ishouldbewritingblog

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Loathe at First Sight

It was loathe at first sight. When Agent Harris caught his eye across the crowded bar, she felt somehow felt deep within her heart that she was destined to fall into deep, passionate, all-consuming hatred with this man. There was just something about him, the way he talked, the way he moved, the way he acted, the fact he existed in the same physical space as her, breathing perfectly good air into his unworthy lungs, that made her want to punch him right in his stupid handsome face.

When Agent Graves saw his mark, he was filled with an unspeakable desire to run shrieking from the room and fake his own death. There was something in the air between them, a kind of electricity. Sparks were flying, but not the romantic kind, they were more of the I-wish-you-would-die-in-a-fire-which-I-started-while-you-were-sleeping variety.

Oh no she was coming up to him. Wait, this was good. Keep it together Graves, you cannot dislike someone you’ve never met and even if you do, you need to make this girl like you, really like you. It doesn’t matter that the very idea of kissing her fills you with the kind of unspeakable dread usually reserved for serial killers and people who put water in their cereal.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice grated on his ears. It was like nails on a chalkboard, he wanted to claw his own ears off.

“Hey,” he said back, training kicking in just in time to force his face into a charming smile.

“My ex has been following me all night,” she said, “and I’m honestly kind of scared of him. I was wondering,” she sounded a bit embarrassed, “if you would pretend to be my date. I don’t think telling him no myself is really going to get the message across, but if he sees another man,” she shrugged her shoulders.

It took all of Agent Harris’s years of training and discipline to get the words out. She nearly gagged involuntarily at the word date. Even thinking about being involved with him romantically made her want to stab her own thigh with a fork.

“Think of your mission,’ Graves repeated over and over in his mind, “do it for your country”. It was rather lucky she came up to him if he thought about it. It saved him from having to actually make his feet take him over to talk to her. Now all he had to do was act like a normal human who wasn’t nursing a metaphorical pint of irrational hatred for someone he had only just met.

“I would be delighted to help,” he said, astonished by how pleasant he sounded. “Damn, you’re a good agent,” he told himself.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching over to place a hand on his arm.

It took an impressive force of willpower to resist the instinctive urge to karate chop her in the neck. Instead he made his mouth turn into the shape of a smile and reached down to softly rub across her hand with his thumb.

The moment their skin touched, Agent Harris felt an electric shock run through her entire body. It wasn’t an electric shock of love, it felt more like she had touched a cattle prod. Agent Graves for his part felt such a flash of revulsion he almost stumbled backwards into a bar stool.

“Think of the mission,” they both yelled at themselves internally, gathering up deep reserves of courage they didn’t know they possessed.

“Can I buy you a drink,” they both said at the same time, each trying to fill the space between them with something other than burning distain.

She laughed, it was a laugh which coming out of the throat of anyone else would probably have sounded like tinkling bells, but from her sounded like two cans in an electric blender. “Great minds think alike,” she said.

Agent Graves sincerely hoped that his mind was nothing like hers otherwise he might have to seriously reconsider humanity and his belonging thereof.

“Oh,” she said, “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Chantelle.”

Chantelle. And to think he had once liked that name. It was dead to him now, for the very utterance of it would now conjure the purest kind of creeping disgust in his mind.

“What a lovely name,” he said.

“And might I ask the name of my gallant rescuer?”

“I’m Scott,” he said with a smile.

Scott. What an awful name, what was his mother thinking. But then on reflection, she was probably thinking that a man like him deserved a terrible name, it reflected everything about him. Had the name Scott conjured up such anger within her before this day, she couldn’t remember.

“So, Scott,” she said, “since you have indeed rescued me, you have to let me buy you a drink.” She playfully smacked away his hand as he reached for his wallet in protest, “I absolutely insist, it’s my way of saying thank you.”

Scott would rather drink out of a rain gutter than imbibe anything bought with her money, but he was willing to suffer any indignancy if it meant serving his country, even this he would endure.

“Well, it would be rude of me to refuse,” he said, “but I’m buying the next round.”

“THE NEXT ROUND,” Agent Harris thought, “THE NEXT ROUND MIGHT COME FROM MY GUN AS I SHOOT HIM… Pull it together Agent, you can do this. You are strong, you are powerful, you can deal with this man’s company. You’ve taken down terrorist rings and suffered unimaginable torture without breaking, this is fine.”

What passed, was, for both of them, the most excruciating half hour of either of their lives. He flirted madly, she flirted back with equal ferocity. She thought about stabbing him in the eye with the toothpick from her martini olive. He thought about dragging her over the bar and drowning her in the sink. To all outwards appearances and as far as each other knew, ‘Scott’ and ‘Chantelle’ were getting along like a house on fire. The truth was that they each rather wished the other was trapped inside the aforementioned house.

At last, Agent Harris in the guise of Chantelle made a show of looking around the bar. “He’s gone,” she said, relief colouring her voice. “I’m safe.” She turned to him, “I can’t thank you enough. I’m not exaggerating when I say you sir are my hero.”

“It was nothing. I couldn’t leave a lady in distress.”

Forcing her voice to contain just a hint of regret Agent Harris said, “I suppose I should be going…”

“DO IT MAN,” Agent Graves told himself, “JUST DO IT!”

“DO IT HARRIS,” Agent Harris screamed at herself, “JUST DO IT!”

“I don’t suppose I could get your number…” “could I have your phone-number…” they both blurted out at the same time.

They laughed, “there we go again,” said Agent Harris, “maybe we’re soul mates, we seem pretty in-synch already.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Agent Graves.

Agent Harris pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of her handbag and scribbled down a string of digits. She smiled and slipped the paper into his pocket. Leaning in close she whispered in his ear, “call me.”

“If she gets any closer, I will punch her in the throat”, Agent Graves thought, “I just won’t be able to stop myself”.

“If I have to get any closer to him, I will stab myself in the eye”, Agent Harris thought.

As Harris drove back to headquarters, she called her handler, “I have established contact,” she said, “It went well, better than expected, the man is clearly of below-average intelligence and welcomed Chantelle’s advances like a love-sick puppy.”

“She’s a blonde bimbo and it shouldn’t he hard to get information out of her,” said Graves, “she was basically throwing herself at me, she is clearly extremely interested in Scott and I foresee no problems in using this to manipulate her.”

“Good work agent. Proceed to phase two. Maintain contact and try to arrange a second meeting, we have to keep this going, it is vitally important to the safety of the country that we get the information we need.”

Agent Graves gripped the steering wheel with bone-white fingers, “This assignment might just kill me,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going to kill him,” thought Harris, staring bleakly at the road ahead, “this is how my career ends.”

[ishouldbewritingblog]

In the Forest Nobody Can Hear Your Horse Getting Stolen

Fall had crept in early on the back of a bitter east wind. In the forest, the leaves were dying, turning red and gold as they fell; down to spread across the dark earth like a king’s mantle as the naked branches twisted upwards to caress the void.

Deep within the clutches of this forest was a clearing, floating like an island amidst the ocean of trees. A tall man on an enormous wild-eyed black horse rode into the clearing, leaving a trail of shattered leaves in his wake. Even though dusk would not fall for several more hours, above the treetops the pale sun was waning, and a chill had taken over the air.

The man swung down from the saddle and stretched the stiffness from his limbs, massaging the knots from his back with a dig of his knuckles. He stretched once more and tethered his horse to a low-hanging branch, before settling down on the hard ground with his back against an oak tree, wineskin in hand.

As he raised it to his lips, his attention was captured by a whisper of movement from overhead. There was no wind and it was too deliberately stifled to be a tree-dwelling creature like a squirrel. Something was up there, looking down, watching and trying not to be heard.

The man pretended to drink, and with his other hand reached for the dagger at his belt, listening intently. He slipped the danger into his hand and very quickly leapt to his feet, wineskin discarded, scanning the trees above. There was indeed a watcher, but it was only a small boy, no more than five or six years old, perched in the highest branches. He was frozen in place, staring down owlishly as his small fingers nestled among the bare twigs.

The man looked at him, bemused. ‘How did you get up there little man?’ he called up at last.

‘I climbed,’ the boy replied, his tone indicating this was an incredibly stupid question.

‘Alright then lad, who do you belong to?’

The boy frowned, his nose wrinkling comically, ‘My Mam says I’m not allowed to talk to strange folk.’

‘Where is your mam? She can’t have left you all alone in the forest.’

‘I’m waiting here until she gets back. She went to kill a bad man, but she’ll be back soon. It isn’t safe on the ground, there’s wolves and bandits and things that hide behind trees,’ the boy said seriously. He paused, apparently in deep thought, ‘you aren’t a bad man are you?’ asked, ‘only if you are, she might kill you too.’

‘Your man kills a lot of bad men then, does she?’ the man said, a note of humour in his voice.

The boy stared down at him, ‘yesss,’ he said finally, ‘but she says even though killing is wrong, it’s alright the way she does it, because there’s a lot more bad men than good in the world and someone needs to even things out.’

The man bent and scooped up the fallen wineskin. Quite a lot of it had spilled, but there was some left, so he tipped it to his lips and took a long draught. He looked back to the boy, really looking at him this time, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Now,’ he muttered half to himself, staring intently at the boy’s features, ‘where have I seen your face before…’ He locked eyes with the boy. ‘I think perhaps you should climb on down lad, and let me take a better look at you,’ he said firmly.

But the boy was no longer looking at him, his eyes had shifted to a point just over the man’s shoulder. The man tensed and began to turn, reaching again for his knife. But, as fast as he was, it wasn’t fast enough. A burst of pain flowered up across the back of his skull, and as his vision clouded over he slowly crumpled to his knees. How long the darkness kept him, he did not know, but after a time consciousness embraced him with a familiar voice.

‘What did I tell you about talking to people, Liam,’ it said sharply.

‘Sooorrrry mam,’ the boy said, ‘but he talked to me first.’

The man opened his eyes, the woman standing over him was short-to-middling height, with a wheat-coloured braid pinned up at the back of her head and a pair of grey eyes which sparkled with mistrust. She was also holding his dagger.

She was much leaner than the last time he had seen her. Her face had grown sharp and there was something new in her eyes, something he wasn’t sure he liked.

“Just because someone talks to you doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous,” she said to the boy in exasperated tones.

The man winced at the pain in his head. ‘I hear a bad man needs killing,’ he said conversationally, eyeing the blade in her hand.’

The woman looked down at him, ‘not anymore,’ she said curtly. His eyes were drawn inexorably, down to the fingers wrapped around the blade’s hilt. They were rough and calloused, with flecks of red still clinging here and there to the skin around the nails.

‘Untie me,’ he said, ‘I swear on my mother’s life to do you no harm,’ his eyes flicked towards the boy, ‘to either of you.’

‘I’m sure you have the most pure of intentions,’ she said sardonically, ‘but you’ll forgive me for showing a healthy amount of scepticism when it comes to the safety of my boy.’

‘But he isn’t your boy, now is he.’ The man grinned, ‘Shall we drop this charade of pretending not to recognise one another.’

The woman glared at him. ‘Liam,’ she said, ‘go and stand over there,’ she pointed at the other side of the clearing.

‘But,’ he started to say.

‘No buts, buts are for goats and you are not a goat. Now go but stay where I can see you.’

The boy gave an enormous sigh and plodded off.

‘It took me a moment,’ the man said, watching him go, ‘but I recognise the boy too. He has his father’s look about him. There are a lot of people looking for him. Dangerous people.’

‘They won’t find us,’ she said, ‘it’s been four years and he was only a baby when I took him.’

The man laughed, ‘but I found you.’

‘You did,’ she conceded, ‘but entirely by accident, and look at you now, trussed up like a chicken. You’ve lost your touch old man, you never even heard me creeping up on you.’ She prodded the wineskin with her toe. ‘The man I knew would never have let his guard down so foolishly.’

‘Next time you might not be so lucky. It might be an army instead of one tired man,’ he said, ‘and I may have gone to seed a bit, but I’m hardly old, you wound me.’

She shrugged, ‘if they find me, they find me. We all die one day, and I’d as soon do it fighting for something that matters than when I’m so ancient my wits have forsaken me.’

He laughed without humour, ‘That’s the kind of thing only the young and the foolish say. Besides, they won’t kill you if you give yourself up. Last I heard, you’re still far too valuable to be summarily executed, despite your treachery.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t be my life that would be forfeit, but my freedom and besides, it isn’t my life I’m worried about.’ She crossed her arms, ‘If I surrender, do you suppose they will let him live. They would cut his throat in front of me, and you know it. If it costs me my life to keep him safe, so be it.’

The man shifted against his bonds, ‘how easily you throw away everything your father built, and for what? For the blood of a man who would have been your family’s ruin. My brother was wrong about you, a pretty, empty-headed fool he called you.’ He looked at her again, as though seeing her properly for the first time and his mouth curved into a smile. ‘But that’s exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it. The rest of us spend our lives scheming, plotting and killing our way to the top of the dung-hill, but you were always playing a different sort of game.’

‘If I’m throwing away my future,’ the woman said, ‘then what are you doing. Your hair hasn’t been trimmed in weeks and your beard is decidedly unkempt. Your clothes have been mended more than once, and very poorly I might add. And, you’re riding alone. Tell me, what is a Lord-Commander without any men to command? If I had to hazard a guess, I would say I’m not the only one running away from something.’

Behind them, the horse, who up until now had been unconcernedly cropping the grass around it, began to shift nervously.

‘Liam,’ the woman called, ‘come back here. Now,’ a note of, not worry, but perhaps in the region of concern had entered her voice.

She turned back to the man, ‘If you say anything to him about any of this, I swear I will cut you from ear to ear and leave you for the crows.’.

Liam came bounding over, ‘you’ve been talking FOREVER,’ he said, ‘I’m bored and hungry and…’

‘We’re leaving now,’ she said, ‘something’s coming.’

The boy face crumpled up, ‘is it the wolves?’ he asked, ‘or the other things,’ the way he said other things, suggested that whatever they were, they were far worse than wolves.

