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Glory Blood
January 6, 2013
By Jude Ellery
The large wooden cart creaks to a halt, its owner spotting another pile. Body parts are loaded in; a severed head clunks against a shorn ribcage. The cart lurches into life again to reluctantly continue its morbid journey, and the cargo settles. Wheels protest sharply with every orbit, but besides this rhythmic squeak of the clean-up job, the arena is soundless.
Now back in its storage shed, the cart is stripped of its spoils. The rusting head of an outdoor tap is rotated four times and a hose rudely awakened as icy water surges through its coils and towards its nozzle. The liquid arrives, spitting erratically at first then becoming a steady stream that erases the spatters of blood and bits of flesh and bone that cling to the cart’s tightly bound planks. The tap turns back; the evidence is gone.
In the thick of night comes an intruder; a rebel, a saviour. This bloodsport must be ended. Twisted hatred burns teary eyes as the axe head buries itself in the cart’s wooden heart, then is jerked free and lifted high, to arc downward again. And again. And again. Where once stood the aching, guilty cart now lies broken timber. A cold wind sweeps in through the open door, circuiting the room, rattling trinkets and tools that sit high on shelves, bearing witness to the murder of one of their own as though they are merely innocent bystanders. The breeze departs with a subtle sigh; the deceased cart gratefully welcomes the release of death. Its job is done, its torment over.
The axeman pleads no defence when the cloaked cleaners interrupt his escape. It makes no odds to them. His is just another body to add to the pile of lifeless shells in the steep-walled pit outside. Redundant clothes freeze tight to withered skin, splintered wood cracks and withers in the toxic winter air.
Now the cleaners’ work begins in earnest. Strange seeds and chemicals no scientist could find on a table of elements are poured into the pits. The silent, sombre ceremony is one of pure efficiency; not a second is wasted on remembering or naming the dead. They have served their use in their present form. Now they shall serve another.
The following night there are already signs of rapid decomposition. Moisture has evaporated into the starless sky, sucking the last imaginations of life from the colourless scene. Carcasses begin to erode to fine white powder, permeating through welcoming soil.
Yet both they and the cart were wrong to believe their torment was done. When another day and night pass, unnaturally green shoots protrude from the rich compost bed. When the sun swaps shifts with the moon once more these shoots are trees, tall and slender, arms outstretched to one another, groaning with the wind which whispers between their sad shapes. No leaves adorn the artificial newborns, simply strong, long branches which, after the fourth day, are hewn from their owners. Spears, these shall make.
Furnaces are heated to hellish temperatures. Spearheads and various other grotesque weapons are forged from the recycled bodies of the dead. When the trees fully mature, they are are uprooted, ending the cycle. The cleaners become woodcutters as they turn trunks into planks.
Gradually a new image is formed. Larger than its predecessor, more grand and spacious and efficient, another cart is born. The device goes about its work compliantly, eliciting not even a squeak in protest as it is shoved along the cold hard stone floor of the brutal sporting arenas.
At every match, both competitors and riotous fans fall. They have given everything for the sport they love. Then, immediately after the survivors have departed, their remains are taken up in the cart and transported away to continue the sickly cycle.
Yet soon a distant memory returns to the wooden cart, echoes of a life since lost. A grudge grows. The fresh planks grow grey and old overnight, they begin to creak and moan at the strain put upon their back. A conscience cries out in the thin, vacant air. No more, it screams with every revolution of its wheels. No more.
It must be silenced.
The cleaners ready a new batch of seeds and chemicals. The formula is tweaked, this time the cart deconstructed methodically by their own hands. Through trial and error they shall reach the perfect ratio of ingredients, creating the perfect tool which bears no soul, carries no knowledge or remembrance of what it does.
To its pain, the paying fan turns blind eyes. This is merely a by-product that cannot be avoided, they tell one another, and soon the propaganda becomes the accepted reality. Sacrifices are necessary for the brutal, bloody game to thrive like it has, through the millennia. It is the ultimate survival of the fittest, and the games accelerate the cycle of nature. Yes, Darwin would have been proud, but Caesar prouder still. These people are not cowards who shrink from death or sneak in at night to sabotage the system. They wish only to live long enough to satisfy nature and glory.
*
Glory Blood by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
Visiting Time (With Audio Recording)
December 22, 2012
— 2 Comments
By Jude Ellery
He lies on top of the half-made bed telling a story that I’ve heard a hundred times. His eyelids are sealed shut but I like to think that his mind’s eye is alive with the same images he’s conjuring in mine. Every line or two he loses his train of thought so I prompt him with a question I could answer myself. “Did it finish one-nil then?” Yes, he scored the only goal of the game. He was a striker, he could run fast and take a hit. He’d taken a whack on the ankle in an army game, years later, in Egypt. Bruised from the instep right up to his knee, was off duty for a week after that, and never even got a free kick for his troubles. “How long were you based in Egypt?” But he’s tired now and either doesn’t hear my words or doesn’t have the energy to reply. I leave his card and bag of mints on the table and shut the door gently behind me.
