In Times of Drought - a short story

The Drakenstein mountains

I can't say I much liked my entry in the Clarity of the Night competition, so keeping the competition's prompt, a glass of red wine, in mind, I thought I'd try it again, but a little less restricted by the 250 word count. I also thought I'd try something I don't usually do - set the story within my own environment.

In Times of Drought

Obsidian clouds rolled over the granite teeth of the Drakenstein peaks. Below the mountains the air brooded, pregnant with expectation. Rain spat on the earth in drops the size of quail eggs. The earth savoured each sip.
Andre Van Vuuren peered from the window of the farmhouse, swirled the wine in his glass lifting it to his nose to drink in the berried aroma. It had been a good vintage. The farm had profited well from the cultivar.
The room brightened as lightning sabers flashed between the clouds. Andre counted, waiting for the distant drum-roll of thunder to echo between the peaks.
He turned from the window and gazed at the room. Bereft of the history of his forefathers, its skeletal form clung to him. Generations of antiquities sold for whatever old Du Plessis down at the auction house could get for them. His eyes shimmered as he remembered his great-grandmother’s camphorwood kist. It had been a wedding gift to her from her grandmother, crafted by Jacobus de Wet soon after he’d arrived from Holland. He wondered who loved it now.
He pushed open the back door, letting the fly screen rattle back against the frame.
Wagter looked up at him, thumped his tail twice on the red-washed concrete of the stoep.
“Ja, old friend,” murmured Andre, bending to pat the dog’s grizzled head.
Together they sniffed the air. The rain was up there, somewhere in those grumbling clouds, but would it bless the land with its tears?
For ten years the clouds had taunted him, making promises they never kept. Rain would splatter to the earth and he would hold his breath – only to feel disappointment seep through his bones.
Why should this year be any different?
Andre stared across the golden gravel of the road to his vineyards.
The vines withered as he watched them, clinging to their supports with gnarled fingers. Soldiers on the cross, dying of thirst.
The phone trilled in his pocket. He glanced at the number and sighed.
“Hello,” he said.
“Andre, it’s Pieter. Listen, man, I’m really sorry but…”
“Ja, I know…”
He’d been expecting the call for months. It was only his friendship with his bank manager that had delayed the inevitable.
“I’m sorry, man, really I am. Come in tomorrow, we can talk about your options.”
“Ja, sure.”
He dropped the phone into his pocket.
Options. A small flat on the edge of town.
He walked back into the house as the thunder crashed above him.
Words from the old anthem echoed in his head… over our everlasting mountains where the echoing crags resound… They were words that now lay buried deep within the new anthem.
He picked up his wine glass, slung the gun over his shoulder and crossing the rose garden, walked into his vineyards. The soil, once sated with the sweat of his forefathers, clutched at his boots.
Earth to earth, he thought to himself.
He let the wine slide down his throat, relishing its chocolate and berry flavour.

The shot rang across the valley as the heavens opened and wept upon the earth, melding its moisture with scatttered drops of Pinot Noir - and the warmth of Andre Van Vuuren's blood.

