James Field's Blog, page 26
November 1, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were soft blue and he blinked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a thatched cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
One thing was certain, if any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"Fancy a game of bridge?" said Styles, his voice lacking enthusiasm.
Chief Inspector Dobbs didn't give Alf time to reply. He nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need a fourth man."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter coughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacked smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone had taken a pot-shot at him and the bullet had torn his forehead out. Surgeons had built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal had caused severe migraine attacks ever after.
The remedy had been one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He'd etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It had taken a while to master his third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you. I have a sister..."
"She's a criminal," interrupted Chief Inspector Dobbs.
Styles didn't object; he even nodded. "She's much younger than me and was my parents' favourite. When they died, they left all their wealth to her."
"Deplorable," said the vicar.
"All they left me was this hamlet," said Styles, lifting his arms to include the whole of The Stables. "And in those days it was in ruins and worth nothing."
"Why didn't you sell it to house developers," asked Alf. "You could have made a fortune."
"Because most of the buildings are of historic interest and protected." As if to stifle the odious problem from his mind, Styles slid the top few cards from the deck and started to build a house. His tongue poked out between a perfect set of false teeth.
Alf could easily understand why the authorities had safeguarded the hamlet. Anyone entering The Stables would think they'd passed through a time warp, sending them back to Queen Victoria's days. "Well, it's worth a fortune now. You've made a bloody good job of renovating it. So what are the glum faces for?"
"May I?" said the lawyer, directing his question to Styles.
The old man answered with a small nod and started on the house of cards second floor.
"Mr Styles' sister has contested the will and says she wants a share in it."
"Can she?" Alf glanced around the table. From everyone's expression, it was clear she could.
"Yes, partly," said the lawyer. He paused as if drafting his thoughts. "There is a stipulation in the will that states she has a right to fifty-one per cent ownership of this inn and can claim it any time she likes."
"Ye Olde Inn?" said Alf.
"Yes."
"Just the inn?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"But that ain't fair," said Alf. "It's him and his hard work that's…"
The lawyer raised his hand, silencing Alf. "I agree with you. However, all is not lost. Mr Styles has the right to buy her share at today's market value. The courts have given him eight days to either complete the purchase or lose control."
In a flutter, the house of cards collapsed.
Part 07
In this post: Alf learns where the action is and feels a surge of heartbeat…
Styles, Vicar Bitter, and Chief Inspector Dobbs stared into their drinks.
In an uncertain tone, Alf asked, "Does it matter if she takes control?"
"Of course it does," said chief Inspector Dobbs. "She'll turn this place into a brothel and gambling house. We can't have that."
"Heaven forbid," said Vicar Bitter, face as straight as a fence post.
"It's what she does in town," continued Chief Inspetor Dobbs. "She owns and runs the Hotel California."
Alf had heard of it. "Isn't the Hotel California an old people's home for the wealthy?"
"It's a cover-up," snapped Chief Inspector Dobbs, tightening his grip around his mug of beer. "I tried to bust her once, but she's an evil mobster who covers her crimes well. Her bouncers protect her with their lives. You can't imagine how much I hate them."
Alf noticed his heart rate speed up. It sounded like the place he ought to pay a visit.
"It'll be the death of The Stables as we know it," said Styles.
"Speaking as a man of God," said Vicar Bitter, "I find this appalling. After she turns this magnificent inn into a house of sin, who will allow their innocent young daughters to come to The Stables? The village's entire clientele will shift from God-fearing citizens to devil worshippers."
"Can't you just pay her off?" asked Alf, already knowing the answer.
The lawyer slid a piece of paper from his briefcase and flicked it with a finger.
"Surveyors have valued Ye Olde inn at six-point-four million pounds."
Alf whistled.
"Yeah," agreed Sykes, "and I've got nothing like that much money. The bank won't lend me any either. It's futile. All is lost." From a corner of his eye, a tear rolled down his cheek and splattered on top of his collapsed house of cards.
To be continued…
The real world:Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by ijmaki from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were soft blue and he blinked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a thatched cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
One thing was certain, if any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"Fancy a game of bridge?" said Styles, his voice lacking enthusiasm.
Chief Inspector Dobbs didn't give Alf time to reply. He nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need a fourth man."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter coughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacked smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone had taken a pot-shot at him and the bullet had torn his forehead out. Surgeons had built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal had caused severe migraine attacks ever after.
