Writing the impossible...

currently tuned in to a world where nothing is normal... how do you go about writing of the physically impossible? Answer, let your imagination do the talking.  A tiny snippet of my new novel "Enigma's Child" follows.  Am not giving anything away, but let me know how easy it is for you to suspend disbelief and get into this mysterious tale...


He flicked on the light switch in his room and splashed his face with cold water from the sink in the corner.  He rubbed his face with a towel and then pulled a comb from the shelf above the sink through his unruly dark hair.  It was then he felt something; stroking his finger across an area just to the left of his crown, Justin felt a depression in the skin, like a scar, of about an inch in length.  He couldn’t understand why he had never noticed it before.  Did they really do something to me in that place?  And my mother let them? His mind suddenly revved into overdrive; an image flashed in his brain of that scanner again, then another, of Dr Thomas Peretti, wearing a surgical gown and mask, a scalpel wielded in his left hand.  Peretti did something to me… was it to do those things he promised me?  Why me?  

Justin shook himself and stared in the mirror.  His pupils widened and he wondered if he really knew who he was at all.  Peretti could talk to him in that secret manner, but why was he so frightening when Justin’s mother and Avon felt like his friends?  Why had he not heard from the man ever again?  ‘Because you burned him, remember, with the fiery cloak?’  It was his own voice he heard; yes, of course, he had heard Peretti roar in agony as he had imagined the fire in a protective ring around him.  But is it what I did to Sam?  Like a blast of real fire?  Justin turned from the mirror and sat down on his bed.  Could he get it to work without being frightened or angry?  

He held his hands out, palms up, in front of him and began to imagine, as he had done when a child, the bright lapping flames of yellow, red and orange.  They could not harm him, only his enemies.  Justin stared at his hands, while conjuring the image in his mind’s eye, willing the flames into existence.  The harder he concentrated, the more his brain buzzed with energy until it was beginning to hurt.  To his great surprise, in the centre of his right palm, a tiny spark appeared, the sort generated by gunpowder caps from a child’s toy weapon.  He made one final effort, and the spark shot up in the air, bursting into a bright yellow flame which danced in the space just above his skin.  Justin felt a rush of adrenaline as he forced himself to believe the evidence of his eyes.  I can make fire!  Fire that doesn’t burn me, he thought.  He was entranced by the little flame, only slightly brighter than a candle, which hovered in the middle of his right hand.  But is it really there?  

Justin stood up slowly and advanced to the waste bin which was just under the sink.  In it he knew there would be paper, probably from his latest attempt to note down a tune he’d heard.  He knelt down, still the flickering flame wavered in his hand.  With his left hand, Justin reached into the bin and grabbed a scrap of paper.  He held it over the flame and watched, fascinated as the paper began to char and glow before the fire took hold of it and he let go, seeing it shrivel up and disintegrate into his palm.  The flame disappeared.

Justin looked at his hand, felt the space where the flame had been, yet there was no burn mark, nothing, no evidence other than the fragments of ash which he brushed off into the bin.  Well I never, I have nothing to fear from anyone if I can do that! He felt elated at his own power.  No wonder Peretti wanted what he had, this was beyond anything on earth that he understood.

FJB 

A Ripping Murder Scene

just writing a good old-fashioned adventure story set in the present day... not explaining who these characters are, but fans of BBC Sherlock might recognise them.  If you do, don't give it away!!  But, even then, nothing is what it at first seems...!


