Nav Logan's Blog, page 9

Poe’s Muse

Sitting at my desk I seek inner peace. My quill rests there before a blank page. Finally, I dip quill into ink.
Knockady-knock.
With a sigh I head for the door, but no one is there. Damned kids!
I settle again before my desk.
Knockady-knock.
“Bugger off!” I yell. Snatching the handle, I yank the door open, but again there is no one there.
Knockady-knock. The sound isn’t coming from the door, but from my chimney. Looking up, I see a raven perched on the eaves.
I doff my cap and inspired, begin to write. “Once upon a midnight dreary…”

The Gift Horse

I was waiting for a bus when suddenly a wellington boot landed on the bonnet of a nearby car. It was quickly followed by a stiletto. Cars screeched to a halt and chaos ensued as hundreds of different types of footwear fell from the skies; Slippers, riding boots, even a size 11 cowboy boot.
I huddled in the bus stop and waited for the madness to end. As quick as it had come, the shower was over, leaving a mountain of shoes in its wake.
People were coming out of the nearby houses, looking skywards in shock, but I was ahead of the posse. Knowing my wife’s obsession for footwear, I thanked the gods for my lucky windfall. Racing into the street, I grabbed as many shoes as I could carry, stuffing them into pockets, and grabbing armfuls of the leather delights. By the time I was finished, the street was already getting crowded. I heard heated words being exchanged as people tried to find shoes in their own size. It would only be a matter of time before the old bill arrived so I hurried home with my new-found wealth.
“Hey, come quick!” I called as I barged through the door, dropping a trail of shoes in my wake. “Look what I’ve got, darling.”
My wife’s eyes lit up with joy. This was better than a box of chocolates and some droopy flowers any day. With any luck I’d be in for a night of hot passion.
It didn’t take long for my bubble to burst, however.
“They’re all made for the same foot! Where are the ones for my other foot?” my wife complained. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“What! They can’t be. There must be at least some in there,” I objected.
I barely missed being hit by a flashy wedge with silver buckles. “You idiot! Can’t you do anything right?”
Later that evening, sitting in sullen silence, we listened to the local news…
“Earlier today, a mini tornado struck the High Street. Bizarre reports are coming in from the nearby vicinity. Many parts of the city were deluged with the contents of the city centre shops. Local shopkeepers are calling it a disaster and are claiming to have lost thousands of pounds of their stocks, to say nothing of the damage caused by the tornado. We’re going over to our intrepid reporter: Lisa, who is reporting live from one such scene on Tipworth Street. Earlier today, the street was blocked with a deluge of sweets and chocolates. Hi Lisa, can you tell me what happened?”
I grabbed the remote control to switch stations, but not quickly enough to stop my wife’s barbed comment, “Why couldn’t you have been waiting for the bus in Tipworth Street instead? I’d never say no to a box of Black Magic!”
I didn’t bother telling her that the number 10 bus didn’t run down Tipworth Street. I was already in the dog house.
By the following morning I was sick of the sight of the shoes, so I loaded them into a rucksack and headed into town. The town centre looked like it had been in the blitz, but the owner of the shoe shop was very happy to get some of his lost display back. He even gave me a tenner for my trouble.
Needless to say, the wife got a box of chocolates that evening.
We even had an early night.

