutal_Pantomimes.html">Brutal Pantomimes</a> but originally I had no intention of writing a series. This often happens with me. I will write a tale with no thoughts of writing a sequel, but the sequel comes in due course, and then more sequels, and before long a new story-cycle has been created.</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>A wise man once said, “Hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned,” and he wasn’t only a wise man but a wise man who knew what he was
talking about. It really is important to be aware of the difference.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>There are hundreds, thousands,
possibly millions, of wise men, even <i>very</i>
wise men, in this world of ours, but the majority of them don’t know what they
are talking about. This doesn’t make them any less wise, but it does make them
wrong. Yes, you can be wise and wrong.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Being wrong often has repercussions,
but those repercussions might take a long time to catch up with the person they
are intended for. On the other hand, they frequently manifest themselves
without delay, so don’t be too nonchalant if you are wrong and hope to get away
with it.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>As a wise man said, “If you go
into the forest with a walking stick, don’t be surprised if one day a tree
walks into your town carrying a human leg.” The wise man who said that was me.
Yes it was.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>I am also a wise man, one of the
wise men who are right as well as wise. I nearly always know what I’m talking
about; and on those rare occasions when I don’t know, I am aware that I don’t
know.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Because I am a wise man, one of
the best of all wise men, I’m able to act on the wisdom of other wise men in an
effective and noble manner. Thus I once decided to do something <i>remarkably</i> wise.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Just to be wise to an ordinary
degree wasn’t enough. Even to be very wise was insufficient. I wanted to be so
wise that my wisdom would reach new levels and set standards of unsurpassable
sagacity.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>I decided, no less, to save the
endangered souls of multitudes of people. I decided to do this without thought
of any recompense. I decided to do it for the sake of being a good as well as a
wise man.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>By employing the word ‘people’ I
am being disingenuous. It was only the souls of women that I planned to save. I
would have attempted to save the souls of men too, but I simply didn’t know
how. Just because I am wise doesn’t mean I’m a genius. I am as fallible as
anyone else.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>But how does one go about saving
women’s souls?</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Well, there’s a big clue in the
saying of the wise man I quoted above, not the saying that <i>I </i>said, but the saying of the <i>other</i>
wise man, the first wise man I mentioned in this document. A very big clue.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Some clues are so big that they
stop us seeing them in total, in the same way that a mountain can’t be
appreciated in full when we are too close to it; so these clues are baffling
rather than enlightening. This is absolutely the case with what the wise man
said about Hell and fury...</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>I mean that people are familiar
with this saying and they often quote it to each other, nodding their heads in
understanding and agreement; but they don’t actually understand it and
therefore can’t really agree with it. The truth within this saying is too immense
to absorb correctly.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>But I was wise enough to be able
to ponder on it for a long time, and from a moral distance, a distance great
enough to show me the outline entire, and for my ponderings to be fruitful, insightful
and unique. And that’s what I did; and it suddenly occurred to me that here was
a sure method of protecting women from the eternal torments and despair of the
fiery pit.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>For it is logical that if Hell
has no fury like a woman scorned, then there are no scorned women in Hell,
otherwise Hell <i>would</i> have a fury
comparable to a woman scorned, and not just comparable but identical, namely
the fury of any or all of the scorned women massed down there.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>So if I went about scorning
women, I would be saving them from future damnation. I would be saving their
divine souls. Imagine that! No more Hell for uncountable numbers of women who
would surely end up there if it wasn’t for my utterly astounding and very wise
generosity.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>First, I had to find out what
constituted the act of scorning. I consulted a number of books, including
dictionaries and encyclopaedias, and learned that to scorn someone requires a
measure of contempt for them; and to have contempt necessitates that one feels
they are beneath you.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Contempt isn’t the same as
hatred, for if you hate a person it means you fear them. When you feel
contempt, there is an inherent aspect of superiority in your attitude. They
can’t hurt you, only irritate you by the mere fact they dwell on the same
planet as you, that you share reality.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>We express our hate with schemes,
tricks, violent actions; but contempt is expressed with words and expressions,
perhaps even only the angle of a nose or chin, the arch of a single eyebrow, a
slight sneer.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Accordingly, I mounted my bicycle
and proceeded to pass women with a look of absolute derision on my face. I know
they noticed this. If there was any doubt in my mind, I would turn and pedal
back towards them, still carrying the same look. My nostrils were flared, my
lips tight.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Thus did I scorn women, hundreds,
thousands, tens of thousands of them, over a period of many long years, in
winter and summer, day and night, in rain and shine. Eventually I would have
been the salvation of millions, but our lives are fragile things and so are
bicycles. I grew old.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>My bicycle rusted, my joints
stiffened. Yet I could retire with pride, for I had prevented uncountable
numbers of females from going to Hell when they die. They still remain unaware
of what I did for them; and consequently I have acquired a reputation as crank
instead of saviour.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>I am writing this document in
order to put the record straight. I am a wise and good fellow. If you are a
woman and reading this right now, remember that I may have saved you from a
horrible afterlife. If you are a man, then you must save yourself, there’s
little I can do for you. Sorry.</b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></o:p></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-77406654444352144512017-06-29T05:45:00.000-07:002017-06-29T05:48:38.368-07:00Love Keys (2013)<i>In Paris there is a bridge covered in padlocks. Lovers write their names on the locks and then fasten them to the bridge and throw the keys into the river. It's a symbol that love will keep them together. The bridge is covered with thousands of them and there is almost no room for any more. I first encountered the concept in London a few years ago but the Parisians have taken it further. I wrote the following story based on the premise and it has just been published in my new book, <a href="http://www.immanion-press.com/info/book.asp?id=504&referer=Hp">SALTY KISS ISLAND</a>, which is a collection of my fantastical love stories.</i><br />
<br />
<b>In a northern city or perhaps a southern one there was a footbridge made of metal that spanned a wide grey river in a low and not ungraceful arch. One end of this bridge was located near an art gallery and the other wasn’t too far from a mighty cathedral with an impressive dome. It was extremely pleasant to cross this bridge in either direction and many people took advantage of it, sometimes just for the delight of making the crossing rather than because they really wanted to reach the far side of the water. It was a perfect place for a stroll, which is why strollers were attracted to it from every part of the city.</b><br />
<b> Over time this bridge acquired the reputation of being a romantic structure and lovers adopted it as their own, though it could be true that the lovers arrived first and the reputation later. Nobody really knows. At any rate, these lovers took with them little padlocks inscribed with their initials, often surrounded by hearts, and they secured the locks to the railings and cast the keys over the side. It was a tradition that spontaneously arose, as such customs often do, and the idea was to dramatically symbolize how the couple in question were locked together forever and that the only means of escape was lost.</b><br />
<b> The authorities didn’t dare put a stop to this practice, despite the fact that the weight of so many locks on the footbridge was a cause for concern among the engineers who designed it, because for most citizens adding a lock was a wistful, charming, beautiful, funny, touching, sweet gesture, the very epitome of youthful optimism expressed in a simple act of commitment to another human being. Nor did the manufacturers of padlocks complain much. In fact the practice is what the bridge became most famous for, despite its excellent location and the tremendous views from various points along its length.</b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiGq8xoC639o_DR8Durys90QlCXbq4DR3X2F5LO_T0CWLp7twoz9t-ak4FOPkUzvMm8vBxljyu7Gam4EQ9Wx8IJ-WWAMQ6AbXQjL6vvz3M-GO2dVS8n6EGjp1DqfYuMSvv3rX2bdCkG1T/s1600/padlocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="261" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiGq8xoC639o_DR8Durys90QlCXbq4DR3X2F5LO_T0CWLp7twoz9t-ak4FOPkUzvMm8vBxljyu7Gam4EQ9Wx8IJ-WWAMQ6AbXQjL6vvz3M-GO2dVS8n6EGjp1DqfYuMSvv3rX2bdCkG1T/s320/padlocks.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Marie Ferandji</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b> Eventually the locks accumulated to such an extent that no railing had one spare place for another to be added, so new lovers began securing their own locks to locks already in position. The bridge did sag a little but still no one came with a hacksaw to cut the locks off. And then one morning it was noticed that when a key was thrown into the river it no longer made a splash but a tinkling sound and that the mass of discarded keys was forming an island that had been rising out of the water for years and was now breaking the surface. But lovers still came to put padlocks on the span and jettison the keys.</b><br />
<b> And so this island grew to maturity and became established as an unofficial but important geographical feature of the city. A brand new custom arose for men and women who were no longer in love to swim or row out to the isle and search for the key that would open their own particular lock. It was nearly impossible to identify the right key by sight alone, so they would simply select a key at random and return to shore and cross the bridge and try it in their own lock, which rarely opened. Standing there, unable to open the symbol of their enjoinment to another person, they would be filled with frustration.</b><br />
<b> Instead of flipping the useless key over the side, vindictiveness or curiosity would get the better of them and they would systematically try it in every lock until one of them sprang open. To complete this malign act, they generally threw the open padlock over the railings and onto the isle of keys; and over a period of time the locks began to outnumber the keys, as if some bizarre geological process was at work. Couples would split up when they discovered their locks were gone, each blaming the other and venting their anger by visiting the island to take a key and spoil the relationship of some other pair.</b><br />
<b> Thus the locks vanished from the bridge one by one until none remained at all. But this is the truly odd thing: unbeknownst to anyone, the bridge had already decayed away. Only the locks had remained intact and their complex interlinking had formed a substitute structure, a chain of love that spanned the water, so when they were removed the bridge ceased to exist. It was dismantled by the power and ingenuity of sadness until the river flowed just as it had done before the building of the footbridge, and the two halves of the city, once in love but no longer, were separated by the oily currents of circumstance.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-74469258439266120702017-05-10T09:56:00.000-07:002017-05-10T09:56:30.777-07:00Wood for the Trees (2009)<i>This story is set in India but the style owes more to the early stories of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, the Japanese writer I was reading at the time I wrote the tale. It was published in my <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/d/Books/Tallest-Stories-Paperback-Rhys-Hughes/1908125160/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1494435314&sr=8-1&keywords=rhys+hughes+tallest+stories">TALLEST STORIES</a> collection in 2013. The idea that people marry trees is not an invention, however, but something that does actually happen in certain circumstances. I have hugged many trees in my life but never married any of them...</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
stopping at Jitvapur now, so I might as well tell you a story connected with
