Mar 26th

VAMPYRES Back to Basics. (A counterfactual)

By mike

 Any Romantics?  Academics?  I rather mucked up my education which has left me with a feeling of inadequacy. I am interested in the Romantic Movement’s slant on vampyres.  Does anybody agree with my view?  (This is a follow up to a ‘post’ in which i suggested Count Dracula might be turning in his grave over some modern interpretations though, he himself, has become rather a figure of fun.)

I am not a great reader or horror stories and the last one I read was ‘Zastrozzi’ - the first ‘gothic’ novel of Shelley and I read this just before Christmas; There is still debate on Shelley’s contribution to ‘Frankenstein’ and the intellectual climate should be the same in a vampyre story as in ‘Frankenstein.’

Some weeks ago, a film by Chrisopher Nulan was shown on BBC TV.  The film concerned the last years of Schubert and references were made to the painter Caspar David Friedrich.

One of Friedrich’s paintings is of a man dressed in black.  He stands in isolation on a mountain top and towers over the surrounding landscape,  He is painted from the the rear  and we share his view of the panorama of mountains. His stance is that of an eagle. The painting is called ‘Wanderer above the sea of fog’. I have albums of  Schubert’s  and Beethoven’s music which use this painting on the  cover. The painting  has become - or always was - an image, or icon, of the Romantic Movement.

Can this image also used as an iicon for the vampyre?  Perhaps it is?  The vampyre would have to embody the intellectual as well as the artistic concerns of the time.  The period under consideration is the 1820’s when a vampire plague swept across Europe.  (My point of reference is ‘Frankenstein’)

This blog is a counterfactual.

 What information about vampyres was available to the Romantics?  At the time, no ‘Google’ and no ‘Wiiki.’ existed.  The,’Encyclaepedia  Britannica’ only mentions a corpse that does not decompose.  Wooden stakes and fire are mentioned as the solution to the problem. of a  this ‘corpse'.  A second mention is made of the vampyre  in folk tales.  Did Polidori have much else  upon which he based his story ? (This encyclopedia dates from  1768)

 Imagine a body that is buried alive - believed to be dead.  Blood drains from the body..  The corpse’s  sweetheart opens the coffin for one last look at her love.  She obtains one last kiss.  The ‘dormant’ corpse responds and instead of a kiss, sinks his teeth into her neck. His body needs blood.  He recovers, but to his horror his sweetheart is dead and her body is drained of blood.  

The bat image is appropriate in that the vampyre becomes an animal when he kills - though the vampyre  bat is a parasite and does not kill his victims, merely sucks blood from a sleeping animal.  Blood is the elixir of life.  There is a strange parallel with’ Frankenstiein in that the’ hero/anti-hero of this novel is constructed out of corpses . He is not animated by blood, but a spark of electricity.  (I am nor sure of the Romantic’s interest in Egyptology and mummies.)  Neither Frankentein’s creation or the vamypre are monsters.

The vampyre lives in hell.  It is a paradox that, in order to live he must kill.  He is a loner and an outsider - a wanderer on earth. There cannot be another vampyre.   He cannot love for he will kill,  He is in torment.  He wants to die bur  cannot.  He can only repeat the fatal kiss -  in an animal’s desire to live.

Today we might consider the vampire as  an endangered species - though the vampyre is also a serial killer.  He arrives in England as an asylum seeker - found in a container ship containing a  cargo of coffins.  All he says is “ I want to see the doctor.  Take me to the doctor.  I want to die’  (Euthanasia is also under consideration.)

But what of the ‘fin de siecle’ vampyre? Is this the ‘Count Dracula’ of Stoker?  Surely not? This  vampyre should have been painted by  Beardsley and described by Oscar Wilde  The  cloak that suggests a bat could also the suggest angel wings.  Imagine the consulting room of Freud.  A young girl speaks  of horrific visions of and Freud tries to find the origin  of these nightmares.  There is a problem here in that the vampire is a literary phenomenon like Sherlock Holmes - or as a romantic figure - Hamlet.  The vampyre might well have entered the collective unconsciousness but surely not in a Jungian sense?

Surely Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber could sink his teeth into this version of the Vamptye?   An 1820’s opera does exist and I recall TV attempted an updated version. But i was thinking of a TV version which could use  the various TV genres, ie  art documentary, Breakfast TV, religious show, interviews etc to tell the story. I have been watching  lot of TV recently but not much drama. ( One would have to go back to someone like Dennis Potter for a style)

There is an advantage in including a ‘living’ ‘vampyre; on stage in that the play could become a freak show with members of the public tying to kill the vampyre off.  He does, after all, want to die.  The effect should be similar to the feelings aroused by ‘ King Kong, as he is killed on the ‘Empire State Building’  But this would be remarkably ‘bad taste’ 

In a ‘Dr Who’ version, his assistant enters a bookshop on a London high-street where there are wall to wall vampire novels of the ;Love Bites’ variety.   a book signing session is in progress and a vampyre is signing them.  He sighs, ”A dedication?  Perhaps, someone you love?”  She laughs and replies, To the Dr.’   “Dr Who?” he replies.  ‘Just the Dr’ she says. 

Only Dr Who  can go Hell and kill the ‘icon’ - or Freud eliminate it -  perhaps Munch’s, ‘The scream’ which gets absorbed into the swirling fires of purgatory.  Perhaps the time traveller of H/G Wells could be used instead?

(There could be another figure in the corner of the bookshop, signing copies of ‘The Impalers,  He is Jjohn Hesing’ -the grandson of the vampire killer in  ‘Count Dracula’.   He is the real vampyre - or is he?  (The killer turned disciple - following a religious parallel.)


9 Comments
Mar 25th

The Romantic Novelists' Association's Romantic Novelist of the Year Award!

By Him

The Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Romantic Novelist of the Year Award

 

In a tea-rooms, sat at a flowery table-clothed table, and surrounded by paperback books are Jackie- fat, dark hair which is ridiculously volumised- and Jilly- identical, but blonde. Far too much badly applied make-up.

They address cam.

 

Jackie:         As I think has been discussed beforehandidly, I, I am the Chair Damseless of the my your we the Romantic Novelists’ Association. And so I brandish the gavel that, at the last, will decide to whom this year’s The Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Romantic Novelist of the Year Award will be awarded to. Yes. It’s a verily lusted after post that I hold, don’t you know. Anyone, as Jilly always says, anyone who’s worth salt has held...

 

Jilly:            Worth their weight in salt, Jackie.

 

Jackie:         ...A-right, well, anyway, it’s a very hard post that everyone would like to lay their hands upon: really hard. It’s verily much a hands-on job.

 

Jilly:            To actually be Chairdamseless of the Romantic Novelists-apostrophe s Assoc full stop, comma, is a dreeeam of any nice, normal, beautiful young woman: I, for instance, would love to have in my hands the post that Jackie fulfils so rigorously, and the great load she takes on her shoulders.

 

Jackie:         Yes, no, you’ve never been Chair Damseless ever? Have you Jilly, have you?  

 

Jackie smugly bats her long, light blue eye-lashes; then, she uses her fingers to form brackets on either side of mouth, and she says:

 

Jackie:         Have you?

 

                             One pair of Jackie’s eyelashes falls off. She doesn’t notice.

 

Jackie:         You’ve never known the responsibility which comes with this high office, semi-colon, you’ll never have to preside over a selection, a family selection, Jilly, of some of the finest, the finest of our age, I mean time, not age.

 

Jilly:            And you mean minds as well, Chaise Damseless, too; maybe that’s why you preside over them instead of being one of them?

 

                             Jackie looks around distractedly.

 

Jackie:         ...Yeah...

 

Jilly:            Shouldnst they be ‘ere by now?

 

Jackie:         Ah, Jilly, but! “Time and tide wait for no time”. Ah... Who was it who said that?  Was it Shakes...

 

Jilly:            You did, Jack...

 

Jackie:         peare?

 

Jilly:            ie-yes! Ah, Shakespeare.

 

Jackie:         He was good isn’t he? What’s your favourite of his?

 

Jilly:            Oho! Just quite plainly and simply his best! My favourite of Shakespeare’s is, the one that, Emiline Bronte-Sister liked sooo much, and which influenced one of her novels, oh which one was that, Jackie?

 

Jackie:         Which one?

 

Jilly:            No, not that one. The title’s longer I think, it was...

 

                                      Both are blank, and dead-eyed.

 

Jackie:         ... Shall I tell you which is my favourite, Jilly? ...

 

                                      Jilly answers not, so both remain silent...

                                      Until the tinkle of the doorbell announces:

 

Penelope:    Hell-air! Hell-air!

 

She looks like Miss Marple.But in pink.

Jilly stands to greet Penelope. They curtsey at each other, deeply, and arthritically: then they swap their handbags.

Then Penelope kowtows- arthritically and with much modest adjustment of clothing- before Jackie. Jackie lets her outstretched hand be kissed.

Then they sit.

 

Penelope:    Golly! Simply hideola outside! Like something from The Tempest!

 

                                      Neither of them register this, just nod politely.

 

Penelope:    Almost began raining. Fumph! Well, who are we expecting?

 

Jackie:         Only the Board people.

 

Jilly:            (To cam.) Oh, begging your manners, this is Pen-Penny-Penelope... Yes, Penelope. She’s the Treasurer. The only Treasurer of the Romantic Novelists, and she oversees the fin-ahnces of many of our Novelists, all of whom have at least three names.

 

Jackie points ostentatiously; she regards her ostentatious point, considers it, and says:

 

Jackie:         Yes, that’s a good point.

 

Jilly:            What can we say about our fellow Romantic Novelists, Jackie?

 

Jackie:         What can’t we say?

 

Jilly:            Yes, that would be more interesting, certainly.

 

Jackie:         Intelligent.

 

Jilly:            Full-hipped.

 

Jackie:         Large-hearted.

 

Jilly:            Stomachs to match.

 

Jackie:         Great hair.

 

Penelope:    D’you reckon anyone else is going to come?

 

Jilly:            Oh, thou! Honestly! Thou jokest, donst thou? Donst thou? Of-course they will come. This is the most important award ever! They will all flock here. You two have certainly flocked- I can tell just by looking atst thou.

 

                                      Jackie          to cam:

 

Jackie:         Better get down to it, anyway. Listen up, chumps! This is the skinny: at about twilight o’ clock the deal goes down, and one of our sorority, no, lady-ority, will be awarded, nay, crowned, as the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Romantic Novelist of the Year Award, Associa...

 

Jilly:            ...Yes. The winner will be announced at our Second Annual Big Ball, so that’ll be two Balls we’ll have under our belts and, actually, this Ball is noticeably more swelled than the other, Ball, so tonight’s Ball will be, er, remarkably larger than our other, Ball.

 

Penelope:    When was the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Romantic Novelist of the Year Award, first, er, awarded, your Majesty?

 

Jackie:         Oh, forever! Wherever there have been hearts and minds and thighs, there have been Romantic Novelists, and they have been giving awards since ever since.

 

Jilly:            Some of the winners of our statuette-ette have been, oh, I don’t know: Shakespeare... Emily Bronte-Sister... her sister Bronte-Sister, Anne... Frank. Jane Austen, Charlotte Web, Georgina Eliot.

 

Penelope:    Now, did you know Georgina Eliot ended up by being a woman, but by the time her books were published he was still a woman, but Georgina was a male novelist, so he’s very important, yes...

 

                                       Jackie and Jilly nod sagely.

 

Jackie:         There was that unfortunate incident at one awards show, years ago now Jilly, when the Bronte-Sister sisters kicked the shit out’ve Jane Austen ‘cause Jane Austen was a Protestant, and the Bronte-Sister sisters were bitches.

 

Jilly exhibits the statuette-ette. Carved from one enourmous pink sequin.

                                               

                           

Jackie, Jilly and Penelope are still at table: many paperbacks are scattered about; Jilly and Penelope make suggestions from a list and Jackie writes.

 

Pen:    Tea and Cucumber Sandwiches?

 

Jack:   Agreed.

 

Jill:      Tea and Toast for Two?

 

Jack:   Yep.

 

Pen:    Erm, Soft Boiled Eggs?

 

Jack:   No, Penelope.

 

Jill:      Cakes, Cream and Lots of Sugar?

 

Jack:   Fine. Now... We should really think about what we’re going to order.

 

Jill:      Ah! Here comes the waitress, now.

 

                                    Jackie tuts at Jilly.

 

Jilly:    Oh, er... Parlour Maid.

 

Parlour Maid is beautiful. She modestly adjusts her very short skirt, pulling it down to just beneath the bottom of her classic maid’s uniform.

P.M.:  Are you ready to order? Modums?

 

Jill:      No, as a matter of fact, we are not. We haven’t finished making our shortlist for the Over 50’s finalists, yet. We’re having nominations in the final draw made up from the Category winners, so as to make our finalists as representable as possible...

 

                                    Parlour Maid just looks at her.

 

Jilly:    So please, return in about, erm, anon- in about an anon.

 

                                    Parlour Maid leaves beautifully.

 

Jack:   Returning to the job-at-hand, ladies.

 

Pen:    Okay, alrighteth, well, what about... “Seconds”?

 

Jack:   Naturally.

 

Pen:    “An Older Gentleman”?

 

Jack&Jill:       No.