She knelt down and looked him in the eyes, ‘you don’t need to worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll be long gone before they get here, and what do I always say?’

‘Nothing can hurt me when you’re there,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ she stood up and ruffled his hair. Her eyes turned to the man, and she began to walk towards him, knife in hand.

‘I thought you only killed bad men,’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow, ‘and you really think you aren’t one. Besides, my personal moral code regarding theft and larceny are slightly more ambiguous.’

She bent down and reached into his cloak, cutting away the purse he had concealed there. She tossed it from one hand to the other, ‘Thank you my lord, for your generous contribution, I’m sure your brother would be thrilled to know how you’re spending the family silver these days.’

She walked over to the horse. It snorted warily at her. Rearing up its front legs as she drew near.

‘He bites,’ the man said helpfully, ‘and he doesn’t care for strangers at all.’

The woman ignored to him. She spoke to the horse in a calm, low voice, and with one hand reached into her pocket and pulled something out. She held it out on an open palm. The horse sniffed wearily at it and then with more enthusiasm before it bent its head down and delicately nipped it up. She repeated the process, and at the same time, brought her other hand up and pressed it softly against the horse’s neck, running it carefully up and down its side, still talking in an even and reassuring tone. It shied a little at first, but apparently became accustomed to her voice and touch and settled.

‘Sugar cubes,’ the man said disbelievingly, ‘you’re on the run, miles from anywhere, and you have sugar cubes in your pocket!’

‘It makes horse stealing so much easier,’ the woman said, ‘maybe you should consider it.’

‘I have the strangest feeling I’ll be seeing you again before too long,’ the man said, watching as she hoisted the boy up onto the saddle and then vaulted on after him, ‘I look forward to have a little chat about how rude it is to accost and rob old friends.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ she said, ‘and at least I still won’t have to marry your odious brother.’ She gripped the reins, ‘I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to figure out how to free yourself before the wolves find you.’ And with that they were away, galloping out of the clearing and into the forest.

The king’s brother watched them go – the woman who could have been queen, and the prince who should have been dead, and he then set about trying to reach the dagger she had left stuck into the ground just beyond his feet. Somewhere in a proximity entirely closer than he would have liked, a wolf began to howl.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Leaving

It was dark out, just after midnight when Owen pushed open the basement window and carefully slid his pack out. He pulled himself up and wriggled out after it, pulling himself along on his elbows until his whole body was out in the silent half-dark. He leaned back and pulled the window shut behind him, careful to avoid making too much noise. Sneaking out of a long-abandoned house in the middle of the apocalypse without making a certain amount of noise was much harder than it sounded. Everything creaked and people’s nerves were ratcheted up to breaking point. If a shutter so much as rattled in the breeze people were on their feet clutching weapons in seconds. Still, he thought he had managed it rather well. But, apparently not, because as he shouldered his pack and began to creep around the porch, Gwen popped out at him like a very angry jack-in the-box.

“Oho!” she exclaimed, waggling an accusatory finger at him, “I just knew you were up to something. The others may think you have an excellent poker face but you can’t fool me.”

He bit out a curse, “I thought you were asleep,” he said, feeling foolish for underestimating her.

“That was on purpose you numpty. I can’t believe you’ve known me for two years and you still haven’t wised up to my sneakiness. Boy, are you dense at times.”

“Look Gwen,” he said hitching the slipping pack higher up onto his arm. “I don’t want to argue with you. It’s better if I just go.”

“Better for who,” she said crossing her arms, “you.”

“It’s just better. Better that you’re with people who aren’t me, better if I’m on my own. Better for everyone.”

“Yeah right, because you were doing super duper on your own when I found you,” she said sarcastically, “but I must be remembering wrong. See, I recall you being trapped in a parking lot about to become zombie food when I ploughed through there in my SUV and totally saved your ass. But that can’t be what happened, because you’re so big and strong and independent and never needed anyone’s help in your whole life.”

“I would definitely have died if you hadn’t showed up,” he ran a hand through his hair, “but maybe it would have been better for you if I had.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Gwen said, “I just can’t believe that after all the crap we’ve been through together you would just try to ditch me, like I’m some stray you don’t want to deal with anymore. I thought we were friends. Screw that, I thought we were family.”

“I would never have left you on your own. Never!” he said vehemently, surprised by his own depth of emotion, “but you aren’t on your own. You have people now, good people who can look out for you and actually deserve your…love.”

“Oh. My. Goodness,” she said shaking her head in disbelief, “Is that what this is about, do you think I’m in love with you or something, is that why you’re running away with your tail between your legs.” She let out a short bitter laugh. “Men, you can’t live with them and you can’t stab them with a pitchfork.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, “I just mean…I’m just not…I can’t.”

“I’m not in love with you, you absolute waffle. I love you but I’m sure as hell not in love with you. You have way too much unresolved baggage and you’re like the most arrogant person I’ve ever met. Sometimes it’s really, really hard to love you, but I still do because guess what, we’re family. And family do not sneak out on each other in the middle of the night without at least talking about it. Why didn’t you just tell me how you felt.”

He shifted his feet in the dirt, he knew she was right and that was making him feel guilty and the guilt was making him feel angry, at her, at the whole messed up situation the world was in and mostly at himself for being a coward and a disappointment.

“You shouldn’t trust people, they always let you down, and if you haven’t realised that by now, you’re more naïve than I took you for.”

“I don’t trust people,” she said, “I trust…I trusted you. Remember, right at the beginning when I lost all of my meds at once and I had to come down off them cold turkey. I was basically hallucinating and throwing up for a solid week and you could have left me behind in that house and kept going, but you didn’t. We barely even knew each other, and you sat there and held my disgusting sweaty hand and told me it was going to be okay. That was the moment I knew that whatever happened you were the one person I could trust to never let me down,” she spread her arms out, “but you’re right, it was naïve to think that because you did let me down.”

“I’m leaving Gwen, and there’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.” The expression on her face almost made him falter, but he hardened his heart, it was better this way he told himself over and over, it was better this way. The way he was starting to feel about her was not something he wanted to feel. Ever.

She looked at him holding his gaze until he finally looked away. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a small sigh which sounded more sad than angry. “You know,” she said, “I hope you make it in the end I really do. Just take care of yourself okay.” She turned and walked back up the stairs to the porch, opened the front door and went inside without looking back.

Owen stood there not moving, watching the door for a long time, fingers gripping the straps of the pack so hard the knuckles turned white. Then he too turned and walked away, shouldering his pack. The only sounds to be heard were the rustle of the leaves and the far-off sound of the dead.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Hey!I just wanted to let you know that your writing is so wonderful. I just finished the gingerbread one and the one about Art and I loved it. I loved art especially. She just seems like the kind of person that is so tiered with the world. It was so wonderful to read thank you for writing it. Have an amazing rest of your day!!!!<3

Thank you so much for letting me know what you thought! As a writer it’s always amazing to get feedback, so you really made my day 💕I’m glad you liked them 😊

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Best of Enemies

The last time Sylvester Sharpe had seen Agent Harris, they had been fighting on top of a moving train. It was the same old story, she shot at him, he shot back. The train went through a tunnel and when it came out the other side he was gone. It was the same game they’d played dozens of times. One day one of them would end up killing the other and it would probably be just a little bit disappointing for the surviving party. Theirs was a good old-fashioned, international, high-octane rivalry. He couldn’t have asked for a better opponent.

But then she just disappeared. Vanished. Wiped off the map like she had never even been on it. He assumed of course she had gone deep undercover. But as time went on, she never re-surfaced. There was absolutely no chatter about her in any of his usual channels. It was making him nervous. Agents didn’t just disappear like that unless they had been killed, and if that had happened, he definitely would have heard about it. So, Sharpe did some digging.

All this had eventually led him here, apartment 326 in an extremely shabby block of flats on the seedier side of London. He had put surveillance on the place for a week but hadn’t seen her enter or leave. He’d talked to some neighbours, under the guise of building maintenance, but they either hadn’t known anything about the tenant of 326 or refused to talk to him about it. He was left suspecting she was either holed up in there, or she was using it as a front of some kind and was actually based elsewhere.

The last time Sylvester Sharpe had seen Agent Harris, she had been on top of her game. That devil-may-care smile, and supreme confidence in her own abilities, and it was a confidence that was not misplaced. She had also been flexible enough to kick someone in the face or roll out of a moving car and bounce right back up, gun in hand.

But the person who opened the door of apartment 326 was none of these things.

Former-Agent Harris looked up at Sharpe and sighed a sigh which contained an infinite degree of weariness. “It’s you,” she said, “fantastic, just what I need.” She folded her arms, “Look, there’s no point trying to get any information out of me, I don’t know anything, haven’t been in the loop for over a year now. I’m not even with the Service anymore. I’m not in in contact with anyone and I’m hardly going to try and come after you anymore,” she tapped the arm of the wheelchair to emphasize this last point.

She swiveled the wheelchair around and rolled away towards the tiny living room, “if you’re going to kill me,” she called behind her, “you should probably do it inside where the neighbors can’t see.”

Sharpe had been completely taken aback when she had answered the door. Out of all the things he had expected to see, this wasn’t one of them. It could be a cunning trap, but something in her expression, the sheer dull, angry, weariness of it made him believe despite his misgivings that this was real.

He followed her inside, shutting the door behind him. He left his hand inside the pocket of his coat, still holding the revolver.

“So,” said Former-Agent Harris, when he came into the living room, “you tracked me down. I don’t suppose it was very hard.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he said, scanning the room.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at him, not saying anything.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“I got hit by a car.”

“Was it on the job?”

“Where else.”

“How did it happen?”

“Why do you care?”

“Call it professional interest.”

She laughed bitterly, “well it isn’t like I have anyone else to talk to.” She massaged her forehead with her fingertips, “it was in Prague. I was partnered up with the golden boy of the service, you know who I mean, Mr Super-Secret Agent himself. Anyway, he decided it would be a great idea to blow his cover and just tell everyone his real bloody name. I nearly choked him out right there in the lobby, but we were checked in separately, and one of us had to be a professional and maintain anonymity. I wanted to call the mission there and then, but they told me to make it work. Predictably, things go from bad to worse as he refuses to cooperate and proceeds to sabotage pretty much every single aspect of the mission. I kept having to save his sorry ass and get us back on track and I thought I might actually be able to pull it off, but then I get ploughed down by a getaway car. Got thrown right up over the roof. Despite the fact I’m lying on the ground in the most unimaginable pain, I managed to shoot out their back tires and they crashed. I passed out and by the time I woke up after the surgeries that smarmy bastard had somehow managed to make it look like he’d pulled the whole thing off and saved me as well. He got bathed in glory and I got quietly tidied away.”

Sharpe was appalled. “Are you really telling me,” he said, “that you were injured in defense of your country and they left you living in a place like this.”

She smiled sardonically, “That’s about the long and short of it. They pensioned me off but considering my ongoing medical expenses it’s laughable. This place is all I can afford. The lift doesn’t even work, so I don’t get outside much. I can walk, technically speaking, but if I stand up for more than a few minutes, the pain is really quite horrific, so it’s just easier if I use the wheelchair.”

“That is disgusting.”

“Yeah, but what am I going to do about it. I can’t complain to anyone because of all the official secrets documents I signed throughout my career. I gave them my life and they’ve shafted me.”

Sharpe took the gun out of his pocket and put it on the coffee table. “I was thinking about shooting you, he said, but I can’t do it now, it would just be…wrong.”

“Because I’m in a wheelchair,” she said, “well that seems a tad discriminatory.”

“Because you deserve so much more than this,” he said, “you’re the best agent I’ve ever met. If anyone was going to catch me, it would have been you.”

To his surprise, she began to cry. He wasn’t sure what to do. This was not something he had prepared for or ever expected to see. In the end, he settled for rather awkwardly proffering his pocket handkerchief

She snatched it and blew her nose very loudly, “this is so humiliating,” she said wetly, “I’m so pitiful that even you’re sorry for me. And now I’m crrrying.” She began to sob harder.

Sharpe was completely and utterly horrified. He had never thought of her as a real-life person. She had always seemed like a dangerous and marvellous weapon, a piece of art, but here she was, human and broken and alone and They had done this to her, her own side. The car may have crushed her bones, but they had crushed her spirit. He had wanted to kill or at least permanently incapacitate her for years, but he would have done it properly and with a suitable degree of respect.

He reached over and patted her shoulder, feeling extremely uncomfortable as he did so. “There, there,” he said, wincing at himself even as he said it. This wasn’t going to work, he wasn’t equipped to comfort anyone, let alone his former enemy. He got to his feet hurriedly, “I’ll make us some tea shall I.”

“There isn’t any milk left,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes against the back of her sleeve.

Sharpe swore under his breath. “Well,” he said, “I shall make it without.” He had never been so angry, all those years she’d put her life on the line and now she didn’t even have milk in her fridge.

“It’s stupid,” she said later, clutching the mug of tea. “But I hate that you’ve seen me like this.” She rapped on the side of the wheelchair, “not because of this, I mean all the crying and the emotionally vulnerable stuff. It’s just super embarrassing.”

“I can assure you,” he said, “I don’t see you as any less of a formidable opponent because of it.”

She took a sip of her tea, “you know I don’t even care if you’ve poisoned this at this point.”

“I haven’t,” he said, taking a sip of his own tea. “If I was going to kill you, I would have the decency to look you in the eyes as I shot you.”

Former-Agent Harris, reached down the side of her chair and pulled out a gun. She put it beside his on the coffee table. “And I suppose I can’t kill you after you’ve made me tea.”

On the outside, Sharpe’s face remained impassive as he drank his milkless tea. On the inside though, he rejoiced at the knowledge that the old Agent Harris wasn’t entirely gone.

He left her apartment two hours later with a plan already beginning to formulate in his mind.