this place. Jitvapur seems no different from any other little village in Bihar,
which as I’m sure you know is the poorest and most rural district in India, but
appearances can often be deceptive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
like certain bridegrooms…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Not long before my arrival, there was a wedding here
and everybody took part with the gusto typical of such happy events. Needless
to say, Jitvapur is a very traditional community and all the customs were
strictly observed to ensure a fruitful and fortunate marriage. Even the most
absurd superstitions were carefully heeded, so that destiny would have no
compelling reason to cause trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The name of the bride was Amrusha, the groom was
called Rakesh, they were healthy young people well suited to each other, and
everything seemed in its proper place as far as anyone could tell, so a
prosperous life together was warmly anticipated by all. There had been a small
problem at the beginning of the arrangement, due to the fact that Rakesh was a
manglik, but that was sorted out now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A manglik is a person born under the astrological
condition known as mangal dosha. In other words the planet Mars was in the
second, fourth, seventh, eighth or twelfth house of the Vedic lunar chart when
the individual entered this world. In India the condition is widely believed to
be extremely bad for marriage and if a manglik marries a non-manglik the
outcome is certain to be death or even divorce! The government of India has
repeatedly attempted to discourage this superstition but in regions as remote
as Bihar it persists strongly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Two mangliks may marry each other safely because the
negative energies will cancel themselves out. But Amrusha wasn’t a manglik. On
the contrary, her horoscope was impeccable. So her match with Rakesh was
dangerously unbalanced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nonetheless there exists a solution to remove the
difficulties. If the manglik submits to the ceremony of kumbh vivah, in which
the manglik marries a banana tree or a peepal tree, all the bad luck will be
neutralised. Bizarre as it may sound to our ears, people in India do still
marry trees, and in fact a famous actress did so just a few years ago. You have
probably seen her photograph in newspapers even if you haven’t sat through any
of her films.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Anyway, Rakesh had endured the kumbh vivah rituals
and married a tree, so the final obstacle to his union with Amrusha had been
removed in the approved fashion. He was first taken to the tree in a baraat
accompanied by dancing villagers and hired musicians and many of his cousins
sang songs to him along the way. Various rites were performed by purohits and
he saw that the tree was already decorated as a bride. After the couple were
pronounced man and tree the feasting began and the guests offered shagun to
Rakesh, which he gratefully accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A ‘baraat’ is a marriage procession in which the
groom rides on a horse to meet his bride, while a ‘purohit’ is a wise scholar
with a comprehensive knowledge of rituals, and ‘shagun’ is a unit of good luck
usually wrapped up like a parcel in a blessing. But Rakesh already knew all
that…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Clearly I am explaining for your benefit alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That was how his first wedding went and because of its
success Rakesh was ready for his second. His horse was a beautiful and noble
steed and the musicians played even more sweetly this time and the singers sang
with even greater devotion. There was a pervasive but unspoken feeling that
this occasion was more authentic than the other and that Amrusha was somehow a
more deserving bride than the tree. She certainly looked radiant when he
approached her and dismounted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly this touching ceremony was disrupted by an
intruder…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What do you think you are doing?” demanded a voice
that was powerful and yet insubstantial, as if it issued not from a mouth
powered by lungs but on the surfaces of leaves rustled by the wind. Rakesh
glanced up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I am getting married to Amrusha,” he answered
weakly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“But I’m your wife!” cried the tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a lengthy pause and everybody involved in
the procession shuffled their feet and looked down at the ground, too surprised
to even gasp or jump back, but Amrusha kept her nerve and gazed without
flinching at the uninvited guest. She decided to explain the situation as
clearly and concisely as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, you are his wife, but only in a symbolic
sense. Rakesh is a manglik, you see, and he had to marry you to make it
possible to marry me. It was never intended for his marriage to a peepal tree
to be taken seriously…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“A peepal tree? A peepal!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And now a large branch dipped down with a handful of
twigs at its end bunched into a fist and this fist came to rest under the
quivering chin of Rakesh. “Bigamist!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The bridegroom wasted no time in taking to his
heels. He ran towards the horizon, his feet throwing up clouds of dust that
failed to hide his escape route. With a furious sigh, the tree set off in
warmish pursuit, because anything too hot in a wooden lifeform might start a
lethal fire, but Rakesh already had a notable headstart. First the tree tried
to mount his horse and ride off after the errant husband, but the horse
associated the shade of a tree with a rest period and refused to budge. So the
tree had to rely on its own motive power. Instead of using its exposed roots as
legs, it fell to the ground and began rolling at high speed like a gigantic
pencil across a sloping desk. If it caught up with Rakesh it would probably
crush him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was only at this point or even a little later
that the wedding guests realised the tree was a banana.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Amrusha was shocked. “What a scoundrel he was! It
seems I’ve had a lucky escape. Good riddance to his kind!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Because of the distance and fading light, it soon
became impossible to see the two receding figures and nobody got to learn if
Rakesh reached the safety of the mountains to the north. Perhaps he is still
running and the banana tree still rolling. Amrusha remains upset by the whole affair
and is still unmarried, but that’s hardly surprising bearing in mind that these
events took place only a week ago…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes, when I arrived at Jitvapur the story was
extremely fresh, even though one of its elements had gone off. It would be
hypocritical of me to apologise for that pun, because I intend to deliver
another. Where I come from, when a human couple get married they say ‘I do’ to
each other but trees only say ‘I would’. That’s a fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I did consider calling this story ‘Would for the Trees’
but that play on words seemed inappropriate because none of the characters
speak fluent English in public, not even the tree. I’m fond of literary
conceits but I do have limits. Having said that, this text does contain at
least one other trick, a deliberate deception.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The truth is that I’m not really stopping over at
Jitvapur right now. In fact I’ve never even been there. Which makes leaving in
the morning much easier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-76913054714352530592017-01-31T04:07:00.002-08:002017-01-31T04:11:53.407-08:00An Inconvenient Fruit (2010)<i>This very brief story is the first in a sequence of absurdist tales featuring a protean character by the name of 'Thornton Excelsior'. The stories were collected in a volume called <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Lunar-Tickle-Rhys-Hughes/dp/1907133879">The Lunar Tickle</a>, one of my personal favourites of my books. The stories tend not to be based on empirical logic but on the logic of word and ideas association. As I have said elsewhere, this is quite a common technique with me.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
is unknown how Thornton Excelsior obtained the peach that destroyed the world
by flooding it with juice. He simply doesn’t remember; the catastrophe was so
immensely unexpected that it wiped his memory clean. He sat on his porch on a
rocking chair and bit into the flesh of the fruit. And that was that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Once the restraining skin of the peach was broached,
the juice inside exploded outwards. The pressure of the spurting liquid
jettisoned the fruit out of his grasp and it soared over the horizon and into
the sea. The waves lapped themselves like cats made of milk. If he hadn’t been
sitting on a rocking chair the recoil would have killed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The juice spread across the surface of the ocean.
Already the slick was larger than a province, a state, a federation. Thornton
was aghast; it’s not something that I recommend, being aghast, but you are
welcome to try for yourselves. Sweet sticky juice rising inexorably, pouring
over dykes and into flood plains. Inundation!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Presidents, kings and generals pointed the finger at
him. They made an extra long finger by welding iron tubes together and poked
him with it. He recoiled and hid under a table; but the steadily rising liquid
forced him up the stairs and finally into his attic. The hollow finger followed
him. Then it spoke; a voice vibrated out of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thornton, old son, don’t worry about a thing. Those
presidents, kings and generals are superfluous and will come to a sticky end.
But I have taken a fancy to you; and I will save you. I command you to build an
ark, a vessel that can sail the tide of juice and keep you alive until the
crisis is over; but this ark mustn’t be made of wood or fibreglass or other
conventional shipbuilding materials. To surf a global juice surge, only one
substance is proper: planks of frozen clotted cream! Do you hearken to me,
Thornton Excelsior?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, yes! But who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I am Zesto, the God of Fruit. Do what I command and
all will be well. After forty days, give or take a month, the juice will recede
and the ark will settle on solid ground. Then you may rebuild civilisation from
scratch, or if not from scratch from itch. You may also found a religion in my
name.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Must I take one pair of every beast?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Animals on a ship made of clotted cream… Don’t be
silly!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thornton constructed his ark and it floated on the
juice without sinking. The voice that lived in the tube never came back, not
even when there was a violent storm. But Rosie O’Gassy said, “What the hell am
I doing in this paragraph? I’ve never even existed as a character before.” And
Thornton Excelsior answered with a smile:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You don’t expect me to save humanity on my own?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He was the first of the dessert fathers. His ark
went rancid a long time ago, so there’s no point looking for it; but I won’t
stop you if you insist. And Zesto put a giant banana in the sky to symbolise
his promise that the world would never again be drowned in juice. There’s a pot
of yoghurt at the end of it, supposedly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As for the presidents, kings and generals: they were
impeached.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-54289294583093985092016-12-13T06:28:00.001-08:002016-12-13T06:31:17.746-08:00Two Christmas Stories (1992 & 2009)<i>Like most writers in the western world I have written at least one Christmas story. It's a tradition that is difficult not to continue. Here are two such of my tales, both very brief, the first dating from 1992 and the second from 2009. For some strange reason, fantasy writers are especially prone to attempting Christmas-themed fiction.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>Christmas Overtime: a Vignette</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It is Christmas again, of course it is, and a
full-stop has been placed quite deliberately, like a glacé cherry, at the end
of the year. This time, though, you are excluded from the festivities. You have
lost the chance to eat, drink and make Mary. Christmas is red rotund, noble and
inane, but you are not. You cannot spill the cream of indulgence down the
shirt-front of success. You cannot laugh when neighbours toast your health with
your own Malt. You cannot choke on the wishbone of convention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So now you decide to cut through the season with a
serrated truth. You decide to fight back. There is no goodwill to all men, at
least none without an ulterior motive, and you will tear away this canvas of
delusion and expose the facts as they are, a process as painful as the breaking
of a tooth on a sixpence concealed in a pudding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But how can you do it? Is there anything you can do?
