Poker

Tags

drinking, haven, home, mates, poker, poker night, sanctuary, writing

The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge theme for May is “Home”

Barry can feel another argument is upon him. He takes a deep breath and adopts his “calm and reasonable” persona.
“I haven’t spent any time with the lads for months. Why would you object to us having a poker night?” He’s worried this sounds a bit whiney.
Karen spreads more mascara and tears across her cheek, and supresses a sob.
“I don’t object to you spending time with your mates but you don’t need to be gambling.”
He can see she has calmed down a little but is still unsure of his ground.
“You like a flutter on the lottery. What’s the difference?”
Woof! It’s like he’s lit the blue touch paper. Immediately, she is ranting again; her face twisted, like she’s in pain and jabbing her finger at him.
“I don’t invite a bunch of drunks here when I buy a lottery ticket, do I? Are you fucking stupid or what?” She’s glaring at him; challenging him; daring him to argue some more. But Barry still doesn’t understand.
“So it’s not the gambling you object to?”
“No” she barks.
“Well, I know you like Kev and Andy. You’re happy enough in their company in the pub on a Friday night. And Micky’s alright: you’re OK with Micky aren’t you?”
Karen gives one of her pained sighs that’s supposed to tell him that he’s an utter moron, bereft of all reasoning power. She takes on the long-suffering parent tone.
“It’s not for me to choose your drinking mates. For what it’s worth, I have no problem with any of them: I think they’re a good bunch of lads.” Barry is even more confused. Is she being deliberately obtuse? What on earth is she getting at? He tries one more time.
“Well, what is the problem then?”
“Do I need to draw you a picture or something?” she sneers, sarcasticly “I don’t want them here. This is my home. This is where I shut the world out. This is where I feel safe. I need a haven from all the crap out there. If you want to play poker, then piss off down the pub.”

Feud

Tags

feud, vendetta, work, writing

The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge for May; theme is “Home”.

Anyone can tell when Arthur Collard is feeling pleased with himself.  His whole demeanour changes, from the springiness his gait acquires, the foolish grin contorting his craggy face, to the flamboyant arm gestures.  I know he’s been under a cloud of late, so this is a most welcome change.  Arthur’s job, as foreman of our spares warehouse, has been blighted by his ongoing dispute with one of his charge-hands, Timmy Daniels.  Calling it a “dispute” is rather misleading: “feud” or “vendetta” might be closer.  Arthur and Tim hate each other with a passion.  Neither can resist any opportunity to insult, wind up, undermine, mock or belittle the other.  Facts, priorities, business considerations are abandoned, in favour of polarised opinions: most unhealthy.

 

Last week, the Supply Chain Director, Arthur’s boss, saw this “personality clash” was undermining performance and resolved to transfer one or both of them out of the spares warehouse.  I know Arthur will not be content with an “agree to differ” resolution and wants to see Timmy beaten, disciplined, sacked or worse.  I’m guessing, from Arthur’s happy smile, that he’s got a “result”.

 

“Morning Arthur, how’s it going?”  Immediately, he’s conspiritally close and chuckling as he tells me “I’ve got the bastard at last.  I intercepted a memo Tim sent to HR about his transfer.  He said he would happily move to any warehouse except the old raw materials store out in Cumberstone.”  Now Arthur is laughing so hard he can hardly speak  “I’ve fixed it.  Cumberstone is where they’re going to send him.  The transfer is fixed and no-one can change it now”.

 

“Oh Arthur, you didn’t fall for that?”  The laughter is gone, his face has fallen like a ton of bricks.

“What do you mean?”

“Timmy lives in Cumberstone, drinks in Cumberstone, spends his life in Cumberstone.  He’s been trying to wangle a transfer there for decades.  You’ve played right into his hands.”

“But the memo……” he whines.

“I think maybe he planted that for you to find.  All you’ve done is send him home.”

Orbiting Teapots & the Cyborgs from Zog

Tags

Bertrand Russell, fantasy, fiction, message, science, teapot, writing

The Inkwell’s Half Hour Challenge for April: “Idiocy”.

Both science and art describe the human condition; tell us about our place in the universe and our relationships with people and things around us. Any work in art or science which lacks reference to the world we live in is worthless. Bertrand Russell tendentiously postulated a teapot orbiting the sun between Mars and Earth. He countered the lack of evidence for the teapot by saying the telescopes searching were not powerful enough. He bogusly asserted his right to “believe” in the teapot, but questioned the benefit that teapot belief conferred on mankind.