 

Jill:      “Return To Tea and Toast For One: The Marmalading”?

 

Jack:   Marvellous. And that’s our Over Fifties.

 

Pen:    How many more have we now?

 

Jack:   Categories?

 

Pen:    Yes.

 

Jack:   Then say it, Penelope?

 

Pen:    How many categories more do now we have?

 

Jack:   That’s better. It feels better, doesn’t it. How many left? Oh, a few of them. Some, some. A few.

 

                                    Parlour Maid slinks back to their table.

 

Jill:      Oh, en chanted to meet thee. I’ll have: tea, toast, for two, marmalade, some milk, some sugar, a knife. Two boiled eggs, some water, three and a half minutes, some pepper, a spoon...

 

P.M.:  If you’ll order from the menu. Modums.

 

Jack:   Young madam? What, perchance, types of tea do you have, let’s pray?

 

P.M.:  ...Hot, full bodied, robust, traditional tea. It says so on the menu, modums.

 

Jack:   Yes. But what type of tea?

 

PM:    Traditional tea.

 

Jack:   But, what, type, of... TEA?

 

P.M.   Just ‘cause you say it louder and slower, doesn’t mean I’ll understand, YOU. What do you think I am? The French?

 

Jack:   Well, what tradition is it from then? Does that make it any easier to understand?

 

P.M.   It’s just traditional.

 

Jack:   In Germany it’s traditional to invade the globe. So that’s ‘traditional’! You want me to drink ‘war tea’? ...What region does the tea hail in?

 

P.M.   I don’t get it.

 

Jack:   Is it Assam? Is it Yorkshire? Is it... Assam?

 

                                    Parlour Maid giggles at mention of Assam.

 

Jack:   Smut. Act your age, you bawdy strumpet! Honestly! How old are you?

 

P.M.:  Eighteen.

 

                                    Jackie, Jilly and Penelope all growl.

 

P.M.:  Order! Order!

 

Pen:    Right. Hah, write! Haha... A smoked salmon.

 

Jack:   An egg maisonette.

 

Pen:    The cucumber and cream sandwiches.

 

Jack:   All the Fruits of the Forest.

 

Jill:      I always like the sight of Ladies Fingers covered in a thick, Spotted, Dick, with a creamy Fruit Cumpote.

 

Jack:   Times four, Parlour Maid. Thank-you.

 

                                    Parlour Maid leaves.

 

Jack:   Now, ladies. Down to the really important business: Pudding.

 

                                    Jilly and Penelope both nod and look serious.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The table groans under seven-tiered cake-stands, huge pots of tea,books, pastries, biscuits, plates of sandwiches, scones...

The three look a little worse for wear.

 

Pen:    Me oh may, aym feelin’ a mite woozy!

 

Jill:      It’s just the caffeine of the tea colliding with the sugar high you’re currently experiencing. Pull through, pull through. Don’t worry, soon it’ll give you wiiings!

 

                                    Jilly flaps her arms and chuckles.

 

Jack:   Bingo-wings.

 

Penelope’s hair has gone flat and her make-up is wrecked. Jilly pats her reassuringly while applying to Pen’s face a blusher of jam using a scone of application.

 

Jack:   Come on, Penelope. Chins up.

 

Pen:    (Recovering) Are we, are we rewarding linguistic elasticity this year?

 

Jill:      What do you mean?

 

Pen:    Er, original use of language?

 

Jill:      What?

 

Pen:    Erm sort of clever oneupmanswordsmith?

 

Jill:      Wha’?

 

Jack:   She means new words for ‘cock’. You know: ‘Manhood’, ‘Hardness’, ‘Abortionist’.

 

Jill:      Ah, yes. That is important and necessary work.

 

Pen:    I was thinking more along the lines of original description, evocative metaphors, erm, dictionary stuff.

 

Jill:      Oh, you mean the sort of stuff that is about people having life-threatening illnesses. Where people live in slums, or walk around eating burgers on the King’s Highway, don’t you?! Those books that question the use of life, and that use long, precise words that you have to look up in the word dictionary. No! I won’t have it!

                                               

Jilly is brandishing a huge éclair.

 

Jill:      Books should be about love, and the Long Grasses; breathless horse chases across bumpy-bumpy meadows and affiliated tranquil bucolics, where people cry: “You ride with such panache, Madamoiselle!” And I cry back at them as I thunder past, “Something very witty indeed!”

 

Jack:   Amen!

 

Jill:      Books should be about heroes; deep-chested, broad-shouldered manly men with enough stubble with which to light a match made in heaven.

 

Jack:   Ah! Men!

 

Jill:      Books should be about me getting a husband. A young one. One with a massive, massive fortune.

 

Jack:   Don’t worry, Jilly. It’ll happen one day soon. When you least expect it! One day soon he will walk into your life! He’ll move next door to you! And you slowly fall in love with him. But you’ll fight your heart, because you’ve been hurt by love before; and learning to trust again, and learning to shave again, are hard things to do. He’ll be charming, and macho...

 

Jill:      Yes! Yes, he’ll be plighting his troth back and forth across my face, but I will stay tight-lipped. Then one night he’ll woo me, with rubies and champagne, and he’ll woo me so long and hard and thick that he makes me have an epiphany. And after that I can love again!

 

Jackie and Jilly embrace tearfully. While still cramming cakes into their mouths.

 

Pen:    ...But there’s an evil ex-wife, a-lurkin’ in the background!

 

Jack&Jill:       No!?

 

Pen:    And she’s seductive, and sassy, and blonde, and twenty-three, and she wins back her man. Her name’s ...Trixy, no: Harlotta Von Bikini.

 

Jilly cries and cries, putting lump after lump of sugar in her tea-cup, then filling it with cream and adding a drop of tea.

 

Jack:   But don’t worry, there’s a sequel! And it explains how you managed to build up a business empire while suffering from your heart-break. And as a Single Lady living through that emotional yoyocoaster, you built up, scratch by scratch, a successful company selling: Kaleidoscopes. For the blind. And after a while that bastard you slept with and Harlotta will move away, and their vacant house will be bought by... Terrence! No- not Terrence, beause of Terry, or shudder: Tez... Rupert? Too tarty. Will?... Yeah. Will will do. Will will woo you too, and he’ll be the one for you. He will love you true, your mum will love him, too. And he’s even more handsome than that other bastard, the first neighbour you slept with. But, Jilly, don’t mess this one up, too, this one has to last. Otherwise you’ll just be that woman who sleeps with her neighbours.

 

Pen:    And when he dies, Will will willingly will his fortune to you. And it will all be yours.

 

Jack:   For surgery.

 

Jill:      (Nodding) For surgery.

 

Jilly takes Jackie’s hand, Penelope adds her hand.

 

Pen:    For surgery.

 

Parlour Maid returns with a tray full of biscuits, cakes and puddings. Puts it on table.

The three eye it, twiddling their fingers, holding their breath. The Maid leaves and they swoop voraciously.

Close-up on the terrified face of a gingerbread man.

2 Comments
Mar 23rd

The Painting: Repost.

By zomb00

The  Painting, by Andrew Williams

July  17th,  1910,  England.

In  the  years  it  has  spent  here,  an  accumulation  of  more  than  just  household  dust  has  found  its  way  within  the  Eternal  Night’s  burnt-black  frame.  

James  Kutuzov  was  standing  in  the  entrance  hall  of  Waterston  Manor,  staring  up  into  the  high  wooden  ceiling.  It  was  night  outside,  and  the  full-moon  was  shining  brightly  through  the  huge  tinted  windows  which  illuminated  the  uppermost  reaches  of  the  Waterston  household,  giving  the  whole  entrance  hall  a  faint  bluish-grey  colour.  A  door  creaked  open  about  twenty  feet  ahead  of  him,  causing  his  gaze  to  fall  immediately  over  it.  Flashlight  held  high,  he  approached  the  doorway  keen-eyed  and  alert.  The  warped  wooden  door  had  been  carved  out  from  a  lump  of  ancient  driftwood,  James  wondered  how  it  managed  to  still  hold  its  form.  Some  unreadable  text  had  been  scrawled  all  over  it,  the  same  series  of  characters  repeated  hundreds  of  times.  James  recognised  it  to  be  early  Norwegian  -  for  he  had  studied  ancient  Norse  poetry  in  university  many  years  beforehand  -  but  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  translate  it.  The  door  was  only  slightly  ajar,  yet  the  vacuous  blackness  of  the  room  behind  it  sliced  through  the  meagre  opening  and  seemed  to  pull  him  towards  it,  challenging  him  to  enter.  A  sudden  noise  behind  him  caused  him  to  glance  backwards  towards  the  entrance  door,  it  had  slammed  shut.  ‘It  has  me  now,  I’m  at  its  mercy.’  He  thought,  whilst  shuddering  in  fear.

Putting  all  his  weight  on  his  left  foot,  James  kicked  the  door  open  with  his  right,  shining  the  flashlight  inside  as  he  did  so.  Dust  from  the  top  of  the  door’s  frame  drifted  down  and  disturbed  his  vision  for  a  second.  Once  the  dust  had  cleared,  James'  eyes  darted  around  the  room,  following  the  flashlight’s  beam  over  rugged  and  broken  terrain.  Mound  upon  mound  of  old  newspapers  littered  the  floor.  There  was  nothing  else  in  the  room,  or  at  least  that  was  how  it  appeared  from  his  current  perspective.  Unsure  of  whether  to  step  inside  or  not,  he  cautiously  leaned  through  the  doorway  and  looked  left,  shining  the  flashlight  along  the  floor  and  wall  as  he  did  so.  ‘Nothing  but  more  papers…’  He  turned  to  the  right  and  repeated  the  same  procedure. 

A  shiver  shot  straight  from  the  top  of  his  neck,  right  down  his  spine  and  ended  up  at  the  back  of  his  legs,  turning  them  to  jelly.  First,  he  noticed  the  fireplace:  resembling  something  pulled  straight  out  of  the  dark  ages,  a  heavy  scorched  lump  of  black,  badly-cut  marble.  It  was  so  low  and  wide  that  it  could  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  an  altar;  had  it  been  in  the  centre  of  the  room  rather  than  against  the  wall.  Smoke  billowed  out  of  it,  as  if  the  chimney  were  blocked  off  causing  the  grey  clouds  to  backfire  into  the  room.  However  the  fire  wasn’t  lit  and  he  failed  to  smell  anything  burning,  the  only  scents  were  that  of  mould  and  decay.  The  room  was  pitch-black  aside  from  James'  flashlight,  so  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried,  he  could  not  find  any  logical  explanation  for  the  smoke’s  pattern.  It  continued  rising,  as  if  it  were  being  sucked  into  a  vent  or  fan  on  the  ceiling.  

James  stood  for  what  seemed  like  millennia  staring  up  into  the  bleak  painting,  trying  to  work  out  what  he  should  do  next.  ‘No.’  His  mind  corrected  him;  ‘You  know  what  to  do,  you’re  just  too  afraid  to  do  it.’  He  bit  down  hard  on  his  bottom  lip  until  he  tasted  blood,  then  forced  himself  into  the  room.  He  walked  cautiously  to  its  centre,  one  step  at  a  time,  shining  his  flashlight  at  the  floor  as  he  did  so  and  paying  close  attention  so  as  not  to  trip  or  fall.  He  came  to  a  stop  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  painting  began  to  swing  and  sway  in  its  chains;  reaching  for  him.  It  hung  directly  above  him  now  and  he  could  feel  its  pull  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  still  with  each  fleeting  moment.

‘I  want  my  wife,  I  want  Jess  back.’  James  spoke,  and  it  shocked  him.  He  was  confused  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  was  embarrassed  with  realisation  of  how  foolish  he  must  look;  standing  on  newspapers,  talking  to  a  painting.    Moments  passed  and  nothing  changed,  he  began  to  grow  restless  and  even  considered  leaving.  

His  flashlight  grew  immensely  hot  and  burned  his  hand  -  reflex  made  him  throw  it  to  the  floor.  It  smashed  and  the  light  was  extinguished,  he  was  buried  under  blankets  of  darkness.  James  grinned  as  the  door  he  used  to  enter  the  room  was  slammed  shut.  ‘Please  Jess,  forgive  me.’  he  prayed.

‘Greetings,  James.’  The  voice  was  cold  and  upon  hearing  it  James  lost  all  confidence  he  had  retained  -  it  felt  like  his  spine  had  turned  to  ice.  This  was  so  far  beyond  goose-bumps.  It  had  came  from  above  him,  from  the  painting.  

‘Who  goes  there?’  James  asked,  through  a  broken  voice.

‘My  name  is  Legion:  for  we  are  many.’  It  replied.

James'  arms  and  legs  were  on  fire,  it  seemed,  for  he  burned  whenever  Legion  spoke.

‘I  came  for  my  wife,  I’ll  do  anything  to  have  her  back.’  James  announced,  biting  his  lips,  awaiting  the  burn  which  was  sure  to  accompany  Legion’s  reply  to  his  statement.  Moments  passed,  he  almost  thought  it  would  not  come.  But  then  it  did.

‘Those  who  fall  unwillingly  but retain  a  virtuous  soul  will  ascend  up  into  Heaven.  Those  who  choose  to  fall  are  not  caught  by  He-Who-Currently-Rules  and  enter  Hell.  You  dare  taint  this  holy  place  with  your  snivelling,  filthy  carcass,  then  go  as  far  as  to  ask  me  to  simply  hand  over  what  is  mine  by  right?’