Kissing Cousins

I woke up in a strange hotel room, feeling the worse for wear. I was badly hung over. I remembered little of the night before; my Uncle Michael’s wake. Looking around I found that I was alone, but on the pillar beside my head was a note. It read:
Dear cousin,
Sorry but I had to catch an early flight and didn’t want to wake you. The room’s all paid for so you might as well have breakfast on me.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sighed with relief. I really should cut back on the whiskeys. I continued to read.
Last night was very special for me, and I hope it was for you too. The sex was fantastic, but it was more than that. I felt a connection with you. I know we’re related, but I hope you can see beyond that.
I stopped reading and tried to remember something, anything about the previous night. It was a complete blank. Clearly, I’d slept in my cousin’s bed, and it hadn’t been a plutonic sleepover either.
I’m working away for a few days, but hope to be back in town by this weekend.
Call me
XXX
Jack.
Below this was a mobile number.
I stared at the last word, trying to comprehend what it meant. I’d slept with my cousin … Jack … another bloke! Oh sweet Lord above! What had I done? What would my mother say? The whole family had been at the funeral, and it’s a big family. Had I been snogging Jack in a corner of the bar in full view of everyone?
Groaning, I staggered to the bathroom. I needed to take a leak, and perhaps a shower would help to clear my head.
Standing under the luxurious power shower, I scorched my brain in an effort to put a face to the name; Cousin Jack. I had so many cousins it was hard to keep track of them all.
Finally, it came to me. I remembered a Cousin Jack. The memory brought a new bout of nausea and I rushed to the sink and emptied my guts.
Cousin Jack was in his forties. He always wore flash suits with an open shirt beneath to show off his hairy chest. Come summer or winter he would wear an excessive false tan that made him look ridiculous, and on top of that, he had false teeth. He was a notorious philanderer if the rumours were to be believed.
Was that all a front? Was Jack really a homosexual? Were his attempts to chat anything up anything in a skirt just a front to hide who he really was: a closet homosexual? Did this mean that I was gay too?
No!
Don’t get me wrong, I was all for gay rights, but I’d never felt the inclination myself. The thought of snogging another bloke just didn’t do it for me, or at least it hadn’t until now.
Over breakfast I contemplated what to do. I couldn’t just ignore the note, pretend I hadn’t noticed it. I would have to put Jack straight – focus! This was not the time for bad jokes!
It had all been a terrible mistake. I had to make him understand that. Naturally, his secret would be safe with me. I wouldn’t tell a soul … Who could I tell!? This is one secret that I’d take to the grave with me. It would be buried so far in the back of my closet that it would never see the light of day.
I’d slept with my cousin Jack, of all people. I shuddered. The guy had always given me the creeps. How could I have done it? Whatever had possessed me?
I knew the answer to that, of course. It was the daemon drink. I’d been pushing my luck for too long, and now, it had finally come back to haunt me. Well, enough was enough. I was officially on the wagon. I’d start going to A.A. meetings. It was time to sort my life out.
Switching on my mobile, I ignored the many messages and dialled the number on the bottom of the note.
Listening to the dial tone ringing, I tried to think of what to say. It was no use. My mind was a blank. I heard the click as the phone was being answered and panicked. My thumb hit the off button and the line went dead.
I couldn’t do this over the phone. What was I thinking? I’d have to meet him in person. I’d have to man up and face him, let him down gently. Much though I didn’t want to sleep with him again, I didn’t have the heart to break up with him over the phone. It just wasn’t me.
I decided to text him instead.
Hi Cuz
Good start, I thought.
Thanks for the breakfast. Meet u Saturday 8pm @ the Brown Boar, ok?
Signing the text I hit send and waited apprehensively. There was little chance of any of my relatives ever being seen dead in the Brown Boar, so it was a safe place to meet up.
My phone bleeped and I opened the reply, “Looking forward to it, Mr Loverman, save your strength. You’re gonna need it!
BWSKWLOT XXX
Jack”
Oh God! I thought. What have I got myself in to this time?
Putting on my best suit, I headed for the local church. Today was the day that my Uncle Michael got buried.
The day passed off in a haze. My mother gave me a few dirty looks and commented about the smell of whiskey on my breath, but thankfully, no one mentioned anything about me shaming the family by snogging Jack in public. I thanked my lucky stars that we had at least been discreet.
The following week dragged by, and I spent most of it in a daze.
I was haunted by visions of snogging Cousin Jack, and it didn’t sit any better in my skull with repetition. I shuddered each time I imagined sticking my tongue into his mouth and rattling his false teeth about.
The highlight of my week was Thursday evening. I went to my first A.A. meeting. I didn’t say a lot, but I don’t think they minded. I sat at the back and watched, only speaking when spoken to, just to say Hi, and I’m new here. As if they hadn’t figured that out for themselves. Still, they made me feel welcome and it was a start.
Now, all I had to do was face my cousin and put this whole sordid incident behind me.
By Saturday evening I was a bag of nerves. I arrived early to the pub and sat there nursing a glass of coke. I’ve never yearned for a stiff drink more in my life, but bravely, I sipped my coke and fought the cravings. Dutch courage was one thing, but I couldn’t risk waking up in another hotel room, especially not with Jack’s false teeth sitting in a jar on the nightstand.
“Hi there, sorry I’m late.”
I looked up in surprise. Standing in front of me was a very sexy looking lady. She was overdressed for the Brown Boar, but then again, a jack ass would be overdressed for this bar. It was seedy with a capital S.
The cat had stolen my tongue and run off with it to the bathroom. I couldn’t speak.
She leaned forward to kiss me lightly on the lips, revealing a glimpse of her ample bosom. A delicate aroma of vanilla infused the air around her. She smelled good.
“Jack?” I finally blurted out. Thankfully, this was not my Cousin Jack in drag.
“Oh dear!” she said, taking the seat beside me. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I blushed, “I’m sorry, I think I’d had too much to drink that night. It was a free bar, after all.”
“Me too,” she admitted shyly. “Maybe we should start over, eh? Shall I get them in?”
“Err, no thanks. I’ve gone tee-total. Let’s go for a walk, and we can chat as we walk. This place is a kip.”
Leaving my drink, we stood and slipped quietly out of the bar. As we strolled around the town, I started the conversation. “Are you really my cousin?” I asked. “I can’t for the life of me remember you.”
She laughed; a sound that was sweet music to my ears. “We only met the once,” she explained, “a long time ago. I was in pigtails at the time. It was in Leeds, at someone’s wedding. I can’t remember who it was, but I remember you. You were wearing a hand-me-down suit, and picking your nose.”
“Oh my God! That must have made a good first impression!” I joked.
“I thought it was kind of cute, actually,” she protested, smiling at me.
“… And we’re really cousins?”
“… Distant,” she admitted. “Sort of second cousins -twice removed. I’m your Auntie Bridget’s husband’s ex-wife’s niece or something like that.”
“And you’re really called Jack?”
She giggled, “I am indeed; Ms Jacqueline Dixon.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Listen, there’s a nice bistro around the corner. Do you want to go for a drink and a bite to eat?” I offered. “It’s not every day that you find a long lost cousin.”
“That sounds great, but I thought you were abstaining?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence.”
“I was, but I’ve changed my mind.” Taking her by the arm, I led her down the street. This evening might not be a complete disaster after all.