The remedy had been one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He'd etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It had taken a while to master his third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you. I have a sister..."
"She's a criminal," interrupted Chief Inspector Dobbs.
Styles didn't object; he even nodded. "She's much younger than me and was my parents' favourite. When they died, they left all their wealth to her."
"Deplorable," said the vicar.
"All they left me was this hamlet," said Styles, lifting his arms to include the whole of The Stables. "And in those days it was in ruins and worth nothing."
"Why didn't you sell it to house developers," asked Alf. "You could have made a fortune."
"Because most of the buildings are of historic interest and protected." As if to stifle the odious problem from his mind, Styles slid the top few cards from the deck and started to build a house. His tongue poked out between a perfect set of false teeth.
Alf could easily understand why the authorities had safeguarded the hamlet. Anyone entering The Stables would think they'd passed through a time warp, sending them back to Queen Victoria's days. "Well, it's worth a fortune now. You've made a bloody good job of renovating it. So what are the glum faces for?"
"May I?" said the lawyer, directing his question to Styles.
The old man answered with a small nod and started on the house of cards second floor.
"Mr Styles' sister has contested the will and says she wants a share in it."
"Can she?" Alf glanced around the table. From everyone's expression, it was clear she could.
"Yes, partly," said the lawyer. He paused as if drafting his thoughts. "There is a stipulation in the will that states she has a right to fifty-one per cent ownership of this inn and can claim it any time she likes."
"Ye Olde Inn?" said Alf.
"Yes."
"Just the inn?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"But that ain't fair," said Alf. "It's him and his hard work that's…"
The lawyer raised his hand, silencing Alf. "I agree with you. However, all is not lost. Mr Styles has the right to buy her share at today's market value. The courts have given him eight days to either complete the purchase or lose control."
In a flutter, the house of cards collapsed.
Part 07
In this post: Alf learns where the action is and feels a surge of heartbeat…
Styles, Vicar Bitter, and Chief Inspector Dobbs stared into their drinks.
In an uncertain tone, Alf asked, "Does it matter if she takes control?"
"Of course it does," said chief Inspector Dobbs. "She'll turn this place into a brothel and gambling house. We can't have that."
"Heaven forbid," said Vicar Bitter, face as straight as a fence post.
"It's what she does in town," continued Chief Inspetor Dobbs. "She owns and runs the Hotel California."
Alf had heard of it. "Isn't the Hotel California an old people's home for the wealthy?"
"It's a cover-up," snapped Chief Inspector Dobbs, tightening his grip around his mug of beer. "I tried to bust her once, but she's an evil mobster who covers her crimes well. Her bouncers protect her with their lives. You can't imagine how much I hate them."
Alf noticed his heart rate speed up. It sounded like the place he ought to pay a visit.
"It'll be the death of The Stables as we know it," said Styles.
"Speaking as a man of God," said Vicar Bitter, "I find this appalling. After she turns this magnificent inn into a house of sin, who will allow their innocent young daughters to come to The Stables? The village's entire clientele will shift from God-fearing citizens to devil worshippers."
"Can't you just pay her off?" asked Alf, already knowing the answer.
The lawyer slid a piece of paper from his briefcase and flicked it with a finger.
"Surveyors have valued Ye Olde inn at six-point-four million pounds."
Alf whistled.
"Yeah," agreed Sykes, "and I've got nothing like that much money. The bank won't lend me any either. It's futile. All is lost." From a corner of his eye, a tear rolled down his cheek and splattered on top of his collapsed house of cards.
To be continued…
The real world:Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by ijmaki from Pixabay
October 28, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritability.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, shaggy dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And put it on the slate." All he knew about the barman was that he used to be a bus driver and deemed himself a psychoanalyst, always asking questions and coming with unwanted advice.
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Want to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and had a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was gawking at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man to a fight outside.
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were soft blue and he blinked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
One thing was certain, if any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"Fancy a game of bridge?" said Styles.
Chief Inspector Dobbs nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need a fourth man."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter coughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacking smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone had taken a pot-shot at him and the bullet had torn his forehead out. Surgeons built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal caused severe migraine attacks ever after. The remedy was one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It took a while to master his third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you."
Part 06
In this post: A lawyer explains Sykes' cruel will…
"I have a sister," said Styles. "She's younger than me and was my parents' favourite."