The  burning  sensation  returned,  coursing  through  his  veins  causing  him  to  fall  to  his  knees,  wreathed  in  pain.  Once  the  pain  subsided  he  spoke,  anxious  to  get  this  over  with.  ‘Please,  I  can’t  leave  her  there.  We  have  3  children  together,  they  need  their  mother  more  than  anything.  I’ll  do  whatever  you wish’  he  pleaded,  getting  up  off  his  knees.

Then  Legion’s  tone  changed,  he  really  did  have  this  man  where  he  wanted  him.

‘Would  you  murder  to  have  her  back?’

James’  response  was  cold  and  took  almost  no  deliberation.

‘I’d  slit  King  George’s  throat  while  he  prayed  at  Westminster  Abbey,  if  need  be.’

‘Well  then,  we  offer  you  the  chance  to  save  your  wife.’

Although  it  pained  him  still,  his  excitement  and  joy  could  not  keep  his  tongue  chained  much  longer:  ‘Thank  you  so  much,  what  must  I  do  to  see  this  happen?’

‘The  painting  is  a  doorway  to  my  kingdom.  Use  it,  wait  for  Archon,  he  will  be  expecting  you.  Bow  to  his  every  will,  follow  his  orders  exactly  as  he  gives  them.  Do  not  deviate  from  or  object  to  any  command  he  issues  to  you,  for  if  you  do;  I  will  take  your  children.’

James'  face  was  swiftly  whitewashed.  Could  he  really  put  his  children’s  lives  up  as  collateral  against  the  Devil  himself?

‘I  need  time…sorry,  I’m  just  not  sure  if  I’m  ready  to  decide  yet,  it’s  a  hard  decision  to  make.  I  love  my  children  with  all  my  heart,  I  couldn’t  possibly….’

‘You  wholly  misapprehend  the  position  you  are  currently  placed  within.’  The  Devil  barked,  interrupting  James  mid-sentence.  ‘We  are  Legion.  Your  wife  is  broken,  your  children  and  yourself  could  just  as  easily  join  her  in  the  pit.  You’re  lucky  I  haven’t  taken  everything  that  is  yours  and  cast  you  down  for  your  wife  to  feast  on  for  all  of  eternity.  What  are  you  failing  to  grasp  about  this?’

‘Sorry,  my  apologies.’  James  bowed  cowardly,  then  stopped  half-way  as  something  triggered  a  thought  in  his  head.  ‘Wait,  sorry,  that’s  ridiculous.  No  matter  what  you  could  have  done  to  her,  she  would  never  even  dream  of  such  an  abhorrent  thing!’

‘We  told  you,  We  broke  her.  The  damned  will  do  anything  if  it  means  being  spared  for  even  a  single  day  the  torments  inflicted  upon  them.  See  for  yourself.’

Darkness  still  wrapped  around  him,  but  James  instinctively  knew  to  raise  his  hand.  It  was  immediately  clutched  by  a  cold,  skeletal  claw  and  he  was  pulled  upwards  into  the  deep,  voided  canvas  of  the  painting.  It  was  an  incredible  sensation,  similar  to  diving  underwater,  but  instead  into  a  strange  new  substance.  It  felt  as  though  he  were  rising  through  quicksand  and  would  soon  reach  the  surface,  but  the  surface  never  came.  It  was  cold  here,  cold  and  dead.  He  could  hardly  breathe  at  all,  the  air  was  so  scarce.  It  felt  old,  as  if  it  had  been  here  since  the  beginning  of  time  passing  through  the  lungs  of  the  uncountable  damned.  

Suddenly,  they  came  to  a  halt.  Despite  the  severity  of  the  situation,  James  couldn’t  help  thinking  of  the  children’s  tale  Alice  in  Wonderland.  ‘I  wonder  how  far  down  this  rabbit  hole  goes…’  Legion  relinquished  his  hold  on  James'  arm,  this  shocked  him,  he  had  grown  used  to  Legion’s  grip  and  now,  realising  it  was  lighter  than  before,  decided  he  would  turn  and  observe  the  Devil’s  appearance.  James  was  shocked,  this  man  looked  normal  and,  in  every  way,  distinctly  average.  He  wore  a  brown  jacket  with  grey  jeans  and  a  white  shirt.  His  hair  was  long  though  and,  rugged.  He  said  nothing  at  first,  but  pointed  at  a  wardrobe-sized  metallic  box,  a  few  hundred  feet  in  front  of  them.

‘Once  you  have  seen  her,  Archon  will  find  and  talk  with  you.  Remember  my  words.’  Legion  turned  to  face  James,  his  eyes  were  voids.  Jet  black,  they  drew  smoke  into  them  like  the  painting  did  in  Waterston  Manor.  James  couldn’t  take  it  anymore,  his  gaze  faltered  first  and  Legion  departed.  He  then  turned  and  ran  towards  the  casket.  Running  was  hard,  all  movement  here  was.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  heavier,  as  if  gravity  itself  were  stronger.  This,  coupled  with  the  scarce  supply  of  oxygen;  made  him  instantly  regret  the  sudden  burst  of  speed  and  his  childlike  excitement  once  he  reached  the  casket;  and  collapsed  unconscious  over  it.  

Minutes  later  he  regained  consciousness,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  standing  over  the  metal  box  which  encased  his  wife  like  a  children’s  doll  in  its  packaging.  The  casket  was  thick  and  made  of  un-even,  badly  forged  iron.  There  were  slashes  all  over  it,  random  holes  here-and-there  and  its  entire  left-side  was  covered  in  rust.  Carefully,  he  ran  his  fingers  around  the  handle  of  his  wife’s  tomb  and  opened  it  with  caution.  As  light  from  outside  filled  the  metal  prison,  it  rested  on  his  wife’s  features.  

His  mind  raced;  ‘Jess!  It’s  her!  It’s  finally  her.’  A  smile  seemed  to  ambush  him  as  he  saw  her  and  it  now  controlled  the  entire  width  of  his  face.  For  the  first  time  in  over  two  months  he  was  happy…But  his  smile  soon  departed  as  he  noticed  the  first  signs  of  torture.  She  lay  motionless  inside  the  metal  coffin,  scrunched  up  in  a  ball,  hands  covering  her  face.  Cowering,  expecting  it  to  be  someone  wishing  to  cause  her  harm,  it  hurt  him  deeply  to  see  her  this  way.  Her  clothes  were  much  less  than  rags,  they  had  been  ripped  and  torn  at  so  much  she  was  practically  naked.  Her  hair,  once  James'  favourite  of  her  features,  was  now  mostly  ruined  and  missing  random  patches,  as  if  it  had  been  torn  out  by  a  savage  beast.  She  was  thin  now,  too.  Not  only  thin,  but  starved  to  a  point  were  she  should  have  died  days  ago.  He  could  see  bone.  It  was  a  wonder  she  could  move  at  all,  James  suspected  a  sewer  rat  would  have  more  meat  on  it  than  she  currently  did.  There  were  scars,  too;  scattered  all  over  her  body  -  deep  and  black  they  were,  James  envisioned  demons  ripping  her  apart  with  their  claws  and  then  using  dark  magic  to  rebuild  her  body  from  the  pieces.  You  can’t  die  to  escape  the  pain  of  Hell,  you’re  trapped  here  to  endure  it  day  in,  day  out.  There  is  no  escape.  

Being  unable  to  just  stand  and  stare  at  her  in  this  shape  for  much  longer,  he  stood  over  her,  placing  his  hand  on  her  head  and  began  to  whisper  as  softly  as  he  could,  while  ordering  his  tears  to  not  show  his  sadness  to  her:  ‘Jess,  it’s  me,  you’re  safe  now.  Don’t  worry,  it’s  James.  You’re  safe,  I’m  going  to  get  you  out  of  here.  I  love  you.’

She  came  alive  when  she  heard  his  voice  and,  slowly,  lowered  her  hands  from  her  face.  James  dropped  to  his  knees  and  wrapped  his  arms  around  her,  burying  his  head  in  her  chest.  He  just  couldn’t  hold  it  any  longer  -  he  burst  into  tears  when  he  saw  that  they  had  taken  her  eyes.  

‘Jess,  what  have  they…I  don’t…I  don’t  know  what  to  do.’  He  managed  to  say  through  an  onslaught  of  his  own  treacherous  tears.  She  made  a  faint  groaning  noise,  causing  him  to  pick  his  head  up  off  her  chest  and  he  wiped  his  eyes.  Looking  up  again,  he  noticed  that  she  was  smiling,  and  it  was  a  cruel,  toothless  smile  which  tore  through  him  like  a  tank-shell  through  a  cobweb.

‘I  missss-seh-seh-seh-d  yuh-yuh-you.’  Jess  said,  through  broken  speech.  James'  jaw  dropped  even  further,  her  tongue  had  been  sliced  into  shreds,  it  was  now  over  5  ripped  pieces  of  flesh.  He  couldn’t  cope.  ‘Duh-duh-don’t  leh  dem…’  she  began  having  a  panic  attack  and  couldn’t  finish  what  she  was  trying  to  say.  Her  breathing  became  furiously  fast-paced  and  she  cupped  her  head  in  her  hands  again,  and  began  rocking  back  and  forth  uncontrollably  against  the  outside  of  the  casket,  groaning  as  she  did  so.

‘Jessie,  you’re  safe  now.  I’m  here,  you’re  safe  with  me,  I  won’t  hurt  you.  I’ll  protect  you.  You’re  safe  now.  I’ll  get  you  out  of  here;  I  promise…What  in  blazes  did  they  do  this  for?  Jessie  I  am  so  sorry.  I’ll  get  you  out  of  here,  don’t  worry.  Everything  will  be  better  soon,  you’re  safe  now  -  you’re  safe.’  James  continued  whispering  soothing  words  into  what  little  remained  of  her  only  surviving  ear,  with  his  arms  wrapped  around  her,  rubbing  her  lower  back  to  help  drive  the  sense  of  safety  home.  

Moments  passed  and  Jess  fell  into  a  deep,  relaxed  sleep.  However  James  decided  to  stay  awake  and  remained  holding  her  close;  rubbing  her  twisted  and  broken  back,  his  fingers  felt  the  abnormal  lumps  and  scars  littered  around  her  body  whilst  still  whispering  softly.  Shock  was  still  washing  over  him  like  a  tidal  wave,  he  truly  didn’t  know  what  to  do.  He  hoped  he  hadn’t  spoken  a  promise  to  her  which  he  couldn’t  keep.  But  he  had  her  in  his  arms  and  that  was  good  enough  for  now.

Hours  passed  and  Hell  grew  a  darker  shade  of  rust-brown.  James’  eyes  grew  heavy  and  he  began  to  wonder  whether  Archon  would  show  up  at  all.  He  had  been  commanded  by  Legion  to  talk  to  Jess  and  await  Archon  for  further  instructions;  yet  he  wondered  if  he  would  have  enough  time  for  a  few  minutes  rest  before…  

James  awoke  several  hours  later  to  the  sound  of  drums  on  the  horizon  and  a  distant  roar  from  a  Hellish  monster,  growing  nearer  and  nearer  with  each  passing  beat  of  the  unholy  percussion.  The  noise  from  the  unseen  creature  disturbed  Jess’  sleep.  She  awoke  and  sat  up  instantly  when  she  realised  what  it  was.  Noticing  that  James’  arm  was  still  around  her  she  smiled,  then  shook  her  head  and  managed  to  mutter;  ‘No  good’  before  leaning  back  into  his  chest  and  covering  her  one  remaining  ear  with  her  free  hand,  so  as  to  isolate  herself  from  the  oncoming  scene.

Ten  to  fifteen  minutes  passed  and  the  drums  grew  louder  as  the  unholy  cavalcade  grew  closer.  James  could  now  make  out  the  shape  of  a  wicked  looking  beast  and  its  rider,  leading  a  column  of  chained  humans  -  the  damned,  and  escorted  by  40  or  50  armed  soldiers  of  Hell.  The  beast  looked  like  something  straight  out  of  a  nightmare,  a  Hell-horse  of  monstrous  build.  Dark  black  was  its  colour,  heavily  armoured  from  head  to  tail  with  chain-mail  forged  from  voided-steel.  The  horse  itself  was  huge,  comparable  to  an  elephant  in  both  size  and  shear  muscle,  but  better  formed,  more  stream-lined.  Just  as  a  champion  horse  ought  to  be.  An  odd  sensation  struck  James  as  he  watched  the  monster  approaching.  There  was  fear,  obviously  he  was  threatened  by  its  ferocious  appearance;  but  also,  escape  from  the  guilty  feeling  of  admiration  for  such  a  unique  creature  seemed  impossible,  it  was  simply  breathtakingly  impressive.  His  emotions  were  weighing  scales,  with  curiosity  and  excitement  for  the  beast  lifted  high  in  the  air  by  the  heavy  weight  of   fear.  He  couldn’t  wait  to  get  a  closer  look  at  the  unholy  beast…But  not  so  much  its  rider,  who  was  now  within  ten  paces  of  the  cowering  forms  of  Jessie  and  himself.

