The Village

Every morning, the women and girls of the village would get up early to pound their day’s grain into flour. Families were habitually drawn out of deep sleep by the sound of the thumping and the melody of the women’s pounding song. Out the door of the grass huts, they would be greeted by the sight of the women’s step dance, performed to the steady, unbroken rhythm of the pounding sticks in the deep drums dug out of old tree trunks. All the women moved in sync, their timing set by the Chief’s Wife. Any woman or girl that broke the rhythm or stepped out of time was called names and ignored by all the women for the rest of the day.

Nobody had spoken to the Newcomer for weeks. She was always out of time and lagging behind in both steps and rhythm to the song. None of them even knew her name. They only knew that she had arrived a month ago, skinny and starving, asking if she might join their village for a time. She did not know how to do the women’s chores and did not have the strength for them when taught. The Chief’s Wife was near her wit’s end with this young girl’s incompetence. It was no wonder this stupid girl’s village had cast her out. What use was a woman who could not pound the grain into flour within a few hours or make the day’s bread? What use was a girl who could not make clothes, tend the fire or forage for roots and fruits?

The time of the yearly sacrifice was coming and the village had already agreed that when the sun-haired Mrynans came to collect their offering, they would offer the Newcomer. This way, their children would be safe for another year, they would rid their village of a nuisance and appease the huge white-skinned strangers who lived behind the white stone walls a day’s run from their community. The Newcomer was unaware of this and the villagers did not intend to make it known to her until the day came, in case she tried to run away.

The sky-eyed, sun-haired Mrynans came marching with their shining spears and long plaited hair bouncing behind them. Bright, polished bucklers hung off their backs and their long, shaggy beards still held the previous day’s meal caked in them. Chunky throwing axes were thrust in their belts and braids of the hair of their enemies caked in dried blood hung in tassels around their waists. The more tassels, the greater the warrior and his standing among the Mrynan.

It was mid-morning and the Mrynan stood at the edge of the village where all the villagers had gathered. No words were spoken.

The Chief Mrynan and the Village Chief cast their weapons on the dust and sat. This was the signal both sides had been waiting for.

A sack of grain was carried out by a young villager and placed in the dust separating the two peoples. A belt of metal knives were tossed by its side by a burly Mrynan. Another sack of grain was brought out and exchanged for a bundle of spear heads. This went on until no more sacks of grain were brought out.

At the Village Chief’s nod, his cup of was brought out and filled in the sight of all with his village’s best beverage, a mild alcoholic drink made of sweet fermented tubers. At the same time, the Mrynan Chief unhooked his cup from his belt and filled it with a fiery liquid that his right-hand man poured from a clay bottle. The chiefs exchanged cups and drank, tipping the cups upside down when finished to prove they had drunk all. The cups were returned and the men waited to see whether either had performed treachery.

When neither chief fell dead or appeared ill, the Mrynan men began to itch at their weapons and fidget with the tassels around their waists. Then the Mrynan Chief stood. The Mrynan Chief picked up his weapon and hefted it, while the Village Chief remained on the ground, head bowed. Now the sun-haired strangers drew their weapons and advanced on the villagers behind their chief. The village warriors blocked their advance and blue met brown in hostile stares until the Newcomer was pushed and shoved out from behind the protection of the village warriors.

With deep booming laughter, the Mrynans gathered around the bewildered girl to examine her, talking in their strange guttural tongue. Satisfied, the Mrynan’s flicked their sun-coloured plaits and cast mocking smiles at the villagers. The shivering Newcomer was tossed over a huge shoulder like a sack of grain and carried off. It was only once the Mrynans were out of sight that the villagers picked up the metal they had bought with their grain and re-entered their village, resuming their daily activities as if nothing had happened.

mistified

Alan had come over to the Thornton's for dinner. He was their favourite boy and after his failed application to get into university, they decided he needed cheering up.

Alan was one of those people that brightened up a room just by walking into it and made people laugh just by making a simple observation. For example, tonight Batty was wearing a matching green glass necklace and earrings.

"He'll say she's a mermaid," Chiena said.
"No, he'll say it reminds him of bobbly seaweed," said Pom.
"Maybe a jewel tree," said Drayf.
"Emerald tree?" suggested Batty.

When Alan had joined them, he said, "Batty, tell me those beads didn't come from your nose." Which had of course cracked them up. Alan had looked pleasantly bemused. He always looked bemused when they laughed at what he said.