The Director of the Secret Service switched on his living room lights, only to be confronted by the sight of a familiar face. The man in question was sitting on the couch and was pointing a gun directly at his chest. He gestured at a chair placed opposite the couch, “sit down, and don’t bother trying to trigger one of your alarms, I disabled them all. Yes, even the one in the vase.” The director sank down with a thump. He stared at the man coldly, “you won’t get any information out of me,” he said, “you can do what you like, I shan’t break.” The man stared back at him in undisguised loathing, “you have some explaining to do Re your treatment of Agent Harris, and trust me, I’m very, very good at getting people to talk.”

When Former-Agent Harris woke up the next morning. There was milk in the refrigerator as well as a lot of other things. There was a note affixed, by way of a dagger, to a kitchen drawer. It read “Going to make things right. Will bring dinner. S.S.”

As promised, he reappeared at her door just before 7pm with a large bag of takeout. Having watched the 6pm news, she had a pretty good idea of what he had been up to.

“It was nice of whoever burned down the Secret Service headquarters to make sure everyone had evacuated first” she said, opening a container of Pad Thai.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it,” he said, settling down as best he could on the rather lumpy couch, “maybe they knew that somebody wouldn’t approve of collateral damage even considering the circumstances.”

“And from what I hear,” she said, “a certain agent might even regain most of the use of his hands with the right physical therapy.”

“Fingers break so easily,” he said, “he really should be more careful where he puts his hands.”

“And you’ll never guess what happened to me today.”

“You’d better tell me then, I’m all suspense.”

“I got sent rather a large sum of money by the Director himself. What was strange though was it was all just unmarked bills stuffed into a brown envelope. He also sent rather a nice bouquet of flowers and a lovely note which really didn’t sound like his usual style at all.”

“What a charming surprise.”

“Thank you,” said Former-Agent Harris.

Sharpe smiled, “for what,” he said, “pass the fried rice.”

“I suppose,” said Former-Agent Harris, “now that we’re apparently friendly enough to eat dinner without trying to shoot each other, you might as well call me Stella.”

Three months later, Stella and Sylvester sat on the balcony of an extremely tasteful chalet in the Swiss Alps, he in his favourite armchair and her in an extremely expensive electric wheelchair in custom robin’s egg blue. “I suppose,” said Stella, raising her glass of orange juice, we should toast to your new business endeavours, “here’s to the straight and narrow, mostly.”

“I always was a legitimate businessman darling, I’m just extra legitimate now.”

“Sure you were.”

Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her about all of those paintings he still had in the warehouse in Amsterdam or the little operation in Milan or the other thing in Texas.

“You need to stop smiling when you think about dishonesty,” she said, “once you know what to look for, you have a terrible poker face.”

He grinned at her, “I was thinking about you.”

She rolled her eyes, “Liar. I’m going to have to kill you one of these days.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I’ll run you over with my wheelchair.”

“An extremely cunning plan, I’ll never even see it coming.”

They clinked their glasses together and looked out over the mountains. Agent Harris, Stella, might not be able to fight him on top of a train anymore, but that didn’t make her any less of a daunting adversary, and he was fully looking forward to spending the rest of his life matching wits with her.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Hide Not Thy Poison with such Sugar’d Words

The herbalist moved very quietly. He hadn’t even noticed her at his side until she spoke. The sound of her voice so close by surprised him but he reacted quickly enough to prevent the shock from showing on his face.

“Hey,” she said.

“Well hello there, little lady,” he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes, “what can I do for you?”

She was the first person to willingly approach him. Everyone else hung back, keeping to the homes they had been allowed to keep or going about their daily tasks, heads down, studiously avoiding eye-contact. But the herbalist, what was her name, didn’t seem particularly uncomfortable in his presence, her posture was relaxed, and her voice didn’t tremble like some of the others.

“I wanted to invite you and your friends for dinner,” she said smiling up at him, “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good cook.”

This was a genuinely unexpected turn of events.

“Well now,” he said, “that sounds delightful.”

If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a fool. You didn’t make it this far without a healthy amount of suspicion, even when it came to pretty women, even someone who barely came to chest-height could do a fair bit of damage with the right weapons.

“Of course,” he continued, “I’ll have to send some people in to check your house out before I accept your invitation. You see people have a tendency to do things like hiding guns under tables and in between couch cushions. I’m sure you wouldn’t do something like that but I ain’t about to take chances.”

“Of course, I don’t mind, I understand completely, you’re an important man and you have to be careful. You won’t find anything though, I don’t like guns, they’re loud and unpleasant. I do have kitchen knives, but I hope you won’t take those until I’m finished cooking at least,” she giggled, “I can’t cut up my herbs with a butter-knife.”

He grinned down at her. She really was very pretty, and she had a head on her, she clearly knew what side her bread was buttered on.

“I’ll see you tonight then darlin,” he said.

“See you,” she smiled back and walked away towards the gardens.

In the end he left five of his men on guard duty. Someone had to watch the perimeter and while it was a settlement of farmers and academic types, he wasn’t about to put all his fighting men in one room and leave them to their own devices. Counting the herbalist there were eleven of them squeezed into her middling-sized dining room. Since all the liquor had been confiscated when they had taken the settlement, he bought a crateful of bottles with him, and they were all a few glasses in, which only added to the evening’s enjoyment.

The herbalist seemed to be enjoying herself. She had done something to her hair, and she was wearing a nicer dress than he had seen on any woman for quite some time. She had a frilly apron over it, and she was bustling around the kitchen, laughing at the men’s jokes, even the more colourful ones.

The timer dinged and she bent down and opened the oven. A cloud of steam came out and along with it a delicious aroma. The herbalist pulled a large baking dish out of the oven and put it on the countertop. “I hope you all like casserole,” she said, “it’s a very old family recipe. You might even say it’s to die for.”

“Honestly ma’am, if it doesn’t come out of a can it’s going to be a damn delight,” said one of the men.

She dished up the plates and wove her way around the table, handing them out. One of the men went to dig in, but their leader slammed his hand down on the table, “hey,” he barked, “show some damn respect. We wait for the lady to sit down before we eat, we aren’t animals.”

“Sorry boss,” he said nervously, dropping his fork.

“I take it as a compliment,” the herbalist said, sitting down at the opposite end of the table. She glanced over at the gun sitting on the table beside the leader’s plate.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked.

“It’s nothing personal darling, people much smarter than you have tried to catch me out before so I never go anywhere without my piece.”

“If this was a trap,” she said, “I wouldn’t try to take you down with physical force, you’re bigger and faster than me and there are nine very large men between me and you. So, you don’t need to worry about me coming at you with a knife or anything.”

“Glad to hear it sweetheart, but you’ll excuse me if I keep my weapon close.”

She nodded, “I guess it makes sense, you have to watch your back.” She picked up her napkin and laid it over her lap, “well, tuck in boys.”

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way darlin, but I’m going to need you to take the first bite,” said the leader. His voice had an edge that wasn’t there before and while he never moved his hand, it lay awfully close to the gun. It was very quiet for a moment but then the herbalist let out a chuckle and picked up her fork, scooping up a large chunk of casserole and popping it into her mouth. The tension immediately lifted from the room and everyone began to eat.

“This is delicious,” one of the men said, his words muffled through a mouthful of food.

“Why thank you for saying so,” she said, “It has a lot of special ingredients which really add a kick.”

“It sure does,” said another man, draining his glass.

“So why the invitation doll,” said the leader, “Not that I don’t appreciate your fine hospitality, but your people haven’t been exactly welcoming.”

“I just figured,” she said, “since you’re in charge now, we should put our differences behind us and try to get along. So, I thought I should offer the hand of friendship as it were. I was never in charge here, I’m just a woman who happens to have a bit of a green thumb and knows what’s what when it comes to the garden. But, people here know me, they respect me and my opinion. I can talk to the others and bring them around to you being in charge. You’ll face far less resistance in getting everyone to cooperate that way. I’m sure we can reach some kind of arrangement which can benefit all of us.”

He threw back his head and laughed, “and here I thought you were all a bunch of spineless farmers. Looks like at least one of you as an ounce of common sense.” He grinned at her, “us coming in and taking over might seem a bit rough, I get that. But you all just gotta accept it. You’re weak, you don’t know what it’s like out there, what people are like out there. I mean you know how to grow stuff sure, but that isn’t going to keep you alive in the long run. Us though, we’ve got bigger guns, bigger men and heck bigger brains, we can keep everyone safe. If your people just do what they’re told, keep their heads down and pull their weight, we’ll all be in roses.”

“I agree,” she said, “we’re either going to have to find a way to live together, or we’re all definitely going to die together. Are you enjoying your dinner?”

“Yeah doll, it’s tasty,” he looked at her and smiled slowly, “I might just have to keep you around.”

She smiled back, “I suppose you can try,” she said.

She had stopped eating and was watching him intently. There was something in her eyes. Either he hadn’t noticed it at first or it hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t hatred, anger or even fear, it was something else. But it didn’t really matter whether she secretly hated his guts. To say he has won would be inaccurate, there was never really a fight to begin with. They had rolled up in their army-issue Jeeps with their semi-automatic rifles, and after the first few shots, the people had just opened the gates and let them in. That’s why they were sitting here now, playing happy families.

His throat started to tickle, and he coughed, reaching for the water glass.

Her eyes never left his as she picked up her fork and ate another bite of her dinner. The hand that held the utensil was trembling ever so slightly as she brought it up to her mouth.

Around the table, other men began to cough.

He felt a twinge in his chest and winced slightly. Indigestion. He’d always had a tendency to gulp food down, even before all of this and food became something which it paid to get down as fast as you could in case somebody tried to take it from you.”

“is something wrong?” she asked.

“Ate too fast,” he said, patting his stomach, “you sure are some cook.”

“Thank you,” she said, “I put something extra special in there just for you.”

For a second the room seemed to swim in and out of focus. He blinked and it came back to rights.

“Your fingers,” she said.

“What about them?”

“Have they stared to tingle yet>”

He frowned and looked down at his hands. Then he looked back up at her. Realisation had not yet dawned at him, but things were starting to come together.

“How did you know?” one of the men asked nervously, looking at his own hands.

“What’s going on!”

A small trickle of blood was coming out of her nose, rolling down her cheek in a thin red line.

“Can you feel the numbness starting to creep through your body,” she said, her speech sounded different, almost slurred, “because I can. But then again, I have significantly less body mass than any of you.”

“What did you do!”

“I don’t feel so good boss,” one of the men said. He had eaten more than the rest, cleaned his whole plate and started on a second. He clutched at his throat, his eyes getting bigger by the second. All of a sudden, he turned and vomited loudly, all over the floor.

Around the table, things were happening to the rest of the men. Something was very wrong indeed, that much was clear.

The leader could feel his heartrate begin to slow, beat by beat. His hands and feet were tinging, and a feeling like ice had begun to crawl its way down his body.

“What did you do!” he demanded again, his eyes wild.

The herbalist was swaying on her chair, her gaze was unfocused, but she was smiling, “my name isn’t darling, or sweetheart, or doll,” she rasped, ‘it’s Alice, and you all just ate a lethal amount of Aconitum napellus, or Monkshood as the common man might call it.”

“What the hell,” the leader yelled, starting to his feet. But his legs didn’t seem to be working properly. He gripped the edge of the table in an attempt to stay upright but his hands failed him, and he fell back into the chair.

By now at least one of the men was on the floor, convulsing.

“Fix this,” the leader roared.  

“I can’t,” she said, “even if I wanted to, there’s no antidote.”

He picked up the gun and pointed it at her forehead.

She coughed out a laugh, “shoot me then,” she said, “I’m already dead. And honestly, it was worth it. I would say you’re all going to die screaming, but by the end you won’t even be able to scream.”

He let the gun fall from his hand and made another attempt to stand. “Get up,” he yelled at his men, “get up.” He turned back to the herbalist, “I’m going to kill everyone here.”

“The five you left outside are all dead too by now I imagine,” she said, “you won’t be far behind.” She toppled sideways off her chair.

The leader managed make it out the front door, staggering at first and then dragging himself, before the numbness consumed his entire being and he was left unable to move. As he lay there in the dirt, he could see at least one of the men he has left outside, crumpled on the ground in a growing pool of his own blood. Feet swam towards him, his eyesight was failing, but he could see enough to know that the people had gathered around him, standing in a circle, watching as he fought against the inevitable nightfall of his life.

The death Monkshood brings is slow and painful, the heart begins to give out, fighting with asphyxiation as the victim chokes on the air they breathe. She always knew what plants to use, to bring down a fever, to soothe a sleepless night, to save everyone but herself.

Somewhere very far away Alice woke up in a field of flowers. The leader wasn’t there, he was someplace else.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

The Best Zombie Apocalypse Cult of All Time

Just a short story thing I wrote about New Zealanders in the zombie apocalypse. 

The group was trapped. The Walkers had caught them in the middle of an open field, with nowhere to shelter or climb. They were down to barely a handful of bullets between them and the things just kept coming, driven solely by their all-consuming lust for human flesh. Things were not looking good. Then, the expats turned up, and things got objectively better but subjectively worse. 

They roared in out of nowhere in a monstrosity of a vehicle which seemed to consist mainly of collection of disreputable looking solar panels held together with duct tape wire and sheer stubborn ingenuity. There were five of them, three women and two men, and they were all having far too much fun as they descended on the Walkers with an impressive range of blunt and not-so-blunt instruments. They didn’t seem to have any guns though, which Derek, the group-leader found strange, and for some reason a bit worrying. It didn’t take them long to plow through the two dozen or so Walkers which were milling about in the general area, despite their lack of firepower, they were efficient.

“Got yourself into a bit of a pickle, I see,” said one of the women cheerfully, as she wiped viscera off her combination hatchet/pickaxe onto the grass. She had a rather strong accent.

“You’re Australian,” said Derek, rather pleased he was able to identify it.

“Nah mate,” one of the men said, “we’re from New Zealand. We were down here for a bit of a holiday when the whole apocalypse thing happened, so we’re more or less stuck here with you Americans.”