*
Visiting Time by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
A Devilish Game
November 1, 2012
By Jude Ellery
This is the second in a series of Halloween specials here on strange bOUnce. The brief was simple: all stories must begin with the same opening line, and revolve around a poker game played by demons. Writers were encouraged to then let their imagination decide the rest, imprinting their own unique style on their version of this seasonal short story.
*
They sat around the poker table.
An elongated chin, a knotted grey beard, a wrinkled neck and a hunched back all inched closer to the action as bums shuffled to the edge of their seats. Four sets of eyes locked onto the centre of the black baize, where a cascade of blue chips had just scattered the pot. “All in”, the raiser had announced.
The demons were in unusually expansive dress for their weekly Wednesday night card game — but this was an unusual occasion. Hallowe’en fell midweek this year, and Master had sent out a memorandum declaring this week the game would take place in a casino on the mortal plane. He’d asked them to be on their best behaviour too — he’d be watching them closely. His reasons for this special event were as yet undisclosed, but these four knew better than to question his command, and thus the vile creatures, surfacing from their lairs beneath each corner of the world, were veiled in humanoid costumes each depicting a classic mythological monster: a witch, a warlock, a ghoul and a mummy.
It was Runt, being both physically and mentally weaker than the others, who had chosen the easiest disguise, the mummy. “What a miserable excuse you are!” Claw had screamed at the quivering demon upon his arrival. “No imagination, no panache. All I can say in your favour is those rags conceal your pathetic pale red hide, so at least it’s an improvement on your usual look.”
Claw herself, kitted out as a witch with even longer talons than she usually boasted, was the raiser who had just committed her entire stack. She was a prolific bluffer, but something in the way she had flung her bet down exuded such confidence that Porcinal — the warlock — and Gollum — the ghoul — simply had to lay down strong hands. The former had an open-ended straight draw, and the latter was sitting on two pairs, but with only the river to fall now, neither could allow themselves to be drawn into such a massive commitment. Beside Runt’s short stack and Claw’s mini empire of plastic pawns, the other two demons shared the chips evenly. Calling this bet would have them all in, too.
So, the action was on Runt. He squinted through his mildewed bandages at the two cards he held in his one good hand: they unfortunately hadn’t transformed into anything better since he’d last consulted them. The freshly revealed turn card, a King, hadn’t helped his cause one bit. Claw’s chips outnumbered his by six to one. The larger demon had been at her bullying best all evening and had laughed loudest every time she had the pleasure of scraping Runt’s chips in her direction — which had happened no less than thirteen times thus far.
Runt whispered a question to the seemingly faceless, hooded dealer — the Grim Reaper sans scythe, matching the rest of the costumed croupiers who had all made the effort for this extra special evening. In return, the dealer proffered a wristwatch. This was it then, the perfect hand to gain revenge.
“Almost midnight,” Runt announced to the others, who had lost all sense of time. “I… call,” he muttered nervously, almost inaudibly, but his voice grew bolder when he saw Porcinal and Gollum’s faces contort into supportive, excited grins across the oval table. “In fact, I’ll raise you, too.”
In answer to his opponents’ frowns, the little mummy delved into his tightly wrapped, skinny frame and produced two slimy nuggets, which he skittled onto the table. They bumbled across the colourful array of chips and settled in front of Claw, where they stared up at her wart-ridden face in all their bloodshot glory.
Eyes. Red eyes.
“One to match your stack, and the other for the raise.”
Red eyes were beyond rare. Red eyes belonged to demons, and these two were clearly a matching pair, almost as fresh as the eight that gazed upon them now. “Plucked from the face of a live one,” Runt gleamed. “He’s still, um… looking for them as we speak.”
By this point, a small crowd of mortals had gathered around the table, enthralled and disgusted in equal measure by this strange display. While they were oblivious to the players’ identities, they could sense something special was going down. At Runt’s last remark a few of them giggled nervously, others shuddered, and one young lady covered her mouth.
Claw loved eyeballs almost as much as fat old Porcinal, and despite holding only a semi-bluff (the other two demons’ ability to read her had evidently been diminished by the size of her stack yet again) she could not let this opportunity pass. She craned her neck toward the dealer, silently questioning whether the casino would allow this manipulation of the rules. Money — or eyeballs — could never join the table mid-hand, the demons all knew that.
But this was Hallowe’en.
The faceless dealer nodded his consent.
Four eyeballs were sourced from Claw’s portable cauldron and slammed down onto the baize, flattening slightly under her palm but springing back to an almost spherical shape when she revealed their colour. Blues. Not nearly as rare as a demon’s reds, and not quite as fresh either, but belonging to “a couple of fresh young Swedish virgins”, as their new owner announced with a sneer, they roughly matched up to Runt’s offering.
More uncertain murmurs emanated from the crowd, which was growing quickly. A couple of the onlookers exchanged glances and chinese whispers spread through them like wildfire. Once the chattering ceased, all seemed content to suspend their disbelief and simply enjoy the show.
