Other Skies. Mister Mason Plays With Dolls

Other Skies
Mister Mason Plays With Dolls
by James Douglas Ashelford

The harsh rasp of footsteps on the gravel drive drifted in through the open window as Jeff Mason tried to get to asleep. It had been a long day in the conference rooms of the Dorchester Manse and he wanted to sleep. Buzzed as he was from too many coffees between meetings, it just wasn’t happening. He always slept with the window open, always, an unfortunate little habit in a travelling businessman. Back home the sounds outside his window didn’t bother him, every nocturnal rustle and clatter assimilated into his sleep rhythms but on the road…

The footsteps grew closer, louder, more urgent, more rapid. In a little corner of his mind he registered an odd note in the ordered march of crunches, out of kilter with the pace of the others. A half-amused grunt issued from his throat. Probably Piers, he thought, being dragged back legless by those two cronies of his from Human Resources.

Trying to block out the sounds of that damned fool Piers’ drunken stumbling, Mason turned over and dragged the quilt up over his shoulders. As his head came down on the pillow, however, he felt something hard press into his cheek as he crushed it down against the mattress.

He only had a second to register the sensation before a scream jerked him awake.

He was upright and wide awake before he knew he was moving.

Bloody kids, he thought as he threw on his dressing gown, marching unsteadily to the window. Wrenching the window open he fixed his gaze on the three people down on the drive: an anonymous looking man in a dark suit, barely visible in the gloom; a young man with shocking blond hair who leant heavily upon a crutch and a young woman lying prostrate on the ground.

‘Shut the hell up!’ he yelled out at the little group. Bloody kids, getting drunk and waking everyone up. His anger sated for the moment he moved back to his bed. With an exaggerated sigh he fell down but sleep didn’t come. That lump under the pillow nudged gently against his head, a bothersome distraction from rest.

Swearing quietly to himself (he was nothing if not considerate to his neighbours) he dug his hand under the pillow, snatching it back when he felt something sharp dig into the flesh of his finger. Okay, that had to go, whatever it was. Sucking his bleeding finger he used his other hand to throw the pillow aside revealing a small, somewhat rough-looking rag doll. The doll had a card tied to its stubby leg. Attached to the card with sticky tape was a long sewing needle. The label read: “Wet paint. Do not touch. HT.”

Nonsense, Mason though, turning the doll over gently in his hands. As he was examining it a detail struck him: the hair was real, not nylon like the dolls his daughters played with.

Go on.

What was it? In this day and age what child played with a rag doll? And what kind of doll came with a pin?

Go on.

He found he couldn’t take his eyes off the doll and his fingers played with the needle stuck to the card. He knew full well what the doll was now, he knew what it was for, the word coming unbidden to his mind:

Voodoo.

He laughed, a harsh bark breaking the silence of the darkened room. A voodoo doll, God knew why it was in his bed. Probably belonged to one of the hotel cleaners. The doll’s obviously real hair was blond and its figure, though crude, clearly female.

The hotel manager, perhaps? An unpopular supervisor? An ex-lover?

Go on. Do it. It’s a silly little doll, go on. Take the pin, you know you want to.

He pulled the pin from the card and brought it up to the doll. He ran the point down the doll’s featureless face, scoring the material as he tried to decide where to stab it.

The heart. Come on, you’ve seen the movies, go for the heart.

Yes, the heart.

Tap. Tap tap tap.

Startled, Mason dropped the pin and snapped around to face the window, the source of the sudden intrusion. He hid the doll behind him like a guilty secret. From outside the window an owl, unable to enter through the small gap he’d left open, regarded him with sharp, predatory focus. It locked eyes with him, tap-tap-tapping its tiny hooked beak against the glass.

From outside, beyond those accusing predator’s eyes, Mason could hear someone running up the drive. Heavy footfalls, determined, unstoppable.

Turning his eyes from the owl he returned his focus to the little doll.

Go on.

Jeffrey Mason wasn’t a man given to panic but he couldn’t deny the quickening of his pulse when he realised he’d dropped the pin. Casually dropping the doll down on his bed…

from outside, a choked gasp, the sound of sobbing

… he dived to his knees and, heedless of the risk of another pricked finger, began thumping his palms against the carpet in search of the pin.

All the time the owl tap-tap-tapping its hooked beak insistently against the window as if trying to get his attention.

His blood pounded in his ears, his hands banged against the carpet, the owl tapped on the glass and all the time his panic rose and his breath came more and more raggedly. By the moment someone knocked on his door he was on the verge of hyperventilating, halfway across the room from where he had started his manic search.

When the first knock came he looked up at the door but made no move to rise, quickly returning to his frantic thumping of the carpet. The second and third knocks passed without him even acknowledging them.

Find it. Find the pin, damn you, find the pin. Quickly, quickly.

The knocking became more insistent, more violent, shaking the door in its frame and breaking through the levels of obsession gripping Mason’s mind. In a towering rage he leapt to his feet and bolted towards the door, wrenching it open with the full intention of giving whoever it was disturbing him a damn good piece of his mind.

‘Good evening,’ said the man on the other side of the door. ‘I am looking for a doll.’

All Mason’s bluster, his choice words, his righteous indignation at being interrupted, died on his lips as he looked at the newcomer: he wore a charcoal grey suit that hung on his body in a way that was subtly wrong. The angles of his body were just slightly too sharp, seemingly somehow inorganic. His face was lined, cracked like mud dried on a hot day and the same colour. He wore a hat but seemed to be bald beneath it as no hair peeked out beneath the brim.

He was also possibly the tallest and widest man Mason had ever met. Despite this the man spoke with exaggerated politeness if rather bluntly. The man turned his head (and no other part of his body, not his shoulders nor torso, it seemed) to regard Mason’s bed.

‘That doll,’ the man concluded. ‘You will kindly bring it and follow me.’

* * * * *

Mason followed the man down the gravel drive, clutching the rag doll to his breast like a child clutching its teddy bear as they wander the midnight corridors of their home after a bad dream. His earlier panic had subsided and he was beginning to question his actions.

‘Why don’t you just take it?’ he asked the man, thrusting the doll at him.

‘No,’ the man said simply before elaborating: ‘I might damage it.’ His even, unwavering voice betrayed no emotion but Mason saw in the man’s dark eyes a fear that struck him as nothing short of pure terror.

So now he carried the doll down the drive in the polite giant’s wake, making for the two figures sat in the middle of the path.

One was the young man with the blond hair, his crutch lying abandoned in the gravel as he tended to the woman lying in his arms. She’d obviously been attacked: a vicious cut ran the length of her face, spilling blood down her neck and into her long, blonde hair. Several of her fingers were obviously broken and every inch of exposed skin carried a bruise. She breathed raggedly, staring straight at Mason and the toy he carried.