The  man  atop  the  great  horse held  a  long,  metal  staff  with  a  banner  attached  to  its  sharp  point.  The  banner  was  blood-red  with  a  white,  upside-down  crucifix  at  its  centre.  The  exact  opposite  of  the  ancient  Templar  Knights  emblem  used  during  the  crusades  in  the  middle-ages.  He  wore  a  red  robe,  with  the  same  inverted  white  cross  embroidered  exquisitely  on  its  reverse.  He  wore  his  robe  hooded  to  conceal  his  facial  features,  James  thought  he  preferred  it  this  way,  some  things  were  better  left  unseen.  Although  now  his  imagination  was  free  to  run  wild  and  he  wasn’t  sure  if  he  liked  where  it  was  taking  him.  He  thought  up  rotten  flesh  beneath  the  hood,  tusks  and  bloodthirsty  teeth,  maggot-filled-crevices,  a  treacherous,  snake-like  tongue  and  the  cold  dead  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  spent  the  past  eon  torturing  and  breaking  people.  He  did  not  wish  for  their  lifeless  gaze  to  fall  upon  him,  such  an  arduous  burden  would  those  icy  spheres  bring  to  his  already  laden  shoulders.

‘Listen,  mortal,’  The  rider  began  with  an  air  of  command to his voice.  ‘My  name  is  Archon.  Your  wife  is  ruined,  but  she  can  be  mended  back  to  full  health  and  returned  to  the  surface-world  with  you,  if  you  do  as  I  say.  If,  however,  you  do  not  follow  my  commands  as  swiftly  as  possible,  your  children  will  be  taken  and  mutilated  far  more  abhorrently  than  your  wife  has  had  to  suffer  so  far.’  

James  took  a  deep  breath  and  looked  down  at  Jessie,  who  was  still  covering  her  ear  and  burying  her  head  in  his  chest.  He  had  no  other  choice  now,  he  would  have  to  agree  to  Archon’s  request.  ‘Okay,  what  would  you  have  me  do?’  he  gulped,  expecting  the  worst,  unable  to  do  anything  but  wait  for  the  storm  to  hit.  

Archon  lowered  his  hood  and  smiled.  James  was  taken  aback,  the  face  he  saw  grinning  in  front  of  him  was  nothing  similar  to  what  he  had  imagined.  The  governor  of  Hell  had  deep  blue  eyes,  short,  stylish  dark  hair,  perfect  teeth  and  a  charismatic  smile  -  capable,  he  imagined,  of  charming  the  most  heated  of  opponents  into  submission.  He  looked  to  be  in  his  mid-twenties,  but  James  knew  this  to  be  naught  but  a  mendacious  ploy.  ‘Nothing  in  life  is  free,’  Archon  began  in  a  cooling,  very  precise  voice.  ‘So,  in  return  for  your  wife  you  will  deliver  for  us  two  souls.  Simply  burn  the  bodies  alive  in  the  fireplace  at  Waterston  Manor.  If  you  kill  them  first,  their  souls  will  go  to  purgatory.  So  they  must  be  alive  when  you  burn  them  to  stop  this  from  happening.  The  fireplace…no,  the  altar,  will  act  as  a  gateway  -  transporting  their  souls  directly  to  Hell.  ’  Archon  stopped  speaking,  awaiting  James'  response.  

James  looked  at  Jessie’s  crippled  form  clinging  onto  his  chest  and  sighed.  He  then  looked  to  Archon  and  enquired  ‘What  if  I  refuse?’  Archon  barked  out  a  rough,  insane  laugh.  ‘Then  we’ll  take  your  three  children,  James.  We’ll  have  their  souls  instead.’  Knowing  there  was  no  other  choice,  he  reluctantly  accepted  the  deal  with  the  Devil  named  Archon  and  bid  his  wife  farewell.  ‘I’ll  see  you  soon,  Jessie.  I’ll  be  back  for  you  before  long,  don’t  worry.  I’m  coming  back.  I  promise  I  won’t  leave  you  here  for  much  longer.’  Jessie  grabbed  his  hand  and  began  to  groan  woefully,  and  was  obviously  distressed.  

‘I’m  ready  now,  Archon.  I’ll  do  what  you  want.’  James  said,  still  holding  Jessie.  He  embraced  her  tight  and,  kissed  her  forehead.  ‘Got  to  go  now,  Jess.  I’ll  be  back  soon  though,  hang  in  there.  I  love  you’

‘D-d-don’t  leave  me!’  She  cried  out,  but  James  had  already  disappeared.  Leaving  only  a  cloud  of  smoke  where  he  had  been  standing.  In  a  few  moments,  maybe  ten  or  twenty  seconds,  he  would  be  spat  out  of  The  Eternal  Night  painting  and  land  in  an  undignified  lump  on  the  newspaper-covered  floor  of  Waterston  Manor.

The  transition  from  Hellish  to  Earthly  oxygen  was  like  a  splash  of  water  to  James’  filthy  face,  it  revitalised  him.  For  a  few  moments  he  sat  solemnly  on  the  floor  in  Waterston  Manor;  embracing  the  fresh  life  that  the  air  provided  to  his  exhausted  lungs.  His  thoughts  were  hectic  and  blurred,  they  crashed  and  collided  within  his  mind  like  rocks  in  a  meteor  storm  until  he  couldn’t  take  it  any  more,  he  had  to  act  now.  There  was  no  time  for  deliberation  of  whether  or  not  he’d  have  it  in  him  to  do  the  dreaded  deed,  his  family  depended  on  him  to  save  them  from  eternal  anguish  and  torment,  he  would  not  let  them  down.

The  cold  running  down  his  spine  and  the  shiver  of  his  blood  gushing  through  his  veins  gave  away  his  fear,  yet  he  was  determined  to  fight  the  daunting  urge  to  flee  and  decided  he  would  persevere.  Rising  to  his  feet,  James  began  the  long  walk  out  of  Waterston  Manor.  As  he  approached  the  ancient  library  door,  it  creaked  open  of  its  own  accord,  as  if  some  grim  invisible  man-servant  was  holding  it  for  his  master.  He  walked  through  it,  smiling.  ‘As  you  were,  Jeeves,’  James’  face  grew  dull  and  lifeless,  ‘I‘ll  be  seeing  you  soon’  he  concluded,  then  continued  walking  and  as  predicted  the  library  door  closed  shut  behind  him.  

Overhead,  outside  of  Waterston  Manor,  he  could  hear  a  storm  raging;  its  monstrous  fists  of  wind  and  rain  pummelled  the  building’s  ancient  structure  in  an  unstoppable  onslaught  of  Mother  Nature’s  prominent  power.  From  time  to  time  there  would  be  a  crack  of  thunder  or  a  bright  flash  of  lightning.  As  he  opened  the  main  door  and  stood  under  its  protective  frame,  James  glared  dismally  into  the  foreboding  night  stretching  out  ahead  of  him.  As  he  stepped  out  into  the  heavy  downfall,  there  was  a  tremendous  crack  as  heavy  slate  tiles  fell  from  the  rooftop  and  came  crashing  down  at  his  feet.  Deciding  it  was  unsafe  here,  James  began  to  sprint  through  the  puddles  and  out  into  the  bleak  darkness  of  the  night,  heading  for  the  quiet  streets  of  Bridgestone  village.

That’s  when  it  hit  him,  the  warm,  un-earthly  glow  of  the  pub  on  the  corner  of  South  Waterston  Street,  the  busiest  public  house  in  Bridgestone  -  The  Rocky  Hearth.  It  was  inside  this  bar  more  than  thirteen  years  ago,  that  he  had  first  set  eyes  on  Jessica.  She  was  so  bright  and  full  of  life  back  then,  at  the  tender  age  of  22  her  heart  was  whole;  not  yet  had  she  been  tainted  by  the  cruelty  of  the  universe  and  its  wicked,  godless  inhabitants.  Deciding  he  needed  a  drink  to  calm  his  nerves,  James  marched  with  waterlogged  boots  into  the  Rocky  Hearth  and  gazed  around  the  room.  A  dog  raised  its  head  and  snapped  its  jaws,  growling  as  he  entered.

‘Shut  that  ruddy  door,  you’re  letting  the  heat  out.’  Some  gruff  voice  aimed  at  James  called  out  from  across  the  room,  the  source  of  it  was  buried  deep  amongst  a  sea  of  men  in  tweed  hats,  waterproof  trousers,  warm  fleeces  and  heavy  overcoats.  The  thirty  or  so  farmers  in  the  pub  all  appeared  to  be  in  their  late  40’s  and  all  wore  the  same  style  of  clothing.  Several  of  them  were  drenched  and  dripping  wet,  warming  themselves  by  the  fire  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Though  most  were  sat  around  the  bar  in  deep  conversation  with  one-another  or  the  barman.  

‘Come  on  in,  lad.  Lets  get  something  strong  down  your  neck  to  warm  you  up  some.’  With  an  out-stretched  arm,  the  rosy-cheeked  barman  beckoned  James  towards  him.  He  was  only  too  keen  to  comply.  As  he  made  his  way  forward,  the  crowd  of  men  moved  aside  to  let  him  pass.  His  hat  and  heavy  leather  jacket  had  helped  to  keep  the  rain  at  bay  and,  thankfully  -  with  the  exception  of  his  hands  and  legs  -  he  could  barely  feel  any  wetness  at  all.  

‘Thanks  for  the  warm  welcome,  friend.  It  makes  a  nice  change  in  these  most  dreary  of  days.’  James  said,  adjusting  his  jacket  and  taking  a  seat  at  the  bar.

‘Aye,  the  weather  is  terrible,’  the  barman  nodded  toward  the  large  window  next  to  the  front  door  and  James  grunted  in  agreement.  ‘But  something  tells  me  that  it’s  more  than  this  cursed  rain  dampening  your  spirits.’  

‘You’re  right,  friend.  But  please,  just  get  me  a  bottle  of  vodka  and  I’ll  be  on  my  way.’  James  glared  almost  pleadingly  at  the  barman,  for  a  while  the  pair  just  stared  at  one  another.  The  barman,  unsure  of  whether  he  would  regret  it,  solemnly  reached  behind  the  bar  and  pulled  out  a  bottle  of  Verdi’s  Vodka  and,  blowing  the  dust  off  from  it,  stood  it  up  on  the  bar.  

‘That’ll  be  two  shillings,  sir.’  The  barman  presented  his  open  hand  in  front  of  James,  awaiting  payment.

‘But  the  bottle  says  five’  Protested  James,  feeling  somewhat  ashamed  that  he  was  being  treated  as  a  charity  case.

‘I  know  it  does,  friend.  But  it  looks  like  you  need  this  more  right  now  than  I  need  those  extra  three’  With  a  gruff  laugh  the  barman  smiled  as  James  handed  him  the  two  coins  and  slapped  him  on  the  back  heartily.   ‘I’ll  be  seeing  you  here  more  often  hopefully,  take  care  of  yourself  mate.’

‘Aye  friend,  you  have  shown  me  much  kindness,  yet  you  don’t  even  know  me.  Such  a  rare  occurrence  in  today’s  turbulent  times.’  James  rose  off  his  chair  and  placed  the  bottle  in  his  inside  jacket  pocket.  ‘For  your  generosity  I  thank  you,  take  care.’  The  two  men  shook  hands  and  James  made  his  way  through  the  crowded  room  and  out  into  the  unrelenting  storm  that  continued  to  reign  outside.  

Downing  one  third  of  the  bottle,  he  fastened  the  top  and  put  it  back  firmly  into  his  jacket.  ‘Come  on,  come  on.’  he  spoke  out  loud  through  grinding  teeth,  looking  towards  the  night  sky  as  nature  continued  beating  down  on  him  with  tireless  fists  of  water  and  wind.  He  walked  around  the  muddy  village  for  around  five  minutes  until  he  reached  a  dark  street  he  had  strolled  through  as  a  child  once,  there  were  less  lamps  here,  about  twenty  yards  ahead  of  him,  James  could  see  the  dark  black  outline  of  a  man  leaning  against  one  of  the  lampposts  with  his  hood  up  over  his  head.  

As  James  drew  closer  to  the  lamppost,  the  hooded  man  noticed  his  presence  and  walked  out  to  cut  him  off  and  deny  him  passage.  James  noted  this  movement  and  brought  the  bottle  out  of  his  pocket  and  began  to  swig  the  rest  of  it  off.  As  he  drank,  the  hooded  figure  had  made  his  way  to  him  and  now  stood  a  few  steps  in  front  of  James  and  soon  began  to  speak.  ‘Hey  mate,  you  got  the  time?’  James  pulled  a  solid-silver  watch  out  of  his  front  pocket,  ‘Yeah,  hold  on,’  James  struggled  in  his  drunken  state  and  blurry  vision  to  read  the  time,  but  eventually  continued.  ‘It’s  twelve-fifty…’  but  was  soon  cut  off  as  the  hooded  figure  sent  a  fist  flying  his  way.  James  took  it  to  the  chin,  he  was  expecting  conflict  to  occur  but  in  his  drunken  state  his  reaction  time  had  severely  depleted;  thankfully  however,  the  opposite  had  occurred  to  his  pain  threshold  and  the  blow  seemed  to  be  as  that  of  a  child.