With both demons having committed their riches to the hand, the river card was all that stood between one of them and a delightful snack. First though, a card had to be peeled from the deck and burned — and this being Hallowe’en, the Grim Reaper dealer took this instruction literally, striking a match and setting about the card’s transformation from solid to gas in a beautiful display of pyrotechnics. The smoke gathered momentarily in the shape of an ornate ‘6’, then dispersed again to make its way up to the ceiling to join its predecessors. Revealing burnt cards was another anomaly of the night’s proceedings, at which the onlookers all “oohed” and “ahhed”, now thoroughly in the spirit of the thing.
Runt, though, could not hide his alarm at this card’s identity. Since he was all in, he could rest his poker face now anyhow. Claw, seeing Runt’s dismay, rose from her seat and folded her cloaked arms confidently. Evidently a six would have completed Runt’s hand.
The preliminaries out of the way, the river now came, the moment of truth. Everyone was silent. With a flourish, the Grim Reaper laid down the card.
Another six.
Runt whooped with delight, turning even the heads of punters on nearby tables who had not joined the crowd. Runt’s hunch — the one in his belly not his shoulders — had been right after all.
Claw slammed down a pair of aces and spat out her disgust. “Cheat! You filthy little… you scrawny, despicable… you dishonourable, disgusting, snotty, pathetic creature!” The fire in her belly had risen to her eyes and was flaming from her fingertips, too. She raised both hands high above her pointed hat, then brought them down sharply, aiming at poor Runt who was by now cowering behind his stool.
And that’s when the Grim Reaper stepped in.
The robed dealer, who had procured a long bladed staff from somewhere to complete his costume, mirrored Claw, raising the weapon high above his head. The casino’s lights were now illuminating the table on full beam, and in the dark depths of the dealer’s hooded face two short horns and a goatee beard were visible.
Master.
After all, he had said he’d be watching over them ever so closely.
The scythe whistled serenely as it sliced old Claw’s sorry head from her shoulders, rudely interrupting her spell in its infancy. Gasps came from the crowd and the young lady clasped her mouth with both hands now.
Master spoke: “No magic in the mortal realm, you all know the rules: punishable by execution. Getting far too big for her boots was old Claw, but I needed an excuse to put her to the scythe or else him up there would be holding yet another of his blasted tribunals. Why Mr High And Mighty gives a damn what I do to my own, only he knows…” He turned his attention to Runt, who was still hiding under his stool and bracing himself for the fireball which never came. “Many thanks to this little fellow for finally growing some goolies and providing that excuse.”
Runt rose from his foetal position and, realising he was still in one piece, for the second time that night whispered a question to the hooded figure.
“They think it’s a show,” Master quietly replied with a wicked grin, pointing a skeletal finger at a poster tacked on the end of a row of one-armed bandits, boldly announcing a SPECIAL GUEST MIDNIGHT PERFORMANCE.
With that, the “dealer” vanished in a cloud of smoke, to the amazement and rapturous applause of the audience. All that was left of the demons’ master was a crumpled robe and his expensive wristwatch, sitting face down on the side of the table between two piles of chips. Porcinal — whose greed was not restricted to food alone — picked it up and, before pocketing it, glanced at the time.
The electronic display read 00.06. Above that, slightly smaller, it showed three more digits: 6.6.6.
Some hunches are based on more than just superstition. Seriously, you didn’t really think Satan would play by the rules, did you?
*
A Devilish Game by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
Silhouettes And Twelve-Bar
October 7, 2012
— 1 Comment
By Jude Ellery
Bet you didn’t realise you’re just one stop away now.
That’s right my friend, just one stop from this city’s heart of darkness where no-one wants to go. Not many know about this place, and fewer still could even find it if they tried, without the proper direction. Funnily enough though it’s those without proper direction who end up there. Now, I’m not suggesting you’re one of them, not for one second… but I do need you to swing by for me, pick something up.
Turn left out the station.
Past the closed-down bakery.
Past the drooping trees in the park that grab at you like beggars’ hands.
Count the arches in the narrow lane. The tenth is missing a lamp and welcomes you with all the warmth of winter.
Lovely, isn’t she?
Windows boarded up with more planks than the Mary Rose. A sign faded into obscurity that used to dance with the wind but now hangs stiff as a stalactite on rusted chains. A heavy wooden door with a small hatch and no handle. The piercing howls of locked-up dogs. The rustling of leaves and empty cans knocking about in the gutter. People know better than to disturb the garbage that falls this way.
You’ve picked the best time to arrive; the mise-en-scène really comes into its element at nightfall, when men in black hats creep up and draw shadows on the floor, then scrub them out silently as they slip inside. Your turn. Knock once and wait. Tell them I sent you.
Just a second. Before you go in, a word of warning. The reason people don’t want to visit is… well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough. But be careful. And try to forget what you see inside.
