Fell Shufflers

The synchronised shuffle of chairs sheeesh, bok, bok… Not a note out of place it was the loudest sound in this room and bounced of its hidden ceiling to disturb a century’s restful dust. Speaker spoke the usual meetings, as was his concern, named those present and thumbed roughly at each of them, “Chancellor of the Brief; Cabinet Witch; Minister for Fashion and Agriculture…” he went on, and on, until reaching the shufflers.

“The Ambassador; Ambassador; Ambassador;..”

The point of the triangle of dark figures, fell shufflers, stood sharply and briefly from his chair, “We are singular, thank you. Address me as such.”

Speaker turned to Negotiations and Parks with the distinct look of who the fuck is this guy and a harder thumb than usual. A nod from his superior and the thumb burst into a spread palm of supplication and he sat down and opened his news sheet.

The Polite Cough was passed from seated to seated, bouncing around to a lively 3/4 ba dum dum, but their excitement at the ambassadors made them trip over and steal each others’ part to rising frustration. The hacking breath became terse and patronising and continued its quiet routing until people started to notice that the ambassador had stood up.

“I simply come to deliver this message:” his hand disappeared into the expertly tattered vestments and pulled out a knife like a shepard’s crook, with a handle of cheap plastic, and passed it back along the formation of ambassador who reached forth and neatly dismembered him. Arms, head then legs. The arterial spray made their dark clothes seem like thick night, the Officer for Incorrectness next to them cleaned his glasses as politely as possible.

After the meat fountain had settled the knife wielding ambassador hid it away once more and straddled his fallen self.

“Lord Gerard would like you to know that he is neither eccentric nor strange, but competent, rigorously argued, and carrying conviction.”

Together they turned, pivoting around the new point of the formation, and marched out the room. After a shocked silence the coughing continued.

Don't use the zed word

     He walked passed the wall every day on his way to the club. This time of year the reanimate were reflecting the sunrise in dew, their black helmets spotted like frost with track marks where the water had run down from their occasional twitching. He wondered if they got stiff, they were certainly more peaceful in the morning after a cold night. Sometimes they wouldn’t even follow you with their eyes, just look at the pavement a few metres ahead of them, maybe flexing their jaw like they were practising a speech. That was the worst. In the past few years EvaCor had started removing the vocal cords from the domestic models to stop them alarming people and make them more popular with civilian security forces. Instead they panted like dogs, an altogether more sinister sound to hear from the security alcove in your apartment tower. The guards he had passed every day were newer, fancier. Their uniforms were smart and sharp, they didn’t slouch and they didn’t pant. Instead they had black plastic pads over their faces, riveted into the bone. All they could manage through them was a slight whistle when you walked too close, no more than the sound of whistling through teeth. 
     Today there was something new at the wall. In the night the M-techs had set up what looked like lampposts with multiple heads, but where bulbs should be were pipes dangling down and splitting into smaller wires. Each attached to the mouth of one of the reanimate and they all swayed unevenly from side to side. Together they watched him like babies looking up from a teat.

On The Move

“Did you hear? Jublient is rising.”

Kevin had heard it on the lips of every walker and sop-seller trying to build a quick, profitable rapport with the village. “He’s bringing back the fun times, the gravy train will return.” Now would we like a tamlic neck bead to help complete our set? How about a bottle of claymore, guaranteed to get the native girls a-buzzing round your head like botflys? Mo always told him to steer past these oil traders and snake merchants with their split tongues and big hats, steer past and keep on walking to the well and back. Fetch the water, pop the seems and bring us back some time. Mo always used the old words, older than she had much right to use; she wasn't grey and she wasn't crooked and she didn't sit by the fire with the children because she was kept out of the smoke house. Some of the children didn’t even know that she was Kevin’s mo, she belonged to them all and gave them stories and stories. Stories about the Mountain Carnival and the fat-dark-thick winds, stories about the Uncles and what they did when they went to the lakes after the freeze. She knew stories, and she knew a hokey story when she heard one, which is what she claimed the sleeveless travellers sold us, “they can cut their sleeves until all that’s have left is a bra, but they’ll still have something up it.”

-

To sustain my blithering withering mind during a large-ish project I'll be returning to making  these tiny cries for help every day or so. It's hard when the times between being able to say "screw it, that's good enough" are long, and this has been months. My brain is falling away like wet bread under the constraints of having to return to the same stubborn piece of work, where the troubles of the day before are also the troubles of today and more than likely tomorrow.

It's so nice to abandon things again.

Tell me the old old story

tell me how you like it
tell me how you feel
tell me have you seen her
tell me on a Sunday
tell me you love me
tell me exactly how to eat
tell me why I don't like Mondays
tell me about yourself
tell me lies
tell me now where was my fault
tell us once
tell no one

Watcher

“The centaurs are coming!”

Gamon could see the water pouring down the hillside, washing away farms and farmers in its muddy surf, the survivors quickly swallowed by a black column of smoke that followed lazily after the torrent in heavy sheets. It would be a tranquil scene if it wasn't for their apprentice.