Fiction is not history. Both the fiction and the history of Russell’s teapot are equally worthless: neither can tell us anything about anything. Anyone can write a fiction of wild imaginings, starting from a blank sheet, completely unfettered, no rules or constraints, but like the teapot, what would it tell us? We have a rich history of fictions that changed the way people thought about the world. The works of Dickens, for example, shamed folk into action. Could you imagine tales of a cyborg from the planet Zog prompting social change? That is not to say that science fiction is necessarily devoid of meaning (as anyone who has witnessed Captain Kirk spreading American “morals” around the Universe will know).

Are the best writers those who have something to say? If so, it would seem logical to start with a message and then decide on the carriers. You may decide that the carriers best suited to your message are ghosties and ghoulies, vampires and werewolves, elves and goblins, warlocks and witches. But remember: the scariest nightmares are the ones that you believe.

Hearsay

Tags

fiction, life, madness, murder, musings, psychology, Self-control, thought processes, thoughts, writing

The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge for March “Mad As A Hatter”:

Hearsay. Well, that and political pressure on crime figures. Oh, and coppers seeking to climb the greasy pole. Anything to get a conviction. Another tick in another box. I shouldn’t be in here. I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, nothing to justify them putting me behind bars, anyway. Bastards! I was trying to help, for fuck’s sake. Is this any way to repay me? Karen was obviously in distress. There was so much blood. I’ve never seen so much blood: horrible. Richard was just lying there. He was covered in blood too. I didn’t know he was dead though. Karen was screaming at me. What was she saying? “Leave me alone” I think. I looked behind me but I couldn’t see anyone. But it was quite dark down that alley. She was upset. Quite understandable, given the circumstances. Not thinking straight. I guess she would have screamed at anyone. I shouldn’t take it personally. No, I’m being too sensitive there. I need to calm down and think it through properly. How did we come to be in that alley? I know I was in the nightclub. I remember seeing Karen dancing. She’s usually quite sexy but she’s a real turn-on when she’s dancing. Richard was dancing with her. I think he was. I’m not sure. I was just drinking at the bar. Just watching. Watching Karen dancing. She has a fantastic figure. Marvellous tits. Great legs too. She should have been dancing with me. I wanted to take her home. Yes, I wanted that. I wanted her in my bed. I wanted her naked. I knew I had to play with that fantastic body. But she was dancing with Richard. Then she went out back. I thought she was going to the loo but she kept going. Out through the fire escape and into the alley. Smokers’ corner. Why was I there? I don’t smoke. She should have come home with me then. I knew that she had the hots for me. I think she was only dancing with Richard to make me jealous. I know she loves me really. We could have gone back to my place. Then Richard was there. What did he want? I was only talking to Karen. It was nothing to do with him. I think Karen must have felt embarrassed. That was Richard’s fault. Karen and I were going back to my place. But she wouldn’t want Richard to know. That’s it. That’s why she was embarrassed. That’s why she said she wouldn’t come. It was his fault. Then she laughed at me. Why would she do that? That made me angry. I really hate it when someone laughs at me. What happened next? I can’t remember. But Richard got hurt. All that blood!

Tea-time

Tags

Alice, cat, dormouse, grin, hare, hatter, nevermore, raven, writing desk

“Nevermore” quoth the raven, trying hard not to resemble a writing desk. The Hatter regards him with mistrust. I can feel myself drifting off to sleep again. My eyes are swimming; I can feel my energy ebbing away. Alice is talking about riddles, or maybe in riddles. I don’t care: I’m so tired.

There’s a burning sensation on my nose and I’m jerked into wakefulness again. Hatter is leaning over me with his teapot and there is a steaming puddle before me. “Why, Hatter? You must realise that hurts. You do, don’t you? Why are you such a loony?” Hatter doesn’t answer but looks pained.

“I’ve seen a grin” says Hare. Everyone looks at him in askance. “Over there” he offers, by way of explanation, and vaguely waves a paw towards the cottage. Heads are turned, to follow his wave, but no grin is apparent. “I only mention it because where there’s a grin there may be a cat. I know you don’t like cats.”

“I like cats” says Alice. The raven looks troubled.