Kakapo - a short story

The wreck of the Kakapo**

Kakapo, Kakapo…
The words drifted towards me on the breeze, wrapped themselves around my shoulders and breathed into my ears.
Kakapo…
I gazed along the vast expanse of white sand as it shimmered beneath the morning sun.
Kakapo… Come…
The pull was strong. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the rusted hulking outline of the old wreck buried in the sand.
I glanced over my shoulder before turning to gaze at the sea. Sunlight, like a broken necklace of diamonds, lay scattered over the rippling, undulating surface. Beyond the line of the breakers the surfers bobbed on the current. Josh and Sam were also out there somewhere, waiting for the perfect wave. They’d be there for hours, and today lying on the beach held little appeal.
Kakapo…
I turned my eyes back to the shimmering sand – the wreck was a twenty minute walk away. I started towards it.
Yes… Kakapo… Come to us…
The voices were dry and ancient, rustling like aged parchment tossed about by a restless wind. They pulled me ever closer, drawing my feet through the silk of the sand as it rolled between my toes.
I could feel them waiting for me, hovering around the wreck, their gauzy wraithlike forms just visible through half-closed eyes.
Don’t look at them, my instinct warned me, don’t become ensnared in their ancient dreams. They’ll hold you to them, lure you into their sandy grave.
Yes, come to us...
The voices sighed, filled with longing
I forgot where I was as trudged steadily towards them, the sky a vast expanse of blue above my head, the mountains surging upwards towards it. Surreal world. Who knew where reality ended and dreams began. I remembered how my father had warned me of quicksand on the beach, had terrified me of tales of being sucked into the earth to a watery grave. Yet I walked on, the sun warming my skin and bathing me in a golden glow that made me unaware of the chill breath that momentarily swept down from the dune scrub.
I drew closer to the wreck, trembling at the thought that I would soon be close enough to stroke its rusting flanks, to whisper words of comfort to the souls that lingered around it.
Kakapo…
“Hello gorgeous…”
The rough, guttural voice jerked me from my reverie.
A guy was sauntering towards me – not alone, several others followed in his wake, flowing from the bushes on the dunes.
My heart quickened and my palms grew moist. I glanced around. Not another living being for miles around – just the expanse of the beach stretching away towards the mountains, the ocean crashing against the shore. And the ghosts of a hundred departed souls waiting for me.
“Lovely lady…”
They drew closer, encircling me, hands in pockets. I saw the flash of steel. Felt the tremor of the chase ripple through them.
Kakapo…
The ghosts moaned, straining at their bonds.
She’s ours…
But the young men were oblivious to them. They had no truck with the forgotten world beyond the veil. Theirs was the time of now and the state of lustful hunger.
I drew myself up tall, turned back the way I had come and stalked through the circle of my tormentors.
“Walk with us.”
Come to us…
Save yourself.
The young men ebbed and flowed around me, a tide of man-eating crabs, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Don’t run.
I walked steadily, my head held high, bristling with projected indignation.
If we cannot have you, neither shall they…
The men closed in, joshing amongst themselves.
“Lekker chickie.”
“Nice legs.”
“Hey, sexy lady…”
I heard the groans of discontent rise up into a chorus and felt a sudden icy wind at my back. Spinning round I gasped as a black stallion sprung from the dunes and galloped towards me. Its mane streamed in the wind, nostrils flared, eyes burning.
The men scattered, shrieking obscenities, stumbling over one another to get away as the horse careered through them.
My heart pounded a primal drumbeat in my ears and my breath escaped in ragged gasps.
The stallion whirled, sand flying beneath his hooves. He reared up and leapt away , charging towards the wreck, veering right just short of it and plunging into the dune scrub from whence he had come.
I grabbed the moment of opportunity, spinning around and taking off, ignoring the call to glance over my shoulder. As my feet flew over the warm velvet of the sand I heard, in the distance, a pale cry.
Kakapo…


The story above is based, in part, on a real incident, in part, on another personal experience. You can read the actual story of the wreck of the Kakapo here and see pictures of it here.

These images are of the beach where the incident took place. If you enlarge the picture below, you may see a small "dot" in the middle distance, which is the wreck of the Kakapo.



** The picture at the top of the story is nicked from HelgaRainbow's photostream on Flickr and has been "doctored" by me.

"Closing Doors" - a short story

You are about to read something completely different today, a short story, (an experiment in writing in the second person, present tense). It's a bit dark, so don't say you haven't been warned.