"She's a criminal," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.
"When my parents died," said Styles, "they left all their wealth to her."
"Deplorable," said the vicar.
"All they left me was this hamlet," said Styles. "And in those days it was in ruins and worth nothing."
"Why didn't you sell it to house developers," asked Alf. "You could have made a fortune."
"Because most of the buildings are of historic interest and protected." Absentmindedly, Styles slid the top few cards from the deck and started to build a house. His tongue poked out between a perfect set of falsies.
Alf could easily understand why the authorities had safeguarded the hamlet. Anyone entering The Stables would think they'd passed through a time warp, sending them back to Queen Victoria's days. "Well, it's worth a fortune now. You've made a bloody good job of renovating it. So what are the glum faces for?"
"May I?" said the lawyer, directing his question to Styles.
He answered with a small nod and started on the house of cards second floor.
"Mr Styles' sister has contested the will and says she wants a share in it."
"Can she?" Alf glanced around the table. From everyone's expression, it was clear she could.
"Yes, partly," said the lawyer. He paused as if drafting his thoughts. "There is a stipulation in the will that states she has a right to fifty-one per cent ownership of this inn and can claim it any time she likes."
"That ain't fair," said Alf. "It's him and his hard work that's…"
The lawyer raised his hand, silencing Alf. "I agree with you. However, all is not lost. Mr Styles has the right to buy her share at today's market value. The courts have given him eight days to either complete the purchase or lose control."
In a flutter, the house of cards collapsed.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by succo from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritability.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, shaggy dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And put it on the slate." All he knew about the barman was that he used to be a bus driver and deemed himself a psychoanalyst, always asking questions and coming with unwanted advice.
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Want to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and had a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was gawking at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man to a fight outside.
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were soft blue and he blinked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
One thing was certain, if any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"Fancy a game of bridge?" said Styles.
Chief Inspector Dobbs nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need a fourth man."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter coughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacking smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone had taken a pot-shot at him and the bullet had torn his forehead out. Surgeons built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal caused severe migraine attacks ever after. The remedy was one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It took a while to master his third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you."
Part 06
In this post: A lawyer explains Sykes' cruel will…
"I have a sister," said Styles. "She's younger than me and was my parents' favourite."
"She's a criminal," said Chief Inspector Dobbs.
"When my parents died," said Styles, "they left all their wealth to her."
"Deplorable," said the vicar.
"All they left me was this hamlet," said Styles. "And in those days it was in ruins and worth nothing."
"Why didn't you sell it to house developers," asked Alf. "You could have made a fortune."
"Because most of the buildings are of historic interest and protected." Absentmindedly, Styles slid the top few cards from the deck and started to build a house. His tongue poked out between a perfect set of falsies.
Alf could easily understand why the authorities had safeguarded the hamlet. Anyone entering The Stables would think they'd passed through a time warp, sending them back to Queen Victoria's days. "Well, it's worth a fortune now. You've made a bloody good job of renovating it. So what are the glum faces for?"
"May I?" said the lawyer, directing his question to Styles.
He answered with a small nod and started on the house of cards second floor.
"Mr Styles' sister has contested the will and says she wants a share in it."
"Can she?" Alf glanced around the table. From everyone's expression, it was clear she could.
"Yes, partly," said the lawyer. He paused as if drafting his thoughts. "There is a stipulation in the will that states she has a right to fifty-one per cent ownership of this inn and can claim it any time she likes."
"That ain't fair," said Alf. "It's him and his hard work that's…"
The lawyer raised his hand, silencing Alf. "I agree with you. However, all is not lost. Mr Styles has the right to buy her share at today's market value. The courts have given him eight days to either complete the purchase or lose control."
In a flutter, the house of cards collapsed.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by succo from Pixabay
October 25, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes' stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritability.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, shaggy dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And put it on the slate." All he knew about the barman was that he used to be a bus driver and deemed himself a psychoanalyst, always asking questions and coming with unwanted advice.
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Want to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and had a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was gawking at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man and take him outside for a fight.
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were a soft blue and he winked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
If any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Part 05
In this post: Vicar Bitter suggests they play strip poker…
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"We're playing bridge," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. He nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need someone to take his place."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter caughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacking smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone took a pot-shot at him and the bullet tore his forehead out. Surgeons built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal caused severe migraine attacks ever after. The remedy was one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It took a while to master the third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you."