Now, Batty was stirring the soup, Pom was making mini pavlovas with cream cheese for dessert, Drayf was basting the chicken and Chiena draining the vegetables. Alan had fallen asleep in front of the tv, the long drive back home from the interview in the city had tired him out. It was probably for the best, because just like they had in high school, they were going to play the game of guess the special ingredients - or at least Alan was, seeing as they all knew exactly what was going into everything. They used to tease him by making him special cupcakes or cookies just to see him freeze and try to swallow the strange tasting concoctions they had come up with. Seaweed cookies, salted cupcakes and mini toothpaste cheesecakes were only a few of the things they had afflicted upon the poor boy.

"Hey, wake up, Alan. Dinner's ready," Chiena shook him awake. "Come on, come and eat."
"I smell chocolate," Alan sniffed.
"I think you smelt wrong," said Chiena. "You'll have to do better than that. There. Sit."

The girls placed the bowl of soup in front of the tired boy and ate with him.

"What's in here?" Alan asked, scooping up the soup and letting it dribble from the spoon to see if he could find any mysterious ingredients that might serve as a warning.
"Guess," said the girls laughing.
"Carrots? Cucumbers? Avaocadoes? Leeks? Green chewing gum?" Alan asked, receiving shakes of the head at every suggestion. He looked down into the bowl, sniffing it and tasting it. "I don't know. I'm mistified," he said looking up and showing the girls that his his glasses had steamed over.
"There's nothing yucky," offered Drayf with a giggle. "Think of nicer foods."
"Cabbages? Peas? Green food dye?"
"Green jelly powder," Pom said. "There."
"Green jelly powder?" Alan sniffed. "That's why it's so sweet. Thank you, Pom."
"It's not bad, is it?" asked Batty.
"It was Batty's idea," Chien said. "Warm green jelly soup for starters. Looks like some sort of other clarified soup, doesn't it?"
"Or sweetened bile," Alan licked his lips.
"Oh!" Drayf dropped her spoon and glared. "Thanks."
"What's bile?" asked Batty.
"You don't want to know," Drayf said and Pom nodded agreement.
"Anyway," said Batty finishing her bowl, "it tastes nice."

Alan opened his mouth to say more, but Drayf clapped pointed a finger.
"No. No more. You'll put the others off their food," she said.
Alan sighed.
"Takes all the fun out of it, Drayf. I'm meant to put them off their food."
"Not while we're eating, thanks. Wait here, we'll go get the mains."

Alan tasted his chicken and then his vegetables, rolling the food around his mouth, thinking. He took another few bites.
"Well?" demanded Batty.
"Mistified," said Alan and sure enough his glasses had been misted over again by the steaming plate. The girls giggled. "Let me see," he peered through his foggy glasses, clearly going by the taste. "I see juice. Some sort of fruit juice."
"Grape," nodded Pom. "Good guess."

Since dessert was cold, Alan excused himself for a few minutes and when he came back, his glasses were all fogged up.
"It's so you can stay mistified, isn't it?" asked Drayf.
"That's right," said Alan, tasting his pavlova. "Cheese and... is that corn?"
"Corn chips, to be correct," said Pom.
"Huh," said Alan, nodding.
"But there's still another special ingredient in there," Pom said.

Alan wiped his glasses with a napkin to try and get a good look at his dessert, but as soon as he'd wiped away the condensation, it gathered again.

"The glass should have warmed up enough by now," he muttered, tasting his pavlova again. "I only put it in the freezer for a few minutes."
"Can you guess?" asked Batty.
"Umm," Alan peered at her through his foggy glasses, thinking and taking another mouthful. "No. I'm mistified."

Squigglings of a cold, rainy day

In the empty book, inkings squiggle
growing, curling, filling.
Pick of white in lines of grey
pictures billowing, milling.
Open wide are the empty spaces
wriggling 'round the lengthy laces.
Red on blue and red on black
Red on white a glaring track.

With a rip pull out the old,
Then to tip, write title bold.

I feel like a story. Do you? What shall we write today?
Atmosphere and mystery? Description vs action?
What shall we write today?
I know.
Here.
Try this on for size.

From frigid clouds, rain fell. Blustering wind made instant icicles on the dripping leaves. Birds shivered and huddled together in the bushes for warmth. The ground was mushy and every footstep squelched water out from the mud beneath the crushed grass, making it pour over the tops of well-worn shoes. He couldn't even feel his toes anymore.