Mirror, mirror

Tags

beauty, life, musings, thoughts, women, writing

The Inkwell’s monthly Half-hour Challenge for February is “Dreams and Nightmares”:

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”
“Depends what you mean by “fairest”, Luv. Some folk mean “blonde” when they say “fair”. Others mean “just” or “sporting” or “egalitarian”.”
“You’re a magic mirror: I’m consulting you about beauty. Am I not the most gorgeous creature in the world?”
“I think “creature” is a mistake, to be honest, Luv. This is difficult enough without getting non-species specific.”
“All right! Am I the most beautiful woman in the world then?”
“Of course you are.”
“Why “of course”?”
“You own me. I’ve made a judgement that you want to be the most beautiful. Therefore, you are the most beautiful.”
“But am I REALLY the most beautiful?”
“Well, I think so, of course, but these things are very subjective.”
“That’s not good enough. I want you to tell me that I’m REALLY the most beautiful.”
“You’re REALLY the most beautiful.”
“But would you still say that if I didn’t own you?”
“Of course.”
“But would you still say that if someone else owned you?”
“Yes.”
“But wouldn’t she, your new owner, I mean, wouldn’t she want you to say that she was the most beautiful?”
“Possibly.”
“So what would you say then?”
“Look Luv, I’m doing my best here. My job is to please. I don’t know what my new owner looks like. Isn’t it enough that you’re the most beautiful owner I know?”
“Am I not the only owner you know?”
“Well, strictly speaking, yes, but I think you’re beautiful.”
“What’s the point in having a magic mirror, if I can’t get a straight answer?”
“With respect Luv, you don’t want a straight answer.”

Size Is Everything

Tags

life, musings, thoughts, writing

More bells for the Inkwells (poetry’s not my strong suit)

“We scrap seven out of every eight bells we make.” An uneasy hush fell over the boardroom. Arthur scanned around the worried faces. He had their attention now. “This is costing us a small fortune. We have to find a way to make each bell right first time, or this company is going under.”
Derek, the purchasing manager, spluttered into life. “But we’ve been round this loop umpteen times Arthur. We can’t afford the new molds we need to solve the problem of casting surface finish. It’s poor surface finish that makes them go scrap: well, the majority of them anyway.”
Mike, production manager, grunted an agreement.
Arthur fought to control his temper “We cannot just accept this situation. If we don’t come up with a solution, we’re finished. This company has been founding bells in this town for two hundred and seventy years. We have to find a way to keep us going until we can fund the new moulds.”
“Can’t we borrow the money for the molds?” asked Mike without any conviction.
Tim, accounts manager, chipped in “Come on Mike, you know we’re stretched to the limit. The bank is twitchy enough already. They won’t let us take on any more debt.”
Arthur clenched his fists, then forced himself to relax. “Right, enough of this. I don’t know what any of you planned to do for the remainder of this week but, whatever it was, forget it. Go and find a solution for this problem. Surf the net, ask your granny, spy on another foundry, I don’t care but I don’t want to see any of you again until we have a solution we can work with. Now, go to it.”

Two days later, Arthur was at his desk and nearing despair. The management team had done a lot of scurrying but no-one had offered any useful ideas. He suspected the scurrying was more associated with looking for alternative employment than answers to quality problems.

Arthur heard a little tap at his door. “Come!” he barked. Sally Atkins, their only remaining apprentice, poked her head around the door. “I’m sorry Mr. Taylor, could you spare me a moment, please? I can come back later if…”
“No Sally, come on in and sit down. What can I do for you? How’s your granddad?”
“He’s fine Mr. Taylor, thank you: enjoying his retirement but still reminiscing every day about his years making bells here.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about this problem with the molds. I thought of a way of doing it. I know it’s not perfect but I think it might just do as a temporary fix.”
“OK” said Arthur, dubiously. “Have you asked Mike Donaldson about it?”
“Yes, I told him but he said I was being stupid. But I’m sure it can work.”
“Mike’s been making bells here for thirty years.”
“Yes, I know that: he was my granddad’s apprentice.”
Arthur had to laugh at that. “OK, so what’s your idea?”
“We make twenty-eight different sizes of bells. The molds are matched: inners and outers. If we use the correct size outer but a size smaller inner, we will cast a bell with a much thicker wall. It will mean a lot more machining to get them down to the correct size but we’re bound to remove any surface defects in the process.”
“Good grief, that’s brilliant. Sally, that’s just perfect. It’s so simple yet absolutely effective. Thank you, thank you so much. Why didn’t we think of that? You’re so clever. God, I could kiss you right now. Come on: we’ll go and explain it to Mike and get him started.”

Brothers

Tags

crime, justice, life, musings, thoughts, threat, trial, writing

I wrote another piece for The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge under the theme “Bells”.

“Ah, Mr. Probert?”  Dave’s sixth sense had kicked in the moment the ‘phone rang and the unctuous voice on the line did nothing to dispel his trepidation.

“Yes, this is Dave Probert.  Who am I speaking to, please?”