As they approached, the young man’s head snapped around, fixing Mason with a look like he had every reason to leapt forward and tear the businessman apart with his bear hands.

‘The doll…’ the young woman gasped from split and bloodied lips as Mason and his escort drew near. ‘Give me… the doll.’

Stepping forwards, Mason passed the doll with great reluctance, like he was giving up something special. The woman’s face split into a pained smile as she clutched the doll’s body in one broken and battered hand and its hair in the other. With one jerking motion and a cry of pain at the exertion she tore the hair from the doll and collapsed.

‘Ambulance,’ the younger man said, cradling the unconscious woman in his arms as he kept his hawk-like gaze…

sharp, focussed, predatory

… fixed on Mason. ‘Now.’

Mason ran back to the hotel.

* * * * *

The next morning the business conference ended and Mason sleepwalked through the final round of meetings. In spite of his inattention and his preoccupation with his encounter of the night before, he was surprised to be taken aside by their client and offered a job.

‘I have a gift for spotting the right sort of mind, Mister Mason,’ the client explained in his soothing, cultured European accent. ‘You most definitely have the right sort of mind for my operation: open, susceptible to new concepts. I’d greatly like you to come and work for me, I think we can do great things with you.’

And that was how Jeffrey Mason came to work for Haargen Turan.

WRITER’S BOX
This story is the work of James Ashelford and may not be reproduced, archived, reposted or otherwise used without his express permission.

The original draft of this story was prepared for a Write Anything Fiction Friday prompt (“During his third night out of town, a travelling businessman finds a voodoo doll in his hotel room”). I rediscovered it recently and I’m working on new stories for the characters. All feedback gratefully accepted.

Resolution

A siren blared, deafening, terminals scrolling through data beyond understanding or explanation. Around him, the girls began to writhe, their hands grasping at objects beyond vision, their breathing ragged. One by one they began to scream, agony and ecstasy, their backs arched as the energy flowed through them. At once their eyes opened, deepest black, unworldly, unholy.

Stepney turned to Calvin, terrified. She lay slumped in her chair, twitching, sparks erupting from the electrodes wired into her brain. Her breathing was shallow, her body shaking. Stepney took his eyes from her, surveyed the hall. The followers, the faithful, stood now. Shouting, swearing, cursing heaven and earth and promising a vengeance against those who stood in their way.

He turned to Harlow. Their eyes met, the gaze of old friends. Harlow’s were filled with tears. The young mystic leaned towards him, his voice a murmur amid the cacophony which had overtaken them. “Stepney, I…move!”

Stepney’s head snapped up in time to see the man before him. His eyes were dead, showing neither rage nor love, satisfaction nor regret. His face betrayed nothing. His hand was raised, pointed towards him as if in some grotesque blessing. Stepney felt Harlow push against him, the world running in slow motion.

The knife span towards him, handle over blade over handle over blade over handle.

Stepney saw it all. His memories, the men and women of the city, those things lost which had been found. His time with friends, with those he loved and those who loved him. He saw himself in his office, at work and happy, caring for others in the only way he knew how.

And the knife continued towards him. Handle over blade over handle over blade over handle.

He took in the picture. Omega behind him, unmoving, watching. Calvin slumped, barely moving, her eyes twitching, her fingers grasping. The crowd moving towards him with unthinking hatred, unwavering contempt.

Handle over blade over handle over blade over handle.

Over blade.

Stepney stared downwards. On the floor before him lay Harlow, the knife protruding from his chest. Blood poured from the wound, spurting from his pierced heart, soaking through his clothes and flowing to the floor below. Stepney sank to his knees, took the man’s head in his hands.

Harlow smiled, a wavering, uncertain expression. Yet his eyes kept their glow, the spark of life. He spoke slowly, each breath taking his whole effort. “I…guess…it is our time…after all.”

“I guess so.” Stepney’s voice came to him as if from afar, a script being read by someone else. Another man in another life.

Harlow’s eyes began to roll back, his breathing ever more laboured, his motions weaker, more feeble. He beckoned Stepney closer. “Trust her,” he whispered gently.

And then he laid his head back and sank and was still.

Stepney stood. The crowd before him had become silent, accusative. They moved forward in one body, surrounding him. Their faces were without expression, their gaze without remorse. Still they came, mechanical, unchanging. Yet Stepney stood firm, retreating not a foot, his mind suddenly drained.

He felt rather than heard Omega’s voice as it called from behind him. As he turned, he felt the first fist strike home, felt the rod of iron as it snapped against his spine. He sank to his knees, not blocking the pain, embracing it. He met her eyes, those beautiful eyes, eyes which had driven sane men to madness and mad men to song. Somehow, almost unbelievably, she reached forward and took his head in her hands.

She kissed him once, tenderly, on the mouth. He felt her skin against his. It was electric, energising, a sense of fire and warmth flowing through him from her. He felt her against him, the kiss broken as she cradled his head against her breast. He felt the pain leave him even as the mob set in, and there was only Omega. Always Omega.

Her voice came to his ear, naught but a whisper. “The key. You know what you must do.”

In her hand lay a single white pill.

Fiction Friday. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Shakespeare

This story forms a sequel to last week’s Fiction Friday submission.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Shakespeare
a Curious Sorts story
by James Ashelford

It had started out as simple poking at the ice cubes with the tip of her straw. Over the past half an hour, Reyes’ actions had escalated to swirling the straw around at high speed, creating a rapidly accelerating whirlpool of coke that threatened to fly over the edge of her glass at any moment. Around and around, faster and faster, higher and higher in the glass.

‘You’re nervous, aren’t you?’ Shakespeare asked as he sipped his pint. ‘I can tell these things.’

‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be wearing a carnation or something?’ Reyes checked, letting go of her straw with great reluctance. ‘Just something to stand out, make it a bit more obvious who she’s meeting.’

‘She’s meeting me, she knows me,’ he reminded her, resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘She’ll come here, she’ll see me, I’ll introduce you, make my excuses and leave if you want. You want some moral support I’ll stick around, your call.’

‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ she said, hand flying back to her straw.

‘It’ll be fine. Its just a drink.’ His smile was wide and genuine. The moment stretched out in companionable silence and she began to smile back. It was nice moment, a moment Felix utterly shattered by jumping between them, clapping them both on the shoulders and asking:

‘Mind if I borrow him for a moment?’

*****

‘What is the matter with this song?’ Felix muttered, drumming his fingers on the table as he and Shakespeare sat with their heads together, sharing a pair of headphones between them. ‘There’s something wrong with it and I don’t know what it is.’