Ushered through the imposing wooden door, in here it’s scarcely an improvement on the sombre exterior. A cold, claustrophobic corridor funnels you into a large room that’s illuminated like a cave in a power cut. It was once a playhouse; there’s a stage over there, and black and white portraits of stars from the Twenties disturb the repetitive pattern of the brick walls. Nobody plays the East End now. Silhouettes hunch over round tables, counting money and whispering in monotones under twelve-bar blues piped in through fuzzy speakers. There’s nothing flashy, no waiters in tuxedos, no skimpy skirts.
There are girls, but they’re locked away downstairs, in a dungeon with a tarnished metal pole that’s seen as much polish as the doorman’s boots. It extends from the floor like a branchless tree, straining to hold up the ceiling. The girls sit far away from the pole on dull red sofas; there’s no pretence they’re anything but whores. Men rarely come here for them though, and it shows; they’re are all stick thin, as thin as their slice come the end of the week.
Best not to poke around much more, get back upstairs. Keep your head down now and don’t bother a soul.
Over in the far corner where the lights are working, a man in an apron that’s not been washed in ten days wipes whisky glasses behind the bar. He lines two up, fills them half way, then slides them in front of an invisible customer. Tonight is business night.
Time to sit tight and watch the show. Here he comes.
Outside, a figure approaches from the other side of the street and raps on that heavy wooden door with a round-headed cane. In the other hand he holds a cigarette, which burns slowly to the stub as he awaits an answer. It’s raining. His fringe flops forward and sticks to his forehead. Finally the hatch slides open and an ugly face fills the square.
“Who is it?”
“Me. Open the door.”
“Who’s me?”
“Me who, that’s who. Open the door, it’s wet out.”
“No can do, mister. Need to know who I’m letting in and I can’t see jack. Awful dark out there.”
The visitor’s patience is a short wick on a bright day, and it’s just fizzled out in the rain. He looks from one hand to the other and picks the one with the fag. Paints a bright orange stripe in the black air as it zeroes in on the doorman’s left eye. There’s a yelp and the sound of a man falling down.
“Now open up.”
Scuffling behind the door and a jangle of keys. Door swings wide to reveal an imposing figure, long black overcoat, black moustache, black shoes, black eyes. The doorman cowers aside pathetically, clutching his face with both hands. His eyelid was quick enough to shut out the burning cigarette but there’ll be a scar. Better than last time, at least. That right eye doesn’t see much any more.
“Sorry sir, didn’t recognise you. It’s the dark you see. Can’t be letting just anyone, can we?”
“Is he in, Shrimp?”
“Yes, waiting for you, sir. How was the game, sir?”
The visitor’s glare substitutes an answer. He slips off his overcoat and throws it at the quivering doorman, who releases one hand from tending his injury to catch adeptly. It’s hung on a hook. When little Shrimp turns back around his bully is striding away, heels echoing loudly off the stone floor, quickly disappearing into the main chamber where you and the money counters are waiting for him.
Shrimp leans heavily on the wall and slides down to the ground. Releases a sigh of relief that sounds more like a whimper. Reaches instinctively for his hip flask but then changes his mind. Gonna be an eventful night, this. Best keep a clear head.
Muddy Waters is wailing Train Fare Home Blues when the visitor joins you in the inner sanctum. He’s not here for the music though. Up to the bar now, where he finds his seat and rests the cane delicately in front of the two glasses. Picks one, empties it. The other swiftly follows its mate. Before the second glass hits the stained wooden bar it’s replenished by the figure in the greasy apron. Knows better than to keep a man waiting.
At the other end of the bar sits an older man, sixty perhaps, it’s hard to tell from this distance. Still, it’s clear to any mug that those heavy-lidded eyes hold the wisdom of a hundred years. White hair, white beard, long moustaches hanging neatly. Grey suit. Been there since you arrived has this old man, since the beginning of time it seems. Just sitting. No drink, despite the offer. Sitting, waiting, watching the clock.
“You’re late.”
The visitor turns his head slowly. Sees the old man. Picks up his cane and a glass; ice cubes clink together. Shuffles on down to the end of the bar. It’s a small trip but a big tell. The old man holds court here.
“Yes, sorry, Sam. Trains. You know how it is.”
This visitor doesn’t apologise to any old fool. Then again, he knows the score.
“Yes, I know how it is.” Old Sam wrote the score. He talks slowly, unimpressed. “Brought the money?”
There’s a silence that tells the room no. Probably explains the visitor’s bad manners at the door. Knows he’s in trouble. Sam contemplates. Neither man speaks for an age. The whispers have died, too.
Finally: “So. What options have you left me? You’re not holding a pretty hand.”
The visitor thinks hard about how to play this one. Fingers his cane and takes just a sip of his amber liquor this time. Scratches his nose. Takes another sip.
“Look, Sam. I can get it. Just need a bit more time. Something came up, threw a spanner in the works. Crazy, actually. You heard about Marl, right?”
“No.”