Dark fingers wreath the lawn, merging as twilight descends to create a veil between day and night. In the distance you hear the screams and cries, the chanting of the advancing mob. Now and then an explosion rattles the glass and you feel the reverberations rise through your feet. As darkness hurries towards you, you see the glare of golden light and smell smoke and fire on the breeze. The acrid stench of burning flesh singes the hair of your nostrils. It won’t be long now.
You turn away and gaze at the room, once so familiar and comforting, now a prison cell. Doors that once opened to the garden are barred. Doors that led to other rooms are closed, having shut gradually over the past months as the house offered fewer options for protection.
You turn and gaze at him as he sits, head in hands, staring, without sight, at the floor.
How different it could all have been.
You told him several years previously that you had no faith in the shifting sands of government. You saw the people’s hunger and their lust for blood. You said, “See, this is how it is, this is how it will become.” But he looked at you and said, “I believe you are making more of this than is real.” You shook your head because you knew, even then. You could feel it in your bones, see it looming because this was your way, you saw things that others did not, would not. You watched the signs, reading them as they appeared in the stars, on the breath of the wind. But you knew too that fear does strange things to men, blankets their minds in shrouds of denial, rooting them to the earth in which they believe they were born. It was like this with him and you knew it, had always known it. But you believed in change, forgetting that he did not. Not realizing that he looked to you to change, to his way.
“They’re coming,” you say, your voice dry as the dust that gathers in the corners of the room. “We have one last chance before it’s too late.”
He doesn’t answer you, remains motionless, his shoulders hunched.
One door remains unlocked and you look at it, knowing it was never what you would have chosen when the choices remained wide open.
You had such big dreams, such attainable goals. You knew what you wanted and how to achieve it. You even set the plans in motion, moving step by step towards the opportunities that life was offering, knowing in your heart that you had finally found your path, but knowing too that timing was everything.
You had watched as he turned away, unwilling to follow you, deadlocked by his own fear. You had tried to reason with him, encourage him, all the while knowing that he would always choose his own way because his fears were greater than your knowing.
As the years passed you watched the advance of all your own fears - growing, bearing the fruit of terror and strife. You’d had to close up the house, locking the doors one by one as the danger increased and opportunities fled before it.
You remembered how he had first asked what you were doing. You had taken a crayon and written on the back of one door. “Too late, opportunity gone, door closed”.
He had stared at you reproachfully and you had tried not to feel guilty, because you knew you were right. Your sight gave you that.
A scream shatters the darkening air. The shrieks of the unleashed mob swim through the trees, shredding the leaves, destroying the stillness that had once been. A child wails… is silenced mid cry. A momentary stillness flits through the garden before the mob advances again.
“It’s now or never,” you say. “This time I will go alone, if I must. I will not become a martyr to your fear.”
“I don’t deserve you to rescue me,” he murmurs, his voice cracked and rasping. “Not now, not after all I’ve…”
“I am not rescuing you, I am saving myself,” you say, “and I am willing to do this one last thing, to take you with me. But it’s up to you, your choice, as it has always been – only this time I will not subject myself to the results.”
“You don’t know what’s down there,” he mutters.
“I don’t need to know. I trust, as I have always done. There is a path.”
“No,” he says, as you expected he would, “I don’t believe they will harm me. I fought on their side many years ago, they know me. They are only coming for the ones filled with greed – I’ve never been one of those. I will take my chances, rather than risk where you are going – into the unknown.”
You nod, trying not to think of all the times before when his words had contained the same hope and fear. You move towards him, go down on your knees and enfold him, one last time, in your arms.
“I love you,” you say. You kiss the top of his head, rise, and move away.
You are on your own now, as you have always been, as you have always known you would be.
You pull the heavy handle, dragging the door upwards and open. You feel his eyes on you but you do not turn around. He never believed that you would finally go; he always believed that you would stay with him, fearing that you would leave, but praying you would not.
“Wait,” he calls out.
You turn and look at him, as the gates splinter and crash open. A wreath of smoke billows past the window.
“I…” he says, but words fail him.
He stands, moves towards the window.
“Come away,” you call, “don’t stand there.”
But he ignores your words, stands in front of the glass and raises his arms.
There is a single crack. The glass shatters and tinkles to the floor. For a moment he sways, turns to you, a look of surprise in his eyes. As the baying floods through the window, his lifeblood stains the white cloth of his shirt and he starts to fall.
You turn away, step onto the stairs beneath the floor, dragging the last door closed over your head.

Remembering the Origins - a continuation of the short story

Several of you asked if there would be more of the short story I posted last week. At the time, I thought not. It was just supposed to be a bit of flash fiction - a capturing of a moment in time. But then I fell to pondering - and you know what happens when I ponder - I run this risk of a whitter or a warble developing... And this is what happened:


The child blinked at the glaring light. Harsh and unfamiliar sounds accosted her ears. She stumbled, wearied not only by her journey into the new world, but also by the months spent hiding, creeping and outwitting the serpent from that other world.
“Oh, look, just look at her.”
The voice rang above the child’s head. It contained an edge of familiarity and it made her tremble.
A face peered down at her - then another. One had eyes that smiled with a wondrous delight upon her. But the other face. Those eyes were green, intense and madness flickered at their edges. The child’s heart quailed and she gasped. She tried to turn around and run but felt her legs betray her. They wouldn’t work, they were two frail appendages that seemed incapable of all but the most useless of movement.
A scream broke from her, uncontrolled, and tailed away into a wail that she felt would never end.
“Sssh, sssh. Hush now.” The voice was deep and awkward; it sounded as though its owner felt as out of his depth as she did.
“Give her to me,” said the first voice. Female.
The child shuddered.
No, screamed the essence of her being, don’t touch me. Stay away, stay away.
She felt herself lifted and rocked from side to side. Her wailing continued as though some primal part of her had taken control. Her heart twisted with anguish. After all those months spent evading the serpent’s constant search, here she was in the new world, and the serpent had found a way to follow her.
True, it had appeared in a new guise, but she was sure it was the selfsame creature. Something in her innermost being, a self that she felt she was fast forgetting, prompted her to remember, albeit dimly, the serpent’s visage. That glimpse of madness in the eyes, that voice, its edges tainted with a hiss.
But if it was the same creature, and she couldn’t be sure... what did it want with her? Would it kill her – as it had done her twin?
The child flailed with her legs and arms, seeking an escape, the wail rising up from her core.
“Sssh, sssh,” hissed the voice, “it’s alright, don’t cry so. Don’t cry. You’re safe now, I’ve got you. You’re with me now. You’re mine.”
No, she screamed, no, I’m not yours. I don’t belong to you. I don’t belong to anyone!
The child’s cries, her pleas were disregarded as though she spoke them in a foreign tongue.
Please, she wailed, please, let me go, I don’t belong here, I must have come to the wrong place. Please, please…
“I hope this crying and screaming is not going to carry on forever,” said the female voice, “I don’t think I can stand it.”
“She’s certainly got quite a voice on her,” said the male voice. “Here, give her to me. Come on, little one.”
The child felt herself passed from one set of arms to another, as though she was a rag doll. Why was she so helpless, why couldn’t she stop these people from manhandling her? And why didn’t they understand her? Why did they just ignore her voice, as though she were some halfwit, talking a foreign tongue?
Please, she whispered, trying again, please I think I’ve come out in the wrong world. I don’t think this is where I’m meant to be. You must send me back. This can’t possibly be right.
“Hush, little one, ssh, now.”
The arms that rocked her now were warm and strong. She stopped whimpering, gazed up at the brown eyes smiling down at her. She searched them for any signs of the madness she knew so well. Yes, there it was, but it was faint, almost undetectable. And the voice, the voice contained no hiss, just an occasional sibilance.
“There now,” said the man, “see, it’s not so bad.”
“Give her back to me,” said the woman.
The child felt herself passed again from one set of arms to the other.
She stared up, trying to hold her will, trying not to flinch, the terror rippling down her spine.
The green eyes, the madness streaming away from their edges, peered down at the child.
“Say Ma-Ma. Say Mama.”
The child screamed.

