pppc1

Plots Pilots And Plans

Whenever He Returns
(Redit Quotiescumque)
Little now could justifiably remain alive.  Only the most determined of photosynthetic life could last the long winters and the punishing summers.  Even the seasons had stopped their perpetual cycle vast eons ago.
The glowing yellow monstrosity tempered all actions, preventing much but the most doleful of movement until the slow descent of the indomitable ball of fire, back into it’s nightly cradle, where it would wait until its next phase, to rise again and punish the living once more.  It was anon that the time was drawing ever closer.
Little now grew in this torrid land of death.  Nourishment, such as it was, could only be had by the most determined of forager.  Yet the living continued to defy the valley of death, existing on the remnants of the planet, digging deep with their shovel-like hands - each sinew and muscle about those phalanges a dance of near perfection.
Deep in the pits the foragers dug, where even the sun could not reach.  The heat burned like a furnace, yet could not penetrate those layers upon layers of impacted soil, no manner the toil.  But it didn’t need to.  The sun had no malice, it had no ulterior motive; it had no conscience from which to deliberately cause harm.  It completed its function, like all things did, and moved on.
It was that star, however, that found itself in the deep throes of death.  The planet was dying also, symbiotic in its desperation and connection to cling to that ultimately tiny dying rock of a star.  The satellite, once the lunar rock, was long since occulent, and tidal forces were no more as water hid itself in emotionless desperation from rapid evaporation.  That ancient promise of extra-planetary exploration and extra-planetary colonisation had never. indeed, come to fruition.
The air was difficult to breathe as much as the food was difficult to find.  Only a handful of evolution’s best examples remained; it was those who still fit with the world that survived, as they were the strong and the lithe.  But now, only a dozen of them remained.
The remaining inherent species of the world were currently preparing themselves for an unbreakable tradition, which they named the Festivity.  They were very much aware that the world was coming to an end and they were readily prepared for it.
In the passage of their day, the people would clip-tread over the crevassed, cracked and pitted ground traversing their environment - searching for food, protecting themselves against the deadly rays and erratic flares of the decaying star, and momentarily giving pause to the blessing that saw each new cycle with the rising of the ouroboros life-giver.
The genus was long, tall and hairless, with a compendium of stringed sinews and powerful muscles, naked in their desires.  And as they saw the industry of repetition a daily and necessary function of life unabated, it pleased them that it pleased them.
A pair of said creatures, doleful and yet hopeful in their pursuit of the coming darkness - and thus the saving of their preparative motions - would each day continue a pursuit of the next, which was to become the whole of the concept.  They walked now side by side, on toward the hour that always called them together; all twelve of those who remained, would move onward to the present that fed the future. 
The one called One and the other called Two thus walked abreast, meaningfully aiming for the patch of land they had designated for Solemn Use while the sun was still high.
“Are you prepared, friend?” asked One of Two.  The voice lilted like a reed blown in a summer breeze.
“As prepared as I can be, Two.  It comes ever closer.  The purpose is close.”
“Have you spoken to Six lately?”
“No.  Have you?”
“We coupled last Clock.  She was looking for you though.”
“How so?”
“She is with your spawn.”
“Ah.  As she was with your's not four Clocks ago.”
Two laughed, the sound rasping against the back of his throat, “That Six, she is prodigious of egg.  My spawn are no more though.  Perhaps yours will live.”
“Perhaps.  A single one survived my coupling with Eight.  Twelve, as you know.”
Two looked sullen, “Twelve shall not survive much longer, my friend One.  She is too weak, and her skin does show the blood lines.  The big ball will burn her soon.  Then she will leave one less.”
“There must be hope for Six then.” said One.  Two nodded in agreement.
Anon, Twelve took to her place with gusto.  She was well aware of her weaknesses, yet toiled as hardily as she could.  There was little room for despondency in this world, dying as it was.
And it was ever the responsibility of the young to tend to the younger.  In this way, Twelve was compelled to speak to the near-spawning Six, "How goes it, Six?  Are the young biting?"  It was a common enough enquiry, and held within it a note of concern, for Six was beyond her time and Twelve was well aware of the dangers within.
"I give thanks for your concern, Twelve.  I fare well this phase.  Perhaps only three more and I may spawn."
"Then there is hope yet." smiled Twelve.
"There is ever hope, Twelve, for without we are less than living."  Six put a calloused hand to Twelve's cheek, whereupon Twelve leaned into it, for the comfort it brought, "And how fare's you, Twelve?  I see that the blood becomes darker upon you?"
"It does, but I fear it will not be enough.  Even now, I grow weaker by the cycle; each Clock is one move closer, and I heighten my awareness to the coming of the Nevermore."
"Such things should not concern you, Twelve.  You will spawn soon, and your belly will release the strongest of us all." smiled Six, whereupon she flinched as her spawn rolled about.  Twelve was as though to move, when Six waved her away, "They are hungry, I know.  Twelve?  Could you prepare a nourishment?"
Twelve gripped Six's hand in reciprocal warmth of spirit, smiling as she rose, a pleasantry that came often and even to the young.  With conservation of movement, Twelve arrived at where Eleven was in preparation of food.  Twelve and Eleven had been paired since before they were spawned, and it became an indifferent effect to either of them.  Function was fulfilment, and fulfilment was duty - duty to propagate the species for as long as it was able.
"I see that Six is in requirement of nourishment?" perceived Eleven as Twelve reached him.
"She is.  Her spawn are biting when they should taste the air." explained Twelve.
"This may be her last spawning, then?  If they do not come forth soon, we may have to cut them out."
"And Six will be no more." nodded Twelve sombrely, in agreement.
"Then we must nourish her, and tend to her that she sees another cycle, and another -"
"Then a Clock." added Twelve.
"Indeed." agreed Eleven.
"Then we must away for the Festivity." continued Twelve.  She and Eleven shared a glance at that moment, one born of lust.  But they both understood that until Twelve's skin showed no signs of blood lines, any progeny she gestated would likely not survive the spawning.  And perhaps neither would she.
The sun began its new cycle as One and Two broached the hill.  Three, Four and Nine sat about the designated area, busy in preparation.
“Early are you all.” said Two conversationally.  Four rose to greet him.  She was almost ready for coupling.  Two smiled and they exchanged a touch.
“We could not wait, Two.” explained Nine.  He rose and shared a touch with Two, then with One.  One accepted the touch gracefully and took out the bones, white-washed and bleached in the sun, and lay them upon the ground ritualistically, a configuration of geometric order with a long lost meaning upon them.
“We recognise those who brought us into being so that we could be here now.  They are immobile, by their function of being not alive.  But if not for them then we too would be nothing.  But we are.  We sit around here as they would in Clock’s past, telling of the same tales they heard and passed on to us.  It is what remains of the world as once was, when the sun was higher, the seas did flow, the tides did ebb, and the people spawned without measure.  Just twelve remain, to witness the end of all things.”  A murmur of approval rose from the eloquent speech.
Then appeared Six over the hump.  She was at the forefront, as was the custom that the ones with growing spawn were predominant.  Six was closely followed by Five, Seven and Ten.  Eleven and Twelve, the youngest and weakest, straggled behind.  Upon entering the Designated Spot for Solemn Use, each took their place as they completed the infinite ever and ever circle.
They held hands, did the Twelve.  They hummed a tune so taught to them from the Old and Ancient; a tune once sung with words and melody - both parts of which very long lost somewhere in the retelling over the many and numerous Clocks.  Only the tone remained in the structure, to be ever retold.  And they hummed away to praise the next cycle of that dying star, not knowing if this would be the last.
For this was the age-old ritual that held the hopes, the wishes, the prayers, and even the perpetual dreams of these people. They blessed the life-giving star for the provision of one more cycle, one more Clock.
Tomorrow and tomorrow it would ever be observed, until there were no more tomorrows to be had, or to remain.
But though it would ever be thus, the next phase did come, and they were required to hunt once more, within the next phase of darkness.
As predicted, Six began her spawning on the dawn of the third cycle, but not everything remained as it should be.  Twelve attended her, where she was forced more than once to turn the spawn within its sack.  No sooner had she done so, than another forced its way about, occupying the point at which the previous spawn had lay.  Six was at one time able to contend with such a breach, but now, old and weakened by the approach of the time of spawning only to surpass it - she was desperate and it ultimately affected the spawn.  With great sadness, one by one the spawn died within.  Twelve was forced to cut open Six or lose her also.  But it was to no avail.  By the time One, Two and Nine had arrived to give assistance, Six too had moved on.
For the next couple of cycles, her body, as was tradition, was opened to the sun, which evaporated the moisture from within, until the sinew could be removed and the bones exposed, which were reverentially buried upon Six's most treasured spot; a place from where she could watch the world as though sat atop a mound - it was the spot whereupon she had herself been spawned and held a place of reverence for her within all of her Clocks.  Of the spawn and her flesh - they were utilised as was the custom.  Nothing, no matter how sacred to the species’ endeavour, must be wasted in these hard times.  It would have been criminal to do so, and Six herself would have wanted nothing less.
And yet further tragedy struck, as upon a foraging expedition, One found himself trapped within a sink-hole, too far for speech to carry and for others to hear his plaintive cries.  Somehow, he survived two cruel, gruelling cycles of the solemn star beating upon his naked skin.  Though he hoped for salvation, none came.  His only regret thus became that he would be wasted out here, in the ever expanding nothingness.  No one would know of his passing and thus would not bring comfort upon his soul.  He contended himself with the knowledge that it would all soon be over anyhow, and that, morbid though the thought be, at least he wouldn't be forgotten for long, as there would be few if any to remember him once the ground tore apart, when the great star was no more.
When One did not return, Four took over the oration and the function within the Festivity; that of the remembrance of those who had come before and the placing of the bones.  Five, Seven, Eight and Nine, very much of one spawning, took it upon themselves to venture out, farther away from the grounds they had all very much occupied for many Clocks, to find areas of potential regrowth and resources, suspecting that One had done just such a thing himself.
They still lived and they remained.  They spawned - that much was for certain - but they never found that which they searched for; just endless nothingness, and the occasional impassable crevasse, caused by the decay of the organism they occupied and called home.
It was apparent that once the resources had depleted, there was no more; life had completed for this planet, at least.  There was no more to gain from it; no more to leech from its loving kindness, to a point of murder and decay, when all it had done for them was keep them alive.  It was ever and thus the way with things, now particularly weighed upon the predominant genus that took more from the world than they ever gave back.  Energy can never be created or destroyed, it only alters in its state.  And as the universe continued, so would the energy that was once a planet, a star and its people - it would become, for as long as the universe existed, something else.  Perhaps something unique.
Within the time of unforeseen events, somewhere between despair and lust, lay Eleven with Twelve.  Though neither were quite ready for it, they paired.  It was difficult, principally for Twelve, as her body was unprepared for the torment that came, but she defied the odds, and spawned six of her own.  Three of those survived, becoming the new Six, Thirteen and Fourteen,  healthy and strong, perhaps the strongest of all.  For a fair few Clocks, that spawn thrived upon the meagre scrapings of the land still to give, until the ground began to split.
Like a painful cut, the earth made its last throes to the universe, tearing itself asunder.  The red hot lakes of fire returned to the surface as they had once back when the planet was new, scorching anything that still dared live.
Three and Ten were taken almost as soon as the raked slices on the skin of the planet appeared, falling through the holes that appeared beneath them.
And yet, the Festivity remained, for every cycle, for as long as someone was left to observe it.
Then, during a change of phase, while the others lay sleeping, Two - now an old, old man somewhere close to the age of thirty two years - stood atop the highest peak and watched as at first the star died - and then the planet pregnantly followed suit.
There he stood, with a brightness upon his face that was invisible but for the fire lake’s illumination and he spoke the last, final words of life upon that planet.
"I see it!  I see it!  And it is beautiful -"



One More Hopeless Romantic
He knew he wasn’t going mad, because he knew she could see him.  In fact, she was looking at him right at that moment.  There was no confusion, oh no.  She was always there, at that same spot every day.  Even as he walked into the room there again she was, looking at him.
Oh, he knew full well he was a hopeless romantic.  He would make sure flowers were put next to her, so when he entered the room the next day, there she would be, smiling, surrounded by those beautiful flowers.  Always and ever at that spot, that point - that place.  Over time his confidence grew and he would edge ever closer, until he could see the very lines of her face, rippling over her visage.  She never lost that smile - solid, encouraging, and all for him.
Maybe it was obvious?  Maybe he should do more?  But alas, he was that hopeless romantic still.  He couldn’t simply jump in there, do as others do, and paint a picture with words that were just a facade to their real intentions.  They wanted to strip her, take her down to her barest.  They wanted to buff her, rub her until the girl she had been - that perfect angel - disappeared.
But that wasn’t his desire, oh no.  He liked her for her looks, sure, but more for what she represented.  She had the solid maturity of a woman, without wild emotions and in danger of being crazily plastered every night, as was some girl’s want.  She hung around - yes, she lasted.  She was a keeper.  Okay, so she smiled at everyone?  She only had eyes for him, that he knew.  She was all encompassing.  It was why he liked her.  Perhaps she did spread herself a little thinly, but it was how he noticed her.  It was her charm.
Then, one day, and without any warning, as he was about to make his move, she was gone.  Just gone.  So now when he entered the room, all he saw was an empty space where she used to be, like someone had simply decorated over his memories.  Where had she gone?  Why did she leave without a word?  Was it something he said, or something he did?  Or was it something he didn’t do?  Had he waited too long?  He would perhaps never know, and as each day he returned, she did not.  She was lost - simply gone.
He looked for her everywhere; in the City, in the Bars, in the Clubs and in the Theatres.  He even looked for her down alleyways and the rougher parts of the City.  She was nowhere to be found.
And he lost it - lost it all.
He could not concentrate on anything, because she was gone.  He knew right then he would never see that smiling face, or the way she looked on him kindly.  He tried to recreate her in the faces of others while in those Pubs, Clubs and Theatres.  But they weren’t the same.  They weren’t her.  Just a loose, ugly facsimile of her.  Truly, he knew, she belonged where he had first seen her, in that room.  Anything else was an imitation of perfection.
So he grew older, no wiser, always and ever looking for her in every space, place or face, anywhere he voyaged, ventured or strolled.
In his Eightieth year, he died, with his love unrequited.  And this fellow’s sad tale ended there, never recapturing  her likeness, never seeing her again.
So is the fate it seems, shamefully, of all lovelorn and hopeless romantics around the world.



Room 224 Of The Weekender Inn
Will felt stiff as he plundered the remnants of the newspaper, not really paying attention to any of the articles.  His wife, lovely Dora, had presumably been waylaid by some new friends she had made down at Reception.  Seriously, that woman could make friends with a chair.
With the paper done, Will folded it haphazardly, like an old fashioned map, as he wandered the endless corridors of this identically fashioned franchise of a Weekender Inn.  Why was it that the rooms always looked the same?  The same bedspread, the same curtains usually hanging on by a thread.  It made Will wonder why they ever asked which room you wanted?  Surely they were all the same?   And the lack of any sign of other patrons in the corridors of the Weekender Inn didn't surprise him.  It was still early and many probably liked to sleep in.  He never could, though.  Up with the morning birds, like the proverbial cuckoo in the tightly wound clock.
Yes, Dora preferred a few extra minutes.  He couldn't deny her that.  Marriage had taught him to compromise, and those compromises usually consisted of letting her do whatever she wanted to do, for a happy and peaceful life.  Happy and peaceful life - now there was a nomenclature.  Nearly impossible for a forty year marriage, but they had managed it.  And where is she now?  Oh yes, down at Reception.
Will rounded the numerously identical corner, facing into another corridor before he noticed a familiar fire extinguisher.  It was the landmark that reminded him he was nearly at the room.  Yet another corner and there he was.
Room 224.
Will patted around himself for the credit card-like key, something he still hadn’t gotten used to, before inserting it into the thin slot above the handle and pushing his way into the room.
A mood compelled him to look around.  He didn’t know what he expected to see different, but he did notice Housekeeping had been, as his clothes were folded neatly over a chair, the bed made and fresh white towels on the bathroom rail.  Other than that, he could be anywhere, in any country, in any world.  It made Will feel like he was in his own tiny universe, now that the door had clicked shut behind him.  This new universe consisted of a bed, a TV and a separate toilet and shower.
It seemed Housekeeping had left the TV on, however.  He would have to speak to the girl on Reception about this.  Will reached the window and pulled aside the net curtain, “Nothing.” he felt compelled to comment.  Just a deserted communal area, with mildewed benches weathered and shoed by rising grass, with the simplest of hardy flowers planted for minimum after care.  It was just like every other Weekender Inn Will had ever seen; lifeless and limp, just like its Staff.
Breakfast, as far as Will could remember, had been pretty awful too.  The bacon had been waterlogged and the scrambled eggs swamped.  The only thing that survived the cull was the cereal, and that was only because it was pre-packaged.  If only the milk hadn’t been on the turn, the whole thing would have been perfect.  Sure.
Where was that woman?  She was probably on to the family medical history by now.  That subject could keep her talking all day.  Will was no longer embarrassed about any discussion of his piles being communicated to complete strangers.  He knew she liked to share, just that she liked sharing too much.
She would often become more animated when the brandies were out.  Oh, but despite her little foibles, he loved her very much.  They had barely uttered a crossed word over the years - at least not until this morning, that is.   Will promised himself when she got back to the room, he would make an extra fuss of her.  After all, a woman that special only came once in a lifetime.
Will was slowly and sagely getting over the one too many he had imbibed the night before.  It had, in a way, contributed to the argument that morning.  But any hangover he was suffering from now was never going to be as bad as the tongue-lashing Dora would give him later.  He closed the curtains again and sat on the bed, now noticing the program on the TV for the first time.
It was some kind of film that contained a car chase at its core.  It looked a bit violent for the time of day.  Satellite TV, he presumed.  They'll put anything on that thing.  But as there was still no sign of the wife, he sat back against the headboard, cheekily lifting his feet onto the bed.
The film continued on with increasing action.  Will just wished she would hurry up.  Did she forget they had a day all planned, and if she didn’t hurry up, it would knock the whole schedule out?  Visually, the car in the film screeched all over the road, gathering speed.  It reminded Will of his own car.  The one in the film suddenly hit a patch of something, be it oil or black ice, that caused it to turn end over end.  It caught fire, rolling to a stop in the middle of the road.  Another car crashed heavily into it, spinning the car around on its roof, causing another, then another car to hit them, rendering the screen with a confusing pile-up of cars of various sizes, styles and colours along with trucks and vans, lorries and coaches, each one part of the gestalt.  Other vehicles clattered into the crashed ones, until the unveiling horror came to a sudden stop.
Bang!  Bang!
There was a sudden and rapid knock at the door, which  almost made Will jump out of his skin.  After catching his breath, Will pulled himself off the bed, turning the TV off with the remote control and walked to the door.  He opened it.
There stood an overly-efficient man, dressed with a smile and a shiny black suit.  He wore a badge that declared him Manager, and he greeted Will benignly, “Sir!  Welcome to the end of your life!  Your wife will be joining you shortly, and there are a couple of people downstairs who would like to talk to you!  I believe you know them?  Well, you soon will do!  Please have a nice day!”  The man beamed to excess, before Will abstractedly closed the door in his face.
“Oh, where is that woman?"  Damn.
Then Will remembered.