“Not like we can swim home,” another woman said, “bit further than the old Matiu Island to Petone trip.”

“My Nana used to swim that every weekend to get an ice-cream,” the third woman said, “I’d be too scared of sharks.”

“Where are your guns?” Jake, Derek’s second in command asked.

“You’d be a muppet to rely on guns,” said the second woman, “they’re loud which just attracts more of them and then you inevitably run out of bullets,” she brandished an aluminium baseball bat onto which it appeared someone had wielded a lot of nails, “blunt instruments are the way to go.”

“We don’t even have guns in New Zealand,” the second man said, “I mean we have some guns, but mainly out in the Sticks for hunting or like the if you’re in the Mongrel Mob. The police don’t even carry them.”

“We Kiwis do play a lot of cricket though,” said the first woman, “so we’re pretty good at smacking things with other things.”

“But what if you need to kill a Walker from a long distance,” Mary asked.

“Why do none of you people call them Zombies,” the second man said, “don’t tell me the whole country’s missed out on the last three decades of pop culture. Anyway, why would you want to do that, if it’s that far away off you can just run away, or like literally just walk at a normal pace.”

“They’re really slow if you haven’t noticed,” the third woman said.

“And really not very intelligent.”

“And loud.”

“Not at all good at sneaking.”

“We’ve got a rifle in the back for emergencies but we haven’t used it in six months.”

“Why were you guys even mucking about with guns anyway, you could have just brained them, what a waste of time. Move in anything other than a straight line and you can pretty much outsmart them.”

This barrage of information left Derek feeling both overwhelmed and irritated. “We’ve survived out here for nearly a year doing things my way,” he said, “so I don’t need your advice.”

“All good bro,” the first man said, “you do you,” he pointed at the car, “we should head off anyway, just thought we’d pitch in and help.”

“Keep walking about twenty minutes that way,” said one of the women, pointing toward the north, “and you’ll make it to the commune, you’re welcome to stay the night, share a few brews, rest up, maybe even join the cult.”

“I’m sorry, said Jemima, “did you say cult.”

“Yeah, but it’s a pretty chill one,” said the first women, “we’re basically just doing grass-roots type sustainable farming.”

“As I always say,” said one of the men, “the apocalypse isn’t just about surviving, we’ve got to start rebuilding.”

“We’ve got a pretty rad library, and the tomato crop is coming in nicely,” said the third woman, “we’ve been voted best cult to join 6 months in a row by this one guy who used to work for the New York Times.” 

“Anyways, catch you fellas later, we’ve got a bookstore to rob.’ 

With that, they all hopped back in their vehicle and drove away.

The group stood in stunned silence for several minutes.

“We press on,” Derek said at last, “might be a town up ahead, we can scavenge for supplies and maybe find somewhere to fortify.”

“Hold on,” said Samantha, “they just said…”

“I don’t care what they just said, I am in charge of this group and I say we can’t just trust strangers.”

“I don’t know man,” Brad said, “they seemed pretty trustworthy, plus I think they said something about a brew which either means coffee or beer and either way I’m in.”

“Did you see those people,” Derek said. He could sense his hold over the group slipping away at the promise of fresh produce and beer/coffee, “they were clearly crazy.”

“Maybe it’s just a cultural thing,” said David.

“They didn’t even have any guns, what kind of people don’t have guns, it isn’t natural.”

“I mean, they do have a point,” said Ellen, “the noise really does attract more of them.”

“Honestly,’ said Jake, “I’m sick of your stupid rule about calling them Walkers, they’re right, who are we kidding, they’re Zombies, I didn’t want to say anything because you seemed pretty set on it, but I feel ridiculous every time I say Walker.”

“Fine then,” said Derek, deciding to enact a cunning plan to scare them into doing what he wanted, “we’ll put it to a vote, but you should know, If you vote for going to find this place, I will consider it a message you don’t want me to be your leader anymore, and you’re on your own.”

Derek stood, arms crossed, glaring after them. It smarted to be deposed in favor of a bunch of foreign hippies with no guns. Despite his self-righteous ire, he was eventually hit with the humiliating realization that he would probably die immediately if he stayed out here by himself so with extreme resentment, he slowly followed along after the main group.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Great Big Lizards

This short story was from a prompt by @a-marvellous-miscellany based loosely on the real life rivalry between Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh, also known as the Bone Wars.

The anomaly turned up in the loose soil. Whether it had been there the day before was anyone’s guess, but it would have been hard to miss. When the dirt was brushed from the surface, it seemed to shimmer under the desert sun. The man who found it took it straight to Cope. It was a good find, or so he thought.

Cope was furious. “This has gone on long enough,” he bellowed. He snatched it from the man and ordered his horse to be saddled.

Marsh was on his knees in a trench, chipping away at the rock surrounding a piece of fossilised bone. A voice he knew only too well came echoing across the dig site. “Where are you Marsh, come out and face me like a man you damned coward.”

Marsh stood up, “well, well, if it isn’t my esteemed colleague, Mr Cope,” he said acerbically, “what can I do for you, sir.”

Cope waved something in the air, “I suppose you think this is funny,” he spluttered, “lucky for you I didn’t catch your men skulking around my camp, somebody might have been shot.”

“What on earth are you jabbering about,” said Marsh, “unlike some people who apparently seem to have nothing but hours of leisure, I have work to do.”

“The egg,” said Cope angrily, “or whatever it’s supposed to be. I know you planted it in the dig, but I won’t be fooled again, do you hear me. Not after the Elasmosaurus.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” said Marsh, “I think you’ve spent too long in the sun old boy.”

Cope practically growled and tossed the thing he was holding at Marsh’s head. Marsh ducked just in time, falling to his knees in the trench. When he stood up again, Cope was gone, a cloud of dust puffing up behind him as he rode back towards his camp.

Marsh turned and picked up the projectile Cope had hurled at him. It did indeed resemble an egg, but it was like no egg Marsh had ever seen before. It was about the size of a large mango, and it was beautiful. The surface looked almost as if it had been covered over with some kind of lacquer, so brightly did the sun shine off it. It was of a curious blue-green hue, with the colours fading into one another so the effect was as if it had been dipped in half blended paint.

“What was that all about,” said Baxter, walking over to stand at the edge of the trench. Marsh began to laugh, “that old devil,” he said, holding up the egg “I see right through his guile. He thinks he can double bluff me can he. Coming here with an obvious fake, pretending never to have seen it in his life, clearly hoping I will take advantage of his supposed mistake and make a fool of myself in the scientific journals. He’d have to get up a great deal earlier in the morning to pull the wool over my eyes in such an amateur fashion. Just look at the thing,” he handed it up to Baxter, “he’s found an egg-shaped rock and painted it, its utterly ridiculous.”

Later that night Marsh threw the egg, or whatever it was onto the campfire and they all drank a toast to Cope’s downfall, may it come swiftly and catch him unawares. By the time everyone returned to their tents, the egg had been completely covered by the still smouldering embers.

Marsh was roused from slumber in the early hours of the morning by a strange chirping sound coming from outside. He listened intently for several minutes, trying to decipher the nature and origin of the sound, but all was silent. Eventually, he fell back to sleep and by the time the heat of the sun woke him up again, all recollection of the sound had vanished from his mind.

“Sir,” one of the workers called excitedly, “Mr Marsh, I found something peculiar.” The man, more of a boy really, hurried over to where March was working, holding something in his hands. “I found this in the fire,” he said holding out his cupped hands. They were filled with jagged pieces of blueish green something.

“Is that another broken pot?” How many times must I say it, we aren’t archaeologists we’re paleontologists!”

“It’s not a pot sir, I found it in the ashes of the fire. I think…I think it was an egg sir.”

Marsh picked one of the larger shards up and studied it. The outside did indeed resemble that of the egg-shaped object he had tossed into the flames the previous night. But instead of being composed of solid rock as he had imagined, whatever the thing was, it had been hollow. Maybe it had been an egg after all, some kind of strange bird egg perhaps, certainly it had been painted, but maybe the thing itself had not been a work of artifice. But that did not explain why it had been so heavy, or why it had not split open more quickly when exposed to the heat. Marsh shrugged, it was of no matter, there were more important things to concern his mind than nature of Cope’s trickery.

“Throw it in the rubbish heap,” he said to the lad, “It’s just some bits and pieces of eggshell.”

As Marsh lay in bed that night, he heard the chirping sound again, this time closer to his tent. He fumbled in the dark for a box of safety matches and lit one, illuminating the inside of his tent. It burned for a moment before extinguishing with a hiss. He struck another and lit the lantern which rested beside his bed. Mindful of snakes and the sharp rocks unearthed by the digging he pulled his boots on and then ducked out of the tent. It was a clear night and far above the stars shone brightly over the desert. He looked around, seeing nothing but the vast expanse of empty land, the half circle of tents and the dull gleam of the campfire’s dying embers. But what was that, he looked closer, something moved amongst the remains of the fire. He stepped closer, holding the lantern in front of him so that he might get a better view. His eyes widened, first in shock and then amazement at the sight which lay before him.

Swiftly but silently, he backed away and then turned, hurrying back to the tents. “Baxter,” he hissed, pushing his head through the opening to the man’s tent, “wake up man!”

Startled out of sleep, Baxter sat bolt upright in bed, shielding his eyes from the light of the lantern, “what is it,” he said groggily, “has something happened?”

“I need second pair of eyes, for I fear I am going mad,” said Marsh impatiently, “hurry.”

Baxter emerged from the tent, still half asleep, his hair sticking out at odd angles. Marsh pointed at the campfire, “what do you see?” he asked, unable to hide the note of excitement in his voice.

“I don’t see anything,” Baxter started to say, but then he stopped and narrowed his eyes, “wait a minute, is that a lizard?”

“Watch, watch,” said Marsh, his eyes glittering with exhilaration.

The thing in the ashes gave another chirp and very slowly unfurled a pair of tiny leathery wings.

“By the blood of St. George,” Baxter gasped, “it’s a dragon.”

In the full light of day Marsh surveyed the beast. They had captured it the night before with the aid of a large metal bucket and now it had been ensconced in a large birdcage which had once contained a tame crow one of the men had made a pet of. The bird had long since succumbed to heat stroke, and now it housed an entirely different sort of winged creature.

The dragon, for it could only be a dragon, gazed up at Marsh through the bars with a pair of curiously intelligent black eyes. It was a small thing, no bigger than a large mouse. It was almost the same colour as the shell of the egg it had hatched from, its scales incandescent in the desert sun.

“What do you suppose it eats?” asked Baxter.

“If the stories are to be believed, and I suppose they must be, then it is a carnivore,” said Marsh. He fetched a pouch of beef jerky and tore a chunk off, tossing it into the cage. The dragon sniffed at it suspiciously before swallowing it down with a flick of its head. It chirped and looked expectantly up at Marsh.

“I had believed,” said Marsh, “that Cope was playing some trick on me, but the man really must have found something. It’s strange that a thing which must have been buried for so long could still bring forth a live creature. The fire must have awakened it, for are dragons not creatures of flame and heat. This is certainly a revolutionary scientific discovery.” He grinned, “It will drive Cope into fits of jealous to know he held such a marvel in his hands only to throw it away as if it were nothing.”

Marsh spent the morning studying his new discovery. What were the dry bones of dead creatures when a living one lay before him in such splendour? This would shake the scientific world to its very core. Where should such a creature be classified? Was it a type of lizard, a dinosaur or an entirely unique species?

Cope rode into the camp just after midday. He was red-faced and had a decidedly antagonistic look in his eyes.

“I want to see it,” he said, making it abundantly clear that somebody within Marsh’s own camp was a traitor.

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Marsh.

“The winged lizard,” said Cope, “don’t play the fool with me, I know you found one and I will not leave until I have seen it.”

Marsh knew of old how obstinate the man was and short of hitting him over the head with a shovel he saw no other way of getting rid of him, so he gave in and produced the dragon.

Cope walked slowly around the cage, “clearly it is a new species lizard,” he said, “the species must have chosen to adapt thusly to gain an advantage over it’s fellow reptiles. We have water lizards, why not lizards of the sky, it is most interesting.”

Marsh scoffed, “ridiculous,” he said, “clearly, the evolution of animals is based on the nature of their environment not on any choice to do so.”

Cope glared at him, “I refuse to take up this argument with you again,” he said, “when one argues with a fool, who is really the greater fool.”

Marsh chose to ignore this, “You will be able to read all about my discovery in the Royal Society Journal,” he said condescendingly, “Marsh’s Flying Lizard, will go down as the discovery of the century I have no doubt. Why, people will probably forget all about the little mess you made with getting the head on the wrong end of that fossil.”

“What do you mean, your discovery,” Cope said, “I found the egg from which it hatched, so really it is my discovery.”

“The egg you threw at me, thus giving up all rights over it.”

“I demand to be credited as co-discoverer,” said Cope.  

“I’ll see you in hell before I see your name beside mine on a scientific paper.”

Cope gave Marsh a small thin smile, “Well then, we are both in for a very hot excursion. I have witnesses that it was I who discovered the egg. You will be hearing from my lawyer post-haste. Good day,” he tipped his hat and walked away.

Over the next few days, the dragon ate voraciously. It devoured not only meat but plant material as well, leading Marsh to conclude that it was in fact omnivorous rather than carnivorous. As each hour passed, he was learning more and more about the creature. It truly was a treasure trove of scientific knowledge and it warmed his heart to know that Cope had thrown it all away.

Despite his elation, there was something about it which sent the hairs prickling up on the back of his neck. Something about those two dark eyes, which seemed to look right through you. It didn’t have the look of a dumb beast about it, there was intelligence in those eyes and perhaps something more.

He awoke on the morning of the fifth day with a feeling of dreadful foreboding. His fears were proved justified when to his great dismay he surveyed the cage. In the side of it was an enormous hole, the metal around it twisted and blackened. The dragon was gone.

“What could have done this,” Baxter said, “do you think Cope’s men came in the night and stole it, but why not just cut the lock and be done with it?”