Remembering the Origins - a short story

The tunnel wound in labyrinthine twists through the depths of the underwater cavern. A dim light filtered through its membranous walls, blood red and eerie. The two children, their hands grasped together crept forward past smaller caves and other passages, constantly aware of the danger lurking within the depths of the only world they knew.
This was how it was. Always seeking refuge, always on their guard, tiptoeing forward, voices hushed - when they dared to speak at all.
The girl was the stronger of the two, more courageous. The boy was timid – not weak but of a more delicate nature – not created for a world such as this. He looked to his twin for guidance. She in turn focused on protecting them both.
She stopped and he felt the tension running from her arm into his. He paled, trembling. She squeezed his hand and pulled him into a nearby cave. They waited, listening, barely breathing.
In the distance they could hear the sound of damp slithering. They felt the presence of the creature seeking them, its tongue flickering, its maddened red eyes glancing this way and that. They could feel the movement of its search vibrating through the venous walls of the cavern, that living cavern that pulsated and throbbed in its self-created glowing light. It was a place that should have sustained and it was a light that should have nurtured them. Instead it was a place in which they were hunted, forced to live on their wits, terrorised at every twist and turn.
“It’s coming closer,” said the girl. “We must get out of here. It will sniff us out.”
“I’m frightened,” said the boy.
“I know, but we must get out of here before it gets any closer.”
The risk was great, they both knew it.
The boy quailed at the thought. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on like this. This was not a world in which he wanted to live. And if it was a taste of the world beyond, the world to which they were destined to go, then…
His knees buckled beneath him.
“I can’t go on,” he said looking up at his sister, his eyes weary, pleading.
“You must,” she said, tugging at his hand, pulling him to his feet.
“I can’t. I’ll slow you up.”
“No, you won’t, I’ll help you. I’m not leaving you here.”
He pulled his hand from hers as the serpent’s hissing breath slunk closer.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I haven’t the strength for this. Not anymore. I can’t go on.”
“You must,” the girl insisted. “I can’t leave you here.”
“No,” the boy said, gazing into her face, his expression softening. “This is no longer my journey. You have to go on alone.”
“But I don’t want to,” she whispered, struggling not to let her voice break into a wail.
He smiled at her. “I don’t think there’s a choice.”
She stared at him, at his pale, beautiful face. He may have been the frailer one, but the serenity of his wisdom was something she couldn’t doubt. He wasn’t meant for this world, nor the one beyond. His journey ended here. She knew that. Just as she knew it was only her resilience and fortitude which would enable her to survive - her sheer bloody-mindedness.
“Are you sure?” she said.
He nodded.
Her heart breaking, she turned from him and slipped across the passage, ducking down a side tunnel. Turning back for a brief moment, she saw the red and black of the serpent’s scaly body as it undulated in sinuous motion, its eyes glinting with self-obsessed greed, towards her brother.
Now she was on her own. And she would outwit it at every turn. It had got one of them, it would not get the other. She would fight it to the bitter end, she would fight for both of them, in this world, and in the sunlit one beyond.

The Unremembered Gate - and guest posts

“Through the unknown unremembered gate…”

I hear voices. Children’s laughter. They drift on the breeze, reaching me over centuries.
One might say, “once upon a time”…
Ring a ring o’ rosies… we all fall down…
We did fall down, didn’t we, darling.
This land is your land, this land is my land…
But we never learned how to share.
In an English country garden…
But it’s not, is it, darling, it never was.
The African sun shone upon us and lulled us into a sense of well-being. It was a new world, ours for the taking. We recreated Europe, didn’t we, darling. Van der Stel put in the oaks, then Lister planted the pines. Rhodes brought the squirrels, the chaffinches and the deer.
We brought the old world to the new and tried to tame it.
We thought we had, didn’t we, my darling?
We had joy, we had fun…
You see a gate, standing in a field. I see history and memories and hear voices all around me, floating through time. What was still is, what is, always was. Then is now, now is then. The unending cycle of incomprehension and arrogance continues. Nothing really changes.


