Relativity

“I’m such a fan of hers,” Samantha said, peering round the corner of the alcove where she and Lucas were lurking.   The dour Scotsman seemed distracted, rummaging in the pockets of his overcoat and scowling.

“Eh?” he said, “Whose?”

“Miss Goddard’s,” she replied, “I’m such a fan.  You’re not planning to do anything unpleasant are you?”

Lucas looked hurt and pulled something absolutely hideous from his pocket.  It writhed unpleasantly, a rainbow shimmer of carapace and mandibles, and the dim light of the alcove bent around it as though unwilling to touch it.   The creature was only a few inches long and hard to look at.  It made Samantha’s head hurt.    “When would I ever do something unpleasant?” Lucas asked her.

“Whenever you want to,” she replied

“Whenever I need to,” he said, “Anyway it won’t hurt anybody, not what you’d call hurt.  Not actual hurt.  Anyway we need to get it done.”

Samantha sighed and held out her hand.   Lucas dropped the creature onto her palm and she felt it land a few seconds after she saw it resting on her flesh.   She grimaced at the touch, and also at the impossibility of the thing.   She wondered if there was any point asking the enigmatic Scot what the creature-

“It’s a tikworm,” Lucas said, the moment before she opened her mouth to ask the question.

“Time parasite?” Samantha asked and then wondered why she’d asked.

“It’s a time parasite,” Lucas said and then he grinned wickedly.  “You’re already noticing things getting out of order.   Well don’t worry, nothing’s permanent unless-”

“Why would I let it bite me?” Samantha asked before he finished the sentence.  She hesitated as her mind caught up and put things in the right order.  “Damn that’s annoying.  So what do I do with it.”

Lucas looked out into the small restaurant where New York’s finest sea-food was being consumed with gusto by a generous population of diners.

“See that fellow with your Miss Goddard?”

Samantha nodded.  She’d wondered who he was, certainly no movie star like the woman he was dining with.   The man was a bit unkempt in her opinion, hair too long, gestures just a little bit too expansive and clumsy.   “Not her husband,” Samantha commented.

“They’re just about finishing up their meal,” Lucas said, “Go over there and let the tikworm have a good bite.  Of him, not her.   I wouldn’t like to mess with Charlie Chaplin’s wife, can you imagine the hilarity of his revenge, eh?   Pursuing me halfway across the world with his bandy legged walk and an angry twirl of his cane.  Eating my boots.”

Samantha looked at Lucas incredulously.  “You want me to-   Won’t they notice?”

“Trust me,” Lucas said.   She’d done that countless times in countless contexts, a thousand thousand realities, a thousand thousand of her, and each of them with only the vaguest notion of what the others were up to.   None of them entirely trusted Lucas though, but all of them trusted him just enough.

“Alright, alright.”   She palmed the tikworm and set off across the Oyster Bar toward the table where Miss Goddard and the stranger were chatting.  The man was dabbing at his moustache with a napkin.

“An absolutely fine time,” he was saying as Samantha drew close, “I really must thank you again for taking the time to…”  He stopped as Samantha stopped by their table.  He and Miss Goddard looked up at her questioningly.

“I’m such a fan of yours,” Samantha said to the actress, “I wondered could you possibly…”

“I’d be glad to,” said Miss Goddard with a smile, reaching into her purse.  Samantha wondered if requests for autographs were so common that the star had simply anticipated the request or whether the tikworm’s effects were being felt.   Still, this was the ideal opportunity.   While Goddard was looking in her purse and her companion was watching her search for a pen, Samantha reached out and pressed the hideous little invertebrate against the man’s neck just above his collar.  Mandibles closed.  The man opened his mouth to object.  Samantha remembered the smell of the rain that morning as she stepped out of her home, thought of the scent of her mother on the day that Samantha was born, heard the quiet voices of the nurses in the care home decades afterwards.  And then the tikworm was back in her hand, concealed again and Miss Goddard had already signed the autograph.

“Thank you,” Samantha said gratefully.  She accepted the treasure and turned to leave the table.

“Strangest thing,” the man said to Miss Goddard as Samantha walked away, “We’ve been here for an hour, a simply wonderful hour, but it feels as though almost no time at all has passed.”