“You don’t know me Mr. Probert.  It’s best for all concerned if we leave it that way.  Let’s just say I’m a friend of a friend or friends.  You may call me Mr. Bell.  I am of your brotherhood.  I have a favour to ask of you for a brother in need.”

Dave was trying to think fast but going around in circles.  The Brothers Of The Bell had helped his son Kevin with a string of bad debts, when Kev’s plumbing business looked to be going under for want of cash-flow.  It had seemed mysterious at the time: no names, no faces, just anonymous voices on phones.  But the people who owed Kev money had paid up P.D.Q., even those who seemed to have no money to pay.

Dave was aware all was silent.  Mr. Bell was waiting a reply.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bell?”

“You are employed as an Evidential Exhibits Officer at Lincoln Crown Court.”

Dave stiffened with dreadful anticipation. “I am.”

“The case of The Crown versus Landy is to be heard there next week.  You will loose the CPS’s exhibits for this case before the trial commences.”

“I can’t do that.  I’d get caught.  Everyone would know it was me.  It’s such a high profile case: it’s been in all the papers.  Everyone knows that Landy is guilty.  His fingerprints are on the knife and the victim’s blood is on Landy’s clothing.”

“I am not asking you for a legal assessment Mr. Probert.  I am calling in the debt you owe to the Brotherhood.  We did not ask any questions when you requested our help with your son’s cash-flow embarrassment and we don’t intend to offer any answers to you now.  You only need know that your brother is in need and that you are in a position to help.  We expect your help, Mr. Probert.”

“But that’s completely different.  Kevin had done nothing wrong.  He was owed that money fair and square for work he had done in good faith.  Landy is a cold-blooded murderer and gangster.  He deserves everything he gets.”

Mr. Bell barked an interruption “Mr. Probert!” then reverted to the quiet calm “None of that is your concern.  You need only do as the Brotherhood has requested: nothing more, nothing less.”

Dave was scared but angry too “I won’t do it.”

There was a pause, then slowly Mr. Bell said “You should not say that, Mr. Probert.  I find your attitude most disappointing.  It displays an unprecedented lack of gratitude for our efforts on your son’s behalf.  It also shows a breathtaking lack of understanding.  Do you imagine that your son’s debtors paid him willingly?  No, Mr. Probert: they paid him because we knew how to ask.  The Brothers Of The Bell ask in ways that people find very persuasive.”

Here and Now

Tags

Competition, death, life, musings, thoughts, writing

The Inkwell’s monthly “Half-hour Challenge” competition, themed “Bells” for January.

What you can see or can’t see depends upon where your eyes are and which way they’re pointing; the light; and what’s in the way. I can see a hand. I think it’s mine, though I can’t seem to prompt any movement. The hand is lying on a patch of vertical lawn. No, maybe horizontal lawn, viewed from equally horizontal head. Beyond the lawn is a huge yew tree; behind that, a graveyard and a church. A bell is ringing, slow and sonorous, like a death march. “Dong” he says: walk this way. Again “dong”: slow and sober, but not distracted or deviated, please. “Dong”: inevitability is overwhelming. “Dong”: the birds twitter on regardless.
It’s a sunny day. I can feel the warmth on my back. A shiny black fly burbles and bumbles around the gravestones, busy and blissfully unaware. Dandelion seeds drift by me, riding the warm breeze.
Everything is here and now. Life goes on apace. Bodies lie in their graves but don’t complain. Babies are born and complain about everything. Children grow and learn their lot. The bell tolls for another who shakes off the mantle of time and returns to the earth.

Rip

Tags

dating, life, love, sex, sex 2, virgin, writing

My third offering for The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge for January, against the theme “Bells”.

