David Hadley's Blog, page 97

The Goatherd

Until that day, he was another ordinary boy of his tribe. He spent most of his time out on the bare, windy hillsides watching the herds. He had little more than a sharpened stick and a knife to protect them, should any predators come down from the hills. If any raiders rode across the plains from the lands of other tribes, Saman was to race for the warriors, calling for them to help.

Most of the time, though, he and the other boys sat, or stood, on the hillsides watching and waiting as the days turned to nights and the nights turned back to days.

It was a cold misty day, fading into evening. Already, in the distance he could see the glow of fires in the village. Saman wished he were there, back in front of the fires, or as close as the boys could get, listening to the warriors telling their tales of battles, skirmishes and victories.

He would be out there on that hillside all night. Already, he had a few twigs and some moss gathered to keep his own fire burning, but he needed more. Up the hill from where he sat, under the overhang of a rock, he knew there were the remnants of a lightning-struck tree. It would give him a few sticks, perhaps enough for his fire to last until the dawn’s blood kissed the sky.

‘Saman.’

He turned. There was no-one there.

He turned back, dismissing it as a trick of the wind, or a cry from one of the goats a few strides away.

He was young, but he knew all about the way the night could play tricks. He knew all about the caprices of the demons and other creatures that hid in the shadows of the night. He took a twig from the fire to light is way as he peered into the shadows around the rock.

‘Saman.’

He looked up and she was standing there.

‘Who…? What…?’ Saman yelped as the flame burnt down the twig he held, burning his fingers. He shook his hand, burying it in his armpit.

The woman reached out a hand. ‘Let me.’

Tentative at first, he held out his red and sore fingers to her.

Her hand was cool. She kissed his fingers and the pain was gone.

‘Who…?’

‘I have come for you, Saman,’ the mysterious woman said. ‘You are to be mine.’

For Her Eyes

I forget too much sometimes. I forget how to ease the day out of the night time, so the dawn waits behind closed curtains for me. Waiting for me to remember how to shape the day and bring the sun up from beyond the horizon.

I forget which blue the sky could be, sometimes leaving the dawn red and purple. Instead, I try to recall how to shape the clouds and place them in the sky, growing angry at them so they grow thick, grey and heavy. All filled with the tears of one who has forgotten how to grow the grasses, flowers and trees out of this unforgiving ground.

I forget to bring the animals out from where they hide and to give them the names they need to feel their place in this land. I forget which ones graze and which ones kill and devour. Then the animals run amok, destroying this world I do not remember how to remake afresh each day.

Instead, I watch over her as she sleeps, trying to remember how I made her. Remember how to set her awake again, so I can watch her move through this world I made fore her. Watch her delight in all the living things I filled with breathing motion just for her to see.

I made this world just for her and for her to see how much I cared for her. I was willing to create this whole world just for her, in the hope she would turn to me. Then, perhaps I would see that love I long for, there in her eyes and there only for me.

 

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Martin Laws hates mysteries. 

So why has someone sent him a bag of juggling balls? 

Why has he no memory of buying a new computer?

Why has that new computer decided Martin needs to go shopping?

Why does a hairstylist he’s never met before keep saluting him?

Most of all, why are so many Elvis impersonators trying to kill him?

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[Other Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

On Putting Lead in Your Pencil

Obviously, the pencil sharpener was involved. But for those with interests in the use of the pencil sharpener, and for that matter the trusty HB pencil, in an erotic environment, then there are – no doubt – certain specialised websites that will cater to those sorts of… interests.

Probably.

However, it was not so much her use of the pencil sharpener that aroused – in many senses of the word – so much interest in her audience. After all, we – as people of the world – have no doubt sharpened a few pencils ourselves. No, it was more the rather fascinating wrist action she used to get that sharp point on her 2H, which made us all pay more attention than would otherwise be the case.

Of course, being men with an interest in that sort of thing we all noticed her use of the 2H, rather than the more traditional, if not ubiquitous, HB.

She looked us all in the eye while running her fingertip over the point. ‘I prefer a hard one,’ she said.

Those of us not already sweating, despite the coolness of the day – broke out into one. Then discovered a fascination within ourselves for looking anywhere around the classroom rather than at the way that fingertip stroked the end of that… that… pencil. Or, even, the way her tongue peeked out between her full scarlet- lipsticked lips.

Those of us holding our now obviously inadequate 2Bs looked down at them. Suddenly forlorn and useless, if not already seeming limp in our hands. We all swore under our breath that as soon as possible we would be off to the nearest stationery shop to get ourselves at least a 2H of out own. Those of us with more imagination wondered if a 4H, or even the mythical 9H, would be too much. But a woman of her undoubted experience would no doubt appreciate something a little bit more sophisticated than such obvious crudity.

Meanwhile, she pulled her pencil out of the sharpener looked us all in the eye again and said. ‘Are you ready?’

We all nodded as one, gripping our pencils in shaking hands we touched their tips to the virgin whiteness of our sketch pads.