“Ooh, Ricky, I’m so relieved to see you!” Kitty Riley enthused, wrapping her arms around the man she believed was a ‘resting’ actor.
“Are you really?” he replied, Kitty realised there was a different tone in his voice, not one she had noticed before.
“Of course I am! You poor dear, you’ve been so maligned by that stupid man, he was just an ego-maniac! And, I was a bit worried, you know, after the suicide?  One of our rival publications said you were the one playing the part of Moriarty and you had shot yourself on the roof!  Tell me it’s nonsense, but it must be, you’re here, alive, living and breathing!” Kitty exclaimed, still cuddling him as he stood in the doorway of her flat.
“That’s a silly thing to say, Kitty, of course I’m not dead, and what are you talking about? Who committed suicide?” Richard said, as if suddenly concerned.
“Oh come in and I’ll tell you all about it!” Kitty replied, taking his hand and pulling him inside. “I do like your suit, had an audition did you?” she observed, as Richard sat down on the wooden dining chair in her dingy studio.
“Audition? Mm, no,” he said.
“Ah, ok, let me get the kettle on, it’s Baltic outside, you must be freezing without an overcoat!”
She disappeared into the tiny galley kitchen and he heard the tap and the rattle of crockery.  When she returned a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee she noticed how he was sitting, confident, airy, regarding his nails.  “Oh, your hair’s different too, that’s quite slick that gelled look, em, did you have a job interview or something? I thought… oh yes, you can afford new stuff now, were you treating yourself?”
“Mm, you might call it that.  Now, come here my little friend, tell me about this suicide, sounds very sad,” Richard said, with a smile on his lips that was more like a leer.  He beckoned her, “Come on, sit on my knee,” he added.
Kitty stared, then smiled.  She put the mugs down on the table next to where he was sitting.  “You’re in a flirty mood today, Ricky, er, I thought you wanted us just to be friends?”
“Oh come on, we know it was more than that, I knew the minute I met you that you liked me, tell the truth, you really like me, don’t you?” Richard’s smile was truly disturbing like a spreading crack on a gravestone. He grabbed her hand and pulled her in one motion down onto his lap.
“Ooh, em, this is er… nice, Ricky, I didn’t know you felt this way!” Kitty said, watching nervously as his right arm slid along her shoulder until his hand squeezed tightly on her upper arm.  He put his left hand on her stockinged thigh and left it there.  “Em, ok, can’t you guess who killed themselves? Took a flyer off St. Bart’s roof.  Our mutual friend… Mr Sherlock Holmes!”
“Ah, finally rid of him at last, eh? Good riddance to bad rubbish then,” Richard said silkily.  “What was that about you thinking I was on a roof?” his hand slid up her thigh to the hem of her tartan mini skirt.
Kitty felt a little sick, where was the sweet, daffy actor with the tousled hair?  “Ricky, sure you don’t have a twin brother?  Not like you to be so forward!” she observed.
“Oh dear, is my little baby frightened of the scary man in the suit?” he mocked, leaning his face closer to hers.
“Oh don’t be silly, Ricky, I mean, I’m flattered, but… anyway, where have you been?” she asked, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Found you a new story.  A naughty doctor treating criminals at his plastic surgery clinic in Kensington.  Talk about two-faced! I’ve challenged him about it several times, and I called him earlier today, he just bleated on about there being no evidence.  Isn’t it terrible how someone can smile and smile and be a villain?” Richard leered.
“Oh wait a minute, I get it! Sorry, Ricky, I really thought for a minute…you’re practising, aren’t you? Method acting, getting right into character, right? A Shakespearean villain? Um, Richard III, ha ha, now that would be appropriate!” Kitty laughed, sighing with relief. “Now if there was ever a man with a bad press! It’s a lot of crap, he wasn’t a villain.  But the play is great, that hammy portrayal by Olivier, now that’s fantastic!  Are you doing the bit where he seduces Lady Catherine over her husband’s corpse? Gee, now there are some creepy chat-up lines in there!”
“Who’s acting?” Richard grinned.  He pulled his hand up from her thigh and began to stroke his whole hand down her throat.  “You know, when someone’s fulfilled a purpose, they’re kinda surplus to requirements.  Just like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Wow, you’re good, that’s worthy of a BAFTA any day, that voice, it’s truly chilling, I could just believe you’re a cold-hearted killer!” Kitty enthused.
“There comes a time when you do have to tell the truth, and I’m afraid this is it for you, Kitty Riley.  But you’ll have all the recognition you desire, front page news!” Richard’s voice was cold as ice.
“Really? I mean, I know I work for probably the worst tabloid left in Fleet Street, but yeah, it would be really nice to get recognition… urgh, Ricky…” she fought for breath and tried to strike out at him, but Richard’s hands were tightly around her neck, crushing ever closer, she felt her skin start to burn.  Her flailing arms could find no target, and her lungs ached as they were deprived of air.  He’ll stop in a minute, he’s just being silly, showing off… she tried to convince herself.
“But there’s a truth you won’t ever know, Kitty… the identity of the man who… RIPPED YOUR HEAD OFF!” he squeezed and twisted, imposing force against the skin, bone and muscle, until a trickle of blood appeared below the rapidly bruising skin.  He twisted, and then with a final flick, the flesh on Kitty’s neck tore.  Arterial blood sprayed across the room as the veins in her neck burst under the pressure.  Then he snapped her neck to one side.  A shard of bone protruded under her left ear.  He let go and Kitty’s body fell off his lap and onto the floor.
“What a bloody mess, Kitty, you should keep this place tidier!” he said.  Standing up and catching sight of himself in the long mirror on the wall by the kitchen door, he straightened his silk tie.  The pale face was splattered in blood, as was the shirt collar and shoulder of the jacket.  “Still got the old magic, eh?  Hmm, poor cow, that’ll teach her to talk to strange men.”