You ponder this over. Yes, there is one thing. There is one balloon you can
burst before its time, one cracker you can defuse, one fairy-light you can
ground to coloured glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">His door is ajar. You peer through the crack. His eyes
are open. They are large and moist and round. You almost falter before taking
the fateful step, but then, sudden intoxicating courage overwhelming, you push
forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You enter without knocking. He turns towards you and
smiles. There is unaffected joy in his smile. There is excitement intolerable.
His stocking hangs large and empty. The tree in the corner winks its tiny
lights. You are not what he is waiting for, but it is early yet. The hands of
the clock pass very slowly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Good evening, you say, and the awkward pause threatens
to drown your resolution, drown it in his large, moist, round eyes. But you are
still drunk with purpose. So with a breath as deep as a snowdrift, you
continue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There is no Father Christmas, you announce, savouring
the effect of these negative words. There is no Father Christmas and no
reindeer sleigh. There is no such bulky benefactor, and thus no hand in a fur-trimmed
glove to fill your stocking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And, of course, he bursts into tears. You are a liar,
he wails, and yet as he voices these words, he knows in his heart that you are
right and that his dreams are gossamer webs, baubles to be trampled underfoot,
pine-needles to be shaken loose and swept away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And triumphant, you close the door and return to your
desk, while the sobs of your boss echo through the deserted office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>The Precious Mundanity</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">After the boy was tucked up snugly in bed, the
mother kissed his forehead but she didn’t turn to leave. Then the boy said, “I’m
so excited about tomorrow I don’t think I’ll ever get to sleep!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">She smiled at him and patted the sheets, but her
face was sad. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">His eyes widened in response. “You don’t mean I’m
not adopted?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “Why would I lie
about that? You’ve always known my husband isn’t your real father. No, it’s
something else. You’re seven years old now and it’s time you learned the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“I don’t understand, mother,” he answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">She sighed and regarded the simple bedroom. They
were a poor family and lived in a very modest house in a shabby town. Outside,
the sun had already set, but the sky still held enough light to illuminate the
people trudging up the dusty street. A donkey began braying and kicking a clay
wall; elsewhere the tradesmen and merchants were shutting their shops. A pale
moon rose over the low hills. A normal evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“It’s about Christmas,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">He was sitting up in bed now, blinking at her. “Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“Father Christmas in particular…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">His eyes lit up at the mention of this name. “Last
year he brought me a toy boat and the year before that he gave me a ball and
the year before that…” He caught his breath and added, “I can’t wait to see
what he’ll give me tomorrow!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">She placed a finger over his lips and shook her
head. “That’s exactly what I must tell you. Father Christmas doesn’t actually
exist. It’s your father who brings you those gifts. Your real father. That’s
the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“What?” He was distraught. “You mean there’s no
such thing as Santa Claus? The jolly fat man in red with a sack over his
shoulder is just a myth? A lie?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“I’m afraid so. Your father pretends to be him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“My father? My real father? The supernatural force
that created the universe? The omniscient, omnipotent lord of everything? Oh
mother! You’ve turned Christmas into a magical occasion. You’ve destroyed the
mundanity of it! The precious mundanity! I’ll never forgive you for this.
Never!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“My poor son,” She reached out to hug him close to
her, but he pounded his little fists against her and then fell back on the bed
and turned on his side. She spoke to his bristling back. “I’m sorry to break
the news this way. Santa Claus is from the future, you see. That’s why your
father keeps up the pretence. Even Christmas hasn’t been invented yet!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But it was no use. He wasn’t listening. She rose
and quietly left Jesus sobbing into his pillow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-42461886963612106232016-10-16T04:24:00.003-07:002016-10-16T04:24:36.016-07:00The Birthday Message (2016)<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This story was directly inspired by the occasion of my birthday and my musings about the way we measure time. It is rigorously logical but uses the logic of associations between ideas rather than the logic of empirical causality. As I have explained elsewhere, this is a common working method of mine. This tale also disproves the old adage that there are no 'new' plots. The central conceit relies entirely on the possibilities that exist because of the telephone and would have been inconceivable before the invention of that instrument. Technology opens up new narratives not merely in terms of the usage of the technological objects themselves but in the unexpected consequences that arise from their application in the world. These consequences are epiphenomena of the invention and can rarely be predicted accurately.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was the day before my fiftieth birthday. I sat in
the most comfortable chair in my house and tried to focus on enjoying the fact
that I was still in my forties. I wanted to squeeze every last drop from that
decade before I finally reached the half century point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I closed my
eyes and concentrated on doing this, as if the pressure of my tight eyelids was
the mechanism by which the juice of youthfulness was extracted from the flesh
of the year. Not that one really is a youth in one’s forties but time is
relative, as we know, and the impending leap into my fifties did seem a
considerable one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then I
realised that there wouldn’t actually be a leap. There could be no abrupt
switch from my forties to my fifties, as if I had to jump a hurdle and land on
the far side with slightly more weary bones. The process was in fact gradual,
like gangrene, and had commenced during my sojourn in the chair. Parts of me
already were fifty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> This requires
an explanation. Let me provide it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I am not
referring to the truism that ‘age’ is how you feel rather than a simple
measurement of how long you have existed on the Earth. It is clear that the
number of times our planet orbits the sun is merely a convenience of
administration when applied to people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> It is useful
to society to define an exact age in this manner but it is not accurate. We age
not astronomically but biologically and for some people the process is slower
than for others. This may be unfair but it’s the truth and there is no point
arguing. Genetics, fitness and luck all play a part, of course, but this is not
what I discovered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> No, the
insight that was granted to me in that chair at that moment had a spatial, one
might even say geometric, foundation, rather than any direct association to
biology. On the wall opposite my chair hung a large map of the world and it
confronted me when I opened my eyes. The map showed lines of longitude clearly
marked, thin strings connecting the north pole to the south, and strong enough
not to snap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Forgive that
absurdity. Those lines are not real, of course, but they aid our understanding
of the cosmic body on which we thrive. And they help divide this spinning orb
of ours into time zones. As I blinked at the map, I saw that my former
conviction that acute mindfulness would allow me to fully experience and enjoy
the last day of my forties was a delusion and a naïve product of geographical
ignorance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> For now I knew
that the time zones across the globe were loading my fiftieth year into my body
and life the same way that a program loads on an old-fashioned computer. It was
happening by increments, percentages. Already I had been fifty in Kiribati, the
easternmost of all lands, for the past hour. Soon I would be fifty in Fiji.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Thus I was
able, by examining the map in conjunction with a clock on the mantelpiece
below, to closely monitor the spread of the <i>infection</i>, for want of a
better word, of this invasion of my present reality by a fiftieth year I wasn’t
ready for. I turned my mind inwards too, trying to analyse and confirm the
effects on my system.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The aspects of
my soul that shared something or anything in common with those Pacific islands
in terms of… what? culture or aesthetics? were older than the rest of me. They
had forged ahead, those pesky pioneering aspects, deciding to be a vanguard
pushing into the future. Or maybe they had merely grown wearier more easily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Earth
continued to revolve and my fiftieth birthday moved like an indomitable
explorer across the map. Now I was fifty in New Zealand but not yet in Australia.
My kiwi was older than my kangaroo. But what was my ‘kiwi’ and what my
‘kangaroo’? They were totems, metaphors, signs and symbols of something deep in
my psyche, and although I was unable to say or even guess what they
represented, it was mathematically certain that one was older than the other. I
<i>felt</i> that the kiwi part of my soul was a more mature portion than the
kangaroo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> But the
kangaroo caught up. They always do. Then I became fifty in Japan, in the
Philippines, in Thailand and Burma. And I kept examining my soul to determine
how it was changing. My pagoda was older. Unlike gangrene, the change didn’t
creep but selected discrete blocks of aspects and transmuted them, aged them,
but these blocks might not be adjacent to each other. My stupa was stupefied…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A quarter of
my life was fifty, then one third. I was uncertain whether this was a less
painful method of crossing into my fifties than the sudden midnight plunge.
Then the logic of the time zones reached India and my chakras turned fifty. A
shiver ran through my frame. There was a subtle disconnect now between my
chakras and the body that housed them. The idea was troubling, too troubling to
bear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had to take
action at last. I have a friend in Madras who is a guru of sorts. My friend
would hopefully give me the advice I craved. I picked up the telephone and
called her and although it was late where she was, she answered without a
sleepy voice. I spoke to her, telling her of my distress and the feeling of
discomfort in my nerves. She listened with a repressed laugh that I could hear
despite the fact it was silent. But she is a good and sweet friend and didn’t
mock me openly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I was
babbling to her, it occurred to me that although I was sitting in my chair at
the age of forty-nine, my voice <i>on her end</i> of the telephone connection
was fifty! This thought made me break off in mid sentence. A voice older than
the throat that utters it. I don’t mean older by fractions of a second but by
an entire year and decade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So my voice
was older than I was. It would have stayed the same age if I hadn’t called
India. What a fool I was!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Or perhaps I
had been wise without knowing it. The reason my voice was older wasn’t
necessarily because it was more of a feeble duffer than the mouth that had
projected it. That was one way of looking at it, true, but one could equally
declare that it existed in the future, an explanation that fitted all the facts
just as plausibly and far more conveniently for my purposes. The sound of
things to come…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Shubha,
listen to me,” I said to my friend. “This voice of mine now has a temporal
advantage over my ears.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> She answered
with some witty retort, but I found that I was concerned more with listening to
my own words than to hers. I made hasty apologies and put the phone down. My
voice was fifty and it was a part of me, so it must be fifty here too as well
as in India.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Anything I now
said to myself would feature words that existed in the future, that originated
from tomorrow. We often daydream about what it would be like to offer advice,
from our more experienced perspective, to our younger self. I had a chance to
do so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “The weather
tomorrow will be sunny,” I intoned. I grinned at this, for the forecast
predicted rain, but that was merely the educated estimate of a meteorological
team using mathematical modelling, whereas my assertion came from the time
itself, from tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> In other
words, my voice had looked out of the window and <i>seen</i> there was
sunshine. No mathematics necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Had I been a
gambling man I could have taken commercial advantage of the fact my voice
existed in the future. Horse race winners would have contributed enormously to
my funds. But that’s not my character. I have a philosophical outlook on life
and feel contempt for the amusements of the acquisitive consumer society that
has evolved to envelop us like a malign growth. My voice wouldn’t stoop so low.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I will meet
the love of my life tomorrow,” I told myself and the news excited me. It is one
thing to encourage oneself with a positive statement, to bolster one’s confidence
and keep away despair, but quite another to receive that statement from the
future, from a time when the happy event has actually happened, to be told it
as a fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> After all, it <i>had</i>
to be true. To my voice it wasn’t a future event but a contemporary observation.