 

The UK’s Most Popular TV Presenter

Spleen Topiary is – it is said – the UK’s best known celebrity TV presenter. It doesn’t matter what the programme is about, or even – indeed – if the programme is about anything. If any programme needs someone to front it, then the programme is usually presented by Topiary and her trademark hairstyle. Not matter what the subject, she will do it, whether the programme is on how to cook a bit of dinner, right through to particle physics.

Topiary began her meteoric rise to the top of TV presenting by working on the children’s TV programme It’s an Animal back in the days when there was something recognisable as children’s TV. There, both her and her hairstyle learnt how to cope with the main problems faced by anyone trying to present a TV programme. Including such abilities as how to walk and talk at the same time without falling over or bumping into things. She also learnt the hardest part of TV programme presenting, which is how not to look like a loony when doing a piece to camera on a busy city thoroughfare. However, this has ceased to be so much of a problem for the TV presenter since the invention of the mobile phone. In particular, the hands-free headset as nowadays it is assumed that any person talking and gesticulating whilst walking down the street is on the phone, rather than some nutter talking to themselves.

Another problem faced by TV presenters that Topiary has managed to solve, without any significant damage to her hairstyle is how to gesticulate. Most of us when talking, especially to complete strangers tend to keep to familiar hand-gestures. Especially so when describing our perception of some other motorists driving ability to them, usually at a junction or roundabout. However, the TV presenter must learn, practice and develop a whole panoply of hand gestures used by no other human beings on the planet. This Topiary has managed to do to such a degree she has won the coveted TV Presenters Use Of Gesticulation Award at the annual BAFTAs the last seven years in a row.

So it seems Topiary will go on from strength to strength as the TV presenter of choice for all manner of TV factual shows for the foreseeable future. No doubt with her and her hairstyle appearing on our screens for many more years to come.

Britain’s Sports Personality of the Year

It was announced earlier today that the celebrity philosopher Pensive Dropgoal, is to be the new professor of Hot Beverage Studies at the University of Evesham. Of course, these days philosophy is a glamorous and highly-paid profession. Devoted crowds of fans turn out in their hundreds of thousands. All filling stadiums throughout the world to watch their favourite philosophy teams take on each other in live debate.

It was his last-minute free riposte against the Paris Existentialists in last year’s European Philosophy cup final that shot Dropgoal to fame throughout the world. A three-hundred word long sentence with a twist in the final sub-clause that left the French goalkeeper stranded on his argument line. It was enough to clinch the cup for the Oxford team and their controversial manager, Bertie Wittgenstein.

Of course, though, Dropgoal’s appointment has not been without controversy, especially for his oft-reported opposition to what he calls Hot Milky Drinks. These are those beverages sold in modern coffee bars that Dropgoal contends ‘are not really coffee at all’. A controversy that has bought him into dispute with several of the philosophers employed by the leading coffee bar chains. Some of whom call into question Dropgoal’s very definition of what is or isn’t coffee.

However, such tactical subtly and widespread controversy has done little to damage Dropgoal’s lucrative sponsorship deals. Calvin’s Klean underwear, of course, is world famous for its adverts. Each advert Phowing Dropgoal wearing only a pair of their underpants, about to step out into a packed philosophy stadium to engage in some exhibition mass debating.

With his glamorous wife, Jenny ‘Posh positivist’ Ayers on his arm, Dropgoal is more or less a fixture at celebrity events these days. Although, there are some articles on the tabloid back pages by seasoned philosophy match reporters saying that the sponsorships, late-night parties and other elements of the celebrity lifestyle are a detriment to Dropgoal’s form on the philosophy pitch. Especially so with him missing several open goals and a few easy arguments in his last few philosophy matches of the season. However, though, it looks like the management of the Oxford Epicureans, including Bertie Wittgenstein himself, will forgive Dropgoal his glamorous celebrity lifestyle as long as he keeps on putting the arguments in the back of the opposition’s net. Which, despite a slight drop in form at the end of last season, it looks like he can do – baring any career-ending injury – for many years to come.

 

 

 

A Fine Figure of a Woman

She was – of course – a fine figure of a woman. A fact that had been fully-audited by many independent experts. But Pantechnicon Dodecahedron was far more than a pretty face – and a body that made men walk into lampposts. Dodecahedron first shot to fame in her very first film Kill Them Until They are Dead! where she played the vital third corpse. Dodecahedron is discovered on the bathroom floor by the world-weary detective, played – of course by Gravelly Chinstubble in one of his most famous grizzled detective roles. Dodecahedron was, as usual in these films, killed while taking a shower. Consequently, her naked body lay unmoving on screen for almost the entire 7 minutes of the scene. Film buffs, of course made sure they studied this scene in minute detail, even before the days of the VCR and its juddering freeze-frame. Some men said she had a body of an angel. Whilst some men, commenting on her ability to stay unmoving whilst naked, say she reminded them very much of their own wives.

After this critical, and popular, success, Dodecahedron played several more naked corpses in many other films. In one famous continuity error, Dodecahedron played two dead bodies in the same film. Even so, Dodecahedron’s agent was able to get her a small speaking part in her next film. Here, she had two lines of dialogue before becoming the serial killer’s next – naked, of course – victim.