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by b0red from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes' stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritability.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, shaggy dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And put it on the slate." All he knew about the barman was that he used to be a bus driver and deemed himself a psychoanalyst, always asking questions and coming with unwanted advice.
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Want to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and had a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was gawking at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man and take him outside for a fight.
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were a soft blue and he winked with long eyelashes. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." Alf broke eye contact and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight here either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
If any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
Part 05
In this post: Vicar Bitter suggests they play strip poker…
Styles cradled a glass of beer, Vicar Bitter twirled a glass of sherry, the smart man swirled a glass of cognac, and Chief Inspector Dobbs grasped a glass of brown ale. On the table between them rested a roughly stacked pack of playing cards.
"We're playing bridge," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. He nodded at the smartly dressed stranger. "This bloke here is Styles' lawyer and he has to leave shortly. I hate lawyers, so I'm glad he's going. But we need someone to take his place."
"I don't know how to play bridge," said Alf. Card playing wasn't the sort of excitement he searched for.
"How about whist, then?"
"That's a woman's game."
Vicar Bitter caughed softly into his hand. "Okay," he said. "In that case, how about a few hands of poker?"
All four stared at him. There was no doubt he had a poker-face. It was long, gaunt, and lacking smile lines. He was a big man, with enormous hands, more suitable for wielding a shovel than a bible.
The vicar shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "I like to keep in with the youngsters. Sometimes I accompany them to their rooms of an evening where we smoke, take drugs, and play strip poker."
This was more to Alf's taste. He twisted to one side and burst out in laughter, but the others didn't seem amused. "Good man," he said, slapping the vicar on his back. "I'll join you for a hand or two. What are we playing for?"
"Matchsticks," said Styles.
"Why not money?"
"Because we've heard you always win as if you use magic."
Alf laughed again. Long ago, someone took a pot-shot at him and the bullet tore his forehead out. Surgeons built it up again with a titanium plate, but the metal caused severe migraine attacks ever after. The remedy was one of Master Trevor Cloud's inventions. He etched a micro-circuit into the titanium plate, which not only cured his headaches but also gave him super vision through his pineal gland. It took a while to master the third sight, but these days it was no problem to see the cards in the other player's hand. Opponents were chanceless.
"Right, we forget about the cards," said Chief Inspector Dobbs. "I hate playing cards anyway. Let's just get blind drunk."
Alf threw his hands up in an "I give up" gesture. "What's the matter with you lot?" he blurted.
Nobody answered until Sykes sucked in a deep breath and said, "Stick around and I'll tell you."
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by b0red from Pixabay
October 21, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritation.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And have one yourself."
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Wan't to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was staring at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man outside for a fight.
Part 04
In this post: Why were a lawyer, the police, and a vicar harassing Alf's friend, Sykes?
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." The tension drained from Alf and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight her either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
If any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritation.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And have one yourself."
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Wan't to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was staring at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man outside for a fight.
Part 04
In this post: Why were a lawyer, the police, and a vicar harassing Alf's friend, Sykes?
The man slid slowly from his stool, faced Alf, and spread his legs in a wide stance. A grin played across his square jawline as his head raised and lowered, assessing his opponent before the battle.
"Come outside," said Alf, dead set on a good punch-up, "and I'll bust those fat lips of yours."
"I'm awfully sorry," whined the man and whipped his sunglasses off. "No offence. I just thought you looked so butch." He rested his left hand on his hip, pursed his lips, and smiled sweetly. "I'm here for the wedding tomorrow and it's terribly exciting. Will I see you there?"
Alf's skin tightened. "No."
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"No." The tension drained from Alf and his shoulders dropped: no chance of a fight her either. He snatched up his beer, turned his back on the man, and gazed into the lounge.
Only one table was occupied. Four elderly men sat around it: Styles, the owner of The Stables; Vicar Bitter, who resided in the chapel's vicarage; Chief Inspector Dobbs, a semi-retired police officer who lived in a cottage; and a stylishly dressed man he'd never seen before, a smarmy lawyer maybe. They looked every bit as miserable as him.