“Fire,” Marsh said in a mixture of awe and apprehension, “dragons breathe fire.”

“But surely not hot enough to melt metal. And it was such a small thing too.” Baxter grew pale, “How big do you suppose they grow?” he said, “and how hot do you suppose the fire inside its belly will burn when it is fully developed.”

They saw it occasionally, always from a distance. After being imprisoned it had grown cunning to the ways of humans and at all times remained just out of reach. Often in the morning they would awake to ransacked food stores. They found its prints around the camp, and over the weeks, those prints seemed to be growing bigger.

Marsh was not afraid of the creature, but it had become somewhat of an annoyance. He must trap it again; the Royal Society would need proof of the discovery. But however hard he tried, no matter how cunning his traps, the dragon evaded them. And it was growing bolder, coming into the camp in the middle of the day and snatching food from men’s plates the minute their backs were turned.

One night, Marsh was awakened by a terrible scream. He snatched up the rifle which lay beside his camp bed and bolted out of the tent. A man staggered out of a tent and into the lantern light, clutching his hand.

“What happened?” Marsh asked, the rest of the men were stumbling out of their tents, bleary eyed and tense.

The man’s hands were slick with blood and he held up the left one to reveal the tip of his index finger was missing, the skin jagged and oozing.

It wasn’t until after they bandaged the wound and forced several large swigs of brandy down the man’s throat that he was able to speak. He had been asleep in his tent, one hand hanging down over the side of his cot when he had awoken to a sharp pain in his finger. He had lifted his hand to find it covered in blood. In his pain-dazed state, the only other thing he remembered was a pair of eyes shining at him from the darkness.

The official story was that it must have been coyote or some other such animal which had wandered into camp, but nobody really believed it.

“It was the dragon wasn’t it,” Baxter said to Marsh when they were alone.

Marsh shrugged, “there is no proof,” he said, “it might have been a coyote.”

Baxter shook his head, “you don’t really believe that. What should we do?”

“It’s only a finger,” said Marsh, “hardly cause to create such a commotion. Still,” his expression darkened, “even though I would much rather present a live specimen to the Royal Society, a dead one will do just as well. If the beast comes too close again, we will shoot it.”

There was no need for Baxter to inquire as to what beast Marsh meant.

Over the next few weeks, sightings of the dragon grew further apart, leading Marsh to wonder if it had increased its range, seeking new hunting grounds. While it made the work easier, he had also begun to fear what would happen if others discovered the existence of his flying lizard. Or, what would happen if the dragon discovered the existence of others.

Four weeks after its hatching, they found a ring of footprints covering the entire perimeter of the camp. They were the size of dinner plates, with the signs of long claws which bit deeply into the ground. Marsh stood beside one of the prints, wiping the sweat from his brow with the corner of a handkerchief. “How can it have grown so rapidly in such a short time,” he said, “what can it be eating?”

Baxter looked worried, “I don’t know, but I have a rather good idea of what it’s thinking about eating next.” He scuffed at the print with the toe of his boot, “perhaps we should consider, well, there are other promising locations to dig, why only last week I received a telegram from a Mr Lake inquiring if we…”

“Give up,” Marsh said, “we are not cowards. Cope thinks this whole desert belongs to him and he would be only too quick to slander my name to the Royal Society. We stay. Anyway, the beast has not ventured close to camp since we began keeping watch at night.” He cast a glance at the ring of prints in the dust, “well not up until now at any rate.”

Several miles away, Cope was facing his own difficulties.

“This is the second horse we’ve lost in a week,” he said, looking down at the streak of blood, which was all that remained of the unfortunate animal, “how can it be that nobody heard a sound, surely if it were dragged off by some beast, it would have made a noise of some kind.”

“It is indeed curious,” said Doctor Rawlins, “save for the immediate vicinity, there are no tracks, certainly nothing to show that it was dragged off by some wild animal. It is almost as if it vanished into thin air.”

Cope clenched his fists tightly, “Marsh must be behind this,” he said, “will the man stop at nothing. He is bound and determined to sabotage my every ambition, no matter how far he must go to do so.”

“But would he stoop so low,” said Rawlins doubtfully, “it’s one thing to drag your name through the mud in the journals but sneaking into the camp in the middle of the night to kill animals is an entirely different story.”

But Cope would not be convinced. Despite Rawlin’s best attempts, he shouldered his rifle and set off in the direction of Marsh’s camp in a foul mood. “I do hope he doesn’t shoot the man,” Rawlins thought as he returned to the digging, “perhaps I ought to have followed him.”

By the time he arrived at Marsh’s camp, Cope had worked himself up into a fine fury. His teeth were set even further at edge when he found that Marsh was not at camp. Marsh’s right-hand man Baxter was not exactly forthcoming with where he had gone. Cope was convinced that Marsh was away covering up the evidence of his nefarious deeds. Baxter seemed nervous, which only convinced him with greater certainty that he was hiding something. The whole camp was on edge, their apprehension crackling in the air like electricity. Cope stood his ground and refused to leave until Marsh returned.

When he did so, it was in the fading hours of evening. His face was pale and his hands shook every so slightly, something he seemed at pains to conceal. Cope was taken slightly aback by his visage, never before had he seen his rival in such a state. But he pressed on regardless.

“I know you have been coming into my camp in the middle of the night and causing mischief,” he said accusingly, “you or your men at your orders. I just want to know how you took the horse without leaving the marks of a struggle. Was the blood just for show or did you really slit the poor beast’s throat.”  

Marsh blanched to a shade which should not have been possible for the human skin to achieve, “by George if it can carry off a horse,” he muttered.

Cope frowned, “you’re hiding something,” he said suspiciously, “out with it man, what do you know.”

“It’s nothing...” Marsh started to say, but then he trailed off and appeared to be thinking about something intently for several seconds. He seemed to draw himself up at last and his face became more resolute, “the dragon escaped,” he said, “over three weeks ago.”

“What!” Cope was astonished, “but you can’t expect me to believe that tiny lizard could be responsible for…for spiriting away a fully grown horse.”

“It has grown,” said Marsh glumly, “remarkably so in such a short time. I haven’t seen it up close for weeks, but judging by the size of its prints, I would say it’s over three hundred times the size it was as a hatchling.”

“You can’t be serious. This is another one of your little jokes isn’t it.”

“I wish it were. Two weeks ago, it came into camp and bit off a man’s finger. The only thing that has prevented it from doing so again has been the nightly guard, but I fear if it has grown bold enough to seize your livestock it is only a matter of time before it becomes even more confident and…” Marsh gulped involuntarily, “it carries off one of us.”

“How could you allow such a thing to happen! I thought you had the creature contained, I saw it in the cage myself.”

“It can apparently breath fire, for it melted the bars of the cage as if they were made of ice instead of good strong steel.”

“There’s nothing for it,” said Cope, “I must go after it, discover its lair and put it down. It cannot be allowed to roam free, killing livestock, stars knows what it will do next.”

“What do you mean, I,” said Marsh, “as if you could be trusted to fetch a brace of eggs from the grocer let alone hunt down a dragon. I shall come with you, I always say if you want something done right do it yourself.”

“Suit yourself,” said Cope, “but if you die as a result of your own incompetence it will be your own fault.”

The night passed with a kind of tenseness which was palpable, the watch was increased, and Marsh found himself unable to sleep at all. He tossed and turned in his cot, unable to find a comfortable position, unsettled by both the presence of his rival in the camp and the nagging worry that the dragon might come back in the middle of the night and drag away more than a horse. But, despite this, the night passed without incident and he arose, tired but determined at first light.

Cope was already awake, clearly bound and determined to outdo Marsh in any way possible. His horse was already saddled, his hunting rifle hanging at its side.

They headed out in the direction Marsh remembered seeing the dragon the most. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. They rode across the desert for several hours, heading towards a cliff face which jutted up out of the ground like an enormous spinal column. As they grew closer, it became obvious there was a channel through the cliff, a canyon wide enough for several wagons to drive abreast of each other.

“It’s as good a place to start as any I suppose,” said Marsh.

Cope shrugged, but he did not disagree.

It was cooler in the canyon, but only just. They walked through it as silently as possible, scanning the path ahead.

“Let us stop here for a moment,” Cope said, reaching for his canteen, “this heat is abominable.” He took a long swig from the canteen and stretched out his arms. Suddenly, he froze, his eyes darting upwards.

“What is it?” Marsh said.

“Behind you,” Cope said, not moving his gaze.

Slowly, March turned around to see the dragon crouched on top of the overhanging ledge, looking down at him with those disconcerting dark eyes. It opened its mouth wide, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp teeth. He was almost sure he could see all the way down it’s wide red throat. His mind cried out to run, but he found himself rooted to the spot as if the dragon’s gaze held him transfixed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cope slowly raising his rifle, his finger hovered at the trigger.

“Don’t do it man,” Marsh hissed, “You’ll never kill it with one shot, and it will be the end of us if you fail.”

Cope was sweating profusely, but in the face of almost certain death his hands did not shake. Marsh could feel his own trembling like a leaf in a stiff breeze, and he felt a wave of annoyance and shame wash over him in the face of his rival’s composure.

“I can’t say knowing you has been a pleasure,” said Cope. He squeezed the trigger. The crack of the rifle shot echoed through the canyon. When Marsh finally opened his eyes again, he was gratified to find that he was not dead but infinitely less so to find that the dragon had not moved an inch. It was regarding them with an expression, which if it had been possible to convey such a thing on a human face, could only have been amusement. Very slowly, it leaned down into the canyon until it was almost eye to eye with the two men. Without even realising what he was doing, Cope grasped at Marsh’s arm, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, looking into the eyes of something so alien to themselves it was difficult to comprehend. At last, the dragon raised its head. It opened its mouth again, and this time they could feel the heat rising up from its throat. They saw the fire before they felt it, a red glow rising up out of the throat. “Duck,” Cope yelled as he dived for the ground, dragging Marsh down with him. The jet of flame passed over them by about a foot, but the radiating heat was still so intense that it singed their hair. Then with a flap of its enormous wings, the dragon was airborne, twisting up and away over the canyon and towards…

“The camp,” Marsh said, “it’s heading for the camp.”

Cope stood up stiffly, brushing the dirt from his elbows, “well there isn’t exactly anything we can do about it, is there,” he said shakily. “It missed us on purpose. I don’t even think it released the fire at its full capacity. I could have sworn, but it can’t be, that it was laughing at us in some way. The creature has some kind of primitive intelligence, although perhaps low cunning would be a better word. I shall have to make a note of this.”

“It’s still my discovery,” said Marsh as they began to walk towards the mouth of the canyon.

Cope laughed hollowly, “you still want to take credit for a voracious, fire-breathing, death-bringer,” he said, “if you hadn’t thrown it on the fire like a child having a tantrum we wouldn’t have ended up in this mess in the first place. At any rate, I found the egg and have made many of my own observations since.”

“Perhaps we should each write our own articles for the journal,” said Marsh, “and let the scientific community judge them on their merits. Although, that would hardly be much of a competition, we all know who the better scholar is.”

“I think you may be the most abominable person I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” said Cope companionably, “and I rather wish the dragon had devoured you whole.”

“Consider the sentiment returned,” said Marsh.

The smoke from Marsh’s camp rose high into the sky in a great column, doubtless it could be seen for miles. In the distance, its twin sprung up.

“I see it has burnt both of our camps to a cinder,” said Cope, “shame about all the fossils I suppose.”

Cope’s brush with death had left him uncharacteristically cheerful, but then again mused Marsh, the man had always been of the most contrary nature.

They finally arrived at what was left of Marsh’s camp hours later, their horses having long since bolted in terror, forcing them to make the journey on foot. There was nothing left except for blackened smouldering ground and the odd indeterminate lump of melted matter. Baxter stood some distance away, covered in smuts and gloomily surveying the wreckage. When he saw Cope and Marsh, he brightened a little.

“Not dead then,” he said, “when you didn’t return, I grew concerned, but then,” he waved his hand at the twisted, smoking mass in front of him, “other things arose to occupy my mind.”

“Don’t tell me you are the only survivor,” Marsh said.

Baxter ran a grimy hand through his hair, “the others have gone to Cope’s camp to see if anything remains,” he said, “we had a few casualties though, Edmonds was burnt to a crisp and it devoured Carter in one gulp, must have enjoyed the taste of his finger and decided to come back for more. The rest of us managed to escape the camp before it set it all ablaze. Everything’s gone, all the fossils, your notes, the gear, all of it.”

“Well then,” said Cope, “if my camp is in a similar shape, I suppose I might be taking up Mr Lake’s offer to start a new dig in Colorado after all.”

“What,” Marsh roared, “the scoundrel promised he would speak to nobody else of this, and here I find he has written to you about it, YOU.” He shook his fist, “I’ll ruin you Cope, I’ll see you disgraced in every reputable scientific circle on this side of the Atlantic, if it’s the last thing I do.”

As the embers died away in the ruins of the camp, the heat melted its way into the ground and deep down, something stirred.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

The Gingerbread House

Deep inside a forest so dark and tangled it was almost a cliché, Ethel-May lived all alone in a house made of magical gingerbread. While a gingerbread might not seem like the most practical of building materials, she had no carpentry skills to speak of and her particular streak of magic happened to be culinary-based. Ethel-May had given up on society years ago and had moved as far away from it as possible. As a species, people were loud and confusing and extremely judgmental. When the local baker made a gingerbread house, he was a ‘genius’ and a ‘poet of pastry’ but when you try it, suddenly you’re ‘a witch,’ and a ‘demonic hag,’ and the next thing you know an angry mob is chasing you out of town with flaming pitchforks.

It was therefore a source of enormous surprise and confusion when one afternoon, just as the autumn leaves had begun to fall from the trees and the wind was growing colder by the day, she heard children whispering outside. And it wasn’t just whispering either…Was that…gnawing? It couldn’t be…were there actually Children out there gnawing on her house! Ethel-May rolled up her sleeves, snatched up a broom and threw open the front door.