New Year - First Foot

First Foot by Michael Connell (c)

'Happy ne' year tae ye! Constable Hammond,' slurred Archie Murdoch. 

Hammond glanced at him then knocked back his own dram. The fire of the Sow Croft Inn popped and a sudden gust sent a cloud of ash and cinders near his foot. He stepped on the glowing specks. They hissed at him.

'Y've twa minutes afore the bells Murdoch,' said Mr Cameron, the proprietor, 'An' keep yer voice doon or you'll rouse Mrs Cameron!'

'Aye! fit ever!' replied Murdoch.

Hammond tapped his glass and it was filled.

'Aye freedom is a fine thing constable! De ye no agree?' 

'That's enough o' that shite Murdoch. I'll no have ye provoking a rammy in my establishment!' said Cameron who was answered from above by several angry thumps. He grimaced,'You've gotten away with robbery this day, and yer victim lies on a cauld slab. I knew Robert Calder. What you did was an affront to decency. Justice will yet be done unto ye!'

'But nae withoot a witness!' Murdoch sniggered knocking back another dram. 

'I just wish I could afford tae throw ye oot and bar ye!' said Cameron.

'Well, in the meantime I shall indulge myself wi another dram all round if you please Cameron,'  a cacophony of approval erupted. Murdoch took a pinch from a silver snuffbox and snorted, 'Choo!'

Suddenly the door was thrown open allowing a flurry of snow soft as powder down to whip around the faces of the onlookers and catch in their hair and whiskers. At that moment the St. Nicholas kirk yard clock began to strike.

On the stroke of twelve, a figure stepped in like a ghost and turned its hooded gaze around the room then raised its gnarled and bony hand and pointed an arthritic finger at Archie Murdoch. 

'You!' cried Robert Calder, 'You whapped me ower the heid and laid me flat in the snow! Ye bastard! 

Murdoch cowered and the others ran off into the shadows.

'Y-y-you're dead!' Murdoch screamed, I was sure I hit ye enough times! Here hae back what's left o' yer money and yer snuff! 

'Too late for that! You will pay for your sins with your soul!' 

'And wi a long stint in Perth penitentiary!' said Hammond, grabbing Murdoch and snapping the irons on his wrists.

'Alright yer honour ye can come in now,' said Hammond. 'Did ye hear all that was said sir?' 

'I did constable. Take him to the cells,' said judge O'Halleran. 

'See!' said Calder removing his hood, 'Nae so deid aifter all!'

'B-but how?' stammered Murdoch. 

'Thick skull ye eejit!' said Calder tapping his bandaged head. He was a little faint but this did not prevent him from driving his boot into Murdoch's groin.

