Beyond Words

Sarah Fielding swirled the glass of wine, hoping for answers in the crimson depths. “It’s not that I don’t love him,” she said, her eyes reflecting the candles, “I do. Passionately. It’s just that I know he loves someone else.”

A tear ran down her cheek, leaving a snail-trail of mascara, and splashed onto her hand. She pun down the glass and wiped it away. “If only he loved me with such passion,” she said. “I could endure anything if he looked at me the way he does her.”

“There will be other men.” Robert’s hand brushed away the trail. “You’ll find the right one for you soon and then this whole business with Peter will be a fond memory. It’ll hold no more power over you than a bad dream.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.” Robert smiled and picked up her wine glass. “Here. Drink a glass of sun-ripened berries and think of summer. You’ll have no more worries, I promise.”

Sarah smiled for the first time and took the wine, clinking her glass against Robert’s and noticing for the first time how his eyes sparkled in the light.

“Bottoms up,” he said and she drained the glass.

She coughed, thumping at her chest. “Bitter,” she said. “I’m more of a sweet white kind of girl.” She struggled to breathe, suddenly beyond words.

“Red’s good for the heart,” he said, relieving her of the glass before she dropped it. “And Belladonna is so red it’s black.”


Image: Poisons: From Hemlock to Botox

Secret Haircut

Harold scowled. “You’re a stubborn mule,” he said. “As your employer I should order you to do it.”

“And as an employee of your father,” said Jasfoup, “albeit-without-pay-or-holiday-or-benefits-or-time-off I am well in my rights to refuse. You made the mess, you either have to live with the consequences or pay the ferryman to play the tune.”

“Bit of a mixed metaphor there, old chap.” Harold slumped into the kitchen chair, dejected. “It looked so easy in the book,” he said. “A thousand home haircuts for men and… er… real men.”

“Yes,” said Jasfoup, “but with the aid of a partner or a mum. Nowhere in the pages did it suggest you perform self-mutilation.”



Image: Julie's Haircut MP3

Rise, Sir Engineer

Delirious the imp studied the biography of Sir Harold Lauder (1798 – 1874), his finger moving along the line as his lips formed the words. “It says here,” he said, nudging his brother John, “that Harold Lauder started out as an engineer’s aide. What’s one of them?”

John scowled, mopping up the ink spill his brother’s nudge had caused. He resigned himself to a bit of work with the sandpaper when it dried. “Assistant, innit?. He started out as an engineer’s assistant. An aide assists. Sorts out the drawings, fetches the sarnies, arranges the getaway. That sort of thing.”

“Ah. I see.” You could almost hear the cogs whirring. “I’m an engineer, too. Does that mean I get a--”

“No,” said John. “Go and fetch the sarnies.”



Image: Devices and Desires (Engineer Trilogy) by K J Parker

When Ron was Clean

“I knew a man from another world once,” said Eleanor Wellbright as Nurse Pritchard checked her temperature and her pulse. “Ronald,” his name was, and he loved me dearly.”

“Oh yes?” the nurse stuck the thermometer in her ear and took a reading. “What happened to him then?”

“He had to leave, sudden, like.” Eleanor’s face fell. “Heartbroken, I was.”

“Bit of a Jack-the-lad, was he?” She discarded the rubber end and dropped the instrument in her top pocket. She caught Eleanor’s wrist as it hovered by the octogenarian’s mouth and counted the pulses, looking at her watch.

“Oh no, nothing like that. He loved me you see. Took me to Millennium Point and we got a pint of shrimp from the seafood van. We spent an hour feeding each other by hand.” Eleanor sighed. “Best night of my life, that was. He proposed to me but the door to the other world dragged him away before I could say yes.”

“Lucky escape, if you ask me.”

“But I don’t, dear. I don’t ask you at all. You probably think I’m off my rocker, but I often wonder what would have happened if I’d said yes sooner and gone with him.”

“You’d be divorced with seven kids by now,” said the nurse, noting the readings on a chart.”

“I don’t think so.” Eleanor smiled. “I remember his parting words. I know he would never have forgotten me.”

“What did he say?” Nurse Pritchard was interested in spite of herself.

“Eleanor!” he said. “Millennium hand and Shrimp.” *





*in homage to pTerry

Race for the High Ground

Tom Blesset put his taxi into gear and pulled off, his fare in the back seat losing her balance and dropping her phone, not having fastened her seat belt before he pulled away. He glanced in the mirror at her squeal, mumbling an apology as he slowed for the traffic lights on Paget Road. Her mobile slid under his seat and bumped into his heel. He reached blindly for it as the lights changed to red and amber.

“Thanks,” she said, beginning a text; her thumbs a blur as the keypad emitted a bleeping at just the right pitch to get on Tom’s nerves.

He put his foot down, roaring through the crossroads and heading for higher ground. Past the park and onto the Oxford road, the Cheviots rising ahead and to the right. He dropped into a lower gear for the climb.

“It won’t go,” said his passenger, glowering at the ‘sending failed’ warning.

“Another minute,” said Tom. “We’ll be there soon.” He increased speed and trees flashed past as the meter clocked up the fee. Slightly more than a minute later, he pulled into the car park by the Eastern Stone, a place of historic local significance and natural viewpoint, according to the tourist guide.

His passenger unbuckled herself and got out. “It worked,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Network T?” he said. “I saw the logo on your phone as you got in. This is the only spot for miles you can get their signal.”


Image: Apple iPod Touch 8GB

Pitts Lane

If you ever drive down Pitts Lane, don’t do it with the top down.

Not that there’s any danger of contracting smallpox – Pitts Lane is so called because it was the site of mass burials in 1665-7 when over seventy of the townsfolk died. Pitts lane backs onto the fields of Farmer John Kelsedge who has the habit of spraying his fields with a solution of cow dung in spring water. He swears blind it works wonders on his crops and to be fair he consistently wins prizes for the biggest potatoes, the biggest turnips and the longest carrots. It would be better not to reveal what Mrs. Patterson at the Farmer’s Market Café awarded him a ‘Best of Show’ medal for.

John Kelsedge sprays his crops daily at dawn and sunset and has no respect for boundaries and users of the public road, particularly archeologists and those unfortunates who travel by bicycle to see the site of the three burial pits. Nor does he care about dry-cleaning bills.

Image: The Scourging Angel: The Black Death in the British Isles

Brain Drain

Mr. Jasfoup knocked on the door of the laboratory and entered. He loathed this room of the house. It was one thing for people to be inherently evil – it was his job to encourage them, after all – but it was quite another to see all these kittens and dogs in tiny wire cages.

“You rang, m’lord?” he asked.

Henry Waters looked up and scowled. “You took your time,” he said. “Dispose of this corpse, would you? And be quick about it. There’s a storm coming.”

“And you want to hand out iron keys to schoolchildren?” Jasfoup looked at the body on the slab and grimaced.

“What was that?”

“You should try taking candy from Children, m’lord.” Jasfoup picked up the body, careful not to get entrails on his butler’s uniform.” “What happened to his brian?” he asked.

“I sluiced it away,” Said Herbert. “Now get rid of that body and bring me a fresh one. There was a burial at St. Pity’s this morning.”

“It’s a pity it wasn’t you,” said Jasfoup, under his breath. “The secret to immortality is not to be quite so obnoxious.”

“What?”

“I said I’d clean the drain out, as the fumes from decomposition can be quite noxious.”



Image: Frankenstein: Or, the Modern Prometheus (Penguin Classics)