‘Shhh,’ Shakespeare said, his eyes closed as he listened. ‘Tracking problem,’ he concluded, his eyes snapping open. ‘Drums were recorded separately, playing maybe a half a second faster than the rest of the song. They’ll fix it on the release copy.’

‘Yeah, I hear it now.’

‘Say what you like about me, I know about sounds.’

‘Listen, sorry to drag you away from Reyes, man, it was just bugging me, is all.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m just waiting for–’

‘Shakespeare!’

‘– this girl. Hey, Debbie,’ Shakespeare said, turning to face the new arrival: a tall young woman with an earnest expression and wavy black hair who’d swung her arms around his shoulders. Felix offered her a smile and a small wave. ‘Deb, this is my friend–’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Debbie said, jumping forward enthusiastically to offer her hand. Felix took it and found her grip firm but welcoming enough.

‘You too,’ he said, smiling nervously.

*****

Shakespeare made his way back to the bar with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He was even humming jauntily.

‘Reyes,’ he said, planting his hands on his hips and exuding smugness from ever pore, ‘I would like to introduce my very good friend–’

‘Your own right hand,’ Gina chipped in from behind the bar.

‘Huh?’ Shakespeare asked, looking around in confusion. ‘Where’s that girl gone?’

*****

Felix hated being on friend-sitting duty. He had no doubt this Debbie girl was a perfectly nice woman, Shakespeare certainly seemed to be fond of her. The fact remained, however, that he’d come to the pub to get some work done and he couldn’t get back to the album he was supposed to be reviewing without seeming antisocial. So instead he was making stilted conversation with a woman he didn’t know while Shakespeare got the drinks in.

And he hadn’t even asked what Felix was having!

Debbie, it seemed, was quite perceptive. After a few awkward moments she reached out across the table and put a hand on his, a reassuring gesture accompanied by a warm and understanding smile.

‘Difficult, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you don’t really know me.’

‘Well, no,’ he agreed.

‘I know what Shakespeare’s done seems a bit… forward, I guess.’

‘Forward?’

‘He thought you could do with talking to someone, is all. I can understand if you’re reluctant.’

‘Eh?’

*****

‘What’s going on?’ Mary asked as she sidled along the bar to see what Gina was laughing at so hard she couldn’t pour out the double scotch Reyes was ordering through gritted teeth. Looking more than a little dazed as he returned to his barstool, Shakespeare explained:

‘I’ve just set up your fiancé with a lesbian who’s going to help him express his sexuality.’

‘You’ve what?’

*****

‘What’s going on?’ Felix was confused. Sometimes it seemed like he’d been confused his entire life but this was a new level. ‘What exactly has Shakespeare told you?’

‘He didn’t betray any confidences,’ she reassured him. That was the thing, though, she did seem to be genuinely concerned for him. Why was anyone’s bloody guess but she did seem genuinely concerned. ‘He just told me you’d had a hard time since… you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I suppose maybe he told me more than you’d be entirely comfortable with him telling me but… his heart was in the right place.’

‘It always is,’ he agreed, trying to insert a pause into the conversation so he could try to catch up. ‘His brain not to much but his heart…’

*****

‘You know, Reyes,’ Shakespeare said, eyes glued to the very heartfelt-looking conversation going on in the booth, ‘it strikes me you got one very unisex name there.’

‘Lindsey?’ Reyes asked, hands spread wide in confusion.

‘Your name is Lindsey?’

‘You didn’t know that?’

‘No,’ he admitted before pointing in Debbie’s direction, ‘so neither does she.’

*****

Felix relaxed and let the conversation flow over him. He’d decided over the years that there were times when you had to fight the flow and times when you had to go with it. So he sat and listened to Debbie until it became clear she was counselling him about his sexuality (eh?) and that she spoke from a standpoint of experience. What she said was heartfelt and reassuring (and utterly, utterly irrelevant).

She eventually excused herself, squeezing his hand gently as she left, assuring him that it would all work out in the end (some good news, at the very least). He thanked her profusely, saw her to the door, turned back to the bar and…

‘SHAKESPEARE!’

Much later…

It was dark and cold and Reyes sat on the edge of the sea wall with her arms flung over the metal railings, brooding. Shakespeare stood next to her, leaning on the top rail, twiddling his thumbs and trying to explain:

‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I screwed up.’

‘She was pretty,’ Reyes sighed, watching the waves as they crashed against the concrete beneath her feet.’

‘Don’t let her girlfriend hear you say that.’

‘Her what?’

‘This wasn’t a date,’ he explained. ‘I thought you knew this wasn’t… you thought this was a date?’

‘Yes.’ Her expression was one of genuine shock. ‘Why… I mean…’

‘When was the last time you thought about killing yourself?’ he asked, still staring out to sea. Reyes sighed, wondering if there was any chance he’d believe her if she lied.

‘Three days ago. I was on the top of the tower and the drop seemed… inviting.’

‘I’m not going to force you into any sort of relationship when that’s in your head, I know better than that.’

‘Then what was this all for?’

‘I met Debbie a few years back, through my brother. Her sixteenth birthday she has an attack of conscience, realises she can’t keep lying to her parents about who she is. She tells them “Mum, Dad, I’m gay” and two hours later she’s on the street with nothing but the clothes on her back.’ He slumped down to the ground then, swinging his legs over the side of the wall so he could sit beside her. ‘No home, no money, no hope, not even out of school yet, happy sweet sixteen, Deb. Sound familiar? Now she’s got her own place, a job she loves and a girlfriend who loves her. I wanted you to meet her, I wanted you to see a happy ending.’

‘Like yours, you mean? You really don’t have to feel guilty about that, you know.’

‘Guilty? Hey, if a scruffy bastard like me can land a woman like Rebecca there’s hope for everyone, right? I’m a symbol of hope, me.’ He was smiling again, she loved that about him. She leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Walk me home?’

‘Sure.’

‘And Debbie, you think maybe we could try to meet her again? I’d like to talk to her.’

Shakespeare linked his arm with hers and they walked calmly up the hill to the monastery.

****WRITER’S BOX****
This story was prepared from the Write Anything Fiction Friday prompt: “Write a misunderstanding between three people.” All comments, suggestions and observations are, as always, gratefully accepted especially this week as I’m not terribly happy with how this turned out and I think a revised version might help me sleep better at nights.

This story is the work of James Ashelford and may not be reposted, archived or otherwise distributed without my express permission.

The Moment

Omega rested her hand on Harlow’s head, whispering to him gently, soothing him, healing him. Stepney’s gaze remained on the sight before him, girls made machines, technology made human. The speaker turned to a panel on the wall beside him, raising his arms in benediction.

“Our time is now,” he said.

“Our time is now,” echoed the crowd before him.

The speaker’s arm reached towards the panel. Stepney squinted and made out a set of controls, instruments, instructions to be given to the devices wiring the girls together.