I wondered how exactly I would meet her, but then I realised I wasn’t required
to do anything to make it happen. It was fated to occur. My voice had promised
me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> She was a
vague outline in my imagination but the parts coalesced as I concentrated, the
outline firming while remaining soft, and I found to my surprise that she
looked a lot like my friend in India. Then I reasoned that my voice had very
recently been within Shubha’s ear and surely still was basking in the
afterglow. This was natural.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I told myself
many things that would enormously improve my life on the following day and I
realised that I had a truly spectacular day to look forward to. I supposed that
the source of many of these promised boons would be my friends bringing me
gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The time
passed in this manner and I turned fifty in Turkey, Italy and Spain. Only one
hour remained before I turned fifty where I sat. Slightly less than half of me
was fifty now, the rest still in my forties, so there was a neat balance. My
doumbek, spaghetti and flamenco were a little older than my bagpipes, stout ale
and riverdance, and rather more elderly than my banjo, burger and chicken
strut. I was like a jigsaw man, with pieces that were both newer and yet older
replacing those that already comprised the picture of myself. A curious
paradox.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then the
inevitable moment arrived and the clock struck midnight and my forties slipped
off my bones like a silk negligee from the curves of the woman I was destined
to meet very soon. Except that… not all my forties went away. By no means!
Almost half remained. They were declining on the other side of my official
birthday but they were still there. The world was revolving and embracing them
in turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I quickly
phoned a friend in the United States of America. My friend was wide-awake
because the night was relatively young over there. With breathless urgency I
asked, “How old am I?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Forty-nine,”
he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Then my voice
is now younger than me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “And you
prefer for it to be the same age? Don’t worry, it will come back into
synchronization soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, I want it
to be older than me, to exist in the future, so it can tell me about events
that will happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, now it
can tell you about events that have happened instead. It is good to know what
has been.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I already know
what has been. The problem is that I no longer know what will be. It’s worse
than that. I don’t even know what <i>is</i>. My voice is a past voice and so
knows nothing of the present. No more than it knows about the future. What have
I done?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I put the
phone down and chewed my fingernails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Anxiety made
me feel nauseous for some minutes. I told myself that I was worrying about
nothing and that I should calm down, but such advice came from a voice existing
in the past. How could that voice understand clearly what was happening right
now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I ignored my
own voice. I disdained its ignorance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Sleepiness
finally overcame me and lulled the turmoil in my brain. I went to bed and
although I muttered to myself in my sleep, as I always do, I didn’t wake with
the feeling that I had missed out on some topic of importance. My voice was
behind the times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Or was it? I
jumped out of bed and consulted the clock and discovered that I was fifty in
the USA too now. In fact I was fifty everywhere in the whole world. My voice
had returned to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had planned
to go for a birthday walk, to visit my friends and receive their blessings and
gifts, to go for a special dinner, to celebrate. But none of this was required
now. All these things would come to me wherever I was and whatever I did. My
future voice had told me so. The love of my life would come to me no matter my
location.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> So I stayed
indoors and slouched on my chair and waited. The phone kept ringing, no doubt
my friends wanting to know where I was and why I hadn’t met them at the designated
hours. They were probably worried about me. But I sat tight and ignored their
attempts to get in touch. There was no need for me to move a muscle. The events
that were fated to occur would occur no matter what action I took.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> It rained
heavily all day. I kept my faith until the end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When night
fell I finally began to suspect that my voice had lied to me and had played a
horrid trick on its owner. Probably it desired Shubha for itself and didn’t
want me to have her…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Even advice
from the future can be mistaken, especially if the giver of the advice is
deliberately deceitful. The rain against my window was like the tears of
frustration I felt like weeping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Calling my
friends one by one, I humbly apologised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had wasted
too much of my intimate time with the future and past and missed out on all my
presents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
<br /></div>Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-51471944104357186452016-10-16T04:23:00.001-07:002016-10-16T04:23:30.909-07:00Gut Road (2004)<i>A brief horror story dedicated to D.F. Lewis, a very prolific writer of brief horror stories who was the first writer I ever met personally, in a pub called The Shakespeare near Victoria Train Station in London back in (I think) 1993.</i><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That was the sort of person Mr Lewis was, a man who
seemed happy to leave the hotel just as the sun was going down and walk into
the hills with insufficient supplies and the wrong shoes. Probably a product of
his desperate need to compensate for a sedentary youth with belated adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The men at the tables made conversation over their
beer as they watched him leave. He had already mentioned his interest in
exploring the entire length of Gut Road. A good excuse for dark comments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“He’ll soon be back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No, we’ll never see him again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You’re both wrong. He won’t come back but maybe
somebody else will...”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The path was steep and narrow and soon he was alone in
the dark but he knew another hour of hard walking would take him to the beginning
of the ledge. Down in the valley there was always some light, the glimmer of
the river and maybe a distant village or two. His fear was still smaller than
his resolve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All the same, he guessed his pace was slowing as he
neared the broken fence and NO ENTRY sign. Two tourists had fallen to their
deaths the previous year and the authorities had made token efforts to comply
with official safety regulations. But of course this was a country where the
people ignored authority.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Gut Road came as a big surprise. He had expected a
concrete walkway bolted to the side of the mountain, an artificial ledge
winding its way around the edges of the gorge as far as the reservoir, but
instead he was confronted by the mouth of a tunnel. He groped at his belt for
his powerful flashlight. He almost regretted it was there. He had no excuse to
turn back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He switched it on and stood on the threshold. Even
before he looked to see what the beam revealed he had already called out: “Anyone
there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then he sniggered quietly. Anything truly hostile
lurking in the tunnel would be unlikely to give him a reasonable reply. As he
walked forward he imagined possible answers, all of them absurd by the nature
of whatever spoke them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yes, I’m here. A ghost.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’m here as well, a demon of sorts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Don’t forget me, a nameless cosmic horror. From the
gulfs between the stars. But what are <i>you</i> doing here? It’s not
appropriate.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mr Lewis nodded. Not appropriate and not clever, but
all he encountered was dust thickly spread on the floor. It cushioned his feet
and there were no other footprints in it yet. Nor tracks of any kind.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Back at the hotel the men still drank beer and
infrequently toasted the faded portraits on the wall above the hearth. Already
the landlord was preparing a new picture, huddled over a small desk in a cool
corner, dipping his pen into a jar of crusty ink. The scratching of his nib on
the rough yellow paper was the only significant sound in the room, a furtive
but obtrusive noise like the mirth of a prehistoric rodent. He worked quickly
and finished early and rose to glue his latest creation among his growing
collection of ink faces.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mr Lewis had entered a region of stalagmites and
stalactites which chewed at his clothes as he ducked and stretched around them,
his weary body moving up and down in the precise rhythm needed to dislodge the
sweat on his neck and roll it down his spine. He puffed and shivered at the
same time and itched under his own salt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">These spikes of rock turned the tunnel into a maze and
the idea of retreating began to seem more tempting but he still craved a sense
of achievement and could not quite bring himself to give up yet. He compromised
by resting for a minute in a clear space, squatting in the thick dust and
taking a long drink from his bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He also found a loose cigarette in his pack and
inserted it between his lips. But he had nothing to light it with. With a jolt
of malign inspiration he unscrewed the lens of his flashlight and held the
naked bulb against the tip of the tobacco cylinder. It charred slightly but did
not blossom into flame. No matter. He should not risk damaging his single
source of illumination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He groped again in his pack for a match and his
fingers closed on his mobile phone. This was a relief but he doubted a signal
would be available from his present location. He left it where it was and cast
away his cigarette. As he rose and continued his journey he wondered who had
constructed Gut Road and for what purpose. Had it really been designed in the
shape of a gigantic intestine?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Eventually his own digestive tract started to occupy
his immediate attention and he found a secluded spot between the side of the
tunnel and a thick column made from three or four fused stalagmites. He
chuckled at his own shyness as he pulled down his trousers. There was an awful
symmetry in conducting this process here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Still no signs of other life, no relics of habitation
or previous exploration, but he knew many others had preceded him, his guide
book had told him so. How could tourists fall to their deaths inside here?
Perhaps he was supposed to walk on the roof of the tunnel rather than push his
way through it. A simple mistake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lighter in body and mind he walked reluctantly and was
absolutely on the verge of turning back when his flashlight caught a sign
nailed to a pole planted in the dust. NEXT HOTEL 20 LOOPS. Everything was safe
again. Travelling down Gut Road was acceptable and possible after all.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The beer was almost exhausted and the next delivery
was an hour after dawn but nobody moved. The portrait of Mr Lewis gleamed down
at them, fading slowly, fitting in with the rest of the collection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Funny this constant exchange of residents.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“But good for local culture. The valleys are so
isolated. That must be the reason it exists.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Some people still think it’s a sculpture.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Are there other Gut Roads?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No, there was only ever one giant. A freak of nature
millions of years ago, never to be repeated.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Not everyone makes it right through the body.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The landlord glanced up and made his eyes wise. “Some
are digested by their own incompetence.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He had miscalculated very badly. The loops were
further apart than he had assumed and the obstacle course created by the stone
teeth was becoming more hazardous. He decided not to think about the
consequences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Although the tunnel had not forked at any point, he
felt thoroughly lost, an illusion which excited his curiosity as much as his
fear. He realised he was bleeding from a gash below his left knee. At least
there would be a trail of blood to follow back this way. But in fact the dust
drank it all and his own footprints seemed abnormally shallow. His adventure
did not want to let go of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The flashlight was losing power. The bulb was dying.
Too late to return now but if the going became easier he might still make it to
the far end. He limped faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Less than one hour later he came across another sign.