Of The Roads And Rivers
There was a man, with morals and possessed of a conscientious nature, who took a downturn in fortune, such that he became unable to repay his Debtors.  Those Debtors, in turn, involved the law, for they were enforcing their right.
And the man had no option but to leave his life and his business and become a wanderer, of the roads and rivers.  They labelled him a scofflaw, and his name became mud, though it wasn’t true.  He hadn’t flouted the law, but a label like that would stick and he had no alternative but to become anonymous; to disappear.  So he did, at least for a while.
Let’s call him Tom, for his name is immaterial.  Tom wakes.  He washes his face in the river, cold and stinging in the early morning.  He takes the half eaten sandwich and finishes it, licking the inside of the box and discarding the container to his side.  He slowly stands, wipes away the wetness he has been sitting upon; early morning dew.  He picks a direction to walk in, with every choice just as valuable as the last.  East it is.
His shoes are held together with spit and string, and his clothes can barely keep the chill out, but the walk soon warms his core.  He keeps to the countryside, avoiding crowds and towns, for they watch him even there, his Pursuers - waiting to pounce on him.  That his life would have turned out this way, he could never have imagined.  He never believed a positive step forward would bring him this deep down, so low as to hide from his responsibilities.
But he has no choice.  He has neither the money nor the wherewithal to earn it.  And they call him mad.  They call him scum.  They call him diseased, but he was never thus.  Circumstances made him paranoid and desperate, so he avoids the turmoil by keeping to the countryside, and to himself.
Of course, there are the generous types - the kind hearts who demand nothing, not even a name nor circumstance, and produce copious food and drink.  He is ever grateful for them, but never allows himself to feel complacent.  He has to keep a distance as they may very well be an agent of his Pursuers.  To be safe, he only visits those who seem trustworthy; the old, in particular, whose intentions are rarely anything but pure.  Like his Mother.  She is – was pure.  Like the driven snow.
His mind used to be clear, used to be lucid, but now contextually muddled.  He takes no medication, because that way they can track him.  That way they learn his pattern; first east, then south, then west and finally north.  With any luck, they stay confused.  His working hypothesis is that a cloudy mind is his burden to bear for the continued freedom from his Pursuers.
He takes the path through the trees.  Cover is his friend.  That night he sleeps under the fallen vegetation, watching the stars and remaining safe from their eyes.  Regular as clockwork, Tom wakes the next day and begins his routine again.  He eats of the discarded food he finds the previous day, readies himself to begin his walk again; this time to the south.  Yet with this course, he well knows that  he must cross the Wide Road.  Then he will be observable to them all, but there is no way round.  This is his order and that is his path.  He must - must follow it.
Just a few more metres and he is close.  Just one more turn and he will be there.  The cavernous crossing is filled with roaring and rumbling metal creatures, all purveying the Pursued and Pursuers with carriage.  They are all like him, like Tom, but they don’t know it yet, thus traverse their merry way, blindly, in their veiled lives.  The Pursuers, Tom knows, come for all, regardless of faith, of colour or creed, of political or social standing.  They pop the heads and suck out the sweet marrow of the souls of their victims.  Some they even cage, or force to be caged.  Others simply lose it and make the ultimate sacrifice to escape those in Pursuit.  What they do is they take the options away, those lucky ones, and they leave the world in the hopes of a better one to come.
Tom though, he is strong.  He is courageous.  He defies them, his Pursuers.  For they intend to possess him.  All of him.  And he won't have that.  Not ever.
The road is busy and the time is early, but relentless are Tom's plans despite hitting prime time traffic movements, which happen twice in twenty four hours, because it has to be done, it has to be crossed, and no great stick can hold back the metal beasts in their method, so Tom turns to instinct, for instinct has helped him every step of the way so far.
Today of all days however, it lets him down.  Tom is suddenly ploughed down by a beast, tossing him over its body, arcing in the air to clatter hard onto the road surface with a thud.  The occupant of the beast exits its belly and moves to the recumbent Tom, who is cut and bleeding from the head and hands.  Then the sirens of his Pursuers sound, warning him to rise.
He pulls himself to his feet, falling once, twice, three times, and eventually pulls himself to a standing position.  He hobbles quickly from the road, and the occuPier of the creature that hit him Pursues him, worried, pleading for him to stop.
But the sirens are getting louder.
They are nearing him.
He should never have come into their territory.  He should have stayed in his.  They are here now, screaming, their bright lights flashing.  Tom had been careless and tempted them, so naturally they responded.  Tom is trapped in their world now, so grabs the occuPier of the beast that hit him, and puts his knife to her throat.  If they want him, they are going to have to come and get him.  Tom is determined.  He is not going to go without a fight.
It’s stalemate.
And there they rest, watching Tom, watching his reactions.  They beg him to release his hostage, but he knows once he does, they have him.  And they will eat his soul, tear him limb from limb, before moving on to the next victim without so much as a care for the life they have taken.  No, in fact they crave it.  They demand it.
And then come the ones with the guns.  They point the barrels at Tom.
But he knows.  He knows the score.
And he reacts.



This And Every Time Returning
How many times must he live his folly?  How many times must he look on the face of the young and declare he can take no more - that he should look upon the faces of the old and have more akin to them than his apparent demographic?
It was, however, the horror he brought upon himself, by the selfish act of seeking a longer life, and now he had that desire satiated, was he content?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Abidingly, he had little choice in the matter, for Death now was to him an alien concept.  He no longer carried that winged Angel of Death on his shoulders, which waited for its opportunity to strike - he had successfully thrown from him those shackles of mortality.  Now he felt naked and alone, forever to live and never to die; eventually and always alone.
His story began shortly after he became aware of a compound that had been once in the possession of a great man, which had now been sold to the highest bidder.  The source was impeccable, undeniable and honest as the day was long.  It was a story of Lord Perkley, who was an adventurer of great renown, being twice the recipient of the Holbering Trophy for Valour in the Far East.  It was believed that he came across a great man, who he was told was three hundred and seventy five years old, yet he looked no more than thirty.  The man was a Tibetan Elder, and lived high in the mountains, where it was difficult to travel, because of the monstrous snow drifts that swallowed up whole villages in its wake, turning the landscape, for a few months at least, into an untraversible nightmare.  It is said that Lord Perkley found a way, a hidden way, to the hovel of this man.  Lord Perkley remarked in his journal that this man indeed appeared to be thirty years of age, yet held the wisdom of one much older.  The man, who was called Peng San, told Lord Perkley of the many years he had witnessed
"I travelled into Europe when I was a younger man.  I believed it fell unto me to use the extra time I had been given to explore this fine, remarkable world.  I have walked the Holy Lands on more than one occasion, along with the Pilgrims who devised to take the trip.  It is true I have seen much of history, Lord Perkley, as I ventured further west.  I have seen the majestic buildings of Paris and the Castles of Eastern Europe; I have witnessed the Dancing Plague of Strasbourg.  One of the many times I found myself in Spain, I saw the man Magellan leave his native land to circumvent the world, merely to prove it round.  I was in Italy during the Sack of Rome that ended the Italian Renaissance.  I was even in England when Henry led the Church of England from the Roman Catholic Church.  I even met with the great Copernicus, who spread his theory that the planets revolved around the sun.  Oh, I have seen all this and more, Lord Perkley.  So much more."
Eventually, during their long discussions, Lord Perkley brought up the issue of longevity.  It was then that the man called Peng San revealed to Lord Perkley his great secret, "It is a compound that is not easily obtained, Lord Perkley, as the ingredients for it are to be found here and there, spread about the land.  There are parts of the compound that come seasonally, found upon trepidatiously traversed tracks.  It is not such a simple thing to find.  Longevity is to be earned, Lord Perkley.  It is not to be given."
But Lord Perkley was bold, he was brave and ultimately Lord Perkley was patient.  He waited for the right flowers to bloom, the correct vegetation to grow, before bringing it all before the man Peng San.  Peng San looked upon both the ingredients and Lord Perkley, until he came to a decision, "Very well, Lord Perkley, if it is longevity that you wish, then I shall help you find it, through these ingredients you have brought to me.  But I must warn you, Lord Perkley, of the inherent dangers of both making and taking of such a compound.  I entreat you to keep it only to look upon and never to use, as the effects of this compound would likely not entirely be what you were expecting.  It is dangerous, certainly, but if you insist, we will make it together, in the hopes that you learn to respect it and never use it, as I have."
It took a further six months to breed the compound to its correct consistency and Lord Perkley and Peng San were done.
"I am gracious for the assistance you have given me, wise man.  I take your words of warning with me back to England, where I shall consider them, even as I carry with me this precious cargo." said Lord Perkley as he left Peng San then, never to see the wise man again for as long as he lived.  Lord Perkley took the compound out of Tibet, and was often tempted to partake of the compound on his trip back home, just to see its effects for himself.  But a conscience within stopped him, and when he returned to England, he locked the compound away, never to touch, to smell nor to taste its life-sustaining properties.
Over time, over the decades, Lord Perkley all but forgot about the compound, languishing there in his safe.  Upon his death, the Perkley Estate was bequeathed to his card-hungry gambling son, who subsequently lost the compound in a game of chance.  The son too died shortly after, of pneumonia or some other pneumatic disease.  It was then that Gabriel Crupe, the subject of this tale, came into possession of that very compound, outbidding all in the Perkley Estate property sale.
Soon after, Gabriel Crupe began to spread the word amongst his friends and colleagues of his find, to see if there were any genuinely interested parties looking to imbibe along with him, of this supposed compound of longevity.  There were many takers, and many cynics, but Gabriel Crupe chose only those he believed would benefit mostly from the taking of said compound.  He acted not unlike a God, choosing those who would live and die.  Granted, and dishonourably, most of the dozen were his friends, stolen of their youth through tough lives and endless work commitments.  But they were all fairly well retired now, and wishing that just once they might taste the sweetness of youth again, and this time do it all differently.  It was a common complaint; they worked for so many years they forgot to live.  But this could give it all back to them, the years they wasted, making them no longer dwell on the very few years they had left to them.
So, upon that day of rebirth, they were to be found together in Gabriel Crupe's Drawing Room, poised and pensive, waiting for their hour of renewal.
"Gabriel, dear boy.  When are you going to show us the thing?  I mean, I'm sure I speak for the rest when I express my concern for its very existence.  Surely you could bring it forth?" asked Benjamin Drenny, one of the Dozen.
"Why, yes, Gabriel, my dear.  Do bring the compound forth?" said Geraldine Spokeller, in concurrence with Drenny.
Gabriel Crupe first smiled a reply.  He then refilled his brandy glass before addressing the people about him, "Patience, my dear friends, is very much a virtue.  Don't fret!  It is real, and is currently being prepared for your delectations.  Within the hour, trust me, my friends.  Trust me."  He expressed his words with barely contained ecstasy.  He swilled the contents of the brandy glass first in the bowl, then down his throat, where it burned satisfyingly as it slid down into his stomach.
Within moments, the door opened and two footmen entered, each carrying six glasses of a compound on a silver serving tray.  Each of the lucky twelve took a glass from the tray and turned it this way and that into the light, "Please, my friends - drink!"  As proof, Gabriel Crupe did so.  Some of the others followed his example straight away, while others looked dubiously upon the mixture, and when sure the others who did imbibe showed no immediate ill effects, took it themselves.
It had a chalky texture, like Milk of Magnesium, the aniseed obviously added for taste.  The Drawing Room fell into a deathly quiet as the people waited for it to take hold.  They waited for minutes, but nothing seemed to have occurred.  Eventually many of them rose and began to leave.  Each and every one condemned Gabriel Crupe and his compound, threatening to sue for the trick so obviously perpetrated upon them, but Gabriel Crupe was relentless.  He insisted they wait and see, before  they overreacted.  Eventually they were dissuaded from taking any action for the next twenty four hours.  After then, Gabriel Crupe should expect to hear from their legal representatives.
Gabriel Crupe saw them all out of his home, and dismissed the staff for the night, in his frustration that he, too, had been tricked out of his money.  He put so much faith in its success that he never once thought it might be a confidence trick.  He took to his bed early, overly tired perhaps from the efforts of the day.  His dreams were fitful, of Tibetan Elders and famous adventurers, the Sacking of Rome and of Dancing Plagues.  When he awoke, he felt more tired than when he had lay down.
What Gabriel Crupe wasn't to know at that time was that of the thirteen who took the compound, only he had survived the night.  For some reason, it had taken the lives of the other twelve, all from natural causes it seemed, rather than prolonging or lengthening their lives.  It had shortened them considerably, to less than an hour or two after imbibing.  
Was it a pronouncement of sentence on their souls?  Or perhaps on his?  The consequence of drinking the compound soon became evident.  Gabriel Crupe began to feel things happening almost immediately from waking.  He lost the lines of experience from his old grey face.  Smoothness returned to his skin, as did colour to his cheeks.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t lived a full life, but in those days he was secretive, experimental and vain.  He also had money to burn from the wages of others, which led him to his beautiful house, where he had drunk the strange compound.  There he remained as he reversed in years.
He quickly realised that the compound only occurred to the body, to the organs, to the skin and the shade.  He was still as old in mind as he had been not a minute before taking the compound.  His views were still that of a septuagenarian, but in a teenager’s body.  If only he had given it more thought?  But impetuousness and greed had swallowed him up.  Eventually, his Debtors came and took his house.
Time passed slowly; painfully slowly for him.  He grew again from child to adult, forced into the back streets and the poor houses to the opulence of the City upon his maturity - in body only, of course.  He had now twice been through the same rigmarole and it was no more pleasant the second time.  He passed through adulthood and into middle age quite disrespectfully, choosing to take advantage of the unbreakable body.  He drank and he ate, and he came close to death - but upon the latest hour, the clock moved back once again on his face, on his skin and his assumed age.  Teenager once more, he embarked on the same trip, from down below to up high, running the body practically into the ground, before it returned him to that self-same old teenager once more.  Again and again he tested the limits with scant disregard to the constantly flowing World and it’s linear, never repeating passage through the Universe.
With each subsequent nightmare of a life, he felt closer and closer to the World.  It seemed to speak to him, chide him and accuse him.  He in turn felt that presence.  At first and for the longest time he ignored the World, until eventually he began feeling something – an unbreakable chain between them both, for there was nothing as old as she.  Now there was a kindred spirit for the World, in this man who lived over and over again.
She loved him.  How could she not?  She played with him, testing his limits, trying his patience.  He in turn loved her - how she always changed for him, flirted with him and made him want her.  He would lie in the tall grass often, just holding her as she brushed his face with a small gust of pollen-laden wind.  He smiled as they connected, but it was never always thus.
Sometimes they were at odds.  Sometimes the affair was sullied by the course she would take.  It was her beauty that he had at an instant recognised, as soon as he knew they would ever be connected.  And it was this that drove others to fight wars over her.  They wanted to be the only one to possess her.  Gabriel Crupe knew, however, that no one man could ever possess her.
She was everything and everywhere.  These people were transient and hollow.  What the World and Gabriel Crupe had was special.  It was for a long-time.  Certainly those pretenders would come and go, but she and he would remain forever together.
Inevitably.
Unconsciously.
Irrevocably chained.
Certainly, he would take other women, for those things the World could not provide him with.  How could one be intimate with a concept that is intimate with every other being that clung to her soft belly?
She was a strange and unfaithful one at best.  Gabriel Crupe fought for her on many an occasion, as the battles and wars increased in frequency.  Each time he would almost die and return to the child.  He would renew, but the World would not.  Eventually and inevitably they fell out of love, as she was continually changing, becoming victim to the affairs she had conducted, allowing the rampant ravaging of her body, over time and without end.  Soon, she would be too old, too far gone to remember the days they had so intensely loved each other.
Yet there would remain Gabriel Crupe the teenager - never dying, always renewing.
It was clear now that time had obediently robbed him of the state of being that the self same, once cantankerous, greedy old man had been in when first he lived.  He had changed, through each return.
And so would he forever.
It gave him time for reflection, at least.  It made him think - Why?  Just why did he partake of that dangerous compound in the first instance?
Who really knew the answer to that particular riddle?  Maybe it had been the folly of Youth?
Yet who can say, who has lived as long as Gabriel Crupe?



The Tale of the Long Weekend 
Oh glorious day!  That it starts so bright, full of birdsong, conjoined with promise and clarity!
And that such things can deteriorate so quickly is punishing, because, you see, once upon a time, in the County of Miskham, there was this Royal Borough, named Markensale, where lived two sisters, both Queens, and of their own domains.  The eldest was Mary, seventy two years young.  The youngest was called Beth, and she was sixty eight.  They lived in different castles, adjacent each other.  Mary ruled the Royal Mews, with residence enough for eight.  Beth ruled Kingdom Towers, enough for a confluence of twelve.  Neither completely controlled the disputed car park off the shared private road, but pitch battle was often fought there, as will soon become evident by its latest of tales.
See, the two castles sat in an uneasy peace, since the death of the generally respected Holder of Keys, Mr Henry, a Councilman of much accord, and thus the Ruling of the White Line had been held back out of respect for the fallen soldier.  He had battled much to attain what stood for peace in these turbulent days, working both sides to the mutual benefit of both - but that peace was on tenterhooks, in anticipation of the dove of peace to take to the skies, fly away over the roofs and alight upon the olive branch of serenity.  This caused many from within the respective properties to hold their respective breaths, while the higher office occupants remained stoically desperate for the ruling.  Those most desperate it seemed were the Sisters; the unruly, unbendable Daughters of Mother Queen.
The spark of ungarnered rebellion this occasion fell to a noble cousin of young Miss Gardener - of Royal Mews, Number Four - who soon became the object of derision and allowed the ire of those opposed to rise to such actions, by leaving his vehicle in contested lands.  This awoke the Dragon, snorting her ash clouds all about her, building her internal furnace to breathe her fire.
Within the words thus written, does this, the story unfold.

One: Awakening the Dragon
"I can see what you mean." breathed Beth Queen, from within her ivory tower, through the net curtains of yore.  She was in vocal communication down a series of interconnected lines with her second, Beverly Oelberg, of Number Two, Kingdom Towers.
"So what are we going to do about it?" asked Beverly, most expectantly.
"Firstly, they should see the error of their ways.  Therefore you should prepare the leaflet, Beverly."
"Merton?" called Beverly, into the interior of her cave, "Turn the computer on, will you?  I don't care what you're watching!  Merton, just you wait - okay, Beth.  It will be but a minute.  Merton, I swear -"  Beth cut communication there, as time was very much of the essence.  Peace was leveraged, and some kind of retaliation was in order.  Beth then dressed in her fine mantle and took the lift downstairs.  Beverly came suddenly from her door, brandishing the leaflet.  Within the words of the proclamation, it stressed the privacy of parking within the disputed land, and that leaving such a vehicle there was damaging and that restitution would be required if the vehicle remained in sully.  Beth ordered her Second, Beverly, to deliver the leaflet and place it beneath a wiper.  Nothing more was to be said.
Within the hour however, the vehicle was gone, but the leaflet remained, crumpled and discarded.  Beverly ventured out to retrieve it, whereupon she witnessed the words hastily written upon it, "Mind your own business, you interfering cow."  But what could Beverly do?  There was only one option now laid before her - she must inform Beth Queen.
Beverly stood at the doorway to Beth's spacial room, where Beth herself remained steadfast, blocking egress to the hallowed halls within, "Crumpled, you say?  Interfering cow, is it?  Beverly.  Return to your residence and prepare.  Peace is lost between the two Houses and restitution must be made.  We go, for all intents and purposes, to battle."
And so it was begun, from within that short sentence.  Beverly Oelberg, despite her husband Merton's protests, sent out the proclamation email to the faithful, so that they too could prepare for said battle.  There was Adriana Von Ingersleben of Number Seven, Tytus Durand and Philippa Durand of Number Ten, and the two men of Number Nine; the happy Humphrey Lowe and the flamboyant Archibald Rey.  These were Beth's most loyal.  They would back her to the hilt, and walk blindly into battle, if she so desired it, and they carried their weapons in hand; the Mighty Pen, the Notebook of Many Leaves and the Computer of Understanding.
Then, they set to work.
Meanwhile, of the impending action Mary Queen of Royal Mews was unaware.  She was ever on alert, though, knowing the very rashness of her Sister.  And she smelled something in the air that day, it seemed.
She could see unusual movement from within Kingdom Towers, movement that frequently indicated some kind of positive action.  To be prepared, Mary informed her Second to be ever watchful, to maintain vigil in these Uneasy Times.  Mary's Second, Gracie Shain of Number Three Royal Mews, took a monitoring position from within the Gardens, a subterfuge of spying on the machinations of the foolish.
Something was definitely occurring.
As though to prove that very point, the first simple act of attrition happened on the second hour.  A formal, hand-written letter was delivered by a neutral party, one of the Boyles from Number Five Kingdom Towers, and of what they delivered, they knew not the implication.  Neither did they care.  A presumption beyond their carriage.  And it read;
"To Whom It May Concern,
"It has come to our attention that a Vehicle was parked contrary to the Ruling of the White Line.  As the Ruling was known to both parties, an apology is demanded so that no further action will be taken.  As no member of Kingdom Towers had contravened this Policy, the act of some member of Royal Mews violating the agreement is seen as an act of active dispute over the border-line.
"We expect a response within the hour."
But the Kingdom Towers had their response in less than two minutes.  It was the torn-up letter stuffed into the self-same envelope, posted back into Kingdom Tower's land.
And so it had begun.  The Long Weekend.
Many would be witness to much in those days and almost none would be unaffected by its passage.  It was the Dark Times.  And in response to the shadow now over the land, it began to rain, in heavy, dark clouded slews.
"We meet today as a Council of War." began Beth, seated at her throne, at the head of the table, "I know none of us wanted it to come to this, but -"
At that point, in came the Knave, Archibald Rey.  He conveyed with him a selection of refreshments and cakes from the fairies, "Tea's up." he declared.
"Archie!  Beth was speaking!" Humphrey Lowe, his partner, reprimanded.
Archibald affected an apologetic bow, which Beth accepted.  She knew she needed allies now more than at any other time.  The convened meeting was taking place within the Lowe-Rey Retreat, Number Nine.
Upon their mantelpiece were placed expressive trinkets, and pictures of the two in hapPier times, often abroad in some far distant land.  The wallpaper was flock and in hues of blue, and the furnishings had been purchased from the Land of Ikea, but were no less for their construction.  There was a faint odour of lavender, blended with lily of the valley, and a hint of Old Spice to complete the soporific splendour.
"Tea is much appreciated." exuded Beth, with inbuilt grace.  She took the cup and saucer offered to her by the Knave, Archibald.  And he, one by one, handed to each in turn the same honour, at last taking his own drink and seating himself at the last available chair.  Adriana Von Ingersleben took a cake from the silver stand and began nibbling at it like a delicate bird.  Tytus and Philippa Durand sat upright, never a change to their expression, unrelenting in its daunt.  Beverly Oelberg was sifting through a catalogue of declarations, promissory notes and communications, poised at Beth's command.
"Can we not launch a smear campaign?  Such as one upon Councilliary proportions?" suggested Tytus Durand, stern of face.
"We greatly understand and appreciate Tytus's contributions to proceedings, but just because he was involved in Local Politics, doesn't mean he has the definitive answer on everything." said Humphrey Lowe, fingering his cup.
"Shut up, you old poof." muttered Tytus Durand, evidence of his turbulent UKIPian past.
"My, such a tongue on him!" admonished Humphrey, amused.
"If you ask me," began Adriana Von Ingersleben with a slight accent, "I say ve kick them vere it hurts."
"Tytus!  Such language!  I'm sorry, Humphrey.  He's not normally like this!" explained Philippa Durand.
"And break their vindows or somethink." continued Adriana Von Ingersleben, finishing her cake with one insertion.
"No worries, Philippa, dear.  Myself and Tytus are well acquainted with our differences." said Humphrey, with a Jester's smile.
"That is not the point.  We do not begin where it can be ended.  They must see the error of their ways." insisted Beth.  All looked to her then, as the cross-conversations had left much confusion.  One by one the rhythm slot into place, "We all know what to do.  Remember the Great Repainting of the Private Road Sign?" they nodded, "Then that is how we shall proceed." said Beth finally, shuffling her papers.
"So, no arze kicking?" Adriana Von Ingersleben asked with pouted lip.
"No, dear, not this time." said Beth, in deep resignation.
And it was ever so that upon and within the opposition's castle did a similar Council convene.  In difference there couldn't have been a greater ravine, and Rupert Ott was making his position clear.
"No, Hannah!  I'm not having that bunch of hoo-hahs in my home!  No offence." he added, waving at Mary on the doorstep.
"Oh, none taken." Mary waved herself with a deft hand.
"Don't be like this, Rupert!  This isn't like the last time!  You know my therapist said I should be more outward!"
"Okay, Hannah.  Okay.  We certainly don't want a repeat of those days."
"I am under medication, Rupert!" Hannah insisted.
"Alright, Hannah.  Just don't expect me to like it." Rupert Ott, waved those on the doorstep to cross the threshold, "Please, won't you - all - come in?" he said, with a modicum of sarcasm.
The procession was led by Mary Queen, of course.  Next in line was Gracie Shain, her second; she was bereft of all but a Reporter's Pad and pencil.  Last to grace the quaint, if trinket heavy residence of the Ott's was the dark-eyed Tomer MacGowan-Hasek.  It was evident Hannah Ott favoured equine trinkets above any other.  She had a veritable livery of objects, crowding out the odd swine in a hat, or leporidae in repose.  Number Eight was a menagerie of porcelain, to be sure.
"Your Sister is a sly one, Mary." suggested Tomer MacGowan-Hasek, a man of design, "She has some bee in her bonnet about something of nothing."  For his profession, Tomer drew proportionately by day, and as such his occupation motivated the rest of his every-day speech.
"Unfortunately it has ever been thus." explained Mary.  Tomer waited for her to drop to seat before he himself took perch.
"Then what must we do?" asked Gracie Shain.  She took regular position upon the stool at Mary's feet.
"We must wait and be prepared.  We must not act until she acts."
"Reactively defending is a sure sign of weakness." said Tomer.
"And yet she must see it as so.  She must assume that Royal Mews is weaker than she.  This way, and only this way, should be our path.  You know a pre-emptive strike is contrary to my policy?"
The traitorous Rupert Ott spoke up, "You do know what you all sound like, right?"
"Rupert -" tried Hannah.
"You're all a bunch of reactionary loonies, you know that?" Rupert continued.
"Rupert!" Hannah insisted.
"Perhaps this would be better continued in a more conducive environment?" suggested Mary.
"Oh, ignore him.  He's just angry because he didn't get any last night." said Hannah.
"I'm not sure this is the correct form of conversation -" tried Mary, desperately.
"Right!  I’ve got an idea!  Get out!  All of you!  Now!" demanded Rupert.
"Perhaps we should take it all as read, then?" summarised Mary, upon being ejected from the lodgings.  All nodded in ascent, and it was agreed upon that the overriding decision was to wait and see.
Standing upon the hallway carpet outside Number Eight and bidding farewell to her loyal followers, Mary glanced upon an as yet previously unseen couple exiting the vacant Number Six.  A Gentleman of Suit followed the couple, clipboard in hand.  Upon noticing Mary, the Gentleman of Suit addressed her.
"Ah, Mary!  This is Steve and Felicity Moss.  They were just looking at Number Six?  Steve - Felicity - this is Mary Queen, the Manager of the property?"
"A distinct honour it is." smiled Mary politely.  She offered a hand to them both.
"Yes, if you've got any questions, she's the one to ask." said the Gentleman of Suit.  Mary nodded in ascent and led them down as far as the front door of Royal Mews, as a display of grace.
But upon arriving at that spot, an act so heinous, so devious and callous was it - that they were greeted by a projectile, of rubber and water, one the contents of the other.  It was difficult to determine its exact point of origin, but the direction was unmistakable.  Kingdom Towers.  The projectile, upon explosion, drenched both Steve and Felicity Moss.  Felicity became instantly soaked up to her stockinged knee and she recoiled in fear, naturally clinging to her Husband.  He was incensed by the wilful act, but most indignant of all was Mary.
It had begun, and with an attack on the innocent.
This would not stand.  For whatever reason her Sister had decided to renew hostilities, and Mary in her ire would not be found wanting.  This was war.  And Mary Queen was well prepared for it.

Two: And Now Comes The Response
The sun was falling behind the horizon and the winds did pick up, fluttering the curtain in the open window, gathering action like the standard of the Royal Mews in stripes of pink and blue against a cream background.
A mild rumbling echoed throughout the land, of wheeled contraptions.  The shadowed culprits were veiled by the night, but their actions were manifest.  The direction from whence they came was simple.  One from within Kingdom Towers was directing the placement of objects.  Within an hour, similarly covered reactionists from Royal Mews made their intentions equally clear, by creeping to the entranceway of said Kingdom Towers and tipping up the glorious Hanging Baskets, until the dirt and soil was naught but a pile of vegetation upon the floor.  Tit for tat done, both sides took the night to think further on their plans for success.
The following morning was bright, with little or no cloud to speak of, but a mild breeze blew the mist from the battlefield, illuminating an attacker - a skirmisher from Kingdom Towers.  With clippers in hand, they proceeded to decapitate, to dead-head the soldier-like flowers in the Grand Gardens of Royal Mews.  It was a difficult sight to see, and the warriors from Royal Mews were prepared.  Two only, in darkest of garb, took bags of black, full of composted and rotting food, and placed them 'neath the windows of Kingdom Towers.  Both sides had proved their intentions.  Both sides would fight on.  It was early in the conflict, and equally early in the day of battle.  
All seemed quiet for some time, until a screeching, winding, grinding monster let loose its vocality - that of the constant and irritating noise of an alarmed conveyance, its alarm triggered somehow.  The culprit of which would be interpreted by the opposition as acting menacingly.  Three from Royal Mews were dispatched, and from instruction, they let down the tires of all parked vehicles on the Kingdom Towers side.  Battle, it seemed, was escalating.
As the solar giant reached its meridian, one side was strategically placing the excreta of animal-kind about the walls.  Such a stench would surely bring about a reaction.  Kingdom Towers was making a point, and that point was effluent.  Royal Mews took to marking the clumps with paint, denoting that such an action as gathering all excreta and placing it upon the said walls of Kingdom Towers was a Health Hazard, and that it was to be regarded as Dangerous Material.
Retaliation came from Kingdom Towers in the form of placing large noise conveyors hanging from their windows and playing such music that contained earth rumbling tones, shaking the very foundations.  Royal Mews then responded by placing a vehicle against the entry doors to Kingdom Towers, disallowing personal ingress or exfiltration.  It was becoming early afternoon, and the battles, it seemed, were winding up.  A sense of mutually assured destruction fell over the battlefield.  It was time to send in the Envoys, to talk terms of surrender.

Three: The Secret War
In the initial talks, neither side acquiesced to the other.  The Envoys - Hannah Ott for Royal Mews and Tytus Durand for Kingdom Towers - remained in relative comfort within each other's lands.  But it seemed things were about to turn.
"We caught this one sneaking about in the entranceway, messing about with your noticeboard." declared Philippa Durand.  It was Tomer MacGowan-Hasek, being led by his arm.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." tried Tomer.  But he knew he was caught.
"Alright, put him with the Ott woman." said Beth.
"Some kind of subterfuge, I'm sure." expressed Beverly Oelberg, ever the loyalist.  The day was Sunday and the perpetual cycle of the planet around its orbit of the star denoted it was to get increasingly darker from this point on.
"Come on, you people?  This is getting ridiculous!  It's getting out of hand!" tried Ozzy Norris, partner of Adriana Von Ingersleben.
"Ozzy, stay out of zis!" said Adriana Von Ingersleben, slapping her partner on the arm ineffectively for interfering.
"But it's getting criminal, though!" expressed Ozzy.  Adriana Von Ingersleben was forced then to gently lead him away from the scene, for his own safety.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Beverly Oelberg, once the commotion had died down.
"We wait.  That's what we do." said Beth Queen, with a grin that could launch ships.
Mary Queen looked from the vantage point of her window, at the battlefield below, "I never thought it would go this far." she said, mostly to herself.  It was still not too late, though.  Nothing irreversible had been perpetrated.  Nothing that couldn't be fixed.  Gracie Shain, her Second, was quietly nodding behind her.  Mary continued, "We have to call it off.  Tell this Tytus Durand person to return as a sign of peace.  Then perhaps it can stop."
"Are you sure?" enquired Gracie, concerned.  This was a turn unexpected in the face of evidential proceedings.  Mary merely nodded in reaction, and Gracie left to do as bid.  Mary's eyes continued to survey the scene, wondering how it all had come to this.
Despite the calls for diplomacy and the return of the Envoy, nothing came from Kingdom Towers.  It soon became morning and Mary could take no more.  She assembled her faithful and took to the battlefield, waving a figurative White Flag.  Within minutes she was joined by her Sister, equally garbed and dutifully flanked by her loyal followers, and the two hostages from the previous encounter.  Mary was disconsolate, while Beth was grinning from ear to ear.  It was self-evident she sensed victory was close.
"So, Sister?  What brings you into the open?" mewed Beth.
"We need to stop this and stop it now. This is not us, Sister.  We must bring to an end these hostilities.  It has gone beyond the pale.  Look!  You have hostages for goodness sake!  It's - it's getting unlawful!"
"So, should I take that as your surrender?"
"Beth, stop.  It's gone far enough."
Then Beth Queen signalled for a participant behind her to come forth, whereupon they dutifully produced a stone and threw it at one of the many windows opposite.  The fenestral glass smashed producing the familiar yet strange insular sound as the pieces fell into the now exposed interior of a room.  A loyalist from Mary's side made as if to react, but was held back by another.  This wasn't the time, as bounds had well and truly been overstepped.
But as Mary was in the process of responding, they heard a rumbling sound coming from the Main Road leading to the joint Private Road of Royal Mews and Kingdom Towers.  It was a White Stead, a conveyor of workers; the Great White Van.  Once upon the Private Road, a man alighted and walked toward the centre of the battlefield, flanked by two men dressed in jackets of fire.  The first man introduced himself.
"Hello.  I am the Councilman, Mr Prince.  I am Mr Henry's replacement.  Well, to have the two of you right here in front of me makes my job a little easier, you know."  He handed each Sister a single white envelope.  Within a flash, the men coated in fire began work, by gestured minim.  As they removed equipment from the Van, Mr Prince continued, "This is the Ruling of the White Line.  My men here will now draw the border line, for the acceptance of both Royal Mews and Kingdom Towers.  Oh, and it would be nice if you could take a little more care of your Gardens?  They're beginning to look a little rough.  A little pride, you know?"  Mr Prince took their stunned silence as acceptance and returned to the instructing of his men.
The Sisters opened their letters respectively.  It was true, as right there and within was contained the Ruling of the White Line in black and white.  As the men marked out the placement of the Line, there seemed little point in remaining outside on the cold dead battlegrounds, so both armies departed to their respective lands, with their respective members.  Peace was uneasy, but it was certainly peace at last.
Epilogue
And so, yet later when all seemed at respite, a dark figure was seen, walking amongst vehicles parked within the Official Markings.  In its hand was a key.  With this key, it marked said vehicles with a deep squealing scratch.
Because it seemed nothing was truly over.  At least not while the Queen Sisters, Mary and Beth, ruled unheeded.
And as we leave Kingdom Towers and Royal Mews, within the Royal Borough of Markensale, in the county of Miskham, we know that, honestly and truly, there is not one soul that would surely sleep easily that night -



The Indestructible Man
When it comes down to it, right down to brass tacks, things become clear and we are guided to believe that everything is transient.  Life is transient.  A drink is transient, once it has been created.  Spill it unnecessarily, and it loses its completeness; becomes less than it was, more transient.  It becomes a flash of momentary function.
And there stood Trevor Front, a transitory man alone on the train tracks of life.  In this instance, also on the train tracks from Felting to Dipshire, late one night after an evening of despair, served with a chilled bottle of cheap red.  Chilled because he had spent much of the evening sitting by the embankment, building up his cowardice to finally end it all.  He had just watched the 11.30pm night train go past, well knowing they came regularly at fifteen minute intervals.  He knew this because he had counted the seconds between the last seven trains that passed him by.  The next was due in three minutes and counting.
In a way, life hadn’t been so bad.  He had spent it mostly alone, granted, so wasn’t required to deal with those petty relationships and the annoying arguments that inevitably ensued as a happenstance of just such a notion.  There had been no one to spend the meagre money he infrequently earned on, so he found himself buying into stupid toys and games.  He learned the ignoble art of comfort eating and frequently tortured himself with the denial of pleasures, well knowing they would likely kill him.  He never had a sexually transmitted disease, mainly due to a lifetime of ononism, supplemented by the varied and available online porn industry.  He never had a girlfriend to speak of, which turned out just as well, because he was bereft of the words or the actions to perform with one anyway.  He had come to the mortal conclusion that the train tracks were a logical, practical decision.  They also conveyed his preferred method of death, that of trainicide.
One minute fifty.
Had any of it really been worth it?  Had he experienced any real moments of happiness, other than when high on sugar, or watching nature adapt its pattern to modern life.  Everything that remained was a distraction, one which couldn’t distract him enough.
Forty five seconds.
He could see it, feel the rattle of it, the whine of the wheels of metal on metal, reverberating all along the length of the four foot eight and a half inch standard gauge track.  His destiny was almost upon him.
Thirty, twenty nine, twenty eight.  Nearly.  Almost there.  He braced himself.  Twenty.  Nineteen.
Then something unexpected happened.  First of all, Trevor Front didn’t die, which, as it turned out, was quite disappointing.  Second of all, just twenty feet from where Trevor stood, the 11.45 to wherever derailed, spectacularly.  The lead carriage along with the following one jackknifed, lifting both carriages into a screaming, screeching, voluminous mess.  Metal rended and glass shattered.  The people aboard could be heard shouting in shock and pain, while the last carriage slingshot over the other two, spinning over Trevor's head.  He watched transfixed as the world turned to slow motion, and he witnessed the people being churned up in the sixty foot long, nine feet wide carriage, their hands thrust out to stop themselves from inevitable mutual clatter, pushing aside the unsecured luggage that collided with them.  One pair of eyes connected with Trevor's, the eyes of a woman, and what he saw there was not shock.  It was something beyond; something primitive.  A kind of natural acceptance, of an instinct inbuilt.  It burned deep into Trevor’s mind as the carriage flipped and crashed to a stop just beyond him.
Trevor Front, it would seem, had not a scratch on him.
“Bugger.” he expressed disappointedly.
Metal had become twisted with body parts.  Fires began in isolated spots of the overturned carriages.  Instinctually motivated, Trevor searched inside for signs of activity.  Where he found life, he pulled them from the wreckage.  He saved who he could, but it was impossible to save them all.  Spent, he lay exhausted on the grass, as the Emergency Services finally turned up in their droves, salaciously followed by the vulturistic Press, with their lights blinding, clawing eagerly; searching for the stories.
Trevor accepted a blanket soporifically from a Paramedic, sipping the bottled water that had been dropped in his hand.  He saw again those eyes, but now in a tableau of creeping death.
“Sir?” a Police Officer in a high viz jacket called Trevor's attention, “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”
Trevor looked to the grass beyond him, “Well, I came down to the tracks to –“
“You weren’t on the train?”
“No, like I say I was coming down to the train tracks to –“
The Officer called over to a colleague.  The second Officer was similar of dress, “So, you weren’t on the train?  You got all these people out then?”
“I suppose so –“ began Trevor.  Each of the subsequent Officers called over another colleague to relay this fact.  Trevor was beginning to wish he had the answer to their enquiry tattooed on his forehead.  The Officers helped Trevor to his feet, guiding him to the officially cordoned Incident Area, where he was given a proper chair and something more substantial to drink.
Trevor could hear the baying of the Press from here, who were kept justifiably away from the real horror.  He could hear the self-important voice of a Senior Police Officer giving a current report on the wounded and dead, when he seemed to break off from a prearranged script, “ – And if you want to look to someone as hero, look no further than this man –“  Trevor could tell the voice was getting louder and therefore nearer.  It wasn’t until he felt a hand on his shoulder did he look up at the dozens of flashing and shining lights, followed by a cacophony of voices asking him questions he couldn’t possibly hear.
By consequence, Trevor had been upgraded to another cordoned-off area, where he now sat, opposite an officiate man.
“Look, I don’t understand all this.  As I told you, I only went down there to kill myself.  Couldn’t even get that right.” he expressed to the Officer tasked with debriefing him.
“But you saved all those people –“
“I didn’t intend to.  I fully intended to be dead by now.”
“And now you’re a hero.”
“I don’t want to be.  Have you any idea how crappy my life is?  And this on top –“
“But the lives you saved outweigh any loss you could feel –“
“How could you possibly know how I feel?  A man should have the right to die on his own terms –“
“Well, that is technically illegal, sir.” said the Officer, matter-of-factly.
“Well, I’m technically alive, when I want to be actually dead.” said Trevor, equally matter-of-factly.
“You know we cannot allow that for various reasons, don't you, sir?  Not the least of which is that you are now the face of a hero.  And that’s one thing this country could definitely do with right now.”
“Have you any idea how many times I’ve tried to commit suicide?” asked Trevor rhetorically, “No?  Not guessing?  Forty three.  Forty three times without success.  I’ve jumped from a motorway bridge and landed on a soft-top car with a mattress in the back, I’ve thrown myself into the canal, only to hit the bottom, three feet below me.  I tried jumping from the Clifton Suspension Bridge once late at night.  Guess what?  I landed in soft mud, and the worse injury I sustained from that was a broken fingernail.  I’ve tried to hang myself seventeen times, with varying strengths of cord or rope.  Every time, and I mean every time without fail, either the knot slips or the rope breaks.  I even tried to electrocute myself once, a second before a massive power cut.  I’ve tried cutting my wrists in a bath of warm water, only to wake up with the wound healing.  Didn’t matter how deeply I cut it either.  I tried setting myself on fire, but didn’t realise I had poured diesel on myself instead of petrol.”
“Well, sir –“ tried the Officer.
“I know, but I just can’t do it.  Even when I stand in front of a bloody train it derails right in front of me.”
“Well, I’m not superstitious, sir, but did you ever think it may be destiny?  There could be a higher power perhaps?  I mean, if you didn’t die, is it that you’re supposed to live?”
“Why?  Why?  Please tell me!  I’d love to hear why, seeing as the rest of my life is so crappy –“
The Senior Police Officer broke the tension by entering the tent, “Ah, Mr Front.  You finished with him, Keith?”
“Certainly, sir.” the Officer smiled, packing away his interview equipment.
The Senior Police Officer insistently helped Trevor to his feet, “Mr Front – Trevor.  I can call you Trevor?  Right, well, there are a number of Press people who would like to speak with you, if you don’t mind?”  Frankly he didn’t care if Trevor minded or not.  This was a PR coup for the Emergency Services.
Trevor was then shown into a white tent, filled with a grazing herd of journalists, who were suddenly fired up by his entrance.  They all shouted at once, but all Trevor could see was the spot on the top table where every microphone in existence was poised to capture the incumbents every word, breath and movement.  The Senior Police Officer led Trevor to that spot, like he was a condemned man, then taking a position to his left.  Other people were on the table, but Trevor didn’t notice any of them.  All he could see was the shining white light before him.  He wished with all his might it was a portal to the other world.  It wasn’t.  It was the light atop the Nightly News's camera.
“Mr Front.  Trevor.  Can you tell us in your own words what happened?” asked one vague voice in the sea of journalists.
“Well –“ began Trevor.  The Senior Police Officer stopped Trevor mid-syllable.
“I’m afraid we cannot go into specifics right now.  It is still under investigation at this time.”
Another from the pit shouted louder than the others, “How do you feel, Mr Front?  About the incident?”
Trevor didn’t even manage half a syllable this time, “Mr Front cannot answer those questions at this time.” cut in the Senior Police Officer.  Trevor's mood increasingly became despondent.  The barrage of questions and non-answers went on for a further ten minutes, with fairly innocuous shouts like, “What was going through your mind as you saw the train crash?” and, “How often do you visit the train tracks in a week?”  Each time, the Senior Police Officer cut Trevor off before he could speak.  It all seemed too overwhelming for Trevor, and when he had a moment, he slipped away unnoticed, and found a quiet corner of another tent.
For a while he was alone with his thoughts, when a woman joined him.  She was in a similar state of distress to Trevor.  And he knew he recognised her.  She was one of the people he had pulled from the train.
“I can’t thank you enough –“
“Please, don’t.  Don’t at all.  It just happened.  I’m no hero.”
“Oh.” she expressed, disappointedly.
“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that.  You obviously wanted to live.  I don’t.  I want to die, and instead, well, I’m lauded as some kind of hero.  I just did what came naturally to me.  Just because I want to die doesn’t mean I was going remove that choice for anyone else.  That’s why I saved you, not to be a hero, but to allow you your own choice.  To choose when you die.”
She sighed, “You know, my Sister was in the carriage with me.  She died.”
“Did she have the most beautiful eyes, and a red coat?”
“Well – Yes?  She said before she died that she saw a man – she said he looked the saddest man she had ever seen.  She said she saw something inside him that needed to escape.”
“Wow.  She had very good eyesight –“
“She said she saw in him what she saw in herself.  She said that she wished she could have helped him.”
“She said a lot while dying – Sorry, that was insensitive.  It’s been a roller coaster ride for me tonight.  I had set out this morning with the intention that by the end of this night I would be dead.”
“Perhaps that’s what she saw in you?  She'd tried to kill herself on several occasions too.  Looks like she succeeded this time, in a way." she put a hand on his arm, “Sadly I couldn’t do for her what she most desired.  But if, you know, you want me to help you –“
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask.” she said.  She patted Trevor on the cheek kindly.  A smile elicited a single tear to roll down her cheek.  That was the one that she lost for her Sister, “You never have to ask, Trevor.  Never.”
The air was crisp as the morning approached.  The dawn light climbed heavily over the horizon as the early morning dew began to burn away.  With a clunk and a whir, the camera fired up.  From much practice, the cameraman put the square machine undauntingly onto his shoulder, his eye sitting comfortably in the viewfinder.  He checked with the OB Unit that they were ready, while they set the tapes rolling.  The Reporter checked her make-up once more before signalling for the camera light.  "Ready?” she expressed, “Live, in three, two – This is Katherine Rinker, for the Nightly News.  Police are reporting this morning that the hero of the day, Mr Trevor Front, forty one, was found dead not one hour ago in this tent behind me, of multiple stab wounds.  Police have told me they are treating it as suspicious.  One source tells us that not only did they see the body of Mr Trevor Front and that he was indeed dead, but also, and rather creepily, he had a very broad smile on his face.  In other news –“



Tumultuary Turbulence

There was nothing but darkness, then suddenly I awoke.  It was a strange kind of waking, to be sure.
I saw the bullet tear out of my chest, leaving no mark, running back in slow motion as every part of my mind fired at once to register this act of murder.  The bullet pulled away from me, finding the barrel of the gun and reinserting itself within the magazine, unfired.  Shocked, I felt myself run from the scene, on my heels, barely registering the face of the man who held the gun.  I was running away from a prone man, who in turn rose to his feet and smacked his face into the gunman’s hand, before the vision rescinded into darkness.
When my vision returned, I next saw the face of my child as I pulled away from him, continuing the same act with my wife, who changed her smile to a scowl.  I picked up the telephone, registering a call from someone I worked with, that there was a problem, one for me alone to solve.  As I put down the phone, my wife became less concerned, and we hugged each other in front of the TV, with our son at our feet, playing with his toys.
The strange darkness returned, to be replaced by a scene changed, one that fell to an argument.  The raised voices were between my Boss and this man I had seen before.  He was the Gunman, clear as day.  He shoved my Boss against a wall and quickly walked away, on his heels.  The incident didn’t seem to concern anyone else in the office, as they quickly returned to their work and forgot anything had even happened.
There was that darkness again, then I was outside, in the carpark.  The Gunman was there again, shouting expletives to anyone who would listen.
And I listened.
He went on for some minutes before he got into his car and reversed his way out of the carpark, driving quite aggressively.  I began to think I knew that man by more than just my murder.  Was he a colleague?  Perhaps.
The darkness returned, and I was at my work.  There he was yet again, the ever present Gunman, sitting in a cubicle next to mine.  He was shouting down the receiver of a telephone to someone he had just picked up on.  Slowly, the shouting calmed down to a polite diatribe, eventually ending with the Gunman punching a few numbers into the telephone’s keypad.  Calmly, as though nothing had occurred, he returned to his Computer Screen.
 My vision spat darkness and swirled to another scene, as it had so many times.
It seemed by now I had been demoted in the Company, but strangely I was fine with it.  I was on the first rung of a ladder I had worked very hard to climb, and the descent apparently sat well with me.  And there he was again, the Gunman.  A name came to me.  Richie?  Richie Travis?  His name?  My murderer’s name?  But, even though I was given this remembered memory, I did nothing with it.   I left the Company then to return to Education.
I was at my University, where I fell back into my work and was taken from fourth year down to first, then from there to High School.  That was where I learned what it meant to be altruistic.  Except now, I seemed to walk away from situations I might have once bustled my way into.  I let the bullies intimidate me into leaving.  I watched as a friend I once though dead come back to school, healthy as never before, and insisted the bullying was getting less and less, until we stopped talking to each other, and kept to ourselves.
I appeared to be hitting other children.  The more I hit, the less my fists hurt, until I gave up and walked away for no reason.  Quickly came those dares.  I seemed less selfish than I remembered, and gave way to other children, so they might enjoy their lives uninterrupted, by myself and with my ilk.  Given little reason, the gang disbanded and we went our separate ways.  Then the loneliness began.
I was young, certainly lonely, and my Dad would leave me alone, not hit me or shout at me for no reason.  Then the abuse would stop, and I would feel safe and full of life again, not depressed or angry with the world.  No.  Because Mom was there.  She had come back to us, having left with that man she ran off with.  Eventually the arguments stopped between Mom and Dad, and Dad stopped hitting Mom.  Things became much hapPier.  It was a softer, gentler time when everything seemed so innocent.  Playfulness, happiness, immortality.  All these things were available to me, as I languished selfishly and was cared for on my back.
All of a moment the blackness returned; that definite, shrouding death-like darkness that spelled something presenting neither a beginning nor an end.  And then suddenly there  was nothing.
Nothing but an idea.



Who Knew?
Roman Dexter; he knew.  And he had known for some time.  It was only relatively recently as recently that the long-awaited results had been forthcoming to prove for certain a hypothesis he had held for quite an age.  He had laid down the experiments months previously, never relenting in his course.  His dauntless pressure for completion led to a forced and internally controlled sabbatical.  He assented to the decision, but he was reluctant to leave his work, so kept an eye on his valuable equipment, which was set to detect the forces and movements of certain elements yet undetected by milder, less specific instruments.
And as soon as he found out the results, he thrust them before the Committee, hoping, finally, that they would listen.  They did not, however, as was their want, staid in their myopic view of a world of certain science, while disregarding experimental and theoretical science as a fad, the fuddy-duddy, useless greytops became too ensconced in the Brown Corduroy Past to see what was really happening, right under their hooked, hobbled and crooked noses.
The world was ending.  And soon.
How soon?  Well, Roman wasn’t certain, but the fact was quickly becoming an imperative of knowledge to all who could possibly aid in any kind of service within the construct of such an inevitable fact.  Roman Dexter tried.  He told the Papers, told the Police; he even told the Government Ministers by the horde.  And it gained him nothing, nothing but a reputation; a reputation as a busy-body, a trouble maker and a hack.
Yet implacable, he showed his findings to his Peers.  They laughed and laughed until he relented.  Yet he was so confident, he stood outside Parliament to scream his fear for the ignorant, uneducated people of the World to understand.  Before long the men in White Coats came to take him away.  It seemed time, for Roman was moving like the passing of a coal train - thunderous and shaky.
But Roman Dexter knew the truth, and he had to live with that.  Pretty soon, no one would have to live with that, because everyone would be dead.
He found the ability to memorise his calculations, assuring himself that he would endeavour to extricate an exact time and date, even while under a Section Order.  He became ensconced in the Mental Health Hospital, guarded more to keep him safe than to prevent those from outside getting in.  No one in their right mind would want to be in there on purpose.  And this included Roman Dexter, but one place was as good as another while he calculated those sums.  And, almost certainly, they did.  It was remarkable.  It even surprised Roman Dexter.  Who knew the world would end on a Tuesday?
Roman was a persuasive fellow, and after much discussion with his compadres, a small handful of believers came forward in support of him and his ideas.  He showed them the sums and they nodded enthusiastically, repeating his words over and over again.
But they were mad.
He was not, and he needed the Doctors to see this.  It wasn’t due to stress of the job, or long hours and little sleep.  It wasn’t that he skipped far too many meals and failed to take care of his personal hygiene.  They were side effects, not symptoms of a wider, more far ranging illness that he was unaware of.  The world was going to end.  On Tuesday.  In four days.  It said so, right there, in the calculations.
Saturday came.  Then Sunday.  Monday followed obediently and inevitably, as Tuesday was to follow Monday also in the way it always did.  He pleaded with the Doctors at first, then the Orderlies, then the Administrative Staff.  When that didn’t work, he moved his motivation to the Security Officers who clumped noisily around the corridors, their Radio’s hissing a little secret set of code words to each other.  They pushed at the locked doors and eyed everyone suspiciously.  They had no truck with the Mentals.  But this night, Roman was a little frantic, as his plans to escape were scuppered at the first hurdle.
The question occurred to him late in the day; escape to where?  The world was ending.  There would be nowhere to hide, not from this - nowhere to wait it out, to duck and cover or to protect himself.
So he became consoled with the definite assumption that in one hour, he would be no more.  Nor would anyone else; not man, woman, child, cat, dog, sheep nor hen.  So, really, who knew the World was ending on a Tuesday?
Well, Roman Dexter did, of course.
He smiled contentedly with the knowledge that he knew something they didn’t.  Finally, he had his place in the World - at the top and looking down.  Oh glorious day!
Infusive Musings In Short
Whether what weather when whether there be, when I look about me, as the ever observant, the paths of the Wide World open a little wider to see.
There's a middle aged woman talking to her teddy bear, whispering to her stuffed comrade in confidence.   The woman with the bear, she whispers in its ear, “I know you think I’m mad, but look around.  Who isn’t?”
She’s right, of course.  She always is.
“But why are my hands cold, when outside the sun shines?”
The bear is nonplussed.  It doesn’t know the answers.  It can’t.  It’s a stuffed bear.  But to her it’s a friend.
Nearby, the Barista squirts the cleaning fluid, ejaculating it upon the table.  Is he trying to impress?  Is it subconscious, or a much more subtle flirting technique?  Does he know?  In his cold hands, does it matter?
But everybody who is everybody seems to have lanyards nowadays.  It’s a badge, or a chain, or a label for the lost and found.  Security conscious it may be, but where does the power lie?  Is it with that Gay Pride of Bears; hairy men, large and alive, all cold hands; the four of them sitting in the corner?  Is it right?  Is it for anyone to say?  Or is it for the gaggle of Ladies Who Lunch, cackling away at the slightest provocation.  Always the handbags, always on arms, frequent cold hands, always the disease of glasses on heads.
Still looking around, observe the small family.  The unruly cold handed children and the tattooed ex socialites, without a care in their world, and they treat everywhere they are like it’s their own living room, and everyone else is a distraction.  What are you staring at?  In a cold handed way.
Oh, those people, happy to watch the struggle, but never participate.  Not their problem.  They break the glass, and walk away, cold hands rubbing.  Someone else’s problem.  Noisy kids.  But what can you do?
And they don’t pay attention, to anyone but themselves, those customers in their privileged way; the smell of cleaning fluid, permeating the lungs.  Not the time nor the place for the frustrated one, with cold hands, when ignoring the damage it’s done.  And the Four Welsh Maids, one louder than all, compete against the louder music; the unnecessarily LOUD music – cold handed amongst the muted colours of harvest, obeying the palette of summer and autumn.  But no one notices the stray wasp.  Not until it’s too late.  They just rub their cold hands.



From The Window
From the window - that window on the landing of that house - the one with the not-quite-fitting carpet surrounding its base, with a frame once of wood; that window that had watched, observed, and seen the world and its passers-by.  It had a history all of its own, did that window.
At first all it saw were the stone masons, the builders and fitters who birthed the house.  It didn't sit lonely for long.  Soon came the elaborate Carriages drawn by the sleek, well cared for horses, snorting outside the window, alighting the travellers from within the Carriage and gently trotting on.  Those travellers became a part of the house, just as the window had, not a few months past.  It would watch as they expanded to a family, playful and full of life, right within its vision.
But time moved on, and the window saw them grow, and the children left home, never to return while in the pursuit of their own lives.  Soon, and before much more drama, the window witnessed the funeral carriage roll up twice, and the family was no more.  The window however wasn't lonely for long.
Throughout the years more travellers arrived, becoming as ensconced as the window was in the wall of the good stoned building.  The certain back and forth over that time was registered in the pane of glass that faced the business before it.
It witnessed love affairs, both elicit and chaperoned, revelling in the joy and pain of loss.  And it saw much more death over the decades, did that window.  It saw fights between friends and love between the same - it observed the passage of time impassively and lay witness to the ever-changing world.
Through it's time, it saw the businessman in top hat and breeches; the venerable English Victorian Gent and the Crinolined Lady.  It further saw the comings and goings of the many families that at one time or another passed through the house, and used the glass to watch the world; or be prepared for the Debtor, the Landlord or the returning Soldier, back from the African Wars.  Sometimes it saw the lover, the suitor and the Father who would be returning from his oversees trip.
Certainly it saw fashions change, both inside and out.  It saw the little wooden and eventually the big, hulking metal planes fly overhead, with their bombs, which fell and devastated the land.  It saw the Flak fire into the sky, and the howling of the falling planes.  It greeted impassively the children that were sent to the relative safety within the house’s walls.  It became a play-area for those evacuated ones, using the window frame as tracks for the toy tanks and the glass as the Naval Sea.
Names were etched on the window, from time in memorial, of those who had come and gone, all the way back to the house's birth.  It had been marked with bent nail or sharp object, which declared love for another, or the presence of a soul in a particular year.
As time pressed on and the guns fell silent, the window became decorated with ornamentation of the Season and beyond.  From the glass could be seen the changing of those Seasons, from chilling Spring, throwing away the death shroud of the end of the year, which inevitably grew anew - rebirth and new hope.  The Seasons would continue to move through the showers and intermittent skies, to the burning heat of Summer, with its withering humidity, causing the window to steam up.
The long days and short nights showed the leisure and playfulness of those who passed by the window.  And then came the friends and lovers in force, for the free music festivals that appeared on the land, as a pleasant distraction from the threat of the Atom Bomb.  The window saw the protests and saw the Hippies, back in the Summer of Love.  It even came through the Politicians who were brought down, and the others who were brought up, like the rising of a Leviathan, to sweep devastation across the land.
It saw the dying trees of Autumn, one by one balding, preparing for the return to the prosperity it was promised.  The world turned grey, brown and brassy, before the shroud of Winter-death returned, to cover the world outside the window in long, high drifts of pure white snow, and the window watched the animals that scurried to safety and hibernation.
Eventually the window's frame turned from wood to plastic.  The change couldn't prevent the ever maintained vigil, always watchful of the continually changing land, as the fields made way to roads, houses and Health and Safety play areas.
The house remained though, with its window intact.  And again the cycle of action returned.  The window watched that great joy of a new family buying their first house, closely followed by the pain of divorce and single parent families.  It watched the love that filtered through the streets despite the fights and taunts that followed.  Even the death, the Joint Enterprise friends and the Police passed by its glass eye.
Eventually, the land the window had witnessed for countless years changed too much.  As the house was pulled down to build newer, cheaper homes, the window took a last look at the changeable world.
Once again the skies turned orange, perhaps this time from street light pollution or a distant fire out of control.  The window cared not.  All it saw this time was the sky above it and the broken bricks below.
And the world will continue to grow and change, but that lone window will see it not.  It's time is done.



A Slow Descent Into Madness
The Ripper strikes again.
That’s what the papers say.  Myself, I think it’s a publicity stunt to sell newspapers.  Circulation of the Daily certainly picked up the day they began reporting on the Ripper’s crimes.  Thankfully all that business was a goodly distance from here. The streets were dirty, the people were poor, just like everywhere else, but in this Golden Decade of our Queen’s reign, crime was kept relatively inactive this far out from the centre.
Even still, times were hard and everyone needed to economise.  I was forced to take a lodger.  He was a singular man, some kind of Doctor, so he said; six foot plus, stocky in his way and a fine dresser.  He’s a regular payer, and that’s good enough for me.
It wasn’t until he returned late one night, dishevelled and out of breath, that I grew suspicious of him.  He carried his Gladstone unusually, close to his chest, like it contained a treasure too precious to hold in the fleshy hands of man.  He rushed up the stairs, slamming his door behind him.  I had given him a key to come and go as he pleased, because there was no one to give him entrance, as I had to let my cook and maid go.  He certainly took advantage of the kindness.  It was true I rarely saw the man if not for chance glances like this one, but frankly it wasn’t my place to presuppose what my lodger did.  He was a free man, unencumbered by responsibility, or at least it looked that way to me.  As I say, as long as I received his money on a regular basis, I felt I had no grounds from which to reprimand the man for his comings and goings. Only if it was with action, like this time, I would consider talking to him.
He was an intensely private man.  I had been also, until my funds had dried up; - until I opened my doors to the likes of him.  The likes of him?  Come now, who am I to presume who or what he is?  He is a gentleman like me, and gentlemen don’t question other gentlemen.  It just wasn’t done.  Still, a man clutching his Gladstone bag, rushing up the stairs in itself meant nothing.  Maybe it had been a difficult day at the Hospital?  It could just be emotion let rip when he presumed he was unwatched?  I only noticed this scene anyhow by chance, as I had left the drawing room door open a little, while drifting off to sleep.
The following day there was more talk of the Ripper.  Always the Ripper!  It was like the City had nothing else going on with which to talk about.  The Ripper was becoming some kind of celebrity.  The nature of people was to laud the trier.  And the Ripper was trying - he was trying to create a cult around his crimes. It was reported he would send cryptic letters to the Daily, signed in blood, or thick red ink.  Again, I suspected a newspaper trick, riding the coat tails of a serial murderer for its own advantage, circulation and heaving pockets.  The Ripper was a cultural phenomenon, only growing in stature with each grizzly death.  Wait until it affected them, I thought. Wait until one of their family or friends is cut down, then it will take a filthier, more corrupt path.  Soon there would be the vigilante.  Then all Hell would break loose, because everyone wanted their piece of the story.
Work was filled with such talk as to the identity of the Ripper.  Some said it had to be the migrant, others the Abrahamic.  I tried as much as sociably able to steer clear of such gossip.  It did naught but raise the ire of the anti-semitic or xenophobic.  Of the crimes it solved precisely nothing.  Even at the Club later on, staff and gentlemen alike talked of the Ripper.  I stayed as long as I was able to stand it, but there is only so much a man can stand, day in, day out; at work, at the Club, in the newspaper.  Perhaps the relative quiet of home would clear the mind.
When I returned, my lodger was sat at the kitchen table, eating a roughly made sandwich, something he was obviously inept at making.  There was too much salad and the meat stuck out at random points from the angle-cut bread, with some sort of dressing dripping from the open end.  He had a bottle of some white spirit before him, half empty and a glass half full.  He didn’t look up when I came in.  He barely flickered with recognition of my entering the room.  I took a glass from the sideboard, sitting at the other kitchen chair.  I took the bottle from him and poured myself a little.  It smelled of paint stripper.  It tasted worse, but it got us talking.
“You have never spoken about yourself, really.” I started the conversation with.
“There’s not much to tell. I came from a medium sized City, where I became a Doctor.”  He continued to eat as he spoke.  Flecks of food shot out of his mouth at awkward angles as he spoke.
“Where did you study medicine?” I thought it a fairly innocuous and unoffending question.
He seemed put out by the questioning.  His answers were obtuse, deflective, “Oh, out in the sticks.  You wouldn’t know it.”
I changed tack, “Any family?”
“None to speak of.”  It seemed to me he was speaking calmly about a subject that should elicit some emotion at least.  But with the thought that it may be too sensitive a subject to continue with, I changed tack once again.
“So you’re alone in the City? No lady caught your eye?”  All men had an opinion on this subject.
“Plenty of ladies catch my eye. None are worthy enough.”
Was he being deliberately evasive, or was he with a heart of clay; malleable and no true form, bereft of emotion?  There was only one subject left to me, one that man, woman and child alike had a word for, “Do you read the newspaper? So much speculation about this Ripper –“
He threw the remains of his sandwich to the plate before him, finished his glass of whatever that was and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “If you will excuse me?”  With that, he left the kitchen calmly and climbed the stairs, where his door was audibly banged shut.
Quite frankly, what was I to make of that?  Perhaps he was tired?  Perhaps he had a busy day at work?  Perhaps the mention of the Ripper repulsed him as much as it did me?  But I felt I knew no more about him than I had before the conversation.  He was a closed book, and it seemed he preferred it that way.  A simple, functioning gentleman.  The ideal in this day and age, maybe?
But, try as I might, the phrase he used remained echoing long after he spoke it, that plenty of ladies caught his eye, but none were worthy enough?  What was it about that turn of phrase that itched away at me?  Why use the word worthy?  It suggested he was more than he seemed, or he had come from a higher station.  But he didn’t carry himself with the bearing of one of that kind.  And I had seen more than my fair share of them, in my work.  He didn’t hold himself such as one entitled.  No, he held himself as one who came from the working class, pulling himself out of the slums by his bootstraps and forging a respectable career for himself.  There were many such men in the City.  I had come from money, though, but I did recognise the quality in others.  I was an observer.  I reacted, rather than acted, but there was something about this man that made him more than he seemed.
The next night, again, he came in late.  I could smell alcohol all the way into the drawing room.  He climbed the stairs, tripped once or twice, came to his door and slammed it shut.  This was very unlike him.  I had never seen or heard him coming in drunk, let alone smelling of alcohol. It smelled of surgical spirit, such an arrest to the nostrils as the pungent aroma was.
The morning edition brought more horror from the City streets, as the Ripper had struck again.  The monotonous nonsense that filled the pages said nothing really of any relevance, however.  Just speculation, superlatives and the gossip of the people on the street.  As long as someone said it, they reported it, no matter how ridiculous it was.  They were even speculating it was a woman, or a malevolent spirit.  The more far-fetched, the more likely they were to print.
A knock came to the door then, as I was readying myself for work, having cleared away my breakfast and freshening up before leaving the property.  The lodger stood there, between me and the door.  I smiled, expecting him to move, but he remained steadfast.  I attempted to gently push him aside, but he grasped my arm, “Tell them nothing of me.” he said with a hiss.
“Tell who?” I asked, surprised by his vehemence.
“The Police.  Tell them nothing of me.”
“Why on Earth not?”
“I can’t tell you now. I’ll tell you later.  Just – just leave me out of it.”  We fixed eyes for a second or two, before a another knock broke the stalemate.  He released my arm and I went to the door, while he hid in the shadows.
It was a Police Officer, young and fresh-faced.  He couldn’t have been in the Service for more than a month.  The newspapers had mentioned something about employing more Police Officers in the wake of the Ripper’s antics, but this young man was ineffective.  He failed to ask the right questions, relieving me a little of the responsibility of lying.  I had to tell half-truths instead, but it still bothered me I had to do it at all.  My lodger had better have a good and valid reason for his actions.  I was a gentleman, a man of the City, and I had but my reputation to think of, no matter its size.  It was all I had to trade on.  Once the Police Officer’s questions were done, I quick-paced it to work, determined to discover the reason why my lodger was so guarded, so physical, so I picked my moment as soon as I returned home.
“You put me in a terrible position.  I had to lie to a Police Officer.  You had better have a good explanation as to why I perjured myself.”  I admonished him.
“Yes, I’m sorry I had to do that.  I should have told you before, but I am wanted in a couple of counties, for minor infractions.  The folly of youth that’s followed me, I’m afraid.  I’ve made a name for myself here now, and I don’t want undue attention on me.  I do good, in my work.  I want to continue doing so, but if the Police catch wind of my whereabouts, it could be difficult for the both of us.  In a way I was protecting you also.”
“Surely they wouldn’t arrest me?”
“Such is the law.  They don’t see people.  They see cases to solve.  You would unfortunately be victim to something I did a long time ago, that was of little consequence in and of itself.”
I accepted him at face value, being the word of a gentleman.  It was enough for me, and temporarily waylaid my fears.  Things would change, however.
We didn’t speak after that, not for a while.  He would come and go as he had previously, often with action, sometimes with drink.  I had decided to give him a wide berth for a while.  Work was getting harder, which principally came from the recent contract we had acquired.  It only truly bothered me that his banging doors would often coincide with a particularly taxing day of work, when silence except for the reliable ticking of the clock was what I required.  I was too tired to argue with him, and in truth it was mostly behind a closed door, but it did irk me.  Enough that next time he came in like that I would have a word with him, see if he couldn’t be reasonable when it came to the long hard days, see if he could temper his action a little.  It surely wasn’t asking much?  I did provide a roof over his head, after all.  The constant gossip and natter of the Ripper’s movements certainly didn’t improve my day-to-day moods, though.  I took to working in the lunch hours, just to be relieved of the talk, so that I could get work done without the constant reminder of this cult of personality.
The very next night, the opportunity presented itself.  I was in the process of preparing for bed, when he came in, thundering as he did, clumping up the stairs.  He failed to notice me at my bedroom door, until I called out to him.  He turned suddenly, taken by surprise.  He had obviously expected me to be asleep.  As though struck, he pulled one arm from view, thrusting it behind his back, but I had seen the blood on his hand.  Hiding it had done naught but raise suspicion in my mind.  I was beginning to make connections.
It is difficult to admit to others the thoughts that drift through one’s mind when in a suspicion.  Have I been accomplice in some regard to heinous crimes perpetrated by a man I gave shelter to?  If I had raised suspicion earlier, could I have saved lives?  Should I have not lied to the Police Officer, accepted the consequences of my connection to the man and took any punishment that was owed me?  It hurts, in some way, like the contemplation twists my brain, pulling it through a ringer and stabbing away at the nape of my neck, the tension leading to sickness and illness.  But what if I am right?  What if he is the Ripper, and by my reporting him, bring to an end the terror of the City?  It was too big a responsibility and my mind was in pain.  I would sleep on it.
The next day I had made a kind of decision.  I would ask my colleagues, with secrecy of my opinions and suspicions hidden, to see what they thought.  I think I knew the over-riding opinion from everyone, which was to inform the Police, long before I began to ask the questions.  I think I wanted to relinquish some responsibility of condemning a man to crimes beyond the will of any sensible and reasoning person.  Yet the course was set.  I knew what I had to do.
That evening presented its opportunity.  I was returning from work, many thoughts on my mind, when I spotted the same Police Officer I had seen and spoken to on my doorstep.
I approached him still cautious.  I stood looking at him, and he at me, for what seemed minutes.  My tongue escaped its responsibility, the words would not come.  He asked me if he could help me.  It released a taught and rusted valve to bring forth my words at last.  I told him of the lodger.  I told him of my suspicions.  I also told him that I would take full responsibility for any actions I had taken in protecting a criminal, doing nothing to prevent the taking of lives.  This all presumed I was right.  If I was not, then I would take responsibility for those consequences also.  The Police Officer was convinced enough to follow.  I led him with some further caution to the end of my road.  From there we took the rest of the journey to my front door in trepidation.
The door was closed, locked.  I don’t know why I suspected it otherwise.  I took out my key and turned the lock slowly.  I bid the Police Officer to lay back a while, for me to ascertain if the coast was indeed clear.  I opened the door inches and softly called the lodger’s name.  Silence, save for the mild echo of my voice hitting the polished tiles of my hallway.  I called a little louder.  Still nothing.  I ventured inside.
There was no sign of him on the ground floor.  The Police Officer had followed me in, and again I bid him to hold.  I climbed the stairs and made for my lodger’s room.  Slowly I grasped the handle, turning it and opening the stiff wooden door enough to look inside.  I half expected to see the man sleeping, or in some kind of respite, but he wasn’t there.  Neither were his things.
I thrust the door open and must have made a noise, as the Police Officer raced up the stairs and pushed his way in front of me for protection.  But the room was empty.  In fact, the bed was made as it always was, a thin layer of dust coating the bedspread, the curtains were down and the wardrobe was closed.  I opened the wardrobe.  Not one stitch lay within.
“He must have gone!” I expressed to the Police Officer, “It’s as though he were never here! How unusual?!”  Not one sign remained that the lodger had ever been in my house.  He must have caught wind of my suspicions and fled, not wanting his past to catch up with him, nor his present antics, if indeed he had been the Ripper.
Soon after, the murders stopped.  The newspapers turned to dealings in the East, of Empire and scandal.  I was charged with wasting Police time, and was indeed questioned about my involvement with the lodger.  I expressed all I could to them, and I told them all I knew of the man, my suspicions and my witness.  For weeks things returned to normal.  I was more efficient at work, and so did my colleagues  once the talk of the Ripper ceased.  I was a little happier now he was gone, my lodger. I decided for the time being I would have no lodger, the experience of him at my house and the possibility of the things he did, well, it didn’t bear dwelling upon.  It was all over, and I for one was thankful of the distancing from the whole affair.
Late one evening I was returning, as I always did, from work.  The light was fading but the weather at least was calm, a slight warm breeze coming from the South-East; an African wind.  I put my key in the lock of my front door, opening it with a flourish.  Whistling, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.  Still in a jolly frame of mind, I moved to the kitchen.  I hadn’t moved more than a couple of feet before I heard a familiar voice behind me, coming ominously from the shadows.
“You brought one here. I asked you to leave me out of this.”
I didn’t turn round.  I’m not entirely sure I could, given the tensing of my muscles, “I did what I thought was right.”
“It wasn’t.  It was very wrong.  You caused me to disappear, before I completed my work.”
“You’ll never get away with it, you know.”  I said, feeling remarkably brave, given the circumstances.
“It’s a shame, really.”
“How so?”
“I quite liked you.  But you have left me no alternative.”
“I’m not sure I catch the –“
“You understand me fine.  You know what I must do.”
I sensed him moving toward me, my back still to him.  I turned swiftly.  He was there, a smirk upon his thin sharp lips, his teeth looking razor-sharp in the dim light, his brow furrowed, anger and intent in his deep dark eyes.  This must be what they saw before he struck.  This must be the indelible print upon their mind as he eviscerated them.  This would be the last face, nay the last thing they would see before death.  What could I do?
I struck out, that’s what I did.  I hit the man squarely on the jaw.  He looked surprised at first, never suspecting the inner fire I had, before his face split, first from top to bottom, then snaking out from the impact point.  My hand was bloody, but his face was not.  The pain the hit took when it landed was excruciating, allowing a moment of pure clarity in all this madness, for madness it was.
What was I?  I was looking into a cracked and broken mirror.  I was looking at myself, and the face that returned was his.  He was me.  I was he.  We were the same person!  And I broke down.  I am now bereft, and have no more story to tell.
Because this is all I am.
So I leave you with this; now, and as you see, these are my words and my words alone.  I make them as a confession to my actions, whether knowingly committed, or through some mental delusion I have suffered.  I am surely the Ripper, by my own admission.
May all that is Holy have mercy on me.



After The Magic Hour
It was a sweltering evening, and they dared open the sliding door that lead to the balcony, for some relief from the interminable heat.  The sun set in the west as a soft breeze fluttered the net curtains in and out like a delicate lung.  Inside, the intellectuals kept their voices low, for fear of being found.
One of their number was missing.  On urgent business, this one had taken the carefully chosen and nondescript shared car out not more than one hour gone, and he still hadn’t returned.  In the current and uncertain climate, a routine that was discarded rang alarm bells in others.  Not one of those who remained in the flat knew for sure if he was ever coming back.
What if they had captured him, and he was now bound and tortured?
Surely he would relent in his abstinence, and reveal their concealment, if only to save his own skin?
Was he really that weak?
Surely not?
Emotion charged with anxiety blanketed the room.  The constant pacing up and down only wore out the carpet and the wringing of hands elicited naught but a reddening of chafed skin.  As the clock threatened freedom with each clunking tick, the pair still awake had their fears allayed.  Their anxiety turned out to be unfounded.
A distinct rattle heard through the open sliding door indicated the car had pulled up outside.  A cursory and cautious pulling aside of the net curtain took one of the intellectuals to voice.
“It’s him.  Son of a bitch.”
“Wait to see what he says first.” expressed Finlay, the defacto leader.  They could do nothing but wait for Hadley to come through the door.  Even that brought up its own collection of emotional responses.  As he entered the room alone, he caught a distrusting glance from the others.
“Hey.  What you all looking at?”
Finlay waved a hand to Connor, who had been the first to speak, “We were a little concerned.  That’s all.”
“At what?  I said I was going out?  I said I’d be about an hour –“
“About an hour?!  Damn you, Hadley!  We thought it was all over!” said Connor.  Hadley put his bag on the table.
“Alright, calm it Connor.  He’s here now.  No harm done.” said Finlay.
Connor wasn't exactly silent in his consternation, but picked up the discarded bag regardless and took it to the kitchen.
“Really, Hadley.  You had us all scared for a while then.” said Finlay.
“Sorry, Fin.  Had to take a circuitous route.  They’re out in force tonight.  Practically on every street corner.  Had to do some nifty talking at one point.” said Hadley as he poured himself a drink from the half-drunk whiskey bottle on the table.
“The Borders?  Still as –“
“Still as guarded?  Afraid so.  We aren’t going to get out that way.  Locked up tight.”  Finlay sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve gone over it all myself, Fin.  There’s no way.  We’re just going to rot away in here.  Might as well –“
“Okay, none of that talk!  There isn’t a problem that doesn’t have a solution.  We just have to find it.”
“Why?  For what purpose?  Just pick up the gun and – pow.”  Hadley put two fingers to his temple, raising and lowering his thumb in imitation of a gunshot.  Finlay didn’t respond.  He continued to stroke his chin, perhaps thoughtfully, perhaps reflectively.  The unshaven bristles scratched his fingers as he ran them over his skin, a slow hiss emanating from the motion.
Connor returned to the room, having taken a minute or two to calm himself, whereupon he took his place at the table.  He slurped at the tea he had made himself, winced and dropped a shot of whiskey into the cup and stirred, “So, now calmer heads have prevailed, what took you so long?” asked Connor.
Finlay jumped in, swerving the conversation away from another hit-and-run, “Connor, how’s the supply situation?  Did you check on it?”
“All present and correct.  No drama; not there, at least.”  Connor moved to perch on the edge of his seat, picking at an imaginary mark on his tea cup, “You know what gets me?  Why do they always pick on the intelligent ones first?  Makes me feel like glasses means asses.”  Connor orchestrated his words with the flick of his teaspoon.
“Who knows?” said Finlay, “Just the way it is.  They think we have nothing but rebellion in mind, I suppose.  Frankly, give most of us a whiteboard, a pen and an idea and it’s all we’ll ever need.”
“What you think?” asked Connor of Hadley.
“Meh.  I think it’s all about a show of strength.  Physical versus mental.  They’re intimidated by us.” said Hadley, punctuating with a shrug.
“But so much destruction?  It just seems - counterproductive.  Pointless, even.” said Connor, swilling the remnants of his tea and whiskey about centrifugally in the bottom of his cup.   There was a hint that the answer to all the world’s problems lay in the conglomeration of tealeaves, milk and sugar granules that lay in the maelstrom of mingled molecules nestling in the porcelain base.
Hadley reached for the bottle again and refilled his glass, “I dunno.  Seems logical to me.  Take out your greatest threat, thus being the intellectuals and thinkers of that nation.  It’s those people in every conflict who can sow seeds of dissent so effectively.  Makes sense.”  He sipped away at the contents of his glass.
Connor stared at Hadley, “I’d expect you to say that, actually.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you revel in this oppression.”
Hadley snorted a reply.
Finlay stepped in, “Okay, you two.  If I’d known you both would resort to this kind of name calling, I wouldn’t have suggested we take the evening shift together.  But, as it happens Connor, I tend to agree with Hadley on this.”
“Of course you would!  Always logical.  You forget words aren’t just words sometimes, Fin.  Okay, I could agree with you on a mechanical level that your logical assumption is correct, but we are people; we have minds, and we also have bodies.  And without those bodies, the minds would have nowhere to live.  Damn it!  He riled me up again!”  Connor rose swiftly and walked to the window.  Even with his raised temper, he was alert enough to blend into the shadows as he walked out onto the balcony.  He desperately needed the fresh air, no matter how humid it was.
All there was in that room was staleness; the staleness of air and the staleness of idea.  How had it come to this?  How had the world allowed a fascistic totalitarian power to rise so quickly in this day and age?  A rise so powerful as to oppress the people, without retribution or consequence?  As if to emphasise the rapidity of movement in politics and individual freedoms unliberated, the traffic below the balcony moved relentlessly, without corner given or course repacified.  Connor became envious of the freedom the people in their cars felt.  Perhaps to them there was nothing wrong with the overlords of the new Regime?  Perhaps in some cases the people were better off?  It was clear to see the wind was changing, and Connor could feel it.  He could feel it deep in his marrow, chilling him to his inner core.  He couldn't determine its source, but something compelled Connor to return back inside, to the room where Finlay and Hadley sat.
But Hadley wasn’t sitting.  He was, in fact, standing with his back to the door of the flat.  Something unseen had occurred between Hadley and Finlay while Connor was outside.  He could see that blood speckled the corner of Finlay’s mouth.
Connor stared at Hadley, daring the man to act.
"What?  What is it, Connor?  What's your problem?" asked Hadley.  A chimeric change had crept over the man, like he had taken some madman potion in his whisky drink, now finished and the glass overturned.
"Finlay?  What happened?"
"I -" suggested an anxious man, his hand shaking as he raised it to dab at the blood by his mouth, covering the back of his hand in the deep red.
"Talk is done.  Talk is finished.  We are finished.  It's time to face up to reality."  Hadley opened the door to the communal corridor beyond.  There stood the bastion of the Regime; the Police, in force, hungry for appeasement.
It seemed that despite all the hardships, all the lives sacrificed, all that fuss and bother, isolation and anxiety, the time had finally come.
Hadley's voice was calm as he spoke his confession, leaving nothing but a near venerative tonality, “Sorry, Fin.  I tried.  But they were too good.  They broke me."  His eyes reddened as he forced down a threatening tear.  He managed to smile, however, despite his fate, "It’s over, mate.  It’s really all over.”
Connor and Finlay listened to the words of a man lost to inevitability, who was even now relinquishing the spirit from his body.  Hadley the Remorseful, messianically fell to his knees as the nearest Policeman took out his pistol, put it to Hadley’s temple and pulled the trigger.  Hadley's intellect now stained the walls and floor with blood.  It truly was over.



A Last Adventure
They gave me six months.  And six months was all I needed.
Because my story begins where many do, if many stories start at the gateway from this world to that.  And it was bright, the other side.  I don't know what I really expected.  I suppose bright was as good a look as any.  The gateway was surrounded by seeking, sapping, wrapping and writhing vines.  All around the garland, flowers opened from baby buds, so that the white of the gateway was accented in the petals that were tinged gently with pink on the laciniate tips.  As I lifted my feet and stepped through into that brightness, I understood.  I realised I was stepping into a different world; something with and of wonder; something with and of surprise.
And then it began; that last adventure.
“And you are?”  No sooner had I stepped through than I was greeted by a man.  He was dressed like a tramp, his clothes brown and tattered.  He sported a long matted beard to match his long matted hair; his teeth were black and broken like the tone of his voice, and a twitch danced in his left eye.
I told him who I was - it seemed logical, seemed sensible, as his request was quite reasonable.
“About time!  Have you any idea how long I’ve been here waiting?”  He threw his arms up in frustration.
“I can guess.”  Perhaps I was staring a little too long at the exceptional brownness of his stains.
“Oh, right, so it’s a veiled comment about my attire, is it?  My, how we love our sarcasm!”
“Well, you are dressed –“
“Like a tramp?  Do you see me making a comment about your ragged clothes?  And your funny bald head?  No, because I, unlike you, know a thing or two about fashion.”
“That’s fashion?” I snickered.
“Sartorial elegance at its best.”  He showed off his sleeves by holding the end of one of them with one hand while running the other up and down the linen, throwing up flecks of dirt.
“If you say so.”
“I do say so!  And what’s more –“  He became distracted.  He looked to a point in the distance and shook his head, “You know what? Forget it.  You have no taste, I get it.  Right, off you go, in that direction.  Time’s short, and getting shorter.  Like the material of my vest.”  He waved me on, and it seemed my adventure had started, with vigour.
So I strolled confidently upon the country road, which was edged elegantly with stinging nettles and brambles that were needle sharp.  One more step I managed before the tramp reappeared, jumping from behind a particularly thorny bush, “Come on!  You haven’t got forever you know!”  He threw his arm in a winding motion, to compel me to speed up.  I took the point and picked up the pace.  The tramp said something behind me before disappearing again.  I think it contained a swear word or two.
Pretty soon after, I was passing a river that flowed silver, thronged with purple and bright green foliage.   A young girl was crouching by it, her golden hair falling over her shoulders like wisps of smoke from a candle.  She was reaching for her reflection, patting the silver water tenderly, playfully.  The ripples danced over the surface, broken by the riptide flow.  She looked up.
“Can you help me?” she asked.  Her tone suggested she knew I was to come by at this time, in this way and in this manner.
“What do you need?”
“Need?  Ah, there’s a question.  Maybe we explore that one day, but for right now, I would – like – your help?”
I offered an arm for her to take.  She gripped quite intensely, my skin whitening around her fingers.  Barefoot, she gently felt for a solid piece of ground, one step at a time.  The ground squelched under her feet and she giggled as the water bubbled around her toes.  Within a short time, we were back on solid ground.  She grabbed both my hands with hers, then looked into my eyes, deeply, kindly, searching for something within.
“Come with me,” she enthused, “I know a shortcut.”  She danced away from me, fingertips of one hand touching mine barely, slipping as she danced further away.  I felt I needed to reconnect with her, like I was feeding from her energy.  But she would be leading me away from the destination I knew I needed to take.  And then she came back to me, taking my hand once again and pulling me with her in her new direction.  But I held my ground.
“What’s the matter?” she asked with genuine concern.  Her eyes were saddened, drooping with denial.
“I'm unable to follow you that way.  The man told me to go this way.”
“The old tramp, you mean?  Oh, don’t trust him!  Don’t believe him!”
“But –“
“It’s this way.  I promise you!”
“I’m not sure –“
“Why not?  Surely I look more trusting than he does?”
“It’s not that –“
“I need you, please, to come with me.”  Her eyes were still sullen and a desperation crept over her.
“You’re lying.  Why?” I asked, with no malice of forethought.
“You must come this way!  He –“
“He?  He who?”
“It doesn’t matter.  Just come this way.  It’s quicker.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Or what?”
“Or he’ll kill me.”
“Who?  Who will kill you?”
“I can’t say – no, not like that!  I can’t say, because he has no name.  All I know is that he is the disease; he is the problem.”
“What are you telling him, Phonella?”  The tramp-like man had appeared from within a tree just ahead.  He was angry with the girl.
“Sim.  I’m sorry.  I had to.” she expressed, fearfully.
Sim, the tramp-like man, gathered her into his arms.  She sobbed into his shoulder as he gently, paternally stroked her golden hair.  Regretfully, he left behind a residue of dark brown within that gold, and upon her face too where she had rested against him, “Don’t worry, Phonella.  He can’t do anything to you.  Not now.  Not anymore.”  He looked kindly upon her, “It’s time, my dear.  Give him it.”
She then turned to face me.  From her breast she took a piece of a Golden Key and handed it to me reverentially.  I took it from her with grace.
“It is part of the last piece of the puzzle,” explained Sim, “It gains you entrance into the Castle Keep.  But that’s all it does.  I cannot help you any further.  Neither can Phonella.”  He held her by the waist, “Come, girl.  Time for some rest.”  Sim led her off to the tree he had come from, that old withered oak, and led her within, where, with a snap, they disappeared.  I was left alone, holding a piece of a Golden Key.
I thought on the words of Phonella, about this man with no name.  Surely this was to be my new objective?  To find and remove this figure of horror?  The Castle and its treasures were certainly an enticement, but this thing that held so much power over Phonella.  Well –
“He is the disease.  He is the problem.”  That’s what she said.  And if that was as so, then perhaps my focus should become to seek out that which should not be.
And yet I walked, continued upon the path, for what seemed like days.  The path itself never changed, but the borders did.  Flowers budded around me.  Some opened slowly and sealed equally as languidly.  Some shot open, expelled their seed and closed tight, like a trap.  Birds in hues of yellows, oranges and deep intense blues curled their multi-coloured feathers around smooth ash branches, where other wildlife, such as the rodent that resembled an angry squirrel, sat on the tip of such a branch and screamed in a tiny voice, “Go away!  Go away!”  Whether it had any further vocabulary, I wasn’t sure.  It was reluctant to engage in conversation.
There were other avian delights too.  One such flock was of dark woody colours, being small and persistent.  I took to brushing them away like flies.  It wasn’t helping my mood much and I began to take my frustrations out on inanimate objects.  That was until one of these inanimate objects protested.
It was a small moss covered rock, round and flat, with something gold sticking out of its back like a tiny parody of Arthur’s Sword.  Somewhere upon the brown and pink fissures, a mouth appeared, “Do you mind?”
“Sorry?” I said, surprised.
“Some of them things you were kicking were my best friends!  I mean, who the Hell do you think you are, wandering around, kicking seven bells out of people?”
I laughed, “But you’re not a person.”
“Says you, you bigot!  As it happens, I am a well-respected personality around here.”
“Really?”
“Yes.  Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Because, I don’t know, you’re a rock?”
“And you’re made of flesh.  So what?”
“I have to say, I never thought I’d be having an argument with a rock when I woke up today.”
“And I never thought I’d get a kicking from such a thin, bald, ugly person when I –“
“Woke?” I laughed.
“So?  I spend most of my time on the road, man.  Cruising, you know?  I don’t have time for things like sleep.”
“I’d say you have nothing but time.”
“What?  You think I just sit around, doing nothing all day?  Well – I – look, I’m between jobs at the moment.  It’s a stressful time for a young rock nowadays.”
“I’m sure it is, what with all that sitting round, being silt, or bedrock, or, I don’t know, a skimmer?”
“Oh, don’t get me started on them skimmers!  Bunch of surf bums – anyway, what brings a sack of flesh like you out this far?”
“I was heading for the Castle Keep, but I started thinking about this disease that sits over the land.   This man with no name?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, if I were you.  Just toddle along in a –“
“What do you know?  You’re being evasive, I can tell.”
“Alright.  So I know where to go to find him.  But it’s not really worth –“  I knelt down, picked the rock up and placed it in my palm.
“What’s your name?”
“Moss.  Mind putting me down?”
“If you know where to go, then you can come with me.  Plus, you have a piece of the puzzle I need in your back.  I have to know how to take it out, without hurting you.”
“So that’s what that thing is?  I keep seeing this spike thing in my shadow, but when I turn round, there’s nothing there.  I thought it was a stick playing a trick on me, but it’s been going on so long?  Tell you the truth, I’m glad that's what it is.  One thing I have to say for us rocks, though - very hard to get us to bleed.  Very hard indeed.”
And so I was now with a companion, Moss, who directed me to this new path, one that was blocked by a thick thorny bush.  It was obviously not meant to be taken.  Beyond that bush, the path became barely visible, and Moss informed me there were traps all along it, hidden beneath the leaves, but he knew the way and, slowly, we made progress, walking deeper and deeper into the darkness.  Where it would end I didn't know, but it was an adventure, and I finally felt alive.
That didn’t last, however.  We had not gone another mile before Sim the tramp-guide appeared from behind a particularly identical tree to all the other trees.
“Where are you going?  This isn’t the path.” he said.
“I know.  But there’s something bigger than me out there.  I want to find it and kill it.”
“I’m warning you, do not seek him out.  Nothing good ever comes from seeking him out.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t help me any longer?” I asked suddenly.
“Rules, my friend, are made to be broken.”
I gave Sim the courtesy of pretending to think about it, but I was determined, “Sorry, but myself and Moss –“
“Moss!  You should know better!” cut in Sim, staring at the rock in my hand.
“Sorry, Sim.  I happen to believe the boy has something altruistic in mind.  I'm with him.  Well, technically he’s holding me, so I have little choice –“
“Moss.  We talked about this.  It is a path that leads to destruction.”
“All paths lead to destruction, Sim.  This one happens to lead to a purposeful one.”
“Moss.  This is not the time for –“
“Trust me,” I said, pleadingly, “I have to do this.”
“If this is for people like Phonella, then –“
“It’s not just for people like Phonella.  It’s for people like Moss, and you –“
“Then upon your head be it.  There is only so much I can do to protect you.”
I smiled uneasily, “Trust me?” I reiterated.  Sim reluctantly nodded, sauntering back to probably the tree he had come out of.
Moss couldn’t help himself with a parting shot though, “Nice suit by the way, Sim.” he joked.  The finger arrangement Sim made as he disappeared didn’t bear repeating.
As we ventured further into the woods, with its identical trees and confusing enough path, I began to get despondent.  I tried not to.  The adventure itself had been enough to keep me going, but right now, I was losing hope.  Sure, this man I sought was out there, but we seemed to be taking forever to find him.  Moss took to sleeping most of the time, or disanimating, only appearing when we came to a difficult part of the path and I needed his guidance.  He had stopped being a companion, having now transformed into a basic travel assistant.  Not that we had that scintillating a conversation anyway.  His topics tended to be about water tables, quarrying – anything generally stone-based.  But he had been company.
Now, on my own, the trees closed in a little tighter, the sky disappeared a little more behind branch and leaf.  Odd noises of the creatures unseen and the lack of anything beautiful growing was my backdrop.  I saw few budding flowers, save the purple-brown sickly coloured long stem things that grew from the bark of the trees.  They jerked open, spitting their innards out, sucking them back in, over and over in the hope of catching a bird or an insect that was particularly absent.
Eventually I could take it no longer and sat down on the path where I had been standing.  I looked deep into the woods and saw nothing but endless darkness.  It wasn’t an adventure anymore.  It was torment.  Life had become function and nothing more.   And it seemed that Moss, my friend, had gone.  He was not in my hand, and though I searched the floor for where he might have fallen, he was nowhere to be seen.  I picked up a piece of the Golden Key from the ground, where it had been covered over by a leaf.
It seemed I had spent too long searching for something that benefitted me not at all.  I had lost my path on a fruitless search.  Sitting there alone, realisation fell upon me, to return to that original path, long and winding though it might be, far reaching and inevitable though it was.
So I turned around, leaving behind those identical trees, to find once again the path I had left, with its stinging nettles and brambles on either side, making a border and fencing me in - focussing my purpose.  The sky was beginning to lighten and I heard a rustle in the trees.
"Hey, you down there!" came a voice suddenly from above me.  I hadn't expected to be accosted so soon, having just returned to the path.  I looked about, but saw nothing except a bouncing bird on a protruding branch.
"Me?" I replied, still looking about.
"Yes you!  Do you see any other baldies around?" it was, in fact, that bouncy bird that was talking to me.  It fluttered its wings in time to each syllable it so eloquently tweeted.
"Well, no?"  I wasn't so sure about the comment, but I couldn't deny I saw no others than me.
"Then you!  Mind moving?  The glint off your bonce is giving me a headache." it flapped.
"I didn't know birds could talk." I ventured, quite subtractively.
"Says the one who was talking to a rock not ten minutes ago?" replied the bird sarcastically.
"Sorry, you're right.  Well, Mr Bird -"
"The name's Birdie.  Birdie Nest - and my name requires no comments, thank you!" said Birdie, perhaps reading my next thought before I managed to vocalise it.  I told him mine, out of politeness.  But I remained curious.
"Well, Birdie, I don't suppose you can do me a favour and tell me what the road ahead promises for me?"  I thought it was a justifiable request, seeing as he was up there and I was down here.  But he looked quite agitated at the suggestion.
"What do I look like?  Do I look like a signpost?  No!  If you want to know what's ahead, go find out for yourself!"
"Are all birds as antagonistic as you?" I asked humbly.
"What do you mean?  I'm quite friendly, I'll have you know, compared with some.  Gulls, now they're complete and utter pains in the proverbial.  Doves?  Ah, there’s a nice bunch of fellas.  Not like their Pigeon cousins.  Thick as a tree, they are."
"Really?  I always saw them as harmless."
"Yeah, sure, they look harmless.  Never lend a Pigeon money, I'm telling you.  More trouble than it's worth."
I couldn't help but smile, "You know, you aren't as gruff as you appear.  Given a change of attitude we could be friends."
"Hey, two things; one, why should I change for anyone?  And two, who said I wanted to be friends with you?  You look weak, sickly.  No, being friends with you and I'd have no idea what I'd catch."
I didn't much like the attitude, but yet I still saw something in him, something hidden, waiting to be released, "I was only saying -"
"I don't care what you're saying, mate!  Look, you're disturbing my quiet time here!"  Birdie flapped out his frustration while airing his flight feathers.  There suddenly came a screech from behind him.  This voice was higher, but no less antagonistic.
"Birdie?  Are you still out there?  What are you doing?  Who are you talking to?"
If Birdie Nest could have rolled his eyes, he would have at this point, "Great!  Now you've woken the missus!  In a minute, dear!" he called back into the nest behind him.  But instead of appeasing his wife, it drew her out.  She popped her head out of the nest entrance.
"Birdie!  What are you doing?  Get in here now -"  Then she caught sight of me and her manner changed instantly.  She came whole out of her nest, straightened up, chest out and shook out her ruffled feathers.  Even her voice changed, "Ho, hand whom do we have here?  Filoplume Nest hat your service."
"Why you talking like that?" began Birdie, before stumbling from a well-aimed kick at his tail feathers.
"My husband and I har pleased to make your haquiantance.  Would you perhaps like a fresh worm -"
"Shut up Filly.  He's just a pest." cut in Birdie.
Filoplume turned to her husband and spoke in whispered tones, "Birdie, I swear if you don't behave - I'll - well, put it this way - you can stay out here for the rest of the night.  Get me?"
"See what you've done?  Great!  Now I'm out on my ear, if I had one!  Thanks a lot, you busy-body -" ranted Birdie.
"Birdie!  Get your feathered behind in that nest right now, or I swear I'll swing for you!" she then turned her attention to me, her tone much calmer and milder, "It was very much a pleasure to meet you sir!  Please call again!"  She turned then to walk back to the nest, when something glinting in the day's light came flying from within.  It struck me on the head, but barely made a mark.  It didn't stop Filoplume Nest from commenting, however, "Birdie Aviary Nest!  Just you wait until I get in there!  And if you don't clean that corner, I'll throw away your stuff, so help me I will!"  Then I could hear no more, as the entrance to the nest was sealed over with some kind of cloth on the inside.  I looked to the ground at what Birdie had thrown at me.  There, upon the ground, between two pebbles, sat a piece of the Golden Key.  I picked it up and added it to the others.
"At least she talks to him."  It was another unexpected voice, deep and chunky.  I looked about for another bird, only bigger.  There was none.  There was, however, a large rock and for a second or two I waited for it to open whatever it’s mouth looked like.  It said nothing, but the tree which housed Mr and Mrs Nest did, however, "At least she talks to him." it repeated.
"Sorry?" I managed.
"I said at least she talks to him."
"Yes, yes.  I heard that, I meant can you expand?"
"Uhm, no?" replied the tree, "I'm as big as I'm ever going to get - wait, you meant can I explain more?"
"Yes." I sighed.
"Oh, right.  Well, where to begin?  At the beginning, I suppose - I first met her when we were planted next to each other.  She grew, and inevitably so did I.  Acacia is her name.  Leif's mine.  Leif Conker.  Pleased to meet you.  Anyway, one day I awoke from a month long slumber - we trees sleep for a long time, you understand - when I looked over for her, she was gone."
"She left?" I wasn't so sure of tree motivations, but I was pretty sure trees didn't just get up and walk away.
"She did." he looked reflective, "I don't know what it is I did, but she just went.  I mean, we had plenty in common.  I liked the sun, and so did she.  I liked water, and so did she.  We were compatible, the two of us."
"So what happened between the two of you?  I mean, for her to leave?"
"I don't know, that's the thing.  She used to say I was stuck in my ways, that I was never motivated into action.  I mean, I am a tree.  I do have roots so deep in this land that I don't think I could be anywhere else.  Maybe she was right?  Maybe my inaction was enough to drive her away?"
"You can't think like that.  Maybe she'll return one day?" I tried, knowing they were barely words of comfort.
"There's no point.  I'm obviously not the tree she needs.  She said she always liked oaks.  Perhaps they're making her happy, where I could not?"
"You know, if you really loved her, you could go after her?  And if not her, then, I don't know, you could find another along the way?  If nothing else, you could maybe learn a bit about yourself, what you're capable of - you know, discover more about you?  It's what I've done, on my adventures; I learned so much about myself, and what I can do when I put my mind to it.  Sure, it's not easy, but then nothing valuable ever is.  If you expel effort in your task, in your venture, then - let me just say, the rewards are far more than you could have ever hoped for.  Take my word for it, Leif.  Take that single step of a thousand miles, because until you do, you will never know.  Then, perhaps, you become more than you ever thought possible."
"Nice words.  Easy to say, harder to accomplish."
"You never know what's to come.  If you give up now, you're certain not to know.  And isn't the pursuit of knowledge more fulfilling than the knowledge itself?" I smiled, "It is, trust me."
"What if I find her and she doesn't want me?" asked Leif Conker.
"Like I said, if you never try, you'll never know."
Leif Conker shook a little at the tips of his branches.  It was an action to which I didn't know the meaning, but his words went some way to explaining it, "You know what?  You're right!  I have to go and find her, to talk to her!  And if it's truly over, then I'll know!  Just sitting here, rooted to the spot; it's bringing nothing but pain.  In fact, there's no time like the present!"
And suddenly many things happened slowly and definitely.  First, the tree shook.  Then, as some leaves fell from the outlying branches, there sounded an almighty creak, like wood was being broken asunder.  It continued to crack and creak until Leif Conker began to rise from his buried roots, which twisted and turned into the vague shape of two distinct legs.  Dirt was thrown from the hole he had created as the roots slipped their mooring, until Leif Conker stood his full height, immeasurable in the sunshine above him, but it revealed something ahead, something I had been longing to see.  Once Leif no longer blocked out the path so much, I could see the Castle Keep, just ahead, atop it's mountain of jagged stones, charred black here and there, decorated with ivy and moss, wild flower and dirt.
"You don't know how much this means to me." explained Leif Conker, "That someone such as you could give me back that which I thought long lost.  Not Acacia, though I wish it were so, but something perhaps more powerful; hope.  For that I will forever owe you."
"Trust me, Leif, you owe me nothing." I smiled, patting him on the bark.  Then, with the effort of ages, Leif Conker began his long walk - to where was uncertain, but at least it wasn't remaining stagnant, there in his hole.  And my eyes were suddenly drawn to that hole.  Nestled in the bottom, barely visible in the tangle of snapped root and furrowed dirt, was another piece of the Golden Key.  I jumped in the hole to retrieve it, even as Leif Conker was leaving sight.  But I could still just about make out the voice of Birdie Nest, cursing me with every flapping breath for making his home, in Leif's branches, virtually shake apart in the vibrations of each heavy, thumping footfall, until Leif Conker, Birdie Nest and his wife Filoplume were lost in the forest.
And so, thus my job done, I made for the Castle Keep, with my journey - my adventure - nearly at an end.  What more did this world have for me?  I suppose I would have to wait and see.
It took more than a little effort to climb the rocky crag that led ever upward, but I eventually reached the entrance to the Castle Keep.  The pathway was scorched, super-heated by some intense flame.  The surrounding of the portcullis was blackened by fire.  Stuck in one of the darker stones stood proudly a spike of gold.  I pulled at it, discovering it to be the final part of the puzzle.  So I combined it with the other pieces, completing the Golden Key, which I slid into the lock, turning it until the portcullis began to rise.
The courtyard beyond was fully depleted of vegetation.  Nothing but hard, black, scorched earth.  I heard a swooshing sound about me, akin to the rustle of a flock of starlings.  Eventually a large, bold, red Dragon landed in front of me.  As it landed, it shimmered to black, then to blue and back to red.
“You shall go no further.” it huffed, a plume of ash blew out like a cloud from the beast’s nostrils.  It snorted and more ash escaped.
“I have to.  I was only given so much time, and that time is nearly up.”
“Not my problem.”
“But –“
“Don’t care mate.  Doesn’t matter to me.  All I know is you can’t go any further.”
“I have to.”
“You said that already.”
“But I do.”
“Still don’t care.”
“What can I do to convince you to let me through?”
The Dragon thought for a while, “I don’t know.  Beg on bended knee?”  I did so.  The Dragon laughed, covering me in ash from his nostrils, “Now that’s funny.”
“I must –“
“Must you?  Why so?”
“Because I don’t have much time –“
The Dragon shook its head, dislodging yet more ash, “Nope, that’s not going to work.  You said it already, just like that other thing.  Try harder.”
I wracked my brain.  What did it mean?  Then it came to me.  Of course - Politeness cost nothing, “May I pass you, Dragon, so that I might meet and talk to the Lord of the Castle Keep –“
“He has a name.”
“What is it?”
“Sorry?”
“What is it – please?”
“It’s Syndrome.”
“Alright.  Thank you.  Then may I pass you, Dragon, so that I might meet and talk to the Lord of the Castle Keep, Syndrome?”
“See?  How hard was that?  A little politeness.  Costs nothing extra.  Yes, you may pass.  But I warn you, its death up there.  For anyone.  Even me.  So be warned.”  The Dragon stepped aside for me to climb the stairs beyond.
I was no more than half way up the twisting and turning stairs, before I was accosted by a man who appeared older than himself, meaning that he had years upon years of lines and greyness, yet his posture and movement was that of a younger man.  His arms didn't seem strong enough to carry the burden he did.  I offered to carry it for him.
"Suit yourself." he said, handing me his pile of clothes, furs and skins.  It was surprisingly heavy, "It's this way." he said, opening a nearly invisible door in the wall.  He stepped through and I followed.
Here, the walls peeled uncontrollably, even though there was no obvious odour of dampness.  The tight, dark corridor led to a lit room beyond - something of a washroom, it seemed.  I thought he would take the bundle back off me, but no such luck.
"Benjamin Drightly, by the way." said the man by way of introduction.  I introduced myself to him, "Oh, right.  You.  I heard you were coming."
"Really?" I don't know why I was surprised.  Benjamin must have a keen ear for the comings and goings of this place.  I wouldn't be surprised if he knew a lot more than he was letting on.
"Oh, yes.  You're the topic of conversation around here.  Everyone's talking about you.  Seems you are somewhat of a legend around here."
"No, surely not me?  I'm nobody." I said.
"Not round here, you're not.  The sooner you see that, the quicker this thing will be resolved." he stated.  I was beginning to find his straightforward approach quite refreshing.  But I still wanted to change the subject.  It was a bit too focussed on me.
"So, what do you do around here?" I asked, trying to start a conversation.
"This." he waved vaguely about him.  The room seemed to have many functions.  First and foremost it was a washroom, complete with large sunken tub, fistfuls of soap and an oversized washboard.  In one corner sat a mangle, primed and ready for action.  I was beginning to forget the weight of the bundle in my arms.  In another corner sat a small desk, with mountains of paper upon it, a fountain pen and ink, and a massively stained blotter.  Buried under the paper was a spike, containing variously sized receipts, bills and correspondence.  It looked like the desk could collapse at any second under the weight it carried.
"Is this it?  Sorry for sounding rude, but is this all you have?" I asked, concerned.
"It's all I need."
"And you don't ever wish for more?"
"Certainly.  Who doesn't wish for more?  But sometimes we just have to accept the way things are, whether we like it or not."
"You really believe that?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes, I do.  From where I came from, this is Paradise."
"But - there's an entire Castle Keep?" I tried.
"So there is.  But as I say, this is all I need."
"I don't think I could - I mean, I - I just want more?" I explained.  He gave me a look of innocent kindness, as one would to a child who didn't quite understand.
"You know.  You get it.  But you just have to see it for what it is.  It is the only way you move on." shrugged Benjamin Drightly.
"You mean -"
Benjamin nodded, "It is the final piece of the puzzle, after all."
He had a point, of course.  I mean, I did just traipse my way all over this land, just to reach the Castle Keep.  Why deny it now, when I am so close?
"I think you may be right." I said at last.  Benjamin took the bundle from me and smiled.
"There you go.  Anyway, I'm a busy man.  Is there something else you need?" he asked expectantly.
I thought for a bit, but nothing further came to mind.  It was time.  It must be, "Uhm I think I've got all I need." I replied to the impossibly busy man, who was already so engrossed in his work, he forgot I was even there.  I returned to the corridor with its peeling walls, out through the invisible door and back onto the stairs, going up.
At the top, everything changed.  It was like an ice palace with jagged lines, strange angles and sharp corners.  Except it wasn’t ice.  It was diamond.  In the maze that led through it, I was caught once or twice by sharpness.  It drew blood, but not so much as I couldn’t continue.
Eventually I came upon a man, well dressed and erudite, who stood before a singular kind of map, of the world expressed as organs of the body.  He was prodding the liver, which quivered at his touch.  He hadn’t registered my entrance, but he spoke nonetheless.
“So, you found me.”  As he turned, I saw he was as the tramp-like man, Sim.
“You’re –“ I began.
“No – and yes.” he countered.
“So, I’m here then?”
“Yes.  Where you belong.”
“What if –“
“No, I’m sorry.  There is no alternative.”
“None at all?”
“If there were, I would not have invited you in.”
“So, the six months is up?”
“And your journey is at an end.”
“Can I –“
“I’m afraid not.  Come.  I have a place for you.”
He took me gently by the hand and led me away.  But all I wanted was more time.  Didn’t everyone?  For me?  Never mind.  What I was given would have to do.  It can't be said I didn't try.  I did all that I could with what I was given.
And so, perhaps you sit there and ask, who was I?  The answer is simple.  Oh, you know, no one in particular?



Two Smokestacks And A Pylon On A Dusty Road
Two smokestacks and a pylon on a dusty road.  That’s all there was.  The boys had come to a stop a couple of miles outside Litchfield, South West Illinois, somewhere near the famous Route 66.  A little off-road challenge turned out to be a stupid vehicle lock-up and two University age Brits sitting in the dirty ditch alongside the dusty road, waiting for someone to come by.  They had been there for nearly three hours now, and Craig was accusing Grant of idiotically forgetting to charge his phone.  They were now at the mercy of the 66ers like themselves.  True to Craig’s recklessness, they decided to do it off season, to save a few dollars.
“I don’t know why I listened to you.  You’re an idiot.” remarked Grant.
“So you keep saying.”
“You fucked up mate, not me.”
Craig threw the water bottle at his feet, “It was your fucking idea to come off the main highway.  See history, you said, see more of America.  Well, we did, we have and we’re fucked by the side of a road no bastard drives down.”
“Well, at least it’ll be a story, when we get back.”
“A pretty shitty story, mate.  What did you do on holiday?  Oh, we sat by the side of a road in the middle of the USA, getting lung-fulls of dust and watching a smokestack slowly pollute the atmosphere.”
“It’s industry, Craig.  It’s probably all they have.”
“Not the point, mate.  Not the point.”
Grant tried his phone again.  It was deader than dead, “Thought anymore about that walk into town?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Of course not.  It’s too hot, it’s too far and I’m still fucked from last night.”
Grant scanned the horizon, “Still nobody.”
Craig gave his mate one of those stares, “Why the fuck did I agree to come with you?  You’re a moron of the first order.”
“Hey, you loved it back in New York.  Got us those girls, didn’t I?”
Craig chuckled, “You have a point, geezer.  You have a point.”
Moments passed without word.  Craig retrieved his bottle of water, taking a sip from it himself before offering it to Grant, who took it, wiped the top and took a good swig.  Craig shook his head disapprovingly.  Grant handed the bottle back to Craig, beginning an out of tune whistle of his favourite song.
“Jesus, mate.  You really should take up whistling lessons.  For fucks sake, don’t sing.  The animals’ll come out of the brush and kill us – or shag us.”
“I know which one you’re hoping for.”
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”  They looked at each other and laughed.  Suddenly, a shadow fell over them where they sat.
“Can I help you, at all?”  The man was tall, double denimed, a worn look of an outdoor worker, his clothes burred in places from over rubbing or misuse.
Grant coughed as Craig jumped.  Grant covered his eyes with his hand to look up at the man with his back to the sun, “Hey, uh, hi there.  We, uhm, our car crapped out on us, dude.”  Craig looked to his friend and mouthed the word dude in confusion.  Grant shrugged a reply.
“So, you want a tow?  Or you need a lift into town?  I have a brother-in-law just up the road some.  He can fix just about anything.  Interested?”  There was an unspoken agreement flashed between Grant and Craig, “Right, well, come this way, boys.” said the man, turning round and walking to his truck.  Grant and Craig stood, retrieving their backpacks from the boot of the car, walking to the man’s truck, putting their packs in the back and climbing into the cab next to the him.  Craig smiled awkwardly at the man as he turned over the engine and began the drive.
The Farm was remote, even more remote than the road had seemed to be.  Its Barn looked worse for wear, as large chunks had come away from the planks that made up the structure.  A few discarded farm tools, a plough and a tractor or two, stood planted in the thick and high grass that marked its final resting place, the paint falling from the rusting metal, long exposed to the elements.  The Farmhouse looked no more tended to, either.  The man pulled his truck up to the Barn and climbed out.
“Reb!” he yelled at the top of his voice.  Another man appeared from the Farmhouse, brandishing a blood stained hammer.
“What is it, Nate?” he called back, equal in volume.
“Two guys here, broken down about two mile down the road.  Go pick up their vehicle, will ya?”  Nate gestured for Grant and Craig to go towards the Farmhouse, “Forget your packs.  You won’t be needing them.”
Reb dropped his hammer and moved to the barn, where he started the recovery truck and drove it down the dirt road they had just come from, the chain and hook on the end of the lifting arm waggled like a tail as the truck trundled down the bumpy surface.
Nate led Grant and Craig into the Farmhouse, directing for them to sit while he poured coffee into two dirty mugs, replacing the pot on the cooker and handing them to Grant and Craig in turn.  They politely took a sip.  The taste left much to be desired, as it contained little flavour.  And there was a strange tinny taste to it too, but the boys ignored it.
Grant cleared his throat, “So, uhm, when will Reb – that’s right isn’t it?  When will Reb have the car done by?”
“Not in a hurry, are you?” asked Nate, perching on the windowsill, equal distance from the boys and the only door to the farmhouse.  Straw made up the sleeping area of the Farmhouse.  The straw was covered in sacks to pass for a mattress.  The evidence of the blood on the hammer was obvious when they saw the dead pig on the kitchen side.  It had been bludgeoned to death, “Yeah, Reb has a strong arm.  Can kill a pig with one blow.  Slam!  Dead!”  Nate laughed loudly.  The sound of Reb returning with the car in tow interrupted Nate.  He looked out of the window, “Right.  Wait here boys.  I want a word with Reb.  Don’t go straying or snooping, as Daddy used to say!” laughed Nate, exiting the Farmhouse.
It was getting dark, and Grant and Craig remained in the warmth of the Farmhouse.  Occasionally Nate would return to his perch, stare at the floor or engage the boys in conversation.  Eventually, somewhere around midnight, Nate slammed the Farmhouse door open, closely followed by Reb, who chuckled uncontrollably, “Okay boys, it’s time.  Get up and follow me.”
“Yeah, yeah!  Follow!” chuckled Reb, gesturing with his grubby hand.  Reb and Nate led Grant and Craig out to the Barn.  Nate gestured for the boys to enter first.  They did.  It was dark, save for a work light, run by a small generator at the back of the Barn, which illuminated a patch were various hammers, wrenches and strange bladed instruments were bathed in the yellow light.
“Go on.” said Nate behind the boys.  The boys stepped over the threshold, when, all of a sudden, a car engine started.
Reb chuckled his familiar chuckle, “There you are boys!  Good as new!” he said, opening the car door and gesturing for the boys to enter.
“How much do we owe you?” asked Craig.  Reb’s chuckle rose.
“Nothing, boys!  It was our pleasure!  Good old Illinois hospitality!” said Nate, slapping Grant on the back.
Grant hugged Nate a thanks and forced Reb into one also, who just remained chuckling.
“Shame you aren’t staying for dinner.  We got a huge pig just for the two of us, going to waste!” said Reb.
Grant and Craig looked to each other, that unspoken agreement flashed again between them, “Why not?” expressed Grant, following Nate and Reb back to the Farmhouse.  Grant leaned conspiratorially to whisper something in Craig’s ear, “I dunno.  You hear all these stories about hitchhikers getting picked up, raped and murdered and left to rot in some cabin somewhere.  Just shows, they’re just stories; fantasies.” said Grant.
“Course they are.  What did you expect?  Two insane rednecks wanting to kill us and eat us?  Seriously, mate.” said Craig, incredulous.
This Song Is For You
There are times, sadly too often, one might say, when you feel a little down and a song invariably comes on the Radio, TV, or your music player of choice, that reminds you about beauty - life affirming beauty - and brings you from your bad thoughts?  Well, this happened to me.
When the song came on, it meant everything to me.  It spoke to me - directly to me!  It told me that it understood and that things would improve.  I was reticent.  It seemed to sense my reluctance, taking on the mantle of understanding, expressing knowledge of my distrust.  The song embedded itself into my consciousness.  It pleaded with me to look positively to the future, that it knew me, knew my mind.  It even called me by name!  How could this be?  So precise and sure!
Was some benevolent force looking out for me?  Making me see that there was much to live for, taking a personal hand in curing my depression?  Did this force watch me and guide me through life?  Were the things that happened merely a tunnel to get to this point, where the Guardian Spirit finally shows its hand and shows me my fate?
A respite in the music allows me a moment of reflection.  I am destined for more, surely?  This is why the guide shows itself now.  Sure, yet unsure, I search the web for the song in question.  It appears not to exist!  Does this mean only I can hear it?
But wait, a second look and I discover the words are there, on the page.  The artist, it appears, is entitled Angel.  A sign, perhaps?  The song itself is ‘This Song Is For You’.  How could it not be?  Look!  Again, within the text, it calls me by name!
I notice I smile broadly now, that my mood has dispersed; that the spirit has done its task.
And as the last notes drop, I sit back in reflection of the mighty hand that has been placed about my shoulders, when I read the footnotes.
“For My Brother, Taken Young – 1968.”
Yeah?  I mean, I wasn’t even born then?



The Rock Is Always Redder
“Pod dreams.  There’s nothing like them, don’t you think?” smiled Mission Leader Tony Black, sliding through the tiny gap that allowed access to the Mars Pod, the vessel by which they would be travelling by in less than three weeks.  He came out into the International Space Station where the Pod was docked, ready for launch.  He added an extra flourish now he was back in weightlessness, after being in the artificial gravity created by the Pod for so long.
“Thought you weren’t coming out of there.  I was about to inform Mission Control.” joked Sara Tan, running through her routine batch of instrument tests on the Pod exterior.
Tony looked around the immediate area, “Shame about Jasper Hugh, though, wasn't it?  Did you ever find out what it caused him to act like that?”
“No.  Never did.  They just took him off mission and returned him to Earth.” explained Sara simply.

#

“You will not listen, will you?” said Jasper Hugh despondently.  He hadn’t left the front doors of the Space Administration for four days.  Security had been called several times, but he kept finding ways back onto the Base.  Most SA employees thought him mad, or agitated about being taken off mission, the chance in a lifetime to explore the Red Planet gone.  In that case, they mostly let him go on ranting.  Who wouldn’t be in despair after all that?  A man had his dream career, then all of a sudden it was taken from him.  How could somebody simply pick their life up after that?
In some rare cases, some of the employees expressed their distress at the man, claiming he must have a point - have something to say.  After all, he did continue to plead that he knew something about a danger to the mission and was being ignore and turned away by everyone, just because he was trying to reveal a truth that no one wanted to hear.  But the powers-that-be instructed the employees to ignore this, and that poor Jasper Hugh was suffering a mental breakdown, and that was why he was removed from mission.  But he yelled away, outside, alone and cold, to anyone who wanted to hear.

#

“This is Ed Lime.  He comes highly recommended by the Top Brass.  A bit of a green horn, but –“  The Colonel slapped Ed neatly on the back.  The crew of the Provisions Vessel greeted him warmly, with smiles and congratulations on his promotion to the Mars Pod.  Ed took such pleasantries with difficulty, but accepted them nonetheless.

#

“Jesus Christ!  What is the matter with you, Jasper?!” asked Kelly Grey.  She and Carl Greene were rotating the oxygen scrubbers.
“I can’t explain.  You need to trust me.  Something is wrong, and only I know the truth.”
“You know how insane that sounds, Jasper?  I mean, that kind of talk will get you taken off the mission.  And I know how hard you’ve worked for this.  Harder than most, so curb the crap and get a hold of yourself.” said Carl, coming to take Jasper by the shoulder, “Look, if there was something wrong, or if there was something - you know?  Well, you can always come talk to me or Tony, you know that?”
“I know.  I’m sorry, Carl, Kelly.”
“It’s alright Jasper.  Stress gets to us all.” said Kelly with a smile as she returned to her work.

#

“You know what you have to do?” asked the Colonel.  The night was quiet when he had brought Ed Lime into the storeroom, away from his fellow astronauts, for a private discussion.
“Yes, sir.  I have the necessary equipment.  It is stored subdermally on the inside of my thigh.” said Ed Lime at attention.  There was a slight, barely noticeable tick at the corner of Ed Lime’s eye.  It didn’t seem to bother him.

#

Jasper accosted a group of employees as they exited through the doors.  He held onto the arm of one, who struggled against his grasp.  It was a surprisingly strong grasp, “Listen to me!  You have to listen!  I have the truth, and they need to know!  They need to know!  Don’t walk away, damn it!  Listen to me!  I hold the truth!”

#

“So, you got used to the Pod yet, Ed?” asked Tony, “Yeah, I know it’s a bit intimidating at first, and that artificial gravity is a doozy.  Still, it’s like the simulator on Earth, except for the weight-stroke-weightlessness thing.”
“It all looks fine.  I’ve familiarised myself with the controls.”
“Good,” said Tony, continuing to smile, “Now, come with me to the communal area to meet the rest of the team –“
“It’s been quite tiring, Tony, if you don’t mind.  I need to get some energy back before I can be sociable.”  Ed cracked the merest of smiles, and even that seemed a desperate struggle between his mind and muscles.
“Sure.  Sure, of course.  Sorry, didn’t realise.  It’s just, well –“ Tony coughed and went a little flushed, “It’s just this mission makes me a little too excited.  Sometimes I forget everyone else isn’t me.”  Tony croaked a forced chuckle and left Ed to his own devices.  He glided his way to the communal area alone.
“I thought you were bringing Ed in?” expressed Kelly upon Tony’s entrance, “I remember him from the Academy.  Good man, good laugh.”
Tony raised his eyebrows in exaggeration, “He may be a different Ed than you remember Kelly.”
Andria Roque, the final crew-member, entered, “Who is that one with the stick up his backside?”
“Ed Lime.  Jasper’s replacement.  He arrived while you were on Rest.” said Tony.
Andria made herself a food paste, “Ah.  Two years with him, may be a bit of a challenge, but whatever.”

#

“What the hell was that?!” crackled the intercom, between the Pod and the mission room.
“Jasper?  Come in?  Can you repeat?” asked Kelly, racing back to the Comms.
“Did you not just see that?”
“See what?  The instruments show nothing.  Are you okay?”
“You absolutely sure there’s nothing?  It damn well knocked me out.  Felt like it was taking the Pod off the stanchions.”
“Absolutely sure, Jasper.  You’re probably tired.  You’ve been in there seventy two hours.  You need a rest.”
“Okay, I’ll come out, but could you, just for me, run one final diagnostic before I come out?”
“Sure.  Back in ten.”
“Roger.”

#

“He’s been like that for the past week, Tony.” said Sara, looking closely through the closed circuit screen at the huddled and weightlessly spinning form of Jasper, rotating like a perpetual Catherine Wheel.
“I think you’re right.  The missions got to him.  We need to bring in Mission Control.  Pass me the Comms.”

#

“Someone!  You need to listen to me!” Jasper continued to look the worse for wear.  He had camped outside Mission Control, trying to get past the security for nearly three weeks, but to no avail.
The mission clock counted down robotically, “T-minus thirty until launch.”
“You hear that?  You only have thirty minutes left to listen to me!”  This continued for a further ten minutes until a Senior Officer came to the door.
“General Tyne!  You have to listen –“
General Tyne grasped Jasper by the arm and pulled him forcefully away from the door.  Jasper had no alternative than to be led, “Damn it, Jasper!  Not here!  Not now!  There’s family of the Mars Mission crew up there!  You’re scaring them!”
“But –“
“But nothing, Jasper!  We once were close, as you know.  So do this for me, please.  I don’t want to arrest you.”
“Please just listen to this!  I was in the Pod and I felt –“
“We know all about your delusion, Jasper.  That’s why you were side-lined,” General Tyne grasped Jasper by the shoulders, like a Father, “Sometimes people just aren’t suited to these dangerous missions.  Sometimes they have to be brought back, even after all that training.  I’m sorry, Jasper, but sometimes we have no choice –“
Jasper’s countenance changed from desperate to concerned, and to anger in a second.  He pulled away from the General, brandishing an automatic pistol at the belly of the Superior Officer, “Come now, Jasper!  There’s no need for that!”
“There’s every need,” said Jasper, as the robotic countdown announced that only eight minutes remained, “And you will listen to me.  That thing that happened to me was real.  It revealed to me a truth.  Listen, as I tell that truth, because I know you’ll want to hear it.”
“Okay, okay, Jasper.  Go ahead.  Tell me.”  Jasper smiled, knowing his truth was about to be revealed at last - until the left side of his head exploded in cartilage and blood, with a portion of brain matter following.  The sniper pulled back his weapon as General Tyne acknowledged him with a nod and wiped his hands of the poor dead man.

#

Mission Launch was close, and therefore time for a rotation of crew.  Kelly volunteered, as she wanted to surprise her old friend, Ed Lime, with a good old-fashioned Academy wake up call.
The tiny cabin they used as sleeping quarters was located aft.  She glided along, humming an old song, eventually reaching Ed’s personal cabin.  It was in utter darkness.  She grabbed him playfully by an exposed leg, gently shaking him, “Wakey wakey!  Rise and shine!”
Slowly, Ed turned to face her, his features emotionless.  Kelly had to look twice at the man before her.  She nearly slammed into the instrument banks behind her as she staggered back.
“Who the Hell are you?” she said, will horror upon her face.



The Man Who Believed Everything
There once was a man who believed everything.  He believed in the goodness of people, in the selfless nature of the human race.  He believed in government, in power for the people.  He believed in love and happiness.  He believed the world could change, for the better.  He believed that people, intrinsically were all for the good of others.  He believed the law covered all, from the highest high to the lowest low.  He believed the poor, sick and hungry, the differently able, the war wounded, the handicapped and the incapacitated would be protected.
He believed in a solid state of existence.  He believed that private matters were private matters.  He believed in censorship and piracy.  He believed in God, he believed in Allah, he believed in Buddha, he believed in the Brahma.  This man, he believed in life, even when those around him died.  He believed in freedom, in democracy, in free speech and free trade.  He believed that disputed countries could lay aside their contrariness.
He believed that life was the distraction to the inevitable death.  He believed for the sake of believing that all was right.  He believed people who put glasses on their heads were intrinsically nice.  He believed that the wealthy would share their wealth.  He believed in Communism, Marxism, Totalitarianism, Republicanism, Monarchism, Oligarchies, Democracies by name only, Free States and the Spring.
He believed the criminally bad could mend their ways.  He believed those who needed to be brought to justice would be.  He believed people wanted to change.  He believed that people wanted to do the right thing.  He believed that guns were right, that knives and other weapons were granted.  He believed the Believers were genuine, like-minded and compassionate.  He believed the youth wanted to mature.  He believed the drunk, and the drugged had nothing violent in mind.  He believed no one was abused.  He believed men didn’t hit their wives.  He believed people didn’t hit their dogs.  He believed the tattooed were tribally painting.  He believed someone lurking was on the level.  He believed when women said no, they didn’t mean no.  He believed in Meritocracy as a system of power.  He believed that there was no option, other than the assumptions made on one particular day as the sum of someone’s knowledge.  He believed that when people looked at him, they weren’t judging based on themselves, without first looking to their own faults.
He believed that a terrorist was a fighter for freedom.  He believed that Friendly Fire was as it was described.
He believed the Earth could be mended from being broken in half.
He was a believer, its true to say.



The Leather Trunk
It was in a seaside town, on the south west coast of England, where the leather trunk ended its journey.  It had travelled the world, with the stickers to prove it, along with the scratches and scrapes of lackadaisical porters on the railway system.  Straps had held it down while in transit, and marks were evident where it pulled against its restraints.  It rattled when it moved, as the possessions within adjusted their position.
Strangely, the trunk travelled alone. The presumption was its owner was journeying just behind it, stuck on some business along the way.  Instructions were to deliver it to the Grand Atlantic - to Room 213 - which had been booked out for the summer.  The trunk lay alone in the centre of the room, forming a dent in the carpet, just waiting silently.
A maid came cleaning the next day, and as she dusted the trunk, she remarked to her colleague, “Wonder what’s inside?  You think it’s something scary?”
“Course not, don’t be absurd.  It’s just a travelling case.  For a businessman, with a sense of style.” answered her colleague, changing the bed, with hospital corners.
“Still, just for a look inside –“
“Don’t.  You know they’ll sack you.  Then where would you be?”  The maid sadly agreed and finished her cleaning.  She couldn’t help a last longing look as she exited the room and closed the door shut.
Three weeks later, the trunk was still on its own, continually minus its owner.  But the room had been fully paid up, so the Management felt there was no reason not to keep up with the pretence that the owner of the trunk and the booker of the room would come to claim both room and trunk soon.  After that time, then the situation would need to be reassessed.
So summer came and went.  The trunk had remained alone in Room 213 for that entire time.  Once the booking had ended, they were forced to move the trunk to the basement, in a kind of make-shift lost and found area, by the kitchens and the tradesman’s entrance.  It sat there for months, just as it had arrived.  Eventually it became buried in a mound of discarded suitcases, barely peeking out of the mass of plastic and faux leather that covered it.
The spring came and there was still no sign of the trunk’s owner.  Spring moved to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter and finally back to spring.  Still no sign of the owner of the leather trunk.  And no other, on the owner’s behalf, had come to claim it for probate.  Somehow the paperwork was lost, in a transitional period of ownership of the Hotel, and the leather trunk remained there, in the sepulchre of travelling cases, gathering dust, mould and water from the leaking windows in the lost and found area.
One year, two years, fifteen years it sat there, unclaimed.  Any employee who had been working when it had first arrived, by now, had retired or moved on.  It just sat there, as though it had never existed.  Then, miracles of miracles, the basement flooded, and everything needed to be removed.  Everything, including the discarded suitcases from lost and found.  Two people needed to lift the leather trunk out onto the Hotel lawn, where it stood for several hours, drying in the sun.  Great patches of mould clung to the leather where most of the moisture had collected.  And then young porter took a shine to it.
He took out a cloth and cleaned up the trunk until it shined.  He admired the stickers, the places it had been, the history it had seen, and all inanimately, passively.  He began to wonder of its origin, and how it came to be in lost and found.  He made enquiries of Management.  They had arrived long after the trunk had, so knew nothing, but a kindred spirit in the guise of the housekeeper, a lady of some eighty three years, remarked that one of her Mother’s old friends had worked in the Hotel previously, and that she would enquire if there was any information on the trunk.
The young porter kept the trunk in his room, for the time being.  He would stare at it, tempted to open it, but felt that was a kind of betrayal, to the original owner.  He had the sense of a proprietary nature, from his work in the Hotel.  Property of the guest was property of the guest.  Not for snooping, spying, or betraying their privacy.  He had been brought up better than that.  But temptation was temptation, and it ate at him, the simple not-knowing.  However, he held firm.  And a couple of days later, the housekeeper returned to him with some information.
She described how the trunk had come to the Hotel alone, placed in a room fully booked for the summer by some businessman.  It had stayed there alone, in the room, until the booking ran its course.  It had then been placed in the lost and found of the Hotel, where it lay undisturbed, until the flood in the basement, when it was removed, and had found itself in the young porter’s room.  He thanked her for her diligence and effort, and continued with his work.  But it pulled at him, the mystery.  He was determined to find the owner, or a descendant, to return this obviously valuable item back into their possession.
The young porter took time from his sick days to look into the ownership of the leather trunk.  He looked into old records, of the railway station and the train company that had provided the carriages for transport of the trunk, right back to its origin point.  It had belonged to a businessman, who had come into much debt, along with performing certain machinations with various underground institutions, nefarious in their dealings.  He had sought escape, and had thus booked a room in the seaside town, for the summer.  But he never intended to stay for the whole of the summer.  He would find a boat and sail to Ireland, where he would be safe from those who followed him.  But at some point, they must have caught up with him, and only the trunk had arrived, its owner taken care of by his pursuers.  No more could be found on the businessman, and his debtors certainly kept no records of their encounters with him.  He had no living relatives either.  He had been a Batchelor, more in love with money than women.  And he had paid for it, with the ultimate price.
So the young porter was left with a leather trunk with no owner or next of kin.  He did nothing for a day, but it began to eat at him.  It now belonged to no one, so why not open it?  See what’s inside?
And so his curiosity got the better of him.  He began to slowly release the straps that encircled the trunk, with some sense of mischief in his actions.  Then the straps were undone.  The young porter clicked open the catches, six in all.  Once there were no restraints holding the trunk closed, the young porter took a grasp on either side of the trunk, bracing his feet for a strenuous pull apart.  It gave slowly, and suddenly the young porter was arrested by an almighty stench from within.  But he continued to pull.  Blackened liquid dripped onto his feet, and when the trunk was open enough, a shrivelled, leathery lump dropped out from the water-tight trunk.  The young porter jumped back involuntarily.  He groaned in certain fearful shock.  The lump rolled out, presenting the ribcage, the skull, the bones, exposed to the now fetid air, bits of decayed flesh still clinging in places to the body of the businessman.  He had thought of a clever way to escape, but forgot about needing oxygen to live.
Still, he did elude his debtors, which was surely all he ever wanted to do?

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