In short, to say that it was cold was an understatement. An understatement as far-fetched as a small ant saying an elephant was big. Just like when the trader had told Angus that the coat was a weather-proof. All it was really doing at the moment was impeding his movement and weighing him down. It didn't even cut out the wind. Weather-proof his smelly, muddy sodden socks.

Miserable. That was the word. Miserable. And misery trickled down the back of his neck into his shirt in the form of a particularly cold stream of water. The trees were no shelter on a day like this and with this type of cutting wind, hills were no wind breaker. The air's blustery flights of watery fancy were just as likely to grow in strength when it swerved around the edge of a hill.

Angus pulled a numb hand from a pocket and twitched his nose at the wrinkly skin that made him feel like a prune and reminded him of the time when he was little, he'd been left in the bath tub and forgotten for quite some time. At least the bath had been warm. Angus couldn't even recall what the definition of warmth was right now and his teeth were chattering so loudly that he wasn't sure whether they were trying to talk to him or were determined to chew upon his tongue if he tried to talk. The only positive thing Angus could think of at the moment was the satisfying squelching noise his shoes made every time he picked his foot up or placed it down. The downside of that was when the mud was feeling particularly hungry and tried to keep his shoe to suck on, it made him stick an already mud-soaked foot into even more slimy mud. A gloomy thought laughed in his mind.

"At least something is still amusing you, peabrain."

Great. Now he was talking to himself. By the time he got home, he would be stark, raving mad and probably end up tearing his clothes off and running down the street shrieking, "EUREKA!" And that would be because he had actually found a way out of these hills and re-discovered the existence of his questionably warm house. Half the neighbours would shake their heads. The other half would begin to make the rounds to call up enough men to chase this insane, wild man covered in mud back into the hills; whereupon he'd be back to square one.

Yep. That could happen.

Or by the time he got home, he'd be such a mudball that people would mistake him for a hungry bear that was trying to break into a house. The women would shriek and scream. The children would hide in the cupboards and the men would stick him with all manner of spears, pitchforks, arrows and lastly cut off his head before they realised that his ears weren't high up enough on his head and that he has no hair on his face.

Angus could see that happening too.

Or by the time he found his way home, it'd be near an hundred years later and his little sister Audrey would be an old woman that barely recognised his shrunken, decrepit form...

Angus sneezed. He sneezed again and then gave a massive bellowing sneeze that tore the air from his lungs and his lungs from his body. How he was even still breathing, he did not know.

In catching his breath from the sneezing, he accidentally breathed in some stray water drops that had fallen off the tip of his thin nose or dripped off his sadly plastered hair. So he choked and coughed like a spluttering kettle.

Great. Now he was going to catch pneumonia and die out here in the mud, all forgotten and alone. Then one day, his skeletal remains would be found and they would say, "Here died a caveman," because he had nothing on him except for a broken knife and his stiff, water soaked clothes that were actually chafing at the tender skin around his groin and neck. In which case, the discoverers would assume he was some sort of escaped convict or slave and would place his remains in a museum or laboratory to be scraped and studied.

It was while Angus continued to make up gloomy stories about his demise that he fell through a hole.

Great, he thought and passed out.

If any of my very fond readers wish me to continue or expand upon any story previously touched upon in this blog, please drop me a comment and I will see what I can dredge up from the remains of my teacup that fell in a biscuit tin and got lost amongst the papers surrounding me. And just in case it is unclear, these posts are really solely for my enjoyment and amusement, which means that you can either enjoy them with me or move on and I won't take your desertion to heart. I may cry for a few days, but then I will emerge a caterpillar. Or not. Sharing deepens enjoyment, so do as you will. I will do my best to entertain you whenever I can. Just be patient or poke me a comment/note if you want more in a hurry. I may oblige you with a rendition of the latest radio song - off-key. It's to muffle for.

Don't tell me I am strange. I already know that. They say people aren't fond of crazy these days... but I say people are fond of uniqueness and eccentricity. Even the most down to earth person has their odd moments.

And my colleagues think me too serious.

Whatever.

the cat and the fiddle

The cat sat beneath the window listening to the child inside practising her violin. The violin screeched and yowled, once in a while producing a clear note before descending once more into screeching strings. All the while, the cat sat - not quite cringing. Every now and then it crept forward a few steps and then sat again, as if it were itching to do something about the sound.