Sykes waved at him, beckoning him to join them. The Stable's ageing owner was a money pincher, but also a cheerful and kind old soul who got along well with most people. Despite Alf's low social status, he'd shown him nothing but friendship and had a knack of brightening Alf's mood whenever he felt down.
It pained Alf to see him looking so glum. The normal spark of merriment was absent from his eyes, and his body sagged worse than usual. He wondered if the other three had anything to do with his grief. Perhaps a close relative had died. Why else would a vicar, the police, and a lawyer be sitting with him?
If any of them were causing him trouble, he'd take them outside and rough them up. All three if necessary.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay
October 18, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
Part 03
In this post: Alf is itching for a fight. Will the man at the bar be his next victim?
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritation.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And have one yourself."
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Wan't to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was staring at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man outside for a fight.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by Alexander Lesnitsky from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
Part 03
In this post: Alf is itching for a fight. Will the man at the bar be his next victim?
He loved the Inn with its low-beamed ceiling, open fire, and small diamond-shaped lead-lined windows. The scent of ancient cigars and wood polish hung in the air, and the heavy curtains, deep carpets, and thick stone walls muffled sound as though they cocooned him in cotton wool. Today, however, it didn't agree with his mood and only added to his irritation.
"Hi there, Alf," said the barman, polishing glasses. "The usual Coke." He was a pot-bellied little fellow with a bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair, and marble eyes.
"Give me a pint of your best bitter," said Alf. "And have one yourself."
The barman plucked a mug from a shelf above his head and pulled the beer. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm taking a few days off, a sort of holiday. Any objections?"
"Might have." The barman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Wan't to settle it outside?"
Alf swallowed half his beer in one gulp, showed the barman his finger, and shifted his attention to a stranger seated at the end of the bar. He was almost as tall as Alf, wore a black leather jacket, matching trousers, and a bright red silk scarf tied neatly around his neck. If the gear hadn't been so shiny and new, Alf might have mistaken him for a Hell's Angel.
Alf couldn't be sure, but he suspected the man was staring at him from behind his mirrored Ray Bands, "What're you looking at?" he said, staring right back. A twinge of hope made him lick his lips. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could provoke this man outside for a fight.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Picture by Alexander Lesnitsky from Pixabay
October 14, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
Part 02
In this post: Vehicles were banned, so why was a Mercedes parked outside the Inn?
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.e to edit.
-
Picture taken by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
Part 02
In this post: Vehicles were banned, so why was a Mercedes parked outside the Inn?
The village clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre flourished a great oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and a graveyard dominated one side of the green. A blacksmith, a general store, and Mr Sykes's stately townhouse ranged along a second side of the triangle. And Ye Olde inn with its stables filled the third section.
Three dirt track roads spun off from the green at each corner. One led out to the entrance and mini zoo at the busy main road. A second led to a residential neighbourhood. The third dropped to a ford and narrow footbridge that crossed a gentle river and then opened to rich meadows. This is where the horses grazed and the farm buildings stood.
Alf made straight for Ye Olde Inn, the community's thriving centre. He usually steered away from alcohol but hoped a beer would lift his mood. As he drew close, he noticed something strange. The Stable's rules prohibited motorised vehicles in the village, but today, apart from three tethered horses, a Mercedes and a moped had parked in the forecourt.
Alf quickened his step. Whatever the special occasion, he didn't want to miss out.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.e to edit.
-
Picture taken by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
October 11, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field. Part 01In this post: Alf's life was in a rut. But not for long…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth . here to edit.
-
Picture taken by David Mark from Pixabay
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field. Part 01In this post: Alf's life was in a rut. But not for long…
Alf loitered outside his ivy-covered gatehouse one morning, scratched the stubble on his chin, and stared off into the distance with half closed eyes.
It was spring again, and birds sang in the treetops, but somehow there was no sparkle in their songs, especially when the constant drone of traffic from the nearby road dominated all other sounds. What he craved was adventure. His way of life as security guard at the Cloud Mansion was in a rut deep enough to smother him.
There was no thrill in his heart these days. He'd won his last three bare-knuckle fights with dreary ease. There had been no trespassers on the Cloud estate to deal with, and apart from his sparing fights with Bert and the company of his dumb robot, Crusher, he was almost always alone.
He missed his wild youth, when he'd been free and frank, a different woman in his arms each week and stopping men in dark alleys to steal their wallets. The only responsibility he'd toted was to himself. There were no bills, no house to keep, and it had always been easy to pick fights with stroppy guys in the pubs.