“ They've burst the aqueduct. What do we do? Fort Ernest should have stopped them. What do we do?” The boy was new, hadn't developed the stillness of a Watcher. He twisted from one man to another, pleading with his eyes, “what do we do?”

“We do what we are supposed to do. We watch, we record and we leave.”

“But the centaurs, they will carry us off and make us tend to their stable, hold our women for them to…”

“Tosh, until I see it I don’t believe it. They would be the first creature I've witnessed procreating solely with another species. Quite unsustainable. Besides, they have trouble with stairs at the best of times and the Duke has installed the most obnoxious spiral ascent I've ever put the trouble into climbing when not under the influence of mortal peril. We are quite safe up here.”

“Relatively speaking. They will burn us out eventually.” Gamon had to turn to hide the grin from the boy’s increasingly desperate whimpers, Mord always raised his spirits at the most inappropriate times. It was unfortunate that the centaur front had moved so quickly, their obligations were over and they were set to return to the priory comfortably ahead of the advance, held back by the thick headed men of the marches. Plainly, their walls and moors weren't as thick and deep as they claimed. The propaganda that had kept the southern kingdoms to their own squabbles for so long had passed by the centaurs, never known for their social awareness or acceptance of anyone’s opinion but their own. The centaurs, as a people of single bloody mind, had decided to cross the swamps and and plains to reaffirm their right to the horizon, the pack master only needed to point the way, and it was currently pointed at Marigold. A city unprepared for war, softened by amiable neighbours, its people didn't even know how to panic. Below the Watchers they gathered in groups in the muddy streets and asked each other What to do? Where was the Duke? How is your harvest coming? Has your boy sent money back from the front? The islands of awkward conversation drifted and waned as more and more soldiers ran to the walls to watch the smoke on the water.

Old Frank

Visit the man in his suburban home, sat at the top of a shallow hill. I knocked, but the door was open and saw no harm in looking for him in such a demure place. The house smelt of nutmeg and human, old hair and linen. The sound of creaking furniture could be heard from the front room and I followed. Two paramedics dressed in green with their emergency bags’ contents spread out over tables and the arms of thick floral chairs. Both young women, both sitting at ease discussing what he had taught them today, my presence didn’t disturb them until they stopped and politely indicated that he had gone to get something from the shed before continuing their discussion. I continued my search through the tiny kitchen and into his garden. It was flanked with plum trees heavy in fruit and it concerned me, there was nothing more obnoxious than a gardener recently in fruit, maybe this wasn’t the time to see him, maybe I should wait for winter when his garden was dead. I had the decision wrenched from me with the creak and clatter of an opening and closing shed door, a portly old man was walking quickly through a vegetable patch and towards the side of the house. I hurried behind, grabbing his elbow as he got to an old side door. Unperturbed he turned on me and leaned against the door frame, scratching his great gut and tobacco yellow beard.

“How can I help you son?”

I explained and he listened, nodding and scratching at the woolly jumper that seemed to be falling apart as I went on. He didn’t mention his garden, not once, even when he leaned in, stopping me.

“Go to the end of the road and find two of the cheapest slags you can, tell them you want Old Frank, they’ll know what to do and where to go. They have to be cheap, no one else will Old Frank,” his breath was cucumbers and limes and I nodded.

“Good lad. Now if you’ll excuse me I have something on,” and he closed the door behind him, leaving me standing on the thin gravel line before his little urban orchard.

Harold

The drain grate rattled as he put his weight on it.

“Oh Harold, Harold, Harold. What have we done?”, Harold knelt and dabbed at the bars with a handkerchief.

“Just so, just so,” the cloth came back with dabs of dark red, “just so.”

He heaved himself up and brushed his hands on his jacket, leaving dark stains.

“A new suit when I find you son, least you owe…” it was dark, but the street lights caught the glitter of something piled in a shop doorway. It had the appearance of a sleeping tramp covered in the morning dew. The cane probed gently and with no resistance, instead sinking into the foamy mass of hair and skin. “It seems you already have.”

Carp

“Jacob, your repetitive perambulations ache the eyes and offend my roguish spirit.”

Jacob ignored him and knocked on boxes, kicking at barrels and unravelling ropes, throwing off tarpaulins and lids. The wharf had any number of hiding places.

“Nothing is ever found that is looked for in such a desperate manner. One looks, one encounters, and then…” he waved his finger around in the air vaguely, it had been a long night and his performance was somewhat forced. The word never game to him as his thoughts were interrupted by a deep flomp of something heavy hitting the water.

“There’s our man, off like a rock no less. Here we have our encounter, Jacob. Be a good lad and fetch him, the carp won’t leave much for us if you aren’t sharp-sharp about it. Indeed, I can hear the slap on fins all a bother. Don’t you hear me, boysir?”

He extended an arm for Jacob’s jacket, who prepared to rope the floundering escapee.

“Don’t take offence if we leave a toe or hand behind. They take what they can fit in their mouth and no more. They can control their appetites unlike some little street muffins.”

He nodded to Jacob as the the rope went taught, and he started to pull.