She was confronted by the sight of two small humans crouched by the side of the house. She suspected they were a boy and a girl, but all children looked rather alike in their resemblance to overgrown naked mole-rats. Their cheeks bulged and their sticky, grubby little hands clutched chunks of gingerbread. She could see gouges all over the façade of the house. In several places, they had all most eaten clean through the walls.

Ethel-May huffed in disgust. “And just what do you think you are doing?” she demanded, brandishing her broom. “You can’t just go around eating people’s houses, it’s disgraceful and you’ll get cavities.”

The boy’s mouth fell open and a sprinkle of damp crumbs fell out onto the ground. The girl’s eyes grew very wide and her bottom lip began to tremble. She took in one long quavering breath and then burst into tears. “P-please don’t eeeeaaattt ussssssssss,” she sobbed.

“I’m not going to eat you,” Ethel-May snapped, “you’re far too skinny to make a decent meal.”

This didn’t seem to comfort the girl who exploded into a fresh wave of tears. Ethel-May caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Her hair was sticking at out at odd angles and her apron was on backwards. She looked exactly like the terrifying hag the villagers had branded her. Grudgingly she lowered the broom.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, with less anger in her voice, “where are your parents? You shouldn’t be running loose in the forest. It’s dangerous, not at all safe for children.”

The girl hiccupped and to Ethel-May’s indescribable horror, wiped her nose messily on the back of her hand. “Our dad brought us here to collect firewood,” she said.

“Well then, where is he? I’d like to have a little word with him. What kind of a parent lets their offspring run around completely unsupervised, eating the houses of respectable women!”

“He told us to collect sticks while he went to cut wood. He said he would come back but he never did,” the girl said.

“We had to sleep on the leaves,” the boy said solemnly, “It was very cold. We didn’t mean to eat your house, but we were so hungry.”

Ethel-May gripped the broomstick tightly. If there was one thing that trumped her strong views on not being bothered, it was her even stronger views about how children should be raised. “I think you had better come inside so I can get some proper food into you,” she said evenly, “All this candy will rot your teeth, it isn’t healthy.”

The boy looked at her suspiciously, “are you sure you aren’t just trying to fatten us up,” he said, ‘so you can cook us and break our bones to make your bread?”

“If I wanted to fatten you up,” Ethel-May said, “I would let you gorge yourself on gingerbread, and why would I want to use your bones to make bread, I have plenty of flour.” She turned to go back inside, “but suit yourselves, only if I catch you eating anymore of my house, we will have words.”

The boy stepped forward nervously, clutching his sister’s hand, “I suppose we could come inside,” he said, “just for a bit.”

Ethel-May put some leftover vegetable soup on the stove to warm and set out two bowls. “Now,” she said, “tell me about your parents.”

“Our dad’s angry,” the boy said, his mouth full of bread, “and mum’s dead.”

“No talking with your mouth full,” Ethel-May said automatically.

“We have a step-mum,” the girl said, “but she yells at us a lot. Sometimes she hits us because we’re bad children,” She rolled up her sleeve and showed Ethel-May a clump of purpling bruises running up her skinny arm.

Ethel-May’s eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips into a thin line. “I have a cream for those,” she said in a strange tight voice, “now, tell me properly, how did you end up in the woods.”

“Dad woke us up early and told us we were going on a trip. We went deeper and deeper into the woods. We were really tired, and our legs hurt, but he said we had to keep going. Then we stopped, and Dad told us to pick up branches while he went to look for bigger logs. We waited for hours and hours, but he never came back and then it started to get dark.”

“Dad and Gwen have been fighting a lot recently,” the girl said, “I heard them yelling at each other when they thought we were sleeping. She said he was spending too much money on us. That we were a waste of good food and we didn’t pull out weight.”

“Hmmm, is that so,” Ethel-May said, vigorously ladling out soup “Never mind about all that now. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

As the children slurped away, Ethel-May looked around the house. It was very small, only one bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a sitting room. There wasn’t enough space for guests, even two small children, but it was getting late and she had no intention of turning them out into the woods to fend for themselves, wouldn’t be decent. While they were distracted by food, she slipped away into the sitting room and stood in front of the far wall. She pointed at it with her index finger and muttered under her breath, “abracadabra, alakazam, bibbidy-bobbity, zoom.” The words didn’t actually mean anything but it always felt sadly anticlimactic to just point. The wall began to pulse and stretch. With a pop, an extra room shot out. She opened the door and walked in. It was a small room, but not too small. It had two little beds with cheerful quilts in interesting colours, and twin teddy bears propped up against the pillows. There were ducks on the wallpaper.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered, “far too extravagant,” but despite herself, her mouth wrinkled up into a tiny satisfied smile.

She stomped back into the kitchen. “You can sleep here tonight,” she said gruffly. “Luckily for you, I have an extra room.” She slammed another loaf of bread down on the table and began to saw at it aggressively. “What did you say your names were?”

“I’m Hansel,’ the boy said, ‘and this is Gretel.”

After she had put them to bed, Ethel-May put her feet up in the living room and did a spot of knitting. She did her best thinking while she knitted. As much as she disliked children, what she really despised was adult humans. They were a plague and a pox, and it was no wonder that their children grew up to be just like them. No, this was not going to remain unpunished. If people were going to go about the disgusting business of reproducing, they should not be allowed to abandon the results as soon as they became tiresome.

She woke up early the next morning and put on her best hat. It had imitation fruit on it and several large feathers. Much like its owner, it as a hat not to be trifled with. After the incident last night, she was reluctant to leave the children in her house unsupervised, but she couldn’t exactly take them with her either. Whatever was going to happen she was sure that they did not need to witness it. After a moment’s consideration she stomped out into the woods and whistled sharply four times in succession – two long trills and two short ones. From somewhere within the trees a shadow moved, coalescing into a solid form between the trunks.

“Why do you summon me mortal,” the tree nymph said grumpily, “I was watching Netflix.” She waved her fingers around, “and my nail-polish hasn’t dried yet.”

“None of that mortal business if you please,” Ethel-May said, “no need to stoop to base insults. Besides, you owe me a favour. If you’ll remember Emily, I turned that woodcutter who was trying to cut down your tree into a squirrel.”

Emily looked around warily, “you can’t just go around bandying my name about like that,” she hissed, “anybody might hear it.” She sighed, “that darn squirrel won’t stop crapping on my tree, but still, I see your point. What do you want?”

“I need you to babysit a couple of children for a few hours,” Ethel-May said.

“Children! I don’t know anything about children,” said Emily in horror, “why do you even have children anyway. You aren’t planning on eating them or something are you, because I don’t want anything to do with that sort of thing, my diet is purely photosynthetic.”  

“Why does everybody seem to think I make a habit of eating children,” Ethel-May said, “for your information, children taste terrible and I have no idea why anyone would want to eat them. All I need you to do is keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t eat me out of house and home.”

With a quiet pop and a very small puff of smoke, Ethel-May appeared behind a bus stop. She had set up a magical portal there for shopping purposes. At her age, she wasn’t going to trudge through the woods for seven hours just to buy a can of beans and she has made a habit of never eating the products of her magic. Magical food came with a series of unforeseen consequences and besides, it always gave her gas.

She sat on the bus, clutching her handbag very tightly to her knees, watching for the right bus stop. She got out in the kind of neighborhood which was fashionable fifteen years ago and would probably be re-gentrified in the next decade, but was currently somewhere in the vicinity of run-down. She squinted down at the scrap of paper in her hand, and then walked down the row of houses until she came to what she thought was the right address. It was a modest-sized house in a casually dilapidated condition. She marched up to the front door and rapped on it with the head of her walking-cane. Nothing happened. She rapped again, this time more sharply.

A pinch-lipped woman yanked the door open. She reminded Ethel-May of a particularly unpleasant ferret she had once known. “What’dya want?” the woman said, narrowing her eyes, “We don’t give money to charities.”

“I’ve come about your children,” Ethel-May said.

“I don’t have any children,” the woman said, “now shove off you nosy old bag.”

She tried to slam the door in Ethel-May’s face, which was a mistake. Ethel-May’s eyes lit up with arcane fire and the door flew out of the woman’s hand and swung back with such force she was sent stumbling backwards.

Ethel-May stepped inside. ‘You need to learn some manners,” she said in an icy voice.

The woman stood frozen in the middle of the hallway her eyes darting from Ethel-May to the door.

“Now,” said Ethel-May, “I’m going to have a little chat with you and your husband.”

The woman stared at her in silent shock, she opened her mouth to say something, but Ethel-May was already pushing past her into the sitting room where a red-faced man sat with a tray across his knees eating an enormous meat pie.

“What is going on here,” the man bellowed, “can’t a man have a bit of piece and quite to enjoy a bite in his own bloomin armchair.”

“Gerald,” the woman said in an angry shrill voice. She squeezed past Ethel-May and stood beside him, arms crossed against her chest, “this woman just barged past me, right off the street, not even an if you please. She’s been extremely rude to me and I wish you would do something about it instead of just sitting there.”

“Speak to my wife like that would you,” the man said, his face getting even redder, “the nerve, coming into our home like this. I shall have the police onto you.”

“You,” Ethel-May said, “are a pitiful excuse for a man.”

“I BEG your pardon,” he roared, jumping to his feet, sending the remainder of the pie spilling out over the carpet.

“Look what you’ve gone and done Gerry,” the woman shrieked.

“Sit down,” Ethel-May said. He sat down with a thump. This action apparently confused him and he glared angrily at his own legs.

“Would you be so kind as to explain why you left two small children alone and helpless in a forest?” Ethel-May said.

The man opened his mouth.

“Don’t bother lying to me,” Ethel-May said, “I shall know, and I don’t have all day.”

The man clamped his mouth shut and stared daggers at her.

“I don’t know why you think any of this is your business you old busy-body,” the woman said, still not catching onto the fact that this was no ordinary old woman, “Gerry’s children have gone to stay with relatives in the country, so we have no idea what you’re talking about. You can pack off and don’t come prying around here again.”

“Oh, dear,” said Ethel-May, “I told you not to lie to me.” She shook her head and sighed, “I understand not liking children. I’m not partial to them myself. But hurting them, abandoning them, leaving them in the woods to die when you hold a duty of care, now that’s the kind of thing a monster would do, and I don’t hold with monsters.”

The woman let out a gasp and clutched at her throat. She fell to her knees, clawing at her face as strange gurgling, growling sounds bubbled up out of her throat.

“What’s happening to my wife,” the man shouted, ‘what have you done to her?”

The woman fell forward onto her face and began to writhe around on the floor, her limbs contorting into unnatural angles, bones cracking and rolling under the skin. Suddenly, she froze, her body rigid, fists clenched by her sides and then she began to shrink, fur ripping over her skin as she disappeared into a pile of empty clothes.

Ethel-May bent down and reached into the pile and pulled out a small russet-coloured ferret. It growled and opened its mouth wide above her finger. “If you bite me, I will turn you into an apple pie and donate you to a church bake sale,” Ethel-May said calmly. The ferret removed its mouth and gave her a tiny ferrety glare.

Ethel-May turned to the man who was staring at her in unbridled horror. ‘Y-you just turned my wife into a WEASEL.”

“She’s a ferret actually,” said Ethel-May and pointed her cane at him.

Ethel-May boarded the bus holding a cage which contained one small ferret and one large rabbit.

“How sweet,” the woman sitting behind her cooed, “a ferret and a wittle bunny living together in harmony.” The ferret darted its head forward and nipped the rabbit’s tale. The rabbit kicked the ferret in the face. Ethel-May smiled sweetly, “what a beautiful thing,” she said.

Ethel-May hung her at on the peg beside the door and propped her walking cane up in the corner. It was comforting to note the house was still in one piece at least. Emily emerged from the kitchen, “Oh thank goodness you’re here,” she said in a breathy voice. “They keep hitting each other and running around,” she made for the door, “our debt is settled, so don’t ask me to babysit again. I need a drink, a strong one.” She melted back into the woods.

Ethel-May went into the children’s room. They were wrestling on the floor, kicking and pulling at each other’s hair.

“That’s quite enough of that,” she said sharply, with her hands on her hips. They jumped apart as if struck by lighting and attempted to look completely innocent.

“If you two are going to stay here you are going to have to learn some manners. First rule, no fighting,” she thought for a moment, “second rule, absolutely no eating the house.”

“Aren’t we going home?” Hansel asked.

“No,” Ethel-May said, “not just yet. Your parents had to go on a very long trip and they asked me to take care of you.” She reached behind her and produced the cage. “These are for you she said.”

“Ooooo,” said Gretel, poking at the rabbit through the side of the cage.

“You must take good care of these animals. You’re responsible for feeding them and cleaning up after them but most of all you must be kind to them,” she gave the rabbit a long hard stare, “and I hope for their sakes that they don’t decide to start chewing on my house, otherwise,” she said ominously, “they will be sorry.”

Gretel bounced over and hugged Ethel-May around her knees, “I love you,” she said, “can I call you Nana?”

Ethel-May patted her awkwardly on the back, ‘we’ll see about that,’ she said, ‘now be so good as to detach yourself, it’s time for lunch.’

She turned away, so they wouldn’t see the smile which despite her best efforts was beginning to creep along the sides of her mouth. “None of that my girl,” she muttered to herself as she cluttered around in the kitchen, “don’t go getting sentimental.”

[ishouldbewritingblog]

The One True King

Generally, it is assumed that the worst people are villains. This is false. The worst people are always heroes. Or rather, people who think they are heroes. At least with villains, you know where you stand, you expect villainy and diabolical plots. What you can’t predict on the other hand, is when someone will decide to be a hero, and heroes as a rule, are invariably stupid. The real ones almost never consider themselves heroic, they lean towards self-doubt and emotional confusion, which keeps conceit to an acceptable minimum and enables rational thought.