Without warning, the speaker fell to the floor, twitching wildly. The room erupted in noise, yet they remained still, expectant, watching for the next stage of this cosmic drama. A pool of blood began to leak from his prone body, his breath laboured. The handle of a knife was visible from his side, piercing him.

“This ends tonight.” The voice came from one of the girls, wired to the machine, electrodes piercing her skull, sending energy into her brain. Her hand was raised, shaking.

She spoke. “None of this should be. This city, these people. You. All of you.” The voice echoed in Stepney’s memory, prodding, seeking. He felt himself go cold and an enormous weight filled within him.

“None of this is right,” said Calvin. The eyes. Whatever the mutilation, the pain, the travesty which had been inserted into her, the eyes could not be mistaken, the voice beyond imitation. It was her. “None of this can be right. None of this should be.”

“Showtime.” Omega’s voice startled him, shook him into life, broke him from the trance into which the unfolding events had thrown him. The three of them made their way through the door and into the hall, the crowd parting before her, bewildered, angry, yet unwilling to act.

She approached the man lying on the floor, checked his pulse. “He will live,” she said. It was neither an encouragement nor a lament, simply a statement of truth. Calvin’s eyes met those of Stepney and her face broke into a broad smile.

“Calvin.”

“Stepney.” Her voice was unnaturally calm, staring into him with the same still, tranquil gaze she had owned all these years.

“How did -”

“I saw you at the meeting. Hidden in the back, safe from view. Safe from anyone but me, that is. You know what happened. You saw Hypa, saw her step up. I had to follow her. So I allowed them to take me, allowed them to turn me….to turn me into this.” A look of revulsion passed across her face for a moment. “They harmed me, violated me perhaps beyond repair. They forced themselves into my brain, into my mind. The highest violation of all. Yet it was worth it, all of it, if it only means we can stop them.”

“The others. They seem lost, lifeless. Taken over. How did you survive?”

Calvin’s eyes met those of Omega for a moment. “I had some help.” They stared past her and a look of unmistakeable horror passed over them. “Stop -”

It was too late. The speaker moved, trailing blood behind him, scraping his body over the floor. He raised a single hand, shaking, trembling, defiant, and slammed it into the panel.

And the world exploded into sound.

Fiction Friday. Getting Committed

Getting Committed
a Curious Sorts story
by James Ashelford

The height of summer had hit the coast and it was too hot for pretty much anything. It was far, far too much (centigrade) in the shade and the whole of Stephen Shakespeare’s world was the oppressive heat of the sun, the prickle of sweat on his skin and the view of the inside of his eyelids. He lay on the grass in nought but a pair of light trousers recovering from a foolhardy attempt to cut back the creepers that were infesting the ruined monastery.

‘I’m thinking about commitment,’ he muttered into the air, not even sure if his companion was still conscious.

‘I’m thinking about ice cubes,’ Reyes told him, lying prone next to him in a pair of flannel shorts and a bra, her shirt having been long abandoned during their mistaken attempt at work. ‘I’ve got this tray of ice cubes in my mini-fridge. Go get ‘em,’ she ordered, limply flinging her arm out to land on his chest with more of a sweaty splash than a slap.

‘Why me?’

‘Come on, be a gentleman. I’m all weak and female and in this heat I might swoon at any moment, have some consideration.’

‘Aw, you don’t got to bring chivalry into it,’ he told her, laboriously pulling himself as upright as he could manage. At a pronounced hunch he stumbled towards the tower.

Twenty minutes and one thirty foot round trip later, he returned to find Reyes asleep and therefore in no position to a) thank him for his chivalry above and beyond the call of the thermometer or b) get back to the subject he’d tried to open in the first place. On the one hand she looked so sweet and peaceful as she slept, on the other…

Shakespeare’s eyes flickered down to the ice tray in his hands.

The peace of the cliff top ruin was shattered by Reyes’ scream as she bolted upright, hand flying to her breast as she tried to claw the ice cubes out of her bra.

‘So,’ Shakespeare continued, the picture of casual calm as he sat back down on the grass, ‘I’ve been thinking about commitment.’

‘You bastard,’ Reyes said, glaring at him.

‘I put them somewhere you could get at them,’ he said, holding an ice cube against his wrist. ‘Could’ve gone down your knickers, remember that.’

‘Granted,’ she sighed, plucking a cube from the tray to cool herself in more civilised fashion. ‘So, commitment.’

‘You will first promise me not to hug me. You will make this solemn vow.’

‘Eh?’

‘Just promise not to hug me.’

‘What are you…? Fine,’ she sighed, holding a hand up as if swearing the oath in court, ‘I make this solemn vow: you will not be hugged.’

‘I’m in love with Rebecca.’

Contrary to her solemn vow, Reyes lunged forward.

Squelch.

‘Oh, oh, you’re right,’ Reyes conceded, straining to unstuck her sweaty body from his sweaty body. ‘That was not pleasant.’ Once she’d pried herself away from him she asked, blushing: ‘So, when did you…? I mean, how…? What was it…?’

‘They’re teaching her to drive the ship today,’ he told her, beaming that toothy, goofy grin of his as he stared into the distance. ‘She called me last night and told me they’re teaching. She was so happy and, you know, so was I. I’m proud of her, I’m happy that she’s happy.’

‘Its a great feeling, isn’t it?’

Aw, no, Shakespeare thought, you’re an idiot, man. He turned to look at Reyes then, raising his arm almost on reflex to lay his hand on her shoulder but she was smiling. Her eyes were closed and her expression was soft, wistful. Remembering.

Ignoring the unpleasant sticky sensation, Shakespeare wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry, Reyes.’

‘No,’ she said, her attention miles away and months ago as she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Its good. I was in love, its nice to remember. I was in love, it cost me everything but I was in love.’

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked. Please, God in Heaven, just let her have this moment, just let her have those good memories for a while. Don’t make her cry.

‘Yeah.’ The tears, oh God, he could see the tears pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘I can’t ever get her back. The things I said… they went beyond pushing someone away out of grief.’ The tears rolled down her cheeks. He held her and she cried silently. He couldn’t say anything. What was there to say? “Yeah, you screwed up”? Cold. “You never know, one day…” but that wouldn’t fly. She was right, she lashed out at the one person she had left from her old life, said things that truly were unforgivable and here he was talking about how in love he was. Idiot! The tears stopped in time but he would keep hold of her until she was ready to let go. ‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’ she asked. ‘Ack!’

‘Sorry.’

‘You dropped me!’ she protested, scrabbling back up and brushing the grass of her arms.

‘I was proposing moving in with her,’ he explained with frantic arm gestures and more than a touch of hysteria in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t proposing… proposing.’