Vallum Hadriani

It’s taken me nearly six years to reach Solway Firth; six years of misery.
When I was first recruited, I was no more than a boy, getting paid a pittance for digging ditches. Gradually, I served my apprenticeship and became a fully-fledged builder, though I lost two fingers in the process.
I curse the miserable rain that weeps from the northern skies, and the dense fog that haunts these god forsaken lands. Most of all I curse the Picts who stole my fingers during one of their many raids.
Laying the final stone, I thank Bacchus that it’s finally over.

Vallum Hadriani

It’s taken me nearly six years to reach Solway Firth; six years of misery.
When I was first recruited, I was no more than a boy, getting paid a pittance for digging ditches. Gradually, I served my apprenticeship and became a fully-fledged builder, though I lost two fingers in the process.
I curse the miserable rain that weeps from the northern skies, and the dense fog that haunts these god forsaken lands. Most of all I curse the Picts who stole my fingers during one of their many raids.
Laying the final stone, I thank Bacchus that it’s finally over.

Polly the Pirate

“Polly was a pirate,” Polly squawked.
“Polly is a parrot, you stupid bird!” corrected Captain Blackheart.
“Polly is a pirate, wharrhhck! Pieces of eight!”
The captain sighed. He’d been sold a dodgy cockatoo. This one clearly had mental issues.
He’d enough problems with the light-fingered cabin boy, without listening to Polly’s deranged nattering. The cabin boy had been hauled over the keel for his thievery and was currently recovering in the sickbay, so Blackheart was forced to fetch his own dinner.
“Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,” chimed Polly, uncorking the Captain’s rum decanter and pouring himself another liberal measure.

The Campsite Massacre

“It happened five years ago, right around this very spot.” The narrator’s voice had that gravelly texture, which only added to his gristly tale.

“You’re having us on,” protested one of the other campers.

“Well, it could've been here. It’s hard to tell in the dark,” admitted the narrator. “Anyway, a couple of days later some hikers stumbled across their corpses. Their dog had been drawn to the smell of rotting flesh.”

“…And they found a mother and her kids, you say?” another of the campers asked.

“Yes, that’s right. The autopsy report said they’d died from eating poisonous berries.”

Mutually Assured Destruction

“Of course I carry a gun,” he boasted.
“Why?” I asked
“In case I get burgled or mugged. Someone might try to kill me.”
“Does that happen often?”
“No, not really,” he confessed.
“I see.” Seeking further clarification I asked, “But it’s happened to you?”
“It could …” he claimed, “But it won’t because I’m carrying my piece.”
“Oh, I see. It’s like M.A.D.”
“What!”
“M.A.D. Mutually Assured Destruction, like when there was all that hoo-ha about nuclear weapons. They won’t fire their missiles because they know we’d fire ours. Is that it?”
He rolled his eyes and walked off.