Silence.

Finally, the neighbours pulled out their ear plugs and sighed with relief. Today's practice session was over. The little girl carelessly dropped the instrument and bow on her bed and skipped out her bedroom door, her duty to mandatory music lessons done.

Taking a careful look around, the cat crept to the window and squeezed in, sniffing the air for danger. The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted into the room and there was also a hint of the sour odour that denoted the possible presence of mice in the vicinity. The cat had caught them last week and so disregarded any thoughts of mice. Cookies didn't interest it either. It was the violin that it only had eyes for.

With a light leap up onto the bed, the cat purred to the fiddle that was shining in the light and whose wood grains striped the body like a tiger. Patting the violin into a comfortable place, the cat placed a paw over the scroll and plucked at a few strings. The strings twanged sadly and the cat shook its head. The poor thing hadn't even been tuned.

Awkwardly, carefully, the cat nudged at pegs and fine tuning knobs until it was satisfied with the sound. Then picking up the bow in its soft mouth - the bow still taut, the cat drew it across the strings and sighed, wriggling with excitement at the sound. Starting slowly, the cat played until it felt the vibrations buzzing through it head via the bow too much for its jaw to be able to hold on any longer, nevertheless attempting to finish with what it thought was a flourish.

There was a sharp intake of breath and the cat's head snapped up to look at the door. The little girl stood there, a perfect imitation of her mother standing just behind the girl, hands over their mouths. With almost a snarl at being caught like this, the cat snatched up the fiddle, flying out the window after a brief knocking struggle at the window and disappeared into the bushes. Before mother or daughter could free themselves from their amazement, the cat was back and gone again, taking the bow with it.

Mother and daughter rushed to the window, but saw nothing. No cat. No violin. No bow.

They never saw the cat again, but every now and then during a fine spring night, when the neighbourhood cats came out to play, they heard the sound of a fiddle playing and the cats singing with it.

see the stars

In the quiet of the night, I feel the the cool breeze walking. Like soft breath it caresses the sleeping in their dreams. I step outside to escape the dark closed in feeling between the walls of the house. Out here away from the cities and suburbs polluted with noise and light - out here in the quiet bush, I see the stars.

The stars streak across the sky, a spangled banner of light. They dance to tunes I cannot hear, sing songs too distant to be heard. The moon bathes all in pale silver, its soft light catching up the dew, endowing grass and bushes alike with the glow of other worlds. The stars are reflected in each drop, even the night creatures pause to stare. Here the open boundless lands breathe of more than I can bear.

Stories and pictures are spelt out in space, laid out for those with eyes to see. Every day they rest in sunlight, but night brings them out again. They speak of hope within the dark and courage in the face of fear. The stars tell stories of help without delay and victory against all odds, whilst holding back the enveloping black. Fear and darkness like to creep at night, but the stars hold these at bay.

So when at night I cannot sleep and fear tries to come sneaking, outside I stand within the breeze.
I look up and see the stars.

close your eyes

The soft rustling of fabric. A figure with flowing robes, dark as night, rustling by. Seeking. Searching.

Amelie closed her eyes and willed herself not to look. She could fill its intense stare passing over her in the dim room. In the moment, she forgot to breathe and lay as still as her pillows until she felt the figure pass by. She hoped the facility's sensors would pick up the intruder and sound the alarm.

Silence.

Amelie felt its presence fade. It was gone. She let out her breath. How come the sensors didn't pick it up? She was meant to be safe here, but now she knew. No where was safe. She couldn't stay here.

"Close your eyes and count to ten," she whispered to herself the same instructions her mother had taught her. "Stay still or you'll not fend/ the hunger that walks in the dark/ seeking Fleeters with teeth to mark."

Just in case it came back, Amelie stayed close to the floor and the dark shadows of her room walls.

One step.
Freeze.
Another slow step.
Freeze.

And on she crept until she had reached the door. Then standing behind the door, so that it would hide her if she opened it, Amelie pulled the door open and stood as still as a statue, eyes squeezed shut.

It was back.

A flutter of robes. A cold breeze trickled under the door and up Amelie's trouser legs, tickling her nose. She could not sneeze. Not now. Not here.

Doors banging and the tread of footsteps further down the hall echoed, carrying the murmur of voices.