Now he lived in a comfortable tenancy, ate as much delicious food as he wanted, and had a steady income. Dull, dull, dull.
With a profound sigh, he closed the door behind him and sauntered off across the estate. He soon joined an overgrown lane that wormed its way through a dense and ancient forest. Reaching its end at a lofty stone perimeter wall, he passed through a high-security gate.
He now found himself in The Stables. In the old days, the village had been part of the Cloud Estate, a hamlet where servants and farmers lived. These days, it was a thriving privately owned riding stables for the rich.
Alf hovered at the gate and rolled his neck and shoulders. From a distance, the small village looked drowsy. But if nothing was going on, he'd soon find some mischief to liven things up.
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth . here to edit.
-
Picture taken by David Mark from Pixabay
October 7, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
IMPORTANT NOTICE: this is the last part of 'Enchanter On The Roof'. Next up is 'Gamblers who Cheat'.
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘ Life in the Clouds ’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 50
In the last post: Confounded, Chief Inspector Dobbs begged Bert for information. Bert made him say please…
Bert wielded his handcuffed arms straight out. “Let me go and I'll tell everything.”
A sheen of sweat glistened on Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, chin, and forehead. “And the keys?” he asked, hands clasped behind his back.
“Oh yeah. The keys are up on the scaffolding where Dick Charmer threw them. He pick-pocketed them right out of your dressing gown. And then when you was eating breakfast he scampered.”
On his own initiative, one of the constables sprung up the scaffolding ladder. “Here they are, Sir.” He clattered back down and handed the keys to his boss.
Chief Inspector Dobbs paused before turning the key in Bert’s handcuffs. His hands shook. “You promise to co-operate and inform us where he went?”
“I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”
"You can save all that gibberish for the judge." Still, he wavered with the key. Grunting, he spread his stance. “I see you’re wearing your watch again.” He glared straight into Bert’s eyes. “Where did that come from?”
An impish smile made Bert’s mouth twitch. “Dick Charmer gave me watch back and apologised for messing me about. Gave me Olive’s engagement ring back too and said sorry for making me jealous. He’s a really swell guy when you get to know him like what I did.”
The handcuffs snapped open, and Bert rubbed his wrists. “He went that way.” Bert pointed along the pebble road towards the gate and main road. “He said he was going to take a bus.”
“Which one?”
“Didn’t say. But I said that would be a terrific trick if he pick-pocketed a whole bus.” Bert chortled. “Get it? Said he was going to take a bus.”
"You heard," snapped Chief Inspector Dobbs to his two patrolmen. "Go after him."
They didn't hang about, and neither did Bert. He trudged to his house, dogs at heel, and slammed the front door.
Chief Inspector Dobbs wheeled around and stalked away. If anyone were close enough, they would have caught him muttering, “One day… One day… One day I’ll have the lot of them behind bars.”
The end.
Next up is 'Gamblers who Cheat'.
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is at its end. Next up is 'Gamblers who Cheat'.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Picture taken by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘ Life in the Clouds ’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 50
In the last post: Confounded, Chief Inspector Dobbs begged Bert for information. Bert made him say please…
Bert wielded his handcuffed arms straight out. “Let me go and I'll tell everything.”
A sheen of sweat glistened on Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, chin, and forehead. “And the keys?” he asked, hands clasped behind his back.
“Oh yeah. The keys are up on the scaffolding where Dick Charmer threw them. He pick-pocketed them right out of your dressing gown. And then when you was eating breakfast he scampered.”
On his own initiative, one of the constables sprung up the scaffolding ladder. “Here they are, Sir.” He clattered back down and handed the keys to his boss.
Chief Inspector Dobbs paused before turning the key in Bert’s handcuffs. His hands shook. “You promise to co-operate and inform us where he went?”
“I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”
"You can save all that gibberish for the judge." Still, he wavered with the key. Grunting, he spread his stance. “I see you’re wearing your watch again.” He glared straight into Bert’s eyes. “Where did that come from?”
An impish smile made Bert’s mouth twitch. “Dick Charmer gave me watch back and apologised for messing me about. Gave me Olive’s engagement ring back too and said sorry for making me jealous. He’s a really swell guy when you get to know him like what I did.”