Retaliating  swiftly,  James  sent  two  drunken  fists  sprawling  into  his  attacker,  sending  him  crashing  to  the  floor,  landing  in  a  muddy  pool  of  water  which  had  amassed  in  the  deserted  road.  Swigging  the  rest  of  the  bottle  of  vodka,  James  smashed  it  against  the  wall  and  lunged  at  the  man,  holding  it  menacingly  against  his  shivering  neck.  ‘Right  you  horrible  parasite,  you’re  coming  with  me,  alright?’  The  man  looked  like  he  still  had  some  fight  left  in  him,  so  James  applied  more  pressure  on  the  bottle  and  forced  it  harder  into  the  man’s  neck,  just  slight  enough  to  draw  blood.  ‘I’m  not  going  anywhere  mate,  you’ll  kill  me  no  matter  what  I  do!’  the  man  wailed  and  spat  blood  aimed  at  James.  Picking  up  a  loose  cobblestone  from  the  ground  near  his  left  hand,  James  shook  his  head,  ‘Wrong  answer,  mate.’  he  said  with  disappointment  as  he  sent  the  fist-sized  stone  hard  into  the  man’s  temple,  causing  him  to  slip  into  unconsciousness.  James  then  proceeded  to  bash  the  man’s  arms  and  legs  until  he  heard  them  crack  and  buckle  as  they  broke.

‘God  forgive  me’  he  muttered  as  he  lifted  the  unmoving  and  broken  wreck  over  his  shoulders.  Then  James  began  the  long  walk  back  to  Waterston  Manor.  His  journey  back  to  the  painting  was,  not  including  the  four  or  five  times  he  had  lost  his  grip  and  sent  the  man  splashing  to  the  floor,  thankfully  without  incident.  The  rain  had  softened  now  and  only  a  slight  drizzle  diluted  the  air,  though  the  night  still  retained  its  skeletal,  Legion-like  grip  on  England.

The  manor  struck  a  daunting  sight;  perched  atop  a  hill  with  a  full-moon  shining  eerily  overhead,  silhouetting  the  building’s  highest  black  spire,  like  a  ring  of  ice  levitating  above  the  Antichrist’s  horned  head.  Heaving  the  almost  lifeless  body  of  the  un-named  man  up  the  muddy  path  and  through  the  open  hallway,  James  approached  the  library  door  and  stopped  momentarily  outside  to  recoup  his  energy  and  think  through  his  unholy  deal.  

Moments  passed,  and  finally  the  man  regained  consciousness.  ‘Ahhhhhhh!’  He  screamed  out  while  writhing  on  the  floor  in  agony.  ‘What  have  you  done  to  me!?’  James  wasn’t  going  to  reply  at  first,  but  the  pleading  and  hurt  look  in  the  man’s  eyes  triggered  the  last  drops  of  conscience  remaining  in  him,  and  so  he  told  him  of  the  painting,  his  wife  and  of  the  deal  he  had  made  with  the  governor  of  Hell.  ‘Ironic  really,  you  attempted  to  attack  and  steal  from  me,’  James  kicked  him  lightly  with  his  foot,  ‘I  guess  just  this  one  time,  somebody  else  got  the  drop  on  you.’  

‘You’re  insane,  let  me  leave!’  begged  the  man.  James  only  shook  his  head  in  reply,  and  then  picked  the  man  up  over  his  shoulders  and  kicked  open  the  library  room  door.  The  Eternal  Night  glowed  with  a  somewhat  pseudo-holy  light.  When  he  previously  saw  it,  the  painting  was  as  black  as  the  space  between  stars,  but  now  it  shone  an  eerie  white  light  into  the  room,  illuminating  it  slightly,  but  just  enough  to  allow  James  to  meander  his  way  through  the  piles  of  newspapers  and  assorted  junk,  and  make  his  way  toward  the  painting.

When  James  reached  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  dropped  the  man  ungraciously  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  As  would  be  expected,  the  man  never  complained,  he  just  stared  open-mouthed  at  the  painting  hanging  above  him.  

‘Legion!  I’m  back  with  my  side  of  the  deal.’  James  called  out  toward  the  painting.  Moments  passed,  then  that  same  icy  voice  he  had  first  heard  what  seemed  like  a  lifetime  ago,  replied.

‘The  deal  was  for  two.’

Legion’s  voice  hurt  the  man,  it  was  obvious,  for  he  screamed  out  and  wriggled  about  on  the  floor.  However,  for  some  unknown  reason,  it  no  longer  had  any  effect  on  James.  He  could  not  feel  its  icy-burn  surging  through  his  body,  this  bolstered  his  confidence  and  gave  him  the  courage  to  press  on,  he  was  so  close  to  saving  Jessica  from  that  wicked  place,  excitement  and  eagerness  would  make  him  a  fool  here.  He  had  to  remember  who  he  was  dealing  with,  and  that  any  false  words  or  movements  would  blow  the  whole  unholy  agreement.

‘Take  this  man  now,  I  will  present  you  with  the  other  when  Jess  is  safely  back  on  Earth  and  in  full  health.’  He  said  with  a  cool  and  concise  tone,  hoping  silently  that  he  had  not  made  a  bad  move.

‘As  you  wish.’  Replied  Legion,  again  his  voice  not  even  tickling  James  but  devastating  the  wounded  man.  Then,  Legion’s  black  skeletal  arm  reached  down  from  the  painting,  it  was  longer  than  James  had  remembered,  almost  seven  foot  in  length,  and  it  managed  to  reach  right  the  way  to  the  floor.  As  it  gripped  the  man  offered  to  it,  he  screamed  out  ‘No,  please!  I’ll  do  anything!’

‘Silence.’  Whispered  Legion  as  he  tossed  the  screaming  man  to  James’  feet.  ‘I’m  sorry’  whispered  James  to  the  man  as  he  dragged  him  roughly  towards  the  fireplace  and  held  him  in  place.  The  man’s  voice  broke  as  his  body  was  engulfed  by  the  flames  and  he  managed  to  scream  out,  cursing  James  with  his  last  breath  before  being  taken,  along  with  Legion,  into  the  void.  James  waited.

It  was  two  hours  later  when  finally  something  happened,  the  sun  was  rising  outside  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a  soothing,  orange  ambient  glow.  James  had  grown  incredibly  drowsy,  and  it  was  hard  for  him  to  stay  awake.  Just  as  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  a  massive  thunder-crack  followed  by  a  light  thud  awoke  him  out  of  his  sleep-like  state  and  he  was  fully  revitalised.  Standing  in  front  of  him,  with  the  warm  glow  of  the  morning  sun  behind  her,  was  the  angelic-figure  of  his  wife,  Jessica.  

Tears  filled  his  eyes  and  James  could  no  longer  hold  back,  nor  did  he  want  to.  He  ran  straight  towards  her,  arms  outstretched,  and  fell  into  her.  Wrapping  his  eager  arms  around  her  he  hugged  her  tight  as  tears  from  his  eyes  stained  her  exquisitely  white  gown.  For  ten  minutes  the  lovers  embraced  each  other  and  kissed,  and  all  the  while  words  and  sound  failed  both  of  them.  

Then  Legion’s  skeletal  hand  swooped  down  out  of  the  painting  and  wrapped  itself  around  Jessica,  lifting  her  into  the  air.  

‘Our  deal.’  Legion  spoke,  and  James  fell  to  the  floor  in  agony.  These  two  words  had  cut  through  him  like  a  lance  and  left  him  pinned  to  the  floor.

‘What  deal?’  Questioned  Jess  in  a  distraught  tone.

James  burst  into  tears.  ‘I’m  sorry  Jessica,  I  wont  ever  see  you  again…the  children  are  with  your  mother.  I  love  you.’  He  then  looked  upwards  into  The  Eternal  Night  and  bellowed  out  his  last  words  before  stepping  into  the  fire;  resembling  a  mythical  warrior,  fighting  to  the  death  against  certain  defeat,  ‘Legion,  my  soul  is  yours  and  our  deal  is  complete.  Release  her.’

The  End

 

 

 

 

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Mar 22nd

The Romantic Novelists' Association. Intro.

By Him

The Romantic Novelists’ Association

 

 

A run-down charity shop: walls paper-backed with Romance novels, other bits of tat. And two women-of-a-certain-age: Jackie (American) and Jilly (British, as roast mutton), both with volumized hair, both with too much make-up, both in donated cocktail dresses, both address cam.

 

Jackie:         Well! Here we are!

                  

                             Gestures around dramatically.

 

Jackie:         Headquarters! The epicentre of the ‘quake that is romance, the eye of the hurricane that is the Association, Ground Zero of, er, the international, er, tragedy... The Romantic Novelists’ association!

 

                             Jackie reinforces the dramatic gesture.

 

Jilly:            Welcome to the House That Books Built!

 

Jackie:         Oh, that’s clever, Jilly. Shakespeare, is it?

 

Jilly nods shyly. Both have been fluffing-up their hair, straightening-out their dresses (to hide, as best they can, the fat bits), pouting... Jackie now peers into the cam.

 

Jackie:         Give me your lip-gloss for a sooth, Jill.

 

                             Jilly takes it from her pencil case, hands it over.

 

Jackie:         (To cam.) Sorry about this... a girl's gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!

 

                             Jackie squeezes a large amount of the pink gloss onto her                           long, scarlet fingernail and smears it over cam.

 

Jilly:            Jackie is our Chairman, she’s...

 

Jackie:         Jilly! Please!

 

Jilly:            Oh, sorry, m’lady. Amongst our fellows...

 

Jackie:         Jilly...

 

Jilly:            Pardon, pardon me m’lady. Right! (Thinks) In the Romantic ...world, me and our...my?

 

                             Jackie shakes head ignorantly.

 

Jilly:            ... well, she’s Chair Damsel-ess, and she presides over my-our-we Romantic brethren.

 

                             Jilly looks for and gets approbation from Jackie.

 

Jackie:         We don’t say ‘brotherhood’.

 

Jackie:         We never say 'brotherhood'

 

Jilly:            I’ll never say brotherhood again in my life

 

Jackie:         If I ever catch you saying brotherhood again in your life...

 

Jilly:            I’ll never say brotherhood again in my brotherhood

 

Jackie:         Cause if you do I’ll kick the brotherhood out’ve you. We don’t say brotherhood because we’re not men, we never were, and we something the accusation, resent the accusation. We’re not not-women, we haven’t come out as tennis players!

 

Jilly:            Oh no, we all love men!

 

Jackie:         Men!

 

                             Both misty-eyed, staring into mid-distance.

 

Jilly:            And their savage, macho-brooding-natures!

 

Jackie:         Their tall-dark-and-handy-‘bout-the-houseness!

 

Jilly:            Their hard, hairy, firmness! ...

 

Jackie:         ... Cock!

 

Jilly:            Cock!

 

Jackie:         Cock! Cock!

 

Jilly:            (Rapture) Aaaaagh... Stop...

 

Jackie:         Cock-cock-cooock!

 

Jilly:            (Rapture) You’re gonna make me... (Jilly convulses). ...Sick...

 

Jackie:         She’s the Treasurer, she controls the ‘sordid topic of coin’.

 

Jilly:            Oh that’s good, ‘sordid topic of coin’! Shakespeare?

 

                             Jackie nods.

 

Jilly:            We take care of the Association, the which was found in Nineteen-Seventy-Six, when else, really?

 

Jackie:         You might not know this, but the which was founded in Nineteen-Seventy-Six, that was when it was conceived...

 

                             Both flinch at last word.

 

Jackie:         We set-up shop, announced what we intended and pretty soon nearly aaall the original copies of the early great Romantic Novels, after being Number Ones, and thereby edible, they were sent to us, here, given back to the world, it’s only logical to assume that it is because they wanted others to enjoy these mistresspieces precisely as much as they did themselves. But: where to house them?

 

Jilly:            A palace? A castle? A grotto?

 

Jackie:         Yes, you’d think so, wouldn’t one? But no, it was decided that these priceless artefacts and I mean that, priceless: who could swap these for any amount of money?

 

Jilly:            I haven’t.

 

Jackie:         And so Jilly and I...

 

Jilly:            And me.

 

Jackie:         ... And one, too...

 

Jilly:            ...Three?

 

Jackie:         We came up with a solution: we’d open a little store which would serve as a museum for these first and only editions. Well! The books came... hurtling in when word got out what we’d opened.

 

Jilly:            It only took two weeks before we realized it was a fine kettle of fish.

 

Jackie:         Novel upon novella, romp, cavort, frolic; sensation, steamer rollick!

 

 

Jilly:            Paperback, paperback, paperback.

 

 

                             Jilly stares into cam.

 

Jilly:            Wait take a moment, it won’t take a moment- Jackie, what if I turn that on? (Points off cam)

 

Jackie:         Oh jolly goody Jilly! Three Chalet Points!

 

                             Jilly walks out of shot.

 

Jackie:         It won’t take a moment, kind sir, it was only donated last week, but we’re keeping it. Well, charity does begin at home, doesn’t it? And home is where the heart is... so we’re keeping it. You can take all of this out though, can’t you? It can be removed from the film, can’t it? Removed?...

 

                             Jackie and Jilly listen to cam. man.

 

Jackie:         “Edit?” ...Jilly? “Edit”?

 

Jilly shakes head ignorantly. Cam man is a told to “press the button”. A whirring sound begins and their hair is blown a little.