There were three things Artemisia truly hated in this world: mosquitos, her name and heroes. The problem with heroes, was they were always getting in the way and making life more difficult for everyone else. They were a plague, with an uncanny talent for showing up at precisely the wrong moment, with their shiny swords and their even shinier optimism. They were always getting killed as well. Come to think of it, that was probably why there was so many of them – they always needed replacing.

Art was not a hero. There was nothing remotely heroic about her. She grew up on the streets, clawing her way through life in one long, desperate fight for survival. By the time she was eight, she had acquired two very important things, a healthy suspicion of every person she ever met and a reputation for fighting dirty. When you’re a moderately small girl with nobody to protect you, you either learn that kind of thing very quickly, or you end up dead in a gutter.

Liam had found her when she was thirteen. It had taken her a year to trust him, and another year to teach him how use a knife properly. Liam was almost a hero. He even looked the part, over six feet of lean muscle, with a head of golden hair and a maiden’s dream of a face. He fought like he was dancing, all long-limbed elegance. Art fought like an alley cat with one eye.

Charlie was the third member of their association, and the only other man Art trusted. He was a thief by profession. It would have been comical how ineffective he was at thievery, if it hadn’t been so dangerous. A bad thief is a dead thief, and such would have been Charlie’s fate if they hadn’t rescued him from a poorly guarded cell in a town so small it didn’t have a name. Now, he was a mostly reformed thief and a more than passable sword-for-hire.

The sword was patient. It waited for the one true king to stretch out their hand and bring it forth from its stony prison. Men had come: the curious, the hopeful and the desperate. The strongest, the bravest and the wisest had tried, but in turn each had failed and returned home empty-handed.

He stood out from the crowd immediately, this handsome, golden-haired man who carried himself like a warrior. He stepped forwards and the clouds seemed to part above him. A beam of sunlight spilled forth to bathe him in its amber glow. A hush fell over the crowd and the silence had a heavy air to it, hung chill with anticipation. The man stretched out his hand, wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

The crowd groaned. A small boy began to cry. The sword waited.

The man didn’t look disappointed as he stepped away with a chuckle. Perhaps, people in the crowd thought, he was not quite so handsome as he first appeared, and his hair was only really yellow, not golden at all.

‘You have to do it, Art,’ Charlie insisted.

Art snorted, ‘what’s the point,’ she said, gesturing to the golden god. ‘If Liam can’t pry the thing loose, what chance do I have? Let’s just go. I’ll buy you a pie.’

Charlie’s resolve was not to be shaken, even by the promise of baked goods. ‘You are missing the point entirely,’ he said, ‘it isn’t actually about pulling the sword out, nobody will. If it was possible, some prince would have pulled it out by now. No, it’s about the experience, being part of a living legend. Besides, we’re holding up the line and I’m not leaving until you try it.’

One of Charlie’s chief faults, in Art’s eyes anyway, was his unshakably romantic nature.

‘Liiiiaaaaaam,’ she said, ‘tell Charlie to leave me alone.’

Liam raised his hands in a don’t-look-at-me-gesture, ‘I’m flattered you think Charlie would actually listen to a word I said, but I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one Art.’

Art glared at them both. It had been a long day. A long week really. Her left knee throbbed dully. An escaping bandit had managed to trip her during their last job, and it was still troubling her a week later. Right now, there was nothing she wanted more than to collapse into a warm bed with a hot meal in her belly, and stay there until their money ran out and they had to sign onto another wagon train. But, she could also see that Charlie had no intention of letting it go. Once he fixed his mind on something, it was difficult to sway him. She thought about hitting him on the back of the head and dragging him away by the ankles, but then Liam would give her that disapproving look of his. She decided it would be less painful for everyone involved if she just let him have his way. Again.

‘Fine, I’ll give the damned thing a tug. Then, we leave,’ she sighed, rolling her eyes. Charlie grinned. ‘Should have left you in prison,’ Art muttered. She didn’t mean it.

The sword didn’t look particularly spectacular close up. It was just an ordinary sword, well-made by the looks of it, but not special. The only remarkable thing was the fact it was embedded in an enormous chunk of granite.

Art closed her fingers around the hilt and gave a half-hearted pull.

With a schlick, the sword slid smoothly upwards out of the craggy mound in which it had waited for centuries. Waiting, as it turned out, for Art.

Art looked at it stupidly, not entirely sure what had just happened. She could feel something strange, thrumming deep within her bones, coursing through her body like a rolling wave.

She dropped the sword as if it were on fire. It clattered against the flagstones and lay still, gleaming in the noonday sun.

‘Hells bells Art,’ Charlie blurted out, ‘how did you do that?’

The crowd was silent again, but the silence was disbelieving and incredulous rather than awestruck. ‘Look here,’ a red-faced man said at last, ‘you can’t just do that.’

‘Yeah,’ another man piped in, ‘the big fellow must have loosened it up for you.’

‘That isn’t true,’ Liam said dryly, ‘it was stuck and stuck properly. Even if Art didn’t really pull it out on her own, she had no help from me.’

‘Women can’t just go around pulling things out of stones,’ another man said, ‘it might give them ideas.’

Charlie laid a warning hand on her shoulder, ‘Art…’ he said.

Art wasn’t listening.

‘Fine,’ she said sweetly. Charlie took a hasty step backwards, removing himself from the potential line of fire. ‘Fine, if that’s what you think happened, why don’t you come up here and have a go for yourself.’ She picked up the sword and ignoring the gasps of horror, stabbed it straight back into the rock.

‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘show me how a man does it.’

The red-faced man was the first to try, pushing his way past the others in his eagerness. He grabbed the hilt and pulled with all his might. The sword did not budge. He pulled harder, growing even redder in the face. The crowd grew impatient and he was shoved brusquely aside by a wave of hopefuls. What followed was nearly an hour of grunting and swearing, as man after man tried and immediately failed to remove the sword. Art watched it all, arms crossed, stony-faced. Waiting.

Eventually, every man had tried their hand to no avail.

‘Now,’ Art said calmly, ‘has everyone had a turn? Good.’

Unceremoniously, not even stopping to consider if it was going to work or not, she walked up to the sword and pulled it right out of the stone with one hand, as easily if it were embedded in butter rather than a really big stone. ‘Oh my,’ she said, ‘what a big sword, whatever will I do with it.’

It was at this point that the other mob showed up, primarily consisting of all the people who had better things to do than stand around looking at an old sword stuck in an even older rock. There had been a few women in the crowd, mainly selling over-priced food to the crowd of would-be heroes, and they had scattered when it happened, spreading the word. They told their mothers and sisters, who told their friends, who had told their husbands and sons and brothers. And now they descended, a horde of them, hands coated in flour, still holding tools.

They saw Art, they saw the sword and then the crowd exploded with noise. They pressed forwards, shoving men aside, hands outstretched. She was hoisted up onto shoulders and swept away, a piece of flotsam on a rolling wave.

‘Long live the King,’ they were chanting. Fingers reached out to grasp at her as she passed, as if she were some kind of good-luck charm. Art gave one last desperate look back at Liam and Charlie, ‘help me,’ she mouthed. Liam shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘what can I do,’ Art had no choice but to let it happen.

The failed heroes looked at each other in shock, shared commiserating looks and for the most part, dispersed. Despite the evidence of their own eyes and hands, most of them would go to their graves claiming the whole thing had been a sham, and that if only one of them had had a real chance, a decent chance, a proper chance then maybe, just maybe, the Real King would have taken up his rightful place. In their minds, the Real King was always themselves. But, they were a minority, and no-one every paid much attention to them, mainly because the kind of people who go around claiming they are heroes are generally insufferable. The real heroes never think they are heroes and therefore avoid the unpleasant reputation for conceited self-importance.

Art lost sight of Liam and Charlie in the throng. She clung to the sword, trying to avoid stabbing an innocent bystander, as she was more or less tossed from hand to hand. Despite the rough treatment, she felt fantastic. Better than she had felt in years actually. All the aches and pains seemed to have disappeared and she felt gloriously alive, unstoppable, like she could fight the river and win. This made Art deeply suspicious. It all smacked of the mystical and Art held no truck with magical happenings, they got in the way and they caused trouble. Had there not been a crowd of men trying to tell her what to do, she would have stuck the sword back in the stone and left it there.

If there was one thing Art knew for certain, it was that she did not want to be a king and she was nobody’s hero.

The king was at table when the messenger arrived. He burst into the room, all aglow with sweat. He stumbled over the threshold, righting himself just before disaster and fell to his knees before the king, panting with exertion.

‘What is it?’ the king demanded, throwing down his half-eaten chicken leg. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to interrupt me while I am eating! It’s bad for the digestion.’

The messenger looked at him nervously. The king was known, depending on his temper, to have staff executed on whim. He claimed it kept them all on their toes.

‘Spit it out man,’ the king snapped, slamming his bejewelled hand down hard on the table.

The messenger winced, ‘Your Grace,’ he stuttered out, ‘t-there’s a disturbance in the city.’

‘Well, tell the Captain of the Guard, and have him send some men out to root out the rabble-rousers,’ the king said irritably, ‘and have it spread about that the next person to trouble me with such trivial matters will lose their tongue.’

‘Someone has gone and pulled the bloody sword out of the bleedin stone,’ the messenger said, with perhaps a stray note of triumph in his voice. ‘Pulled it right out, and there’s a parade and all. They’re headed this way, proclaiming the sword-bearer the One True King.’

The king threw down his goblet and swore with the verbal dexterity of a dock-hand. ‘Where is the man,’ he roared, ‘I’ll see him hung on a gibbet before I see my throne usurped.’

Despite the danger to his continued survival, the man grinned ‘it isn’t a man. It’s a girl.’

The king’s expression turned calculating. ‘Well, well,’ he said, this I can work with.’

Art was already annoyed well before the king’s guards swooped in and snatched her. As they marched her towards the castle, not touching her, but surrounding her like a human cage. She sized them up; they had too much armour and she suspected they were better at looking intimidating than they were at actual fighting. Usually, she would have broken a few noses, kicked someone in the privates, shattered a knee-cap or two and booked it. But, with so many people around, she was worried it would turn into a full-blown riot, so like the crowd, she just went with them.

They never tried to take the sword from her. Art considered this to be their biggest mistake. If they were going to let armed strangers into their castles, they might as well hang a big banner on the wall saying ‘please come and kill us all.’ Anyone who really knew what they were doing would have taken one look at Art and pegged her for a fighter and an experienced one at that and immediately disarmed her.

They escorted her down a hall so long it seemed to stretch forever. Art had never been inside a place this big, and it made her skin crawl. The ceiling was so high above it might as well have been the sky. She didn’t see the point of what was essentially a house being this large, there were too many nooks and crannies for people to hide in. People stared at her as she walked past. She thought it was a good thing Charlie wasn’t here, with all the jewels practically dripping off these people, he probably wouldn’t have been able to help himself.

Eventually they came to a halt in front of a door which was still large by any estimation, but smaller than the rest of its surroundings. One of the guards knocked three times, Rap-tap-tap. ‘Enter,’ a voice called out. It sounded slick and oily, like an eel, or Charlie’s hair before they got sick of it and stuck his head in the river.

The guard opened the door and pushed Art in, he followed, shutting the door behind him.

Art didn’t think the king made a very impressive figure. He was on the short side, with a sallow complexion and a very small goatee. The sword hanging at his side had more jewels on it than a merchant ship. She looked at it with a critical eye: unbalanced, too much gold and oh dear, not an inlaid handle. If you tried to wield the jolly thing, all those pointy bits and jewels would cut your hand to ribbons before your opponent had time to stop laughing at you for having such a stupid sword.

‘Ahhhhh,’ he said, smiling gruesomely. His mouth was like two little greyish worms. ‘So kind of you to join me, Lady….’

‘It’s Art,’ Art said, ‘and I didn’t join you, you had me brought here, by a lot of men with swords.’

‘Speaking of swords,’ he said, apparently delighted to have been given such a convenient introduction to the subject at hand, ‘I see you have one of your own.’ He pointed at the sword Art was still gripping. ‘I’m afraid that it, and you, have caused me rather a lot of trouble. You see, that particular sword has a charming little legend attached to it. He, ahem, I do apologise, he or she, who pulls sword from stone, King shall be.’

The king walked over to a low table and poured himself a goblet of wine. He didn’t offer any to Art. ‘But you see, there is already a king. Me.’ He took a sip and stared at her calculatingly. ‘Whatever am I to do about this little dilemma?’

‘I’m not planning on sticking around, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Art said, ‘so you could just let me walk out of that door.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the king said, ‘I have a much better idea. You will marry me, and I will, of course, hold the sword on your behalf. It will pass down to our first born son, and there will be no question that through my line runs the blood of the One True King. It’s a pity you’re so scrawny and uncomely, but I suppose that can hardly be helped. ’ He gave her that thin-lipped smirk again, ‘don’t worry my dear, you will be quite comfortable. You shall have plenty of lovely things to amuse yourself with. New gowns of course,’ he thought for a minute, ‘and a little dog I think.’

‘I’m not marrying you,’ Art said bluntly, ‘I’m not marrying anyone. I don’t want your kingdom, or your throne. I’ll just take my sword and my friends and go, and you can go on being king for as long as you like.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,’ the king said, steepling his fingers together, ‘the common man is typically a dull animal, but incited by this kind of low superstition, he becomes unpleasantly single-minded.’

‘Fine,’ Art said, ‘keep the sword then.’

The king signed, ‘silly girl, were it that simple. You see, it isn’t enough to possess the sword. It’s the pulling it out of the stone part which matters.’

‘I’ve had just about enough of men calling me girl for one day,’ Art said, a dangerous note had entered into her voice. At this point, Liam would have been getting ready to drag her bodily away and Charlie would have been waiting until she was finished to check what was left for valuables if Liam wasn’t fast enough. The king was not as perceptive.

‘I did wonder if you might be difficult,’ he said, ‘the common-folk so often are. So I took the liberty of acquiring a, shall we say… incentive, for your cooperation.’ He snapped his fingers and the guard walked over to the door. Liam and Charlie were shoved in.