‘Yeah, when you talk to her about this? If she makes the same mistake I did?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Do not panic at the thought of marriage, retreat to co-habitation calmly.’

‘Gotcha.’

End. Getting Committed.

This story was prepared for Write Anything’s Fiction Friday challenge. This week’s prompt was “Where your character is committed to a drastic or extreme change”. This story is my own work proceeding from that prompt and may not be posted, archived or otherwise used without my permission.

All criticism and commentary more than welcome. I wanted a calmer piece than usual but I worry it might have been too calm.

Curious Sorts experimental. Saxon Violence

Author’s Note
This piece was prepared for a challenge laid down by Jodi Cleghorn of Write Anything to take a character of one’s own and place them into “a unique situation which could not possibly occur in your current story” and see what happened. So, on with the motley…

Saxon Violence
a Curious Sorts experiment
by James Ashelford

‘Right, look, now,’ Shakespeare began, his most winning smile plastered across his face as he addressed his audience. ‘I think I see how you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. I mean, we’ve all been in the wrong place at the wrong time, haven’t we?’ He punctuated the question with a soft “we’re all friends here” chuckle but no one else joined in so he got back to his point: ‘Now, I get that I don’t look exactly local, I get that, but I really had nothing to do with that Viking raiding party.’

The assembled crowd of torch-wielding eleventh century Saxons seemed unimpressed by his defence.

‘I look foreign to you, I know,’ Shakespeare continued, his every word filled with sincerity, confidence and an air of reasonability that seemed not to be penetrating. ‘Looking at the thirties-Nuremberg-esque racial mix here I understand that R’n’B probably hasn’t penetrated this far from the London nightclub scene yet, am I right?’ Stony silence. ‘I’m right. Regardless, I was just taking a walk along the beach in the twenty-first century when that raiding party came running past in the other direction. Wrong place, wrong time and one of them just thrust that mangy goat into my arms on the way past.’

‘Baa,’ the goat in question put in. Not the most eloquent of defence counsel but at the moment, tied to a stake with a good pile of firewood at his feet, Shakespeare would take whatever he could get.

‘Now, let’s look at this logically,’ he said, directing his words at the very muscular man with the truly impressive beard on the presumption that this would be the leader. ‘I’m black. I’m not usually one to play the race card, God knows, I am not one to play the race card but it must be admitted you can’t get much further from your basic Viking than me. Viking: muscular, very white, very blond, dressed in skins, horned helmets that I’m guessing make you think of them as something to do with Satan, bloody hairy heathens that they are. Then there’s me: scrawny, brown skin, black hair, dressing towards he casual end of smart-casual and I can’t grow a beard to save my life, though I imagine in this situation it wouldn’t.’

At this point the magnificently bearded muscle man, who did seem to have some authority after all, started shouting at him to be quiet. At least, that was what Shakespeare assumed the man was saying because…

‘You haven’t invented English yet, have you?’ Okay, the language barrier had defeated reason and those flaming brands wee getting closer by the second so that left only one realistic option:

Utter blind panic.

‘I’m not a Viking! I’m not a Viking! I’m British! God save the Queen! Don’t burn me! I’m British! I’ll write to the Times about this! I’m not a Viking, I’m not a heathen, I’m like you! Listen: in nominie patris et fillie et spiritus sancti! Christian! Not a heathen! I’ve got a British passport, I’ve let it lapse but I’ve got a passport!’

He was suddenly aware that he wasn’t burning.

Also, the crowd were looking at him uncertainly and a small conference had begun around the headman.

Three Hours Later

It had been the Latin that had postponed the burning. With four centuries or more before the first tentative Protestant translations of the Bible into the languages of the laity, Latin equalled either clergy or money and neither were the sort of people you wanted to burn.

Not without checking, at any rate.

So it was with great relief that Shakespeare watched the monk enter the circle around the so far unlit pyre. Here was authority, here was a man of peace, here was…

Here was a man who was looking at him like Shakespeare was the devil himself.

‘You fought in the crusades, didn’t you?’ There were days when you just couldn’t catch a break. ‘Look, before you start yelling about burning the heretic just take a good look at the skin and cast your mind back and notice that I’m a different shade of foreign from the people you used to poke your sword into during your misspent youth.’

For a moment, just a moment, the monk peered at Shakespeare as if actually taking his advice but a crushing sense of the inevitable had already descended and he told the clergyman:

‘Oh, just get on with it, get out the matches, already.’

You didn’t need to have passed the Chaucer paper at A-Level to know what the rapid fire blast of Middle English the monk spat out next meant.

‘Yep, not a Viking, just a really lost Muslim heretic, burn away,’ Shakespeare groaned through gritted teeth. ‘Just you wait for the dissolution of the monasteries, man, you gonna wish you was kinder to Protestants then.’

Once again, the flaming brands advanced.

‘Don’t burn me! I’m British! I’ll write to the Times about this! This violates the Geneva Convention and the Magna Cart and the Eaglewood Parish Council’s local ordinances on burning refuse during the hours of dark! I’m not a Viking! I’m not a Saracen! They both got big beards, I have no beard! Help!’

It was at this point that the stake he was tied and was frantically struggling against collapsed backwards. Though far from the most pleasant of experiences, as Shakespeare and his stake rolled and bounced down the short hill enough damage was done to the rope to set him free.

Though he’d never know it, over the next few minutes Shakespeare would come very close to beating the world record for the mile.

*****

Shakespeare ran, he absolutely pegged it. No sense of direction, just the urgent need to get away from the burning brands of the Saxon villagers. He just had to get away and as fast as possible.

He was even absurdly pleased when his mad dash brought him into painful full-frontal contact with a lamp post.

‘Lamp post,’ he cried in joy, hugging the metal pole for a second before he noticed that the sounds of pursuit hadn’t disappeared now things were all modern again.

*****

It was a quiet afternoon in The Midnight Form and Anne was stacking glasses behind the bar as Gina got on with some sweeping up. A few scattered customers read their papers and nursed their pints and barely even looked up when Shakespeare barrelled through the doors and vaulted the bar. He hunkered down behind Anne’s legs and for a second she was very grateful she didn’t wear skirts because she was sure that if she did he’d have tried to hide beneath them.

She was about to ask him what the bloody hell was going on and let go of my thighs before I kill you when the Saxon mob entered the bar. She took one look at the flaming brands and barked out:

‘Oi, no smoking. Take it outside.’

Looking at their feet and uttering Middle English apologies, the mob shuffled back out of the bar.

‘Thank you,’ Shakespeare said, raising himself just enough to look over the bar and out the window at the retreating horde.

‘Don’t you know anyone normal?’ Anne asked.