 

Jilly:            It was quite obvious that the country wanted, needed a place to inter these books for posterity-preservin’ purposes. Lovely public! And did you know?...

 

Jackie asks Jilly, who is ignorant. And she shakes her head, too.

 

Jilly:            Because of this selfless love of Literature everybody knows what to do with a Romance novel: “Oh, just send it to the Charity.” I’ve spoken to people who say they’ve only ever bought Romance novels in order to send them to us straight away.

 

Since fan has been on, both woman have been tossing their hair, poutin’-an’-posin’, capitlisin’ on the wind-machine effect-effect.

 

Jackie:         Isn’t that lovely!  And is that quaint?

 

Jilly:            We like to think of ourselves as a library, that also shares with people, who give us money: a bodice-ripping, paper-backing, Mills-and-Boonin’, bonk-busting boutique-library!

 

Jackie:         For stupid people.

 

Jilly:            For stupid people.

 

 

 

 

 

Both are now stood size-by-side, in front of a make-shift changing room.

 

Jackie:         Never, ever, judge a book by its cover.

 

Jilly:            Never! Never, never, never!

 

Jackie:         What you should do is, turn to the very last page and look for the thrilling Information About the Author section.

 

Jilly:            OOOH! The Author!

 

Jackie:         What do you do? Oo, I’m an Aaauthor!

 

Jilly:            Author! Author! There’s a plot in my book!

 

Jackie:         I’m Romantic! I’m an Author!

 

Jilly:            One foot in Shelley, one foot in ink!

 

Jackie:         Do you write your own stuff by hand?

 

Jilly:            Oh, no, I use a word-processor. Which I used to think that was a job-title!

 

Jackie:         I wouldn’t have any of my heroes working as a word-processor, my heroes all work in the Palaces, as Princes. But, I suppose, it might be alright if he was a very handsome word-processor. And caring. And handsome.

 

Jilly:            A handsome, solemn, wild, world-weary word-processor. A Heathcliff of word-processing: a masterful, taciturn Heathcliff, who’d never forget Wuthering Sunday!

 

                             Jilly glances triumphantly at Jackie.

 

Jackie:         And in the Information About the Author section, there wiltst thou find the most important part of the book: the Headshot.

 

Jilly:            What’s your favourite headshot, Jackie?

 

Jackie:         Oh, I think the one from “My Youth”.

 

Jilly:            You have a youth?

 

Jackie:         No, the one from “My Youth”.

 

Jilly:            Oh... But you’re still young, Jackie...

 

Jackie:         Book-title, it’s the book-title. I particularly remember the book-signing of that novel, only my seventieth...

It was a sultry day, a sultry day, well, I was by the sea. I wore my pin-stripe midi shoulder-halter in yolk-green taffeta, and the white, six-and-a-half inch canvas shoes that always seem to bring misfortune.

It was one of those Early Spring afternoons in Provence that are becoming so common nowadays-hot, y’know? An hot day. Hot pavements, hotcakes. I sat at the femininely latticed wrote-iron table, wearing clothes. I was sitting on that hot day on my hot table with my legs elegantly crossed... But my garter! It was my garter! Disaster came running, screaming, in the form of that garter, disaster garter...

 

Jilly:            Oh Jilly. I do wish you’d write this down. Here’s my most recent Author’s headshot, and I have to admit, it’s pretty good.

 

                             Close-up of Jilly G-forced on a                            rollercoaster.

 

Jilly:            This was compared to a Shakespeare novel. And we all know what a great Novelist he is.

 

Jackie:         No. Haha! You know what you’ve just said?

 

Jilly:            ...No.

 

Jackie:         Shakespeare isn’t a great novelist... He was!

 

Jilly:            Hahaha! yes...

 

Jackie:         You see? This is why the Association thrives: two people conversing about great works of Art. We might use the name of an Author as a reference; I often say to Jill, “There’s discharge leaking form your Cartland.”

 

Jilly:            Instead of just saying “twat”.

 

Jackie:         (Nodding) Twat.

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Mar 22nd

The Scrabble For The Holy Grail.

By Him

The Scrabble for the Holy Grail

1st Scene.

Exterior: female presenter in front of a bog-standard church. She addresses the cam.

 

Pr.:           I want the Holy Grail. It’s the holiest drinking vessel in the world today, and besides, I’ve lost my other one.

I’m quite aware, thank-you ever so much, that others have searched for it: priests, television presenters- even people. Everyone, in fact. But. Have they been looking in the wrong place? Yes. I’m conducting my own search, based on knowledge, and fact, and anything else that has been ignored because of intrigue, inbreed and innuendo, if you’ll catch my drift?

 

Presenter throws a chocolate bar to cam. man.

 

Pr.:           I’m here, in Tintagel, Cornwall, at the Roman Catholic church of Saint Cliff. Where better, after all, to look for the holiest of Grails, than in a building?

 

Cut to interior of church. A jumble sale is being held. Old people in cardigans mill at stalls. The presenter is at a junk stall, scrabbling through the contents. She picks out three ceramic swans and says to the dowdy Stall-Holder:

 

Pr.:           How much for these priceless artefacts?

 

S-H.: Twenty pence each, please, lovey.

 

Pr.:           How’s about less, as they’re together?

 

S-H.: No, deary. I’m afraid not.

 

Pr.:           Remember that you’re being filmed.

 

S-H.: ...Are you threatening me?

 

Pr.:           No, ya single limb, I mean your shop gets free publicity from being on the telly.

 

S-H.:         This isn’t a shop, sweety; this stalls only here for the day. All the proceeds go to the new hoof fund.

 

Stall-Holder looks down and stamps foot, eliciting a clop sound.

 

Pr.:           I’d like to speak to your manager.

 

S-H.: Oh, come on...

 

Pr.:           C’mon, who runs this place? Who do I complain at?

 

S-H.:         Him upstairs dear, I suppose... Or, well, you could try in there...

 

                        Stall-Holder points to confession box.

 

Pr.:           And what’s your name, madam?

 

S-H.:         Phyllis.

 

Pr.:           Well, Phyllis, kindly put these ash-trays under the counter for me. Now.

 

Presenter hands over swans and moves to the confession cabinet.

Presenter goes into the confessional and time elapses.

Presenter comes out, buys swans, and leaves.

Exterior of church again.

 

Pr.:           Well, I checked that place from tip-top to front bottom, from high brow to low-life, North to South, East to rest, inside and pout.

 

Presenter pouts. She holds up her grubby fingers to cam.

 

Pr.:           Here’s proof. But, on the whole, I think that was a dead-end. It smelled like one.

 

Presenter happily causes swans to clank-clank in their plastic bag, and walks off.

 

 

2nd Scene

 

Camera shot filled with the page of a book, upon which is a Christian tapestry.

Presenter’s voice heard.

 

Pr.:           Well, this proves it! We’re getting somewhere. This at least proves that Jesu was here. If you look at the centre of the tapestry you’ll see a design.

 

                        A cross.

 

Pr.:           That’s Jesu’s signature, or “tag”.

 

Presenter’s fingers come in to shot and double apostrophise the word “tag”.

 

Pr.:           And yes, worried citizens at your net-curtained vigil, He is known to the police. His “tag” is all the way around town, everywhere, but especially the poorer areas. But nothing can be done to stop His vandalism, because no-one can prove He did anything, there just isn’t any sane evidence.

                There are other designs here that attest to the involvement of organized religion: crosses, noughts- look, there’s His “tag” again... There was a time when Jesu was forging Wilkinson Sword’s signature and stealing vast amounts of money from their account which, the credit card receipts from the court case attest to, were spent on fripperies such as wine, and bread.

 

The book is snapped shut. The proprietor of the book shop says:

 

Prop.:       Are you going to buy that?!

 

                        Presenter bustles away, muttering:

 

Pr.:           Some very high up and influential people obviously don’t want knowledge of the Grail reaching the world! We must be warm: I’m sweating.

 

Presenter exits shop, outside she rummages rummages at a lone bric-a-brac table.

 

Pr.:           Where is this Holy Grail?! Where is that Holy Grail?! It must be around here somewhere...

 

 

                     3rd Scene

               

                        Presenter outside on a cobbled street.

 

Pr.:           This is the ancient town of Canterbury Cathedral, the centre of Christianity throughout the entire world. I’ve heard rumours... If King Arthur and the Holy Knights of the Stone Table, who once part-owned the chalice, put the Grail anywhere, or left it lying around somewhere, or buried it somewhere underground somewhere to keep it away from the cats, it’s got to be the holy and ancient Island of Canterbury’s Tales.

                So, I’m here in Canterbury, and remember: I want that cup!

 

                        Presenter accosts an innocent by-stander.

 

Pr.:           Oi! Oi, you! Yeah, you. Come over here!

 

Old Man:   I’m only walkin’ me dog.

 

Pr.:           Wheeere’s my the bloody Holy Grail, you?!

 

Old Man:   Get out of it! Blimin townie.

 

                        Old Man shuffles away.

 

Pr.:           ...Well. If polite curiosity won’t uncover the secrets of our the Holy Grail, then perhaps throwing some money at the situation might prove, well, better!

 

                        Presenter marches into a charity shop.

                        She talks to the Old Lady proprietress.

 

Pr.:           So, Ancient Canterbury, eh? ... I bet this antiques shop is a hotbath of intrigue, incest, and may I see the other of the pair?

 

Presenter holds up a lone, tacky, china shoe.

 

Old Lady:  Well, I don’t quite now what you’re getting at, and this isn’t exclusively an antiques shop... Those most things in here are old...

                       

Old Lady looks at the milling OAP’s.

 

Old Lady:  And no, they don’t come in pairs, so we don’t sell them in pairs.

 

 

 

3 Comments
Mar 22nd

Work in progress, might not continue. Thoughts so far?

By zomb00
As the second-son of a rich nobleman, my career path was pre-determined. My elder brother was to become a knight, and I a monk. On my fifteenth birthday I was sent to Falkirk Abbey. A child of the church.
 
Not unlike the rest of the teenagers at the abbey, I was looking forward to religious life. My mother died giving birth to my younger sister, who survived the birth but was taken by the local priest and murdered. She was a demon, or at least that's what we were told.
 
To be honest, I had my doubts over the validity of this man's claim to my sister's life, but he was a man of the cross, we had to do as he advised, or damnation was the price we'd pay.
 
So, wanting to discover this world of angels and demons I embraced my life at Falkirk abbey with hopeful arms. 
 
My days at the abbey were hard, but educationally rewarding. My tutors taught us Arithmetic, Literature, Numeracy. We were all reading and writing in no time, and once we covered the basics we were taught the stations of the cross and instructed more thoroughly about Christianity. The cost for these invaluable lessons were a few hours in the kitchen and gardens, or some days with the horses in the stables.
 
Our abbey housed no less than fifty monks, and twenty students. However it should be noted that passing knights and other travellers would usually stay a night or two at the abbey, so long as they renounced Satan. . . of course a small donation would not go amiss, and the friar would be sure to supply those who donated with more than just the basic bread and water the less generous would receive. 

It was with these knights that I would learn as much about combat as they would teach me. The abbot - the leader of the abbey - had forbid us from conversing with 'outsiders', but their tales of valour and far-away lands, of Jerusalem and the East - had set my imagination into overload. An insatiable desire to travel filled my spirit, I wanted to be free.

To begin with, the abbot and his discipline committee had sentenced me to two weeks in the kitchen, at half my usual food-rations. Hand-in-hand with this was being forced to recite five-hundred Hail Mary's to cleanse my soul and beg Our Lady for forgiveness.

 It was during this first punishment that I realised, silently at first, that any God vain enough to demand the death of a sinless baby, and also to demand a child to beg for forgiveness for doing something as simple as talking, was not worth devoting my life to pleasing.

  It began to grow obvious to me that I was not alone in this silent rebellion, as other boys were reprimanded over menial offences their enthusiasm and love of Christ was visually diminishing. 

Almost nightly there would be whispers of dissent from one bunk to another, as one-by-one we lost our faith.

It was in Spring, three months after my punishment, that the first of us were beaten. They came in the early hours of the morning, twelve big monks brandishing thick rope and heavy cudgels. They burst our door down and read out two names from a small piece of parchment. 

The first name to be called was Edmund Thorn, but we all knew him as Thorn. He was similar in size to a minotaur from Greek mythology. He had always preferred physical labour such as carrying stone or timber throughout the abbey, or working the mill, and it was reflected in his massive muscles.

The twelve members of the disciplinary committee all seemed to shift their weight from foot to foot, uneasy and nervous upon realising that Thorn was bigger than any of them. 

We knew that the first man to approach Thorn was going to get knocked unconscious by the half-giant, the enforcers seemed to know this too. Personally, I hoped it was Cruncher - the head of the disciplinary committee.  Cruncher was a mean bastard; always keen on hitting anyone even slightly out-of-line, he was always slavering at the mouth begging the abbot to allow him to administer harsher punishments. He had probably came in his pants planning this attack for days.

It was as if Thorn had expected his name to be called. Before the enforcer had pronounced the second syllable of his first name, he was already on his feet and had pulled out a previously concealed wooden bar, possibly a chair or table leg, and now held it high behind his head ready to swing. 'Come on then, you bastards! Let's go!' he roared. 