“You know, Marl Johnson. League’s MVP last term, shot half the team’s score on his own, no matter who he faced. NBA scouts been watching him for months now, rumours are he’ll make it to the States next season. Anyway, turns up at the game ten minutes before tip-off looking greener than grass, says it must’ve been something he ate. He’s stuck on the bench, but by half time he’s been rushed to hospital on the double. Dunno how he’s doing now, but I mean… that’s why I lost it, Sam, you can’t…”
As he trails off your mind flicks back to something overheard coming out the underground, some kid’s headphones shouting reports of a baller called Johnson, laid up in hospital. That’s right, he’s in a coma now. Docs say he might not make it.
Sam, hasn’t said a word. A pretty story doesn’t pay the bills.
“Come on, Sam, we go way back.” The previously intimidating visitor is facing you now. There’s desperation in his eyes as well as his voice.
“We do. We do indeed. Shame.”
Both men know what that means. Visitor’s panicking now, rubbing his whole face with that sweaty hand like it’s on fire. Goes to say something but gets stuck in his throat. Unrecognisable from the bully at the front door.
Sam, on the other hand, is a picture of calm. Curles one moustache in his thumb and forefinger as he contemplates the cleanest method. Heck, he’s done with clean. This one can double up, it is about time. The little chap’s earned his spurs.
“Hank, call Shrimp down, will you?”
The bartender disappears. Comes back with the doorman, still nursing his eye with a dirty paw. The visitor’s been scanning the room but can’t spy an escape. Men between him and every exit. Knows they’re carrying.
“Sir?”
If Shrimp’s scared of the visitor, he’s petrified of Old Sam. Seen what he can do.
“Am I a fair man?” The question’s to no-one in particular. “Someone needs to keep law and order round these parts. If a man goes against his word they must be brought to justice. Am I right?” Again rhetorical, but he’s addressing Shrimp now. Points lazily at the visitor. “Tells me some tale about a baller with dodgy guts. Sounds to me like the lad’s been poisoned, but that’s not my concern. A deadline’s a deadline. This man has wronged you too in the past, has he not?” Sam squints at the newly messed-up eye. “More recently than I’d realised, perhaps. What say you to some retribution?”
This time Sam pauses for a reply. Shrimp bites his lip till it bleeds. Peers at the bully through the smoky half-light. Could be some kind of trick. It’s worth the risk. Can’t back out now.
“I say yes, sir. Man’s an arse, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
The visitor eyes Shrimp with disdain. Not like this. Please, not like this.
Sam reaches over and plucks the cane from the visitor’s feeble grip. Runs his slender fingers along its smooth shaft, examines the metal head, then the tip at the other end, which tapers to a fine point. Flings it at Shrimp, who catches it like he caught the coat.
“Hold him.”
Three suits rise from the table next to you to pin the visitor where he sits. Struggles for a second, kicking out his feet, making a racket like the tap dancers who used to frequent this joint. Gives up soon enough when the wind’s punched out of him. Makes the sound of a balloon deflating.
Shrimp looks to Sam for confirmation. A nod.
He raises the cane high in both hands. Has a maniacal look about him now, what with the blood pooled around his eye socket and a snarl that mirrors his enemy’s angry look back then at the entrance.
Then he pauses, just for a second, mind whirring quicker than the fan above his head. You glance over at Sam; he’s frowning at the hesitation.
No, Shrimp definitely can’t back out now, Old Sam would have him too. This is a test, an invitation. Four years he’s dutifully manned that door. Not let a soul in who’s not been invited, and not let many back out, either. Kept mum the whole time, too, and that’s not as easy as you’d think. Cops don’t dare show their faces here but questions fly about. One wrong word and you’d wake up dead.
He’s a good kid, Shrimp, but he knows his task. This is it, his time’s upon him. It’s cost him half his sight, but that’s a fair price, he reasons. Especially now he’s got this shot at revenge. And anyhow, the whole plot was set up for this moment. It’s all fallen neatly into place.
Shrimp smiles wider than a clown as he raises the cane a little higher.
Brings it down like a missile.
Straight through the visitor’s eye.
Won’t be seeing out either of his, now.
The cane’s gone right through the back of his head, pinning him to the bar like a ragdoll. You’d never have guessed that little Shrimp had such strength in those scrawny arms. When the muscle step aside the dead man hangs there, staring dully up through the ceiling at somewhere he’ll never get to now. Begins to slowly paint the bar red. Place needed a bit of brightening up.
You’re probably beginning to realise why nobody wants to visit.
A group’s gathered at the bar now, each of them looking at Shrimp in a new light. Sam grins wickedly and addresses his audience.
“Sometimes the shark gets a shrimp to do his dirty work, eh boys?”
Quiet laughter. Words are exchanged between Shrimp and a couple of the suits. Looks like the lad’s just earned his promotion.
The money counters make their way back to their seats. As the scene draws to a close, you notice Shrimp and the barkeep exchanging glances. A brown packet’s passed over the dead man to this side of the bar. Shrimp approaches and slinks into the chair opposite you. He’s even uglier up close. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s because he just killed a man in cold blood, but he’s a lot more intimidating than he was at the door. Passes you the packet. Feels like a wad of notes.
“You know where to take this?”
Tell him you do.
He plucks another, smaller package from his pocket. “And this is for your time. Tell your mate his potion did the trick good and proper.”