WRITER’S BOX
The point of the exercise (seriously, read the linked Write Anything article, its great stuff) was to use a situation that would never normally arise for the character to expand their personality. In this case I’ve put Shakespeare in a genuinely life-or-death situation, testing his reserves more than any adverse situation I’d normally put him in and that was most instructive. I’ve written and imagined him before trying to talk himself out of trouble but I’ve never had him do it for his life, I’ve certainly never put him past the point where he would genuinely panic or give up hope.

All comments and criticism is, as ever, enthusiastically received, they make me a better writer. Thank you for reading.

The above story is purely the work of James Ashelford though developed from the prompt I have already credited. It may not be reposted, archived or otherwise made use of by anyone in any form without my express written permission.

The Ceremony

Harlow’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes were rooted to the man on the ground, his head twisted to some inhuman angle, unmoving. “Is…is he…”

“Dead?” Omega continued on her way through the building, stopped, turned to them. “He was dead long ago. They all are. I simply finished the process.” She paused. “There is no time for this. We must go. All will become clear.

“But I -”

“Now!” Her voice came to them, raised, yet without anger. The two men felt themselves rise into action, making their way after her, watching, searching, seeking out hostilities. What are we doing?, came that treacherous voice in the back of Stepney’s mind. Why? The ceremony. What ceremony? More questions. Always questions. Each creating two more of its own, spreading like a vine over the walls of his memory.

Omega paused, gestured them into silence, motioned to a corridor running to the right of them. The chanting was louder now, somehow deathly, voices in unison without feeling, without even the empty rage of the mob. Stepney leaned towards her, spoke to her in an urgent whisper.

“They will notice us.”

“They will not,” Omega replied. “Not at first. Not if we do not wish them to.”

“I -”

Harlow rested his hand on Stepney’s arm. Their eyes met, a discussion momentary, unspoken. Trust her. Stepney paused in contemplation, nodded. Together the three of them made their way through the corridor, to the door at its end, and opened it as best they could, taking in the scene before them.

The room was clean, sterile, the appearance of a hospital or a laboratory. Within it, twelve figures sat in enormous chairs lining the walls. To each chair were attached a variety of wires, cables, measurements. Terminals beeped, reams of information playing across their screens. Figures, charts, graphs, equations. Formulae beyond understanding.

Each of the girls sat in silence, breathing softly, their eyes closed. Their heads were cut open, the scalp neatly removed, exposing the flesh of the brain to the outside world. Wires ran into them, connecting flesh to machine, nature to technology. Their tips disappeared into the girls’ skulls, taking and receiving data, wiring each of them into the system beyond.

Stepney turned his face away, suddenly sickened. Even as he did, he heard the chanting come to a stop, and a man – another in the single garment of grey and white – stepped into view. He spoke.

“On this night our time is come. For we have sacrificed much, worked for an age, always seeking, always searching.

“The human mind is the most complex computer ever devised, capable of understanding on a level beyond conscious comprehension. A billion billion circuits interacting at once, the energy of a thousand terminals flowing unceasingly through the mind of a single man or woman.

“Or child.

“For many years, this energy has been wasted, cast aside, thrown down the twin wells of emotion and reason, expended for meaningless pleasures or put to work on the most mundane of tasks. We take mediocrity and call it progress; we take a delusion and call it revelation.

“Tonight, through the magic of science and the science of magic, we shall cast off that which restrains us. We shall attune our minds with the universe, become one with it, and become gods.

Fiction Friday. Stephen Shakespeare’s Rough Morning

Stephen Shakespeare’s Rough Morning
a Curious Sorts story
by James Ashelford

Peter was tired. It had been a long few days not helped by the fact that the village fete was coming up and how all his usual help had decided to wander off for a few days. Not that he begrudged them that: after all, he was the only one who actually worked for the parish, the others only helped him out of the kindness of their hearts. Besides, he would hardly deny Reyes the chance to reconnect with her sister, much less tell Shakespeare he couldn’t take the time to see Rebecca off properly.

So it was that after a manic weekend, Peter shuffled through the door of the groundskeeper’s cottage tired, bleary-eyed and mentally unprepared for the sight of Shakespeare sat at the kitchen table sewing rank insignia on the sailor suit of a teddy bear.

Portsmouth, that morning

Shakespeare hated waking up in Rebecca’s room. This wasn’t because of the company, he cared for the woman very deeply, but rather because of the décor:

Boxes. Pile after pile of boxes. It was in the nature of Rebecca’s job that she spent most of the year at sea and so her two flatmates tended to use the room for storage, lots and lots of storage. As a consequence the room had absolutely no personality, which seemed wrong for such a warm and brilliant woman.

Then there was the fact that every time he came here he knew he only had a very limited number of mornings to enjoy with her. That was always the case, of course, whether he visited her here or she came down to the cottage but in this room it seemed so much more immediate.

He was brooding, he knew he was brooding. He was lying in her bed staring at boxes and he didn’t have the time to waste. Slowly, carefully, he turned over.

Damn, but she was beautiful.

There were so much better thing to be doing than staring at boxes. He wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

*****

When Rebecca woke she did so almost instantly. Years of waking early and sleeping in rolling ships had taught her to sleep soundly and wake quickly. Usually she didn’t mind: aboard ship it was useful and most days on land all it did was give her more of the day to play with but it made lazing in bed difficult. Waking up with Shakespeare’s arms around her she wished she was one of those people who could lie on the edge of sleep, snuggle close and just listen to their lover’s breathing.

Problem being, wide awake as she was that all sounded terribly boring so instead she started poking him in the chest.

‘Wake up,’ she commanded, jabbing him with the sharpest fingernail she had at her disposal. ‘Wake up.’ She changed tack, shaking him by the shoulder so hard her bed creaked in protest. ‘Come on, Stephen, wake up.’ No dice. In search of ideas she looked around the room. Boxes, no help there. Finally her eye alighted on the glass of water she kept on her bedside drawers. Leaning across Shakespeare, and giving him a view he’d kick himself for missing if he’d known about it, she picked up the glass and threw the contents in his face.

Nothing.

It was incredibly frustrating. Obviously extreme measures needed to be taken.

Twenty seconds later, Rebecca’s flatmate Miranda entered the room in search of some double-A batteries. She didn’t knock, why would she? For the better part of nine months of the year the room was unoccupied, quite besides which she thought Rebecca was spending her entire leave at her boyfriend’s place this time round.

So it was that Miranda walked in unannounced on the sight of her flatmate sitting astride her unconscious boyfriend, stark naked, belabouring the poor man about the head with a pillow, yelling:

‘Wake up, you insensitive jackass!’

‘I’ll come back later.’

‘Miranda,’ Rebecca greeted her friend with a curt nod, nonchalantly lowering her pillow to conceal herself. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ Miranda said with a little wave, unable to tear her eyes off the scene as she backed slowly out of the room.