To this day I have never forgotten the expression of sheer rebellion showing on Thorn's young face, and through his choice of dialogue. 
3 Comments
Mar 21st

Labyyyrinth- Whispering Woods

By Him

                               

 

 

Whissspering Woodsss

                   Laura stands, panting and bloody, in a courtyard. All around her             lie still nuns and gore.

.

(Him:          I suppose you’re right, Laura. We can continue onwards now- but I still don’t think they were Banshees.)

 

L.:               Must’ve been.

 

(Him:           No...)

 

L.:               They were screaming.

 

(Him:          They weren’t carrying knuckle-dusters, though.)

 

L.:               Medusas? Harpies? Ffwitches?

 

Laura gropes forward until encounters a corpse. She kicks it, perhaps to check if it’s alive.

 

(Him:          No...)

 

L.:               Dead now, anyway. All too dead.

 

                   Laura stoops and frisks corpse –a crucifix stabbed into its back.

 

(Her:           Anything good?)

 

L.:               Just some wine... bit of bread...

 

(Him:           Any regrets?)

 

L.:               ...Not that I can feel...

 

(Him:          Anyway, just keep side-stepping to your front ‘til you reach the exit.)

 

Laura walks toward exit, stuffing bread under her over-large, horned- helmet. A lung falls from the horn.

                  Loading environment

                  20% --- 40%---87%

                         Room 17,C

In Seeing Chamber, He and She are at unicorn torso table -Him dressed as an exact Harry Potter replica, his pencil a wand, a limp dick hanging from his forehead:. She’s wearing taped-together NHS granny-specs, a dirty brown-beigy fleece. Master and Slave in background on their black-leather, hoofed chaise-longue.

 

Master:       Take a side-step right, Laura!

 

(L.:              Where am I?)

 

Chamber 17, C is a room with a holiday-snap of a deep chasm pasted to the floor.

Laura is now stood on the only super-imposed square of solid ground graphic.

 

 

(Him:          You’re in a room, in front of you there is a bottomless pit)

 

(Master:      Mmm, m’yes, the Giants Grave Yard. On the other side lies the Whispering Woods! Think carefully, and think fast, my fine and fancy changelings, and...)

 

(Him: ...      ...Yes?)

 

(Master:      ... ... Hurry!)

 

                   In Seeing Chamber Slave stops licking the Master’s thigh-length fur and metal boot, he moves over to Him and Her like the Child Catcher and pokes his head between theirs. They stiffen in distaste and stare fixedly ahead.

 

Slave:          (Violent sibilance) Yesss! The hhh-Whissspering Woodsss! A fell and deadly place, a dell and feadly place, a pell and deadly face, a dell and paedly face. They say that the Woods are full of fear, full of whissspersss!

 

Master:       M’yes, Slave. And quickly, what does the Lore of the Labyyyrtinth tell us of whisperers?

 

Slave:          They’re always whisssperin’ ‘bout you.

 

Her:            How do we get across to the door, Games Master?

 

                   Master looks insulted, Slave snickers.

 

Master:       Hurry, heroes, hurry! You have in your possession a spell which Laura received for services rendered to a cartel of pterodactyls. And did you know? ...

 

                   Him and Her regard the Master.

 

Master:       (Raises his eyebrows enquiringly)...?

 

Him:           ... NO!

 

Master:       Well perhaps you should try listening for a change, stop butting in, answering what are obviously rhetorical questions?!

 

He and She turn away, shaking their heads and tutting in disgust.

 

Master:       M’ah, they learn.

 

(Laura:        So what’s going on? Where am I?)

 

Him:           We’re gonna use an incantation

 

L.:               Go on then.

 

(Him:          Have you still got the scroll?)

 

                   Laura pats herself down.

 

L.:               Can’t feel it. Are you not sure we’ve used it already?

 

(Him:          No.)

 

L.:               “No” you’re not sure, or “Yes” you’re not sure?

 

(Him:          No, I’m not “Not sure”, and “Yes” I’m certain, Laura.)

 

 L.:              ...Have we used the scroll or not?

 

(Him:          She’s bloody lost it!)

 

L.:               Found it! I had it locked into my Pink Princess Flashing Trainer Secret Compartment.

 

Laura bends to unlock her remaining left shoe, her helmet over-balances her to the extent that her helmet is on the ground and Laura is bent double.

 

L.:               Though what secrets a princess might have need to hide I’ve no idea. And a pink princess, even less... And why’s a princess wearing trainers?

 

Laura brings out a scroll: rolled and much-much too large to have come out’ve a shoe. She unrolls it...

 

L:                ...

 

(Her:           Well, c’mon!)

 

Laura:         No, I can’t read that.

 

(Him:          Why? Isn’t it in English? Can you not read it?)

 

(Master:      (Tutting) English? What d’ ye mean, English?)

 

(Him:          (Sighs) Sorry, Realmsian.

 

L.:               No, I can read it, but I’m not gonna.

 

(Her:           Hurry up! Just read it!)

 

L.:               No!

 

(Him:          But, I mean, you’ll have to eventually.)

 

L.:               Maybe, maybe not maybe.

 

(Him:          It’s the only way to get across, Laura. C’mon, do it for the quest, do it for the Labyyrinth! You owe it to the Labyyrinth!

 

L.:               ... I’m raising an eye-brow.

 

(Her:           Move it! There’s no other way.)

 

L.:               Well. Maybe something great will happen if only I hang around doing nothing for a while? ... Yes.

 

(Him:          The only other possible thing that could happen is that one of those failed actors might show up- not that that’s a good thing- and anyway, they’ve usually turned-up by now! So they obviously aint a-comin.)

 

L.:               There you are! That’s one good thing that aimlessly hanging around has achieved for me: peace of mind. If only I just use my patience, well! Who knows what I could achieve?

 

(Him:          Why don’t you just say the incantation, Laura?)

 

L.:               I don’t want to!

 

(Her:           You’re a cow, Laura.)

 

L.:               So’s you’re mommy!

 

(Her:           At least my mother‘s still alive.)

 

L.:               ...What do you mean?

 

(Him:          C’mon, Laura. All you have to do is say the spell and then we can get across here and get into the Whispering Woods!)

 

L.:               I don’t wanna say it! Mommy said never to use language like that and I promised never-ever to, again, and she’d be ever so angry if I did.

 

(Her:           Not where she is now.)

 

L.:               Cow!

 

(Master:      I understand your feelings, hale and hardly adventurette, some sorts of language are disgusting, but your mommy will understand if it’s only this once.)

 

(Her:           So get incantin’, Laura.)

 

L.:               Fine! “Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!”

 

A graphic of a golden span appears. Laura walks across it and appears to be walking thro’ the graphic.

 

(Master:      You mommy doesn’t like magic, Laura?)

 

L.:               That’s Hebrew, Master.

 

Loading Environment

20% - 68% - 90%

Room 97, W.

 

There are stepping-stone graphics,leading to a darkened doorway.

 

L.:              Where am I?

 

(Him:          You’re on another stepping-stone graphic, there are more in-front’ve you, so...

 

In Seeing Chamber the Master and Slave are having a whispered conversation, the chatter of Him and Her becomes faint.

 

Master:       M’aaah, Slave, stepping-stones.

 

Slave:                   Mmmmm...

 

Master:       We first met on stepping stones... Do you remember our first meeting?

 

Slave:          I remember my first meating!

 

Master:       When first mine eye put the clap on you, you were on a stepping-stone. ... You were doing your nails...

 

Slave:          Well, I wasn’t doing my nails, Master: they were far too sharp for that.

 

Master:       Yes, you were filing them.

 

Slave:          ...First.

 

Master:       Oh, thee! Thou and thy double-entendres, thy of the dual meanings! That is why I love you so dearly: being able to fit two into where only one should go.

 

Slave:          (Very sibilant, again) Yesssths, I love ssslipping two meanings into where only one meaning shhhould ssslide, and meaning hasss ssso many meaningsss.

 

They snog: their lips pucker into a tiny ‘o’ and repeatedly peck each other while making a ‘kiss’ sound. Master breaks off and stares into Slave’s eyes.

 

Master:       No... Meaning has only one meaning, surely?

 

Slave:                   ...Meaning?

 

Master:       ... Innuendo?

 

Slave:                   Yesss! Deep in my endo!

 

In the meanwhile He and She have been directing Laura across the stepping-stones. Their voices now become distinct.

 

Him:           ...And-now-side-jump-right!

 

Him and Her give-out a couple of “Yes!”’s, and turn smiling, proud, expectant faces to Master and Slave.

Master and Slave both curl their lips at the children.

The children’s faces fall into angry disbelief; they look at each other and shake their heads in hatred...

 

(Laura:        ... Where am I?)

 

In Seeing Chamber Him, Her, Master, Slave, all curl their lips, shake their heads at one-another regarding Laura.

 

(Laura:        ...Hello)?  

0 Comments
Mar 21st

Labyyyrinth- Onwards!

By Him

Onwards!

A young girl and a young boy are sat at a desk carved from a unicorn torso, behind them stands the Master.

 

M.:                       M’aaah, good evening-tide to you again, Laura,  Daughter of Eve.

 

(L.:                       ...Yeah.)

 

M.:                       All is as it was before, courageous avatar- thou must awaken the Spectre of the Gate and answer his three riddles. So, onwards!

 

Master flourishes arm saying that. The Master is wearing a coat of fur, large furry thigh-length boots, and a ball-gag necklace. His voice is theatrical.

 

(L.:                       Where did you all just go? You were only away for ten minutes this time. Where did you all just go?)

 

M.:                       ... Onwards!

 

Master shakes his fist past cam. Him and Her look in same direction. With their exercise books and quills poised.

 

(L.:                       Where did you gooo? Tell meee!)

 

M.:                       There was a tea-break, avatar. We were on a mystical tea-break.

 

Him:                     We had a warming draught of tar-bean tea, it’s the Elves’specialty.

 

Her:                      I had diet tar-bean tea.

 

(L.:                       I want some Elf tea! Some water...)

 

M.:                       Wouldn’t thou rather hither thyself thither? Thence, wither shalt be the Mystic Pff-Four Seven Form, avataaar?

 

(L.:              I wanna ‘av a tar-bean tea, too, though! And I don’t really think I wanna go to Onwards. I don’t even think I’ll even make it to Level Sixteen, H. I’ve got no Spells, no Health, no friends... nothing.)

 

Her:             You’ve got your one shoe!

 

M.:              Onwards!

 

(L.:              Yeah, one shoe. That blimesome Rogue Pope stole me other one. Blimey mummy-blitherer.)

 

Him:           That’s ’cause you blasphemed him, Laura.

 

(L.:              How in holy hell’m I s’posed to spot which of the Major World Religions he belonged to?!)

 

Him:           By the cut of his jib, Laura.

 

Slave:          By whether or not his jib was cut, Laura.

 

Him:           Anyhoo, Laura, let’s get on with this.

 

He stands and walks to a lectern carved from a mermaid corpse, decapitated above the bust, hacked and bloody, the backs of its palms cup the vanished face; on the neck sits an enormous black patent-leather ledger. He opens it.)

 

Him:           It says “You stand in clearing Three, C: a pair of beauteous silver gates bars your entry onwards. You stop and marvel at the beauty of the wrought silver filigree gates and the grace with which they are chased.”

 

On-screen now is seen Laura- big horned helmet, flashing pink trainer, chainmail- in a virtual reality, in-front of her in the blank room are a few basic grey stripes which could

be the bars of the Gate.

 

Her:            ... Oo! Get a load of the wroughtings on that one!

 

Him:             “But beware! To open these gates you must first summon the Spectre of the Gate with the following incantation, colon, open brackets, Do not be alarmed by his sudden teleportation, close brackets.

Right, Laura, repeat after me: WOOOOO! Woooooooooooo!

 

Laura repeats it. *BANG* Smoke arises in-front of Laura... An old man in black robes plods on, sandles slapping, from Left.

 

Spectre:                Be thou not alarm-ed, for I am the Spectre of the Gate, I guard the way into Onward.

 

L.:                         Well-met, my name is Lorna, and I’m a Labyyrintheerer, I quest for...

 

Sp:                       I will ask ye three Entrance Questions which you must answer, or...

 

L.:                         Correctly?

 

Sp.:                      ...Yes. Or, er, or woe will betide thee! For thine shall be the head in which I shalt bury mine scythe.

 

L.:                         Question Number One, Sceptre.

 

(M.:                      Laura! Do not anger the mighty Sceptre; he is old, and unreliable, and not really allowed to work with children.)

 

Sp.:                      Yes, my tale is a dark and a terrible one, young ace adven-ture-er, it requires a blazing fire and much mead, it is not a tail for thine ears, ye intrepid young questionnaire.

 

L.:                         Onwards!

 

Sp.:                      I have a horrible tale: an affront to the senses, uncomfortable to sit on...

 

L.:                         Just say your lines, and leave.

 

Sp.:                      Question the First: What was the name of King Ethelred’s sword?

 

L.:                         Eureka!

 

Sp.:                       ... I meant to say King James’s sword.

 

L.:                         Oh.

 

Sp.:                      So no, I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer, moppet.

 

L.:                         I meant to say Excalibur, anyway.

 

Sp.:                      Oh... Then, we’ll just waive Question the First.