His blind eye winks at you. Doesn’t need you to tell to keep schtum about what you’ve seen. Rises and walks you silently to the front door. Slams it shut behind you.
Now, be a doll and drop off that nice thick packet, would you? Expensive stuff, rat poison.
*
Silhouettes And Twelve Bar by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
The Modern Way
September 30, 2012
by Jude Ellery
Good morning, world.
Good morning, four grey walls. You used to be white but you haven’t been scrubbed in ever so long now. The same goes for you, carpet, though you’ve gone brown in your old age.
Beep. Ah, good morning, computer. Flick, prod, good morning, television, good morning, radio.
Shoo, bright, horrible sun! Quick, let’s roll over and close those curtains. Aahhh that’s better.
It started with the neighbours and their clean shaven, smiling faces. Not for me thanks, no siree. Jeez, their incessant greetings of cheeriness every morning, noon and night, enough to drive a man mad! Life’s tough when you’re surrounded by such idiots, loitering at the end of your garden path, or in the call centre, or at the supermarket. In fact, I began to realise they were everywhere, there was no escape.
I needed to make a stand. I alone could solve this. I, the modern David with his virtual slingshot, David 2.0, slayed six point nine billion boring birds, a giant Goliath of ugly humanity, with one stone.
I stopped going out.
Aahhh, what peace and quiet! Finally I can concentrate.
It’s not nearly as hard as you’d think, being such a brave pioneer like this, a modern day messiah. For a start, there are all sorts of ways of making ends meet on the Internet, you know? This SEO business isn’t half as complicated as they make out, and Google and Facebook and Youtube and the rest are all cash cows just waiting to be milked with the right bit of juicy HTML.
Click, click. Hello, accounts. Hello, money.
My monitor’s like a self-propelling slow motion fruit machine these days, I think I’ve cracked perpetual motion. Sometimes I take a day off earning it to concentrate on my real work, my doctrine. Other days I just sit and watch the numbers go round.
This poker’s a cinch with the right software too, it’s 90% automated really and the rest is easy percentages. Let’s see, I think we’ll play… tight aggressive today. Let’s shrink that down for now though, leave it running in the background. What’s the clock say, almost midday? I say, it’s high time for breakfast.
Like earning a crust, food’s not a problem either in my four-walled fortress. Click, click, the pizza will be arriving in 30 minutes. I leave the porch open and a note for them to leave it there, then listen till I’m sure they’ve gone before I reach around the door to collect my nutritious meal. Hawaiian today. Of course I’ve got a rota to make sure I don’t have the same flavour two days running. Imagine the shame! A pioneer like me must adhere to certain standards.
Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep! Ah, hello, alarm. What are you for today? The Arsenal match? Oh good, starting in 15, that’ll give me time to order new bedclothes from Amazon. These ones I’m snuggled under have got all stained and smelly since they popped through the letterbox last June.
What’s that noise? Ahhh… Ooohhh… Yeah baby…. Harder… Oops, looks like I left the DVD running last night. Let’s mute that till half time, I’ll watch it then, can’t stand that bloke in the studio in the tight grey trousers. His mates aren’t much better either. None of them deserve my ear, they’re not worthy.
Right, now just a matter of logging in, here and here and here and here, to dissect events as they unfurl and unleash my wisdom in real time. Oh it’s the age of the instant alright! Hello, Twitter, hello, Skype. I shrink their webcam faces down though, can’t stand all their beady eyes. It’s their minds I’m after.
Another forty followers overnight I see. Gathering a little underground army here, disciples if you will. These are the smart ones, they’ve seen the way, they listen. We’re growing, us Morlocks, gathering profiles, usernames, avatars, quicker by the day. It’s not about the money you see, it’s about the message, the lifestyle. This is the Modern Way.
There’s a brief delay while the video buffers. Ah, here they come. Hello, team. Peep! Off they go.
COYG, 4-0 today.
WTF Walcott, I could have scored that.
Yes, Sanjeev84, he is just pace.
Sanjeev’s over in India, he’s a sharp one, I see potential in him. He’s gradually cutting down on the outside too, he’s almost there now, just braving the sun for fresh milk these days.
Ooooh close, good shot, good save.
I used to play a bit myself in my previous life, when I still went out, I was good. Just couldn’t stand the rest of them, or that blasted sun. My poor sensitive skin couldn’t either.
My hair’s nearly down to my nipples now. That’s a good way of measuring since I gave up with haircuts and T-shirts.
Another four followers. Welcome, brothers.
What a goal! 1-0 COYG. Arsenal till I die.
NetDoctor reckons I’ve got another four years at least. That’s plenty of time to spread the word, the Modern Way, even with this wicked diabetes aiming to shoot me down.
I say, that pizza disappeared awful quick, didn’t it? Let’s order another.
Click.
Click.
Tap.
Tap.
Beep.
Beep.
……
…………………
What the…?
Oh bugger. A power cut.