‘Art,’ Liam said, on the surface looked perfectly unconcerned, but Art could see he was internally cataloguing the number of men, the availability of weapons and the number of possible escape routes.’

‘I only got one guard,’ Art said, ‘how come you got five.’

‘Three of them are for Liam and two for me,’ Charlie said, ‘they seemed to think we might put up a fight. Good thing I never do any kind of violence for free.’

‘Well, it just isn’t fair,’ Art said, ‘I’m the one who pulled the magic sword out of the magic stone, I think I deserve at least as many guards as you, Charlie.’ She waved the sword, ‘and they didn’t event take my magic sword.’

Charlie shook his head, ‘slack,’ he said, ‘irresponsible. Simply tragic. Can’t even take people prisoner right these days, what is the world coming to.’

‘Silence,’ the king roared, ‘you will do exactly as I say, or I will have bits chopped of your friends until you do as you are commanded.’ His voice softened, ‘now,’ he said, holding out his hands, ‘be a good girl and give me the sword.’

Charlie sucked in a breath and muttered in a voice which was both horrified and filled with glee, ‘ohnohe’sgoingtogetitnow’. Liam shook his head, ‘oh dear,’ he said.

Art smiled widely, showing all her teeth. She stepped forward and placed the sword very carefully in his outstretched hands. His eyes lit up with triumph. As he took it, Art pulled something from her sleeve. 

Later on, a lot of people, mainly the would-be-heroes, agreed it wasn’t a very heroic thing to do. Heroes were supposed to challenge kings to a fight for their crown in the public square where everyone could see, they didn’t wait until the king’s hands were full and then slip a dagger up under their ribs in a secluded council chamber.

Art returned her knife to the arm-sheath and bent down to pick up the crown. ‘I’m guessing,’ she said the room in general, ‘that the king probably had quite a few enemies,’ the guards looked at each other in confusion, unsure of what to do. Art continued, ‘probably, there are people right here at court who would just love to get their hands on this crown,’ she paused to make sure it had all sunk in, ‘and I’d be willing to wager that those people would probably give the person who brought them the crown a substantial financial reward. They might even be so happy, they’ll overlook the fact that not a single person in this roomed bothered to check me for obvious weapons.’ She pulled her arm back and tossed the crown towards the other side of the room. It bounced off the wall and hit the ground with a thunk. The guards looked at her, looked at each other, and then as one rushed for the crown.

On the way out Charlie stole the still gurgling king’s sword. He just couldn’t help himself.

‘I hope you’re not planning on actually using that,’ Art said.

‘Probably worth quite a bit,’ Liam said, ‘maybe even a king’s ransom.’

‘Shut up,’ Art said, but she was smiling properly this time.

Art kept the sword, and it served her well, but she never went back. In fact, for the rest of her life she made a point of avoiding the entire district. If there were four things Art hated in this world, they were mosquitos, her full name, heroes and the idea that people might try to make her rule them.

Despite her best efforts to sink into anonymity, the legends continued long after her death. They even erected a disgustingly ostentatious statute of her pulling the sword out of the stone in the middle of the town. She was the chosen one, they said, the child of prophecy. She was beautiful and gracious, and of noble blood of course. She had freed them from the rule of a tyrannical king (never mind that the next one had been just as bad). And one day, at the hour of greatest need, Artemisia the One True King would return, sword raised high, a battle cry on her lips, to save them all.

But, Art was nobody’s hero.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Lucky Jack

Lucky Jack was three days deep into the desert when the wolf found him. His canteen was drained to the dregs, filled with nothing but stale air, and the distant riders were growing increasingly less distant. He could see the little puffs of dust kicked up by their horses' hooves rising into the air. His own horse had collapsed in a heap of heaving, boneless exhaustion earlier that day.

How the wolf found its way this far into the desert was anyone's guess. It was of the timber variety, an enormous, grey, shaggy beast, which had no business in this dustbowl wasteland. He had noticed it tracking him just after his horse had died, and now it was watching him from behind a scrubby bush, sitting up on its hind legs like a dog, black eyes scrutinising him with a curiously intelligent gaze.

Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead with a corner of his faded red bandana. Now that he was on foot, the riders were gaining on him. He could almost make out voices carried on the breeze.

The wolf got up, shaking the dust from its fur and ambled closer. Jack watched wearily. The animal did not appear to be stalking him, its movements were too casual. But, this far away from its natural sources of prey, it must be hungry.

The way Jack saw it, he was going to die today. How and when, was still up for debate. Either his pursuers would catch up with him, or the desert sun would do their work for them, or… Like his water supply, Jack figured his luck had just about dried up.

Jack drew his revolver. He had only three bullets left, and he would prefer not to waste them on the wolf when there were other, more deserving targets on their way. But, he also preferred not to be devoured half-alive.

Jack stared at the wolf and the wolf stared back. It opened its mouth wide, tongue lolling out, almost seeming to laugh at his predicament. And then, in the space of a heart-beat, and in two gigantic bounds, the wolf was on him. Jack was quick off the draw, but the wolf was quicker. It was enormous, much larger than the scrawny creatures Jack had crossed paths with in the past. He stood perfectly still. If the beast chose to, it could tear out his throat before he had time to twitch his trigger finger.

The wolf wagged its tail and flopped over onto his feet, raising a sizeable cloud of dust. Jack gave a yelp of surprise and then automatically tried to take a step backwards, but the weight draped over his boots trapped him. The wolf wriggled around on the ground and raised its head, looking at Jack expectantly. Gingerly, he reached down and scratched the wolf's belly. It wagged its tail enthusiastically, and twisted its head to lick Jack's hand with a scratchy tongue.

'Well I'll be tarred and feathered,' Jack said, 'looks like old lady luck's still got a hand or two to deal me.' The wolf yipped as if in agreement and rolled over, sitting up again, ears pricked, staring intently towards the growing dust clouds.

Jack stood and waited for the inexorable hand of fate to catch up with him at last. In due time, the riders arrived in a swirl of red dust. There were five of them, and not a man was packing less than two guns apiece. Jack had only three bullets, and even he was not that lucky.

'If it isn't Jacky-boy,' one of the men said, his grin flashing gold, 'fancy meeting you out here.'

'What do you want O'Hanlon?' Jack asked, knowing perfectly well what the answer was.

'Well now, Jack-me-lad,' O'Hanlon said, 'I've heard some alarming rumours about you. Rumours that, if they were true, would put a wee bit of a damper on our friendship.'

'Oh,' Jack said, 'and what rumours might they be. Friend,' his fingers drifted down to kiss the grip of his revolver.

O'Hanlon clasped a large meaty hand across his heart, 'I can hardly stand to repeat them. So terrible they are. Folks been saying you stole from me Jack-lad. That you done taken what's mine.' O'Hanlon leaned down closer, his expression was not so friendly anymore. 'They're saying you stole away my wife, Jack. And I'd have to kill you if you did it Jack. It would be a crying shame, but I'd have to kill you.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Jack said.

Jack did know what he was talking about.

O'Hanlon ran the whole town, and everybody knew it. The sheriff was fathoms deep in his pocket, and the undertaker made a killing out of anyone fool enough to think there was any kind of justice to be found in the law. He was a big man, with a silver tongue and a ruthless soul. His wife was a tiny slip of a thing with a look of perpetual terror in her soft brown eyes and the bruises to explain why.

While Jack cheated far less than people thought, he did not exactly enjoy the reputation of an honest man. However, no-one would have accused him of being a heartless one. Travels had brought him through town enough times to notice the pale drawn face of O'Hanlon's bride, and the painful way with which she carried herself. So, Jack decided to do something about it. Partly, because he could hear the ghost of his dead mother scolding him from beyond the grave, partly because he had never liked O'Hanlon, and partly because he had an unholy urge to see just how far his luck would stretch.

Accordingly, one fateful night, he strolled up to the poker table and cheated like a politician. They didn't call him lucky for naught, and by the evening's close, he had enough money to buy the lady a new life. Despite the fact that after this streak, returning would be suicide, it had given him a particular kind of thrill, knowing he had paid for the flight of O'Hanlon's battered wife with O'Hanlon's own money. After all, the man owned the saloon and the soul of near everyone in it.

'I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding,' he said calmly, 'I don't make a habit out of stealing other people's wives. So perhaps you and your boys should turn around and ride back into town before someone gets hurt.'

'Oh, someone's going to get hurt sure enough,' O'Hanlon said, 'but not before you've told me where I can find that empty-headed little slut I was crazy enough to hitch up with.'

'I can't do that,' Jack said, 'because I don't know.'

'Oh and here I was hoping you might say that,' O'Hanlon grinned again. His eyes looked almost black. 'Victor does enjoy engaging in a bit of what you might call – friendly persuasion.'

Victor, a slouching, wiry man with a sallow, unhealthy complexion smiled, exhibiting his rotting teeth, like a row of tilting gravestones.

Beside Jack, the wolf began to growl. It was a low sound, which seemed to reverberate through the ground like a wave. One by one, the tiny hairs on the back of Jack's neck stood to attention. He looked down, and the wolf was snarling, lips peeled back over fleshy pink gums and long curving teeth.

O'Hanlon seemed to finally notice the wolf. He laughed, 'I see you've found a bitch of your own. When I'm through with your sorry hide, maybe I'll skin myself a fine new winter coat.'

Lucky Jack had always suspected he wouldn't die with his boots off, he had only hoped it would be the drink that got him, rather than a bullet. His fingers closed around the grip of the revolver, and he slid it out of the holster.

'Get to work boys,' O'Hanlon drawled, 'leave enough so's he can speak, but I've got no need of the rest of him.'

Victor swung himself down from the saddle with the agility of a man accustomed to fighting in alleyways. The other men followed.

Lucky Jack cocked his revolver and stood his ground. He weighed the odds and found them wanting.

The wolf was gone. It moved like a streak of liquid silver. Like a ghost. Victor went down hard, blood welling up from the piece of meat which was once his throat. He lay on the ground, his hands wrapped around his neck, trying to breathe his own blood.

Big Ned Foster fumbled for his revolver, but it had turned on him, a creature made of teeth and death. He screamed when it first pinned him to the ground, but the screams bubbled away into silence when those merciless jaws closed around his throat.

Wild Dan Harris manged to fire off a couple of rounds, but it was too fast and his terror had crippled his aim. In those final moments, it seemed to grow larger, a thing of monstrous proportions, and then Dan Harris knew no more of this earthly plane.

Ule Smith was on his horse by now, but the great grey head turned his way, the snout slathered with gore. The dust from O'Hanlon's tracks were still settling. As most bullies are wont to do, he had turned tail the minute the odds started to shift.

Ule made it barely one hundred yards when the fangs clamped down on his wrist. His horse shied and bucked, its eyes rolling back into its skull in a paroxysm of terror. The stone which broke his back as he landed was a mercy. He didn't even feel it when his hand was torn off. All he felt was the hot sun on his face, and then, nothing at all.

O'Hanlon fled across the wasteland as if the devil himself were on his trail. The only sound for miles was of hooves pounding against the sun-baked earth. His horse galloped at an incredible speed, fear, and the bite of O'Hanlon's spurs lending it wings.

Something caught his eye. A flash of grey and white – colours not usually found out here amongst the dust and the twisted scrub. An icy hand of horror gripped his chest as he looked to his right. The wolf was keeping pace with him. It seemed to have grown bigger, almost of a size with the horse. O'Hanlon was not a religious man, but at the sight of those calculating grey eyes he began to pray. The wolf rolled back its lip, and it seemed to O'Hanlon that it was smiling at him.

With an almost effortless bound, the wolf outpaced him. For a moment, he thought it might keep going, until it melted away into the desert air. Then, he saw what it really meant to do, and for the first and only time in his life, O'Hanlon screamed, as he felt the hot breath of death bearing down on him.

Lucky jack stared at the bodies lying around him. It had all happened so damn fast. He had his revolver in hand, ready to go down in a hail of bullets. But, before he even had occasion to fire a shot, it had killed them all. O'Hanlon had fled, the wolf had followed and now he was alone with the dead.

He saw it then, in the distance. As the wolf drew closer, he noticed something was hanging from its jaws. It trotted up to him, and dropped the canteen it was carrying at Jack's feet. He bent down and scooped it up, absentmindedly rubbing away the blood which clung to the strap. He took a deep swig. It was warm and stale, but it was still water, and out here, that meant more than a nugget of gold.

Lucky Jack hung the canteen at his side and walked over to what was left of the bodies. Methodically, he stripped them of anything of use – money ammunition and most importantly, water. The horses had all bolted, so he turned back the way he had come and set off on foot.

The desert sun beat down hard, but Jack's hat kept off the worst of it. He walked over the packed-hard earth, a wolf at his side, with enough water to last him and a rifle slung across his back. Things were looking up, Jack decided.

He heard the groaning from quite some distance away. Jack looked down at the wolf padding alongside him. It looked up at him and wagged its tail.

O'Hanlon lay in a pool of blood, pinned beneath the carcass of his dead horse. When he saw Jack, he let out a bitter chuckle.

'Well Jack, if I'da known you'd gone and sold your soul to the man with hooves, I woulda' brought a preacher along,' he coughed, spitting out a huge glob of bloody phlegm. 'Ain't a natural creature, driven out of hell most like. I don't know whether you've been blessed or cursed Jacky, but your luck won't hold. One of these days you'll fetch up with a bullet in your weasel skull and wherever I am, I'll be laughing.'

Jack pulled out his revolver and cocked it. O'Hanlon laughed, 'now lad, don't be hasty. I'm a powerful man here abouts. How would you like a job? Good pay, good lodgings and as many wenches as you can service.'

Jack shot him. It was a mercy really, no man deserved to die of thirst, not even a lying, murdering, low-down wife-beater like O'Hanlon.

Lucky Jack walked on, and the wolf followed. The desert stretched out dead and empty in every direction. Behind them, it had claimed five new sets of bones, waiting to be picked clean by the circling buzzards and bleached white by the sun.

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