He snorted with pleasure but his beam revealed a blank square of wood. Nothing
had ever been written on it. For an instant he gritted his teeth, furious at
the worker who had erected it, but then his expression cleared. He walked past
and studied it from the other side. That was the sort of person he still was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the timid flicker he made out the words. They were
intended for a traveller coming in the opposite direction. NEXT HOTEL 20 LOOPS.
He clutched the post for support.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Time to summon help, if he could. He pulled out his
mobile phone and thumbed the number of his hotel, already rehearsing the
apology he would offer but unconvinced that a connection could be made through
the mineral walls. He was astonished to hear the dialling tone. Even before an
unseen hand picked up the receiver he was already calling out:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Anyone there?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The landlord listened carefully, frowned and then
replaced the telephone. The standard answers were no longer amusing. Ghost,
demon of sorts, nameless cosmic horror. Not now. Old worn out jokes, completely
pointless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The others began to drift off to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Are there portraits of us in that other hotel, I
wonder?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Do they actually look like us?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Will they fade with dignity?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“That was the agreement,” confirmed the landlord.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The stairs did not creak but the carpet made an
unwholesome sound rather like indigestion under the weight of tired feet and
mildly bewildered souls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What I don’t understand is who did that to the giant?
Pulled out his bowels and just left him to petrify. Who? Why? And how?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“It was a long time ago,” said the landlord.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mr Lewis was resigned to his fate or perhaps it was
resigned to him. Either way it was best to abandon the struggle and rest his
misplaced being. The bulb was almost dead. It gave off a deep red glow that
turned his environment into a hideous kind of photographic darkroom. He
selected a place and lowered his pack to the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The only thing that might develop here would be a very
sharp panic. But not yet. He sat in the dust and rummaged for the paper bag he
had concealed at the bottom. It was still there, slick with leaked grease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He planted his flashlight in the dust and settled back
but the effect was too eerie, the weak beam casting formless bloody shadows on
the irregular roof, so he reversed its direction and suspended it from a
stalactite like a lantern. He used his belt to secure it in place. No need to
keep his trousers up, not here, not now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He returned to his paper bag. A meal at last. Nothing
very palatable but that was an expected consequence of undertaking an
expedition with insufficient supplies. Black pudding, an ironic choice. He
tried not to breathe through his nose as he bit into it, to avoid the smell and
lessen the taste.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dust to dust, shit to shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And guts within guts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-21876468076798255632016-10-16T04:14:00.003-07:002016-10-16T04:29:36.295-07:00A Girl Like a Doric Column (1997)<i>A simple absurdist fable that I just sat down and wrote one day without any prior thought. It was published in my collection THE SMELL OF TELESCOPES in the year 2000. A sequel-of-sorts called 'The Great Me' was published in my collection ORPHEUS ON THE UNDERGROUND in 2015.</i><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1....”Excuse me, is your girlfriend feeling unwell?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Stop me if it’s none of my business, but she seems to
have a... It appears that her... I mean to say...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Dribble it out man. What’s wrong with her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Her head is made from blue marble.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What? Nonsense! Wait a moment, so it is. Somebody
must have stolen the original and substituted this lifelike replica. Who would
do a thing like that? Why didn’t I notice anything?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Gangs of pickfaces roam the subways. They target a
victim and make a replica head from whatever materials they feel comfortable
with. Heads which are already loose can be swapped in seconds. I bet your
girlfriend had a heavy skull on a slender neck?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Yes, but it wasn’t particularly valuable.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“To the right people it might be...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“That sounds rather ominous. Please explain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The gangs export them to China. I read about it in
the paper. Huge demand for heads over there. They use them for ornamental
purposes. It’s just not safe to take a lady out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Good job I didn’t like her very much. But I promised
her father to get her home in one piece before midnight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Will he notice that her head isn’t real?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Absolutely. He’s obsessed with details. Besides, she
sings for him in the parlour after supper. It’s a family tradition. I’d better
confess and face the music, or lack of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Rather you than me. What will he do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I shudder to think. He’s very protective. He works in
the foundry. Perhaps he’ll boil my ankles over a red-hot girder. Why do
relationships always have to be so complicated?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I asked myself the same question when my wife left
me. The ceiling was falling down and she was fed up with getting plaster in her
hair, so she just walked out. Packed a suitcase and went, without saying
goodbye. She was run over by a steamroller.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“That’s life, I guess. But what shall I do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Maybe I can help. I’m used to dealing with vengeful
fathers. It’ll cost you, though. I’m not a charity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I’m willing to pay. What’s the price?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The girl. I collect females like her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I’m not sure. She might not want to go with you. She’s
very choosy with her affections. You are bald and ugly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“With a blue marble head how will she tell the
difference? Come on, it’s either that or facing the father alone. If you’re
worried about how I’ll treat her, put your mind at rest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Well I’d like to know. It’s only natural.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Of course. She will be assisting my religious
studies. I’m turning my house into a temple. It’s a sacred task I have lined
up, nothing odd. Think of her as a foundation of spirituality.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I can’t argue with that. Let’s shake hands on the
deal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“That’s more like it. You won’t regret this. I’m a
professional and always guarantee my work. Wait and see. I bet if you have
trouble with a father in the future you’ll seek me out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I don’t intend losing another girlfriend’s head!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I think you’ll find most women have loose ones these
days. Perhaps you’ll get lucky and meet a divorcee. They tend to use glue. But
nothing is really secure on the subway any more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The next stop is mine. You’d better follow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“The stop belongs to the railway, but I know what you
mean. Shall I take your girlfriend’s arm to help her down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“She’s not yours yet. Come on, let’s jump off here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“We’re right behind you... Not that way, dear... You
have a complex and exquisite network of veins, like a map of an antediluvian
city ruled by intelligent reptiles... Mind the gap...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">2....”Well that was a cheap trick to play on me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Not at all. I fulfilled my side of the bargain. You
have little to fear from that father now. A successful mission.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“You replaced his head with a mahogany one!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Some people are never satisfied. I’m a pickface, but
I work alone. You should have realised that when I talked so knowledgeably
about China and the export market. But I’m only able to carve heads from
hardwood. A marble head is quite beyond my ability.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Do you make a habit of this? How many commuters have
you deceived? I ought to inform the transport police.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Don’t be churlish. Just give me your girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I guess you deserve her. But I feel nervous. Why do
business-deals always have to be so complicated?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I often ask myself that question when I’m sitting at
home, burning incense to the deity who lives in my broom-cupboard. He lurks
behind the buckets and refuses to come out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Heavens! I thought dry-rot was bad enough. What sort
of god is he? Does he answer prayers or hurl lightning?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Neither, I’m afraid. I think he might be one of the <i>Old
Ones</i>, left behind during the last ice-age. At night he plays the washboard
with his gnarled fingers. I’m sure this music is what made the ceiling fall
down. He lives on spiders and detergent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Sounds like Baby Jesus to me. Is he swaddled?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“No, completely naked. When my temple to him is
finished, I believe he’ll be more approachable. I’ve chosen the Dorian style of
architecture for his sanctum, because it represents the last period when the <i>Old
Ones </i>openly interacted with humanity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“And the girl is a sacrifice to him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Oh dear, no. I need her to hold the roof up. I’ve got
a dozen with blue marble heads lining the lounge. When there’s enough of them
to take the weight, I’ll knock the walls down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Hey presto! An instant temple!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“That’s the idea. He’s far too small a god to digest a
whole female in one go. For sacrifices I rely on my wife.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I thought you said she left you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“She did. But I rushed out after the steamroller and
peeled her off the asphalt in a single flapping sheet. I rolled her up under my
arm and stored her in the downstairs toilet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“You sentimental old fool. How touching!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Whenever he gets frisky and starts playing his damned
washboard, I tear off a required length and feed it to him on a pole. My wife
doubles up as a blanket on cold nights. I think I prefer her after the
accident. But she’s getting shorter every month.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“This is my stop. I’ll take my leave of you here. But
I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. I’m also a pickface.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I should have known! You have fingers like chisels.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I specialise in brass heads. I made a switch when you
looked away. Now you shan’t finish your temple.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“You swapped her blue marble head for a brass one?
That’s breach of contract. Give it back this instant!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“You misunderstand. I can’t blame you, considering
what your brains have to sit in. It’s your head I picked.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“So you have! That’s really brassed me off. You’d
better return it. How will I ever enter an ironmonger’s without losing face?