The handcuffs snapped open, and Bert rubbed his wrists. “He went that way.” Bert pointed along the pebble road towards the gate and main road. “He said he was going to take a bus.”
“Which one?”
“Didn’t say. But I said that would be a terrific trick if he pick-pocketed a whole bus.” Bert chortled. “Get it? Said he was going to take a bus.”
"You heard," snapped Chief Inspector Dobbs to his two patrolmen. "Go after him."
They didn't hang about, and neither did Bert. He trudged to his house, dogs at heel, and slammed the front door.
Chief Inspector Dobbs wheeled around and stalked away. If anyone were close enough, they would have caught him muttering, “One day… One day… One day I’ll have the lot of them behind bars.”
The end.
Next up is 'Gamblers who Cheat'.
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is at its end. Next up is 'Gamblers who Cheat'.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Picture taken by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
October 4, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 49
In the last post: The police wanted to unlock Bert's handcuffs, but they'd lost the keys…
Chief Inspector Dobbs patted his pockets, then rummaged through them one at a time. His constables waited patiently. One of them yawned.
“Damn,” said the inspector. “Must have left the keys in my dressing gown. Nobody move until I get back.”
“They ain’t in your dressing gown,” said Bert, studying his fingernails.
The inspector spun on him. “What?"
"They ain't in your dressing gown."
An ugly smirk played across Dobbs's lips, "I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you. Explain yourself.”
“I'll tell you where they are when you’re a bit more congenious.”
"You mean congenial."
"Yeah, that's what I said. Congealiant." Bert picked his nose and studied his fingernails again.
Seconds ticked past. The inspector tapped his toe, and then exploded. “Tell me, you big dummy.”
Bert lifted his chin and tried to fold his arms. “No. You gotta say please.”
“Never.”
“And then you gotta let me go, because I ain't done nothing but stand here locked up the whole time.”
One of the patrolmen cleared his throat. “Sir, the other guy is getting away.”
“Go and find him them, you pair of incompetent ninnies. Do I have to do everything myself?”
The constables glanced at each other, then the other said: “Any idea which way he went, Sir?”
“Of course I don’t you fu…” Chief Inspector Dobbs drew three deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. “No, I don’t know which way he went.” He turned to Bert, raised his arms, and let them flop back by his side. “Perhaps you would be so kind to brief us? Pleeease.”
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is reaching its end. Next week, 'Gamblers who Cheat' makes an entrance.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Picture by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 49
In the last post: The police wanted to unlock Bert's handcuffs, but they'd lost the keys…
Chief Inspector Dobbs patted his pockets, then rummaged through them one at a time. His constables waited patiently. One of them yawned.
“Damn,” said the inspector. “Must have left the keys in my dressing gown. Nobody move until I get back.”
“They ain’t in your dressing gown,” said Bert, studying his fingernails.
The inspector spun on him. “What?"
"They ain't in your dressing gown."
An ugly smirk played across Dobbs's lips, "I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you. Explain yourself.”
“I'll tell you where they are when you’re a bit more congenious.”
"You mean congenial."
"Yeah, that's what I said. Congealiant." Bert picked his nose and studied his fingernails again.
Seconds ticked past. The inspector tapped his toe, and then exploded. “Tell me, you big dummy.”
Bert lifted his chin and tried to fold his arms. “No. You gotta say please.”
“Never.”
“And then you gotta let me go, because I ain't done nothing but stand here locked up the whole time.”
One of the patrolmen cleared his throat. “Sir, the other guy is getting away.”
“Go and find him them, you pair of incompetent ninnies. Do I have to do everything myself?”
The constables glanced at each other, then the other said: “Any idea which way he went, Sir?”
“Of course I don’t you fu…” Chief Inspector Dobbs drew three deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. “No, I don’t know which way he went.” He turned to Bert, raised his arms, and let them flop back by his side. “Perhaps you would be so kind to brief us? Pleeease.”
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is reaching its end. Next week, 'Gamblers who Cheat' makes an entrance.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Picture by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
September 30, 2020
Sci fi series: Life in the Clouds
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘
Life in the Clouds
’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 48
In the last post: Despite having the chagrined law on his collar, Bert acted casual…
“What happened here,” demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs. He'd changed into his ordinary civilian clothes: baggy trousers with turn-ups, and regardless of the mild morning weather, a yellow knitted pullover. “How did Dick Charmer escape from his handcuffs?”