Since writing this, it seems a few people have found the image of the gate really evocative, so, if you want to, why don't you write your own piece or own thoughts, based on what the gate evokes in you. If you do write about it, let me know and I'll add links to your post.

So far, Bonnie has written this.

And Mother of Invention has written this beautiful and evocative poem - posted both here and on her own blog - with picture. Do go and check out what she says about writing the poem and take a look at the pic - of an open gate - very special.

the open gate

unlatch the padlock
throw off the heavy chain
that binds my gate so tightly closed
so that I may freely
invite you in
to share all that I have seen
for I have seen beauty that knows no bounds…..

enter and behold
my story -
everyone's story
who has ever passed
through this threshold
beyond the lazy vines
that creep and wrap themselves around me
and have been awestruck at the sight
of strong billowy white clouds sailing in a brilliant blue sky
and a gigantic orange globe of fire sink in seconds beneath the horizon –
I beckon you -
your own story awaits

by Mother of Invention

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Bernita's Weirdly Contest - A Short Story

I discovered yesterday - nothing like leaving things to the last minute - that Bernita, over at An Innocent A-Blog, was hosting a short story competition which closes at midnight EST tonight and is entitled the Weirdly Contest. The rules can be found here, should you wish to create a piece in haste.

I have to confess that the muse has been scarce of late and while the image posted on Bernita's blog inspired what follows, the scribbling had plenty to do with participation and pretty much nothing to do with winning. Like those good people always say, it's the taking part that counts and it really is pretty cool being part of such a wide and various group of writers.

So, let us start with the image upon which the competition has been based...

(Photo from the Fortean Photo Library)

And herewith the story... Those who recall my involvement in trying to save the local plantations and forests may perhaps get where this story springs from...

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum* aka The Dryad's Revenge

The far lookout beckoned. Commander Jisprit moved towards him.
"What is it?"
"Men - advancing upon the kingdom."
"Many?"
"Yes, in armoured horses."
Jisprit turned to gaze first at the palace, towering high into the sky, sunlight filtering through its windows. Then he cast his eyes upon the forest and the other cities in the Realm.
"Ready the warriors," he ordered.
"Yes, my lord."
Jisprit watched as messengers sped along the branching pathways of the Imperial City. Flight heralds soared above him to pass on the alert.
A glint of light caught his eye and turning, he saw his queen observing him from the tall turret.
He flexed his wings and rose up.
"My Lady," he said, bowing low.
"Trouble, Jisprit?"
"Men, My Lady, in armoured horses."
"They will sport with us or…?"
"Who knows, My Lady, but we cannot take chances. They have decimated the kingdom too often before."
The queen nodded, her face thoughtful. "They think not, these giant brutes. They see not. What is ours they believe to be theirs. You are right, we must be on our guard. Too often do they despoil and destroy the Realm." She paused a moment. "No, wait… let us be pre-emptive, Jisprit. For a change we will strike first."
"My Lady?"
"They destroy us and we let them. It is time to stop their constant advance. Call upon the Elementals, let their lightning strike the men as those plunderers have always struck us. It is time for change."


* In case you're wondering what Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum means, it is "If you wish for peace, prepare for war".

Short Story - Waiting for the Hunter

This story was written some time ago for a competition in blogosphere - the competition, however, was cancelled and the story has lingered in my files since then. Given some of my recent posts on child abuse, I decided it was time it had an outing.

Waiting for the Hunter

A sun without warmth beat down. Light reflected from mirrored peaks, blinding the sky. A road wound through plains of dust and bushes of barbed wire rolled like tumble weeds across the landscape. A voice, disembodied, broken, keened through air thickened by memories of pain. This is her valley of despair.

#

Truths entwined with untruths, the constant inference of decadence… She remembers…. Enduring memories…

#

He is her father’s friend. She doesn’t like him. They are on holiday in Nice. She is nine years old and is expected to behave like a young lady. Days are spent having long lunches and seeing the sights. It’s boring. But she’s a good girl. She gazes at the sea and makes up stories in her head. He is delighted by her. She is frightened of him. She doesn’t understand why. There is something about him that makes her want to run away, especially when he gets too close to her.

It’s a balmy autumn night. She and her parents are in his hotel room. His wife and her parents are on the balcony, he comes inside. She is lying on the couch, supposedly asleep. She senses him coming. Tenses, shuts her eyes tight. He leans over her, whispers her name. She lies dead still, barely breathing. He strokes her hair and she wants to scream. He kisses her, letting his breath drift over her ear. She is terrified. He goes away. She wants to cry but is too afraid to. He is a bad man. She knows this.

