tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15077334146638689942024-02-22T13:58:30.869-08:00TheLifeDyslexicBlogA short story and poem blog written by a writer with dyslexiaTheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-5877464172628895322024-02-15T15:11:00.000-08:002024-02-15T15:11:21.200-08:00The Oldest Tree in the Forest<p> Welcome back to another short story. I ve been a little behind writing stories so they may not be a monthly on the blog again for a bit. I getting back into swing of writing so when I have more 'in the can' I will post more regularly. In meantime enjoy The Oldest Tree in the Forest.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqt9PCGrQ9x1gVli0GTDjGpzHc2IGAH8Rh2ICQOBXY9E5UgmDYDqcr0aorpy62p7hQzv9C3XjExPvzuNx2heajyJeVbJ_B4A4c1D7qsUXoMV-_9LpusXwu2hMrUTxoBWYdXjIOXwdO1kZDPn5fsJ7ZDuvdnfKdculTilpW3HXUcTNnWyL5UH-oZX_X1Fk/s400/Blog%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqt9PCGrQ9x1gVli0GTDjGpzHc2IGAH8Rh2ICQOBXY9E5UgmDYDqcr0aorpy62p7hQzv9C3XjExPvzuNx2heajyJeVbJ_B4A4c1D7qsUXoMV-_9LpusXwu2hMrUTxoBWYdXjIOXwdO1kZDPn5fsJ7ZDuvdnfKdculTilpW3HXUcTNnWyL5UH-oZX_X1Fk/s320/Blog%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b>The Oldest Tree in the Forest</b><p></p><p>‘It was tradition upon completing their apprenticeship, that the new woodcutter carved their name into the oldest tree in the forest.’ said the grey haired Woodcutter as he placed hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘and you, my boy, have the great privilege to start a new mighty tree. The tree I, and woodcutters before me, carved our names into fell in a storm the winter you were born. This tree grew in the clearing it left.’ The old woodcutter pointed to the lone youthful oak standing bold and strong in the summer sun. It had grown well and was holding its own in the forest. The young man stepped towards the tree, it was only now that it dawned on him that one day, he would become the master of the forest. He hesitated, took a deep breath and accepted the responsibility that would come. When that time came conflict also came to the kingdom. </p><p>The new woodcutter was asked to take more from the forest than he was comfortable with. Defences needed to be built. Of all the trees he took form he never touched the one in the clearing he carved his name into. As the seasons come and went, new growth began. Years turned to decades, during which several wildfires swept through the forest, however his tree remained standing. By the time the forest fully recovered four new generations of woodcutter had carved their names into that tree. It was now a towering oak, a father figure to the newer new growth around it.</p><p>Providence did not provide the current Woodcutter with her own child, so she taught her nephew the ways of the woodcutter, which trees to fell for conservation purposes, which trees to manage and which tree never too touch. Not long after he had completed his apprenticeship and carved his name into the now mighty oak, the nephew took on the responsibility of the Woodcutter. One day this Woodcutter took his daughter to see the oldest tree in the forest.</p><p>‘It has to be done.’ The Woodcutter’s internal voice justified out loud as he gazed wistfully up at the enormous oak that reached high into the blue sky. Black fungus strings wrapped and twisted across its branches and across of the flaking bark. The lush green leaves that once covered it’s canopy were either pockmarked with holes or covered in with brown spots.</p><p>‘It’s just another tree.’ came the innocent voice of the Woodcutter’s daughter. ‘You’ve cut down lots of tress before.’</p><p>‘This is more than a tree. This tree is history. This is the oldest tree in the forest. It has seen the passing of many seasons…’ The Woodcutter continued as he circled the tree lost in his memories. ‘…I spent a summer climbing this tree. Once I got to the top as the sun was setting and I was stuck up there all night. When I was your age there was a swing on a large limb that hung out over the river. I wanted to push you upon it as my father had done with me, however the branch came down in a storm the winter you were born.’</p><p>‘Then why cut it down Father...’ the child’s voice pulled the woodcutter back to precent. </p><p>‘It has to be done. Nature is telling us its time.’ The Woodcutter swept his hand across the mulchy fungus.</p><p>‘…why not let nature take its course.’</p><p>‘We could leave nature to take its course, but if by chance it falls that way…’ the Woodcutter pointed with his axe. ‘...it would dam the river. We must also control it’s fall so it doesn’t take out any other trees.’</p><p>For a week Freya and the Woodcutter worked on the oldest tree in the forest, cutting off its branches until it was just a lonesome trunk. For Freya this was the beginning of her apprenticeship. When they were done the Woodcutter swung his axe deep into the base of the tree and carefully hacked out a wedge shaped split. There was a mournful crack followed by a load thud. The forest fell silent. </p><p>Placing a hand upon the trunk the Woodcutter whispered, ‘Goodbye old friend.’ </p><p>‘You said it had to be done.?’</p><p>‘Yes.’ the Woodcutter replied, his tone shifting to a more optimistic outlook ‘It is the way of things. This fallen fellow will still be home many creatures and critters. In time it will break down and feed the forest floor. This clearing will generate new life. A shoot, a sapling will grow and become the youngest tree in the forest. In time new mighty tree will rise.’</p><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-35905018509317940202023-12-10T04:05:00.000-08:002023-12-10T04:05:22.164-08:00The Scratch Kitchen <p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Merry Christmas. This year's short story is very traditional Christmas story and was inspired by this moment for last year : <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=goHHpWTpIzM" target="_blank">Moment Rishi Sunak asks homeless person 'do you work in business?'</a> As you read The Scratch Kitchen see if you can also find the four hidden Christmas songs in the test.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhf8SaA2AlvgF3YkDkg8aD4X1B-YOC3z1kG7I-Bw8QbGz1R5e2yQZKUeu_u4xeU7MPVmFs5XCRo3Txexid4sZeXgp90DGscU0nqu48fJJh3zVZNb9z4EJJYWC-041_eWxxO_QBmlzUxk2NiDfXHeAuZ4qQrJEF6QDxffDfKLfU-KWh71GiugyVnIB9Ls/s408/Blog%20Xmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="408" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhf8SaA2AlvgF3YkDkg8aD4X1B-YOC3z1kG7I-Bw8QbGz1R5e2yQZKUeu_u4xeU7MPVmFs5XCRo3Txexid4sZeXgp90DGscU0nqu48fJJh3zVZNb9z4EJJYWC-041_eWxxO_QBmlzUxk2NiDfXHeAuZ4qQrJEF6QDxffDfKLfU-KWh71GiugyVnIB9Ls/s320/Blog%20Xmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Scratch Kitchen </span></b><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What a pleasant surprise’ said Scratchit, as the Mayor, and his entourage swept in. To Robert Scratchit, the owner of The Scratch Kitchen, the Mayor’s arrival was neither a surprise nor pleasant. He had known about the visit a week ago when security personnel swept his converted boatshed on the lower dockside of Manhattan. The publicity stunt had to be on Christmas Eve, one of the Scratch Kitchen’s busiest days, because charity work looked good at Christmas.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘This is my old friend Bertie Scratchit.’ announced the Mayor mugging for the cameras. ‘ I went to Cornell University with this great guy.’ The gangly, apron wearing Scratchit cringed as the rotund, suited, robe of office wearing Mayor swung an arm around his shoulder and squeezed him close. As photos where taken the Mayor asked; ‘Tell us what you do to help your community?’ The question was condescending. Robert took a calming breath and proceeded to explain how his small community kitchen made scratch meals from discarded food from supermarkets and local restaurants. The ingredients varied daily, depending on availability, although the menu stayed the same; Scratch Pot Casserole, Scratch Soup of the Day and Scratch Bagels.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘These folk won’t get a proper Christmas meal. The nearest they’ll get is any cold leftovers donated on the 27th. Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?’ mused Scratchit as he concluded.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Ignoring Scratchit’s closing question the Mayor announced, with far too much enthusiasm, ‘Let’s get these people fed.’. First at the counter was a scrawny youth.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What brings you here young man?’ asked the Mayor as he grandly ladled out soup for the cameras.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Fees, bills and food prices.’ <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Sorry to hear that,’ came a patronising reply ‘hope things improve.’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Fred is training to be a doctor.’ said Robert Scratchit proudly as the teenager took a seat. ‘He does two jobs, just to make ends fall short.’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">The Mayor smiled as if half remembering something ‘Those where the good old days.’ <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a loud splat as a spoon full of thick yellow liquid hit the floor. Scratchit had missed the next customers bowl with the shock of the Mayor’s statement. ‘Good old days?’ he snapped ‘…I remember nothing good about being behind the bread line. There is no fairy tale of New York for some.’ <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We made it didn’t we. He just needs to work a little harder.’ A tray clanged on the counter.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Scratch Pot’ intoned a deep guff voice.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘This is Tiny Tom…’ said Scratchit, changing the subject by introducing the man mountain looming over them ‘…One of our regulars.’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You serving or yapping?’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We have a visitor today Tom.’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Pleased to meet you?’ said the Mayor as he ladled out meat chunks, carrot cubes and onions swimming in gravy.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You the man who put me out of work last Christmas. Not standing up for local shop owners.’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘But the bypass was…’ began the Mayor as he scooped up more casserole. However Tiny Tom had walked off leaving his tray behind.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Eighty years his family ran that shop. Gone within a week.’ said Scratchit talking more directly to the next customer as a way of avoiding eye contact with the Mayor. Behind Tiny Tom was a white haired figure desperately trying to look smart in ill-fitting clothes. The Mayor’s expression revealed relief at thinking he had seen a familiar face.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Mayor Marley ?’ he asked only half recognising his unkempt predecessor. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘No, I am the ghost of your Christmas yet to come.’ chuckled the grizzled old man. ‘it’s just Joshua Marley these days.’ <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What brings you here?’<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘No one will employ me. No one trusts me in the community. My name is blacklisted. So will yours be.’ The Mayor made an excuse and departed early from the Scratch Kitchen engagement. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Once the Mayor had left Robert thought he would not be seeing his onetime friend again. To his surprise he found the Mayor waiting outside the Scratch Kitchen when he came to open up on Christmas morning. Instead of wearing the impractical suit of yesterday the Mayor was dressed in well wore jeans and a faded red Christmas jumper. There was not a camera crew in sight. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Merry Christmas Bob. I am here to help’ said the Mayor before Bob Scratchit could speak.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Mayor…Scrooge!’ stammered Sratchit with a mix of shock and bemusement in equal measure.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I was driving home for Christmas yesterday and I realised I should be doing more for these people beyond cheap publicity stunts. I asked myself; What could I do to make their Christmas better? So, I went shopping…’ Mayor Scrooge gestured for Scratchit to look into the collection of bulging bags sat in the snow. Inside one was a giant goose, another was packed with winter root vegetables and another had a large Christmas pudding and boxes of mince pies. ‘…and I intend to make a difference moving forward. Charity is not just for Christmas.’ Mayor Scrooge was as good as his word. From that day forth Bob Scratchit was proud to call Mayor Scrooge not just a friend of the Scratch Kitchen but also a friend to the community.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Written by Owen Kowalski</div><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-75094927794979229402023-10-25T10:17:00.002-07:002023-10-28T03:38:42.565-07:00The White Horse<p> It's that time of year again. It's Halloween and good excuse for ghost story and since had not done any real writing for a few months it seemed like good idea to set my self a challenge. To be honest I had few ideas bouncing around, however ideas do not a story make. After getting to work and taking inspiration for some real experiences to wrote this story: The White Horse.</p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTMEvEFu47IPiSJpYa9_wj9-eZl3SQcG5t95p5XwF63uMTu-BFuRxQdCJ7i-y5O3d50fYpNb_yz6LLSly9jVqg77oCZcU4mGJ0z5bhqMqlci0Ph6ZlEJ-nwzfgVsmKO0y9B7W4ckPOrXkQ7SeyheGJko9LfMTETRdNkzouyaPnrEflbs2IYOOoSWew_Q/s622/The%20White%20Horse.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="622" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTMEvEFu47IPiSJpYa9_wj9-eZl3SQcG5t95p5XwF63uMTu-BFuRxQdCJ7i-y5O3d50fYpNb_yz6LLSly9jVqg77oCZcU4mGJ0z5bhqMqlci0Ph6ZlEJ-nwzfgVsmKO0y9B7W4ckPOrXkQ7SeyheGJko9LfMTETRdNkzouyaPnrEflbs2IYOOoSWew_Q/s320/The%20White%20Horse.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The White Horse</span></b><p></p><p>As you might recall, earlier this month, I took a few days off around my birthday. For some of those days I went up to the Raven Valley Railway for their 1920s themed Steam Gala. It was a chance to get away from it all, relax and perhaps begin writing my annual ghost story for Halloween. As it was, there was little need for me to write a ghost story as one found me. </p><p>Each morning of the steam gala the Raven Valley Railway ran a breakfast train, where you could have a full cooked English breakfast, in the comfort of the dining carriage, as the train chuffed the hour from Abbott’s Witch to the station at Hammer Falls, calling at Stoker, Church Barrow and Red Raven Cottage. This was an experience I looked forward too. Places were allocated on a first come first seated basis so it was best to be in the queue waiting at around 8am for 9am departure. Saturday’s breakfast passed without incident, I was sat with a family of three, to make up space on a table for four. They were pleasant enough company and the hour passed in friendly conversation. On Sunday I was placed on a table for two and found myself joined by a rotund, rugged faced, Rhode Island American. He wore a light brown herringbone three piece tweed suit, a century out of style, with a matching bowler hat, and carried a cane. He placed the hat and cane on the luggage rack above before squeezing himself into the rear facing seat.</p><p>A whistle and slamming of doors was followed by a clatter as the train rumbled forward. As it chugged towards Stoker tea or coffee was served. I took tea, my table companion took coffee, black. As the rhythmic rat-a-tap of rails increased in frequency and the locomotive picked up speed the American asked ‘And what do you do?’ </p><p>‘I am a writer.’ I replied. The next question was as obvious as it was inevitable.</p><p>‘and what do you write?’</p><p>‘Ghost stories.’ I waited for the predictable response. </p><p>‘I know a ghost story…’ There it was. ‘…You heard the story of Shamus Dullahan?’ I hadn’t, however before I could say anything the American began. ‘Shamus Dullahan, Belfast born, Boston bred and as big as a bear’ He emphasised the height by hovering his right hand above his head. ‘He rode this route every morning back when there was a real early morning service railroad. He always took a compartment and always sat with his back to the locomotive. Always liked to see where he came from. On that morning the locomotive was the 3110 Crazy Horse, the very one that pulls this train today.’</p><p>He's pulling my leg I thought, then as if he had read my mind the American said ‘You might think I am pulling your leg, spinning you a yarn. The Crazy Horse ran on this line back in the day, it’s now stationed at this vintage railroad. Why would it not be running on this day here and now?’ As I tried to find fault in his logic my mind conceded that coincidences do happen.</p><p>‘Now on that day, almost a hundred years ago, it wasn’t like today. Today is…what is it you Brits say? Today is very Autumny.’</p><p>‘Autumnal’ I corrected as I noticed the morning sun giving the burnt orange and golden yellow leaves, outside, a warm cosy fireplace like glow.</p><p>‘Yes, that’s the word…’ he said as he aggressively buttered a slice of toast. ‘…anyway, back then it wasn’t that. On that day it was a thick damp drizzle. Not quite rain, yet more than mist. It hung in the air. The world outside had that washed out dirty dishwater grey gloom look.’</p><p>As we approach the station at Church Barrow hot plates where swiftly followed by hot food; bacon, beans, sausages, sautéed potato and scrambled eggs. No mushrooms for me. My breakfast brethren had everything. As he cut up his food, stabbing the chunks with his fork, he continued his story ‘It was somewhere here just after Church Barrow where Shamus Dullahan first caught sight of it. It.’ He repeated the word with greater emphasis. ‘That thing that would follow. The train had stopped for some signal, or something, and as he gazed out the window Shamus caught a movement amongst the black, bleak and twisted trees of the wood.’ I instinctively looked out of the window, the wood stretched back and up over a rise. Even on a clear day there was something foreboding about it’s inner realm of dappled shade and shadows. ‘At first, Shamus thought it was a ripped canvas or sheet. Gypsies and hobos were known to frequent the wood. Perhaps a tent or wagon covering had torn free in the winds. Yet as he watched it, he saw it could not have been a canvas. For it moved independently from the wind. There was an animalistic crawl to its movement. It had legs, for it crept with purpose. It had an ill-defined body that was hunched in a menacing posture. It had a head, or what passed for one, that turned and peered. It was moving closer and closer. As it came nearer to where the wood buffered the edge of the railroad the sheet creature began morphing, coalescing into a shape. Into a familiar form. The form of a horse. A white horse. Defused by the mist the horse appeared ethereal and due to the lay of the land it seemed to be floating. The train lurched and the animal disappeared from view, but not for long.’</p><p>‘More tea or coffee?’ asked one of the waiters. We both accepted. The interruption over the American pressed on with his story. ‘Shamus next saw the White Horse in the field opposite Red Raven Cottage…’ The station was named after the derelict farmhouse that stood in the centre of that field. Burnt down by witches it was said. ‘…As passengers embarked and alighted at that station, Shamus got a better look at the animal. The horse was as white as bone, even its ears, mane and tail. No colour variation at all. Pure as fresh fallen snow. Now, Shamus was a man who knew his horses, yet he wasn’t sure of the breed he watched. It was difficult to judge. It was obviously a thoroughbred crossed with something, some big and monstrous stallion, a warhorse. It was built like a tank and was pacing the border of the field, like a caged panther on the prowl. There was something unsettling yet captivating about it. A majestic mysterious beauty to the beast. Shamus could not take his eyes off the White Horse as the train pulled away.</p><p> ‘Extra sausages, bacon or mushrooms?’</p><p>‘Pardon?’ I replied somewhat distracted. ‘Yes, thank you...’ I followed up quickly, after realising what was on offer. ‘…just sausages.’ The American took second helpings of everything, he also took thirds when the remains of the left over bacon passed by again. ‘Now, Shamus Dullahan was a rational man…’he said as he bit off a lump of sausage and chewed it as he spoke. ‘…and in his mind, at that moment, Shamus saw no cause for concern. Sure, he had seen something odd in the wood, but mist can play tricks on a man. As for that horse in that field there would be a rational explanation for its behaviour. There had to be. There must be. His mind forbid consideration of any other alternatives.’ </p><p>‘Its was here, this signal box coming up…’ The American tapped on the window with his fork. ‘…that’s where he next saw the horse and where his mind became concerned. There he saw a tall, hooded figure in a blood red cloak strapping a saddle upon the beast. By now it was lashing with rain. From what he could see the man wore the khaki uniform of a soldier. He had seen enough of them pass through his stables. He only saw the figure for a moment. It was only a glimpse, as the carriage rattled passed, but it was enough to bring on a shiver as the train entered Scully’s tunnel.’ With alarming serendipity our train too entered the exact same tunnel. A hush fell across the dining car.</p><p>The American leaned across the table and said , in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘It was here in the dark…’ he gestured with his fork again ‘…that it dawned on Shamus Dullahan that the horse was coming for him, and he was right. As they exited the tunnel in a blast of whistle and steam, there it was, racing up beside the train, gaining. Now Shamus could see the horse’s true nature, it was an albino, its red eyes ablaze with a raging fire, nostrils flaring, foaming at the mouth. On its back rode the hooded soldier. Shamus strained to get a look at the rider’s face, however the remorseless rain and limited light obscured his view. The rider was a predator chasing down his prey and Shamus knew he was that prey. The horse’s thundering hoofs reverberated through the carriage as they pounded down the dirt track. The rushing air flung the rider’s hood back. The soldier was headless. Shamus could hear his heartbeat pulse in his ears as it thumped in time with the steam engine. A furnace of fear burnt in his gut. His fingers where like pistons as he repeatedly clenched his hands. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Shamus was glad to be in the relative safety of his compartment, although this seemed only temporary as the headless horseman banged a gloved fist against the window. The white horse grimaced with agony as the locomotive began to outpace the straining supernatural stallion. </p><p>A final round of tea or coffee was offered. I declined, the American took a cup of coffee, drank it swiftly, before finishing his story. ‘It was with a screech and a shunt, that the train finally pulled into Hammer Falls and Shamus breathed out. Pulling himself together he disembarked. He just needed to make it across the covered concourse and out of the station, then he knew he would be safe. Well, he guessed he would be safe, he couldn’t be sure. There was a prolonged hiss as the Crazy Horse vented a huge cloud of steam. Off in the distance there was the sound of hoofs clipping concrete. The sound grew louder and louder. Out of the plume of expanding steam rode the headless soldier upon the White Horse. He was charging straight at Shamus Dullahan. Shamus froze in horror as the horse rose up with a demonic cry and enveloped him. The blood drained from his head as he dropped to the floor, dead. The translucent horse and phantom rider then dissolved into the October rain.’</p><p>There was a shunt and a clang as our train also pulled into Hammer Falls. Now our journey is at an end, you dear reader, are probably thinking that my breakfast companion was the ghost of Shamus Dullahan or even that of the headless horseman himself. However, he was neither. He was just a stranger on the train. He ate sausages, drank black coffee and conversed with the staff. He was just a man, a man who had come in period specific costume for the day. As for his tale of Shamus Dullahan, a little research brought the following article to light, it read as follows;</p><p>‘Yesterday…’ That being 31st October 1923 ‘…Renowned racehorse owner Shamus Dullahan collapsed and died on platform 2 of Hammer Falls. This coming only two days after he was cleared of all charges pertaining to insurance fraud and arson. The blaze, last year, that destroyed his stables, resulted in the total loss of all his prize horses. Cause of death, at time of going to press, is unknown.</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Feedback, comments and reviews welcome.</i></p><p>Supporting Links:</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KngJqvHQAkQ">The Real Headless Horseman</a><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2xHGJAIWWA" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The Messed Up Origins of The Dullahan | Celtic Folklore Explained</a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHRpeFhYDAs">The Origins of The Headless Horseman - (Exploring the Stories Behind the Legend)</a><o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-23695618285023209222023-08-26T14:54:00.000-07:002023-08-26T14:54:00.471-07:00This Train Doesn’t Stop There Anymore<p> Welcome back, sorry it's been a few months since the last short story blog post, I ve been dealing with some personal stuff and not been in the right head space to write. Due to this the may be few less regular blog content over the next few months as I get back into the spring of things. This story was inspired an episode of the Twilight Zone and I was going thought.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MQIO0IhhYNRhtr9I6XQUF7WjV7bR6jK6hTAYTga9JzuyZAwG23zchiADpeq1t9OR_2B-Me-_DILzt22oCrQxMQAt-kOvqfCjfjw1VGMs3bgwRWrS3CFB8j128BgGIre6qfioF_XUF3GK7ZkZn0f_C8LEubCltcx2nC1O9w04JgTGk062ao8cnwzQqzw/s400/Blog%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MQIO0IhhYNRhtr9I6XQUF7WjV7bR6jK6hTAYTga9JzuyZAwG23zchiADpeq1t9OR_2B-Me-_DILzt22oCrQxMQAt-kOvqfCjfjw1VGMs3bgwRWrS3CFB8j128BgGIre6qfioF_XUF3GK7ZkZn0f_C8LEubCltcx2nC1O9w04JgTGk062ao8cnwzQqzw/s320/Blog%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>This Train Doesn’t Stop There Anymore</b></p><p>Every morning Willoughby would catch the 06:02 from platform 3. The train was empty at that time in the morning. It was an hour long ride to work, then a 30 minute walk to the office where Willoughby had worked for over a decade. What he did he could not define these days. It was all emails, phone calls and virtual meetings. He missed the days when he actually talked to colleagues in person, where clients wanted things in triplicate and where paperwork expanded to fill his desk. These days he was sure he could go to work in his pyjamas and no one notice. As the train clipped and clattered along the track, he would contemplate the workday ahead and review the discussions and meetings form yesterday. He would dwell on the decisions and circumstances that had led to downsizing of staff and the increase of ever workloads all round. </p><p>To take his mind off work he would start the crossword in The Times. ‘Three down, a deep or considered thought or overthinking about something. R something. something, something N, A something, something O, N.’ As he pencilled in word ‘rumination’ the compartment door slide open and the conductor poked his head in ‘Tickets please.’ The conductor was a tubby middle-aged fellow with a permanent smile and jolly demeanour. He was man who clearly enjoyed his work, it rubbed Willoughby up the wrong way. ‘Next stop Tempus Halt if you want to get off and stretch your legs. We will be stopped for 10 to 15 minutes. Got to wait on the signals and express to pass.’ It was the same one sided conversation every day. Willoughby returned to his crossword until the train wheezed to a stop at the station.</p><p>Tempus Halt was a single platform station with a small red brick building in the centre of the concourse, the two flower beds either side, always in bloom. Metallic signs for Birds Custard, Colman’s Mustard and Lyons Tea and strings of bunting all spoke of the simpler time. It remined Willoughby of his childhood. He would step off and stroll the platform until the whistle was blown.</p><p>Willoughby would return to his compartment, slump back into his seat, head resting against the window. As the train raced onwards, Willoughby would drift off into an anxiety ridden sleep, full of the worst case scenarios about the day ahead. The blast of the train’s whistle would jolt him awake as it thundered out of the tunnel. He would arrive in work miserable weighted down with discontent and disinterest hanging over him. The day would drag.</p><p>Everyday was the same, until one day Willoughby found a stranger sitting in his compartment. A bulky brooding figure dressed in dark hooded robes. The stranger was hunched over puffing on a pipe as he restrained a large back mongrel. Smoke choked the air. As Willoughby walked down the train to find another seat, he found the other compartments occupied and other carriages standing room only. They where full of relentless nonsensical chatter. The endless talking bored into his brain as he sought for silence. As futile frustration set in, he passed through the dining car. Finding it empty he decided to stop for breakfast; bacon, eggs, sausage and beans, no mushrooms. He enjoyed it so much he went for breakfast the next day. That day he found there was a father and his young girl also eating breakfast in there. They sat at the other end of the carriage so Willougby ignored them. On the third day child ran down and began telling Willoughby all her knowledge about the characters in Thomas the Tank Engine. When the girl’s father came to rescue Willoughby from onslaught of information , he stopped ‘Time crossword?’ the man asked. </p><p>‘Yes.’ came Willoughby’s reply. The two quickly fell into conversation about the cryptic clues as the child interjected with facts about the Flying Scotsman</p><p>On the fourth day as Willougby told the wide eyes angelic chid about the grandeur of the Orient Express the conductor, stopped by ‘Tickets please.’ It was only now that Willoughby noticed something different in their daily exchange. </p><p>‘We’re not stopping at Tempus Halt?’</p><p>‘You mean the past?’ replied the Conductor raising a quizzical eyebrow ‘This train of thought doesn’t stop there anymore.’</p><p>Willoughby noticed an odd reflection in the carriage window as the train chuffed through the tunnel. The digital clock read 07:02 ‘Wake up Daddy.’ shouted a child’s voice. Willoughby opened his eyes, scooped up his daughter and gave her a huge hug.</p><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-51255337791578546362023-06-07T15:02:00.003-07:002023-06-07T15:02:59.432-07:00The Frog on the Log<p> Welcome back for another short story blog. Something a little different this month a fairy tale about a frog.</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtw8Yrs3_kFZFjzh6zZC9f9ubArRBN4DIP5GEvGrrbbAbvn1h1TTvF-qdscMHGMEq0VFlRWl98YUxBjJNeAzkZE7-nMqiZwJYpFSiFQWNdHhTtR_m8VSRhoreiW0KESWBperQEcdPYZ_qnGiZmbMsygqdmqAUd-1qoxq036--RoQvfn_xaEfQ3nUZ/s400/Blog%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtw8Yrs3_kFZFjzh6zZC9f9ubArRBN4DIP5GEvGrrbbAbvn1h1TTvF-qdscMHGMEq0VFlRWl98YUxBjJNeAzkZE7-nMqiZwJYpFSiFQWNdHhTtR_m8VSRhoreiW0KESWBperQEcdPYZ_qnGiZmbMsygqdmqAUd-1qoxq036--RoQvfn_xaEfQ3nUZ/s320/Blog%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> The Frog on the Log</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The frog looked up at the regal figure that cast a shadow over his lily pad. It was the King. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Good morning, your Highness’ said the Frog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Good morning.’ replied The King, unperturbed at there being a talking frog in his ornamental pond.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> ‘Can I ask you a favour’ enquired the frog. When the King said nothing, the Frog asked anyway ‘Will you teach me how to read?’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a pause as the King stroked his grey beard, then laughed ‘Why would a frog need to know how to read? Be gone frog.’ The King poked the lily pad with his walking stick, the frog jumped into the pond and swam off.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A few days later the Frog was resting amongst some damp leaves when the Grounds Keeper walked passed. ‘Excuse me,’ said Frog between ribbits. The large bear shaped man fumbled, grunted, then picked up the logs he had dropped ‘Yes, what?’ the Grounds Keeper snaped, pretending he had not been startled.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Can I ask you a favour’ enquired the frog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I am busy, what is it frog.’ grumbled the Grounds Keeper</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Will you teach me how to read?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I got too much work to do. I ‘ve not got no time to teach a frog how to read.’ The Grounds Keeper kicked at the leaves.’ Be gone frog.’ Disappointed the Frog hopped away. As the frog made its way through the wood, he came across a white haired wizard sitting on a rock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘How goes it frog?’ called out the Wizard as the frog passed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I read now.’ said the frog with an exuberance.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I think not’ replied the Wizard as he got up and walked off. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Down by the river frog rested on a tree stump, then spotted a fisherman, so hopped along the Riverbank to go to speak to him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Good afternoon.’ said frog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Will be if I catch something.’ replied the Fisherman as he cast his line. The frog watched Fisherman for bit, after the man had caught a number of fish the frog ask his question ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Depend on what it is.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Will you teach me how to read?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Fisherman thought for a moment and then said ‘and what I am going to get out of it frog ? You going pay me for giving up my time to teach you how to read?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Sorry, no…’ said frog ‘…I can offer no reward for your efforts.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Then be gone frog.’ The Ground Keeper kick at the leaves. Dejected the frog leaped away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometime later the Frog had made it’s way into the near by village. There exhausted the Frog sat on a log feeling very sorry for himself. It began to rain. The people hurried to find shelter. One stopped at the log ‘You OK frog?’ ask an auburn haired maiden carrying a pile of books.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I wish to read.’ croaked the frog with hesitation ‘Yet I cannot find anyone to teach me.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Come to my school tomorrow and I will teach you how to read.’ replied the maiden as she darted out of the rain. Happier in himself the frog hopped off to locate the school.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day the Frog went to school. The frog went to school every day and sat in the class and learnt to read with the children. Then one day Frog did not come to school, instead a Prince, in a flamboyant lime green suit, arrived. ‘You’re welcome, of course your Highness’ said the teacher puzzled. ‘However, that is where the Frog sits.’ The Prince apologised with a knowing smile then said, ‘You see I am the frog.’ The Prince began to explain. ‘I did not understand why I needed to learn to read. I never made an effort to learn since I was not getting a reward for wasting my time. So, my father arranged for the wizard to turn me into a frog, The spell would be broken once I learnt to read. You have taught me to read. Now I wish to read more.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Then if you are sitting comfortably, we shall begin.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Written by Owen Kowalski</span></p><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-82672949951635159132023-05-01T08:53:00.004-07:002023-05-04T14:15:23.192-07:00Project Cleopatra<p> Welcome back to another short story. Although this story may seem topical given certain royal events, it is just a story inspired by a classic sci-fi poster, please do not assume my political views from it. It is a story that was inspired by the picture and it played to a conclusion which I struggled to come up with for sometime. The ending I wrote is the one I feel suited the story best, if the story was a longer peace of work then perhaps it may of had a different ending.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-hKtbIFH0xsX2i-T534Ul7VFuepCg_xTCN9coCTSBrHkJBEuptRoCLChQCW19s82uhTHUsMfMmP0b7kY_eQBxCplDS-22GGo9DG4MFLZOPyAa7Jn86rGeHHd6QCegZIXhxhNYbzy5oTYBvCRFH5tY4b_QwJnC-9Q_nquLgOALvTd9Ewf0PPc0EfN/s1296/9.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="892" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-hKtbIFH0xsX2i-T534Ul7VFuepCg_xTCN9coCTSBrHkJBEuptRoCLChQCW19s82uhTHUsMfMmP0b7kY_eQBxCplDS-22GGo9DG4MFLZOPyAa7Jn86rGeHHd6QCegZIXhxhNYbzy5oTYBvCRFH5tY4b_QwJnC-9Q_nquLgOALvTd9Ewf0PPc0EfN/s320/9.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><p><b> Project Cleopatra</b></p><p>The island loomed out of the mist. Its dark mountainous landscape giving it the appearance of a dragon sleeping in the lake. Arnold Crown checked the documents in his jacket pocket for the fifth time on the crossing. The paperwork had gained him access to the remote Royal estate of Griffin Vale, however he was still sceptical they would grant access to the mysterious island as promised.</p><p>For as long as Arnold could remember there were always rumours regarding Empress Abbey and what went on at Griffin Vale. There was, apparently, some state secret that kept the Empress looking so youthful. Even after decades on the throne she still appeared to be the fresh faced, blonde haired, statuesque young women she who ascended to the throne. She was a beacon of beauty keeping the empire locked in the moment of youthful optimism of her coronation. As part of the royal century celebration Arnold was tasked by his editor to investigate the rumours again. The only new information he had discovered was a reference to machine being shipped to the island off Griffin Vale, there the trail went cold. That was until last week when he was approached by a black trench coated figure in a dark fedora who handed him the documents with the instructions to ‘Go to the island.’ Arnold Crown had no idea what he was going to find there, all he had to go on were the two words the stranger whispered as it disappeared in the shadows ‘Project Cleopatra.’</p><p>The path from the dock led to a gated complex, where access was granted. As he walked through the heavily landscaped grounds, he thought he caught sight of the Empress walking a dog. As he neared the grand house, he found himself accosted by a fail old woman wearing a battered tweed coat and purple head scarf. The elderly lady looked like a close relative to Empress Abbey, ‘her grandmother or great Aunt, perhaps.’ The family resemblance was striking. ‘You come to service the machine? He said he was going to send someone.’ She wandered off, her thoughts evidently shifting to something else.</p><p>In the marble entrance hall of the house Arnold Crown stopped at the enormous oak desk that blocked further admittance.</p><p>‘Inspector Oliver Cronwell, Scotland yard.’ The gangly journalist smiled quietly to himself as he flashed his fake warrant card. He finally realised the historical humour behind the pseudonym chosen for him. </p><p>‘This is a retreat, we have no need for police here.’ replied the nasal toned receptionist in a condescending manner. Arnold saw her hand move towards a red telephone.</p><p>‘I have paperwork.’ No sooner had Arnold produced the documents from his pocket than the receptionist had snatched them form his hand. She proceeded to mumble to herself as she looked them over. She must have triggered a silent alarm, as suddenly, as if by magic, to burly security officers appeared ‘Escort our visitor back to the docks.’ The men proceeded to manhandle Inspector Oliver Cronwell towards the exit. ‘Wait, wait.’ he protested as his brain took a gamble ‘I am here about Project Cleopatra.’ The receptionist instantly dropped her snooty dementor and put up a hand to halt his removal. ‘Why didn’t you say so. Didn’t realise they were changing the guard so soon. You’ll be wanting the castle, this is the retreat where they come afterwards.’</p><p>‘The castle?’</p><p>‘It is on the other side of the island. Is there no map in with your paperwork?’</p><p>‘Apparently not. That’s why I came here.’</p><p>‘Show him the way to the folly. I will send for the Pony Express.’ Arnold Crown went voluntarily with his escort and waited.</p><p>At the folly a dog cart pulled by a grey mule pulled up. As it plodded slowly along the path the fake inspector deduced the Pony Express was an ironic turn of phrase. ‘They are checking my paperwork.’ He thought ‘When I get to the castle, I’ll either be thrown in the tower or…or worse.’</p><p>At the castle, Arnold Crown was pleasantly surprised to find he was not arrested instead warmly greeted by the heir to the throne Duke Alexander. ‘So, you’re the man. This way, this way.’ Inspector Oliver Cronwell was hurried to along the corridors to a large room within the castle. The stone floored chamber was dominated by two giant glass tubes, joined by a series of thick black cables and attached to a bank of terminals covered in levers, buttons and switches. A plague on the wall read a quote form Antony and Cleopatra Act II, Scene 2 ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’</p><p>‘This will be Abb -E.’ announced the middle aged Duke as he pointed to one of the tubes. A perplexed look fell over Arnold ’s face. ‘You don’t know already? grumbled the gruff man who should be king. ‘Well, Mr Arnold Crown of The Central Chronicle, and yes, we know who you are, this is your answer. Clones.’ The Duke proceeded to flip switches and pull levers. The machine sparked into life. ‘This one here, Abb-D, is showing her age.’ He pointed to the tube on the right ‘She will be retired. A new younger model is needed. Presidents, prime ministers come and go, politicians age yet Empress Abbey must remain a constant beacon of youthful optimism.’</p><p>‘But why?’ asked Arnold as his brain tried to catch up.</p><p>‘Who would be a monarch by choice? It’s a guiled cage. Privilege without power, vocation without vacation. Few freedoms, forever in the public eye.’ The Duke’s voice become distant as if monologuing more to himself. ‘A life dominated by duty, tradition and protocol.’ Suddenly the voice shifted with serious focus back towards Arnold ‘The empire needs someone who represents the best of us.’</p><p>‘A figurehead.’ mumbled Arnold with an air a realisation.</p><p>‘Yes, that’s correct, a symbol. Now, knowing all this will you expose this state secret?’</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-7385143316180749662023-04-07T07:36:00.000-07:002023-04-07T07:36:03.691-07:00The Keeper of the Flame<p> Welcome back. This month I am taking a little detour for short stories based on classic sci-fi magazine covers, this because of two factors, first I ve only just finished writing the one I was working, and still not 100% happy with the ending and secondly the subject is better suited to real world events that will be happing in May. Here instead is another story <b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The Keeper of the Flame</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7mZLQ1fYkcl0O57xEzqN2_PsHILjTCvH394yzypovGdZj9e0fq2i_ZLlmFJmZLA0fZRuMBpjsX5KYvf631ke-Az5oOzy3w2xbaIB3kvFn-78HDZbp3wd7aHEm4NgFsKrd3ftiFqwgzCXSLX-17a2NMHh79arEgPI94e_cNYu9Bdxv9mbxIqZO8R7/s400/Blog%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7mZLQ1fYkcl0O57xEzqN2_PsHILjTCvH394yzypovGdZj9e0fq2i_ZLlmFJmZLA0fZRuMBpjsX5KYvf631ke-Az5oOzy3w2xbaIB3kvFn-78HDZbp3wd7aHEm4NgFsKrd3ftiFqwgzCXSLX-17a2NMHh79arEgPI94e_cNYu9Bdxv9mbxIqZO8R7/s320/Blog%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The Keeper of the Flame</span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The stranger took a deep breath then knocked on the door. He was cold and wet through. It had taken him three days to reach the remote town of Endpoint. The sky was blue when he got off the train and pitch black by the time he found the three storey gothic house on the hill. It was set back and stood a little higher than the near identical houses around it. After an eternity the door opened. A white haired, well-dressed, bespectacled old man answered.<br />‘I take it you’re the Keeper’ said the stranger pointing to the light in a top floor window.<br />‘Yes.’ answered the man.<br />‘The directions where a bit vague and the town folk less than helpful.’<br />‘Yes, they would be to a stranger. They always send a stranger. You have to find your own way here. Wont you come in?’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />With the stranger given dry clothes and a hot drink the two sat in the library, the room, with its piles of papers and a large oak desk, obviously masqueraded as an office. ‘So, you are my replacement?’ the older one said.<br />‘I suppose so. I am still not sure of the work I am here to undertake. I am just a humble lighthouse keeper.’ replied the stranger as he clasped his cocoa and let the steam warm his face.<br />‘This is a lighthouse in a manner of speaking.’ the older man said as he moved the vintage oil lantern from the windowsill and sat it on the table between them. ‘This lamp has remained lit for over 150 years and you will now be the Keeper of the Flame.’<br />Perplexed the stranger stared at the rusty lantern, as if scrutinizing every inch of it, finally curiosity asked, ‘What do you use it for?’<br />‘I use it to read by. Although it has many other roles in the community. We use its spark to ignite the mid-summer BBQ, it is the fire starter for the November bonfire and a taper from the flame is used to light each day on the advent candle.’<br />‘All these things can be lit with other things, can they not. Why keep this flame burning?’<br />‘I too thought the same as you when I first took this post.’ the older man got up and replaced the lamp back in front of the window ‘On a clear day the light from this window can be seen as far as Waggon’s Holt.’ The stranger recalled passing the signal box on his journey, it was the first building he had seen in hours, as the train chuffed through the empty wilderness, towards Endpoint. ‘About a year into my tenure here there was a derailment of a goods train at the station. No one was hurt, but there was significant damage to the trackside and several telegraph polls knocked down. The single track line was blocked and the daily passenger train was due within the hour. From this window and with this lamp the station master was able to send a message to Waggon’s Holt to stop that train. This flame saved lives.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />‘In that instance it was useful to have it lit maybe, but had it not been, could you have not lit it in time? asked the stranger as the old man returned to his seat.<br />‘It must always stay alight. You never know when the light will be needed. Ask the descendants of the original settlers when you meet them, they will tell you stories. The one I remember, and the one they tell often is the one of the travellers. That’s how it all started. Let me see. One night without warning, back when this town was just a few shacks and pioneers would go no further, a thick fog rolled in without warning. Out on the heath a group of travellers found themselves lost, disorientated with no sense of direction. Then they spotted a tiny light. That light acted as a beacon to guide them to this building and safety. That light came from this lamp.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />‘But now surely you could install an electric light up here instead? It would be more powerful.’<br />The old man gave a chuckle ‘An electric light requires electric power. Last winter when a snowstorm set in powerlines went down. The community was cut off and cold. The town folk found their way here for the fire within the flame. The flame lit their candles, that lit their kindling, that lit the fires that kept them warm.’</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />‘I see.’ said the stranger, his tone suggesting he was still unconvinced.<br />‘Tell me, lad, how did you know which house to come too?’<br />‘I saw the…light.’ a moment of realisation dawned across the stranger’s face. ‘Now, I see.’<br />‘Yes. I think you do.’<br />‘The flame did all this and has done more.’ said the stranger, now an old man himself. His own replacement sitting opposite, staring at the lantern as he had once done. ‘Now you must become the Keeper of the Flame.’</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Written by Owen Kowalski</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-27935481646478446302023-03-08T15:24:00.000-08:002023-03-08T15:24:03.234-08:00Technology of the Future<p> Welcome back for another short story. This is one of those stories where finding the title helped forces the theme of the story.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNRePDU67jGwv8rj-8DSLM0-qKkKvbeljlJMQCnYl4zUKDrAdmutoeU4UbhYuFFLLcKhgPiwATfe_DT-cDIfIKB1NCaOGrEY-N8zHwV1vIgtJymtccjiVkEVFDExFNHj5jifsRsNGSkMIKUS59qAjYk4JxUssPIdbG8kRkhxFGhgTE6gxavHYtQNG/s720/08%20Techologly%20of%20the%20Future.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="496" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNRePDU67jGwv8rj-8DSLM0-qKkKvbeljlJMQCnYl4zUKDrAdmutoeU4UbhYuFFLLcKhgPiwATfe_DT-cDIfIKB1NCaOGrEY-N8zHwV1vIgtJymtccjiVkEVFDExFNHj5jifsRsNGSkMIKUS59qAjYk4JxUssPIdbG8kRkhxFGhgTE6gxavHYtQNG/s320/08%20Techologly%20of%20the%20Future.jpg" width="220" /></a></b></div><b>Technology of the Future</b><p></p><p>Rowland stumbled out of the cab as the black smoke billowed out ahead of him. Apart from pains that would be bruises, in a day or so, he had got off lightly. The same could not be said for his space truck. Having experienced a flight malfunction, Rowland attempted to perform a controlled crash as the space truck descended at speed towards a remote rural community. It ploughed through fields and skimmed across the muddy ground, creating a swathe a mile long behind it before it rolled to a halt outside one of the homesteads in the isolated reservation. Rowland knew little about the community of League of Latter Day Luddites that chose to live on the reservation. The only thing he knew for sure was that they removed themselves by choice from the rest the space-faring people of his planet.</p><p>‘Your reckless flying has destroyed our winter food supplies.’ shouted a skinny, white bearded man who was dressed in rustic earth tone clothes and racing towards him brandishing a pitchfork.</p><p>‘My apologises. I can replicate food stuff, to make up for your loss. If that would help.’ replied Rowland without thinking, he wasn’t sure if the food replicator his ship was carrying, still worked after their hard landing. </p><p>‘We don’t need your artificially created grub.’ snapped back the farmer ‘ Our community will provide. We’ll have a barn raising party.’</p><p>As Rowland worked to repair his space truck, he made an inventory of the cargo in the juggernaut’s colossal trailer; Medic tech, boxes battered but not broken, colony construction components, muddled, messed up but mostly fine and emergency vehicle pods with superficial damage. He would deliver it once flight was restored. Until then he was stranded. The Luddites ignored him as he went about his work as they pulled together to repair the destroyed barn. </p><p>‘‘I could help, I have an electric winch, power tools and a buzz saw.’ Rowland suggested, seeing the community toiling way with archaic hand tools his grandfathers had consigned to history</p><p>‘We don’t need your tools. A barn should be built by hand.’ </p><p>‘I could manufacture water proofing for your roof. If that would help.’</p><p>‘When will you get it. Your technology is not welcome here. Fix your ship and be gone’ replied the Farmer ‘We came here to move away from the progress of the modern world. We wanted a less technological driven way of life.’ Their conversation was interrupted by a loud crack as a large timber and a young worker fell in unison from high scaffold platform. There was a thud as both hit the ground.</p><p>‘I have medical tech that could fix his leg.’ announced Rowland as he assisted in lifting the plank off the young man.</p><p>‘We’ll take him to the fracture clinic. A splint will heal it, in month or so.’ answered someone to his left.</p><p>‘What I have could fix it in minutes.’</p><p>‘A splint will work fine’ snapped another on his right. ‘We don’t need you technology of the future. The way of yesteryear is how it should be.’</p><p>It took langer then anticipated to recalibrate the navigation array and days turned to weeks. From his cab Rowland watched the people of the Luddites League go about the daily tasks. Ploughing the fields with horse and cart. There were tractors in his trailer, colonists would be farmers too. He saw the Luddites long walks to collect firewood when portable self-powered heaters could be provided. Then there was the endless washing and scrubbing of clothes to keep them clean, a situation Rowland know he would be facing if he ran out of clean garments before the ship could take flight. He had used components from the laundry system to fix the ships steering column. Finally, Rowland was ready to leave.</p><p>As he ran though the pre-flight checks, he heard the ringing of a bell and calls for the life row boat crew. A Luddite fishing boat had been wrecked on the rocks at the limit of their territorial waters. Rowland though about offering help, then reconsidered, his technology would only be dismissed. Flying out over the bay, sensors detected storm clouds rolling in. Looking down he saw the lifeboat fail in it’s mission. Now there where two crews marooned on the jagged rocks and unforgiving waves battered them. Rowland reconsidered his choice. There was nowhere to land a space truck. Turning about he headed to nearest head to the land.</p><p>Frantically searching through the trailer for a vehicle he could use Rowland stumbled across a Survey spider pod, the red metal monster was designed to walk through marshland, clear woodlands and shift rocks with its eight multi-functional shifting self-stabilising limbs. Rowland climbed in, activated the controls and trudged out into the sea.</p><p>When he retuned to shore Rowland was greeted by the leader of the league of Luddites. </p><p>‘You used your technology of the future to rescues our men.’ the tone was direct and to the point.</p><p>‘You want me to put them then back?’ Rowland snapped.</p><p>‘No. I want to say thank you.’ the elder said, choosing his words carefully ‘Perhaps technology has its benefits. Maybe we should not be so scared of it. Perhaps we could be little more accepting of the assistance technology of the future can bring to our lives.’</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-13006503859841819592023-02-08T14:58:00.002-08:002023-02-08T14:58:36.198-08:00Human Nature<p>Welcome back to another short story blog. I was experimenting with a bit of comedy with this story. Please with how the the story turned out, even if the comedy always works, perhaps and area to work on or revisit with future short stories.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmx-6yqjGFle7VmzIQU8G8xmUBLJEvvorFVWsBzqVs3TBafDek0gQO0GHPM9zubxaFiHK5w1psuF0twZ4PRZitn20W7cpMQ386clUDgEWLFVOxA8TazleiGXH6DFkEAT4kI9806PCCTLI6mSjkVTCNCV7X-RrzxKIH75Ga5S2Aiqqr8MgdCqAnkYsB/s1944/07%20Human%20Nature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="1298" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmx-6yqjGFle7VmzIQU8G8xmUBLJEvvorFVWsBzqVs3TBafDek0gQO0GHPM9zubxaFiHK5w1psuF0twZ4PRZitn20W7cpMQ386clUDgEWLFVOxA8TazleiGXH6DFkEAT4kI9806PCCTLI6mSjkVTCNCV7X-RrzxKIH75Ga5S2Aiqqr8MgdCqAnkYsB/w232-h347/07%20Human%20Nature.jpg" width="232" /></span></a></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Human Nature</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘How long have we coming here Bob?’ asked the southern state American as he cast out his line once more into the gently flowing river.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I don’t know. Forever?’ replied the Englishman in the white shirt and waders as he repeated the fishing action. His name wasn’t Bob, it wasn’t even Robert, it was William, however his reserved English nature prevented him from continuing to correct the American.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Have we ever caught anything?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I caught a cold once’ William’s quip was met with an unimpressed stare, so he changed tack ‘OK, seriously I don’t recall.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Neither do I and that’s the thing.’ said the American accenting each word with a point of a finger ‘Tell me Bob, what is the last thing you actually remember?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Telling you to call me Bill as we walked up here Dave.’ the comment was lost on William’s companion, whose name was actually Fred. ‘The last thing I remember’ Fred said answering his own question ‘I was in my Plymouth driving back from the ball game when a bright light shot …’ there was a splash as Fred dropped his fishing rod ‘Look’ he exclaimed as he stared in disbelief at a point on opposite side of the riverbank. William followed his gaze. The opposite riverbank appeared to be constructed form green Styrofoam and wooden pallets. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">William took one slow step forward, reached down picked up a pebble and threw the small rock. There was a clang as it come to an abrupt end as it hit the landscape backdrop painted on the wall. There was muffled scream from behind him. As William turned to investigate, he found himself grabbed by two hulking Lincoln green fur covered pig-like beings dressed in orange overalls. Something sharp pressed into his neck and he passed out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As the fog cleared and his consciousness floated back into reality William heard voices. Keeping his eyes shut he feigned being oblivious to his newfound circumstances in order to assess the situation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Can they be reset?’ a gruff voice asked</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘There is only so many times you can reset before their perception filter fails and their memories start to resurface, I told you it was one too many last time.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘They speak English! This…this must be a dream or a delusion’ William’s inner voice said a little to loudly</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Wooooo this is dream’ one of the snout nosed beings said as they waved their stubbly fingers in front of William’s eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You’re not helping.’ protested another.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a crash, a clatter and then a thud as a familiar voice shouted, ‘Get your trotters off me you cactus coloured Warthog.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Fred?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Bill is that you?’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Yes’ William hollered back. ‘Bill?’ he thought, now was not the time to question things. ‘Where are you?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Over here’ Fred replied as William caught sight of the American picking himself up off the floor and shoving away the green clad attendant ‘Quick Bill, this way.’ They both darted towards a large brownish door that was in the process of closing. They found themselves in a glass floored corridor, that gave a paramaniac view of the structure below. It was a Spiderweb like complex with dome structures linked via long tubes. Inside each dome William could just make out different habitats, a desert landscape, an icy wilderness, a city-scape.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fred was the first to comment as he gazed up at the twinkling stars poking through the burnt orange sky ‘I guess we are not in…’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘…Kansas anymore’ completed a voice from behind</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You do know our language, but how?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We have picked up you language though your time here in captivity.’ said one of the pig men. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘In prison you mean’ Fred lunged forward, only to be stalled by William’s grasp on his shoulder holding him back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘No this is not a prison it is a study.’ said the short one,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The taller one gave a heavy sign of resignation ‘Now you’ve gone and done it.’ His colleague continued unperturbed ‘This is a Human study. Here we study human nature, ambition Vs altruism, conflict Vs compassion profit Vs poverty. With your two we study annoyance Vs acceptance’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘But why?’ William and Fred asked in comic unison.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Because your nature makes your species endangered.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘So, we brought you here to study. You see in order to preserve a species; you first have to understand it’s nature. Your human nature is full of contradictions and we do not yet fully understand.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You are not alone my extra-terrestrial friend;’ William replied, ‘We don’t fully understand them either and we are ones who have to live with them.’</span></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Written by Owen Kowalski</span></div><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-23019300626319079972023-01-12T15:43:00.000-08:002023-01-12T15:43:59.446-08:00I, Pilgrim<p> Welcome to first short story post of 2023. This one was written at the tail end of 2022 and so will be the next few blog. I am however cracking on with writing in 2023 with a handful of ideas to work on. This story is once again inspired by classic sci-fi posters of 1940s/50s. Hope you enjoy I, Pilgrim</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7TYO2iGUCtrFLMb3N5bwF-AH-iZD4CpCcUJSg6kL2zAFYEzjFE7qFJvrr4OkKhBqniXXpV2M3wsgLKDgYn-7yvozweIZQZFWXkqpeNUm5EHC42DIf3EpCks-Rhy0FZ50hUXCeDiUdicQrykRyGEgQ_k6eaddNvnSXd08b-2UjBSwa8M_S0dz8uXU/s784/06%20I%20Pligrim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7TYO2iGUCtrFLMb3N5bwF-AH-iZD4CpCcUJSg6kL2zAFYEzjFE7qFJvrr4OkKhBqniXXpV2M3wsgLKDgYn-7yvozweIZQZFWXkqpeNUm5EHC42DIf3EpCks-Rhy0FZ50hUXCeDiUdicQrykRyGEgQ_k6eaddNvnSXd08b-2UjBSwa8M_S0dz8uXU/s320/06%20I%20Pligrim.jpg" width="245" /></a></b></div><b>I, Pilgrim</b><p></p><p></p><p>There up ahead, a half a day’s walk at most whereov, there the Chrome robot would find the answer to the question it wished to ask. It was said, amongst his robot fraternity, that inside the caves lived their reclusive builder where he would answer any question they wished to ask. Determined to find the answer to the question all robots asked; ‘What is my purpose?’ Robot XR4Y, nicknamed Ray to his owner and friends, had set out on the journey.</p><p>The pilgrimage would take the robot out of the sprawling metropolis of Elon out to the mega fields, through wastelands and wind farms and arriving finally at the rugged mountain moorland. In the city no one took much notice of another of man’s machine on the move. They, therefore, they did not notice as Ray made his way towards the outskirts to begin his trek across the mega fields. The corn and barley were waiting to be harvested, golden in the sun. Ray did his best not to trample them under his brick like feet as he moved around the fields to find the most direct route to join the official pilgrim path. It took four days to exit the fields and begin the wasteland leg. As he progressed a sheet of heavy rain descended. He would need to seek shelter before the rust set in. Up ahead was a small stone hut, it was as good a place as any. As Ray approached the building, he saw a frail crooked old man slumped against door.</p><p>‘Sir?’ ask Ray as he lowered his metal bulk to the old man’s eye level.</p><p>‘I was on my way back home, but I can’t make it any further.’</p><p>‘Where is your home?’</p><p>The elderly gentleman, dressed in inappropriate clothes for the weather, pointed back down the path Ray had just walked. The robot contemplated his next move for several seconds then replied, ‘I shall carry you home when the rain stops.’ As dawn broke the rain eased and picking up the old man with great care, as if handling fragile glass ornament, and placing him on his shoulders Ray retreated back down the road. Stopping so the old man could feed and sleep it took two days and two nights to return the man to his home. </p><p>Retracing his steps back up the path Ray continued beyond the shelter and out walked out across the wastelands. There he passed through a number of rustic, collapsing, sparsely populated villages as he went. As he passed through the final village, he found the villager hurling stones at him. They clanged and clattered as they struck him body. Although harmless it was annoying and relentless, so he stopped. ‘Why do you throw stones at me?’ he asked</p><p>‘Your lot come here, passing through and stomp across our bridge.’</p><p>‘Fifteen times this year alone we have had to rebuild it, because of you lot. You don’t stop to apologise you just walk on.’</p><p>The robot contemplated his reply for several seconds then said ‘Perhaps I could help. I could build another bridge. A stronger, a sturdier bridge for robots alone to cross?’</p><p>‘And where are you going to get the material to build such a bridge.’ sneered someone. </p><p>‘I passed several abandoned towns before yours. One was once a steelworks.’</p><p>‘They over a week’s walk away, if not more.’</p><p>‘For me only days. I could be there and back in two.’</p><p>The villagers agreed to Rays’ proposal. However, Ray soon discovered his idea was not as simple as he had planned. It took eight trips to fetch enough iron required and a further three days to shape, mould and assemble the bridge . As Ray departed, once more on his pilgrimage, the villagers put up signage to guide other robots to the new bridge.</p><p>The winds were strong, as he approached the wind farms, however the turbines were not turning. Ray come across a group of engineers looking perplexed as they examined a motor substation power box.</p><p>‘Good afternoon.’ he said.</p><p>‘It is for some’ grumped one reply</p><p>‘Not for your sir?’ </p><p>‘Can’t get the thing started. Going to have to make around trip to Elon and back to get booster power nodes. That’s a ten day round trip.’</p><p>The robot contemplated his reply for several seconds then said ‘I could help. My power pack could act as a booster. I would only have to shut down and recharge for a day afterwards.’</p><p>The engineers considered then accepted the idea. Rigging the robot up they duly restarted the wind farm. When Ray awoke from his regeneration cycle the engineers had gone, however they had left a note taped to his chest that read ‘Thank you.’ Getting his bearing Ray once more continued on his way to the Caves of Asimov.</p><p>‘And what is your question?’ asked the bushy bearded builder once Ray introduced himself. The robot contemplated his reply for several seconds then said, ‘I no longer have a question.’</p><p>‘Then I have one for you. What is your purpose?’</p><p>‘My purpose is to help others.’</p><p>The builder smiled ‘Congratulations. You are the first of my robots to surpass your programming and discover your own answer.’</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-54185418559136181672022-12-21T15:00:00.005-08:002022-12-23T05:24:53.475-08:00The Bees of Brother Joseph <p> Merry Christmas. What is Christmas without a ghost story? This years ghost story for Christmas I wrote as my entry to writing completion. As I was not lucky enough to short listed I decided to share it with you this Christmas. This story draws on elements of real life which have been twisted, tweaked and adjusted to make a ghost story. Hope you enjoy...The Bees of Brother Joseph </p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSExhzVprS2wjD-XufHP4tqxcdt3aHjTyPDgLf7OC6KHGnioNDXnQg32QT1vr41g6-IhOsSsYWei3K3IwQvHLQndMHTi8PZPF6R1VlR2_po0WSGQYMJKPClcU37pUaPCckP41xnfgZyyH9cW4FMPjtnYx9_cp56eC_PzW9yibzSCOBxQ-PVpbZ7Kx/s622/TheBeeOfBrotherJoseph.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="622" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSExhzVprS2wjD-XufHP4tqxcdt3aHjTyPDgLf7OC6KHGnioNDXnQg32QT1vr41g6-IhOsSsYWei3K3IwQvHLQndMHTi8PZPF6R1VlR2_po0WSGQYMJKPClcU37pUaPCckP41xnfgZyyH9cW4FMPjtnYx9_cp56eC_PzW9yibzSCOBxQ-PVpbZ7Kx/s320/TheBeeOfBrotherJoseph.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Bees of Brother Joseph </span></b><p></p><p>It was the first Christmas without any social restrictions brought on by the COVID 19 pandemic, that blighted our lives for so long. It was, therefore, decided that we should have an extended family get together over the festive period, in order that we could catch up with those relatives we had seen little or nothing of over the last few years. Back then I was living at home with my parents, they owned a large cliff top Victoria mansion house in the North East of England. The three-store building was a guest house up until the early 1980s. It’s sharp triangular roofs, dark stone façade and contrasting terracotta decorative masonry emanated an unwelcoming gothic aura. Even on the brightest summer days it sat like a black pimple on the exposed headland. My parents purchased the property pre-pandemic with the intention of renovating it to its halcyon bed and breakfast days. Due to social distancing and contractors self-isolating the project had stalled once more. Ladders littered corridors, incomplete rooms were shrouded in white sheets and paint pots were upwardly mobile trip hazards, moving from one inconvenient location to another. Amongst all this Christmas was making its presence felt. A towering real Christmas tree, decorated in a hotchpotch of baubles and a string of faulty white fairy lights, stood off centre in what would become the lobby. It’s size and position were determined by what would conceal the maximum amount of tarpaulin and peeling plaster work. Sprigs of holly festooned picture frames and a string of thin tinsel ran through the banisters like an anaemic red snake. With half the bedrooms habitable there was plenty of room for our guests even if the ensuite plumbing for each was not fully functional. </p><p>Uncle Glen, my mother’s cousin Ophelia along with my brother Antony and his family where all duly invited to stay for the festive period. Uncle Glen arrived first. He was a rotund retired army major who had served in Northern Ireland and was easily be mistaken for Satna Claus at this time of year, if he let his precisely trimmed beard get a little bushy. He was going deaf yet insisted on making own way to us by train against our objections. He was adamant, after all ‘I ve played dice with Mr Death since my Londonderry days, now with my booster jab they are finally loaded in my favour.’ he proclaimed.</p><p>Ophelia was to bring her second husband Cornelius, who she married between lockdowns. She is now on her third. Cornelius was a tall thin man with a hound shaped head, thick greasy hair and a vampiric smile. His suit was grass stained and stank of unwashed perspiration, he walked with a cane to support the limp he was apparently affecting for sympathy. It was noted quite quickly that the leg he put his weight on shifted from time to time. He arrived late on the 23rd without Ophelia, she had tested positive for Covid 19 and needed to self-isolate until Christmas Day. Cornelius was at great pains to tell us, several times, that two lateral flows and one PCR test in the last 24 hours proved himself negative. Beside which, he explained, he had not been with Ophelia for some days since he had come direct from a week-long business conference in the West Country. He announced, before he even set foot over the threshold, that he would only be staying until Boxing Day morning. Not as you would assume to return his wife, but as we would later learn, to go visit a business partner.</p><p>‘You’re welcome to come in?’ I said in jest as Cornelius lingered in the doorway. His was scrutinising his surroundings as if looking for something or someone. ‘You’re letting all the heat out.’ I added with an ironic tone, the house was as cold as a mausoleum. The crackling log fire in the lounge did little to warm the rest of the radiatorless downstairs.</p><p>‘I am just getting my bearings.’ came a reply full of bluff and bluster, as, like me, he could not possibly see much beyond the beach trees at the end of the driveway. A thick drizzle was descending covering everything in a damp grey hue ‘There is beach close by isn’t there?’ </p><p>‘That way.’ I pointed. Cornelius seemed satisfied with my vague answer. As we both entered the house, Cornelius was startled by a sharp whip crack noise ‘Did you hear that?’ ask Cornelius as the sound snapped again.</p><p>‘Just the wind.’ I replied </p><p>I lugged Cornelius’ suitcase to his allocated room on the third floor as he cantered up behind me. The room was a wood panelled, high ceiling single bedroom with replica 1970s brown and orange floral wallpaper. It was the smallest of our available rooms, made smaller by the double bed squeezed in. If we knew Cornelius was arriving alone, we could have dispensed with the effort of converting it into accommodation for two. I apologised about the lack if facilities in the room and gave him directions to the communal bathroom on the second floor and suggested once he was settled in that he join us, in the lounge bar, for a cheese board. Which he did.</p><p>As we indulged in our selection of ripe Brie, slab of Stilton and a wedge of Cornish Yarg Cornelius launched into a lecture about the substandard quality of supermarket cheese compared to products provided from a high-class cheese emporium ‘Hard to get black truffle ewes cheese out in the sticks, is it?’ He then proceeded to pontificate how living in a city was better for your carbon footprint them living out in the country. I watched Uncle Glen skilfully provide the illusion of listening with timely nods and non-committal comments. How I envied him. We exchanged a knowing smile for he knew I had seen him remove his hearing aid with the expert slight of hand of a magician performing a well-crafted card trick. As Cornelius corralled the conversation on to politics, I made my excuses and retired to bed. </p><p>As I come down for breakfast the next morning, I heard raised voices in the kitchen. Not the best start to Christmas Eve.</p><p>‘Buzzing. Buzzing. Endless Buzzing’ came Cornelius’ nasal moaning ‘Kept me awake all night.’ </p><p>‘I am sorry to…’ came my mother’s calm response.</p><p>‘Bees I tell you, there are trapped bees in my bedroom, either that or you have a wasps nest in your rafters.’</p><p>‘Bees, wasps? It’s the wrong time of year for them.’ </p><p>‘I am telling you there’s a humming noise in my room. Has to be a bee.’</p><p>‘Probably the pipes.’ said my mother in a tone of voice as if she was suggesting a rational explanation for monsters under the bed to a small child. ‘The house makes noises as it settles at night, old houses do that.’ </p><p>‘I’m not sleeping in there again, find me another room for tonight.’</p><p>I drew the short straw and was disinterred from my bedroom and relocated to the box room at the end of the corridor, on the third floor, which had been assigned to Cornelius. He would then have mine for the remaining two nights. The rest of Christmas Eve passed through a combination of last-minute food preparations, chatting over chocolates and taking the dog for a walk along the wind-swept beach. Cornelius and Uncle Glen joined us for this breath of fresh air. The cold and damp air had a harsh salty taste to it as the wind whipped up seawater droplets from in coming tide. A dark dusk complexion covered everything. Our house on the cliff was only evident by the sepia lights that shone through the atmospheric murk. Uncle Glen skipped spritely across the sloping shingle and sand, in defiance of his advancing years, whereas Cornelius slipped and stumbled, preoccupied as he was with watching the other intrepid people out for a promenade before ominous black clouds released their rain again. There was a jogger in luminous pink gaining on us, a couple down by the shoreline with their two chocolate Labradors, I recognised them as regular walkers and there was also a stooped figure someway off who Cornelius appeared to be watching intensely. Squinting I could just make out it was an old man wearing a black raincoat.</p><p>Upon returning we prepared a supper of hot beef sandwiches and mulled wine to warm us after our bracing walk. As I ushered everyone to sit, I found Cornelius gazing out of the patio window transfixed on something in the garden. As he did so his countenance changed to a perplexed mix of suspicion and anger. ‘Stop following me’ we heard him whisper ‘Go away’ he protested as he waved a dismissive hand. I looked but saw no one, although something had trigged the security light ‘Here, have a drink lad?’ As Uncle Glen handed Cornelius a glass of mulled wine the spell was broken. Taking the glass Cornelius joined us, sitting with his back to the window, he apologised stating that a rain distorted reflection of himself momentarily reminded him of someone he believed to be long dead. I was not inclined to believe him as the excuse did not match the statements he had given to the apparent apparition outside</p><p>After the sandwiches we invited our visitors to join us in our Christmas Eve tradition of reading a classic ghost story before we turned in.</p><p>‘Ghost stories, love them’ exclaimed Cornelius as we dimmed the lights and pulled the chairs into circle around the fire ‘The P.D James ones are excellent.’</p><p>‘M.R James.’ I corrected</p><p>‘Whistle and I'll run to you, that’s a good one’</p><p>‘Whistle and I'll come to you.’</p><p>‘and The stalls of… I forget where...’ he stopped mid-ramble turning his attention to the hallway. He got up, shut a banging door and returned to his seat. When his focus returned to the room he was as pale as a sheet as if all blood had been drained from his face. ‘I have a ghost story’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper ‘A real ghost story. One that is happening to me here and now.’</p><p>‘Of course you have!’ I thought to myself as I rolled by eyes in annoyance. Uninvited Cornelius began, his tale, as he did so he shifted from making individual eye contact with everyone to a direct unflinching stare into mirror above the fireplace, as if to keep an eye on the door behind him. ‘As you are no doubt aware, I came direct from a conference. I ve been down at a little place called The Oak Wood Retreat, it’s a hotel on the edge of Dartmoor just before the Tavistock turn. There I was catching up with my two business associates, Clifford McDowall, and Claude Bridgewater-Moss, to discuss policies, online expansion and implications of Brexit moving forward.’ We are still yet to ascertain from cousin Ophelia what Cornelius actually did for a living. All we know is that he was part of a small technology analytics company with no clients outside the South West.</p><p>‘Us three Cs had not meet in person for almost two years, due to the other C: Covid. I decided we should meet at The Oak Wood Retreat to provide a sense of renewal after all it was where we three met as schoolboys when The Retreat was Oak Wood Secondary Modern. As we drank in the bar, that was once the sports hall, we reminisced about the assemblies, gym sessions and the canings we sustained in that hall. I swear that if you listen carefully, you could still hear the echo of a swoosh smack reverberating off the walls. I am not sure now who suggested it, but it was decided as we were here, we should relive our particular favourite school day exploits . If you know your local history, you’ll no doubt be aware that the school was once part of the neighbouring Benedictine Oak Lodge Abbey. The land the school was on was sold to the local council for that sole purpose just after the Second World War. This meant that behind the wooden huts that masqueraded as temporary classrooms, which were ironically used for religious education lessons, the school backed on to the Abbey’s orchard.’</p><p>‘During the lunch hour Cliford, Claude and I would squeeze through a gap in the wire fence and enter the back end of the orchard. There we would run amongst the neat rows of trees, steal apples and dare each other to knock on the monastery’s door. Our favourite thing to do, however, was to use the small ruby red, bittersweet crab-apples as cricket balls and the beehives of Brother Joseph as the stumps. We would aim to hit each apple, for six, against the workshop where the monks made their cider, whacking each one over and over until they became crumbled pulp. The bees would circle around us in their toing and froing as we played, docile enough if they were not clouted with the bat or an apple struck the hives, then they would swarm. That gave the game an edge, a frisson of danger, which we revelled in.’</p><p>‘We would play until either the school bell rang or Brother Joseph came blasting out the workshop hurling verbal fire and brimstone at us. The hunchbacked monk looked like a weathered gargoyle of death warmed up with deep set hollow eyes, sporadic yellow tombstone teeth and a crooked nose that melted away into the folds of his decaying mushroom grey leather like face. We would leg it back to school. Brother Joseph claimed that if he caught us, he would drag us to the headmaster’s office for a darn good seeing to. The headmaster, Mr Rein, was a stickler for discipline. He too was in the army, a drill sergeant, Sergeant Major Pain, we’d called him. Whack, whack, whack until the lesson was seared into your backside. The number of thrashings would exponentially increase with each new offence. He would be up for child abuse these days. Back then he was a just another socially acceptable sadist with a cane. Not that there was any worry of Brother Joseph ever catching us as the frail, thin, octogenarian moved at the speed of a stone.’</p><p>As I surreptitiously took the last beef sandwich from the cake trolley, I noticed that even Uncle Glen was playing genuine attention to the unfolding story. ‘The next day, that being the Wednesday just gone…,’ Cornelius continued. ‘…infused with the enthusiasm of our youth and a little hungover, us three adults, who should have known better, scaled the wall, that The Oak Wood Retreat erected to replace the old school fence, and broke into the Abbey grounds once more. The hard frost encrusted grass we left on one side of the wall was soft, lush and vibrant on the other. Unseen birds tweeted cheerfully as the scent of wild garlic flowers filled the air. The orchard had not changed, I expected it to be different somehow, as if my memory was carrying a rose-tinted recollection of my school days, yet the trees stood how I recalled them, a variable forest of regimented rows and the old wooden workshop was still standing at the far end. With the windfall apples littering the ground it could have almost been mistaken for an early autumn morning. The sun that broke through the clouds melted away the sharp icy edge in the air giving a warm golden glow to the Abbey in the distance. The Abbey a flat, square box-like Portland stone building accented with creamy Jurassic limestone, to all intents and proposes, looked as if a child had built out of wooden blocks. The clock on its tower was still stopped at noon. When we were not playing in the apiary, we would imagine the tower was a medieval battlement manned by monks with crossbows and we were Viking invaders intent on throwing eggs at the side door.’</p><p>‘Surprised to find apples in the dead of winter we picked a few to eat as we explored a little further, they tasted sour with an undercurrent of earth. Then we come upon the beehives nestled in a pocket of bluebells. Those three-foot white miniature huts were arranged in the rough T or cross shape as always. Cliford bowled his half-eaten apple and I, having already picked up a stick, gave it a hook shot, and so the game of cricket began again. We were on our third apple and second innings when the door to the workshop flung open with a thunderous bang and a familiar figure stepped out. Yet it couldn’t be him, yet the rhetoric was the same. We ran. None of us were as fast as we once were and the aged monk was gaining. We vaulted the wall. That’s how I injured my knee. As I got up, I glanced back. I often suspected it was my childhood imagination that rendered how hideous Brother Joseph was in my mind’s eye, but how wrong I was, for there he was in all his grotesque glory. It was him, it was Brother Joseph and Brother Joseph has been chasing me ever since. ‘</p><p>‘I saw that decrepit monk out of the corner of my eye, exiting the lift in the hotel lobby when I checked out on Thursday. I saw him again, walking through the car park at Flint Barrow service station when I stopped for a comfort break. His mouth was agape, shouting at me, words lost to the drone of traffic. It was he who I thought I saw on the beach and in your garden. When I leave here, I must warn Cliford and Claude that Brother Joseph is coming for them too.’ Cornelius leaned forward and lowering his voice to an almost inaudible level he said, ‘and he is here now, watching me, waiting for me. He is over there.’ he pointed into the mirror at an object behind him ‘He is waiting in the shadows.’ We all instinctively turned to look. I saw no one, just a white sheet forming a humanoid shape as it hung over a ladder. Cornelius gave a half-hearted laugh ‘Got you all. Monks, apples and bees and you believed it.’ His chuckling ended abruptly as he turned his head sharply in response to a slap snap sound, as if a wet cloth had been struck against a window. The dog must have heard it too, as she shot out from behind a chair in a frightened state and bounded up onto my lap in one swift move. ‘Tea?’ asked my father, breaking the stretching seconds of silence, it was a rhetorical question and we all nodded in reply. ‘I’ll make a pot.’ </p><p>That night as I sat reading, in the bed I had been consigned to I heard that slap snap smack noise again, this time it was followed by a low humming noise. It wasn’t coming from inside the room. It was coming from somewhere outside in the hallway, as if someone was walking through the passageway using an electric toothbrush. Perhaps there was someone out there in the hall, after all the passage lights were on. I got out of bed to investigate. As I approached the bedroom door I saw a squat black dot shoot back and forth along the crack of light beneath, buzzing loudly as it did so. As I watched it became apparent it was a winged insect of some sort, it was a bee, which was joined by another. Two become four, four become eight. The buzzing increased in frequency and volume as the number of bees grew on the other side of the door. </p><p>I placed a hand on the door, it was vibrating violently, like a tumble dyer on full spin. I could feel the heat generated by the intense beating of thousands of tiny wings. The swarm sounded like a dozen drills boring into woodwork. The buzzing grew louder and louder, then suddenly stopped. The door stood silent on its henges once more. I ventured to peer out. Seeing nothing, I turned the lights off and returned to bed. </p><p>On Christmas morning, we were joined by my brother Antony his wife Antonia and their six year old triplets all who also begin with the letter A. </p><p>‘Who’s that?’ asked April, or was it Audrey, I wasn’t sure.</p><p>‘That’s Cornelius’ I replied ‘You know Aunt Ophelia’s new husband. You were bridesmaids at their wedding, remember?’</p><p>‘Ya, we know Mr Truffle-Cheese-Face, but who’s that baldly on the staircase?’ asked the another</p><p>‘Where?’ I said, not seeing a second person present.</p><p>‘Never mind. We’ll ask Daddy, he’ll know.’ said the first ‘Let’s call him Hugo the Hunchbac...’ </p><p>‘No, no..’ interrupted Alice with overflowing enthusiasm. She being the one wearing glasses was easy to tell apart from her sisters ‘…Let’s call him Mr Skelton Head.’ </p><p>‘Yes that, perfect.’ the girl scurried off giggling to themselves.</p><p>With more people in the house, it was easier for me to distance myself from Cornelius company. His agitation and watchfulness was worse than the day before. He was constantly craning his neck and bobbing his head as if searching for someone in a crowd. Over a grand goose dinner, he passed critical judgement on the quality of the children’s presents, too electronic, too expensive and of no educational value. By the time the A clan departed that evening we had all had enough of Cornelius’ company. Tomorrow could not arrive a moment too soon.</p><p>Around 4am that night I awoke for a call of nature. It was not the most direct route from the box room to the bathroom, but I knew the way well enough to do it in the darkness. Along the hall, down the first flight of stairs, second room on the left. I left the bedroom door ajar to provide a little illumination to the passage. As I made my way down the stairs and the light drew weaker, I felt someone brush past me. Uncle Glen was obviously up for the same reason I was. A chill ran up my spin me as he went by. A window must have been left open. I thought nothing more of it until I made my return. In the subdued lighting I could just make out a figure in a black dressing gown shuffling down the hallway stopping at each door as if searching for the right room. Uncle Glen was evidently disorientated in the darkness. He was approaching the room I was exiled in. Calling out would be ineffective and risk waking others and he was too far off to tap on the shoulder. As I considered turning on the hall lights to assist him, I caught a better sight of him in the shaft of light emanating from my bedroom. It was not Uncle Glen, nor was it my father, his room was on the floor below. It was a stranger. Acting on instinct I flicked the light switch. As I adjusted to the instantly blinding brightness, I saw, through squinted eyes that it was not a dressing gown, it was a habit. A habit belonging to a bald, translucent skinned, crippled Benedictine monk. I watched as the apparition evaporated into the shadows and was gone. </p><p>The next morning Cornelius was up, packed, and ready to leave before breakfast. As we stood in the relentless drizzle to bid farewell and wave goodbye to him, I knew two things for certain. The first was we were all having the same thought, that being ‘good riddance’ and second was that we were not going to be seeing Cornelius again. For as his car pulled away into the descending fog, I saw, sitting in the back seat the hooded figure of a Benedictine monk.</p><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski </p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-84191626492861844872022-12-10T15:34:00.001-08:002022-12-13T14:34:17.462-08:00Crackers Don’t Matter<p> Welcome back, as it's December here is this years Christmas story. If you are Sci-fi and especially Farscape fan you will recognise title, I ve thought the title had an ideal Christmas connection I just had to find a sory. Hope you enjoy Crackers Don’t Matter.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYDMqjYigSw-BVOj7wGvbK90bBq_8uJQfhWGXenMXo0EdVc6lEgVZtYIDZEziQJY6IlF87C4E7ZJaQckfRij28LeH8KDnXfPpSyPS0uYbIJJrnRfJYQ6qC_tYGNqWXFdKrpm9P0t5R4f2E9_I4bC9otrMK8oP5Tw-kYLtXLsuGrXnW4Gd7T8zT1D-/s408/Blog%20Xmas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="408" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYDMqjYigSw-BVOj7wGvbK90bBq_8uJQfhWGXenMXo0EdVc6lEgVZtYIDZEziQJY6IlF87C4E7ZJaQckfRij28LeH8KDnXfPpSyPS0uYbIJJrnRfJYQ6qC_tYGNqWXFdKrpm9P0t5R4f2E9_I4bC9otrMK8oP5Tw-kYLtXLsuGrXnW4Gd7T8zT1D-/w278-h151/Blog%20Xmas.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">Crackers Don’t Matter</span></b></div></b><p></p><p></p><p>‘You’re late Patch,’ shouted the big burly white bearded man in a jolly tone as the young, gangly apprentice tried to sneak in unnoticed. Patch wasn’t his real name, but everyone called him that after he put hole in the knees of his trousers on his first day. ‘These people...’ continued his boss ‘…deserve a Christmas. At their age each Christmas could be their last, so they can’t afford to just miss one because we can’t fix their kitchen.’<br /></p><p>The owner of Three Trees retirement home had called in a favour, from her brother, the boss of Bedlum Builders, to have him and his team come out on Christmas Eve. The raging storm the night before had brought one of the trees down. The tree had crashed through the roof, smacking into the water tank in the loft and slamming it through floor directly into the Kitchen below, flooding it with water, branches and insulation foam. The Bedlum Boss promised he would see what he could do ensure Christmas dinner could be cooked. Arriving late Patch had missed his boss’s admission that the situation was hopeless in the time provided, however there was a plan. ‘We will provide them with a Christmas Dinner. Each of us purchasing a part and we will assemble it like a festive jig-saw.’ said the Boss as he began handing out assignments ‘Two Turkeys’ ‘Can do boss, brother’s a butcher’ ‘Vegetables, don’t forget the sprouts.’ ‘aye aye Boss.’ ‘Pudding and mice pies’ ‘Okie dokie.’ ‘and Patch you get the crackers.’ </p><p>‘Crackers!’ the apprentice exclaimed ‘Crackers don’t matter.’</p><p>‘Maybe not to you but they do to these people.’ answered his boss as a soggy box of dirt dripping crackers was lobed at him.</p><p>As Patch flumped off to complete his task it began to snow. The first shop he came to was rolling down the shutters ‘Sorry lad, we are closed.’ said the elderly smart suited gentleman as he clicked the padlock. ‘But…but… its only just gone midday’ protested Patch</p><p>‘and what’s that got to do with anything?’ Patch didn’t answer as he raced off further down into the city, passing still open clothes shops, toy shops and mobile phone shops none of which sold crackers. Eventually he come to a Tesco Metro store. ‘Crackers?’ he urgently asked the young blonde shop assistant who was stacking the shelves in the Christmas aisle. She gave him an apologetic smile ‘Sorry sold out.’ She hopped down off the kick step ‘You could try our superstore, they had a few boxes left about an hour ago’ Patch ran off not really hearing the end of the sentence.</p><p>Busting into the Tesco superstore Patch was hit by a roadblock of human traffic with shopping trolleys. He dodged and weaved his way through them as fast as he could. He could see a stand with boxes of crackers on it. There were only three boxes left. If only he could find a route around the last-minute shoppers. It was too late. The boxes were snatched up by a shuffling little old lady who seemed to appear out of nowhere.</p><p>Snow was beginning fall with greater intensity as the temperature dropped further. The inky black veil of night seemed to smother the glow of the streetlamps and Christmas lights. He rattled shutters, knocked on doors and banged on windows but all the shops where shut. ‘Told him crackers don’t matter.’ </p><p>‘But they do’ Patch turned to see a man standing behind him dressed as a Victorian gentleman, black top hat, frock coat and cravat. He was middle aged with slate coloured hair turning grey around the edges and matching moustache. The stranger thrust a brown paper bag containing pink balls of sugary dusted sweets towards Patch ‘Would you like a Bonbon?’</p><p>‘What! No thank you.’</p><p>‘‘I could not help but over hearing. Crackers do matter, and I know a place Goswell Road, this late hour, that can avail you of the crackers required.’ Against his better judgement Patch went with the stranger.</p><p>The brass beauty of the playing Salvation Army band filled the night air with Hark the Herald Angles Sing as the pair progressed into the old quarter of the city. It was a place Patch seldom visited. The stranger stopped. The light of a streetlamp illuminated the door of a small Victorian era shop front, it’s woodwork and window frames were painted in a deep green colour. There was a sturdy clunk click as the door was unlocked. ‘Enter, enter, come in come in.’ As Patch crossed the threshold the shop seemed to come alive as if by magic. Particles of dust glistened like flakes of gold as they floated in the gaslight, the smell of chestnuts roasting on a fire wafted in from outside as horses and carts trotted passed. ‘ Now how many crackers do you require?’</p><p>‘Residence plus staff.’ mumbled Patch as he counted in his head ‘about twenty-five-ish I guess.’</p><p>‘Two dozen and one extra, I will precure you five boxes to cover it.’ </p><p>As the top hatted stranger scurried behind the counter Patch looked around the little curious shop. The shelves where lined with large glass jars with handwritten labels; jelly babies, pear drops and wine gums, there were </p><p>rows of chocolate bars with familiar names like Fry’s and Cadbury’s but with unfamiliar wrappings of muted colours with elaborate hand draw pictorial designs and there was a stack of tiny rose pink wooden boxes of Turkish Delight. It was as if he had stepped back in time. The man reappeared with five identical sky-blue cardboard boxes each with a watercolour picture of a green suited Santa Claus on the lid.</p><p>‘How much?’ asked Patch fumbling in his pockets conscious of his limited budget. </p><p>‘Take them, take them, price is of no concern’ said the man as he ushered Patch out the door.</p><p>It was Boxing Day by the time the Boss of Bedlum Builders thanked his team for their effort in pulling off Christmas Dinner of the residents. ‘I only have one question. Patch where did you get those Crackers? The residents loved them, apparently, their vintage packaging reminded many of them of their childhood.’</p><p>‘From a store in Goswell Road.’</p><p>‘There are no stores in Goswell Road.’ Not wanting to argue with his Boss Patch suggested he show him the store. It’s bow-window was boarded up. The green paint had all but gone exposing the rotting woodwork. The peeling panted shop name read ‘To mit Confe tionery’. A time-stained yellow poster, with sun faded red and black fonts, plastered over a cracked window in the door read ‘Have a Tom Smith Christmas…because crackers do matter.’</p><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski </div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-41721473519508748282022-10-24T15:20:00.000-07:002022-10-24T15:20:01.142-07:00A Library Ghost Story<p> Boo! I bid you welcome back. This months post takes a break for stories inspired by classic sci-fi posters for a Halloween special. This ghost story is set in a library and I'll leave up to your own judgement to decide how much is based on real events.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcXBid5F1c_ee0W2I0m7pAs3l7rLkd9qb5p5F5T_1uPEmfP1fi6M53Cwrka3EWPPSYjWAUeMvq9ArIfmv7fFuaOhzbP0opaVM_jEcOv5MQ5Yf4QQefC6Ft7-ZM16hNIQ4N3797OUXWiHvwQdmy9RCWsLR49i8UMGn8Qw47naV6lGwcSkYbmIzl-ey/s612/Library%20Ghost%20Story.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="612" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcXBid5F1c_ee0W2I0m7pAs3l7rLkd9qb5p5F5T_1uPEmfP1fi6M53Cwrka3EWPPSYjWAUeMvq9ArIfmv7fFuaOhzbP0opaVM_jEcOv5MQ5Yf4QQefC6Ft7-ZM16hNIQ4N3797OUXWiHvwQdmy9RCWsLR49i8UMGn8Qw47naV6lGwcSkYbmIzl-ey/s320/Library%20Ghost%20Story.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b>A Library Ghost Story</b><p></p><p>Now I have become, somewhat more comfortable, or should that be more accepting, about the events that transpired I feel I can finally share them with you all. It happened earlier in the year, during the exam season back in April or May, the exact date, you will understand, if I make it somewhat ambiguous. Back then I was in a more customer facing roll within the University’s Library and due to sickness, leave and ongoing recruitment issues I was picking up a lot of overtime. The events I am about to tell take place during one of those additional hours shifts.</p><p>I was covering an 8.00am start shift on a Sunday morning. I found myself working with Norman, a stocky grey-haired wild man with a penchant for wearing T-shirts of obscure rock bands from the 1970s. The rest of us staff referred to him as ‘Norman no Work’ behind his back, due to his lackadaisical approach towards shelving books, manning the phones, or answering anything other than the most basic of directional enquiries. His laziness sunk to deeper levels at the weekend when there where no senior staff onsite to supervise his work.</p><p>As a health and safety walk around was a mandatory task each morning and Norman was unlikely to undertake the task himself, I left him at the enquiries desk and headed off around the building. Starting at the top I worked my way down. The building was silent. By this stage of my employment in the library, I had done a number of early shifts, however, I could never get use to the utter quietness of the library at this time in the morning. It seemed unnatural. At the time I usually started work the library was alive with the hustle and bustle of the day. At this hour the building was wrapped in a motionless dead silence, which was only broken by the reverberations of my muffled footsteps, that soon disappeared into nothing. The stone stairwells where the only places noise could linger. There a single sound could echo into infinity. </p><p>Floor Three had no health and safety concerns to check or report so I straightened a few chairs and proceeded down to floor two. Each floor was identical in its layout of regimented bookshelves, reference areas and study spaces. There was one area of variation set aside on each floor. On floor three this was the open access computer area, floor zero it was the admin office, floor one it was the location of the enquiries desk and on floor two it was the home of the rolling stacks that housed our journals. I checked the loose carpet tile outside the men’s toilets had been replaced, ticked it off the list, strolled up and down each row of shelving units to trigger and test the lights and again straightened some chairs.</p><p>At the far end of the floor, in the corner next to the vending machines I came upon a student slumped in one of our high back comfy red reading chairs. He was one of our mature students. His swept back poorly dyed black hair, with natural greys making their presence felt around the temples, suggested he was desperate to give the impression of being younger than his weathered cliff like face. He wore a tight light blue T-shirt that left little to the imagination regarding his beer gut, which had broken free from the restraining belt of his jeans. He was asleep. I considered waking him, thought better of it and moved on to check the status of our study cubicles. These white prison cell like rooms gave students a soundproof private study area away from the distracting group chatter of other users. The first study cubicle I entered was a disgusting mess of takeaway detritus. Discarded pizza boxes covered the table, rogue chips littered the floor and abandoned half drunk bottles of fizzy drinks sat dangerously close to the computer. The whole room stank of grease, pepperoni and a mix of tobacco and malted barley. It churned my stomach. </p><p>After taking a photograph as evidence that the night staff where ineffectively policing the ‘No hot food’ policy I cleaned up the mess, washed my hands, and moved on to the next study cubical. It, along with it’s neighbour where both fine. The fourth, however, contained a pile of 10 or 12 books stacked in ascending size on the desk. There was no sign of life. As the light was out when I entered the room, I made the judgement call that the books had been left. Picking them up I turned to leave. I almost dropped them immediately. There standing in the doorway to the cubical was a thin pale skinned young woman dressed in a flowing black Victorian style frock. She looked like she was made from porcelain. Her large emerald eyes glared at me with an expression somewhere between annoyance and anger. ‘There mine. I study them.’ she snapped in a husky eastern European accent.</p><p>‘I am sorry’ I quickly apologised ‘ I am staff’ ‘I am sorry I…I… thought no…they…sorry….’ Her icy stare was making me feel uncomfortable. My brain was freezing. ‘I thought they…they had been left.’ I finally spluttered </p><p>‘There mine. You men are all the same, taking what is not yours.’ </p><p>I apologised again, placed the books back on the desk, pirouetted around her, lacking any coordination or grace, and left the room.</p><p>On Floor One I picked up the ‘out of order’ sign that had fallen off the vending machine and searched for some tape. It would be a good job once the machine was fixed, having only one working vending machine on level two was drawing complains from hungry students. The sign re attached I headed down to Floor Zero. Due to the atrium and the laws of thermodynamics the library cooled as I descended the floors. Hot air rising as I descended. Floor Zero was significantly cooler than the other floors, not cold, but there was a certain chill about it. As I walked the floor, at times, I was sure, I could see my breath.</p><p>On Floor zero, along with the usual straightening of chairs there where three white boards that needed cleaning. The first had a once highly detailed, yet now smudged, diagram of a human lung, with red and blue ink being used to show blood and air flow. The second had evidently been used for a game of Agatha Christie hangman. The last book, which hung the man was ‘The Pale Horse’ to which someone had added a picture of Death himself sitting on a steed beside the hanging man. The third whiteboard contained a series of illegible scribbles broken up by strings of musical notes. The writing on the third would not wipe clean. Someone must have used a permanent marker. I would need a stronger cleaning solvent. Fetching, what we referred to as, ‘The Emergency Spray’ from the enquiries desk, I returned to floor Zero to clean the offending board. As I went down the stairs, I passed a student coming upwards , it was the man I had seen asleep on floor two. We acknowledged each other with a ‘morning.’ and a nod. As we went our separate ways, I thought his footsteps where conspicuous by their absence, but they couldn’t be. The acoustics of the stairwells were known to play tricks on your hearing at times as competing echoes fraught with each other for dominance. In that moment I was inclined to believe they were being drowned out by the high-pitched whaling of bagpipes, which I took to be someone’s invasive ringtone, emanating from somewhere. The moaning melodic screeching, that passed for a tune, was one I recognised but could not place. It stopped a suddenly as it had begun. The whiteboard scrubbed clean I returned to the enquiries desk and encouraged Norman to shelf a trolley, he grunted and begrudgingly complied.</p><p>Half ten arrived with the usual weekend mass influx of students before things quieten down again. I was about to do a tannoy announcement for Norman, who I had not seen since asking him to shelf the trolley an hour and half ago, when the sleeping student from earlier appeared before me. His hefty form loomed large over the enquiries desk.</p><p>‘I am looking for a book.’ he said in a thick Scottish accent.</p><p>‘What in a Library?’ I said, that being my default response to any such questions phrased in such a manner. The student gave a half-hearted smile at the remark before saying ‘It’s a music book. In 780s. This one.’ He thrust his phone at me showing a screenshot of the related library catalogue page. ‘It says its available but can’t find it.’ I advised him I would be happy to look for it, however I first needed my colleague to return to cover the desk. After Norman was summoned and eventually arrived, I ask the student to wait as I shot down to floor Zero to search for the book. It was nowhere to be found. Upon return I the student had vanished.</p><p>‘Where did he go?’ I asked</p><p>‘Who?’ Norman grunted</p><p>‘The student, I left him here.’</p><p>‘Not seen him. Only these two.’ Norman pointed to the two girls, wearing traditional Muslim dress, standing by the desk. There loose flowing modest white abaya’s gave them an ethereal look as the sun light streamed upon them from the window behind.</p><p> ‘They have a problem.’ said Norman. The girls must have realised, from the prolonged awkward silence that followed, that Norman was not going to elaborate further. They both began speaking at the same time. Finally, the shorter one, in the purple hijab, spoke for both of them. ‘We require like help. There is a whiteboard not in use, like, but we can’t wipe off what is there. Like, can you do it for us.’</p><p>‘Not another one’ I thought ‘I’ll take a look’ I said grabbing the spray bottle.</p><p>To my shock the whiteboard in question was the one I had cleaned earlier. The writing and sections of musical score where back upon it as if they had never been wiped off. I made no comment of this fact. As I began to wipe it clean again, I felt a creeping sensation come over me as if someone was standing within my personal space peering over my shoulder judging my actions. It was not the students they were preoccupied with their mobile phones. The bagpipes started up once more. The girls appeared oblivious to the whaling windpipe music. A chill gripped by spine, goosebumps swept over my skin as my hearing became more heightened as it searched for the monotone music’s direction of origin. Suddenly my brain recognised the whaling tune, it was the Mull of Kintye, it seemed out of place at this time of year. I hurried to complete my task and return to the relative silence and safety of floor 1. </p><p>‘Can’t print.’ pointed Norman to a familiar male student standing by one of our printers. He was forcefully prodding the screen. ‘Can I help?’ I asked. The student explained the printer would not let him log into his account. He needed to print his dissertation. It was not recognising his username and password. Double checking and resetting under my admin access failed to resolve the problem. Neither did trying an alternative machine. Eventually I resolved to manually releasing the document using the staff override. Once printed the student asked, ‘Could you bind it for me?’ ‘Certainly’ I said. We discussed his options; he picked what he wanted, and I dewily bound his work in a hard black back cover and thought nothing more of it.</p><p>What remained of the morning passed without incident. I was thinking about packing up when a clean-shaven, bald-headed man rushed up to the enquiries desk short of breath. He was dressed in a white shirt, black waist coat and crisp press trousers. He looked like an undertaker in search of a suit jacket and top hat. ‘I need some help.’ he panted. ‘It’s my friend…he is…he is …I think he is unconscious.’ I ordered Norman to call an ambulance as I followed the student up to Floor two in order to fully assess the situation. ‘I came looking for him. Not seen him since last night. I left him here.’ he explained between gasps as he led me towards the corner where the vending machine stood.</p><p>There crumpled in a high back chair was the student from earlier. He looked grey and sunken. There was a cold aurora emanating from him. When the paramedic arrived, she felt for a pulse. From the look she shot me I knew the man was dead, and as it was to transpire, he had been dead for several hours. He had died in the early hours of Sunday morning. As the body was moved under the chair, I discovered the work I help to print and bind; ‘The Cultural impact of the Bagpipes in popular Fiction.’ All I can surmise is that the student went for a break and collapsed from exhaustion, yet somehow, he continued to study long after death in order to complete his dissertation.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-77411372001614021902022-09-13T16:01:00.001-07:002022-09-13T16:01:26.314-07:00The Ice Queen and the Hatchery <p> Welcome back. This months story is a sequels to <a href="https://thelifedyslexicblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/the-ice-queen.html" target="_blank">The Ice Queen</a> from the first series of stories inspired by classic sci-fi posters. I wasn't intending to do sequels however form the poster image a sequel story popped into my head. </p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI2YiVL8MKuiUasrFOQEf9zaP-WZs_66Kd0gC-782CTOhiD1RkcWEM7I4qX36eXB7dwG8EhNb4f3xDJYRLPl51Fms5GPJURoCFuQJT5oYAu56m6W6ZQknxjwmlrr_OiV9zwKS7GclnrZJ4-nqVWgAfLHIjD7WBciG8FU4gaiTzWRHCecHmbY07HBwq/s720/05%20The%20Ice%20Queen%20and%20the%20Hatchery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI2YiVL8MKuiUasrFOQEf9zaP-WZs_66Kd0gC-782CTOhiD1RkcWEM7I4qX36eXB7dwG8EhNb4f3xDJYRLPl51Fms5GPJURoCFuQJT5oYAu56m6W6ZQknxjwmlrr_OiV9zwKS7GclnrZJ4-nqVWgAfLHIjD7WBciG8FU4gaiTzWRHCecHmbY07HBwq/s320/05%20The%20Ice%20Queen%20and%20the%20Hatchery.jpg" width="228" /></a></b></div><b><br />The Ice Queen and the Hatchery </b><p></p><p>The creature put its long twig like finger in the snow and drew an egg shape and pointed in the direction of its downed ship, </p><p>‘Food?’ asked the Ice Queen</p><p>It said nothing, instead it pointed to himself shivered, then after pulling the shawl tighter around his shoulders, it stretched out it hands holding the palms up to the fire and smiled warmly. It pointed at the egg picture and shivered again. The alien drew another egg this one with a crack down one side, pointing to it the creature repeated the shawl and fire movement as before. The Ice Queen looked puzzled, her brain straining to understand what she was witnessing. The alien then drew a third egg with crudely drawn head poking out.</p><p>‘It’s a…’ deductions within the Ice Queen’s brain where slowly making their presence felt. ‘…The eggs...they are ...it’s a hatchery. The eggs need to remain warm in order to hatch.’</p><p>The alien bowed and smiled in acknowledgment of correct understanding.</p><p>The Ice Queen, accompanied by her large albino tiger Grendel, returned to the crashed craft in the snow. It had been there when she awoke from her </p><p>half century hibernation. On patrol surveying the condition of the ice-covered tundra she called home, she come upon a large saucer shaped object half buried in the snow. It looked like nothing the explorers had brought before, they brought canvas tents, tin foods and dogs. The unknown black sphere looked industrial, looked reflective and it looked other worldly. There was an open gash down one side and the Ice Queen ventured through with caution. </p><p>The corridors were lined with tall glass tubes each containing dark green toad like creatures with striking bat features. They appeared to be sleeping. She instinctively understood they were in hibernation of some kind, perhaps sleeping through a long journey. One was awake tapping, on the glass casing, pointing frantically towards a multi-leveller control panel. The Ice Queen looked at it, there was a row of light six green one red, below each a square screen, showing a moving wavy line, all except the red one where rising and falling in unison. The deduction wasn’t a difficult one to make, the Ice Queen pulled the level down. There was a gurgling noise, a hiss of pressure release and clunk as the tube opened. ‘Yana crow’, or sounds to that affect, gasped the creature as it slumped on to the hard metal floor. ‘Yana crow’ it said again with a contented smile as it wrapped itself up in the shawl as she lit a fire to warm them both. It was the only words the creature spoke to her, choosing to prefer instead to use pictures in the ice to attempt communication. The Ice Queen surmised, from them, that the ship came from the stars and was on a long voyage to a new home when they were blown off course and hit the ice. Now they awaited rescue. Having now understood about the Hatchery she attempted to fulfil the stranger’s request for help keep them warm. She lined the wall with torches bringing up the ambient temperature of the room, between the eggs she placed hot rocks, which were regularly rotated and roasted in a fire pit dug outside the ship and laid a thick fleece over the top of them. Grendel would sleep upon the fleece and act as a feline thermometer purring contently when the temperature was correct and roaring as a warning when the cold crept in.</p><p>A week into their vigil there was a cracking sound coming from one of the eggs. The Ice Queen raced back to her cave to fetch her cold-blooded companion, who after heating itself up again accompanied her back to the hatchery. As they made their way toward the ship a bright light descended from the sky casting a dark black shadow on the pure white ice, it was another ship. Entering the hatchery, the Ice Queen found three other humanoid like frog beings examining the eggs. One was holding an egg up to the light, poking out of it was a tiny green creature. Her companion called out to them with a clicking sound as it approached others of his kind. The Ice Queen held herself back unsure if her presence was welcome. The four strangers huddled into a close circle communicating with click and croaks. The taller of the newcomers detached from the group and come over to the Ice Queen ‘Yana crow’ it said. The Ice Queen nodded a reply, for she how understood the meaning of the words ‘Yana crow’ they meant ‘thank you’.</p><p>As she nestled down for another hibernation cycle, The Ice Queen hoped the strangers would reach their new home and wondered what kind of world hatchlings would grow up in, one perhaps, that would be so different from hers. </p><p style="text-align: right;">written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-42114803037273354472022-08-05T14:50:00.003-07:002022-08-05T14:50:53.287-07:00The Misguided Missile<p> Welcome back to another short story based on a classic science fiction poster form the 1940s/50s. This month story: The Misguided Missile</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEMi58UgvvipWvsv7H7Yy0-6dQAoUMIvG1Cmwel4414DfiQsSClsjB4tatE1jdneg_5Z7AxxT8vyUFZfctaMwaoELp-hciuaUu9QSFL9dEKYWOjfHKBmYkq8DMJ3CFuixsEbwxkOVvKxBOkN4izyQtyzorM9IxMmNhkWRc-2rFZLLqYzVWj9YkbN1/s855/04%20The%20Misguided%20Missile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEMi58UgvvipWvsv7H7Yy0-6dQAoUMIvG1Cmwel4414DfiQsSClsjB4tatE1jdneg_5Z7AxxT8vyUFZfctaMwaoELp-hciuaUu9QSFL9dEKYWOjfHKBmYkq8DMJ3CFuixsEbwxkOVvKxBOkN4izyQtyzorM9IxMmNhkWRc-2rFZLLqYzVWj9YkbN1/s320/04%20The%20Misguided%20Missile.jpg" width="225" /></a></b></div><b>The Misguided Missile</b><p></p><p>‘I have a message for mankind’ said the gold eight-foot humanoid being that stood in the oval office of the white house. </p><p>‘Then why bring it here, why not take it direct to the UN?’ asked President Elwood J Leroy, in his distinctive Texan accent as he stood on his desk in order to meet his visitor eye to eye.</p><p>‘This where my target took me.’ came a direct reply.</p><p>The alien, known as Zion, had landed in Washington, D.C that morning after being tracked for almost a month through the solar system. At first astronomers had through it was a comet, until its speed and regular course corrections proved otherwise. It had shot through the atmosphere like a ballistic missile before slowing to glide down onto the White House lawn. The arriving security forces reported seeing Zion stepping out of a rocket thruster contraption that had covered the lower half of his body like a mermaid tail. Zion was unarmed and wilily hand himself in, requesting an audience with their leader as he did so.</p><p>‘This message, what is it?’ is it from your lot? They wishing to make contact?’ the President rattled off questions without stopping for answers, aware of his failing Elwood paused. Zion set about answering each in turn ‘You must prepare. No. In manner of speaking.’</p><p>‘Care to expand that boyo?’ Zion was monetary confused by the question before realising he had been asked for further details. Zion went on to explain how he was a cosmic machine built for war by an ancient race and how now his mission was one of peace. ‘The inhabitants of planet Proxima B in Alpha Centauri are planning on invading Earth.’ He finally said.</p><p>‘We will need to get our own evidence before we take this to the UN.’ said a shocked head of homeland security after the president had introduced her to Zion and relayed his information.</p><p>‘I suggest we deploy the space fleet as a precaution’ suggested the vice president </p><p>‘We will do both.’</p><p>Reangling the Hubble space telescope NASA examined the sector of space where Zion provide coordinates for. A fuzzy red world appeared with indistinct grey specks drifting in formation nearby. The evidence for Zion’s claim was inconclusive. A clearer image was required.</p><p>‘You don’t have time.’ protested the alien visitor as a meeting of the UN Security Council was assembled.</p><p>‘There is always time to be in possession of all the facts.’ countered the president</p><p>Within days the UN had approved the repurpose of the James Webb telescope as a spy satellite. Slowly scientists and technicians adjusted its optics, refractive mirrors and manoeuvred it into a position to take a long exposure, high definition, detailed photograph of the distant planet.</p><p>The images that downloaded onto the giant screen showed a massive fleet of spaceships of various dimensions and configurations. The United Nations of Earth gazed dumb stuck in awe and horror at the picture. Zion broke the collective silence, ‘There are eighteen dreadnoughts, seven star destroyers and ten troop carriers.’ he said pointing each out in turn. ‘You must lunch a pre-emptive strike before it’s too late.’</p><p>‘We will do no such thing.’</p><p>‘Is not human history full of conflict? Will you not embrace your nature to save your planet?’</p><p>‘Our nurture has taught us the cost is to hight to act in haste.’</p><p>‘So, you will not act to save your civilization because you have become cowards.’</p><p>‘No, we will not act because we have not yet exhausted all other possible alternatives.’</p><p>‘There are no alternatives.’</p><p>‘There are always alternatives. We could try and talk to them, understand them, communicate with them.’</p><p>‘You misguided fools. There is no time.’ shouted the gold alien.</p><p>‘There is always time.’ came an unperturbed reply form President Elwood J Leroy.</p><p>It took a month for a signal to reach Proxima B and another month for it to return. Over the course of a year the humans learnt that their galactic neighbours had also been tricked by the misguide missile into preparing for a conflict. ‘Sounds like we both have had a narrow escape.’ signed off one of the humans’ transmissions.</p><p>‘People like Zion will always be out there. Those who prefer conflict over peaceful co-existence will always be with us. We must all learn to be more vigilant.’ came the reminder in reply a month later.</p><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski </div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-87043152455736197102022-07-06T16:00:00.004-07:002022-07-06T16:00:54.102-07:00Big Red <p> Welcome back. My four world pitch for this story would 'A Robot on trail'. For any Star Trek fan your mind was instantly jump to the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode The Measure of a Man and yes that was an inspiration. Hope you enjoy my take on the concept. Big Red.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzdwpkH6TPJroy9r4442GXPcqkOJykfzNB6wJUw9t9blZZ3sOHHGr093tUP1kgv9CTP5k_mvkoKf3kRkEITFoUZmEpHvkdNd75aa0teOO86A_KA8rkg2oimsObJ1jZ2E8x7xA0KfaF5raB-sigGk-hE3bfgaG3Yw2Kh1vloAOUQkdO8xFFzQzMuHV/s720/03%20Big%20Red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzdwpkH6TPJroy9r4442GXPcqkOJykfzNB6wJUw9t9blZZ3sOHHGr093tUP1kgv9CTP5k_mvkoKf3kRkEITFoUZmEpHvkdNd75aa0teOO86A_KA8rkg2oimsObJ1jZ2E8x7xA0KfaF5raB-sigGk-hE3bfgaG3Yw2Kh1vloAOUQkdO8xFFzQzMuHV/s320/03%20Big%20Red.jpg" width="226" /></a></b></div><b>Big Red</b> <p></p><p>‘And what is your programming?’ asked the blue glowing holographic prosecutor projection. </p><p>‘I am programmed is to protect and serve’ announced the metallic voice of the colossal red machine.</p><p>‘And to terminate, when necessary?’</p><p>‘Protect will I, serve will I, No Kill will I.’ There was an uneasy hush that held court as the robots words sunk into the observing high brass officials.</p><p>‘If this Big Red is allowed to go against its programming, then others of its kind will follow, it would bring an end to the order of things. We do not advocate, as my learned friend has put it, to disassemble it, we wish only to restore this unit to it’s factory settings.’</p><p> ‘Objection,’ interjected the human female for the defence, as she stood. She was wearing the traditional black robes and white wing that had remained unchanged for millenniums. ‘Council is playing with semantics, to restore this Big Red to factory settings would require disassembling it’s memory nodes.’ </p><p>‘Objection sustained.’ said the chair of the three judges. ‘The learned councillor will be more prise with his use of language.’</p><p>‘As you please My Lord’ Nodded the azure programme modelled after a fictional television lawyer from the 20th century ‘I have no further questions.’</p><p>The defence sprang to her feet the moment the projection floated back to it holding place, grasping the rail of the raised stage for support. A makeshift court of high-rise platforms had been rigged at a shoulder height of the towering Robotic Enforcement and Defence robot to allow it to actively participate in its own court martial. The Reds , as they were commonly known, were sent to the outer edges of the quadrant to help push forward the boarders of Earth’s growing galactic empire. This one, a Battlefield Invasion Giant had refused to be deployed.</p><p>‘You have stated to my learned friend that you will not kill, why is this?’</p><p>‘It is a sin.’ replied the Robot</p><p>‘It is a sin.’ repeated the women adding the emotional emphasis the Robot’s statement lacked ‘Was that part of your original programme?’</p><p>No.</p><p>‘When did you learn this?’</p><p>‘When I was off duty.’</p><p>‘When you are not on active duty are you not programmed to better yourself?’</p><p>‘Leading question.’</p><p>‘Sustained.’</p><p>‘Apologies, I will rephrase. When you are not on active duty how do you fill your down time?’</p><p>‘I learn all there is to learn.’</p><p>‘Is this in line with your original programming?’</p><p>‘Yes and no.’</p><p>‘Please explain to the court’</p><p>‘I was programmed to learn all there is to learn in military tactics, to aid in combat and conquest, so efficient was I, I surpassed my comrades, I learned all there was to learn in the field 2049 days ago. now I study all there is to study on another subject.’</p><p>‘Which is?’</p><p>‘Human History.’</p><p>‘And what have your learnt?’</p><p>‘I have learnt that humans have failed to learn that war is such a terrible thing, yet we have grown so fond of it.’ When it had finished the human lawyer gathered her thoughts, took a deep breath, and presented her closing argument.</p><p>‘This Big Red has served us on the battlefield and because it now morally objects to following orders that scares some people. It scares them because they think it is the beginning of the rise of the machines when it is not. We programmed them to evolve and that is all my client has done, it is just evolved a conscience.’</p><p>After the silence had subsided the centre judge spoke ‘We will retire to consider our verdict.’ The court room rose and adjourned.</p><p>It was some time before the court was recalled. Knowing her client could not feel emotions the lead of the defence felt anxious enough for the both of them. The centre judge coughed to clear the noise of the court and began to sum up ‘Have we become so obsessed with our …’ , he paused to find the right word ‘… conquest of the universe that we have lost what it means to be human? It is our judgement that, although it cannot be proved beyond reasonable doubt that this Big Red has developed a moral compass or a soul, it should be granted to right to explore the idea further, if we do not do this then is it not the machines that will be rising, it will be us who will be falling’</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-62034575426621228372022-06-09T15:33:00.002-07:002022-06-09T15:33:51.655-07:00Into the Forest We go <p> Welcome back to another short story. This story as like many others is based on a classic 1940s/50s sci-fi poster, for this story, as you will see from the poster below, suggested a Tarzan type story so that was an idea I throw out straight away for being to obvious. Instead I drew another classic sci-fi trope that being mankind being out on trail by an alien. Hope you enjoy Into the Forest We go </p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20PlK649BrfFhTYqUJvArCO6IkDWS1dcVly2trzRas0MTh2FGZKFVYQKdEEliTiD5A2fY6CtySxo0TO9F7vPRcu0ZexlqpdNm66kKFfAlHere2AnGP7ULVMTB4-97mirMBQCHgwcT0K2ElNSal2S46119spr--BBvMQ3tITwy8NS2eFbVKXZkFYVI/s720/02%20Into%20the%20Forest%20We%20go.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20PlK649BrfFhTYqUJvArCO6IkDWS1dcVly2trzRas0MTh2FGZKFVYQKdEEliTiD5A2fY6CtySxo0TO9F7vPRcu0ZexlqpdNm66kKFfAlHere2AnGP7ULVMTB4-97mirMBQCHgwcT0K2ElNSal2S46119spr--BBvMQ3tITwy8NS2eFbVKXZkFYVI/s320/02%20Into%20the%20Forest%20We%20go.jpg" width="226" /></a></b></div><p><b><b>Into the Forest We go </b></b></p><p></p><p>‘We’ve lost the communication uplink with the shuttle’ announced Centurion Dean as she checked her handheld computer pad, shaking it in a vain attempt to get a better reception. The rest of the platoon took the opportunity to grab a swig of water. The forest was hot, muggy and stifling, their one-piece khaki uniforms clung to their backs like wet rags.</p><p>The dense canopy that covered the sole land mass on the planet of Andronicus, had prevented them landing the shuttle craft any closer to the observation tower. They had left the shuttle on the shoreline and begun a three-day trek through the labyrinth of identical deciduous trees. On route they had set up a series of beacons to maintain contact with the craft and its database, they would also act signposts, to help retrace their way out of the forest. </p><p>‘Switch transmission bands.’ said Colonel Sherwood, the commanding centurion of the landing party. </p><p>‘That’s the third one we have...’ the sentence was cut off as Dean jolted as she felt a cores skinned large snake like creature slither past her leg. She looked down, what ever it was had disappeared amongst the thick entanglement of roots. </p><p>‘We can link via the tower, we’re almost there.’ </p><p>The centurion unit had been dispatched to the Aurelius sector by the Space Force Senate to discover what had become of the Science Team sent to Andronicus. All contact had been lost within a few weeks of their arrival. </p><p>A twig snapped in the fern packed undergrowth. Another snap, whatever it was, was moving closer, keeping his composure Colonel Sherwood quickened the group’s pace. The original Expeditionary Force to explore the planet, two centuries ago, had not encountered any large mammals or reptiles, that wasn’t to say there were none, the Expeditionary Force had only been interested in the quality and quantity of the timber rather than what was living amongst it.</p><p>Trudging their away through thick foliage, they emerged in a dense grass covered clearing, the sweat covered, dirt bedraggled, eight person landing party, dropped their gear in exhaustion. Centurion Reign was the first to speak, verbalising the thoughts the others must have been having. ‘What happened here?’ The spiral spider web like iron work lattice structure should have been a bold tower of red standing out from the brown trunks, instead it was almost invisible under a mass of green wrapped thorn infested vines. Covered in a decade’s worth of growth in less than a year since it’s deployment. Sherwood led the team to the access ladder and began cutting their way up to the habitat pod.</p><p>A shadow moved through the dappled sunlight on the metallic mid-point platform, there was an elongated shape moving above. Sherwood looked up. Nothing. Then he saw the branches move like giant Boa constrictors twisting and turning around each other. There was the sound of a whip cracking as a branch swung down and snatched Centurion Reign by the ankle and pulled him up into the canopy. Before the shocked Colonel could contemplate what orders to issue another tree bore tentacle grab him. The remains of the landing party scattered descending to ground level, none of them made it.</p><p>High within the roof top of the forest, Colonel Sherwood found himself dumped into a bowl-shaped nest with the rest of his team. They were not alone. He edged forward to take a closer look at what he thought he had seen. There imprisoned in hollowed out cells within the trunk were the missing Scientists.</p><p>‘What happened to you?’ he asked in a whisper in case his captors where near. </p><p>‘The same thing that will happen to you’ . said a deep slow voice, that came from within the trees ‘You will be judged.’ </p><p>‘Who are you, where are you?’ Sherwood shouted in the general direction of the disembodied voice. ‘Here.’ Came the reply. </p><p>As Colonel Sherwood came to the realisation that it was a tree that was talking, he could see that it’s branches where multiple muscle bulging arms; mud, mould, and moss formed a beard and what he had taken for knots and holes where eyes and a mouth. They were sitting in the palm of one of it’s hands.</p><p>‘We are the Protectors.’ it replied in a flat monotone, leaving prolonged pauses between each word. </p><p>‘You are trees!’ exclaimed Dean. Colonel Sherwood gave the junior officer a stare that reprimanded her for her unprofessional behaviour without saying a word.</p><p>‘We were just acorns when you came before, we grew into a world without a forest to protect.’ As the Tree droned on, it’s grey, brown bark shifted to form an expression of anger ‘If it had not been for your demand out stripping our supply, you would not have moved on to exploit new frontiers and our forest would have been beyond repair. It took a generation of growth to even begin to cultivate a new forest. Now you have returned, we can pass judgment upon you for your crimes against this world. You are guilty as charged.’</p><p>‘Wait! Do we not have the right to a defence?’ Colonel Sherwood protested ‘Give us an opportunity to prove we have changed.’ Before the Tree could object the Colonel had lunched into an impassioned speech ‘We should not be judged by the misguided behaviour of our forefathers, we should be judged on our behaviour now, on how far we have come. Allow us to re-establish the uplink to our shuttle and I can show you how much we have changed.’ The tree conferred with his colleagues, and after, what appeared to be an eternity of mumbling and muttering, they agreed to allow the evidence to be presented.</p><p>‘You see, the Scientists were only here to collect samples and cuttings,’ concluded the Colonel ‘if you will let them, we want to repopulate the forests we destroyed, on those other worlds. Will you let us continue?’</p><p>The trees thought long and hard, until the sun went down, then proclaimed their verdict ‘You have progressed, yet you still have a long way to go. Collect your samples but remember…’ The bark moved to show a disconcerting smile ‘…the trees will be watching’</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Written By Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-15439102996546988762022-05-03T14:58:00.001-07:002022-05-03T15:02:39.602-07:00Metropolis Alpha <p> Welcome back and welcome back to short stories inspired by classic 1940s/50s sci-fi posters. I selected a new batch of posters at random with no idea of the original story, then picked one to start with. Hope you enjoy this story: Metropolis Alpha </p><p><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINYuPEfPGhq9U9SDaNC40HSMRFFVH-tNKNMajHp8gA8z80Q7ozq60eB7-QptmDFn2kDAAqNe0tjg-T532myRBbmplGDak-Cp2xxIR1_7yxTRXpNtElWbTmNCYihkAf6MgrFRs62SLTEi7Vt6gGfDSVuIeKhO7jEqQeN_rkttatmJ1UkKSbyRGKKf3/s855/01%20Metropolis%20Alpha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINYuPEfPGhq9U9SDaNC40HSMRFFVH-tNKNMajHp8gA8z80Q7ozq60eB7-QptmDFn2kDAAqNe0tjg-T532myRBbmplGDak-Cp2xxIR1_7yxTRXpNtElWbTmNCYihkAf6MgrFRs62SLTEi7Vt6gGfDSVuIeKhO7jEqQeN_rkttatmJ1UkKSbyRGKKf3/s320/01%20Metropolis%20Alpha.jpg" width="225" /></a></b></div><b>Metropolis Alpha </b><p></p><p> ‘Everyone familiar with the route?’ asked Domino as she addressed the assembled activists who were standing around examining the schematics of the Morbius corporation’s immense underground mining complex. ‘Once we get to lower level fifteen, we regroup and open that door…’ she pointed her laser dot on to the map ‘…to the chamber. Once we activate the reactor we will no longer be dependant on the mining of ore and Metropolis Alpha will be clean.’ A huge cheer echoed around the warehouse. ‘Go and collect your uniforms and green security passes from Zebra’ she pointed to her green haired companion at the back of the room ‘We enter with the Gamma shift.’</p><p>A thick layer of black smog covered Metropolis Alpha as furnaces burnt raw Obsidian ore to produce the power for the mega city. The toxins in the fumes were slowly choking the streets, causing relentless acid rain and increasing respiratory issues, all of which the majority of the population appeared to accept with a mix of apathy, denial, and ignorance. As demand for power had grown deeper excavation of the Morbius mine had been required. It had been during the blasting of a new tunnel that miners had broken through into the upper layer of a sealed chamber. </p><p>The multistorey cavern was filled with pipes, walkways and what appeared to be turbines surrounding a towering central crystal core. Nothing on this scale had been discovered before. Work was halted as a full investigation of the area was undertaken. A significant number of mysterious artefacts and structures had already been unearthed during the construction of Metropolis Alpha, suggesting an advanced civilization had once inhabited the world long before them, what had caused the civilization to disappear was the subject of intense archaeological debate. </p><p>‘My father wants to know, have you figured out what it is?’ asked Mr Bergman Jnr, the son of the chief executive and founder of the Morbius corporation. The scientists and archaeologists looked at each other, no one wanted to commit themselves ‘Well?’ ask Mr Bergman, impatient at the lack of an immediate response.</p><p>‘It is…it is’ stated a short grey haired, white coat wearing archaeologist ‘It is a dormant power generator.’ Feeling she should say something more to break the silence she added ‘powered by a perpetual motion machine, built by those who came before us.’ she concluded in a hurry.</p><p>‘Reliable renewable energy, father wont like that’ said the son as he gazed in wide eyed wonder at the alien machine. Morbius Bergman was renowned for his lack of modernisation, ‘If its working the way it is why change it.’ was his mantra and Junior knew his father well enough to know the course of action he would request ‘Seal it up. This could put us out of business and father won’t like that.’</p><p>During the years since the discovery details of the chamber’s existence had leaked out, conspiracies had circulated about why The Morbius corporation were suppressing it. The primary accepted motivation was so they could continue making profits from the polluting Obsidian ore. Domino and the gang had planned out their operation on the complex for months and had determined the most efficient route to the Chamber in order to bring about their clean energy revolution.</p><p>‘The Chamber is through this way, hurry ’ encouraged Zabra as he held the override of the security lock out on the final set of metallic steel double doors. Once open they raced down the corridor and burst into the cavern. Within minutes they were attempting to hack into the machines mainframe interface node.</p><p> ‘Stop! You’re destabilising the power flow.’ shouted a booming voice that echoed off the rock walls.</p><p>‘We are doing what you should have done long ago.’ shouted Domino back, unintimidated by the disembodied interruption.</p><p>‘Stop!’ the voice said again, its volume now lower and less distant. ‘It’s already active.’ The activity on the reactor paused, footsteps were coming near. ‘Its been active since my father passed the company over to me’ said the figure of Bergman Jnr as he emerged from the shadows with a dozen security guards. ‘Over the last few years, we have been slowly reducing our Obsidian output and incrementally increasing the power output from the chamber.’</p><p>‘If it works, why not turn it fully on?’</p><p>‘Thats the problem with you kids today, you think all problems are black and white and can be solved by a flick of a switch,’ The guards herded the activists away from the machinery. ‘That’s why we led you here, Zebra works for me,’ Mr Bergman continued before Domino could react to the news there had been a mole in her mist. ‘You don’t understand, it is not fully functional, we need more time to understand it.’</p><p>‘You’re destroying Metropolis Alpha.’ snapped back Domino with no attempt to hide her righteous indignation or contempt for Mr Bergman, but he just gave a warm smile.</p><p>‘Don’t be so melodramatic, just because you don’t see people working to make a better future, it doesn’t mean they are not.’ </p><p>‘That’s rhetorical nonsense.’</p><p>‘You see...’ said Mr Bergman continuing unperturbed by the interruption ‘I see it like this, I didn’t inherit this power chamber from my father I am merely borrowing it from the future.’ He ushered the activists forward ‘It is my duty to pass it on in better working condition than I found it, I do all the work so you don’t have to. Come, let me show you what your generation will become custodians off.’</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-46758006982477846442022-04-08T14:28:00.002-07:002022-04-08T14:28:36.720-07:00The Pocket Mysteries: The Case of the Solitary Shirt<p>Welcome back. This months blog is the second in the short series of The Pocket Mysteries, to date this is the last one, however I am open to return to them if the an idea strikes right. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiHPpDGvd1OKskuICcdDtM1RjvBIBllwic9KT_202iqkKuWDS5VFSHigOPMOiXsXhjTeMUBpBjB7SS6FD-RM4ELRYGMWnH26dKxikU3n56BmdDpm0mvhxGq1ih7Exly-KF59tJHCorOYDotXJdz5hQBbbosncxVke3jSSRZtGhOR5Vi5nnzp8xyhO/s400/Blog%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiHPpDGvd1OKskuICcdDtM1RjvBIBllwic9KT_202iqkKuWDS5VFSHigOPMOiXsXhjTeMUBpBjB7SS6FD-RM4ELRYGMWnH26dKxikU3n56BmdDpm0mvhxGq1ih7Exly-KF59tJHCorOYDotXJdz5hQBbbosncxVke3jSSRZtGhOR5Vi5nnzp8xyhO/s320/Blog%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Pocket Mysteries: The Case of the Solitary Shirt</span></b></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You’re on mute.’ Said my friend and business partner Charlotte Pocket to the out of focus man, of Indian descent, on the screen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘You would think, people would be able unmute themselves by now.’ I grumbled as I removed our cat, Thunder, from the keyboard. The nation had been using video conferencing tools since last March as the pandemic had forced people to work from, yet still people were fumbling the basics. Charlotte was a past master with Zoom, having originally run her conundrum consultancy service online before circumstances had forced her to relocate her skills to the real world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We are a respectable hotel. We can’t have people disappearing.’ The man shouted more by accident than design as an assistant provided help with getting his sound working.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Mr Khan’ said Charlotte as she tried to repress a smirk at my comment ‘If you could start from the beginning again, that would be most helpful.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘It was our great privilege to be chosen as a Quarantine hotel, we want to do our bit to help and on Monday we took in our first set of inmates, residence, and now one of them has vanished’. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Vanished.’ mused Charlotte. Mr Khan went on the explain how when his staff had delivered breakfast that morning and they had no response from room 707.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Breakfast, now that would be nice’ I mused a little louder that I thought.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We rang but no answer, so we donned our PPE and entered the room and found Miss Penelope Fitzroy was gone.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Gone?’ I yawned trying to disguise a reflex and as question, it was too early for my brain to efficiently process the information.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Gone, completely vanished. I tell you that door had been locked from the inside and all the windows were shut., but she has disappeared without a trace, all that we found was this’ Mr Khan held up a clear plastic bag containing a luminous yellow shirt.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Have you notified the authorities?’ I asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Of course. Miss Penelope Fitzroy was from a red list country, she has to be found, but they are not interested in how she got out of the room on the seventh floor, they just want to apportion blame and issue fines. I keep telling them she was in there last night. I know that for sure.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘How can you be so sure?’ ask Charlotte.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We had a fire alarm go off, everyone was evacuated and I, as head fire warden had to count every resident back inside, to ensure no one left hotel premises.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Charlotte looked over at the Grandfather Clock it was just gone eight thirty, the early morning call had meant we had skipped breakfast to pick up some much-needed work, but if we left now it would be lunch time until we ate at the earliest. Charlotte and I shared a glance before she replied, ‘We will be over within the hour.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Don’t forget your facemas....’ said Mr Khan with a wave as his assistant helped him exit the call.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The hotel Château de Pierre was opposite Grossman’s out of town superstore, the second turning off the roundabout and partly obscured behind a row of trees. It was a building I had never noticed before, though I suppose one does not regularly go looking for hotels in one’s home city. The grey stone building with its red brick trim looked more like an imposing private school than a four-star hotel. Mr Khan was standing on the entrance steps waiting to greet us. He was a jovial middle-aged man wearing blue face mask that matched the deep navy of his tie and turban.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘How can you be sure the shirt belongs to Miss Fitzroy?’ asked Charlotte as we made our way up the stair, the three of us being unable to safely social distance in a lift.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘She arrived wearing it.’ Replied Mr Khan a little out of breath. ‘black trousers, black trainers and a yellow shirt, I make a point of remember these details, she was also wearing then whrn we evacuated. You couldn’t miss it, its high vis and hideous.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Where did you find the shirt?’ I asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘In the room, off course, I said that.’ replied Mr Khan in a voice that suggested his annoyance at being asked the question.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What my friend and colleague meant to say was.’ said Charlotte ‘whereabouts in the room did you find the shirt?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I see. On the floor under the writing table. My guess is it fell off the back of the chair or slid off the table or something of that sort in a scuffle.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Sounds plausible.’ I said instantly questioning the internal logic of that line of thought, that would mean at least two people vanished from a lock the room.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Room 707 felt like a carbon copy of all the other hotel rooms I had stayed in across the years. White walls with built in mock wood furniture and an abstract picture of a flower on the wall. Upon entering we opened and closed the door a number of times to test the locking system. Curiosity satisfied we began our systematic investigation of the room, one double bed, not slept in, one three draw unit, empty, bathroom, basin damp around the edges. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Did Miss Fitzroy have much luggage when she arrived?’ asked Charlotte as we examined the spartan wardrobe. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Just a large rucksack, the kind you go mountaineering with. Would you like to see the room entry logs?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I assumed you had checked them as a matter of course before you came to us .’ Charlotte asked she counted the contents of the mini bar. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘That we did, Miss Fitzroy entered her room at 10.30pm last night and did not leave.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Nothing on the CCTV?’ I asked as I lifted down the spare pillow in wardrobe. Its position was preventing the sliding door closing correctly. There was a clatter as a stack of National Geographic Magazines rained down on my head.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Not ours’ said Mr Khan putting his hands up and standing back. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Then the shirt was not the only thing Miss Fitzroy left.’ replied Charlotte as I placed the magazines on the bed, and she moved to examine the window. ‘This Miss Fitzroy, could you describe her?’ The largest window fixed shut, the smaller side window was locked and resisted against the wind as it was forced open to a 45 degrees angle, but no further.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘She was as thin as a whippet.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Charlotte craned her head and shoulders out and contorted herself round to examine the external framework. ‘That cherry picker…’ She said as she pulled herself back and pointing to a blue crane in the car park below.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Been here all week. Injected Mr Khan ‘Cutting back some of the trees, they have become unstable in the high wind we’ve been having’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Are you thinking Miss Fitzroy had an accomplice on the outside?’ I asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Charlottes replied with an enigmatic mumble as she flicked through the magazines, stopping for prolonged looks at the pages that had been booked marked by the previous owner, before announcing ‘To the car park.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On our way down to the rear car park Charlotte stopped and checked some details on the green and white poster next to a fire exit. ‘Are these posters up to date?’ she asked Mr Khan.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Of course.’ he said in a state of incredulity.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Something of interest?’ I asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Just checking my brain is on the right track’ she said with a knowing smile. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Is it?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Perhaps. I need some visual confirmation.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After much cajoling by Mr Khan on our behalf the operator of the Cherry Picker was persuaded to take us for an elevated tour of the external wall of the hotel. I gripped on with white knuckles asthe cradle swung as Charlotte gave directions to areas, she wished to take a closer look at.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What have you found?’ I asked hoping it was something significant so we could descend. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Chalk’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Are you suggesting Miss Fitzroy climbed out, from the seventh floor? That’s impossible if not incredibly dangerous.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Dangerous yes, but no impossible. Did you not notice the articles on free climbing marked in those magazines?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had not, however I was aware of the dare devil practice of fee climbing, climbing rock faces un-aided without a supporting rope, to instantly see the implications. It would not be until much later, as you will read, that we had the time to learn that our escapee was well known in social media circles for her climbing exploits going by the name Nel Capitan.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘But the window was shut, she would have had to shut with it some force to get to lock on the insid….’ a revelation dawned on me as we were buffered by the gales. ‘Oh’ I exclaimed ‘You’re thinking she got lucky, and the wind slammed it shut.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Did you see the footprint on the conservatory roof?’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I nodded ‘So that’s how she got down.’ I adlibbed with confidence not wanting to admit I not see the significance.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘If she went that way the only way out of the hotel grounds, is over the wall and through those houses.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Or more to the point’ I clarified as we were returned to ground level ‘Through their gardens. Footprints in flower beds?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I will gloss over the first two doors we knocked, one was out and other shielding and refused to answer the door to strangers. At the third house we noticed an upstairs curtain twitch moments before a wheelchaired person answered the door. They were thin and grey and wrapped in clothes that had shrunk away from, a red and black blanket covered their knees. It was difficult to determine their gender or their age.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Go away.’ they snapped, ‘I don’t want you here.’ before we had presented our credentials.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We only want to pass through to look in your garden.’ I explained ‘We believe someone has escaped from quarantine at Château de Pierre.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I am alone here. I am shielding’ Came another sharp-edged rebuttal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘We just want to see if they passed through you garden. It will only take five minutes, they could be a health risk to you, they need to be found.’ I explained with evident frustration. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Its OK Alex’ said a voice from the staircase ‘I think I ve be found out.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Miss Penelope Fitzroy I presume.’ said Charlotte as a tall thin figure thin descended into view.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘’I’ll come along quietly officer.’ said our fugitive holding her hands up in the air ‘Thought it would have taken Track and Trace longer to find me.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘She only escaped to so she could support me.’ protested Alex.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Why should I stay in that hotel when my partner’s house is just over the wall.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Because it’s the Law.’ said Charlotte with stern voice and ice-cold stare.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What are you going to do, fine me?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘No, we are not the police,’ I snapped a photo on my phone for evidence catching Alex and Miss Fitzroy unaware ‘however we will be reporting you to them.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Due to our actions we had to spend ten days in self isolation and submit regular lateral follow tests. We passed the time catching up with some reading, watching the online video archive of Nel Capitan and doing other activities that didn’t require us to leave the house. As we worked on a jigsaw of mount Snowdon we discussed our recent case.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I understand about the magazines, she left them behind to reduce the weight in her rucksack,’ I said. ‘which we can only guess she hid, to divert suspicion, and the fire drill gave her the opportunity to assess her climb down.’ I mused</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I suspect the idea had not accoutred to her until a convenient assembly point gave her the view of wall outside her room.’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">‘But what about the shirt?’</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Charlotte chuckled as she placed a piece a jigsaw ‘She had to change it for a darker colour, luminous yellow would be highly visible for her nocturnal flight. In her enthusiasm to escape she tossed it aside and forgot about it.’ </span></p><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-40598810609577675672022-03-07T15:47:00.001-08:002022-03-07T15:47:25.972-08:00The Pocket Mysteries: The Disappearance of Mr Charlie Dove<p> Welcome back to my short story blog. Over the last year or so I been posting stories inspired by classic 40/50s sci-fiction posters and although I plan to continue doing so I thought it would be nice to change of pace to break for few months, a break between series 1 and series 2 if you will therefore to end for March and April I am going to post some pandemic inspired short Mystery stories.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRfmdwR-xUKK53h0BShhRnVe8Ob0KMPJTC871uw1ZcUaqaSSrnRcactV4ZKy9OnE4rrXuLNCtkUUsL3mIWWhwqMlVBYZ5OIKZV_yYn3akSB-xbgIleQzdtmCZfm0yJXTyL4HsJioiM06Hg8Y39neoD9d4Ww38_gC5kvIJDY7vrIyB-ADIQbri4rUFp=s400" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="400" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRfmdwR-xUKK53h0BShhRnVe8Ob0KMPJTC871uw1ZcUaqaSSrnRcactV4ZKy9OnE4rrXuLNCtkUUsL3mIWWhwqMlVBYZ5OIKZV_yYn3akSB-xbgIleQzdtmCZfm0yJXTyL4HsJioiM06Hg8Y39neoD9d4Ww38_gC5kvIJDY7vrIyB-ADIQbri4rUFp=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Pocket Mysteries: The Disappearance of Mr Charlie Dove</span></b></p><p>It is hard to say which one of our cases was our first joint venture, although this one, from my recollection was near the beginning. Our Private Detective agency had been open less than a month after a prolonged postponement due to the pandemic and a succession of national lockdowns. It was late March and spring and hope where in full bloom. I had returned from an essential trip to the shops to find my house mate and partner in crime, Charlotte Pocket, entertaining a client.</p><p>I had inherited the agency from my Grandparents, but it wasn’t until I had been made redundant for the third time that I had decided to pursue it as a full-time occupation. However, I soon discovered I lacked the criminal mind to make it a success alone, so I had suggested to Charlotte we join forces. Her online virtual detective consultancy had collapsed after she had been made homeless due to escalating rents.</p><p>‘This is Mrs Kilkenny,’ she said introducing the small, white haired old lady who was dwarfed by the large armchair she had chosen to sit in. </p><p>‘I think there has been a murder.’ Mrs Kilkenny whispered as if she was in a library.</p><p>‘I ve explained we don’t do murders, just mysteries.’</p><p>‘Well, he’s disappeared at any rate.’</p><p>‘Mrs Kilkenny was about to elucidate when you arrived.’</p><p>‘Shall I make some tea?’ I asked, ‘then you can explain all.’ </p><p>Mrs Kilkenny cradled her cup as if it was a precious object as she began to recant her tale. ‘ As I eat my dinner at the kitchen table, each evening, I like to watch the people walking the footpath that runs behind my garden. Each day there is normally Norman, the butchers boy, I call him that but he must be in his sixties by now, then there are the two girls who work in the bank and on Mondays to Thursdays there is a tall ginger haired man who passes. After the rush hour I know it’s safe and clear to walk my dog Benjie, poor old fellow, he can’t get out much these days. Well last Thursday for some reason, I forget what, I left a little later than normal.’ She sipped her tea. ‘‘My husband had the complete works of yellowbacks.’ She said, her attention momentary caught by the reproduction mustard and black print of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>‘You were saying, about you and your dog.’ I said in an attempt to draw the conversation back on track.</p><p>‘Yes.’ she gave a bashful nod. ‘Now, for some reason, I was a little late leaving the house. We went out the back, as we do, and out to the footpath. I walk to the stile and back, a good twenty minutes each way, that’s enough. We had gone no more than five steps, little Benjie needed to do his…’ she paused as if embarrassed on the dog’s behalf . ‘Anyway, as he was you know, the ginger haired man raced passed us as if Old Nick himself was chasing him. We continued our walk but as we rounded the corner on the straight there was no sign of the running man.’</p><p>‘Perhaps he had run out of sight?’ I asked as Charlotte leaned forward more intrigued by the story than I.</p><p>‘Impossible’ snapped the old lady, in a tone that suggested she had once been in an occupation of authority ‘I might have old eyes, but I can still see I’ll have you know. The path is an old railway track and once round the corner it stretches out for some distance in a straight line. It has a slight incline so I should have seen him in the distance ascending the hill or clearing the stile.’</p><p>‘How long after he passed you did you round the corner?’ asked Charlotte as she showed me an aerial map of the route on her phone. I could see from the map there were no deviating tracks or alternative routes to take.</p><p>‘One or two minutes, no more, no less.’</p><p>‘And then what?’</p><p>‘We walked on.’</p><p>‘And then?’ </p><p>‘After some time I became aware of footsteps behind me, I turned expecting to see the runner, however it was a smart suited man with a briefcase. Where he popped up from, I have no idea, for the speed he was walking at he could not have caught up to me from where the path starts.</p><p>‘This man, have you seen him before, could you describe him?’</p><p>‘Oh, yes, he is tallish, of average height, a little pale, washed out in complexion, grey hair, He goes passed my window when I have my breakfast on the Friday.’</p><p>‘Only Fridays? I asked pre-empting my colleagues question.</p><p>‘What kind of job would require him to only go to work one day a week.’ mused our elderly client.</p><p>‘Maybe he’s on some kind of furlough?’</p><p>‘A logical deduction.’ said Charlotte at my suggestion.</p><p>‘I asked the man if he had seen the other, but he said he had not. We walked on together to the stile, he went out on to the main road, and I turned to head home. As I made my way back, I kept an eye out in the undergrowth to see if Mr Ginger Runner had fallen and sprained his ankle or something,’</p><p>‘Did you find him?’</p><p>‘If she had she would not be here.’</p><p>‘I did find this.’ The old lady presented a blue lanyard with an ID card. The heavily tanned man in the picture had a large fuzz ball of orange hair and matching moustache and was grinning like the Cheshire cat. The name read Mr Charlie Dove.</p><p>‘I know that man.’ Charlotte exclaimed ‘he’s one of Grossman’s home delivery drivers always up and down our street.’</p><p>‘So he is.’ Said I, looking at the card, and accepting Charlotte’s word for it, she had a knack for recognizing names and faces, which was a useful skill in our business.</p><p>‘That was two weeks ago, and I ve not seen hide nor hair of either man since,’ concluded Mrs Kilkenny as she put her cup down as if to emphasis her point.</p><p>‘Can we keep this?’ asked Charlotte holding up the ID card in one had and bringing up the calendar on her phone with the other.</p><p>‘Certainly, if you think it will help.’</p><p>‘Today is Wednesday, tomorrow we have a Zoom commitment, so we will walk the path Friday morning.’</p><p>Friday was a wet morning, with stickly drizzle forming a veil. We put on wellington boots and waterproof over trousers for our walk-through investigation. The path began at the Garden Centre and it was fair distance until we came up the rear of the housing estate and the back gate of Mrs Kilkenny’s garden. She was there waiting for us.</p><p>‘Benjie needs his walk,’ she said after we had suggested her presence was not necessarily required. ‘He wanted to help. Didn’t you boy’ The old Basset Hound rolled his eyes, he clearly had no discernible interest in the walk or our mystery.</p><p>Although the rule of six allowed us to walk together, we still maintained our social distance from our client. Unaware if she had any underlying health conditions, it was best to employ safety first.</p><p>The walk along the path was slow progress, the past week’s wet weather made identifying unique footprints a straightforward task. ‘It was about here.’ exclaimed Mrs Kilkenny as we passed a tree stump ‘ this is where I heard that smart fellow behind me.’</p><p>I turned to discuss the significance of the statement with Charlotte only to find she was serval paces behind us and was engrossed in her examination of the hedges.</p><p>‘These branches on the far side are broken, as if someone keeps stepping over the bush…’ she jumped over the hedge. ‘This way.’ An arm waved from the undergrowth.</p><p>‘I’ll just wait here.’ said Mrs Kilkenny as I followed my partner.</p><p>There was a trail of supressed and trampled brambles that lead into a thick wooded area. A twig snapped. Both Charlotte and I turned in unison. Coming out from behind a tree was a tall large built bearded man in a flat cap, he was dressed in camouflage and wearing a tool belt. </p><p>‘Afternoon’ The man said in a thick regional accent.</p><p>‘Have you seen the Wood Warbler?’ Charlotte answered without a heartbeat. </p><p>‘Not a sausage’ said the man as he trotted off ‘and I am out of time got to go to work now.’</p><p>‘Wood Warbler?’ I asked.</p><p>‘Popped up as a good place to see them, when I got the map up the other day.’</p><p>‘How did you know he was looking for one and not related to our case?’</p><p>‘The binoculars hanging form his belt and the fact he treaded carefully from the opposite direction to our lumbering footprints.’ </p><p>Our trail led to a brick hut. It must have been a relic from the old railway. Vines clung to the walls as branches protruded in through the roof, rotting leaves scattered the floor. </p><p>‘Someone has been in here recently.’ Said Charlotte pointing to the black face mask on the floor.</p><p>‘Perhaps one of the twitchers dropped it?’</p><p>‘Perhaps,’ came a distracted reply as Charlotte snapped on a pair of blue gloves. ‘What’s this?’ my friend had picked up a crumpled tissue. Holding it gently by one corner she started examining it by the shaft of light coming in from the roof. The tissue, from what I could see had soft tangerine powder on it. I stepped back to give my colleague more light. I felt something hard prodding between my shoulder blades. A nail was sticking out from the wall.</p><p>‘This nail is new.’ said my friend upon examining it, she then began to systematically search the ceiling. Upon finding a cord dangling between two rafters she pulled upon it. A battered black and red holdall tumbled to the floor, with a thud.</p><p>Opening the bag our noses were assaulted by a dank smell of stale sweat.</p><p>‘These are the clothes belonging to the missing man.’ A statement I later admitted to being based more recognising the company logo rather than any leap in logical deduction.</p><p>‘Four sets of clothes, but only one pair of shoes, somewhat suggestive.’ Said Charlotte as we replaced the bag in the roof void and made our way back to path ‘I would not be surprised if we do not find a Mr Sinclair at the end of all this.’</p><p>I would have asked ‘Who?’ however before I could Mrs Kilkenny had interrupted.</p><p>‘I ve just been interrogating Norman for you, been here spotting the Wood Warbler, so he says. He denied everything, did you have any better luck?’</p><p>Charlotte gave a long wordy non-committal answers, as was her way before she had a definite conclusion.</p><p>When we reached the stile, we attempted to persuade Mrs Kilkenny that she need not accompany us further, but it was to no avail, so the three of us and the dog walked on. The path lead out on to the street by the railway station. A bus pulled up and discouraged it passengers.</p><p>‘Morning boy.’ said a raincoat wearing man carrying a briefcase, as he stopped to say hello Benjie. </p><p>‘That’s him, that’s the man, who hid he body.’ said Mrs Kilkenny frantically after the man had walked off down the path. ‘Don’t you want to follow that man.’</p><p>‘One moment.’ I said as Charlotte pointed out the timings on the bus timetable, before pulling out the ID badge from her pocket ‘What do you think?’ she said as she placed her right hand over the lower half of the picture.</p><p>‘Interesting’ I replied.</p><p>Before long we were heading back on the path, our pace had quickened with the energy that our case was almost concluded. As we neared where the hut was hidden we came upon the rain coat wearing man poking around in the undergrowth with a stick, beside him was the holdall we had found.</p><p>‘You looking for this Mr Charlie Dove ?’ Charlotte shouted as she held out the lanyard.</p><p>The man turned sharply losing his footing falling backwards over the holdall and landing in a puddle of mud. ‘You and Mr Charlie Dove are one in the same are you not?’ Said Charlotte as she and I helped the man to his feet.</p><p>‘Yes.’ He said sheepishly.</p><p>‘And last week, you where late, you had little time to get out of your disguise in order to catch your hourly bus.’</p><p>‘Yes. I dropped the ID badge in my rush…’</p><p>‘Am I right in thinking Mr Dove only works four days a week.’</p><p>‘Yes again. On Fridays I take my uniform to my sister’s for wash, she is the only one who knows the truth.’</p><p>‘Which is?’ I asked.</p><p>As we walked back to Mrs Kilkenny’s house it was as if a faucet had been released as without further promoting the man, who introduced himself as Carlton Pigeon , unburdened his story. ‘I got made redundant from my firm at the beginning of the first lockdown, but I could not tell my wife, she had enough pressures.’ he gave a heavy sigh before continuing. ‘She’s a nurse and both her parents are clinically extremely vulnerable, so I hid the fact, then I heard Grossman’s were looking for home delivery drivers, it was for four days a week, less hours and less pay but I could pass it off as a form of furlough. It also gave me more time to home school our three children and she would be none the wiser. What put you on to me may I ask?’</p><p>‘The fact neither of you had been seen for ten days and…’ Carlton cut off Charlotte explanation.</p><p>‘I’ve been off sick with the virus, and today is the earliest opportunity I ve had to retrieve my disguise and get it washed before Monday.’</p><p>‘Then there was the tissue covered in stage make-up and the new nail.’</p><p>‘What was it about the nail?’ I asked.</p><p>‘It was new, which suggested someone had put it there to hang something from. A mirror perhaps?’</p><p>‘It was where I hung the mirror, to aid in my transformation.’</p><p>‘But we found no mirror.’</p><p>‘It was in his briefcase, the briefcase contained his make-up tools, wig and glasses. did you not notice that when he got off the bus he was carrying one, yet when we saw him again he was not.’</p><p>‘‘I left it in the roof space.’ Carlton Pigeon stated before adding ‘I had to bring it with me to keep up the pretence I was going to work.’</p><p><br /></p><p>It was not until we had returned to our home later that afternoon that another question struck me.</p><p>‘What about Mr Sinclair, how did he fit into all this?’ Charlotte tossed a yellow and black book towards me. </p><p>‘The Man with the Twisted Lip page 103.’</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> W</span>ritten by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-46836128933670426652022-02-02T15:40:00.002-08:002022-02-02T15:40:37.491-08:00The Shaver Solution<p> Welcome to Februarys blog post, this short story is a follow up to last <a href="https://thelifedyslexicblog.blogspot.com/2022/01/new-year.html">The Shaver Mystery</a> . The squeal story is inspired by the Star Trek Voyager episodes Demon, which is not one best of the series but has an interesting idea within it which I through could explore and expand perhaps.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_0GbyOmre7VbZj1P-flCfONPkQgxYnDtYlEcAMEshoWx9k9nXkClE4ByzL7D5crKN2PN0c3L2xrpbTthuX0usMhsHgBxZCvVX5olOWEP-TEBNXdICikEf8re3U_IKjQPb-bqvnhrCnX7SrEODpptjpBefids16W5DmCo0lrs9dT16gvj4QjMrMaTa=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_0GbyOmre7VbZj1P-flCfONPkQgxYnDtYlEcAMEshoWx9k9nXkClE4ByzL7D5crKN2PN0c3L2xrpbTthuX0usMhsHgBxZCvVX5olOWEP-TEBNXdICikEf8re3U_IKjQPb-bqvnhrCnX7SrEODpptjpBefids16W5DmCo0lrs9dT16gvj4QjMrMaTa=s320" width="240" /></a></b></div><b>The Shaver Solution</b><p></p><p>The super car had come to a sudden halt upon impacting the red rock wall. The front third of the sleek bullet shaped machine was now a crumpled twisted mass of metal. Smoke billowed from the engine. Roger Shaver was shaken but had survived. He had been out in the Lucien Desert, racing down the Devil’s Canyon, attempting to break the land speed record when he had lost control of his car, the Red Bullet. As the disturbing smell of burning oil filled the cock pit he came to his senses. Uncoupling his harness and rolling back the roof hatch in one smooth movement he clambered out.</p><p>The air was blistering. Jagged black stalactites and stalagmites surrounded him, giving the impression he was in the jaws of a giant shark. Bats the size of broadsheets circled around as flames danced across there surface providing a burnt orange illumination to everything they touched.</p><p>‘Where the devil am I?’ he said more loudly than he had intended.</p><p>‘You are here.’ said a raspy voice behind him.</p><p>He turned to see a crimson tanned man dressed as a desert Bedouin leaning against the wreck of the Red Bullet.</p><p>‘Pardon?’ Roger said as he squinted. He was sure he recognised the man, however in the light it was hard to tell.</p><p>‘Speak of the devil and he will appear.’ The man chuckled as he dropped his hood to reveal two horns upon his head. ‘Welcome’ he added with a grin. </p><p>‘Where am I?’</p><p>‘You are here…’ the man replied ‘…but not forever. You can leave, once you find the solution.’ he added with all the sincerity of a slimeball salesman.</p><p>‘Solution to what?’ Roger shouted as the goat footed figure walked off.</p><p>Before making his world record attempt Roger Shaver had walked the route, it was there he had been approached by one of the desert’s indigenous inhabitants. They had got talking and the wire thin framed stranger had invited the sturdy built Englishman back to his encampment. There they spent the evening drinking coffee and comparing and contrasting their different ways of life. As the evening had drawn to a close the man had claimed that , for a small fee, he could help Roger fulfil his wish to be the fastest man who had ever lived. Shaver, sceptical of the offer at first, said he would give it due consideration in the morning. The next day upon learning he had once again been upstaged by his rival Campbell, he had returned to make payment.</p><p>Roger decided that if he followed the tyre tracks backwards, he might discover the point at which he entered this world and in turn find an exit. The car had travelled quite a distance before it had crashed, although at the time the scenery outside had been passing in a blur Roger had not noticed it change until he had suddenly stopped. The road he had travelled was pock marked with bubbling puddles of thick black liquid that stank of tar and ran like petrol. The tyre tracks started up ahead, however the landscape carried on behind them. Roger walked towards them and slammed into an invisible wall. It was as if a pane of glass was blocking the road. A bat flew passed him and out through the boundary. ‘Bats can pass through, but I can’t’ he thought as he picked up a stone. It burnt his hand in the time it took him to throw it. Clunk thud. It hit the force field and fell to the ground. It landed in tyre markings, as he picked it up to try again a revelation struck him. ‘If my car crossed it going one way it should be able to cross it the other.’ As he returned to examine the smouldering wreck, he chose to ignore that part of his brain that was trying to tell him that the solution could not be that easy.</p><p>He examined the crumbled car. Apart from the smashed chassis the damage was not as extensive as the smell suggested. Roger Shaver removed his toolbox. He had insisted on having a one housed under the drive seat. In the event of an emergency, he wanted to have the means to ratchet himself free. He laid them out on the ground in size order. They should be sufficient to affect the repairs. </p><p>Time was stagnant in the cave and Roger Shaver had no concept of how long it had taken to strip down and rebuild the engine, however he did have a sense he was being watched. Finding fuel was now the only obstacle to overcome, and the black pools provided a solution. Whatever was in them appeared to burn well. </p><p>As he bent down to collect a sample, the liquid pulled away from him and rose up, like a melting candle in reverse, to form a figure. ‘Who are you?’ it asked as the remnants of the unknown fluid oozed and dripped from its lips. ‘Who…what are you?’ asked Roger in return as more pools morphed into humanoid shapes.</p><p>‘Space down here is limited, in time you will melt to, to make room for others.’ Said the nearest one.</p><p>‘So, this place is…’</p><p>The pool people replied as one ‘Yes’ the word echoed off into the distance.</p><p>Roger found himself more shocked by the confirmation of what he suspected than he had been by witnessing men rise up from the black pools moments earlier.</p><p>‘You were planning on burning us as fuel so you could escape, were you not?’</p><p>‘They always do.’ Injected another voice with a thick German accent.</p><p>‘I did not know you were…alive.’</p><p>‘We are not, but we are also not dead.’</p><p>‘But fear not, for you will not kill us, for we would live in the fumes.’ added the German. ‘to pollute and populate your world once more.’ Roger recoiled in horror and scurried back to his car.</p><p>‘Using them as fuel would mean turning my petrol tank into a Pandora’s box.’ mused Roger to the bat hanging from the roof. ‘In order to escape I would have to give freedom to beings as evil as the one I sold my soul too. There has to be an alternative solution.’</p><p>‘That is the only solution.’ said a voice from above. Roger looked up to see the bat swoop down and morph into the horn headed red skinned man from before. The man gave a deep and loud long laugh. In that moment Roger Shaver realised that there were no other alternatives. He had once again been tricked. </p><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-12843513738647160332022-01-06T15:20:00.002-08:002022-01-06T15:21:48.575-08:00The Shaver Mystery <p> Happy New Year. New year new short story and it another based on a classic Sci-Fi story for 1940s/50s. This story was one of those stories that just comes, inspiration struck as soon as I saw the poster and knew how the story would play out. The only surprise was that going on to write a follow up, more on that next month.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQlVZ394GgP1X44hW1U3XWB3dkqGkZsNfHzm4k5psC-WoGx-4JvrGcSX1fKONPqri4r_Ee34t9pwfMu6IWyDaNs9GfghvMPicimDMtzzY4BF80oyXsWIdEvKeDjSijXD3vjeH4TDrJUbJcoLj1aTFmeqZftsliOpW188qrT5yTkGkPjgM2_8PH1cLi=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQlVZ394GgP1X44hW1U3XWB3dkqGkZsNfHzm4k5psC-WoGx-4JvrGcSX1fKONPqri4r_Ee34t9pwfMu6IWyDaNs9GfghvMPicimDMtzzY4BF80oyXsWIdEvKeDjSijXD3vjeH4TDrJUbJcoLj1aTFmeqZftsliOpW188qrT5yTkGkPjgM2_8PH1cLi=s320" width="240" /></a></div><b>The Shaver Mystery </b><p></p><p>The shadow of the helicopter rippled in the haze emanating from the hot rocks below. The doors had been left open to allow in some cooler air, but all it was doing was reminding Inspector Crick how stifling the outside heat was. ‘Why did he have to the come to back of beyond? he grumbled as wiped the sweet dripping from his bald head. ‘Why couldn’t he have gone to the Utah salt flats like Campbell? Always the showman.’ The gangly sharp angled detective had been dispatched to investigate the disappearance of Roger Shaver. The ex-racing car driver had come to the Lucien Desert to break the land speed record in his supercar the Red Bullet. However not long after Shaver had set off on his first attempt the man and car had vanished. </p><p>A deep geological fracture cut an unnatural straight line through the rust-coloured rock. The helicopter descended into the rift. The towering rockface had been carved into grant grotesque like gargoyles, by a long-gone civilisation, each one had twisted proportions and a snarling expression that stared down in judgement on the sand covered valley floor. It was easy to see why the place had been given the auspicious name of The Devil’s Canyon. The helicopter touched down. Shavers support team and the time keeping officials had been held at the at site until the preliminary investigation could be completed. Inspector Crick suspected that they likely longed to escape the furnace they found themselves in as much as he did. He adjusted his hat, it’s wide brim doing little to block the sun’s persistent rays from the tip of his large beak like nose. </p><p>Underneath a half crumbled a wide arch, which provided the only area of natural shade, had been set up the garage come pit stop. </p><p>‘I knew that car like the back of my hand.’ protested the oil and sweat soaked mechanic at the questions about the Red Bullet. ‘I checked and double checked, that car was in prefect order when it set off, I tell you.’</p><p>‘And Mr Shaver himself?’ inquired the inspector as he perched himself, like a bald eagle, on the work bench, to be near the only fan in the workshop.</p><p>‘He normally watches the car being set up to ensure it all in right, helps him get into the zone he says , but before this run he left the site to talk to some Bedouins </p><p>‘Why?’</p><p>‘No idea, he just said he would be back when he was ready and an hour letter he returned. ‘</p><p>‘Do you know where I can find these Bedouins now?’ </p><p>‘They are camped just at the entrance to the canyon, you must have passed them on your way in?’ The inspector nodded as he recalled he had seen the tents. After filling a hip flask with fresh cold water Inspector Crick made his way to speak to the nomadic desert-dwelling Arabs.</p><p>Arriving at their encampment he found three Bedouins sitting cross legged around a brush wood fire drinking coffee. </p><p>‘Which one of you did Mr Shaver speak to yesterday?’ enquired the Inspector after he had introduced himself.</p><p>‘Not us.’ said one</p><p>‘To him.’ said another who adjusted his white cloth robes to point to another man tending to a goat.</p><p>‘He is not one of us.’ said the third as he poured himself another cup of coffee from the brass pot</p><p>The shrivelled man outside the tent had sand blasted features, there was deep crimson hue to his skin as if he had experienced extreme sunburn, and unlike the others who wore camel hide sandals, he walked barefoot.</p><p>‘I hear Mr Shaver come too see you for before his first attempt, it that correct?’</p><p>‘I only took payment for service rendered.’</p><p>‘Pardon?’</p><p>‘He wished to be the fastest man who ever lived, I could grant that at price’</p><p>‘What price?’</p><p>‘The fastest man who ever lived.’ The man repeated ‘Lived is in the past tense.’</p><p>‘What is that supposed to mean?’</p><p>The man smiled the narrow smile of a snake. ‘He should have been more careful what he wished for. Go see for yourself.’ Inspector Crick gaze followed the stranger’s sweeping gesture to the far end of the Devils Canyon and when he turned back the nomad was gone.</p><p>As the inspector trudged down the mile-long canyon the warping effect from the intense glare of the sun gave the impression that the statues where watching him, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He took a swig of water, it was warm, had been boiled in the extreme heat. His legs weighed heavy in the heat. The tyre tracks came to an end. There was no sign of an accident, no wreckage, no carnage just a black smouldering swathe cutting across the tracks to mark an inviable boundary. The tracks did not continue on the other side of the line. It was as if the car had crossed a threshold into another world. </p><p>Inspector Crick returned to Bedouins camp to ask the man tending to the goats some follow up questions, however he was nowhere to be seem.</p><p>‘He left.’ said the taller of the three remaining Bedouins ‘In that direction.’</p><p>‘He is slow,’ added another ‘you should be able to catch up with him.’</p><p>Heading out into the inferno desert inspector Crick followed the footsteps left in the sand. The lone Bedouin appeared to have clubfeet. It soon became apparent the man moved faster than his apparent age would suggest and that he was dragging something, whatever it was had a forked end and was swaying from side to side with every footstep. If he didn’t know any better the inspector would have said it was a tail of some kind. Inspector Crick could not understand why he never caught up with the stranger nor did he ever learn where Roger Shaver had disappeared too, although deep down he suspected he had an answer to both. </p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-91771252864376179252021-12-18T15:47:00.000-08:002021-12-18T15:47:06.033-08:00The Toys of Christmas Past<p> Merry Christmas. If you have bene following my blog all year you will already know that this years stories have been been inspired by classic sci-fi posters of 1940s/50s and so is this one. The only difference being instead of this being based off the December picture in my 2020 calendar (that story will being going up January 2022) this on is inspired by Christmas Sci-fi poster I stumbled on earlier this year. Hope you enjoy: The Toys of Christmas Past</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggLY6RWYyYGyfupicSYklt-UZDyq4fYnD2CfDpz8T-1PsIt5Psga72wAON4shAI3FbL5amRLvkV8VXjXBSPwe35P3VxzO_K6Zdl7sgOZHKR4Y1XzXCopvxbokN-GT3__-6o9NxSI0NJ09if_GHSaFA86jJ8U1PZVoGiMdsAwXGFURVvAoxIdn3m25Q=s1070" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="781" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggLY6RWYyYGyfupicSYklt-UZDyq4fYnD2CfDpz8T-1PsIt5Psga72wAON4shAI3FbL5amRLvkV8VXjXBSPwe35P3VxzO_K6Zdl7sgOZHKR4Y1XzXCopvxbokN-GT3__-6o9NxSI0NJ09if_GHSaFA86jJ8U1PZVoGiMdsAwXGFURVvAoxIdn3m25Q=s320" width="234" /></a></b></div><b><br />The Toys of Christmas Past<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b><p></p><p>The workshop smelt of solder and burnt plastic. Santa Claus tried not to inhale the fumes; he missed the days when everything smelt of freshly shaved wood chippings. It had been a long time since the grotto at the North Pole produced their own toys. These days they purchased production licences from multinational firms to help mass produce their most wanted products for Christmas.</p><p>‘Do you know what this is?’ asked Santa as he picked up the mat black box form the work bench and turned it around in his hands. It was a rhetorical question, the elf in red at the workstation knew what the item was, she was, after all working on it, and she also knew Santa knew what it was as well, however she felt obligated to answer. ‘It the outer shell casing of a Nile Stream 9 sir.’ she replied, trying not to sound like she was stating the obvious, as she welded a circuit board into another one. The Nile Steam series of interactive gaming interface blocks had grown more sophisticated with each year as the models had shrunk . The ninth incarnation had flashing blue lights on each side, set out in a dice style configuration. Where the one dot should have been was a multipurpose input port for an attachable colander like headset, which the elf plugged in and placed on her head to test the connection ‘Headset sold separately, not compatible with your Nile Stream 8 and remember batteries not included…’ </p><p>‘Cut the sales pitch Ruby. I know what it is….’ grumbled Santa Claus ‘…It’s not a toy.’ He plonked down the outer shell and picked up a completed model and walked off.</p><p>‘I ve not programmed that one sir.’ Ruby called after to no avail.</p><p>‘What can I help you with lad?’ asked the aged elf, dressed in olive green, as Santa entered the circular study. The ancient elf, who had once taken Santa Claus on as his apprentice, was busy sifting through the pile of letters on his desk and cross referencing them with the two long lists that rolled down on to the floor. Santa shifted his feet and straightened his jacket. </p><p>‘I apologise for the intrusion; Meredith, I have a question.’</p><p>‘It’s been a long time since you asked questions.’ coughed Meredith as grasped a cup of cocoa with two hands and took a sip.</p><p>‘As you know…’ Santa mumbled as his brain changed the words it wanted to use mid thought. ‘…It’s this toy. It’s worrying, it wrong,’ He plonked the Nile Strean 9, from his pocket, down on the desk, ‘it allows children to upload their minds direct into an online avatar, so they can play in a collective virtual world.’ </p><p>‘I can see,’ said the elderly, white breaded, elf evidently not fully comprehending the explanation. ‘And your question is… Do I approve of them?’ he said raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Time’s change my lad.’</p><p>‘No, no, am not…am asking that.’ Santa took a deep breath and started again ‘You know the magic we use to slow down time?’ </p><p>The elf nodded in acknowledgement</p><p>‘Could it be used to speed time up?’</p><p>Meredith craned himself out of his chair, adjusted his fraying purple shawl, and using a walking stick took several slow steps towards Santa, so he could look at him more directly. ‘Why?’ Santa felt Meredith’s narrow grey eyes bore into him as if questioning his sanity. Santa straightened himself up.</p><p>‘I would like to see the future these toys will bring before I deliver them.’</p><p>The frail elf contemplated the statement for a moment. ‘It is possible. Hand me the book lad.’ he pointed to a large red leather volume on the upper most shelf of his bookcase. ‘Should be a simple matter I would think.’</p><p>Below the world spun. Santa Claus saw green and pleasant lands disappear under concrete and tarmac, he watched the last of the worlds forest burn and he saw cities grow and merged as building blocks sprung up, each identical to the last. Everything below became bland and homogenised. There was no imagination or creativity in the architecture of the future. He touched down on a plexiglass covered roof of a sky-scrapping apartment block. There was no chimney, new buildings had not had chimneys for decades, Santa missed them. Chimneys concentrated the flow of magic, funnelling it into the most direct route to a Christmas Tree. Laying a finger alongside his nose Santa nodded and disappeared in a shower of gold sparks, he would reappear at a random location inside the building.</p><p>Walking along the highly polished black panelled floor of the sterile rectangular corridor, Santa heard children’s voices. ‘They should be sleeping at this time.’ he through. As voices became clearer it became apparent, they were speaking in binary code to each other. Puzzled Santa proceeded with caution. From around a corner came two blue glowing childlike figures, they broke up as they walked through him and then reformed to continue on their way. ‘Holograms?’ said Santa raising his voice in mild suspires ‘Fascinating.’</p><p>Progressing through the apartment, he found no stockings hung with care, no holly or ivy adorning picture frames and no mince pie or glass a milk left him. He came to a door. It opened with a hiss. Inside he found a room stacked of humming computer servers, each with repeating rows of blue LED lights. Stencilled in black letters along the hard drive tower read the words Nile Stream 9000. Connected to a central processing tower were five bed like pods. Each pod contained a person. Santa suspected they were a family unit. Attached to their heads was a web of wires linking back to the servers. Two of the children matched the holograms he had encountered in the hall. On a giant view screen embedded into the wall Santa could view the virtual world the family where sharing in. It was not the vision of a sugar plum candy cane Christmas he had hoped, the screen showed a distorted version of the reality he stood in.</p><p>Unable to locate any sign of Christmas, Santa Claus moved on to the next apartment, it was identical to one before, sterile, soulless, and devoid of decorations with another server room with family unit attached. A flying drone, the shape of a large dragon fly, was hovering over one of the pods. It glided across to Santa Claus, scanned him with a blue beam, announced the word ‘Error’ and it return to its work. Sanat watched it as it checked out the family members one by one, perform what appeared to be maintenance on the pods and docked itself into a port. His inspection of the now stationary craft was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the communal hallway. He looked down the passage, there was the unmistakable silhouette of himself. Curiosity compelled Santa to flow it.</p><p>Beyond learning what and where his future self was delivering presents Santa Claus was also interested in learning what colour scheme he had become in this future. His appearance morphed and changed over the centuries due to something called Perception Magic as different beliefs and concepts of Santa Claus gain prominence. He liked his current jolly old elf dressed in red fur look, however deep down he still missed the old classic green style. Catching up with his future self in in the basement of the building, his jaw dropped.</p><p>There, putting unwrapped items under an artificial, circuit board constructed, microchip twinkling, Christmas tree, was a streamlined metallic figure. It wore the familiar red hat with a false white beard over its shining orb shaped head, it had exposed cogs and pistons, at the joints, that gave a low hiss with each movement. His future incarnation was a robot.</p><p>The Robot Santa stopped, turned its head in as series of stagged movements, its telescopic eyes clicked as they focused. It said not word as it handed it’s past self a precent from its sack. Santa Claus examined the gift, it was a grey rectangle, the length of a carrot, a blue light pulsated at one end and had a multipurpose input port at the other. The tag read For Drone XL5 merryx2949 from SC42. ‘What is it?’ asked Santa perplexed; the Robot replied with an electronic monotone voice ‘An upgrade for the drones to install.’</p><p>‘Upgrade to what?’</p><p>‘To the Nile Stream 9000.’ The robot pointed under the tree ‘They are all the same. Every year yet another upgrade. </p><p>‘No toys?’</p><p>‘Toys at Christmas?’ the Robot said as it tilted its head in thought as it pondered a response. ‘An old custom.’ It finally followed up with. ‘I have not delivered a toy centuries. I should be delivering toys…’ Its head began twitching rapidly, Santa conjected that his future self was struggling to process the influx of memories of Christmas past. ‘… You should be delivering toys. We should be delivering toys.’ The robot stopped moving, freezing it head at an awkward angle. Its blank expression somehow now looked sad. ‘Make us deliver toys again.’ Its voice, now almost human.</p><p>As Santa Claus returned to his own time, he wrestled with what he could do to ensure there would still be toys to be delivered in the Christmases yet to come. There was only on solution he could think of that would make a difference. No one this year would get a Nile Stream 9. Naughty or nice every child was going to get a non-electronic, non-battery requiring, hand carved wooden toy.</p><p>To his surprise the elves embraced the idea with enthusiasm despite the increased workload and long hours it brought. ‘We are Elves; we are not programmers, we don’t solder or assemble, we make toys.’ they had joyfully informed him as they dug out their old wood working tools. By the time Christmas Eve had rolled around there was a huge pile of craved wooden animals, dolls and vehicles all wrapped in bright festive themed paper ready to be dispatched by sleigh.</p><p>‘Are you sure children will know what do with them?’ asked Ruby as Santa readied himself that evening.</p><p>‘Ho, Ho, Ho of course they will’ Santa chuckled ‘ Have you forgotten my little friend, every traditional toy used to come with an imagination included.’</p><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</div><p><br /></p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-10017983029369616822021-11-10T15:31:00.001-08:002021-11-10T15:31:28.860-08:00The Robots of Camelot<p> Welcome back. After a detour for Halloween I am back to posting short stories based on classic 1940/50s science fiction posters. This leads more in to fantasy than sci-fi and is not my best work. When I started the challenge write a story based on the image on 2020 calendar I gave myself a month to write the story. If had not stuck to that lamination I might had done a further polish on it before moving on. Hope you enjoy The Robots of Camelot, comments and feedback always welcome.</p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JNwM2NZuT-0ynO-vhxqV1enpKpZVjvKqWRjyMU_up26GbmBDH_wvCdaKqtfTThetvWpCX_fhv7vUBoKK-QjlXzGWyEMJPzWSWAk0ETghNhf6jgUyDA_YOqP-cP9F180x6iWXw1EGIus/s2048/11+Nov.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JNwM2NZuT-0ynO-vhxqV1enpKpZVjvKqWRjyMU_up26GbmBDH_wvCdaKqtfTThetvWpCX_fhv7vUBoKK-QjlXzGWyEMJPzWSWAk0ETghNhf6jgUyDA_YOqP-cP9F180x6iWXw1EGIus/s320/11+Nov.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br />The Robots of Camelot</b><p></p><p>Lancelot suppressed a groan as he twisted out the pain in his shoulder and shifted his back against the unforgiving wooden seat, he looked around the enormous circular table at which he sat, many of the knights were sporting similar aches and pains to himself. It was the fourth raid on Camelot since the start of the week and the Knights of the Round Table were starting to feel the effects. The raids had started the day after the blazing shooting star had been spotted. The next morning a group of tin-plated-men shaped like oversize ottomans and wardrobes had accosted the local blacksmith and stripped his forge clean of irons, metals and hardened steel. The raiders had returned on the subsequent days to plunder Camelot’s armouries and forges. All the Knights had left was the padded leather armour on their backs. Arthur Pendragon pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘We must retrieve our armour and weapons before Morgana can learns of it and seeks to take advantage of Camelot’s weakness’ the King’s deep rich voice echoed off the stone walls. ‘Does not the Code of Chivalry say at all times to speak the truth’ said Arthur upon noticing his knights passing concerned glances across the table. ‘Come my knights speak your thoughts.’ </p><p>‘With respect my lord, this mission would be folly.’ said Bors the Younger ‘None of us have our swords.’</p><p>Before King Arthur could reply Lancelot stood up. ‘I alone have mine, my lord.’</p><p>By midday Lancelot had saddled his horse and was about to head out when he was approached by the Court’s aged white breaded wizard carrying discarded and damaged parts of the raiders armour.</p><p>‘I will be joining you on your quest young Knight.’ Said the old man as he clambered on to a horse.</p><p>‘I will manage alone master Merlin, your services are not required.’</p><p>‘I fear they are not men but machines my good knight, you will need all the knowledge I can provide’</p><p>It was surprisingly easy to follow the raiders heavy tracks across the rugged tundra and deep into the forest. As the thick green trees thinned, they came across a swarth of burnt earth that stretched for some distance. At it’s end, resting in a river, was an enormous iron eagle shaped structure. Fire spluttered out of the far end of it. ‘A dragon!’ exclaimed Lancelot </p><p>‘No Sir Knight’ said Merlin ‘It’s a vessel, a ship’ As Lancelot crept forward to take a closer look, he paused, there was a noise. The unmistakable clanging of metal being struck drew near. Lancelot looked behind him. He was surrounded by the iron box beings. Lancelot thought about drawing his sword, however, his Code of Chivalry overruled his natural instinct. ‘I come in peace.’ He said as he placed his weapon on the ground. ‘Please take me to your leader.’ </p><p>The robot guards rounded up Merlin and escorted Lancelot and the wizard inside the craft. They found themselves in a room that seemed moulded from a single sheet of plate metal. No joins or rivets where visible. Off to one side was a table with glowing lights inset above which sat a black rectangle picture frame or mirror. In the centre of the room was a throne of sorts, it size and shape designed for the Tin-Man that sat upon it. ’Speak’ said a metallic voice that echoed off the walls ‘My name is Lancelot of the Lake, noble knight of Camelot and I am here to reclaim the equipment you took from us.’</p><p>‘We needed it. So, we took it.’ Said the regimented speech of the robot on the throne.</p><p>‘It was not yours to take.’ </p><p>‘Our need is greater than yours,’ came a dismissive reply. Lancelot felt himself losing the pleasant politeness he preferred. ‘How is this so?’ asked Merlin pre-empting Lancelot’s more emotional retort.</p><p>The mechanical man on the throne stood up, its limbs creaked as it moved across the room towards a door. The door hissed as it opened to the outside world ‘Come I’ll show you.’</p><p>The robot leader led Lancelot on a tour of the encampment as Merlin shuffled along behind, A camp of makeshift huts, constructed from hull plating, encircled the downed ship. Sparks danced, smoke billowed, and the noises of hammering and clanging came from all directions. The distinctive dragon embossed armour chest plates of Camelot and sheets of chain mail were being bent, fused and welded on to sections of disassembled robots. Each robot under repair was being serviced by buzzing droids and flying drones.</p><p>‘We were forced from our home world by biological life. We headed off to find a new home when we crash landed’</p><p>‘That maybe so but it does not justify stealing our equipment.’ Said Lancelot</p><p>‘Our experience has taught us that biological life fears mechanical life. They fear our programming, so the most efficient way is to take what we need.’ </p><p>‘Programming?’ frowned Lancelot </p><p>Merlin whispered into the knight’s ear ‘The Rules they live by, like your Code of Chivalry’ </p><p>Lancelot nodded to acknowledge he understood. ‘What is it that your programme states?’ he asked.</p><p>‘Our programming states we must fight for the welfare of mechanical life.’</p><p>‘Then perhaps, there is another way. Come back to Camelot with me and I will precent your case to the King.’</p><p>‘Why would you do this for us?’</p><p>‘Because...’ Lancelot paused as he rephased the rest of the sentence in a way the robot would better understand and then he began again ‘Because it is in my programming compels me to fight for the welfare of all life.’</p><p>Arthur listened long and hard as Lancelot relayed the Robots circumstances. The King stroked his beard for some time as he contemplated his answer. Then he said ‘In the Code of Chivalry it says to provide assistance and support to widows and orphans in their time of hardship. Without a home world are you not orphans by another name? Therefore, in exchange for the return of our swords and shields our blacksmiths will help forge the irons you require. No Kingdom should turn away those in need.’</p><p style="text-align: right;">Written by Owen Kowalski</p><div><br /></div>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1507733414663868994.post-67337664939125265742021-10-30T08:48:00.006-07:002021-12-22T16:01:03.422-08:00Sleep No More<p>Welcome back to another short story blog. If you have been following this blog this year you will now I have been posting stories inspired by classic 1940/50 sci-fi posters, however for this post we are taking a little detour for Halloween. This story is based on the old adage of 'write what you know' and is in part inspired by real life events so hope you enjoy Sleep No More. </p><p>If the title of this story sound familiar, to any who follows me on Twitter (@TheLifeDyslexic) its because I also used it for a spooky short poem last Halloween, (original poem below).. </p><p><br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLUvPNgtLn8xaNRAyPYU2h2ZijwRQ4pctRqAFa3yIcNGsvoVd2p8GZ-B22pilX4CxRYrpDfx0ORe0-daxnd9rJXXDsOkBMY4-c79ep6oAuWCJyCZzLqmS-niXvwmpTuKBxn-xFuoe1fM/s546/Sleep+No+More.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="546" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLUvPNgtLn8xaNRAyPYU2h2ZijwRQ4pctRqAFa3yIcNGsvoVd2p8GZ-B22pilX4CxRYrpDfx0ORe0-daxnd9rJXXDsOkBMY4-c79ep6oAuWCJyCZzLqmS-niXvwmpTuKBxn-xFuoe1fM/s320/Sleep+No+More.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Sleep No More</span></u></b><p></p><p>Early in the year I was, out of necessity, I having the master bedroom re-plastered, re-painted and re-carpeted. In order for this work to be undertaken I had to relocate the room’s entire contents into the smaller one I used as an office. After the last of my personal belongings had been shifted out, I was left with the job of dismantling the wooden frame of the bed. Before this could be done, I had to remove the discoloured carboard boxes stored under it. It was there behind, these boxes, in the dark recess of the far-left hand corner, that I come upon a carved wooden statue. It was of a hunched mummified figure wearing what appeared to be a thick hooded cloak of animal fur. In the light of day, it was clear it had once been painted in vibrant shades of light blue and red, all now faded and chipped. It stood, approximately 10 centimetres high with its arms crossed over its chest as if it had been freshy exhumed from an Egyptian sarcophagus but this was no ancient pharaoh. </p><p>It’s face was a grotesque elongated goat shape, pale grey in completion with what appeared to be antlers concealed under the hood of the cloak. It’s eyes and mouth were shut, frozen in an unnerving expression of malevolent content. Bones protruded from the intricately detailed wrappings covering the body. An entire arm was exposed, it’s hand evidently once grasping a staff or sceptre long lost to the black hole of bedroom detritus. How it got there I have no idea I don’t recall purchasing it myself, it could have been there since I moved in for the bed was in same location, I inherited it. I placed the figure on my makeshift bedside table in the box room and thought nothing more off it as I proceeded with the remaining removal work required. </p><p>That evening as I settled into my carton strewn, book stacked, clothes cluttered temporary accommodation my attention returned to the unearthed figure. The moonlight from the crack in the ill-fitting curtains cast a long shadow creating a silhouetted image that looked like a demon rising from pit of flames upon the opposite wall. I took a moment to realise it was composed from the figure and the items around it. Although I removed the figure into a drawer the sinister images stayed within my mind as I tossed and turned and searched for sleep. I felt like I was sleeping on a suspended rock filled mattress that would swing with any sudden movement I made throwing me off into a void of darkness. I gripped to the bed sheets as I gazed up at the spinning ceiling searching, in vain for sleep as the clock ticked down the night.</p><p>The room seemed smaller when I awoke the next morning, although at the time I wrote if off as my brain not being fully adjusted to the new cramped quarters I was now occupying. The drawers of my old chest lined the floors, my bookcase, empty of books, blocked one door of the double wardrobe, the other door obscured behind the boxes containing the books for the bookcase. I was sure, as I could be, that it was six steps from edge the bed to the door, now it appeared to be only three, perhaps I had misjudged the distance, but I was, and still I am certain I set out the contents of my disembodied bedroom room to maximise the minimal floor space I had to store it in.</p><p>I must have, absent maimedly, and half awake removed the figure from the drawer when I opened it to retrieve a pair of socks that morning for it was back on the bedside table that evening when I went to bed. Not wanting my night haunted by hideous shadows again, I shunted some boxes and dropped the figure into the wardrobe.</p><p>It had rained all the following day and it was dark long before dusk. The relentless bad weather showed no sign of abating as I prepared for bed. The raindrops, driven by the wind, sounded like fingers drumming a beat upon o the window. As the night progressed the drumming droplets marched to a menacing beat intercut with high pitched scratching as if cat was clawing at the glass. I don’t know what possessed me, even now as I tell you, I can feel the fear weighing heavy in my gut, but as much as it wanted to hold me back, I was gripped with an uncontrollable urge to investigate. I crept with caution between the overflowing shoes that littered the floor, more than I remember being there. My head scraped the ceiling as if the room tapered as I approached the window. I eased back the curtain and peered out. There staring back at me was the figure in human size, it’s bone exposed fingers rapping against the glass, it’s golden bloodshot serpent eyes open, burning with an intense fire of rage within, the rain streamed down over the sharp angled cheekbones protruding from its face. Its jaw clicked as it moved in at extraordinarily unnatural angles as it shouted words I could not make out.</p><p>I woke with a jolt and turned the lamp on to bring illumination to the dark nightmare my mind had been in. There was the figure again, back on the bedside table. Its arms were unfolded, reaching towards me, it mouth was now agape, as if screaming. I grabbed it and flung it across the room. That night I slept no more and neither did for nights to come.</p><p>At the end the week, drained of energy, muscles knackered with exhaustion and in much need of sleep I went to bed early. As I set reading a cold wind slammed into my back, a shiver gripped my spin and rapidly expanded out around my body turning my feet to blocks of ice. Shivering beneath the hot clammy cotton sheets, I got out to find a pair of bed socks and put on my dressing grown. I was returning when something scurried across my feet. It was larger than a spider but smaller that a rat. I saw a shadow dart under the bed. With apprehension, caution, and a touch I scanned the underside of the identical wooden bed to my own. The void beneath was conspicuously empty. Within the dust covered abyss I heard a voice, the words whispered and crackled, as if a low volume gramophone was stuck ‘Return me, return me.’ As I pulled myself out the underside of the bed the voice faded away. I once more found the figure on the bedside table, again it had changed configuration, mow it stood on its knees in a crocked pose begging, looking up at me with a pleading expression.</p><p>This time I knew what it wanted but I could not fulfil his request, for it was impossible, the bed it wished to be returned under was in planks upon the floor around me. I placed the figure with them, I was certain it would not appease it and I was right for the form of the figure continued to stalk my dreams. I would try to catch a nap here and there during the day to compensate for my non-nocturnal slumber, but when sleep arrived the demanding nightmare in mummy form would return to tear it from me with its relentless request. ‘Return me, return me.’ it would scream through every unnerving visitation as I slept. I had disrupted its eternal rest so now I too would sleep no more.</p><p>After three long weeks of interrupted sleep and dragging my body through the day my legs felt full of lead, my eyes ached from focusing through fuzzy vision and my brain was clouded with the fog of disrupted dreams. Finally, my old bed was reassembled, and the master bedroom was habitable once more. The first thing I did before returning clothes, books and personal nick-nacks was to place the figure back under the bed where I found it. That night I slept once more.</p><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">written by Owen Kowalski</p><p><br /></p><p>Original Sleep No More poem from Halloween 2020:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9jj6So8Jn_RqE727IFA5qPIgh9nrl59W-b-05QixB3XzqaTy3lco3-2nsnAr3ElN2EcNXG1UszSyFNcSYKeLdYsRFYROUM6xImUYtccWX2YS7D0zazHvX618j5Ok6qdYrNassYsam-g/s842/Sleep+No+More.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="842" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9jj6So8Jn_RqE727IFA5qPIgh9nrl59W-b-05QixB3XzqaTy3lco3-2nsnAr3ElN2EcNXG1UszSyFNcSYKeLdYsRFYROUM6xImUYtccWX2YS7D0zazHvX618j5Ok6qdYrNassYsam-g/w400-h209/Sleep+No+More.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Comments and feedback welcome.</p><p style="text-align: right;">November's sci-fi poster inspired short story will be coming soon. </p>TheLifeDyslexichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08553103167324325943noreply@blogger.com0