Murdoch yelped and slumped, Hammond grabbed him by the scruff. 

'Now there's a first foot you'll nae forget in a hurry laddie! Your bells will be ringing in the New Year for a while yet!' sneered Hammond.

From above the wakened Mrs Cameron thumped on the floor. 

[editor's note - Sow Croft Inn did exist and was the oldest pub in Aberdeen - now called Ma Cameron's after the one-time landlady whose peace is disturbed in this story]

New Year - Life and Death

Life and Death by Shaun Robertson (c)

The snow really DID fall thick, very thick and very fast. He didn't care, in fact he welcomed it. Despite his pain, still the scene was very beautiful. Everything covered in a white, virginal blanket. A fresh start. Clichés filled his head and he took some comfort from their familiarity. He was in a new situation, a new life and he needed something to cling to, some kind of security which only the solid, unchangeable elements of his everyday life could give him.

He was becoming inured to the emotional pain, but still he let it through sometimes and blinded by tears allowed himself to connect with his suffering rather than dam it up. It was a pressure release which prevented him from wallowing in the luxury of a complete breakdown.

What he had realised over the past few months was that any pain could be got through. That somehow his capacity for being hurt and for suffering grew to encompass his burdens. He had only learned this for real during that difficult time. That he could crawl on the floor sobbing his very heart out, that he could be blinded by tears and lie on his bed, mind filled with longing and begging. Sleep rarely came. He could get through pain and he felt the same person, but how on earth could he be? His life was changed other than for a few constants.

He stood at the top of the snow covered slope, hearing cries and laughter and muffled noise. Some children were tentatively edging themselves forward, some were sliding fast, screaming in delight and fear, whilst others were in crumpled, hysterical heaps at the bottom, sledges upside down. His wife's home was a short walk away, his daughter in a friend's house in sight of where he stood and most likely his wife's new lover sitting in her home.

He felt like a ghost, like Marley, cast away from life in death, full of regret, reaching out, unable to touch. He knew Marley's pain, his grief and his own chain weighed heavily. Part of the world, yet not part of it.

He looked across the snow toward the place where his family were and where he no longer was since the separation  He knew he no longer belonged there. As he turned and walked off through the thick snow which was bereft of life and broken only by bare trees with a white covering upon their branches, he felt that the new year held a promise which was empty of the life that he had known. It was a bleak thought. He allowed himself to cry as the thick snowflakes fell from the sky all around him.

New Year - Rave at the Grave

Rave at the Grave by Peri Lainchbury (c)

"Come one, come all. After midnight falls. Come and be brave to New Year's Day Rave at the Grave - details below"

(1)

No-one ever visited the small graveyard, hidden at the back of the park, with the decommissioned church. Most people had forgotten it was there. With its grisly history and scary tombs, it had high walls surrounding it and only one entrance. The gate was stuck open, swollen wood, overgrown with climbing ivy.

It was the perfect spot, the organisers of the rave had decided, forgotten, hidden and suitably creepy. The idea of the first party of the New Year in such a location would appeal to the young, to the wild and to the weird. It was sure to be a sell out.

(2)

The music pumped and boomed. The light was subdued and eerie, the beer from the giant keg flowed and the bodies moved and moved. A mass of humanity gyrating and swirling amongst the gravestones and tombs. Others joined the throng. Silent and unnoticed. They mixed and mingled and started to dance and intertwine with all the bodies. They hadn't paid the entrance fee, had no interest in the beer and no-one noticed them arrive.

The air got chillier, the revellers sweated as they continued to dance and their sweat steamed with cold like dragons breath on a frosty morning. But no-one noticed and the music got faster and louder and they were driven as a mass to dance on and on. The press of bodies got closer and closer, herded together. They were encircled and they didn't even know. They didn't feel the horror of the spine chilling cold, they didn't feel as the flesh was starting to be stripped from their bones, and they didn't feel the blood start to leech from their veins. They danced madly on, lost in a hypnotic trance, lost from the world.