They return home and for a few months she doesn’t see him. He and Daddy have argued. She’s glad. But then Daddy tells her Uncle Victor is coming for supper. He says, I know you don’t like Victor, Sam, I don’t know why, but he’s my friend and you must try and be nice to him. He’s never been unkind to you. So I want you to behave like a young lady. Nice and polite. Really, he says, turning to her mother, I don’t know why she has such a thing about Victor.

Her skin turns cold and clammy, her tummy clenches into a knot. She asks if she can spend the night at Jilly’s house. Don’t be silly, says her mother, it’s a school night.

So she says she’s not feeling well. And she doesn’t look well. She is pale, her breathing ragged. She is sent to bed.

Lying in the dark, her teddy clutched in her arms, she hears him arrive. He’s on his own. For a while she lies in terror until she realises he’s not coming down the passage. She drifts into an uneasy sleep.

It feels like she has only been asleep a few minutes when she hears her name being whispered.

“Hello Sammy. Hello, little one.”

She feels his hand on her head.

She stiffens, keeps her eyes shut. He’ll go away if she stays asleep. She lies as still as she can, hardly daring to breath.

She feels his hand run over her body. He sighs. It is a shuddering sound. Inside her the fear monster stamps its feet and bellows. Her tummy clenches and then turns to mush. She wants to scream but she daren’t. She holds her body tight, holding her terror to her. Her nails dig into her palms, so hard it hurts.

He gets off the bed. She hears him kneel on the floor, feels his face draw level with hers. His breath is on her cheek. It is warm. She doesn’t like the way he smells. She stifles a dry heave. He’s not moving away. She can hear the rubbing of material but she doesn’t know what it is.

“Sammy, little one, wake up, my darling…”

She feigns deep sleep. She must not screw her eyes tight shut, he’ll know she’s just pretending. She must lie as still as she can. She must make her breathing normal. She tries to listen to her breath but it’s hard, so hard. His face is over hers. She feels his lips touch hers… then his tongue pushes at her lips.

She screams. Thrashes and lashes out at him.

She hears her mother’s voice.

“Sammy! Victor! What are you doing in here?”

“I’m sorry, Mary, I just wanted to see how she was.”

“I told you she wasn’t feeling well.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten her. I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry I scared you.”

You’re not, she thinks. You’re not. You’re a bad man. I know.

He backs out of the room and she notices he’s tucking his shirt into his trousers. He blows her a kiss and a chill washes over her.

“I think we must get the doctor tomorrow, Sam. Look at you, you’re like a sheet.”

She hugs her teddy to her, sobbing without tears. Her eyes are wide, wild. She knows. But she also knows she is powerless, alone. How can she tell anyone what she knows? They’ll never believe her. It’s not like he’s hurt her. He’s only frightened her and she knows what grown-ups say about that. They say, “Don’t be silly, Sam, you’re just imagining things.”

Whenever they visit him, he watches her. She can feel how he can’t keep his eyes off her. Whenever he can, he comes close to her, brushes against her, finds an excuse to touch her or kiss her. But he’s good. No one notices anything. Only she knows. And he knows. She knows he’s waiting for her - will always wait for her. She longs to grow up or die. She doesn’t mind which. So long as she can escape him.

There’s a party at Victor’s house. There is no babysitter so her parents take her with them. They say she can stay up for a while and must then go to sleep in the spare room. At nine o’clock her mother, a wine glass in her hand, takes her to the room.

“But I’m not tired, Mommy.”

“You just lie down and go to sleep. You be a good girl. See.”

She nods. She knows it’s hopeless.

She lies in the dark. Waiting. The minutes tick by. Hope stirs in her. Perhaps he won’t come. So many people, perhaps he’s too busy. A sigh of relief begins to shudder through her. The door opens, just a crack and a beam of light spills onto the carpet. He has come. He pushes open the door. Closes it behind him and she hears the key turn in the lock.

“I’ve brought you some crisps, Sam. Some cola too. I know you’re still awake.”

He sits down beside her. She can see his form. The moon is bright outside, shining through the curtains.

“I’m tired, Sammy, so tired. All those people. All Aunt Angela’s friends. I hate parties. Too much noise. My head hurts.” He stretches out on the bed beside her.

Her heart pounds. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s been brought up to be a young lady. To be polite to grown-ups. And Victor is her daddy’s best friend. How many times hasn’t Daddy said, be nice to Victor, Sam. Why, she wonders, does her daddy want her to be nice to Victor. She doesn’t want to be nice to him. She wants to hit him, scream at him, make him go away. But she doesn’t know how.

He rolls over, pulls her small body against his. She hears his breath, ragged, heavy. Terror engulfs her. His hands are everywhere, she feels a thing she’s never felt before pressing against her. The blood pounds in her veins. Something inside her shatters and she retreats within herself, numbed. From afar she hears his voice.