You’ve ruined me. Come back here for a good polishing!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Sorry, I have to deliver a parcel to China. But look
on the bright side. You’ll be able to fry mushrooms on your cheeks. Haven’t you
wanted to do that for years? It’s not all doom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What will my god say? He’ll be absolutely livid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“But mine will be enraptured. I’ve also got a
broom-cupboard with a resident deity. He’s the last of the <i>Older Ones</i>,
who are much older than the <i>Old Ones</i>. Apart from the <i>Oldest Ones </i>they’re
the oldest <i>Ones</i> of all. He plays the spoons all evening. I suppose
diabolism and skiffle must be connected somewhere along the line.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“It’s not fair! I’m a widower!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“So am I. My wife was a steamroller. She blamed
herself for rolling over a pedestrian and committed suicide.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“But what about my temple? It was so ambitious.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I’ve decided to adopt your idea for my house. Perhaps
it will keep my god away from his blasted spoons. He’s bigger than yours so I’ll
have to build a larger temple. He’ll need a higher roof and girls just aren’t
tall enough. Let me think it over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">3....”Excuse me, is your boyfriend feeling unwell?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Stop me if it’s none of my business, but he seems to
have a... It appears that his... I mean to say...”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-41616977356337958232016-09-27T07:09:00.001-07:002016-10-16T04:07:06.114-07:00The Office Castaway (2003)<i>This story was inspired by J.G. Ballard's superb fabulist novel CONCRETE ISLAND. The idea of that short novel is so excellent that I kept wishing I had thought of it. The only way to stop feeling the pangs of an absurd regret was to take the idea and manipulate it. A simple reversal did the trick. The subtitle of the following story is '<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.3333px; text-align: center;">A REVERSE BALLARDIAN BALLAD'.</span></i><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The story begins on an island inhabited by a man
called Friday. Whether he gave himself this name or had it forced upon him is
unknown but he is happy enough in his solitude and the absence of companions
does not trouble his waking moments. Only in dreams does he experience a slight
unease, a sense of undefined longing, but this is how dreams affect everybody
and no special conclusions should be inferred from the fact. Friday likes to
patrol his territory each morning but he never ventures down to the sea because
he has a fear of drowning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> The sound
of surf is constant in his ears and he has grown accustomed to the rhythm of
the tides, the daily increase and decrease of the dull booming. He dines on
wild plants and the animals which dart in the undergrowth and his aim with
spear and sling is excellent. He can no longer remember who taught him the use
of such weapons, but questions of this nature are mere amusements in the rare
lulls between the serious duties of hunting and keeping warm and dry. In summer
the island is an agreeable place but the rainy season is relentless and bitter
and his clothes have long since crumbled away to unwholesome dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Friday
sometimes thinks about leaving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> But how
would this be possible? He cannot swim and has no idea how far away the next
island might be, if indeed there are other islands, nor in which direction he
should go, nor how to keep to that direction, nor why anywhere else should be
better than here. It is certainly not loneliness that bothers him, but mostly
the chill, the clammy rain, the absolute greyness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> One winter
it is so cold that the water in his drinking vessel turns to ice and the
biggest fire he can build is still inadequate to keep him in comfort, for
though it roasts one side of him nicely the other side is still exposed to the
freezing air and so he must revolve constantly to maintain an even spread,
which is exhausting and annoying. Now he understands why true happiness will
never be his if he remains and he stands and starts to run around the island as
an alternative method of generating heat. Although he has never approached the
sea closely he knows what it looks like from a distance and now he observes
that it too is coated with a layer of ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> He stops
and hugs himself tightly and wonders if this surface of solid water will take
his weight but in accordance with most stories of this nature he hesitates for
no more than a few seconds before rushing forward and testing the concept in a
practical manner. The ice holds. There is no sound of surf at all, only the
cries of birds high above and a crackling behind which might be shifting ice or
the death throes of the fire he has abandoned. He slides and loses his balance
more than once but manages to avoid falling and now he begins to suspect that
the world is not quite the place he always assumed it was, far from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Those are
not clouds on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Previously
the range of his vision was limited by the vapours he has never before
questioned, the tumbling steams which roll over the sea and smother his island,
though without choking him, for they are not quite that thick. Grey and bland
mists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Now he is a
witness to strange scenes. In silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> He shudders
and perceives that there are vessels in the vicinity, boats stuck in the ice.
He searches each in turn. At last he comes across the aftermath of a collision,
two vessels jammed together, metal plates dented and crushed, lanterns and
portholes smashed, a pool of frozen blood around them. One of the boats is
empty but the other contains a man with a broken neck, a man not dissimilar to
Friday in general build and appearance. Icicles have formed on his shaven
cheeks and chin, giving him an old sharp beard, and Friday's own beard is spiky
and hard, so they regard each other, fevered eyes locked with dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> It is too
cold for profound thoughts at this meeting and Friday quickly strips the corpse
of its clothes and uses them to cover his blue flesh. Nakedness has been
exchanged. He is on the point of congratulating himself and maybe even making
plans to return to his island when a roaring noise fixes him in his tracks. Is
the ice giving way? No, it is something else, the approach of another vessel,
larger than the boats already here, an object moving over the ice, breaking it
up but without plunging through, spitting white crystals from a long tube in
its side. Behind it, following the channel it has created, comes a vessel
adorned with flashing lights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Friday
staggers under this onslaught of sensation and the second vessel stops and lets
out two men with a stretcher who run over and catch him and carry him back to
the rear of the ship. In the hold it is warm and white. The men lean over
Friday and speak and he understands a few of the words but not the meaning of
what they are trying to tell him and he is intrigued by the mystery of his
recognition of language and the deep memories it stirs within him. Then they
jab something into his arm and he is overcome with the weight of sleep and when
he finally awakens, with no dreams to disengage from, he finds himself no
longer in the ship and no longer moving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> There is a
window and it shows a lawn and trees and a wall and beyond these comes the
sound of surf or rather a sound which he knows well but no longer has the same meaning
as before. He lies still on a bed and after an hour he is visited by a man who
seems pleased he is conscious and mumbles something to which Friday nods
because he knows it is expected. The man leaves and returns a long while later
with a companion and they are both dressed in white coats and they talk to him
but many of the words they use are incomprehensible. Friday rubs his chin and
realises they have shaved off his beard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> They tell
him he is in a hospital and that he has suffered an accident because of the
freak weather conditions. His memory has been affected and he does not know who
he is, an assertion which strikes him as absurd, but he makes no protest. For
one thing he is curious. It seems they have taken the liberty of going through
the pockets of his suit to ascertain his identity and that his wife has been
contacted and will be here soon. Eventually a woman arrives and sits on a chair
next to his bed and her pinched face regards him with doubt and hostility but
she says nothing and he makes no attempt to talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> A few days
later he goes home with her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> He has no
physical interest in this unknown female and she reciprocates his apathy but
they become companionable enough and spend the days sitting in separate soft
chairs watching the televised news bulletins, many of which are concerned with
the recent plunge in temperature, a climatic anomaly now fortunately over. He
even stops thinking of himself as Friday and the new identity he has been given
no longer feels inappropriate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> One morning he is visited by a figure exuding
an aura of authority and competence who rings the doorbell and is led to his
side by his wife. This figure is his boss in the firm where he is employed.
Friday is informed that the company has made a decision to welcome him back to
work despite his amnesia. He pretends to be grateful and stands to shake hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> He returns
to the office the following day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> He is lost
in this unfamiliar environment but his colleagues show him the place where he
used to sit, the desk groaning with papers, the telephones and filing cabinets.
It is the far corner of a dim narrow room without windows and he instantly
realises he is truly stranded for the first time in his life, a castaway in a
cheerless box, marooned without adequate nourishment for mind and heart,
stranded without hope of rescue in an eight hours a day, five days a week job,
not counting compulsory weekend training courses. There is no way out and his
prison is bounded by the sighs of his colleagues, the surf of despair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> As the
months pass he begins to accept his role as normal, though it never becomes
more welcome nor does he ever really understand the meaning of his daily tasks.
But it does not seem to matter what work he does provided he turns up punctually
and remains there all day. His colleagues gradually become confident enough in
his presence to openly joke that he is not the man he once was. His wife has
not quite reached this stage. He is informed that because of his mental
condition he will have to retake his driving test and so he arranges for
lessons. In the meantime another worker offers to give him a daily lift from
his house to the office and back again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Sitting in
the passenger seat as they accelerate down the urban motorway, he turns his
head away from the driver and stares out of the window. Where three busy roads
intersect there is a large piece of wasteland, isolated and overgrown, littered
with wrecked cars which recline like boats on an exposed reef. He briefly
wonders how the waters receded, how all this land was reclaimed from the sea,
how the surrounding flyovers and buildings were erected so rapidly. It is a
mystery beyond imagination, but for some reason he does not yearn to know the
answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> The story
concludes with this image and the observation that changes are inevitable,
every day in any life, and that they should be welcomed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> But for
Friday it will always feel like Monday morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-52274604155581326002016-07-13T09:41:00.000-07:002016-07-13T09:41:48.707-07:00The Kizomba Wanderers (2016)<i>I was asked to put together a collection of very brief stories for a publisher in Greece. As well as selecting tales from those I had already written over many years, I saw an opportunity to write several new stories. Brevity was a prime requirement. When writing for a foreign publisher, knowing that my work is going to be translated, it makes sense to write stories that aren't based on wordplay or semantics but that are fairly simple ideas-based pieces that will work well in any language.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Kizomba is one of the most sensual dances for couples to enjoy
together. It originated in Angola but soon became popular in many other
countries. I went to classes to learn and dance with other beginners. Although
not as spectacular to watch as salsa, which I also hoped to learn, it soon
became my favourite dance. The way it <i>feels</i> makes it special. It sets up
a unique and deep connection with your partner, a closing of a circuit, and
creates a powerful illusion that you have known them for many years, even if
you have never danced with them before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before I tried it for
myself, I wondered why kizomba partners closed their eyes when dancing. The
truth is that it is easier that way. One can concentrate more fully on the
feeling rather than worrying about how the performance looks to others. Kizomba
isn’t really a dance that is danced for the benefit of spectators. It is a
private dance, but danced in public, an island of sensuality in an ocean of
eyes, but those eyes don’t matter. One locks oneself away in the movements, in
the closeness, in the timing and the pulse of the rhythm, in the feeling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But although there are no
extravagant spins or twists, no tricky twirls or acrobatic postures necessary,
it is a difficult dance because the subtlety is everything. A simple mistake is
fatal. In salsa, bachata or forro, errors of timing or missteps can be remedied
easily enough. The routine can be rescued. The leader can break away from the
follower for a moment and reestablish the pulse or the footing before engaging
again as a couple. In kizomba such opportunities are much more rare. The entire
dance is close and the movements are meshed tightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If a man gets it wrong in
kizomba, his error will transmit instantly to the woman and both will flounder.
There is no chance to improvise one’s way out of the resultant mess. One must
simply stop and start again and hope that the connection can be resumed at the
point it was broken off. I think it can be safely compared to the stalling of
an aircraft. Both dancers are the wings and the routine will plummet and crash
on the smooth and shiny floor of the dance hall or nightclub. Perhaps that is a
poor metaphor because aeroplanes don’t fly ecstatically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Among the ladies who were
learning at the same time as I, there was one who seemed to be at exactly the
same level as me, and who appeared to progress at the same rate. We were drawn
to each other because of this and danced perhaps too often together, for one
should ideally dance with as many different partners as possible in order to
understand differences of balance, temperament and aptitude. Learning is faster
that way, but I liked dancing with Selma too much. We were utterly attuned, our
heads made for resting on each other’s shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was one move in
particular that I could almost grasp but never quite get right, and the same
was true for her. It was a sideways move in which the man leads the lady eight
steps to the left and then after a pause involving slow gyrations, eight steps
back to the starting point. It is called the ‘grapevine’, this particular move,
and I was absolutely determined to become comfortable and then proficient with
it. At first I would step on her feet all the way to the left, and she would
step on my feet all the way back, balancing out the scales of suffering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Selma and I practiced it
again and again, our eyes shut, but always it was slightly wrong. We improved
to the point where neither of us injured the other at all. The problem was more
one of symmetry. My steps to the left were longer than those to the right, so
we never actually returned to the starting point. Always there was some drift.