Gordon Besford carried his virginity like a millstone. The swinging sixties and sexual liberation were long ago and, at eighteen year of age, he felt cheated. His mates boasted of regular sexual encounters, though they were conspicuously short on detail. Meanwhile, all the women of his age that he knew gave the impression that they were virgins. Something didn’t add up.
His ex-girlfriends had been a big disappointment. Only Jennifer had even permitted him to play with her breasts and that was the absolute limit she set on their intimacy.
Sally was Gordon’s latest girlfriend of three months and, at long last, matters sexual seemed to be on the up. Gordon really liked Sally. She was pretty and sensible; displayed little of the childish regression that his previous girls had hidden behind. He genuinely enjoyed Sally’s company and conversation but, most of all, he lusted after her body.
Sally had initiated French kissing on their second date. He was thrilled and encouraged by this show of independence and reciprocated desire. Gordon felt that Sally would take him all the way, provided he let her set the pace. So he suppressed his urges and went with the flow.
After four weeks, their meetings settled into a pattern: they were together at her parents house most evenings, usually kicking around in the lounge or kitchen. But every Saturday night, her parents went to the local pub from eight to eleven, and Sally wasted no time in leading him to her bedroom.
He liked the way she gave him clear instruction as to which parts of her were on or off limits by guiding his hands, groaning with pleasure at his touch, but tapping his wrist if he wandered too far, as they kissed. Most of all he liked the way the on limit grew a little larger every Saturday night.
By Bonfire Night, they were both naked except for their knickers. Genitals were still out of bounds but Gordon felt things were moving apace and it was only a matter of time. On the second Saturday of December he decided, albeit with some trepidation, to try using Sally’s tactic, took her right hand from behind his neck and guided into his knickers. He expected resistance or, at the very least, some reciprocal trepidation on Sally’s part. Instead she eagerly sought out his erection, began to massage gently whilst purring in his ear, as though she had been waiting for the invitation. Gordon was so bowled over by this affirmation from Sally that he was moved to tears.
The following Saturday, Gordon could sense the impatience and expectation in the air as they waited for Sally’s parents to get ready and leave. The very moment the door clicked shut behind them, they dashed up the stairs, giggling with excitement and tearing off clothing on route. Gordon was slightly alarmed when Sally pushed him back on her bed, leapt on top of him, her hand immediately seeking his cock as she snogged him hungrily. Still she would not permit his hand inside her knickers but grunted and panted as he fiddled with her clit through the sodden cotton.
The fourth Saturday was Christmas Eve and her parents stayed in. Gordon couldn’t cope with being with Sally yet unable to play with her, so he went home early. They met again on Christmas day to exchange presents. As they parted, Sally whispered in Gordon’s ear “They’re going out tomorrow afternoon”.
Her parents had already left when she opened the door to him.
“Hello” he said.
“Fuck hello” she barked “get upstairs and get your knickers off!”
He obeyed at a gallop. This time, she too was naked as she jumped on top of him. Is today the day he wondered. But no, their activities were much the same as nine days previously, albeit with the added excitement of full nudity. He enjoyed what they did together and felt closer to Sally than ever before but still worried that she held so much in reserve and winced when he thought he still carried the label “virgin”. She recognised that he was brooding as they parted.
“You want to go all the way, don’t you?” she asked as she was dressing.
He was surprised at the question, first because of her directness but also because he thought the answer was obvious.
“Oh, yes Sally” he pleaded.
“Mum and Dad are going to a party on New Year’s Eve. We’ll do it then.”
“God, yes, do you mean it? Don’t tease me. Are you serious?”
“Yes, it’s time. I want you.”
The next five days dragged interminably. Gordon could not think of anything else but their planned sexual encounter. His excitement was palpable but also he was fearful. Could he perform to Sally’s satisfaction? Her confidence scared him. Was she really a virgin?
New Year’s Eve found Gordon in a state of acute agitation and near exhaustion. He’d spent the previous day and all night worrying about Sally and whether he would measure up to her expectations. He’d had no sleep and felt like he had a cold coming on. He spent the day trying to find something to distract him but nothing seemed to help. By the time he presented himself at Sally’s house at eight-thirty, he looked like death warmed over.
“God, what happened to you?” was Sally’s greeting.
“I’m just a bit tired” he replied.
“Do you still want to do it?”
“Yes, of course I do” he lied.
“Look, it’s no big deal. If you’re not feeling up to it, we can take it easy and try another time.”
“No, I really want you. Please don’t make me wait.”
“O.K. come on then.”
They stripped, she pushed him back onto her bed and they started kissing and heavy petting, as before. Gordon started to relax a little and enjoy the stimulation.
Sally broke off kissing and panted into his ear “I’ll go on top the first time”.
She straddled his hips and guided his penis to her vulva as she sat back. He felt her warm and wet against his throbbing penis. This is it he thought and his every muscle stiffened involuntarily in anticipation. He was trembling with excitement. She still held his shaft tightly in her hand and started to rock back and forth. He expected to slide into her but instead he felt his cock being crushed, harder and harder as she pushed down upon him. Sally grimaced with pain but kept to her task, pressing down harder whilst manoeuvring his cock with her hand. Still he felt he was not inside her and, worse still, because of the mauling his penis was taking, thought he could not avoid orgasm for much longer. Then, in an instant, he was inside her and coming, but also squealing and writhing in agony. Sally climbed off him and turned to inspect the damage. Gordon’s frenulum, the tie between foreskin and glans (bell-end) had ripped open and was oozing blood into the stream of semen flowing from the tip. Gordon sobbed.