Alone with her boyfriend once more, Rebecca hugged her pillow and pondered. She sighed, leaning forward until she was lying flat against him.

‘Come on, Shakespeare,’ she pleaded, digging her fingers into his scruffy hair. ‘My leave’s over in eight hours and I need good lovin’.’ Evidently, either he couldn’t hear her or she was being too subtle in her approach. If there was one thing Shakespeare wasn’t it was subtle. ‘Wake up so I can ravish you, you idiot.’ In one last ditch attempt she placed her lips against his ear and whispered: ‘I’ve got you a present.’

‘Present!’

The way he snapped awake, jerking bolt upright and bright-eyed like a startled meerkat would have been comical if it hadn’t propelled her off the bed and onto the floor at speed.

*****

‘She gave you a teddy bear in a sailor suit?’ Peter said, turning the little bundle of mock-naval cute over in his hands. It was the sort of cheap seaside tat you could buy in any port town tourist shop. ‘Which you have promoted,’ he continued, looking at the leading seaman’s insignia Shakespeare had painstakingly (and painfully, judging by all the plasters on his fingertips) sewn on.

‘She said she bought it to remind me of her,’ Shakespeare explained, taking the bear back and cradling it in one hand like Hamlet soliloquising at Yorick’s skull. ‘We got to the dockyard and the guy at the desk gave her a letter confirming her promotion. So, you know, I couldn’t have a teddy of the wrong rank reminding me of my girlfriend.’

Peter nodded. It was compelling logic.

‘Listen, Pete,’ Shakespeare said, suddenly seeming nervous and sheepish. ‘Rebecca’s got another two weeks after her next cruise and I was wondering if maybe it’d be okay if she spent her whole leave here?’

‘Sure, no skin off my nose. Why?’

‘It’s that bed, man. I woke up with such a headache, there must’ve been a sharp spring or something because I had this little cut on my chest that was bleeding and I think the roof was leaking. Those flatmates of hers, man, they don’t take care of the place like they should. I woke up feeling like I’d been pummelled. Old mattress, I guess.’

‘You tell her this?’

‘What am I, man, suicidal? “Hey, Becky, sleeping with you is like going three rounds with a heavy weight”. That would not go down well.’

‘You got a point,’ Peter conceded before turning to the stairs. ‘Goodnight, Shakespeare.’

‘’Night, man.’

End. Stephen Shakespeare’s Rough Morning

WRITER’S BOX
This story was prepared for Write Anything’s Fiction Friday challenge. This week’s prompt was “Your story involves an invasion of privacy” .

All criticism and commentary more than welcome. Last week I accidentally introduced a girlfriend for Shakespeare so it seemed only fair to give her a bit of personality. Though I worry she might come across a bit violent as in two out of two appearances so far she’s assaulted Shakespeare in some form.

The Plan

“It must be tonight.” Omega’s voice broke the silence Stepney and Harlow had fallen into, shaking them from their contemplations. Those of Stepney concerned the girls, missing and scared, his responsibility. Those of Harlow were beyond comprehension.

“Why?” Stepney found himself lost in her eyes for a moment, dazed. He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge some blockage. “What would you have us do?”

“It happens tonight. We must be there to stop them. Whatever the cost.”

“We are three.” Stepney stared into her deeply. “We ought to be four.”

Omega inclined her head slightly. “Do not worry. All is in hand. Their base is in the outer reaches of the city. We must reach them, infiltrate the building, interrupt the ceremony before it is too late.”

“Ceremony?” Harlow’s voice came up, inquisitive, filled with energy once more.

“All will become clear. Trust me.”

Stepney smiled weakly. “We would hardly seem to have a choice.”

“There is always a choice, Stepney.” Her voice soothed him, reassured him. As his eyes closed, he saw her still, outlined in stars, raising a hand in benediction. He nodded gently.

They rose and made their way from the bar. As they moved, the girl on the stage paused for a moment. She stared into Stepney, freezing him to the spot, his body aflame. Almost imperceptibly, she winked at him, blew him a tiny kiss. Good luck, Stepney, came her voice, almost lost amid the rumble of the assembled patrons.

And with that they left, making their way out of the bar and suddenly, without warning or notice, finding themselves in an empty street in the city of Celestis. Stepney wrapped his jacket around him for protection against the cold. Weather rarely troubled the people of the beautiful city, yet tonight it seemed invasive, intrusive, almost aggressive. The street was empty of life, the buildings looming above, somehow threatening, intimidating. It had been morning, yet now the stars were out, the sun disappeared, the moon shining down on them. All was illuminated with an unworldly light. He shuddered and made his way forward, Omega and Harlow beside him.

They turned and Stepney beheld the hall. It was filled from within with a glowing, blinding light, its spire reaching into the clouds, an enormous letter G emblazoned on its front. Voices emanated from within, chants unending, without life, without feeling. He paused, thrown for a moment. Something about this place, in the city yet locked away from it, its scale, its mass, conveyed a sense of absolute power. A power beyond reason or regret, a power beyond control.

He glanced about him. Harlow had sunk to his knees, weeping bitterly. Omega cradled his head in her arms. She kissed his forehead once, softly, the mark of the carer. As Stepney watched, a thick black mist began to pour from the mystic’s open mouth, vanishing into nothingness. It lasted but a moment. Harlow returned to his feet, glowing, the picture of health.

Omega turned to the two of them and nodded once before making her way into the base. They followed her in silence.

As they entered the building, Stepney tried to take in his surroundings, yet it was too much. He felt as though he had been plunged into some lost city, deep under the water, surrounded by shapes which approached familiarity yet skirted on the edge of identification. A building, a desk, a man. Posters on the doors. Little else.

A man. Omega approached him. He stood silent, enraptured, as the crimson woman filled his vision. For Stepney, around her the world came in and out of focus, shimmering lightly. The scene was surreal and mundane in one. Her beauty seemed to transcend the world around her, made it more crisp, more clear. More real. The man, dressed in his single garment of grey and white, stood spellstruck.

He let out barely a moan as Omega stepped forward and, in a single motion, snapped his neck.

Fiction Friday. Reyes’ Angel

Reyes’ Angel
a Curious Sorts story
by James Ashelford

Since the day Reyes had moved into the old monastery tower, the angel had been bugging her. Every morning when she rose from her mattress she saw it out her narrow window. It stared at her through the old leaded glass with its single intact eye and every spare moment she had throughout the day her mind would wander back to its mournful half a face.

From her window, regarding the stone figure’s more intact side, it was easy to imagine how it had looked in its prime but Reyes had stood outside the ruined monastery and looked up into that shattered face.

It haunted her.

No more, she had decided. She wasn’t going to wake up even once more to be taunted by that broken sculpture. She would end it, once and for all.