Question the Second: I breathe fire, but am not a dragon; I can fly but I am not a dragon: and I rhyme with ‘flagon’ but am not a dragon.

 

L.:                         ... Not a question.

 

Sp.:                      What am I?!

 

(Him:                    I could tell ‘im what ‘e is!)

 

(Her:                     Yeah, and it doesn’t rhyme ryme with ‘banker’.)

 

(M.:                      Don’t you dare, you naughty young brave orienteerlings!)

 

L.:                         Are you a dragon?

 

Sp.:                      And Question the Third: How many are there in one furlong?

 

L.:                         Hmmm... erm, do you know?

         

Cam back in Seeing Room. He and She confer.

 

(Sp.:                     Yes.)

 

(L.:                       Not you.)

 

Him:                     Didn’t we get taught this in Year Three? There was a thing we were taught for the better rememberant for the metric system, Mrs. Gren taught us it... Was it ‘anachronism’?

 

He flips thro’ his excercise book; his novelty pencil is a  huge wand, his wizard’s outfit is silly.

 

Her:                      (To Master) Is it anachronism?

 

Master:                 Well think, childers: if he’s asking you the question then why would he know the answer...? Don’t you see? If he doesn’t know the answer then he won’t know if it’s wrong or not. 

 

Him:                     Right, Laura, it doesn’t matter anyway, cause we can just say anything, cause we don’t care what happens, so, say ‘anachronym’.

 

( L.:                      Anna Chronic!)

 

(Sp.:                     Incorrectum. Goodbye! BANG! (Spectre shouts that last word, then plods off Left.

 

(L.:                       ‘Bye.)

 

Him and Her turn to regard the Master, reclining in a black leather hammock. Master regards them blankly. He shakes his head in disbelief at Master, She regards him so, too, then She begins writing in her book, with a nasty facial expression, using her massive peacock-feather quill. She wears an earthy beige dungaree, white blouse underneath and wooden jelly shoes

 

(L.:                       ... Why do I bother?!)

0 Comments
Mar 21st

Labyyyrinth

By Him

        The Weight of the World,

                                      Erm,

                                   Realms

The Master stands in shot: he holds toward the cam. an ornate hand-mirror, in which his face is super-imposed, badly. While the Master in the mirror speaks, the Master listens attentitively.

 

Master:       Mmm’well! So thou art returned to the Labyyrinth, art thy? Need your mystic fix of what we’re sellin’ verily, aintcha? Weeell, goo-evening song to you, and welcome to the dreadmas and perile Realm of the Labyrrinth, where reality, and fiction, are utterly fact. ‘pon my honour, this is, in earnest, the very best place for all you die-hard dungeoners-and-dragoners, for whom the word imaginative is the most imaginative you can imagine, y’ bunch of sojourners, y’.

Art ye looking for excitement? Art thy looking for adventure? Thou art, art  ye? Weeell on this show we’ve more thrills and spills than a rollercoaster crammed with geriatrics.

 

Master begins pacing back and forward, holding the mirror to the cam.

 

Master:       The Labyyrinth’s wide range of puzzles, traps, and out-right attacks are faced by a brave Labyyritheer-er, who must perform feats of heroism to win through the Labyyrinth, or, or die in the attempt. And so, Laura! Our brave and intrepid young wunderkind, Laura? must battle all the horrosities of said Labyyrinth in order to complete her Quest to retrieve the mystic Pff-Four-Seven Form from the top of the Tower of Murder, in the depths of the Forest of Evil, and she’s only nine! Using this mystic Form, Laura can save our Realm by ordering financial ruin the blood-thirsty United Unicorn Emirates who have recently mobilized a mighty one-pronged attack force with which to decimate to literally ribbons all the folk of all the Realms.

 

In the hand-mirror the Master gestures with his index-finger for the viewer to come a little closer. The standing Master obligingly puts the mirror next to his ear.

 

Master:       (Whispering) Well, it seems that the Unicorn Emirates were angered by the near genocide of its race at the hands of hunters, who can sell the Uni’s corn for literally large amounts. This is due to its miraculous properties such as granting wishes and coping with erectile dysfunction, oh yes! But not in that way, of-course, it has to be ground down first. If Laura can complete her Quest, the Oonicorn Nation will fall! We won’t live in fear! And we can all get on with our decoratin’.

 

Master indicates a mounted Unicorn head, some of its horn is missing.

 

Mirror-Master:     But shh! Act normal! Someone’s scrying on us!

 

Master:       Hoh! M’well, and guiding the little adventurina through this a-maze-ing hyper-reality are her two “Brave Advisors”.

 

                             Master physically apostrophises those words.

 

Master:       (Gestures) Him, and her.

 

At the Unicorn desk are sat a boy in a pointy wizard’s hat and a bran-flake for a wart, and a grubby ginger girl in cheap plastic NHS spec’s.

 

Master:       What can you tell us about this absolute pair of, then, Slave?

                  

Slave scuttles over to Him and Her.

 

Slave:                   Edgar Bedfellow, and Maaaud, both nine,

 

                             Slave is going through their pockets.

 

Slave:          Both hail from Promptly-in-the-Mouth, in Middlesexxx. Their Labyyrintheer-er is Laur-er, er, also nine. They’ve somehow reached Level Fourteen, B, and now they are heading for the Wizard’s Tower. Laura carries with her: Gold? None. Magic Spells? One: “Suicide”. Her Health Rating? Poorly-ill. They were frozen in time just after Laura’s noble bare-knuckle fight with a Vicar.

 

         

Master:       Come.

 

Master gestures for the Slave to unzip his thigh-length rubber-and-fur boot. After Slave has removed it from the Master the Master chucks it off-cam. A metallic collision is heard then an electrical hum starts up.   

                             Children are un-frozen and speak to Laura.

 

Him:           Right, after that fight with the Vicar, Laura, you’re now standing in a thing, I think it’s supposed to be a... garden or a graveyard...

 

Laura:         Hello, Edgar! How are you?

 

(Him:          Yeah, well the fight decreased your Health- in fact, on your Ceefax Factfile Info Page it’s got your Health down as one of the quite low ratings: Polio. So before you go any further you should eat something in order to get your Health up.)

 

(Her:            What about those two fishees she fought the Vicar for?)

 

Laura:         They smell bad!

 

(Her:           Just eat them, Laura. That should increase your Health Rating to high enough to satisfy Social Services.)

 

Laura:         So ‘dead’, then?

 

(Her:            Do it!)

 

Laura, in a huge horned-helmet, baggy chain-mail jumper, filthy, bloody, ripped lime leggings, and one flashing pink trainer. From the Thundercats lunch box she pulls out two green pieces of slime.

 

Laura:         Errr! Eeeerrr...

 

                             Laura retches as she forces them under her Helmet.

Harp-strings are plucked magically, then abruptly and unskilfully silenced.

 

(Him:           That means that you’re healthy again, Laura, you feel better now.)

 

Laura:         I don’t.

 

(Her:           Right, Laura, we’ll guide you to the exit now, so: take two side-steps right, then turn to you front left.)

 

                             Laura does so.

 

(Her:           And now just keep side-stepping to our North-East.)

 

Laura walks through the darkened doorway, and the screen is blank.

  

  “Loading Environment

                                       20%-40%-88%

                                        Chamber 2, Z”

 

Her              (Together)... You’re in a...

(Laura:        (Together)...Hello?)

 

                             Pause.

 

Her:             (Together)...In a...

 

(Laura:        (Together)...Sorry...)

 

                             She angrily taps pencil, mutters. Pause.

 

Her:             (Together)...In a...

 

(Laura:        (Together)...Hello?)

 

Him:           You stand in a large, flagstoned, mullioned, crennalated scullery, Laura, a classic example of neo-realmsian architecture, it has three exits.

 

Laura:         Which one shall we take?

 

(Him:          Well, if we call the door to your left ‘door one’, and then the door dead-facing you next to the door one ‘door two’, and etcetera, etcetera, etceteraaah... and the door to your right ‘the door to your right, then it’ll all be a lot easier for us to guide you.)

 

(Her:            How’s that a scullery? There isn’t even a maid.)

 

Laura:         Well, I think a person should always choose the right path, don’t you? Because, of course, just in case it’s a trick question, in so far as they might have made the right door the right door, and, and, three is a lucky number, and, on the right hand of go-od sits Jesu’ itself.

 

(Him:          Well, what advice did the fair fairy Spoin Groonerism give us after she told us about how to find the fabled Verdigris Filigree Non-descript Key?)

 

                             Him and Her consult exercise books.

 

 

(Her:            She saaaid, “The Key’d lead us to the Magician’s Tower”.)

 

(Him:           Then she said, “That’s all I know.”)

 

(Her:            Then she said “Please, please, just end it.”)

 

Laura:         Then that thing about her having a family, noble lineage, cursed me to never take the right path... Then she... Then she...

 

There is a guilty silence as the children remember what happened then...

 

(Him:          ...The right path, the right path! Don’t you see?! Didn’t you hear her?!)

 

(Her:           ...Yes... Yes! ... Did you?)

 

(Him:           Then let’s do it!!!)

 

(Her:            (Excited) Right, Laura- chaaarge!)

 

(Him:          No!...)

 

Laura charged, Laura falls to an epically graceless heap on the floor as she encounters the unmentioned rotating dais which guards the exits.

 

Laura:         Wha’ in hell?!

 

Him:            Right, Laura, you’re on a sort of rotating dais...

 

Master:       Mmmmmmmmmm’ah! Mmyes! M’rotatin’ dais, m’eh?

 

Slave has been fanning Master with a stiff, dead fairy. Master stands, dropping Slave to heap on floor (“Ow! Mmmm...” )

 

M:               This rotais could be alot of trouble in the wrong hands; a very tricky situation for you, young adventure-scouts. For if Laura were to fall off the rotais and into the surroundin’ bottomless pit she could die, or lose an eye!

 

Her:             ...How?

 

Master:       M’yes, I can see your points, m’ vienetta. Well, know this: there exists in the Realms a race known as Sword Elves! Elves shaped like swords, d’ya get it? Prolly made of metal, too, I reckon. They are peace-loving and shun man-kind, living by themselves in bottomless pits, which is unfortunate for so peace-loving a race, and for those unfortunates who plummet.

 

Her:             ...But where do they live in a bottomless pit?!

 

Master:       ...Why, at the bottom.

 

Master walks toward a dresser, piled high with things: crystals, manuscripts, butt plugs...

 

Master:       If only someone brave and wise could do something to help you. If only someone wise and handsome could give you a talisman to aid Laura in this, her half-hour of need...

 

Master selects something from the dresser and furtively puts it into his pocket.

                             He turns and scowls at the watching children.

 

Master:       (Angrily) M’yess?!

 

                             Him and Her turn away.

 

(Her:           Get up, Laura, this rotais is gonna be a bit tricky on your balance, so I think we should have a quick practice, just so’s we get our bearings.)

 

(Him:           Or we could just...)

 

(Her:            (Whispered) No, watch this!

Okay, Laura? I’m gonna need you to practice your balance, so take a side-step forwards... Now a side-step sidewards...Take a side-step back... That’s it: forward, sidewards, back...)

 

                             Laura is waltzing.

 

(Her:           Now put your hands on your hips...)

 

(Master:      Childers, childers, there isn’t time for this! The Banshees control this part of the Labyyrinth, and you know that they swore a blood-oath to take revenge on you because of how Laura ruined their picnic.)

 

Laura:         Can I stop now?

 

(Her:           You’ll continue until I’ve finished explaining the plan. Right, well, you know you’re on a rotais. Right?)

 

Laura:         (Still broadly waltzing) Yeeeah?

 

(Her:           And you know that to get to an exit you’ll havta step off the rotais and onto the path that leads to the door?)

 

Laura:         (Arms held out for balance) Yeeeah?

 

(Her:           And you know that if you put a foot wrong you’ll plummet to your...)

 

Laura:         (Stops waltzing) Right.

 

(Him:          So when I say run, you run. So just concentrate cause this is an epic moment.)

 

Slave:          (Shaking the children) Yesss, h-whiper-sssnappersss, Laura is in a grave of danger, en it? Loss of limb and innocence, if the Banshees catch up with you, they always forget, but they never forgive. Make hassste, Laura, make hatsss!

 

(Laura:        Er, why’s he talking to me? Just tell me when to move.)

 

Him:            ...Okay...

 

Slave:          (Shaking children’s shoulders) Hats, childings, the time isss ripe for the plucking!

 

Him:            (Shaking Slave off cissily) Okay, Laura...

 

                             Slave scuttles over to Master, paws at him.

 

Slave:                    Master! Master! Matser! The time, the hecking tiiime...

 

Master:       M’yes? What is it?

 

Slave:                    It’s ripe, Master!

 

Master:       ...Right?

 

Slave:                    MATSER!

 

Master:       What is it??

 

Slave:                   Plucking!

 

(Him:           ...Now!)

 

Laura runs as directed, veers off the intended path, walks across bottomless pit graphic, and through the left door.

                             Screen goes blank.

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Mar 20th

Writersworld

By Writersworld
WRITERSWORLD a leading book publisher in self-publishing, print-on-demand books and book reprints in the United Kingdom that also issues the ISBN in the author's name, pays the author 100% of the royalties and supplies the author with copies of their books at print cost.
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