Exerts From My Dream Diary

Dream 1
I was on my way to the football match. I was on a minibus, which was taking the strangest and most random route to the game.  We raced down cobbled streets, through buildings and down river banks.  Eventually we reached the stadium of Aston Villa FC and I disembarked.  Aston Villa’s stadium, Villa Park, looked nothing like I remembered, but I did not feel any concern.  I made my way to my seat.

It was difficult to concentrate on the football match, for more than one reason.  For a start there seemed to be many attractive ladies at the match.  For another reason, there were two guys sitting next to me who were having a loud conversation.  One of them had blond hair and seemed very angry, and he ranted and shouted a lot.  His colleague had black hair, was very cool and detached and had a European accent (could’t quite place the country).

Although the blonde haired guy seemed very angry about something, he appreciated the more laid back view of his friend.  At one point he asked his friend, “do you believe in God?”
“Hmm… Interesting…” said the dark haired guy.

I was quite annoyed by their conversation.  Deep meaning philosophical conversations aren’t meant to be had at the football, I thought, they are meant to be had at the pub.  I got up and left.

The journey home from the match was even more random than the journey to the game, and the minibus was speeding through a small picturesque village.  I could feel the fear of the driver, who was terrified that the bus would crash into a wall.  But suddenly we burst onto a river bank, and the driver lost control, and we tumbled into the dark, cold water.

I recovered and swam away from the bus, now being pursued by a herd of swimming cows.  Fortunately for me, the river was contained within high walls, like a reservoir, and I was able to hang on to a vine that grew from one of those walls as the herd of cows swam past.

I watched one of the cows, a brown cow with a big fat cow body, climb over the wall.  As it did so, we regarded each other solemnly.


Dream 2
There was a town in Alaska where all they did was have sex.  They had sex as often and with as many people as possible.  There was even a totem pole standing at the boundary of the town, featuring scenes that were a bit like the Karma Sutra, including scenes of mass orgies.  One of the girls who lived in the town had picked up a boyfriend, but he had no idea about her lifestyle.  A guy is making a documentary about this situation and is driving out to meet the boyfriend to break the bad news to him. 

“How could he not know about the way his girlfriend lives?” says the documentary maker, “There’s even a totem pole outside the town with all of those depictions!”

When the boyfriend hears the news he is very upset, as you would expect.  The rest of the documentary follows him around as he attempts to cope with the way things are.  The documentary maker grows more sympathetic towards him as time goes by.

At one point, in his frustration, the boyfriend grabs a microphone and sings a song.  Here are the words:

F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f***ck,
F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f**ck fuggidy f***ck…

Terror Christmas

The old man wiped the blood away from his mouth and prepared to do battle again.

His white beard was stained red, and underneath his red jacket, he could feel the pain of fresh bruises; the result of blows to his body by his enemy. Wearily, he dragged himself to his feet.

St Nicholas, or Santa Claus - just two of the names by which he was known - painfully drew himself up and faced his foe. He and his would-be assailant were on the roof of a small bungalow in a remote part of Greenland. Santa had become stranded here when he had suddenly lost control of his sleigh, which had fallen from the sky like a wounded comet, presents flying in all directions. In the chaos that had ensued, the reindeer that drew Santa’s sleigh had bolted - with Rudolph, their leader unable to control them - and now Santa faced the wrath of the anti-Christmas Hobgoblin.

It was this goblin that now grinned at his injured enemy, its fangs glinting, as it flexed its distended sinews in preparation for the final kill. "Come on Santa," it hissed as it pointed its talons towards the saintly present giver, "Where’s your claws?!"

Quick as a flash, it raked its own claws across Santa’s plump stomach, and the old man’s red uniform was stained a deeper red by his blood. Santa coughed more blood and cursed himself for allowing an ambush like this to happen. All these years, safe in the magical protection of his sleigh, and that of his workshop – they had made him careless. He had taken his own safety in the power of Christmas for granted; and now he was paying the price. Hence, a demon from the edges of reality, which pray on what is good and pure, having sensed his vulnerability, had attacked. And now he faced the possibility that the magic of Christmas would die.

Here.

Now.

With him, this night.

Santa peered through the driving snow, attempting to spot his antagonist.

Suddenly he felt the gut wrenching sensation of the goblin's claws as they again cut into his stomach. Red fluid sprayed across the roof, instantly freezing in the sub-zero temperatures. As he fell and slid down the steep bungalow roof, Santa saw a huge black shape, blacker even than the ebony sky, rising over him. There was a throbbing in his head, and even though his enemy did not did not apply the finishing blow as yet, his vision was blurring and he knew the end was near.

Unconsciously, he reached into his pocket.

Wait.

A silence hung in the air. No sound could be heard except the howling wind. The goblin prepared to make the final killer lunge. He had temporarily lost sight of the old man, but no matter. Soon his triumph would be complete. Just time for some final gloating.

"Hey, Christmas", he snarled. "There’ll be no presents for the kids this year!"

The goblin stopped and listened. No reply. The wind howled again. The goblin looked around him, taking in the empty white landscape, haunted and desolate against the black sky.

"Little Johnny won’t get his train set, because Santa’s lying dead on some godforsaken roof!" snarled the goblin. "What do you think of that, Christmas?!"

Suddenly, the goblin found itself face to face with the old saint. Santa’s teeth were gritted, and his eyes were burning with fierce determination as he snarled in reply. "That’s FATHER Christmas to you, PUNK!!"

With a yell he charged the hobgoblin, which was so startled it was knocked off its feet. Falling together, they crashed against the tall, soot encrusted frame of the chimney, which rose from the snow-covered roof to become almost invisible against the black sky. Santa recovered quickly, drew himself back and punched the goblin in the jaw. The demon grunted but was unhurt. Yet it hesitated, giving the old man enough time to spring backwards and recover his balance on top of the roof. For a moment the protagonists faced each other in the swirling snow.

The goblin sneered and bared its fangs. It had to finish the old man soon, before the midnight hour struck, and the onset of Christmas would give him power. Slowly, and threateningly, it unfurled the viscous claws in one of its hands; then it bared the talons in its other -

What the hell is this!?

Slowly, a look of disbelief etched into its features, it brought forth the small object that Santa had pushed into its paw during their last scuffle. It was a brightly coloured package, all tied up with ribbons. The demon gaped, and looked up at Santa; who returned its stare, his eyes almost bulging.

And the demon roared with satanic laughter.

"Trying to buy me off with presents old man?!" it guffawed, "this is the last present you’ll ever give-"

But the monster was forced to stop speaking, because at that moment a premonition filled its thoughts; a premonition that filled it with dread.

Something was coming.

And a second later, the unmistakable sound of sleigh bells drifted down to them, tantalizingly playing above the howling wind.

Horrified, the goblin jutted its face towards the sky; it knew that sound. "No!" it screamed "not yet!" 

But it was too late.

Because across the sky it came, trailing stars in its wake.  And the air was filled with the sound of bells, reindeer hoofs, magic and child-like wonder. Santa’s sleigh had returned.

Within a second it was overhead, swooping towards them and dwarfing the tiny cottage on which they stood. The reindeer called out, "Father!" as they roared overhead.

Instantly Santa produced a grappling hook that fired a steel cable into the underbelly of his slay. "See? What did I tell you", he yelled above the snow, the wind and the sound of the sleigh, "It’s FATHER Christmas – get it right!"

"You’ll be Father DEADmas in a minute!!" roared the demon as it sprang forward to make the final kill – too late.

Santa was already sky-born, the magnetic reel at the end of the cable drawing him towards the departing sleigh. The hobgoblin howled in anguish as it crashed against the roof and fell towards the deep snowdrifts that clung to the side of the bungalow. With lightening reflexes it dug its long claws into the edge of the roof to arrest its fall.

Slowly, grudgingly, it drew itself up to stare after the departing sleigh.

A horrible feeling of disappointment settled over the demon. The greatest opportunity it could have hoped for was within its grasp, and it had failed.

How could it fail to kill a weak old man? How could it not complete the job it started? It had reckoned without Santa’s surprisingly viscous fighting spirit, sure, but all the same, this should have been an easy job. And now it would never get a better chance to fulfill its function, which was to destroy what was good in this world.

It sighed with demonic regret as it again brought forth the small package Santa had pushed into its hand as a distraction. And all it had to show for its efforts was this lousy –

Wait a minute.

It frowned and shook the package. Was it making some kind of ticking noise –

The darkness in that remote, northern territory was suddenly subsided by the blinding light and fury of a huge explosion.

The Yuletide Sleigh, which had previously been streaking away from the scene at the speed of sound, halted and wheeled around to face the inferno.

What had once been an isolated bungalow was now a volcanic inferno, as the demon that had attempted to destroy the personification of Christmas was dispatched violently back to hell.

Rudolph, the head reindeer, regarded the fire for a moment, the flames reflecting in his eyes, and seeming to bring a response from his glowing nose. Then he rose above the other reindeer and turned to face his master.

"Father", he said gravely, "Father Christmas, what have you done?"

"What I had to do", replied Santa Claus without hesitation. He wiped more blood away from his mouth, though his body was already healing under the magical protection of his sleigh. "That creature was evil incarnate. It could not be allowed to continue its incursion on this reality."

He sighed and sagged in his seat; "though I realise that I’ve crossed a line that was drawn for me thousands of years ago. There may be repercussions from this night."

He looked Rudolph in the eye and sighed again, "God help us my friend," he intoned sorrowfully, "God help us one and all."

Then he took up the reins and his tone changed. "Come my children, "he roared, "There is no time now to ponder on what is past. The children are waiting for their presents. Let’s fly!"

And the magic sleigh streaked towards its destination as the spirit of Christmas spread across the land.

Half Past Planck Time in the Castle on the Singularity

The family of Gormenghost had lived on the Singularity for the entire length of the Planck time, which is all the time that had ever existed.  They lived upon the Singularity that is all that was.  There had never been a beginning, and as far as they were concerned there would never be an end – and that was just how they liked it.

Appropriately, considering it was the Planck Time, their main hobby was Planking.  And so it was that Lord Sirius Gormenghost, the one hundred and thirty seventh Lord in the known and recorded line of Gormenghosts, was lying stiffly, face down upon the castle ramparts, when Berkeley, the court vizier, stepped outside and found him.

Berkeley clapped loudly when he saw Sirius’s display of Planking.  “Most impressive my Lord!” he declared.

“Well take a photograph then!” insisted Sirius.

Berkeley quickly produced a camera and took a snapshot of his Planking Lord.  Satisfied, Sirius dismounted, and began to brush his ornately designed robes that had been handed down through the generations of Gormenghosts.  As he did so, he glanced at the sky, which had suddenly turned purple.  “So what have you been up to then?” Sirius asked Berkeley; he was still looking at the sky in a distracted manner as he spoke. 

Berkley also glanced at the sky, but then he turned to address Sirius, his expression grave.  “I have been in a conference,” he said, “with Cameron, the Court Cosmologist.”

“Not a conference with Cameron the Court Cosmologist!” said Sirius wryly, “Is he causing a commotion again?”

Berkeley’s expression did not flicker, and he regarded Sirius with a stony glance.  The head of the Gormenghost family sighed.  “Go on”, he said in a resigned voice, “What did old misery guts have to say?”

“The news is grim, my Lord…”

“It always is with him!”

“… it appears the Planck time is coming to an end,” finished Berkeley.

Lord Gormenghost scowled.  “What do you mean the Planck Time is coming to an end?” he roared, “The Planck time never comes to an end! There have been one hundred and thirty seven known Gormenghosts that have planked here in the time of Planck, and there’ll be at least one hundred and thirty seven more plankers, you take it from me!”

“There’s no need to shoot the messenger,” said Berkeley in a curt voice. He looked again to the sky and his countenance darkened.  “But you should know that Cameron said that a great change is coming – he said that a Universe is to be born; a Universe of infinite variety and of great wonder, and our time will be swept away before it.  

“He said that this new Universe would be made of gasses, and of metals and something called water, and he said there would even be sentient creatures to wonder at all of it and reflect upon their place in the great scheme of things.”

“Sentient creatures?” said an aggrieved Lord Gormenghost, “Sentient?!  We’re sentient damn you!”

“Apparently we are not,” replied Berkeley, “Cameron claimed that we are merely conceptual illusions that foreshadow what is to come.”

“Foreshadow?  Illusion?! I’m no illusion!” spat Gormenghost, his dander rising ever higher.  He turned towards the roiling, purple sky and gestured grandly “I think therefore I am!!” he declared.

“That’s just what I said my Lord,” said Berkeley expectantly. 

“Oh yes, what did he say?”

“He said that statement is a flawed supposition as it assumes the existence of the thinker.”

“Damn his eyes he’s insufferable!” shouted Sirius in frustration, “I’ve a good mind to -”

Gormenghost never completed his sentence, for at that moment a deep sound issued from the centre of the singularity that was all that was.  At the same time, the sky above them turned from purple to black, and back to purple, and they saw a vision – a vision of a spiralling white structure, reaching over them and pointing towards a future which they would never be part of.

Sirius stammered, and forgot his anger.  For in that instant he knew that everything he had just been told was about to come true.  “Call him,” he told Berkeley, “call him up here now.”

Berkeley took a deep breath and yelled at the top of his voice: “Call Cameron the Court Cosmologist!”

The shout was taken up throughout the castle as the court astronomer was called to be present at his Lord’s behest, and they heard the summons shouted out again and again: “Call Cameron the Court Cosmologist!”

Eventually Cameron appeared, looking dishevelled, his ornate robes golden but untidy, as if he’d just been having a nap.  “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Yes!” replied Sirius hotly.  He pointed to the sky, “you can tell us what that is!”

Cameron looked up and sucked in the air around him with a whistle.  “Oooh, it’s started,” He said nodding as he spoke, “yes, this conforms with my calculations all right.

”“What has?!  What’s started?”

Cameron folded his arms and looked at his lord sidelong.  “The force of gravity separating from the electronuclear force,” he explained, “Yep, this is what I expected.  It’s the onset of the Grand Unification Epoch, see.”

“Speak words we can understand damn you!” demanded Sirius, “what’s going to happen now?”

“Well,” said Cameron with a sniff, “nothing we’d like.”

At that point in time they heard another voice calling out in another part of the castle.  It was a woman’s voice, and Sirius recognised it is that of his wife, the lady Gertrude Gormenghost.

“Yes! Yes!” she screamed “Yes! Oh… big boy!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!” 

Accompanying the Lady Gormenghost’s voice the squeak of bedsprings could clearly be heard.  

For an instant the three men were silent, their mouths hanging open in surprise at this new intrusion.“What in the singularity is that?!” decried Sirius, his voice reaching new levels of disbelief.  “Is that the Lady Gertrude?  My Lady Gertrude?” 

“Ah,” said Berkeley awkwardly.

“Ah,” echoed Cameron.  

The court vizier and cosmologist exchanged furtive glances – a glance that was not missed by Sirius.  

“What do you know?!  What’s going on?” he roared.  “Out with it or you’ll both be beheaded!”

“I’m sorry my Lord…” began Berkeley.

“Oooohhh yes!!” screamed the Lady Gertrude.

“It’s the Lady Gertrude.  She’s become ‘friendly’ with the court gardner…” began Cameron.

“She has been showing him….”

“Her potted plants…”

“For a while now…”

“Yes!  Oh yes!!”

Sirius just starred at them.  And the indescribable hum from the heart of singularity increased in volume.  The sky flickered as if it were aflame, and great orbs were shown there, and coloured lights, and forks of coruscating violence.

Lord Gormenghost’s shoulders slumped.  “And I was in such a good mood, too.” He said sorrowfully.

“Do not despair,” recited Cameron in a bored mechanical tone, “this is not the end this is not the beginning of the end rather this is the end of the beginning.”

“I’m nearly there!” called out Gertrude.

“At least someone’s enjoying the Big Bang,” muttered Berkeley.

“Oh… fuck off, the lot of you.” concluded Sirius sullenly.  He turned away from the others and shook his head in despair.

One hundred and thirty seven Gormenghosts, Sirius thought to himself.  One hundred and thirty seven - that were known of.  Generation after generation of plankers; living safe upon the singularity that was everything – and this is what it came to: trapped here with a traitorous wife, a cranky cosmologist and a po-faced vizier.

He looked again at the vivid sky, but this time his sight alighted on a signpost, high above the castle ramparts, that warned people not to trespass in the kitchens when a meal was being cooked.  

“Look at that sign,” he said to the vizier and the cosmologist.

“What about it?” asked Berkeley as he and Cameron studied the object.

“What do you think?” said Sirius in a pointed tone.  

He waited as they considered his words, and around them the thunder of cosmic birth rolled and blasted out.  It was not long before they understood his intentions.

“No way…” intoned Berkeley.

“Yes way!” said Sirius gleefully.

“You’re crazy!” said Cameron.

“Maybe,” Sirius agreed, “but if this is the end of the Planck time then I’m going to go out Planking!”

With that he began to shin up the support struts that held up the sign, climbing towards the sky, which was now composed of purple concentric circles of infinite complexity that resonated with the hum of power that spread out of the singularity.

With open mouths, Berkeley and Cameron watched him climb, until with yells of delight, they celebrated as they watched him lying stiffly atop the sign.  

“Not bad eh?” Sirius called down.

“Fantastic planking!” cheered Berkeley.

“The man’s a planking marvel!” declared Cameron.

“Photograph!” demanded Sirius.

Berkeley fumbled for his camera, but then he paused and frowned, looking around as if trying to locate something or someone.  “Did anybody hear that?” he called out.

“Hear what?” shouted down Sirius.

“That voice,” said Berkeley.  

“Voice?” shouted Sirius, his voice partially obscured by the edge of the sign.

“Yes, a voice,” called Berkeley, “As if issued from some vast and mighty omnipresent being that was making a pronouncement that would echo through eternity.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“What did the voice say?” asked Cameron.

“’Let there be light,’” answered Berkeley.

“Damn silly thing to say,” Shouted out Sirius, “where’s that photograph?!”

“Sorry my Lord!”  Berkeley produced his camera and aimed it at his prostrate, planking lord.  But even as he pressed down the shutter, his conceptual existence was ended. 

Thus reality was born.

Writer's Block Challenge 82

Photo by: Mickey Mills - 2009
All Rights Reserved

The Shop That Sold Everything 

The man stood outside the shop, and surveyed it thoughtfully.  It was a sunny day, though he could hear the breeze around him.  He looked at the shop, with its colourful posters, its display which was neither exotic nor tacky, but somehow a mixture of both; with its slogans painted in bright yellow above the entrance (he didn’t understand what most of them meant, which deepened the mystery from his point of view); with its ragged shop front composed of wooden pillars that did not look as solid as they should. 

In front of the shop was a donkey.  It was a perfectly white donkey that minded its own business, sniffing around for a snack that it would surely never find in that hard, dusty road.  Next to the donkey was an orange traffic cone.  The stranger frowned as he looked upon this object.  Was this the thing that would take the payment he did bring?  There was one way to find out. 

The man took out a piece of paper, and read what had been written upon it – words that he had been told to speak when he knew the time was right.  Something told him that that time had now come.  

When he read the words aloud he did not hear his own voice.  Instead he heard the voice of another speaking through his mouth, and uttering a language he had never heard.  When he spoke these words, the donkey stopped sniffing around and looked directly at him.  And the wind picked up at that moment, and howled softly in his ears, as if the world had stopped what it was doing and was letting him know he had its attention as well. 

The shopkeeper came up though the road in front of him, rising up from the tarmac.  Or perhaps he materialised directly beneath the orange cone that stood in front of the shop.  

The shopkeeper was very tall and very thin, and wore a white shirt with brown braces and black, crumpled trousers.  Round spectacles adorned his drawn face, the lenses of which obscured his eyes; and he sported the orange cone that he had risen under as a hat.  When he saw the newcomer he rubbed his hands together with glee.  “Ah,” he declared, “a customer!” 

The shopkeeper stepped forward and appraised the stranger, a grin alighting his features.  “And what can I do for you this fine day, good sir?” he asked. 

The stranger buried the surprise he felt at the manner of the shopkeeper’s appearance, and strove to answer the question that had been put to him.  But his reply was hesitant.  “I have need… of one of your remedies,” he stated. 

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes as he looked at the stranger, and he stroked his chin.  At that moment the stranger felt the sensation as if someone, or something, was not looking at him but through him.  “Did someone break the heart of your ass?” the shopkeeper asked. 

The donkey looked over at the shopkeeper.  “I have no broken heart,” it said. 

The shopkeeper shot the donkey a mildly irritated glance.  “Not you,” he replied, “the customer.” 

“Oh”, said the donkey.  

The shopkeeper looked back towards the stranger, who gave a heartfelt sigh.  “Yes,” the newcomer concurred.  The stranger realised that hiding anything from the shopkeeper would be not only pointless, but counter productive to his purpose.  So he was completely honest.  “Yes, someone broke my heart.” 

The shopkeeper nodded with an expression of satisfaction and understanding.  “I get so many through here with that malady…” he intoned.  He stepped up to the stranger and reached out to place his hand on the newcomer’s shoulder.  The stranger glanced down at the shopkeeper’s hand, but otherwise he did not react.  “Beautiful, was she?” whispered the shopkeeper. 

The stranger sighed again.  “Yes, she was beautiful,” he confirmed. 

The shopkeeper nodded again and looked down, solemnly.  Then he inhaled sharply and looked back at the stranger.  “Choose another, did she?” he asked. 

When the stranger answered, his breathing had become more laboured, and he gritted his teeth.  “Yes”, he whispered, as if the words were being torn from him by force, “She chose another…” 

“Hmmm…” said the shopkeeper.  He walked round until he stood behind the stranger, and stroked his chin again.  The wind moaned to itself quietly, and the donkey blinked slowly as it chewed the cud.  

The shopkeeper’s face appeared next to the stranger, almost touching the customer’s cheek.  “Did she cheat on you?” he asked. 

“I…” began the stranger.  He ground to a halt.  The man glanced to his left to where the stranger had put his face, and a look of distaste entered his eyes.  Though he realised he could not lie, he did not see why had had to divulge the details of everything that tormented him.  “… I would prefer not to say.  I don’t see how it’s your business anyhow.” 

The donkey raised its eyebrow, and the wind moaned in a deeper voice at this.  It seemed that the world evinced surprise at the stranger’s show of reluctance.  But the stranger did not see why his reticence should be scrutinised like this.  He was willing to pay the shopkeeper’s price.  Was that not enough? 

“You will tell me,” murmured the shopkeeper, “or we will not do business…” 

The stranger quailed.  So he did have to reveal everything after all.  Part of him admonished himself for his stupidity and stubbornness.  After all, would it not be worth it in the end? 

“It was…” he began reluctantly, “it was…” 

His bottom lip trembled, but he stilled it.  

“It was unrequited love…” 

“Unrequited love…” repeated the shopkeeper, quietly and thoughtfully.  The wind sighed. 

The shopkeeper stepped back and clapped his hands in delight.  “Unrequited love?!” he said excitedly, “that’s my very favourite kind!  Oh, sir, oh sir I have just the remedy for you, yessir, just the remedy…” he paused, “of course I’ll have to charge your ass…” 

“Why?” asked the donkey, “I need no cure for love.” 

“Not you,” said the shopkeeper, his tone of irritation much increased, “the customer.” 

“Oh,” said the donkey. 

The shopkeeper turned back to the stranger, “so,” he declared, his voice business like, but with the hint of a challenge, “do you know my price?  And are you willing to meet it?” 

The stranger nodded solemnly.  “I know your price, good shopkeeper,” he said, his voice like a recitation, “and I will meet it.” 

“Good, good,” said the shopkeeper in delight.  “Ah, unrequited love,” he said in a reflective tone, “the province of the ever young and innocent, so sweet, and so very bitter, and so sought after by my clients…” when he spoke these words, the shopkeeper became lost in his own thoughts, and it seemed he was speaking to himself.  The donkey stared at him, its expression an approximation of resentment. 

Eventually the shopkeeper appeared to shake himself from his contemplation, and he addressed the stranger again, his voice and demeanour animated with passion. “But I have such a remedy for you, sir,” he declaimed, “such a remedy…” he gestured like an actor beholding something on an invisible stage, “it will draw your malady from you like a poison…” he declaimed, “and leave you in the warm embrace…” he stood next to the customer now and gestured towards an invisible revelation, “of comfortable numbness…” 

The shopkeeper glanced back at the customer, “does that sound good to you?” he asked. 

It was then that the shopkeeper became aware that the donkey was still staring at him, and still carried an expression of resentment.  “What are you looking at?” he demanded. 

The donkey did not reply, but continued to regard the shopkeeper with an unblinking gaze.  The wind sighed. 

The shopkeeper folded his arms and addressed the animal with quite menace.  “You’d better point the stare of your ass in another direction,” he growled. 

The donkey glanced at the stranger, “You talking to the customer?” it asked. 

“No,” answered the shopkeeper, “I’m talking to you.” 

“Oh,” said the donkey.  It looked away. 

The shopkeeper smiled again and beckoned the stranger towards the dark entrance of his place of business.  “So come now good sir,” he said merrily, “it’s time to come and to heal what ills you, and then I’ll have my price.” With that the shopkeeper skipped through the entrance to his shop.  He gave one last instruction of “don’t be shy,” and disappeared inside. 

Slowly, the stranger walked towards the shop, following the being who had beckoned him inside.  And it seemed to the man that as he approached the door that it widened to admit him; and at the same time the darkness of the shop’s interior increased.  The customer stepped on to the threshold. 

“I wouldn’t go in there…” said the donkey. 

The stranger froze.  He turned and looked towards the animal, who returned his gaze meaningfully. 

“…if I were you,” said the donkey.  

The wind moaned again; its voice was rising in intensity, though at the same the voice remained distant, as though it were a powerful but impotent presence in this moment.  A clump of tumbleweed gamboled through the empty streets as the would-be customer and the white donkey regarded each other. 

“But you are not me,” said the man. 

The donkey turned away from the man.  “You were warned,” it said dismissively. 

The man disappeared inside the shop. 

For a time there was quiet again, with the exception of with wind’s intermittent sighs.  

The donkey returned to its snuffling, looking around for a snack that it would surely never find in that hard, dusty road.  After a few minutes the orange cone - that the shopkeeper had worn as he walked into the shop - materialised again on the hard ground, and sat quietly next to the donkey as it sniffed around the road.  It was as if the scene that had played itself out so recently had never occurred. 

A woman appeared, standing in front of the shop and gazing around uncertainly.  The wind sighed again, but the donkey did not look up.  

Slowly, the woman drew forth a crumpled piece of paper.

It Only Took a Second

Once, there was a fence; a high fence that encircled and protected a warehouse.  In this warehouse was held the most precious thing of all. 

There was a single gate to this fence, which was permanently locked and sealed with a heavy padlock.  The padlock was old - as old as time - and it was rusting; but it was still strong.  That was because it had been built to last.  They don’t make them like that nowadays. 

But some phenomena have no regard for craftsmanship; and they do not respect things that are built to last.  

--- 

Jim Harker sat in front of his PC screen and furrowed his brow.  It was his first morning on the job, and he was suffering from the usual insecurities that the first morning brings.  How long would it take him to become familiar with this new position?  How alien would its practices seem to him?  And of course, how would he get on with his new colleagues? 

But he did not concern himself with these issues overmuch.  He was reasonably confident that things would work out in his favour.  Besides, this new job, though it was the latest in a series of temporary assignments that he had taken of late, had many advantages over the place he’d just left.  

For a start it was in a comfortable office instead of a cold factory; the office was located in the middle of the bustling city instead of the back of beyond; the hours were not unsociable - heck they were during the daytime - and it paid better too. 

Not that Jim was planning to stick around for too long.  In fact he was putting together an application to go to university.  

The very fact of this application made his future seem a little brighter.  He’d had enough of these temporary assignments; living from month to month, with no security or hope of progress.  So now he wanted to get a good education, and then it would be goodbye weekly time sheets and agencies and hello career. 

But for now, he was content where he was; and this temporary job would pay him during the summer.  Then, come the Autumn, a new adventure would unfold in his life. 

The sound of movements and conversation interrupted his reflections, and Jim turned round to see two people in next bank of desks behind him.  

One of them he knew already: it was the department’s supervisor, Sally: a cheerful middle aged woman with short brown hair and round glasses.  But next to Sally was someone he did not know.  When Sally saw Jim looking she interrupted the conversation she and the new arrival had been holding and made some introductions.   

“Ah Jim,” she began, “this is Leona…” 

--- 

In the dark skies above the warehouse, there was a rumble of distant thunder.  The air was heavy with a silent threat.  Yet there was also a sense of expectancy, as if something was about to happen that had been long anticipated – and long dreaded.  

There was a sudden flash, and a huge bolt of lightning shot out of the sky and struck the padlock with all of its considerable force. 

Slowly, and gracefully, the padlock relinquished its seal.  

The lock fell though the air, its descent slow and ponderous. When it struck the ground, a minor tremor shook the earth, and a cloud of dust rose into the sky. 

There was a loud, long creaking sound, and the gate swung wide open.  

And the precious thing that the sealed perimeter had protected for so long was exposed to the world.  

Exposed; and vulnerable. 

--- 

Jim looked up to see the new colleague he was being introduced to.  Leona had red hair, fair skin and crystal blue eyes.  And the second he saw her, the second she looked back at him, he felt something in his chest lurch. 

At that moment Jim knew he was in trouble.

Speaking as You Find

The chalk figure smiled gently, an impression of understanding somehow depicted in its simple lines.  “I bet you can think of many other ways to describe them,” it intoned.

In response, the old lady’s expression hardened.  “I certainly can,” she said harshly, “I can think of many, many things to call ‘em, and ain’t none of ‘em include what you say you was drawn by.”

The figure did not change its conceptual expression.  Almost, there was a feeling that it looked sidelong at its elderly conversation partner, as if to gently tease her.  “But you judge these children without knowing them, perhaps,” it observed, “and it may be that an exterior that appears brash and confrontational on the outside does not signify the entirety of a character -”

“Geezer lady!  Who are you speaking to?”

The voice was mocking and cruel, and cut through their exchange.  The pensioner turned and saw that a group of teenagers were looking at her.  And the smiles that she saw did not hold kindness.

There were two boys and a girl.  The two boys wore sports tops with hoods that covered their heads, and the girl wore a tartan mini-skirt and sported a haircut that was partly shaven.

“What are you talking to you old bag?” shouted the tallest boy, who appeared to be the leader of the little gang.

"What is it to you?" answered the old lady irritably. It angered her that she was meant to be justifying herself to to these strangers, quite apart from the abuse she'd received.

“Mad old bag speaks to drawings on the wall!” said the girl, in a screeching voice as she joined the mockery.  “Silly, stupid, mad old cow!”

"Why don't you leave me in peace!" said the old lady angrily.  "I've done nothing to you!"  But her remonstrations fell on deaf ears.

The third delinquent looked to his two comrades.  He was shorter in stature then either of them, and slightly overweight, but his expression of contempt was just the same.  “Let’s do her,” he urged them. 

The leader of the gang renewed his smile at this suggestion and took a few steps towards the elderly lady, his eyes gaining a threat as he stared at her, “Oi, wrinkly, you got any money in that handbag?” he asked her, his voice growing in menace as he spoke.

The old lady turned back to the drawing on the wall.  “You see?” she complained, “Is that the kind of language you’d hear from a ‘little angel’?”

The drawing did not reply.  Its attention was no longer drawn to its conversation partner, and almost, it seemed, its approximation of a smile had faded.

“Oi!” said the gang leader again, his stare now full of aggression, “don’t you turn your back on me you stupid, senile old -”

But the teenager never got to complete his threat - because at that exact second, everything changed.  At that second, a sound rang out.

It was a sound that filled the world, and yet echoed beyond the walls of everything that is.  It deafened them, and it deafened their minds; it even deafened their imaginations. 

It was the sound of a dimensional bridge being crossed.

The old lady stepped back and covered her face with her arm as the drawing before her was replaced with a blinding light that blasted out from the outlines on the wall.  And then the drawing disappeared, but the light remained – and something began to emerge, directly from the wall.  But it was clear that the wall was not where this thing that emerged had come from.  Rather, the wall was where a portal was situated; a portal to the higher dimension, or dimensions, from where the terrifying visitor was come.

And the gang of teenagers were frozen in place as a shining figure emerged from the wall and was made incarnate before them. 

The figure stepped onto the pavement, and the sound gained in depth and in heights that deafened their memories and their dreams.  The being had not yet emerged fully from the world beyond, but still it walked towards the terrified, unmoving children.

And as it walked, it grew. 

By the time it stood before the three juveniles, the Angel was fully formed in this reality.  

It towered above them.  It towered above all of the buildings of the town, standing hundreds of feet tall.  Its wings stretched away from its golden frame, and to their terror stricken eyes, they stretched infinitely in either direction, and cast an all-encompassing shadow over everything.  In its right hand, the Angel held a flaming sword that shone with a terrible brilliance.  And when it looked down upon the teenagers, its gaze pierced their flesh, and cut through their bones and their internal organs, and their spirits, until it studied the core of their beings, as one studies microscopic creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.  And still the indescribable sound blasted out, beneath which, impossibly, a choir could be heard singing.

For a moment the Universe held its breath; and then the moment passed, and the Angel released the teenagers from its grip.  Brash and confrontational they were no longer; and these frightened children turned and they ran.  They ran for their very existences.  They ran until their bodies screamed in pain and fatigue; they ran until they felt their lungs would burst from their chests; they ran until the streets they fled through were no longer familiar to them, and they knew they were hopelessly lost.  But still they continued to run.

And they never, ever spoke of what happened again.  Not to anyone else.  Not to each other. 

But in the dead of night, when they were all alone, when all they could see was everything they were, and their souls were laid bare…

At night, they would remember.

The higher dimensional being watched the juvenile gang depart, and then turned and regarded its conversation partner.  And suddenly there was silence. 

Then it spoke.

“No,” it agreed, “that is not the kind of language you would expect from little angels.  I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

The old lady shrugged and looked down.  “S’alright,” she said.  Then she continued on her way down the street, her pace slow but doggedly persistent.

The Fury of Cain

The Fury of Cain 

 

The mid-shipman stared long and hard into his telescope.  Eventually he lowered the instrument and turned to his captain.  “No doubt about it, sir, she’s one of ours:  Royal Navy.”

            The seaman’s commanding officer turned and strode briskly away upon hearing this report.  “That’s what I thought!” he called as he departed the scene.  Then he turned and barked out another instruction.  “Mr Hardy, you’re with me!”

            The Captain opened a small cabin near the foredeck and entered, quickly throwing a naval chart over the desk that lay in the centre of the cabin.  As he did so, the ship’s first officer joined him.  Both men were youthful for their rank, and were dressed in the regulation dark blue naval uniform of King George’s fleet.  They regarded each other with worried expressions.  “What the hell’s going on, Captain Nelson?” Hardy wanted to know.

            In reply the Captain produced a compass and began to plot a course on the chart in front of him.  “We are here…” he explained, “currently exactly halfway between Europe and the Americas.  Tell me, Hardy, which of our ships have been reported in this area lately?”