Reyes stood at the top of her tower, bracing herself. Below her in the open ruins of the cloisters stood her friends. They’d begged her not to do this, fool that she had been to tell them, but she was determined. It had to end and this was the only way.

*****

‘You ever feel like you’re doing something futile just to ease your own conscience?’ Felix asked from his corner of the tarpaulin. He stood with the other four in the cloisters, all their faces raised skyward, their eyes fixed on the young woman atop the tower.

‘Only every time I talk to the bishop,’ Reverend Flint mused with a distracted air from his own corner.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Angela told them, though she tightened her grip on the tarp as she said it.

‘I’ve got my first aid kit,’ Gina reminded them, standing off to the side and patting the red cross-emblazoned satchel at her waist. From the opposite side of the tarp, Peter managed to tear his eyes away from Reyes long enough to give the towering Scotswoman a cynical look:

‘I’m sure she’ll be grateful of that,’ he told her. ‘She might break every bone in her body but if she gets some grit in her eye or gets stung by a bee on the way down at least she won’t have to worry about that, too.’

‘Focus, chaps,’ Flint cut in, forestalling the inevitable confrontation. ‘Bigger problems.’

*****

On the top of the tower, Reyes closed her eyes, took a deep breath and jumped.

‘Look out below!’ a cheerful voice called yelled behind her.

‘Not funny,’ she called back up as the rope caught and she planted her feet firmly on the tower wall.

‘Sorry,’ Shakespeare said, leaning over the top of the tower, his smile beaming down at her as the ocean breeze ruffled his scruffy hair. ‘Couldn’t resist. You far enough down?’

Reyes looked around. She’d landed a little higher than she’d intended, her feet planted just below the level of the angel’s shoulders.

‘I need you to give me a bit more length,’ she told him.

‘Reyes, give me half a chance and I’ll slip you as much length as you like.’ From behind him, the hand of an unseen figure flicked out to clip him round the ear. ‘Ow!’

‘Two more feet, please.’

*****

‘Two more feet, aye,’ Rebecca yelled out loud enough for Reyes to prepare herself. She released the brake on the heavily counterweighted winch and slowly fed out two feet of rope. ‘Stopping.’ She clicked the brake back on.

‘That hurt,’ Shakespeare told her, rubbing his ear with one hand and pointing to it with the other, just to be absolutely clear.

‘Good.’

‘Was just harmless flirting.’

‘In front of your girlfriend,’ she reminded him. ‘Now get back over the edge and keep an eye on the other woman. Competition she might be but I don’t want her falling.’

Shakespeare made his way back to the edge. Keeping watch on Reyes as she planted her feet firmly either side of the angel, he addressed Rebecca sotto voce:

‘That really a risk?’ he asked, trying to stay quiet enough that only Rebecca would hear. ‘I mean you borrowed this stuff from your ship, right? Its not going to be dodgy or nothing?’

‘Um.’ Rebecca bit her lip. ‘Its all good stuff, don’t get me wrong.’

‘But…?’

‘Good strong rope, sturdy harness, brand new winch mechanism.’

‘But…?’

‘But its meant to hold people up over the side of a ship. Over nice, soft water, like. Rope snaps you ain’t in too much trouble in those circumstances, is what I’m saying.’

‘Fantastic.’

*****

Reyes dug into the canister hanging from her belt, clawing out a chunk of the putty she’d ordered. Letting go of her rope she hung from the buckle that attached it to her harness, firmly wedging her feet around the angel’s flowing stone robes. She kneaded the putty in her hands, letting her fingers get used to the texture and consistency of the material.

When she was satisfied, she slapped the chunk of putty against the wall just over the angels’ shoulder where it stuck fast. She reached back behind her and retrieved a short but wide-bladed sculpting knife from her back pocket.

She started small, using tiny fingertip-sized bits of putty to smooth out the musket ball holes in the angel’s robes. In its way, the angel had got off lightly: in the initial stages of the monastery’s dissolution the building had been ransacked, burnt, half its walls knocked through and its inhabitants chased out into the countryside save for the Abbot who had stayed to the last and paid for his stubbornness with his life. Over the next few weeks the French Huguenot exiles had despoiled the once-peaceful monastery in ways that had entered local legend but none more so than their unsubtle protest against the Cathlic “cult of images”:

They’d used every piece of statuary for target practice.

Centuries of erosion, neglect and out-and-out theft meant that most of that particular legacy was lost to history save for this one angel, once one of a pair that hung from the walls, flanking the tall doors into the courtyard.

The last of the bullet holes filled in, Reyes moved on to a larger flaw: a crack that ran the length of one wing, threatening to send a large chunk of the statue tumbling away at any time. Patient and methodical, she caressed layer after thin layer of putty into and across the crack so it would dry not just into a connection between the two pieces but a brace across them.

The fracture addressed, she moved on to the final fix, to the broken face that haunted her. From the half that remained it was clear the original sculptor had been talented. The angel’s face was fashioned from a rough, robust stone that had lasted centuries before the Huguenot muskets had defaced it, its lines smooth, the cheekbones sculpted high, lips well-defined and a real sense of sadness was conveyed by that one remaining eye.

That mournful expression had such power it had entered Reyes’ mind. She paused, doubtful for a moment that she could recreate that beauty, that she could do justice to the work of that nameless and long forgotten stonemason.

Steeling herself, she grabbed another handful of putty and began.

*****

After two and a half very tense hours, Reyes taped some plastic bags over her handiwork and signalled for Rebecca to winch her to the ground. With great relief and tired arms the group on the ground dropped their tarpaulin and walked over to her, delivering slaps to the back and words of encouragement.

‘Reckon it’ll come out well?’ Peter asked, looking up at the angel. With the carrier bags tied around its head and taped across its wing it looked more like an overly pious scarecrow than a messenger of God.

‘I don’t know,’ Reyes admitted, a sad smile on her lips. ‘We’ll see. Ow!’ she cried, her hand flying to her eye. ‘Ow ow ow.’

‘Reyes? ‘

‘Argh,’ she growled, rubbing her palm frantically against her eye. ‘I think I got a stone chip in my eye. Gah, hurts like hell!’

‘Excuse me,’ Gina said, hefting her first aid kit and stepping forward, lightly tapping Peter on the way past with enough force to send him sprawling. ‘I think I can help with that.’

End. Reyes’ Angel

WRITER’S BOX
This story was prepared for Write Anything’s Fiction Friday challenge. This week’s prompt was “Include this line in your story… (your character) closed his/her eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped…”

All criticism and commentary more than welcome. These characters, these Curious Sorts, are fast becoming a fixture here at the Chair and I’m hoping to start some more regular, unprompted stories with them.