On the dancefloor such drift meant ending up boxed into a corner among the
dusty shadows. But even that wasn’t a disaster. One would simply use other
steps in order to escape and return to the middle of the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And who repeats the sideways
move indefinitely anyway? Nobody at all. But it was a move I ached to get
right, so I tended to use it more than I should. One evening at dance class my
obsession rose up in full force. It dominated me and appeared to transmit a
specific urgency to my partner. At the time I didn’t realise that the main door
had been left open. It was a very warm evening in summer, that’s why, and
dancers are often prone to overheating. Selma and I were in a close hold,
closer than ever before in fact, and our eyelids were firmly shuttered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing short of an
explosion or the roar of an adjacent hippopotamus could have persuaded me to
widen my eyes. I was completely embedded in present time, lost in the moment,
fixed in the <i>now</i>, a state we all strive to attain throughout our lives
but rarely achieve. Kizomba is Zen. There are other activities in this world
that achieve the same effect, but kizomba is the most reliable for me. I became
so sensitive to the sensation that I was one big sensation all over. I knew
that Selma was undergoing exactly the same process and our souls had merged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The outside world ceased to
exist, or rather it existed to provide space and time alone, devoid of worries,
obstacles and impracticalities. We still knew, of course, that gravity was a
force on us, that we breathed the air of the atmosphere, that one day we would
have to die. The mundane serious nuisances of the world hadn’t been entirely
forgotten, but they acquired a quality of abstraction that made them easy to
ignore. And ignore them is precisely what we did. We danced and the hours might
as well have been days, weeks, months. And then Selma spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“The music has stopped.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, it has.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“In fact it stopped a long
time ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You are right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It grew fainter and fainter
and then became silence.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Very gradually it did
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shall we open our eyes on
the count of three?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“A sensible suggestion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“One, two, three…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We were no longer on the dancefloor.
We were no longer in the dance class. We weren’t even in the same city that we
had started from. In fact, we were in an entirely different city, for we had
danced through the open door and down streets and along country roads and had
ended up far from home and friends. Too much use of the sideways move! We had
drifted to a place that neither of us recognised. How would we get back? We had
no map, no compass, no transport. There was only one option and that was to
enrol in a local kizomba class and try again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It wasn’t too difficult to
locate a venue where kizomba was taught and practiced. Again we lost ourselves
in each other, Selma and I, and danced out of the hall and along the surface of
the world. I don’t know if we were really expecting to return to our point of
origin. I think we were desperate to try anything. Finally when we opened our
eyes again we saw that more dancing had simply carried us further away. We were
in a foreign country now and somehow we had danced over the surface of the sea,
stepping on the tops of waves in our oblivious mutual bliss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 19.85pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Again it seemed like a good
idea to enrol in a kizomba class. Dance is an international language that needs
no translation. This time our embrace was so profound that when we eventually
stopped dancing, decades later, and lifted our creaking eyelids, we blinked
them at a sun that was emerald green instead of yellow. So clearly we had
danced right off the globe and onto the surface of another planet. Such things
happen thanks to kizomba. And I know that other couples are standing on other
worlds right now and still struggling to perfect the ‘grapevine’ move.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-26834919443087283072016-06-25T05:29:00.003-07:002016-06-25T05:29:32.052-07:00The Furious Walnuts (1995)<i>This story seems particularly relevant now (June 2016) in the wake of the Brexit victory in the recent referendum on EU membership. It is a story that originally appeared in my collection NOWHERE NEAR MILKWOOD. It is also the very first of my tales that I turned into an <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxISFj-kKjQ">audio file</a> that is available on YouTube. A sequel called 'The Smutty Tamarinds' appeared in my book TALLEST STORIES. It's highly likely I will write a third tale in this sequence one day.</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">For more than a week, Walter had
been feeling a trifle Scottish. It didn’t help that his house was the colour of
salmon. Nor that his wife was named Heather. He’d wanted a magnolia house and a
wife named Patsy, but you can’t have everything. A primeval force was moving
within him, an urge to plunge through moor, lake and glen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Over breakfast, a
meal of sheep’s stomach stuffed with lungs, he mentioned his condition. He
wondered if turning into a Highlander would affect his career. He was, after
all, paid to sell a chemical which removed ice-cream stains from trousers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">His wife glowered at
him. Being a gentle soul, her glower was not hugely effective. If looks could
kill, he’d be complaining of slight abdominal cramps and asking his pharmacist
for aspirin. Fortunately, he felt sick enough already.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“You’ll have to
adjust,” she told him. “My brother, Desmond, had a dose of Burma. Took to
wearing rubies in his nose and making fish-bone curry. But he kept his job in the
Civil Service. And cousin Joseph was a train spotter who became an Eskimo.
Never needed to change his anorak, just noted down kayaks instead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Rather than feeling
reassured, Walter finished his food in anxious silence, wiped his knife on his
beard and stuffed it into his sock. He wanted to hold forth on bridges and
pneumatic tyres. But his wife hated lofty or inflated topics. So he dressed for
work, shook the last drops from the bottle of woad and mounted his bicycle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Around him, men and
women were changing, shells of identity falling off and rattling on the
pavement. Walter blinked. It seemed to him that whenever an identity clattered
to the ground, a horde of imps rushed out of shop doorways and storm drains and
lifted it up. Then they fitted it onto the shoulders of some other pedestrian.
They moved so fast, it was difficult to register their presence at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Walter felt he ought
to investigate this phenomenon more closely, but at that moment he passed the
bus station. Lately, the bus station had exerted a strange fascination for him.
He spent the next hour or so hanging around the ticket office, threatening
commuters and demanding the fare back to Glasgow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">When he reached work,
his boss was waiting for him. Mr Jhabvala was a yogi and astrologer who had
invented <i>Caste Away</i>, the ultimate frozen dessert stain eradicator, in
Bombay. His prototype was so successful that jealous rivals had pursued him all
over the subcontinent. Years in the Kashmiri mountains had taken their toll.
His skin was pitted with cobra bites and his eyes glittered like opals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">He invited Walter to
sit down, leant back in his swivel chair and stroked his chin. A run-in with
brigands had left him with only three fingers on his left hand. The missing
digits on his right hand, however, were testimony to frostbite in the Hindu
Kush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“Listen, old boy,” he
began, toying with his cravat, “I’ve paid a lot of thought to this and I’ve
decided to let you go. Awfully sorry, but you know how it is. Be a good chap
and don’t cry. Stiff upper lip and all that. Thing is, old bean, we can’t allow
a Scotsman to peddle our goods. Customers would take fright. Kindly accept this
Cheddar as a parting gift and run along. Toodle pip.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Sighing languidly, Mr
Jhabvala pasted his kiss-curl back onto his brow and inserted a cigarette into
a long holder. Walter ignored the gift and stomped out, cursing into his beard.
On the street, he caught his new reflection in a tailor’s window. His
Scottishness was growing worse by the minute. The claymore in his belt
interfered with the back wheel of his bicycle, the tam-o’-shanter keep slipping
over his eyes. He’d have to visit his doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Dr Walnut was a
family practitioner. He greeted Walter cordially, offering him a hookah and
rolling out a carpet for his benefit. Walter felt uncomfortable in the surgery,
possibly because he’d never seen Dr Walnut in a fez before. Foregoing the hashish,
he outlined his problem. Dr Walnut nodded, poured himself a glass of raki and
clapped his hands. The receptionist, Miss White, came in and undulated her bare
midriff on the desk between them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“A little thin, no?”
he chuckled, exhaling noxious fumes through flared nostrils. Noticing Walter’s
scowl, he held up his hands in a mollifying gesture. “You can’t get the staff
these days. Now what can I do for you? You are turning Scottish? Well there’s a
bug about. Rampant Internationalism. It’s the rains we’ve been having.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Walter nodded. Dr
Walnut stood up and moved to a filing cabinet in the corner of his surgery. He
opened the drawers and a scruffy child popped out of each. In their features,
they were miniature replicas of Dr Walnut. They leapt to the floor and began
riding hobbyhorses in tight circles on the gaudy central rug. Walter caught the
flash of silk, the creak of leather, the acrid odour of mare’s milk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“My sons succumbed
last week. Mongolianism, a severe outbreak. All my silver scalpels have been
looted. Keep erecting tents in the kitchen. What can one do?” He inhaled deeply
on his hookah and his eyes sparkled. “The little heathens! They’re absolutely
furious, no?” One at a time, he lifted them and deposited them back into the
filing cabinet, forcing the drawers shut with the toe of his curly slipper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Walter wasn’t
interested in other people’s children. He paced the room in dismay, his sporran
swinging. “That’s all very well. But what can ye do for me?” He scratched at
the lice in his plaid. Dr Walnut gave a mysterious smirk and reached into the
folds of his robes. He removed a murky phial and held it up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“It is most fortunate
you came to see me at this time. I have just finished distilling this liquid
from my sons. It is poison to the imps who cause the ailment. I call it <i>Tartar
Source</i>.” He winked slyly. “It is expensive, but for you there is special
price.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“Och, give it here!”
Walter snatched the bottle and swallowed the contents. For a moment he reeled
and clutched at his head. Then he made his way gingerly out of the surgery. Dr
Walnut followed, calling him the offspring of a dog and various unnatural
partners. He brushed past Miss White, who had returned to Reception and was
sugaring her body, and fell down the steps onto the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Over the next
fortnight, a second transformation took place. Walter was at a complete loss to
explain this one. He found his head was still eager to cycle everywhere but his
abdomen wanted a bus. His arms had an urge to paddle a coracle. Most
disconcertingly, his toes began to smell of fish and his neck of sausage. When
he woke one morning to find that Heather had drawn isobars over his body with a
felt tip pen, he guessed he’d also have to swallow his pride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Dr Walnut was very forgiving.