(3)

As dawn broke on New Year's morning the graveyard was empty. Not a reveller in sight. The lights still glittered weakly, the empty keg laid on its side and the decks and speakers were silent. The churned ground around the graves was the only other sign that any people had been there and the first awake of the thrushes hopped about looking for worms in the disturbed soil. Underground the graves were silent and full, the tomb doors closed tight, the air in them freshened by the night. The ivy had settled back into place and the gate to the graveyard was closed and padlocked as usual. The sign on the gate was back in situ "PRIVATE PROPERTY - KEEP OUT" it read, as it had for as long as anyone could remember.

A mist swirled softly in the early morning air and the few old fashioned street lights in the surrounding park still glowed with a dim yellow light. All was(c) quiet and tranquil. The perfect winter’s dawn coloured the landscape a silvery pink, an idyllic start to a new day and a new year.

New Year - The Janitor

New Year was the next theme - kicking off with my one, with apologies to Homer and other Greek storytellers!! (FJ)

The Janitor by Fiona-Jane Brown (c)


"Ok, ok, you lot, yes, I know you're all deities, but please, keep it orderly, the Big Man doesn't allow me to open the doors before midnight!" the Janitor orders the large crowd which has gathered.  Same thing, every year, they've no patience, by Zeus I wish they would take their time! he mutters, looking at his large pocket watch and comparing it with the clock on the wall.  The hands on both crept inexorably toward twelve.

The Furies were plotting, muttering, the Janitor swore he could see them pulling the wings off a dead bat.  Artemis was stretching her bow back and forth.  "Ere, young lady, don't you be putting arrows in that! You'll take someone's eye out!" he warned loudly.

Just then, he saw a familiar face - he had heard the drunking singing for a while now.  "Oh now, Dionysus, you've started already, eh? No orgies in the queue, mind, you can do that on the other side!" he called, teasingly, the half-divine rebel-rouser grinning at him from behind a golden mask.  One of the Nymphs shrieked and there was the sound of a loud slap as she walloped her groper across the face.  There was silence for a bit.

Everyone could see the hands on the large clock reach the zero hour, and a chant of "six, five, four, three..." rippled through the crowd, as the Janitor fumbled for his keys.  He knew what they were like.  By the first strike, he had the large golden key in the lock.  By the twelfth, he had his hands gripped around the door knobs.  "Oi! Silence! I'm not opening up until you're all in an orderly line! It wouldn't be the first time I've been knocked down in the rush!" There was a generally shuffling and muttering as the crowd arranged themselves in a line.  Satisfied, he turned the knobs and flung open the vast ebony doors.  He managed to step back just in time as they all dashed forward, out into the new year, the new day, to carry on the business of the ages.

It took a full ten minutes for them all to leave.  Olympus would be quiet for a bit.  The Janitor sighed and closed the doors, but not before he could hear the sound of danity running feet and a feminine voice shriek, "No, please, don't close them, I must get through!"

He didn't quite recognise the girl, who wasn't quite wearing a sea-blue robe as she ran towards him.  River nymphs! They're always in trouble! He thought.  "You're a bit late, little lady, it's gone quarter past, I've got to close up or the Big Man will have my guts for garters!"

"Oh please, let me through, this is so embarrassing, I am Syrinx, a disciple of Artemis.  She told me to be here on time, but that's just it, I've... well, I've got a problem... with a man... er a goat... oh, please, help me, he's just a pest!" she cried.

"Pan! He's a wicked boy, worse than Dionysus.  Just a sex-maniac.  He's after you as well, is he? Oh dear, oh dear, will he never learn?"

"Yes, he's terrible, he doesn't seem to understand my vow of chastity! He's horrible, he ... he smells, he's no better than an animal!"

"Well, he is half-goat! Oh look, on you go, if I see him, I won't breathe a word, ok? Now, on you go, catch up with your goddess, she'll be worried for you!"

"Thank you, thank you, dear friend, may Zeus bless you!" she trilled and ran through the doors.
The Janitor closed them.