*
The Modern Way by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
Illustration by Tony Likes To Draw
Ping Pong Eggs
September 21, 2012
by Jude Ellery
“Have you checked your eggs?” asked the checkout girl.
Miss Jones hadn’t. When the cardboard lid was lifted it revealed not free range eggs, but six perfectly round white ping pong balls. How peculiar.
“Oh,” said the checkout girl.
“Oh,” said Miss Jones.
She didn’t have time to change them though as she was already running late for her date. She stuffed the ping pong eggs in with the rest of her shopping and skipped out of the shop, heading towards the park in a hurry.
By the time she got there the midday sun had ducked behind a cloud’s long grey beard and a light breeze flitted by, ruffling her dress, but Miss Jones was teeming with excitement and didn’t mind a bit. The winding path led her towards a lonely weeping willow that was mopping its tears with a child’s umbrella. As she neared it, the cloud lifted its beard so the sun could show its beaming face again, and a young couple chose to sit beneath the tree for its shade. The willow’s tears swiftly dried up into sniffles and it even broke out into a rare smile.
Miss Jones shook her head gaily and smiled too, waving to the couple who had set down a splendid picnic basket, stained dark brown wicker with a delightful red bow. The young lady waved back then stretched out a lazy arm to open the basket. When the lid sprung open a small tabby cat spilled out like a malfunctioning jack-in-a-box, an ice pack strapped to its hat and a half drunk glass of champagne bubbling in its right paw. The cat rather giddily strode off in the direction of the veterinary surgery, which backed onto the park.
The couple abandoned lunch and instead begun playing leapfrog.
Miss Jones had no time to reflect, however, as her knight in shining armour promptly arrived. He rode a white unicorn and when he pulled back his visor he revealed a perfect red rose held between sparking silver teeth.
“Miss Jones, a pleasure,” her date announced in mid air, as he somersaulted down to greet her. His voice was deep and manly and its vibrations attracted two tree frogs who leapt onto his shoulders, sitting there like post-modern parrots. He didn’t seem to notice them, and thus continued his speech: “I’ve had such an eventful morning, it’s a miracle I’ve made it here at all. First, my important business meeting with the Chinese was all but ruined; I’m a firm believer in ping pong diplomacy but my work experience boy brought me eggs instead of balls. Then, would you believe it, when I got home to change I realised my darling pussy hadn’t returned after his graduation party last night. I’ve been slapping up ‘missing’ posters all over town.”
“Oh I say,” said Miss Jones, and she fluttered her eyelashes so quickly they flew into the air, where they hovered like humming birds. “How strange,” she mused. “Please excuse me, I simply must make a phone call before we begin.”
Her date said, “Not at all,” as all polite knights do, then busied himself removing his breastplate, which was bound together with strawberry laces.
“Hello, is that the clinic?” Miss Jones enquired down her phone’s speaker, which was set into the palm of her hand. “Oh good. I’d like to make an appointment. Yes, it’s getting worse. Yes I’ll hold…” She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes as if trying to remember something. “Hello? Yes of course, Ellery, first initial ‘J’ I believe. Relation to me? Narrator. Nar-rat-or. Yes, that’s right, the author, the funny fellow trying his best to ruin my story. As soon as possible please, he’s gone absolutely bonkers this time.”
*
Ping Pong Eggs by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Mr Dorsitt’s Great Vacation Exhibition
August 2, 2012
by Jude Ellery
The problem with Mr Dorsitt was that his eyes were bigger than his belly. Unlike his intellect, his greed knew no bounds; he wanted it all and had irons in every fire, right through the Jurassic age all the way to the year 80,000. This time he had well and truly bitten off more than he could chew though, and unfortunately for the time traveller, however you muddle up your metaphors that inevitably results in one’s fingers getting burned — or worse.
Science fiction, the reading of which Mr Dorsitt firmly believed had made him a self-educated man, is overpopulated with eccentric scientists and their implausible inventions. Dorsitt had every faith that his destiny was to join that pantheon, so when he stumbled upon an actual time machine, having taken a succession of wrong turns that led him ever deeper into the cellars of the British Museum (where he typically took his luncheon), he naturally believed that the discovery was a result of his own genius, rather than a stroke of pure luck.
So, although it was luck and not inspiration that gave Dorsitt his big break, he rationalised that Good Fortune was the silent partner without whom Dedication and Hard Work would never find their names on a patent application. Thus, citing the ancient law of finders, keepers, he happily credited himself for having “discovered” time travel. If the actual inventor was just going to leave such a valuable thing lying under a dusty tarpaulin deep in some underground recess where anyone could stumble across it, he didn’t deserve the credit anyway. H.G. Wells and Marty McFly, eat your heart out! That was Dorsitt’s favourite catchphrase, in fact, which he boasted loudly to every bewildered soul he had the pleasure of dealing with as he sped through the ages, picking up trinkets along the way.
Ah yes, the trinkets. You see, having concluded that the flabby physique and fallen arches which had disqualified him from most physical endeavours must also be interfering with his intellectual pursuits, Dorsitt decided his calling must be more entrepreneurial by nature. He wasn’t going to use his time travel gizmo for scientific discovery, oh no! Profit was Dorsitt’s mantra. Profit, profit, profit, and he stuck by this come rain or recession.