Samantha returned to Lucas as quickly as she dared and handed over the now bloated tikworm.

“Beautiful,” he said as he held it up and watched it wriggle and twist, and bend light around it.

“Mind telling me why?” she asked him.

“Soon this wee beastie is going to change into a butterfly,” he said, “Well… sort of a butterfly.   And it’s just fed on an hour of that man’s time.  A whole hour that’s going to grow and blossom and shine inside the little creature.”

“And that’s useful to… us?” she asked.  She wasn’t really sure who “us” was, except that she was always on Lucas’ side, and that there was a dreadful war spilling out across all of reality that Lucas was helping to fight.

“An hour of Albert Einstein’s time?” Lucas said, still admiring the vile larva in his hand, “Oh aye.  Useful enough as it is.  But wait till this little chap spreads its wings for the first time.    And starts to soar.”

A response to a prompt from Studio30Plus based on the words "Time" and "Parasite"- in this case both.

For Professor Einstein's version of the encounter click here.

For more about Lucas and his antics click on the "Lucksmith" tag below

Reflections on a life

A33-word response to the following snippet: The first time I saw. . . 

Here's the catch: all of your 33 words must be one syllable each 

(a writing prompt from Trifecta)

The first time I saw him I thought he was Death.  He looked the part.  Gaunt, pale, more skull than face.   I reached out to fend him off… Smooth glass.  Then I knew, and I laughed too long.

Travelogue

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”

~ L. P. Hartley: The Go-Between

(A writing prompt from Write on Edge)

I travelled when I was younger and smiled more often, as part of my job carrying the message of my company’s utter excellence and trustworthiness to far flung marketplaces and offices.    Back then when I was first starting out I had a lot to learn and learned it well and with delight.

It was the differences that made the job interesting.   Not the little differences in dress and speech, for I picked up new languages with ease or at least those parts of them relating to my job and to socialising.    I could get by well enough to understand what was being said and to make myself understood in turn.    The differences that counted were the differences in customs and culture which could make or break a whole encounter.

In Japan for instance it is considered impolite to issue a flat “no” to a question, so if you need to make sure the people you’re presenting to understand your pitch then never ask if people understand a point…  they’ll say they do to avoid giving offence and the whole thing can break down.   Ask what things need clarifying instead, then you’ll learn what’s needed.   And while it’s important to give a small gift to your host it’s absolutely improper to expect it to be opened there and then as it puts so much pressure on the receiver to look happy at what may be a substandard offering.   Instead make sure the gift is beautifully wrapped so it can be cooed over gratefully then taken away for unwrapping behind safely closed doors.

Every country has its own particular ways.  They’re getting homogenised now to an extent but they still linger on and it’s wise to learn the nuances.   The Dutch expect punctuality and avoid small talk until after the business is done, while the Egyptians would consider talking business without getting to know their contact as abrupt beyond belief.   Little things to learn, and I enjoyed the learning.

They say the past is a different country too.   So true.   I can smile at the strange costumes worn by the inhabitants and laugh as I recall the language they speak there, so unfamiliar now to my ear through lack of use.   But it is in considering the customs of that country that I find the most difficulty.    There, a young man with an easy smile and a gift for languages will cast aside the only gift worth receiving and by careless and ill-chosen words drive away the giver, dimming with cold disregard the shining light in her eyes until finally, reluctantly, she grows tired of giving and gives no more.   There a young man will not know until it is too late that he is walking into an empty room of old age and isolation and  cruel realisation that even behind closed doors the gift is no longer there to unwrap.

It’s a strange custom and a strange country.   If it wasn't that bottles grow empty I’d never visit there again.

Once upon a laptop tapping

A writing prompt from Trifecta

WHATEVER 

3.   (adverb) Used to show that something is not important

I had been trying to write.   To write poetry in fact which is an infection that flares up every now and again.   It wasn’t flowing though, I couldn’t get the rhythm right and it wasn’t helped by the pernicious temptation to browse the Internet in between thoughts.   Even that was interrupted by an irritating repetitive scratching at the door.

Roused I was from browsing languor, roused from torpor into anger

I got up and let Edgar in.   He gave me the look of self-satisfied contempt that comes so easily to his kind.

“What on earth are you looking at now?” he said in tones of mock outrage as he saw my monitor.  I hastily closed the browser down, almost knocking over my glass in the process.

Guilt and shame made me a fumbler, racing swift to shut down Tumblr

“Inspiration,” I said, “I’m writing poetry.”

Think cats can’t laugh? It’s all in the ears.  Edgar hopped up on the desk, nudging my mouse a few times.  He likes his little visual jokes.

There he sat the feline critic making mock and oh so clever

“You won’t get inspiration from looking at those pictures,” Edgar said, “not for poetry anyway.  Not for poetry you’d want anyone to see.  You only write poetry when you’re miserable.  Are you miserable?”
He was curious (naturally) but not concerned.  His enquiry was entirely academic.

“Not particularly,” I replied, “but I’m sure you can help with that.”

Edgar thrashed his tail and narrowed his eyes.

Angry now at being challenged angry now but still so clever

“I’m sure I can.  I’ll consider that a life goal, shall I?” he said.

I sighed.  Edgar in a bad mood was not a comfortable housemate.

“Sorry Edgar,” I said, “You just caught me at a bad moment.   Why don’t I open up a can of tuna for you?”

He swished his tail as he jumped down from the desk and sauntered from the room.

Quoth the feline, “meh, whatever.”

(Edgar also appears here)

Given

(a writing prompt for Trifecta in honour of National Erotica Day)

“I’m worried,” Graeme said, sipping his coffee. She looked at him curiously, she’d never noticed his skin’s texture before, the smooth and rough of him, his scent. “That book you were given… you’re different.”

The first night she’d looked on that intricate symbol in the book and her dreams were vague and heated, and she’d awoken hungry for release, seeking it with her fingertips.

She’d been his friend for a year, a pure platonic friendship. Right now her body wanted him inside her.

The second night she’d drawn the symbol on her belly and dreamed of dark chambers and tall spires and a lover of inhuman beauty and appetites, waking shuddering to the cries of her own release.

“Is it some kind of cult thing? Maybe give it a break for a while. Let’s get away somewhere?” He touched her hand reassuringly. She shuddered in pleasure and he recoiled.

The third night her lover had walked her in his dream palace through an archway of pearl and she’d learned the touch of another woman, spending the next day in a fever for the coming night.

“Relax G, it’s… like meditation.”

Night four, rushing into sleep, into dream, her lover and another man this time, together, at once, and the next day each time her mind wandered she felt them again, felt it happening again.

“Okay,” Graeme sighed, “call me, okay?”
“Sure,” she lied imagining him naked and hard. She’d paid a tattoo artist to engrave the book’s intricate symbol on her and if the artist been embarrassed at the pleasure she’d shown as he inked her, he’d hidden it well.

Tonight would be the fifth night and the book promised… much. She barely noticed the waiter approach, then turned to him, opening her purse.

Her lover, of inhuman beauty and appetites, took her hand.  The cafe melted away like perspiration running across hot skin, revealing halls of marble and obsidian and the waiting, adoring, worshipers.

“The fifth night,” his voice burned, “and forever.”

The Scent of Apples

A writing prompt from Write On Edge - to create something for Halloween - and from Trifecta to incorporate the word "boo" - defined as a call to show disapproval - and from Studio30+ to incorporate the word Mask or Red (I chose the latter and made a hat of it...)

 She had been holding my hand, woolly glove in woolly glove, as we stumble-shuffled our way through the crowded market.  Autumn chill was biting and the market was a treat not to miss.  Stalls crowded with toys and trinkets, cakes and biscuits, and the beautiful smell of hot spiced wine and honey buns.   We'd turned a corner in the crowd, my hand was empty now.  I looked back to reach my hand for hers, but she was not there.  I looked the other side of me. Not there.  The crowd filled the space meant for her, panic punched me in the chest.

Surely just a step away, a step beyond the moving mass of shoppers in their garish scarves and hats, just a step and I'd take her hand again, and she'd chide me with her only-child authority so natural and so unusual in a girl of seven.   I pushed back the way I had come, eyes raking, desperate for the sight of a red and green bobble hat a size too big.  Nothing.  I called her name heedless of dignity.