Dodecahedron was now receiving more and more attention from the general public. So, in turn, film producers began to pay more attention to her and cast her more often. The box office success of all the films she appeared in made Dodecahedron an enormous star in the making.

Dodecahedron’s next breakthrough, though, came when she played not only the naked murder victim, but also – in a key scene of the film – the naked corpse on the pathologist’s autopsy table. This film was also a milestone in Dodecahedron’s career for another reason. Not only did she have seven lines, but she was also featured in two separate scenes before she became the naked corpse.

Dodecahedron’s next film saw her star on the film poster for the first time, as well as featuring in the trailers. It looked as though she was on her way at last.

Her great success, of course, led to a glut of films featuring naked female corpses – a trend many believe still continues to this day.

Although, in her next film, Kill Death to Murder III, Dodecahedron was not only the star, she didn’t get killed at all, surviving right through to the final credits. Not only that, apart from one shot of her naked back as she exits the shower, she was not naked at all in the film. As the film was released at its publicity press conference, Dodecahedron released a statement saying that this film would be the very last one where she would appear naked in any way at all.

The film, of course, was a massive flop and Dodecahedron never worked in the industry again. Instead, she made a very lucrative career in advertisements for shampoo and shower gel before retiring a multimillionaire at the age of 37, becoming Gravelly Chinstubble’s 12th wife and – much more importantly – his personal manager.

 

After it was Over

Afterwards, Rimbah left her lying there, next to the body of her husband. She lay there in her torn clothes making no move to cover herself, or to stop the bleeding from her nose where he’d struck her. At first, she’d fought, beating at him with her fists, elbows and knees. Then when they were as close as it was possible for a man and woman to be, she’d spat at him, tried to bite him and claw his eyes out.

Rimbah, though, knew his rights. He had killed her husband; so now she belonged to him, at least for this night. She had to learn, though, like all his other wives, that a woman never refused a warrior. He’d hit her enough to stop her fighting, but that was all. After all, he’d worked hard in the short brutal battle, killing several men and some of their sons before they’d won the women, and the other goods and chattels.

There was a baby crying somewhere in the hut. Rimbah’s hand went to his dagger, but the killing mood had left him now. They would leave the baby for the wolves, the wild dogs and the other scavengers that would come once the raiding party moved on, taking the captured women, the cattle and the other prizes with them.

Rimbah yawned, not noticing the woman had moved, not noticing anything until the sharp cooking knife slashed a wide red slash across his yawning throat. He turned, eyes wide in wonder, already dying, to see the woman smiling as he fell into the still hot embers of her cooking fire, next to the body of her husband.

 

 

Captured

It was a large empty room. There was a small window high on the wall, too high for her to reach. The floor was hard, cold, stone with a scattering of musty straw over most of it, with a small heap under where she lay.

She assumed it was daytime outside, judging from the small, but bright, amount of light the tiny window let into the room. Over the far side, she could see a heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron and studded with black-painted bolts. It looked like a serious door.

It took a few minutes of confusion for her to awake fully. The last thing she remembered was strolling down the road into the woods with a basket, heading for the place where the wild berries grew.

Now she was here.

She knew enough to know it was some kind of dungeon.

Delia wanted to call out, yell for help. It must be a mistake. She had never done anything wrong, not even that time Delia and the blacksmith’s apprentice, Tole, had crept away during the midsummer festival and gone moonlight swimming down at the river.

She did not deserve to be a prisoner. Delia knew this was not the castle dungeon either. Her Lord’s castle dungeons were below ground and had iron gratings in their roofs for light and air.

She did not know where this place was or how she’d arrived here. She did not know who had captured her and she did not know what they wanted her for.

She struggled to her feet. Her shabby dress was ripped and torn as though she’d been dragged through a thorn bush. Apart from a couple of scratches, one on her arm and one on her thigh, she was untouched and unmarked.

She thought about crying out again, but wondered whether being remembered would be worse than being forgotten in a place like this… whatever this place was.

All Delia knew was that it didn’t look good.

Then she heard the footsteps out beyond the heavy door, and she knew they were coming for her.

 

Beyond the Edge of the Garden

Something I’d liked about the cottage when I bought it, was the way its garden merged into the rough ground beyond it. I’d always intended to – one day – explore what lay beyond the edge of my garden, but like all those ‘one days’ we have this one had never come around.

Then, one July afternoon, I was sitting out there in my new favourite place in the shade of the big willow tree when I put down my book and looked up.

There was another tree there, a silver birch which, according to the paperwork I’d seen at the conveyancing solicitor’s office, denoted the edge of my property. The land beyond, from that tree down to the edge of the stream, seemingly didn’t belong to anyone, not the council, not the local farmers, not my neighbours and not me. The solicitor had shrugged when I’d asked about it. ‘Just another one of those things lost in the mists of history,’ she said and gave me what seemed like several hundred papers to sign.

Apparently it had something to do with Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries, this once being monastery land, apparently.

I couldn’t see any reason to wait any longer and today was as good as any. I strolled down to the silver birch, leaning on it with one outstretched arm, while I peered into the undergrowth.

I noticed there was something in there, something man-made, almost lost under the brambles, grass and other wild plants.

I decided to see what it was.