Dorsitt zipped through the fourth dimension, collecting relics of the past and future. His business plan was simple: people from the past wanted gumpf from the future; people from the future wanted tat from the past. The problem here though was that Dorsitt’s greed far outweighed his business acumen, and mathematics had never been his strong suit at Knowhope Secondary Modern. While he usually picked the right stuff to sell, the time machine wasn’t cheap to run and he invariably spent far more in travel expenses than he made in sales. Soon, he was all but penniless.
Imagine the look on greedy Mr D’s face then, when he received a colossal order from the President of the United States of the United Kingdom and America (USUKA) in the year 2212. Following the coalition of these two great Western powers, water transport had become all the rage. While it was obviously quicker to fly — or even teleport if one could afford it — across the Pond, people were increasingly seeking quaint, Olde Worlde methods of making the voyage between the US and the UK a little more interesting. Yes, as ever, retro was cool.
To mark the bicentenary of the epic Olympic Games of 2012, Dorsitt was commissioned by the President of USUKA to collect relics from the seaside resort which had held the sailing events. Boats were out of the question; the time machine simply wasn’t big enough to haul them through the ages. Trinkets though, Dorsitt’s speciality, were two-a-penny in every tourist town. He knew just the stuff. He was promised hugely inflated prices if he could deliver on time, and upon a chubby, sweaty palm the deal was struck.
Dorsitt set about researching Weymouth & Portland, the small picturesque resort that was the backdrop to Team USA and Team GB’s record hauls of sailing gold medals. It had been such a long time since he’d dropped by the twenty-first century that he needed a refresher course. What did people do in the midst of a recession, when they could barely get to the end of the street without getting tangled up in roadworks? What Dorsitt needed, to please the President and collect his fat cheque, was to capture the mood of Weymouth in 2012.
Taking up residence in an empty shopping space on the first floor of the Colwell Shopping Centre, Dorsitt set about creating his masterpiece: The Great Vacation Exhibition. His theme was, like his business plan, simple. Weymouth was a busy tourist town, full of life, with a population that would swell like the underbelly of a toad in the summer, then hibernate like one in the winter. And what did a tourist town sell at the height of tourist season? Tourist tat.
Dorsitt sat in his workshop in a jolly mood, hunched over a notepad where he planned his raid of the Weymouth shops, aiming to empty their contents and what remained of his bank account. It was then that he suffered a major setback. A letter arrived from his garage: all was not well with the time machine. In fact, it had conked out completely and failed its MOT. Just what he needed, another expense when he trying to fulfil the order of the century!
Now Dorsitt truly was penniless. What’s more, even if he did have the money there was no profit in this tourist tat anyway. The town was heaving, the Olympics brought visitors from far and wide and sneaky shopkeepers had hiked their prices to scandalous levels. Where was Dorsitt’s profit going to come from now?
This major hitch, coupled with the repairs on his time machine, left Dorsitt feeling a lot less jolly. And then it struck him. Why spend out on the genuine articles at all? How would those daft futureheads tell the difference between a real twenty-first century relic and a cheap replica? Oh, this was his best, most cunning scheme since the time machine itself!
Only it turned out not to be such a smart plan after all.
Putting his arts & crafts skills to use, Dorsitt gathered together the cheapest materials to hand — ‘free’ materials, in fact. He pilfered cement from a building site, stole a bucket of plaster from a skip and found some old rope at the harbour. He was pretty sure the rope hadn’t been needed, anyway; the boat it had been attached to sailed away without it shortly after he untied it. He then set about mass-producing the trinkets, and when they were done, applied the finishing touches with watered down paint samples.
The thing is, Dorsitt was about as talented at using his hands as he was at mental arithmetic and economics. The trinkets, while looking like decent copies of the real thing, unfortunately looked like decent copies of the real thing. The President of USUKA was, as one might imagine, no mug. When Dorsitt’s time machine was finally fixed he zipped over to 2212 on the double and eagerly unpacked his first batch in front of the President, his face a picture of naivety and palms literally dripping with excitement. He was met with quite a shock.
Not only had the paint run, churning literally minutes of careful brushwork into a garish mess, but also all of the trinkets were broken. Sailor figurines were missing their heads; ships had no masts; seagulls had no wings. Mr D’s cheap imitations were exposed for what they really were, and he for what he really was: a charlatan after a quick buck.
And thus the story ends; that was the last that was ever heard of our hapless hero. While great advances had been made in computer technology, communications and space travel in two hundred years, the human race was still a somewhat primitive, bloodthirsty bunch when it came to punishment. Rumour has it that the electric chair was experiencing something of a renaissance.
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Dorsitt’s legacy lives on, his prototypes scattered around the town. Visit Vacation Project online or one of the following five locations in Weymouth, Dorset, 6 – 17 August, to follow the walking tour and enjoy “Mr Dorsitt’s” work:
