Makeover Magic (Part 2/7 - La Giaconda)

 

Part 2 - La Giaconda

I woke at 3am and realised that I wasn't alone. I was being watched by my housemate. She was perched on the window sill, the street light putting her sleek lines into semi-silhouette. Gia - La Giaconda to give her full name - is my cat. To be more accurate, I'm her human. And I'm called Paul, by the way. 

I suppose now is a good time to reveal something about myself. I have abilities. I wasn't aware of them until a kitten appeared in my hallway six years ago. I wasn't planning on having a pet but that furry bundle had other plans. The way she looked at me, the feeling that she was smiling at me - I guess La Giaconda was in control all along. Once we had settled into a degree of domestic comfort, Gia revealed to me our special abilities. We have a sort of psychic link. One aspect of this allows me to see through her eyes. It was unusual at first - hey, it's unusual now - but I've mastered the skill, and with a mental click of a switch I can alter my point of view. Literally. I can even manage to look through both sets of eyes, although overcoming the initial disorientation was difficult. 

So when I say I was being watched by my housemate at 3am, I know that for a fact. For that lump I saw beneath the duvet was me. 

Gia didn't often instigate the link. Her reasons meant she had something to tell me, and that was sufficient to raise me from my bed. She wanted to share more than her vision. She wanted to share her memories. 

Living in a cat's brain is unlike anything else I've experienced, but Gia seems to know what I can tolerate. Maybe that's because she lives in my brain too. I suspect that's why she limited her memories to what she'd seen. 

It was earlier that evening. Gia was making her way across the rooftops near Melvin's Diner. Nearby was the small apartment building where Jane lived, and she was letting herself in following her late shift at work. 

 Gia continued to make her way down to ground level, passing the diner and turning into a side alley. It was still light enough to see three figures detach themselves from the shadows. Soon the late sun would become golden, but for now it's illumination didn't cast any tint on their faces. If they looked dirty and slightly green, the sun wasn't to blame. 

The three men emerged from the alley and one pointed towards the apartment building. At that point, Gia's memory cut off. I was left looking at the cat on my window sill. She gave a short meow. I agreed. We needed to check on Jane.

(To be continued)

Makeover Magic (Part 1/7 - Earthy)

 This is part one of a seven part short story. Given seven "daily writing prompts" to use in the form of opening phrase/sentences, I decided to combine these into a single story. I'm not sure what led to light horror / mystery thriller [if that indeed is what this is (!)] but I hope it satisfies...

Part 1 - Earthy

"Their hands make me want to quit my job and move as far from them as I can," said Jane, shuddering at a memory. I'd not seen her this unsettled since... well, never mind that. 

 "Have they done something in particular?"  

"No, it's not that. They just weird me out."

Jane worked in Melvin's - a small diner near to an industrial site. One of the businesses - Makeover Magic - had been there around six months and no-one really knew what they did. Frankly, no-one was much bothered since they kept to themselves. When they started to take on casual employees for what they called manual work they became of more interest. The new work hands had started to visit the diner about a week ago. 

 Jane leaned towards me as she refilled my coffee. "They are polite, I'll give you that. Oddly so. They all talk the same way, use the same phrases. And I recognise one of them from the old youth club. He never used to talk that way." 

 "So they've got good manners? Is that it?" 

 "You think I'm imagining it?" 

 I regarded the woman before me. I'd known her since my school days and had never thought her overly imaginative. She was a hard-working practical sort, and I admit I liked her. One could be relaxed in her friendly company. If something was worrying her, the odds were that she had good cause. 

 "No, I don't think you're imagining it, but it can't be just their politeness." 

"Well, they smell a bit - earthy." 

 "Earthy?" 

 "You know. If you water your houseplants, sometimes you get a smell of... I don't know... soil?" 

 "Not many houseplants in my flat, but I know what you mean." 

 "And their complexion doesn't look that healthy." 

 "Makeover Magic?" 

 The tension lessened with her laugh. "No, you idiot. I thought at first they just looked a bit grimy, but it's not that. I think they look a bit green."

(To be continued...)

  

An Easter Story

FIRST ROMAN: "This seat taken?"
SECOND ROMAN: "No. My mate's just gone on his rounds. He shouldn't be back for a bit."
FR: "Cheers." (Sits) "That's better. These sandals are killing me."
SR: "It's the thongs."
FR: "Tell me about it. Fancy getting us to work Easter Sunday."
SR: "It's 'cause o' that Jesus guy."
FR: "Mexican?"
SR: "Nah. Nazarene."
FR: "Oh yeah. Heard about him. Apparently he was even causing strife when he was a kiddie. Winesellers were saying he was costing them money."
SR: "He's the reason they started selling bottled water?"
FR: "So they say." (Sandal free, he wiggles his toes) "So why is he messing up our day off? My missus wanted to go on an egg hunt. She's not best pleased I've had to come in."
SR: "It's not him. It's in case his cronies play up."
FR: "Oh aye. I'd forgotten he's got a gang. Why would they be any trouble?"
SR: "Well, they're a bit miffed we crucified him on Friday."
FR: "I didn't know that. I suppose it would put a downer on their weekend."
SR: "You'd think so. But it's been quiet. A bit of wailing, but..."
FR: "To be expected, I guess."
SR: "Poking him with a sword didn't help."
FR: "Aw no, that spoils the whole crucifiction process. Whose idea was that?"
SR: "Don't know. Probably head office."
FR: "Typical. No appreciation of tradition."
SR: "Yeah. Even Jesus didn't know what was involved until we told him about hauling the wood to the site."
FR: "Cross?"
SR: "Yeah, he wasn't best pleased."
FR: "Good one. So what've they done with the body? Given it to the family?"
SR: "Oh no. Bunged it in a cave and rolled a boulder over the entrance."
FR: "Why on earth would they do that?"
SR: "Now that WAS Head office. Prophet motive, apparently."
FR: "So is your mate..."
SR: "Checking the boulder, yep. Wouldn't do if his cronies nabbed the body."
FR: "Hey. What would Head Office do if that happened!"
SR: "Oh they'd be totally embarrased. But they'd try and blame us."
FR:  "But if the paperwork backed us up?"
SR: "They'd be knackered with their own bureaucracy."
FR: "Wouldn't that be great?"
SR: "Serve 'em right for forcing Sunday working. Hey.Grab your sandals..."

Happy Enough Bryn?

A short tale set in the fictional Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, England, during a time when three conferences - science fiction, medical, and pigeon-fanciers - were booked.

This was a creative writing task - and each student had to invent a character, and tell a story from their point of view. They may encounter the characters highlighted by other students. When the tales were read out aloud, it was amusing to see the crossovers. Anyway, this is my tale - and my character was an attended at the science fiction conference. His name is Bryn Johnstone.

Happy Enough Bryn?

They called it Paradise but it wasn’t angel wings I saw on that last day. Last day of the conference that is. Perhaps I should explain.

First of all, my name is Bryn Johnstone. I was staying at the Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, attending the sixth MultiVersiCon, and yes - I am a self-confessed sci-fi geek and don’t apologise for that.

It hadn’t been as good as the last two gatherings I’d attended, but was still reasonably good fun. Part of the reason was that the hotel, in their wisdom, had decided to book two other conferences at the same time. One was some sort of medical or pharmaceutical jolly, and the other was full of the flat-cap brigade and cages of what I later discovered to be pigeons. As a consequence of this we had less meeting rooms allocated to us than usual, so it was a little more … intimate. We still had the main hall though, so the celebrity guests could address us all and share their anecdotes.

It was a quarter-of-an-hour until the next luminary was scheduled to appear, and the autograph queues were too long to join until then, so I’d gone to the dealers’ room to have another look around there. It was packed. Amongst those clad in black tee-shirts displaying slogans and promoting their favourite shows, there was the usual quota of costumed attendees, cosplaying their roles to various degrees. I saw all variations of Klingons – from those sporting the fishnet costumes and questionable fake tans, through the Mars-bar-bonced next generation, to the newest unusual incarnation. Between two stalls I even saw Wonder Woman and a Wookie closing a deal – under the disapproving eyes of the hotel concierge. I myself was clad in a uniform reminiscent of Space 1999 – I’d unpicked the sleeve from a grey track suit and replaced it with that from a black one.  Well, you’ve got to make an effort, haven’t you?

I’d made some decent purchases. Within my Forbidden Planet rucksack I had a set of Babylon 5 Minbari/Earth-Alliance trading cards, a Stargate keyring, and an old magazine from that 80s cult show “Spark Farmers” that I’d had signed by Val Dirmitage himself. Oh, and a TARDIS pencil case.

Speaking of the TARDIS, when we filed back into the main hall, I noticed that they’d erected a blue box at the corner of the stage. Fans were milling about, making their way to get seated on the conventional – no pun intended – red plush chairs. Someone dressed in a cat costume – don’t ask me why – was weaving their way through the crowd in the opposite direction to everyone else, when I heard a commotion nearby – through an open doorway to the side of the hall.

When a flock of pigeons flew through the doorway, I was in their path. Two or three flapped in my face before gaining height, one even leaving me a present on my head. Unfortunately – although I didn’t know it at the time – I seem to be severely allergic to pigeons.  I was finding it progressively hard to breathe and I dropped to my knees feeling disorientated, the black marble-effect vinyl floor looking – appropriately – like a star-scape. Someone shouted for a doctor, and the last thing I saw was Sylvester McCoy looming up, carrying an umbrella.

It was just as well the medical conference had some doctors who hadn’t originated on Gallifrey. They gave me something which brought me round. I think someone mentioned epinephrine, although it’s quite possible they were asking “Happy enough, Bryn?” After all, when you’re in paradise, and paradise is in Scarborough, you have to make allowances for the Yorkshire accent.

Punky Visits the Village - a Sylvanian Tale

Some of the Babblebrook Grey Rabbit family

Punky Burroughs

When I was assigned a creative writing exercise to write a short tale with a twist, I decided to set it in an idyllic environment - and what can be more idyllic than the homely world of Sylvanian Families? Family units of cute little animals living in harmony and happiness, Far distant from this hectic world. Surely we can't disrupt this? Well maybe temporarily...

Punky Visits the Village - A Sylvanian Tale

It was a bright sunny day in the Sylvanian Village, but then, it was always a bright sunny day. It was rare that anything disturbed the good life the happy little critters enjoyed there, but one such rare occasion occurred a few years ago. This lasted a few weeks, causing the inhabitants to be quite unsettled, and this was all due to a single visitor from out of town.

Rocky Babblebrook and his family owned the general store, and as the busiest shop on the high street, it often became a place for random social gatherings. It was one such busy day when the visitor descended upon them. It was a grey rabbit called Punky Burroughs, and he was the eldest son of Rocky’s brother-in-law. Straight away, he didn’t leave a good impression elbowing his way through the customers in the shop, announcing, “Hey, Uncle Rockmeister. I need a crib for a few days.”

Now family is family, and Rocky couldn’t refuse the young bunny a place to stay. A brief word with Crystal, and they made up a bed so her nephew could share the room with their middle son Bubba. Bubba, being a good natured lad, was happy with the company and welcomed Punky. However, there were problems even from that first night.

Punky had the habit of playing what could be considered avant-garde music at any hour of the day or night. He performed this by blowing into an ocarina fashioned from a carrot. Unfortunately Punky did not have any aptitude for music, not realising or caring that the holes in the ocarina were misplaced and producing disharmonious sounds. The noise grated, especially since Bubba was used to the wonderful music from his friend Rusty Wildwood, the Wildwoods known for their regular recitals. Punky ignored all poor Bubba’s pleas – with the result that Bubba overslept the following morning.

When Bubba came downstairs, he had missed breakfast and then discovered that his delivery bike had gone missing – presumably borrowed by Punky. Hs sister Breezy thought it was funny, and he didn’t want to tell tales to his parents, so the disruption continued.

It emerged that Punky was visiting all the bunny families in Sylvania, attempting to romance all the young girls – Holly Wildwood, Sophie Snow-Warren, Tilly Dappledawn, Kirsty Corntop amongst others. Only Ingrid Blackberry seemed immune to his charms, but she was always somewhat of a tomboy. When Ingrid told Bubba that Punky was smoking some foul-smelling plant substance, he decided it was time to tell his parents. Grass on grass – karma.

Bad feelings are uncommon in Sylvania, so the confrontation between Rocky, Crystal and Punky was uncomfortable to say the least. Punky eventually agreed to stop smoking and taking Bubba’s bicycle, but the secret night-time serenades were to continue. To Bubba’s dismay, Punky showed no sign of moving on from the Babblebrook household.

After a week, PC Bobby Roberts – the badger who policed the village – called to see the Babblebrooks. Small valuable items had gone missing from many homes and Punky Burroughs was the main suspect. The items were found in a potato sack – itself purloined from Bob Blackberry’s premises – amongst Punky’s belongings. He protested his innocence, but was taken away. Bubba smiled. He had his room back.

With next to no crime in Sylvania, there is neither jail nor judiciary. This means that rare miscreants have to be transported out of the area when appropriate transport is available. In this respect, the Renard fox family offered to help by temporarily holding Punky captive. Eric Renard was a DIY expert, and it took no time to fashion a cage as a makeshift jail.

Sadly, Punky escaped and was never seen again. This did not concern the Renards; there’s no room for guilty feelings in Sylvania. They simply settled down and had meat pie for supper.

Jeff Tracey - Family Ties

This short tale is set in the Thunderbirds universe and was the result of a creative writing exercise to "Take a character from a film, TV show or novel and tell a variation on their story". 

It examines the relationship between patriarch Jeff Tracey and his five sons.


Jeff Tracey - Family Ties

Jeff was relaxing in his green-striped recliner alongside the kidney-shaped swimming pool, open novel overturned in his lap, when Virgil emerged from the house and approached him, descending the winding stone stairway. Hearing the advancing footsteps, Jeff opened his eyes and blinked away the glare of the sunlight.

“Virgil,” he said, greeting his third son, “I thought I heard your plane arrive.”

“Father,” Virgil acknowledged, “Yes, Gordon’s inside talking to Kyrano.”

Adjusting the recliner to a sitting position, Jeff watched his son settle in the adjacent wicker chair.

“How was Penny?”

“Lady Penelope was great, father. She made us both feel at home.”

Virgil faltered, and Jeff regarded him curiously.

“Something on your mind, son?”

“Yes, father,” said Virgil, clearly considering his words, “and it’s been there a few days – although I didn’t know exactly what was bothering me. It was only when Lady Penelope took us to meet her neighbours in the lodge I realised.”

“Go on.”

“It was their lifestyle. Comfortable. The simple domesticity, I guess. A couple happy with their work, their kids, their life in general.”

“And?”

“It came to me. Here we are – five brothers living alone with their father…”

“Hardly alone, Virgil. There’s Grandma, Kyrano, Tin-Tin. And don’t forget Brains.”

“Yes, yes. I know, father. But we seem happy to carry on without… companionship. Even Alan. He’s barely out of his teens, but he seems to be going the same way as the rest of us. I thought he was attracted to Tin-Tin, but even that…”

“You want to take him on another trip to Thailand?”

“No! It’s not that, father. Really, it’s not.” He stared into the sky, gathering his thoughts before squarely meeting Jeff’s gaze. With deliberation he continued, intent on making his point.

“It’s not a sex thing. It’s a family thing. Doesn’t it seem a little odd that we haven’t shown the slightest inkling to start a family of our own?”

“We have responsibilities, son. International Rescue is important. Surely you realise that?”

“I know father…”

“And who else but family could I trust with the Thunderbirds?”

“That’s just it, father. Family. You had mother…”

“Not for over twenty years, Virgil.”

“Yes, but she was there. And she gave you five sons. The way things are going, we’re not going to get the same opportunity you had.”

Jeff reached out to the patio table by his recliner, took a glass and the covered jug and poured himself some iced water. He gestured towards another upended glass on the tray but Virgil shook his head. He took a long drink and regarded his son.

“I hear what you’re saying, boy. And it’s understandable. Are you saying you’re unhappy here?”

“No…”

“Because if you’re unhappy and you want to leave, I won’t stand in your way. I won’t stand in the way of any of you. But first consider this. How many families have you saved – directly or indirectly – by the work you’ve done in Thunderbird Two? How many children have fathers that they would have lost had it not been for your actions?

“International Rescue isn’t there for corporations. It’s there for people. For saving people. For saving families. It may be a sacrifice for you and your brothers, but who else is there to make that sacrifice? And I’ve made a sacrifice too. Whilst I love your mother, wouldn’t it been easier to have someone else share in your upbringing when she was no longer there? I’m not saying your Grandma wasn’t invaluable, particularly when I was out earning, but I never visualised a life without – companionship, as you call it.”

Virgil remained silent for a while. Jeff could see that his son was processing the information, realising that if any of his sons would start to question their lives it would most likely be Virgil. He was the sensitive one, the musician, the one who seemed most at ease when visiting Creighton-Ward Manor and socialising with Lady Penelope’s set. Scott and John seemed happy with their technical prowess. Gordon’s sense-of-humour and preoccupation with swimming and all things nautical gave him direction in off-duty hours. Alan – well, Alan was still developing; potentially a bit of a loose-cannon, but the prospect of family was not on his radar. The question was, had he forestalled Virgil’s concerns?

Virgil stood, looking down at his father. “You’ve given me something to think about, I guess. But I don’t know how long it can continue this way.” He turned to go.

“That’s all I can ask, son,” said Jeff. “If you’re going back indoors, would you ask Kyrano to come see me?  Thanks.”

He watched his son climb the steps back towards the balcony and the house. He thought he could see Gordon. Minutes later, Kyrano emerged and made his way down to the patio and across to Jeff’s side.

“Kyrano,” Jeff said, “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“Yes Meester Tracey,” said Kyrano, with an involuntary bob of his head.

“it’s just that I think Virgil and Gordon may have spent too long in England. Virgil seems to be distracted.” He took another sip of water. “We may need to increase their dose of androbenetocin to make sure that their minds are at rest; so that they concentrate on the job. Just for a while though. Until their levels are consistent with those of the other boys.”

Auntie Norma

Past lessons in my creative writing course supplied a Scrabble board with ten pseudo-random words. The challenge was then to incorporate those words in your own piece of writing. On my Android tablet, I play a type of Scrabble game "Cross Craze Free" (highly recommended!), and I thought it would be interesting if I could fit a complete game's worth of words in a piece of writing. This is the result.

Auntie Norma - Cross Craze Challenge

Those who were aware of her at all knew her as Auntie Norma. She could be found in the early part of Wednesday evenings, sitting in the window of that fast food place on Moor Lane, usually making a good job of devouring a plate of fish and chips. I met her one particularly busy night when we had to share a table and we got talking. Thereafter, it became a regular event.

She told me how she’d been involved in Chinese medicine and how there was an art to each potion she’d mix. I even learned the meaning of ‘qi’ beyond its use as a potential high scorer in Scrabble.

The best stories were of her youth, and I recall her description of the time in the States when she’d been loaned a jeep by a character she only knew as “El Capitan”, a member of the Nu-Theta-Kappa fraternity house at the neighbouring university. She had used it to drive to a dance hall at the other side of town. This is how she described the following events:

I remember it was in the late Sixties, and most of my friends were spending time with the guys who were on leave from Vietnam exchanging naval duties for dancing frugs and other dances of the day.

I’d paired up with a sailor called Ed, an ox of a man who had seemed really nice. It started to change once he’d had a few drinks. He started to reveal his ill-bred nature by talking dirty, and I was looking for an avenue of escape when this weedy chap walked up to our table and said “Hi. Ed, isn’t it? If you can’t refine your behaviour, perhaps you should go away and have a kip.”

He appeared so inept that I expected Ed to paste him, but nothing happened. Zilch. Instead of fireworks it was just a damp squib; Ed pushed himself up onto his feet, and then he walked away, his legs stiff-like. He appeared to be leaving a wet trail in his wake.

The weedy chap examined Ed’s seat before sitting. He placed a wax effigy on the table and nodded towards the doorway where Ed was disappearing. “There’s always some leakage,” he said, and beamed the widest smile I’d ever seen.

He told me how he’d studied with a Yogi on the Indian subcontinent, spent some time learning about voodoo in the West Indies, and made secret pacts to learn what his own future holds.

The music and the hubbub around me seemed to diminish to a series of drones. The only clarity was in his voice. He had won my complete attention.

“I was told I would meet my future wife being harassed by a large sailor in a dance hall.”

Re what followed; suffice to say, I still owe El Capitan one jeep.