            “None recently,” replied Hardy.  “HMS Indomitable, I believe, was said to have been near here six months ago, but she headed south to harass Napoleon’s fleet near the Bay of Biscay.”

            “So what are you saying?” demanded Nelson with impatience. “You’re telling me that ship shouldn’t be there, is that what you’re saying?”

            “I’m saying I don’t know…” began Hardy, but Nelson had already stalked past him, back on to the deck of the Victory.  “Lookout!” he bellowed, raising his voice above the activities of the crew and roaring of the ocean, “I want the designation of that ship, sir!  And I want it double quick!”

            “Aye Cap’n!” the lookout replied, as he redoubled his efforts, perched high in the nest atop the main mast. 

--- 

Half a mile away, Rodriquez Cain, terror of the Spanish main, lowered his telescope and smiled, showing the gap in his rotting teeth as he did so. 

            “They have spotted us,” declared one of his followers.  “But they have not instituted any evasive manoeuvres.”

            Cain nodded expectantly.  He was a huge man, and his skin had been burnt red by the sun.  His one good eye glared hatred at the world.  The other eye was now little more than a ghastly socket.  “Of course they haven’t,” he said, his voice riddled with malice and triumph, “this is one big, happy Royal Navy.”  He looked sharply at the man to his left.  “Have the last of the original crew been put to death?”

            “They have,” answered another of his followers, “we just slit the throat of the last one that lived.”

            Cain smiled a hateful smile.  “Good…” he intoned, “good…”

            He put the telescope to his eye again.  “I am about to teach a lesson to His Majesty’s flagship, and her captain,” he declared, “and that lesson is that the penal colony has not been built that can hold Rodriquez Cain…

            He paused for a moment, taking in the view of the huge Man O’War that his hijacked vessel bore down upon.  “And you, Horatio,” he said, almost to himself, “Did you know there is an old, Russian proverb that says: ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’…

            “It is very cold in the North Atlantic…” 

--- 

Nelson stood amidships, flanked by Hardy and the mid-shipman, and gazed at the unidentified ship as it cut through the waves, drawing ever nearer.  As he looked on, the sun shone down, and was reflected upon its white sails.  And for a moment he saw those sails as gravestones, and he saw the oncoming vessel as an omen of death, come to send them to blackened depths of the ocean.  He shook his head to clear it, and looked again.

            “What’s that?” he asked upon seeing a series of repeated flashes that coruscated from the peak of the mysterious ship's mainsail.  “Are they trying to signal us?”

            The midshipman turned and called out in a harsh voice, “Higgins!  Get your arse over here lad!  Your skills are needed!”

            Almost immediately a young strip of a lad raced over to where they stood and leaned hard against the railings, oblivious the waves that crashed against it.  For a minute or so he concentrated intently upon the pattern of flashes as they continued to be broadcast from the approaching ship.  “They say there is a fault with their steering cap’n,” he reported, “They say they cannot turn from their course.”

            Nelson turned to his second-in-command.  “Mr Hardy, an analysis if you please,” he said in a formal voice.

            In response, Hardy clasped his hands behind his back and studied the other ship intently.  He began to reel off a series of facts and figures.

            “What we have here is an Elizabeth class frigate,” he told them, “forty-four guns, rated five, probably constructed at Southampton ship yard.

            “There was a design flaw with the Elizabeth type 1 which saw the rudder sometimes freeze in rough weather, and that did compromise steering; but that ship is the type 2, and the fault was corrected in these.

            “However,” he conceded, “it is not inconceivable that some of the type 2s do have it.”

            The midshipman turned to his superiors and scowled, “And this is why they are taking this aggressive line?” he asked skeptically.

            Nelson folded his arms and shook his head.  “This is peculiar,” he decided.  “This is damned peculiar…

            “Helmsman!” he called out, “turn her hard to port!  Let’s get out of her way at least!

“And you,” he said, turning on his midshipman, “get these sails filled with wind!  I want more speed!” 

--- 

The stolen ship plunged through the waves as it charged towards Nelson’s flagship.  One of Cain’s followers – the one who had flash signalled the Victory - looked down from his vantage point and reported to his master.  “We have aroused her suspicions,” he called, “and she quickens her speed, but she does not prepare her armaments.”

            Cain inhaled slowly.  This was the moment he had been waiting for.  His time had come.  “Prepare ours,” he ordered. 

--- 

The lookout gasped as he saw a precisely spaced series of black slits appear at the side of the oncoming frigate.  “They are bearing their guns!” he screamed, “They are bearing their guns!”

“What?” said Nelson.  He looked upwards at the crow’s nest, towards the man who had screamed such terrible news - Royal Navy ships bearing arms upon one another?  Impossible…

 ---

Cain grasped the side of his ship and bellowed out his next command.  “Take aim!” 

---    

For a split second Nelson hesitated, and he turned for one more look at the ship that so impossibly threatened them, even as pandemonium broke out around him.  He turned into the fearful gaze of Hardy, who met the look of his captain with an imploring stare.  “Sir – they’re locking canons.”

            Nelson had time to blink.