Five minutes later he heard it... you couldn't really miss the coming of the chief of Gods, Zeus had a heavy footfall.  The Janitor was not unduly worried, surely his boss wouldn't mind letting a latecomer through, especially when she was being pursued by that oik!

"JANUS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING INTERFERING??" Zeus bawled, even before he was within sight.

"Eh? What d'you mean, boss? I did as I always do, opened the door at midnight and let them through!" the Janitor replied.

"You let Syrinx through the doors after they should have been closed! You know the rules, Janus, those that wish to begin the new year on earth must go through the door at the stroke of twelve!"

"Aw, come on, boss, the poor kid's being pestered by Pan, he's a randy sod, won't leave her alone!"

"I'll have you know, Pan is one of my many sons, if he wants a girl, he should not be frustrated by a mere doorkeeper!"

"Ah.  But you know, surely you know? And anyway, she just rushed past me, I can't do everything, I'd need two heads to watch both ways!"

Zeus suddenly smiled.  "Come hither, Janus, you may have just come up with the best solution ever!" He grabbed the Janitor by the ears and pulled.

"ARGH!!!"  the roar of pain and shock was heard all over Mount Olympus and down on earth...

Janus - the doorkeeper of the gods, still stands at the door of the year, having given his name to the first month, but all know him as the twin-headed janitor who can see the past and the future.

Christmas Eve - Midnight Mass

Midnight Mass by Fiona-Jane Brown (c)

“Clear off, you vandals! Break into a church would you? No respect!”

The boys did not look very old, probably nine or ten.  They turned and saw him, a tall, skinny, scruffy figure in ragged clothes waving a gnarled old walking stick at them. 

“Ha, ha, it’s Father Christmas!” one of them yelled.

The boys scarpered, galloping across the snow with all the energy of youthful deer.  He muttered under his breath as he finally reached the church door.  They had broken the lock.  He pushed, and the old door creaked open.  Least I’m not going to wreck the place, he mused; perhaps the young rascals had done him a favour. 

It had been bitter cold that night, a distant radio from somewhere in the packed hostel in town had announced “The worst winter in fifty years …” No room at the inn, how ironic, he had thought, perhaps he would find a stable of his own somewhere. 

And here it was, not a cattle shed, but the old hilltop church.  He marvelled at the silence inside, the pews eerily empty, strewn with a sparkling decoration of spiderwebs.  Wandering up to the altar, he was surprised to find the statue of the Virgin and Child, old, with peeling paint and chipped wood.  They had been abandoned, shame, he thought, nobody cares any more, not in this modern age.

He sat down on the front pew.  It was dry, but cold.  Ah well, just you and me, My Lady, keep safe, nighty night.  Soon he was lying flat out, sleep descending like a shroud.

“Charlie! Charlie! Sit up now, the service is about to start!” He awoke and sat bolt upright. 

“Anna?” he asked, it had sounded exactly like his sister’s voice.  He was suddenly six years old again, and the family were gathered with the other villagers for Midnight Mass.  He had been allowed to sit next to his grandparents.  They owned the big farm which gave them the privilege of occupying the front pew.

Yes, Anna was staring down at him, the older, but not always wiser.  The church was filled with holly boughs.  Candles flickered cheerily in sconces around the walls, the shapes of the congregation dancing like happy spirits against the stone.  The vicar swept up to the altar in his robes, followed by the choristers, intoning his favourite carol, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.  Oh life was so perfect, so simple, way back then.

“Charlie, come on, wake up, old son!” the paramedic called.  “He’s stone cold,” she turned to her colleague, “Probably came in to shelter last night.”

“Yeah, such a shame, on Christmas Day too, poor thing!” he commented.

            “He’s got a smile on his face though, hope he passed on with a nice dream.” 

            “Charlie, Charlie, come on, it’s Christmas! Let’s go home and open the presents!” Anna’s voice was crystal clear now.

            “Coming!” he called, and took his sister’s hand as they walked up the aisle of the old hilltop church.