Two policemen climbed out of their patrol car, their uniforms bristling with antenna and clumsy radios that peeped and squeaked. “Morn, Sir,” said the tallest as he straightened his cap. “Is this the man you want us to take in?” He nodded toward Bert and then searched the immediate area with his eyes. "I thought you said there were two? Where's the other man?"
“You're not taking anybody in yet,” thundered Chief Inspector Dobbs. “This is the man who can tell us how the other rogue escaped and where he went.”
“Yeah,” said Bert, mouth turned downward. “I saw it all and there was nothing I could do.” He clanked his handcuff chains against the restraining scaffolding pole. "I'm still captive."
“Tell me what happened, you blithering idiot.”
Bert buzzed his lips. "Had a nice breakfast?” He blinked twice, and then added, “Sir.”
The two policemen had joined the inspector, towering above him, one on each side. "I don't like the look of those dogs, Chief," said the constable on his left.
Bert's two Alsatians sat by his feet, unblinking eyes fixed on the officers, a deep rumble in their throats.
"Who let the dogs out?" demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs.
"I ain't saying nothing," said Bert, and then hurriedly changed the subject. “Seems Four Ps escaped from the mighty Inspector Dobbs too." He used Dick Charmer's nickname on purpose, hoping it would rile the inspector enough to forget the dogs.
“Chief Inspector,” screeched Dobbs, foam bubbling in the corners of his mouth. “Right. That’s it.” He whirled to face his constables and barked at them. “Take him in for questioning.”
Bert shook his head. “I ain’t got time for that. I’m on duty soon up at The Cloud Mansion." A new thought dawned on him and he puffed out his chest. "Anyway," he said, voice full of bluster, "how you gonna unlock me without the keys?”
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is reaching its end. In one week, 'Gamblers who Cheat' makes an entrance.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Bildet er tatt av OpenClipart-Vectors fra Pixabay
#2: Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 48
In the last post: Despite having the chagrined law on his collar, Bert acted casual…
“What happened here,” demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs. He'd changed into his ordinary civilian clothes: baggy trousers with turn-ups, and regardless of the mild morning weather, a yellow knitted pullover. “How did Dick Charmer escape from his handcuffs?”
Two policemen climbed out of their patrol car, their uniforms bristling with antenna and clumsy radios that peeped and squeaked. “Morn, Sir,” said the tallest as he straightened his cap. “Is this the man you want us to take in?” He nodded toward Bert and then searched the immediate area with his eyes. "I thought you said there were two? Where's the other man?"
“You're not taking anybody in yet,” thundered Chief Inspector Dobbs. “This is the man who can tell us how the other rogue escaped and where he went.”
“Yeah,” said Bert, mouth turned downward. “I saw it all and there was nothing I could do.” He clanked his handcuff chains against the restraining scaffolding pole. "I'm still captive."
“Tell me what happened, you blithering idiot.”
Bert buzzed his lips. "Had a nice breakfast?” He blinked twice, and then added, “Sir.”
The two policemen had joined the inspector, towering above him, one on each side. "I don't like the look of those dogs, Chief," said the constable on his left.
Bert's two Alsatians sat by his feet, unblinking eyes fixed on the officers, a deep rumble in their throats.
"Who let the dogs out?" demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs.
"I ain't saying nothing," said Bert, and then hurriedly changed the subject. “Seems Four Ps escaped from the mighty Inspector Dobbs too." He used Dick Charmer's nickname on purpose, hoping it would rile the inspector enough to forget the dogs.
“Chief Inspector,” screeched Dobbs, foam bubbling in the corners of his mouth. “Right. That’s it.” He whirled to face his constables and barked at them. “Take him in for questioning.”
Bert shook his head. “I ain’t got time for that. I’m on duty soon up at The Cloud Mansion." A new thought dawned on him and he puffed out his chest. "Anyway," he said, voice full of bluster, "how you gonna unlock me without the keys?”
To be continued…
The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
'Enchanter On The Roof' is reaching its end. In one week, 'Gamblers who Cheat' makes an entrance.
She contested the bygone will. He stood to lose his life's work. But neither had gambled on Alf.
See you there ;-)
-
Bildet er tatt av OpenClipart-Vectors fra Pixabay