Amelie could feel its presence. As thick and heavy as leather, turning toward the interruption. It slid away toward the noise.

An explosive sneeze.

Crouched in the same position the sneeze had left her, Amelie prayed. Eyes still tightly shut. It breezed the door aside and fluttered above her head, feeling for something closer to the ceiling. It was so close, she could feel the rippling hum of its muscles working. The stillness that sat within its arms descended about her and she could feel the fabric of its hands brushing first her hair, then her shoulders and then her legs. It was all around. Enveloping her.

The voices and footsteps came closer and Amelie could feel its indecision. It didn't know it had found her yet and it wanted to be certain of the thing it was feeling, but it didn't want the humans to see it. It's one eye was bent heavily upon her, trying to see the reflection only Skeeter and Fleeter eyes could give.

Don't drip. Don't drip. Amelie told her sweat. Don't drip. You'll give me away.


The people drawing near made up the creature's mind for it. It would come back later. It flowed up and into an air vent to hide and return later.

"Can you smell that?" asked one of the humans, sniffing the air.
"No. What?"
"That dusty, musty sort of smell."
"Oh. That. I thought it was just because the place needed some extra cleaning."
"Hmm. I'll tell Tran. Make sure it gets done. This place is older than the rest of the building."

Their voices passed by and faded. Amelie slipped out behind them, hoping It wasn't still watching. If It was here, it would eventually find her if she didn't get out quickly. The place was too small and enclosed.

The Deeker sat in the dark, dreaming of better days when Fleeters and Skeeters had been so abundant that every day was a feast. Now there was only one left and it knew it. Only one meal left before it was doomed to starve to death like all the others of its kind. A pity eating humans made it sick. There were plenty of those around.

tight pants

The lady glared from her waiting seat. She was late by 45minutes and I had been finishing up some business before calling her into the consulting room, making her wait maybe 5 minutes. I wasn't sure, because I was rushing to get around to her and didn't even stop to have a look at the clock. She wore a loose tunic and very tight tights that cut into the flesh about the knees, causing the skin to bulge out like an extra appendage.

"You made me wait," she spat, a little spray of saliva landing in my eye. Tapping her wrist, she said, "Do you know what time it is?"

"I'm sorry," I said, trying not to take an obvious breath and wipe the spit off my face, "but you were late and I was trying to get something I'd started finished before calling you in. Just come right this way."

"I was late? So? You people sit on your arses all day doing nothing. I have sore legs and have to walk all the way across the road from the car park to get here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," The distance from the car park across the road to the clinic was maybe 30 metres away. I really didn't want to show her into the room now, but gestured for her to go in and take a seat anyway, "but I wouldn't count seeing 18 patients a day as nothing. Now, you've said you have sore legs. Is that the reason you wanted to see me today?"

"No," she sneered. "I came because I had nothing else to do, but to hobble around and wait for you. I have multiple medical problems, but you people can never seem to do anything about them."

"There's a lot we don't know about the body yet. In any case, would you like to describe your problems for me to see if I can help you then?"

"What I need," the lady declared, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand, which was then wiped upon the chair she was sitting on, "is a massage right now. One that will last at least 2 hours and loosen up all the tight muscles from here to here," she indicated from the base of her neck to her feet. "Shall I take my clothes off now?"

"The maximum time one of these appointments can go for is half an hour and I am a doctor, not a masseur." I was beginning to feel somewhat irked and was starting to feel my hands itch with the need to slap her as if she were a rude child. "Why don't you describe your problems for me and then I will have a better idea of how I can help you?"

She talked about her multiple medical conditions from top to toe in a high, indignant voice, stating more than once that the government owed her a massage at least once a fortnight. Why the government owed her anything at all, I could not work out, as she had never had a job before in her entire life. She concluded with, "... all I really have is knee pain and if you refuse to give me a massage, then what use are you?"

And with that she flounced out of the consulting room, declaring loudly to the other patients in the waiting room that they were wasting their time in seeing me. I watched her go with a sigh of relief, hoping I would never have to see her again. One of my other patients, a regular with terminal cancer, chortled from her corner where she was steadily knitting.

"Maybe if she weren't wearing such tight pants she wouldn't be such a tight arse today."

I tended to agree.

(Please note that the characters in this story are entirely fictional and any resemblance they may bear to anyone in real life are entirely coincidental.)