“Sammy, I’ve waited for this for so long.”

#

Samantha Clarion stares at the old man lying in the bed. He is dying. And she is watching him die.

He’d called her six months before to say he thought he might be ill, to say he didn’t want to be put into a nursing home. Would she please make sure that never happened to him? He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone, didn’t want anyone wiping his arse. He planned to commit suicide. It would be their secret, he’d said. He told her he’d built up a stash of narcotics. He said she mustn’t tell anyone, and if she had to, would she help him? Samantha said yes.

But now he was in a nursing home - utterly dependent on the strangers around him to feed him, to wipe his arse. Samantha stood at the foot of his bed and watched him.

“The drugs, Sammy, where are the drugs? Give them to me.”

She shook her head.

“You promised to help me.”

She shrugged.

“Please, Sammy, please, I want to die. I don’t want to suffer like this. I can’t stand the indignity. I don’t trust these people. They'll hurt me, neglect me... Let me die, Sammy.”

She stared at him, her face impassive.

“Why are you doing this to me?” His breath was ragged, shallow.

She turned away to the window, gazing through it. A beam of gold pierced through, touching her with unexpected warmth, brightening the space around her. Outside, summer sparkled, beckoning her and voices laughed with echoes of grateful joy.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Because I’ve waited for this for so long.”

The God of Utterly No Consequence

A week and a half ago I posted about a comedy contest. The brief was to write a short story actively using any two of the following words: banjo, exorcism, mermaid, black box or angry mob. The deadline was 1 September - so I wasn't hugely impressed when I checked the site on the morning of the 1st to find the contest had been closed on 30 August... The deadline has been extended but I've decided not to enter. But for what it's worth, this was to be my offering. Perhaps I should state at the outset, comedy is far easier to write when you're not trying...

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Gerald grimaced and rubbed his bulging belly. He burped, wincing as the malodorous gas produced by his gut billowed around his face. It was all very well being a god, even the God of Utterly No Consequence, but being subjected to the food served up in the Canteen of Delectable Delights was, well, beyond the pale. He clutched his stomach and groaned. This godding lark really wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.
The ad had been truly misleading.

Are you sick of the mundane? Want a better life – free of debt, stress and nagging? Wanted: Man 45 – 60 with desire for betterment of self and all things. A chance to make a real difference. A heavenly opportunity. Minimal hours. Desirable package and terms. No chancers. Mid-life crisis a definite advantage.