He studied Walter carefully, tapped parts of his attire with a tiny hammer and
grunted. “The cure was only partially successful. Your head seems to have
remained Scottish while the rest of you has altered. You have become a walking
analogue of the British Isles. Your body is England, your arms are Wales and
your legs reach all the way down to Cornwall.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“That explains it!”
cried Walter. “Yesterday, I was passing a cake shop and my feet were attracted
by the cream. They went one way, my body went another and I slipped and landed
on my Kent. But if I’m the mainland, where does Ireland fit in?” He saw the
answer in Dr Walnut’s pout. “My wife! What do you mean! Oppressed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">Dr Walnut shook his
head. “No, no. Green and gently rolling.” He took Walter’s pulse. “Any pain in
your Lancashire?” Walter had to admit there wasn’t. His Cleveland itched and
his Herefordshire rumbled, but these were minor concerns. Something of much
more fundamental importance had just occurred to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“What will happen if
the Union dissolves? I’ve heard that Scotland stands a good chance of winning
independence. If that happens will my head fall off?” he demanded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“I think I know what
your problem is,” Dr Walnut replied. “You’re a character in a short story. Some
amateur hack is writing this down even as we speak. At the end, to entertain
the reader, he’ll make the Union dissolve and your head will indeed fall off.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“Isn’t there anything
I can do?” Walter was in tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">“If the reader doesn’t
reach the end, you’ll be okay. You’d better try to be boring from now on, in
the hope they won’t go any further. If you try really hard, they might throw
the short story away in disgust and do something else.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">It was suddenly very
clear to Walter. His fate lay in the hands of some non-accountable reader. But
what was the best way of being boring? He thought about it. Whatever happened,
the reader mustn’t be allowed to reach the end of the story. He thought about
it some more. He appealed to the reader to stop at this point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line;">His head fell off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 17.0pt;">
<br /></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9044521806344469545.post-90675721891036492272016-06-18T04:40:00.002-07:002016-06-18T04:44:10.316-07:00There Was a Ghoul Dwelt by a Mosque (1996)<i>In the mid 1990s I was a regular contributor to Ghosts & Scholars, a journal of ghost stories that took the writer M.R. James as its chief inspiration and motivation. I wrote many stories that had a connection to his work. At the same time I did not wish to produce straightforward ghost tales. My more outré efforts in this regard tended not to make it into the journal (although some did) and ended up being published elsewhere, the following story, for example, which was inspired not only by M.R. James but also by William Beckford. It is, in fact, a continuation-of-sorts of Beckford's VATHEK. It was published in my book <a href="http://www.tartaruspress.com/hughes-the-smell-of-telescopes.html">THE SMELL OF TELESCOPES</a>.</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">This is the story about ungodly deeds which Vathek,
the mad caliph in Beckford’s novel, was hearing from one of the new arrivals in
Hell, when his mother flew in on the back of an afrit to chide him for not
enjoying the pleasures on offer. The tale is not given; Vathek’s acquaintance
was damned soon after without having a chance of resuming it. Now what was it
going to have been? Beckford knew, no doubt, but I am not bold enough to say
that I do. I will offer a new story: one you will think made from scraps of
other fables. Everybody should sew a patchwork coat from the materials he likes
best. This is mine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">There was a ghoul dwelt by a mosque. His name was Omar
and he was a potter with a shop built from broken vases. His doorway looked out
on the Kizilirmak, the longest river in Asia Minor, and from his roof he could
lean over and touch the mosque with his elongated arms. His wheel and oven had
belonged to a human craftsman who died without heirs and was buried with his
tools, but (this was in Haroun al Raschid’s day) ghouls were allowed to keep
any items they dug up. The creature filed his teeth to stubs to reassure his
neighbours — but never mind what they thought of him; he was skilled enough at
his trade to make a living from the travellers who passed through Avanos. He
rarely overcharged for his products and this frightened people most of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Omar lacked humanity in other ways: he kept an attic
full of hair clipped from the heads of his female visitors. There were women
pilgrims and merchants even then and they were politely requested to give up a
lock or two for his archive. The monster labelled them and secured them to the
ceiling on hooks, where they exuded a musty odour and shivered in the shifting
air currents. Omar liked to imagine his attic was a cave beneath a garden — a
garden of vegetable girls whose roots were pushing through into his
subterranean kingdom. This unusual custom has persisted through the centuries;
next time you are in Avanos, ask for the house of Master Galip and you will see
what I mean. His modern collection is also illuminated by a single lamp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The ghoul had a mother no less grotesque in her
habits. She helped him collect the red clay from the river-bank, bringing him a
supply each morning. Instead of cutting the clay into blocks, she would roll it
in her hands and present it to him like a freshly-exhumed intestine. Then he
would divide it with a pair of shears and they would gather round the wheel
with excited giggles, as if they were grilling sausages instead of preparing to
throw another plate or saucer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The attic was also the place where the ghoul kept all
his rejects, the warped and flawed work. Heavy urns, twisted over like slaves;
cups with no handles, or too many; pitchers with clamped mouths or leaking
sides; shapeless mounds as tall as men which should have been coffins but were
unusable, save for lepers; pipes with stems which curled back into the bowl;
teapots without spouts, or spouts which poured tea into the lap of the drinker.
All these, Omar packed into his attic, loathe to discard them. With the hair
above and the failures below, the room became a sort of museum of imperfection
— the former lacking complete substance; the latter lacking complete form.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">One day, a cowled traveller called at the shop. Veiled
from head to foot, she betrayed her femininity by her poise and sibilant voice.
She had come far and was taking her first holiday in many years. Her sisters
were keen on stone figures for their garden and she had promised to take some
back as gifts. But sculptors were rare in Asia Minor, the prophet had forbidden
such art, and so, to make the best of a bad thing, she had decided to purchase
pottery as a substitute. She wondered if she might view Omar’s most decorative
examples.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Well, my work is functional, not fine art,” said the
ghoul. “But you’re free to look round. I’m self-trained and you mustn’t expect
too much in the way of aesthetic gratification.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Come, these pots betray a certain flair,” cried the
visitor. “Lead me through your shop and I will choose something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So he guided her along racks of ceramic utensils,
which she studied with a slight wave, as if to indicate they were not quite
suitable. When the conventional rooms were exhausted, they reached the attic. “The
work in here is not really for sale,” apologised Omar, “but if you will enter
and allow me to snip a strand of your hair...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The visitor seemed about to refuse, but the door was
swinging open and when she caught a glimpse of the mutated wares she forgot to
voice an objection. Stepping forward in joy, she squealed: “Perfect! They are
so delightfully strange. And this one is the oddest of the lot! I must have it
at any price!” And she moved to the end of the attic and seized the ghoul’s
mother, who was sleeping on a stool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this point, several things happened at once. The
ghoul mistook his visitor’s cry for compliance with his request, and he reached
across the room with his elongated arms to sever a lock with his shears. But
the mother had jumped up in alarm, knocking over and smashing the single lamp.
In pitch darkness, Omar felt under his visitor’s veil and detached it with
clumsy fingers, whereupon he snipped the lock. While he groped his way to a
hook to hang it up, his mother struck a flint in an attempt to relight the
lamp; the attempt was unsuccessful, but the long spark which winked in the
gloom was enough to illuminate the visitor, who was still bending over the
mother. Then darkness came again, more intense for the momentary light: there
was a groan, something brushed past the ghoul and clattered out through the
shop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When Omar’s slitted eyes had adjusted, he saw he was
alone in the attic. No: his mother was there as well, but she was changed. Her
arms flung up as if to cover her face, her body twisted away as if from some
dreadful apparition, she was literally petrified. She had always had a stony
expression; now it was real. Omar looked at the ceiling and his hearts raced
madly; in place of a lock of hair was a very angry snake, hissing and writhing
on its hook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, he gnashed his filed teeth for many a moon, I
can assure you. Without a mother, a ghoul is lost, like a bridge without a
river or a pot without a price. Luckily, he dwelt by a mosque and the local
muezzin was a sorcerer who made no secret of his skills. Standing on his roof
at night, just after the evening call to prayer, Omar hailed the muezzin on his
minaret and made a pact. He would sell part of his soul, the human part, to Eblis
— the devil — in exchange for the return of his mother. So the muezzin lowered
a glass tablet inscribed with arcane symbols on a gold thread and told Omar to
place it between his mother’s granite lips, whereupon she would spring to life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As he stumbled through the attic with this talisman,
Omar happened to brush the snake, which bit him on the shoulder. He growled in
pain and his great hands came together, crushing the glass tablet to powder.
The sparkling shards flew up and settled on the warped and twisted pots. With a
hideous scraping sound, they came alive — the urns, the pitchers, the cups, the
coffins — tumbling awkwardly, snapping their lids, grating against each other,
whistling, crowding round the ghoul like dogs round a master, or jackals round
a corpse. With his fists and feet, he smashed them to pieces, then he went down
and returned with the potter’s wheel, which he rolled among the wounded
ceramics, reducing them to fine dust. The one place the magic glass had missed
was the mother, who remained as motionless and igneous as before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Unable to bear the loss of his soul for naught, Omar
left his shop disguised as a minor prince and went searching for his visitor.
But he succeeded only in passing into the domain of Hell. By now, his fears had
altered. He was more frightened that another sorcerer would manage to reanimate
his mother: she would be furious at being kept so long in such a condition and
would berate him. Better to be damned, he decided, than to suffer the ill-will
of a ghoul’s mother, who would be certain to bend him over her knee and
smack......<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 17pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At this juncture, Vathek’s acquaintance slapped off
his turban to reveal the horns of a ghoul. His forked tongue poked out over his
filed teeth. Vathek fell back with a cry of pity and alarm, but recovered soon
enough and, tapping his nose, asserted that he knew another mother quite three
times as dreadful as that one, but lacked enough horrid words to describe her.
Indeed, at that very moment she was trying to dethrone one of the pre-Adamite
sultans. More tangibly, in Avanos there is a curious statue standing in the
square, waiting for something, a backward glance from an earlier tourist, I do
not know; but it is a fact that Gorgons no longer go to Asia Minor for their
holidays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
Rhys Hugheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00018333653034645125noreply@blogger.com0