I smelled hot cider.  The scent of apples had haunted me since my childhood and the desperate flight from chaos and nightmare and into a world where time passed second by second and the spoken word did not take flesh or flight, where magic was just a story and not a pestilence.  Twenty years since then, a world of light and television and blessed dullness, and I'd boo the pantomime villains that hinted at a childhood I no longer believed in.

I pushed past a stall where tiny wooden figures with tissue wings made a mockery of the truth, turned faerie into frippery, and my daughter was gone.

Her hand took mine then, soft woolly pressure.  Relief flooded me and I looked into a serious unsmiling face.

"She's ours now," she said, eyes ancient, "and missing you.  Come back to Avalon and dry her tears."

Her hand gripped mine, an unbreakable bond.

(333 words)

Fallen

A writing prompt from Studio30Plus - "Hurt"

We fell to earth, who once had soared so high

So fast and far through endless stellar night

From that sweet single point of bursting light

And shining side by side till we drew nigh

This world, this world, and its embrace was cold

And made us fall, at first so close we fell

Through screaming skies, and side by side we fell,

Foul gravity, the turning earth took hold

And parted us, made distance and I wept

To be alone in so so cold a place

Ignored the pain of impact, but to face

A moment where your shining light was kept

Away from me, away from me who’d burned

With stellar flaming fire like your own

That moment was a horror.  Cold, alone

And buried in dark earth I cooled and yearned

For soaring moments and that fragile flame

That I’d once thought eternal and was gone.

I cooled and darkened, dark where once I’d shone,

A stone and not a star; small, cold and tame.
Yet even on this distant barren shore
I sense you drawing close and blaze once more

Avalon

A writing prompt from Write on Edge and Trifecta inspired by the quotation and definition below:

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. (Sylvia Plath)

Rainbow :  an illusory goal or hope

My grandfather once told me that he’d spent his whole life in summer.   I was a child then and I didn’t understand, but I believed him.  There was sunshine in him, always warmth, and he took delight in everything.  Being around him was like an easy purposeless walk on an August evening through the wooded lanes around his house.   I’d walked those lanes and knew each turn, each fence, each sunbeam.    Those lanes had seen a thousand thousand of me -- the cowboy, the knight, the pirate, the explorer, latterly the thwarted romantic hero.   We’d walked those lanes for years and countless summer stories had been told in the dappled light.

My summer was coming to an end.   As September slouched over the threshold I’d leave for university and take up a course that was practical and appropriate, which would be the gateway into growth and progression and forward planning and productivity and purpose and perhaps, someday, a comfortable retirement in which I could take long and easy walks to nowhere and everywhere and then, ultimately, to nowhere again.

Standing in my grandfather’s garden, between the two apple trees exactly the same age as me, I heard absent echoes of running feet and excited voices overlaying the silence.   What did they have to be excited about?  Hadn’t they seen the autumn clouds over the nearby woodland?   Hadn’t they known about the rain that would turn the green grass to mud and ruin?

No.  They hadn’t.  It had always been summer here, even when the snow piled up so deep and white and crisp that it remade the world.  Always summer, and no clouds and no rain could drive away an old man’s smile.

But September was coming. Summer would be a memory, as glorious, unreal and intangible as a rainbow.

I stepped away from the two apple trees, exactly the same age as me, and back toward the slowly emptying house, and the expressionless faces and low tones of my well dressed relatives.

Deleted Scenes

I've not been posting as often as usual for the last few weeks - work has been ridiculously busy and has been sapping my enthusiasm a little.   When I have been in the mood to write I've been focusing on my work-in-progress novel which has actually started to make progress enough to warrant the description!

As part of that though I've tinkered with the narrative voice and viewpoint and made some tough decisions as to which parts of the existing work to keep and which to (probably) excise.

What follows are some brief scenes which I'd introduced to set up one particular character and situation.   The character will still be in the final story (probably) and so will the situation (probably) but these scenes no longer fit.

Rather than have them vanish into the ether I'm posting them here - hopefully they'll make enjoyable reading and I'd appreciate any feedback on these scenes that never were...

Shades

(a writing prompt from Trifecta)

Slumping, empty, day by day

A life lived bleak in shadow play

The light burns bright but far away

And all is shown in shadow play

When cold night comes shall shadows stay?