The interview too had made promises of great things – so far none of them had come to pass.
He’d expected a bit of frolicking with a nymph or three or four... Some ambrosial delights in the culinary department wouldn’t have gone amiss either. And at the very least a lyre - not the tinny bloody banjo that had been issued along with his flowing white robes! He kicked the offending instrument across the floor and issued a belch that would have put a Ginorma Giant of Gigantism to shame.
Irish stew. For the gods’ sake – bloody Irish sodding stew. And not even like his mum used to make. No, the tasteless fatty lumps of what passed for meat floated in a layer of grease and potatoes were scarce. Even Cora hadn’t made anything this vile – and that was saying something. He paused for a moment and grinned. That was the one good thing about the job. No Cora - the viper who had surely been Satan’s spawn. After twenty-five years of unadulterated hell, it was blissful to be rid of the bitching battle-axe.
Gerald’s gut bubbled and growled as it struggled to digest what had passed for lunch. He was beginning to wonder if the ad and his “job” weren’t all one big joke dreamed up abut the Senior Gods as a means of light entertainment.
Gerald stared around. Heaven, huh? Not what he’d expected at all. Admittedly some of the trappings were there but for him it was all a façade. Oh it was all right for the Senior Gods, they had it made – he’d glimpsed into their private realm. Cavorting maidens, simpering sylphs, tables laden with fruit, candy, cakes, wine… What did he need to do to reach that divine enclave? Perhaps the gods were assessing him. Perhaps he needed to pass some test, prove himself.
Gerald gazed into the middle distance… Life was made you made of it, wasn’t it…? Well, if it was a test - and it probably was – he’d show them. If they weren’t going to take him seriously then he’d have to encourage them to do so. He’d elevate himself a bit, do something dramatic and spectacular so they couldn’t help but pay attention and invite him to join them. Gerald’s beady black eyes glinted. Yes, he’d make something of himself. Of course just how he’d do it eluded him for the moment. But something was bound to turn up. He heaved himself off his red velvet chaise-longue and waddled over across the room.
The black box perched on Gerald’s desk, humming to itself. It had been there for a few days - and until now he’d studiously avoided it. Where it had come from he had no idea – but then things had a habit of materializing from nowhere in Heaven.
He stared at the thing. Unless he was mistaken the box seemed to wear an expression of innocent smugness. He peered at it. The inscription on the gold plate on its lid read: “Open with caution and at own risk.”
Hmm, just the sort of thing the Senior Gods would put on a plain black box…
Ah…but who said it was the Senior Gods that put me here…
The voice was rough at the edges, dusty – and held a hint of laughter in its depths.
Oh he’d grown used to inanimate objects talking and disembodied voices – went with the territory. He glowered at the box, its tone had been jeering – challenging.
Oh go on then, you know you want to…
He eyeballed the box. What was the wretched thing up to? Being the God of Utterly No Consequence Gerald was used to having the piss taken out of him – that seemed to be his primary role – never mind the betterment of self and all things…
He stroked his chin, considering. Could this be part of the godly test – or just a jape? Well, if this was the test, he was up for the challenge. After all, things couldn’t get much worse – and perhaps passing the test – if that’s what it was - might be the making of him. Just maybe the box contained the secret that would lead to his heavenly upliftment. He had nothing to lose.
He stretched out his pudgy paw.
Sure about this, Ger? The voice was taunting.
Stuff it, thought Gerald, a god must make his mark.
He pressed the latch on the black box. A sigh escaped into the ether. A long resigned ‘I told you so’ sigh. Gerald trembled.
The lid rose. A whisper breathed around Gerald as the rush and hiss of the ocean danced in his ears. A hint of sea spray tickled his nostrils.
Gerald sneezed.
The lid of the black box crashed to the desk, cracking the shiny glass surface.
“Aaah, thank god for that!” This was a new voice – disconcertingly familiar.
Gerald took a step back.
“Hmmm, mu-uch better…”
Something splashed in the box’s interior. A gentle fishy tang wafted towards Gerald.
He tip-toed forward, peered into the box. His eyes widened.
Sitting on a rock at the edge of an ocean – all contained within the box’s infinite interior – was a mermaid. Golden tresses cascaded down her naked back. Her tail, covered in shimmering turquoise scales flicked the water throwing up droplets which glistened like diamonds… No, wait… they were diamonds!
One tinkled onto the desk. It was the size of a pigeon’s egg.
Gerald licked his lips. He reached out and stroked the glittering gem with one chubby finger. Excitement quivered up his spine. He was made!
He glanced at the mermaid eyeing the plump roundness of her shoulders – a roundness that reminded of another life, another time… He gazed at the curve of her waste, ogled the luscious peachiness of her… He was starting to pant, sweated beaded his brow. His eyes flickered… Mermaid, diamonds, curves, glitter…
The mermaid ran her hands through her hair – a single strand floated away and settled on Gerald’s arm…a thread of pure gold…
Oh praise the Gods! Finally the ad was living up to its claims. This really was heaven. No more gloop canteen food for him anymore. Now he would be able to dine at the Ambrosial Feast – heavenly restaurant par excellence. Wealth, fortune and beauty lay before him. The Middle Gods wouldn’t be able to sneer anymore. Things were finally changing for the God of Utterly No Consequence. He blew a kiss at the Black Box and grinned as the heady fragrance of divine bliss wafted over him.
“Ah… aaaah…”
Gerald glanced into the box. The mermaid was stretching, yawning. Her arms were raised above her head and he glimpsed the pert globes of soft breasts. He nearly swooned
“This is the life…” said the mermaid, running her fingers through her locks, “Gods, what an improvement!”
Gerald’s mouth dropped. He stared. He definitely knew that voice…it wasn’t just familiar…
The mermaid turned around. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. She stared at him, a multitude of emotions flickering over her face before it hardened into a mask of outrage and fury.
“You!” she spat. “You lazy good for nothing peabrain! I thought I’d got rid of you forever. The ad said no men trouble, freedom, opportunities for travel… Trust you to find a way of screwing it all up!”
Gerald’s world swam - he staggered backwards his life flashing before him. Years of misery…all caused by…her! The grousing fishwife he’d hoped he’d escaped forever. Even the position of God of Utterly No Consequence had been appealing by comparison - better than a life with her – Cora, hatchling of Hades.
He’d been duped. Well and truly snookered.
Gerald snarled, reached into the desk drawer, grabbed his contract and ripped it to shreds.
“AS IF THAT CHANGES ANYTHING,” a voice boomed. “CONTRACTS MEAN NOTHING HERE – THE ONLY CONTRACT THAT LASTS IS THE ONE THAT SAID ‘FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE – UNTIL DEATH DO YOU PART…’ NOW THAT REALLY WAS A DAFT DEAL TO ENTER INTO.”
Gerald and Cora Briggs glowered at one another – trapped in the eternity of heaven – together, forever. Around them the laughter of the gods rocked the heavens. Tears of mirth flowed from their eyes. Far below on Earth, thunder rumbled and the floodgates of heaven sent forth a torrent of rain as the Senior Gods enjoyed one of their best jokes of the month.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the world wide web...)