Caught on the Line

I awoke and immediately sensed that I was in deep trouble. Blindfolded, bound, and gagged, I lay on the cold floor and listened, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I heard no one. There was only the sound of the wind whistling nearby. The world spun around me, making me disorientated. I lay there, quite still for a few moments, but the sensation did not lessen.
Eventually, I pulled myself together and focused on escape. Wriggling around on the cold floor, I searched for something sharp with which to cut my bonds. Every movement brought new waves of nausea, but my frantic search proved fruitless. I was like a blind worm desperately seeking its freedom.
Finally, I gave up and focused on the bonds themselves. I would open them up by brute force if necessary. Biting my lip against the pain, I tugged and twisted in a futile effort to free my hands. As I struggled against my bonds, I try to remember what had happened. How had I got here? The last thing I could recall was being in a bar, chatting up a very attractive young woman. She had approached me while I was eating lunch, and we had hit it off straight away. Had she spiked my drink and kidnapped me? Was my wife reading a ransom note right now?
Losing a lot of skin in the process, I managed to stretch the ropes that bound my wrists enough to gain my freedom. The blindfold came next. I needed to know where I was, so that I could plan my escape.
Moments later I regretted my actions. It was even worse than I had first thought.
Until now I had ignored the swaying motion, thinking perhaps I was still suffering the effects of the drugs that I had consumed. At worse, the swaying meant that I was being held captive on a boat. Now, however, the true depths of despair consumed me. My worst nightmares were coming to life.
I was naked, but that really was a minor insignificance.
The real issue was my prison cell. I was dangling a few hundred feet up in the air. My prison was a glass box which rocked to and fro on the slightest of breezes. Far below I could see the sharp rocks of a disused quarry.
My cage shuddered suddenly and creaked in an alarming fashion. Hyperventilating with panic, I turned away from the dizzying view beneath me and looked upwards. I felt a momentary relief from the swaying ground far below. Above me, I saw the orange arm of a crane. The machine was preventing me from plummeting to my death. I found comfort in that knowledge, but that comfort was short lived.
My glass cage wobbled again, quite alarmingly this time, and then it dropped fractionally.
Static buzzed in my ear, followed by a familiar chirpy voice, “Morning, my Darling. Did you sleep well?”
“Celia?” I exclaimed, only now noticing the earpiece that had been taped to my left ear. I was so grateful to hear her voice. “Help me! I’ve been kidnapped.”
My sudden relief slipped away when I heard her laugh in response. The sound chilled me to the bone. “Celia!” I pleaded. “I’m serious!”
“I know, Darling. Sadly, the police are bound to tell me not to pay the ransom. That’d only encourage your kidnappers to do it again.”
“What? Quit mucking about, will ya!”
“Still ... the life insurance will come in handy, and anyway, it’ll save an unpleasant divorce hearing. I really don’t need to have my dirty laundry washed in public. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Stop messing about!” I demanded. “This is serious. You’ve got to help me.” I looked around the glass prison, searching for my phone. Eventually I found it. It was taped to the outside of the box. I only had access to the Bluetooth device in my ear. “Celia, listen to me. I need you to call the police. Get them to put a trace on my phone, and they can come and rescue me.”
“Sorry, but that’s not going to work,” my wife replied. There seemed to be little remorse in her tone. “I do hope you like the view from the penthouse suite I arranged for you. There’s only one thing though ... it’s nearly check out time.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to control the mounting panic.
I heard her sigh dramatically. “Look up, you idiot!”
“I am looking up!” I replied.
“Look closer,” she prompted.
It was then that I noticed the fraying rope ... and the knife! My glass cage was being held aloft by a piece of sturdy hemp, but each sway of the box caused it to brush against a razor sharp machete. Even as I watched, the cage moved in the breeze and with a shudder, another piece of the rope peeled away. The rope had already been cut halfway through. It was only a matter of time before I dropped into the quarry, far below.
My panic only increased the swaying of my glass prison, therefore, quickening my demise.
The sound of my wife’s malicious laughter haunted the last few minutes of my life. Looking around I couldn’t see her, but she had to be watching me from somewhere. She always did have a nasty streak in her. Was she hiding among the rocks down below, looking up at me through binoculars, or was she hiding in the crane’s cab high above me?
“Help me, Celia,” I pleaded. “I’m your husband, for God’s sake. I love you!”
“You should have thought of that before you started sleeping with my sister.”
Moments later, the final strands of the rope gave way ...

Torture

The whip whistles as it cuts the air, moments before it strikes across my back. Pain consumes me, and I cannot help but cry out. I barely recover before the next lash strikes home.
Whimpering, I beg them to stop.
They smile maliciously and ignore my pleas.
The whip stings my flesh again and again in a steady rhythm of rising torment.
I struggle against my bindings, trying to escape, but it’s no use. My tormentors are professionals.
Wracking my brain I try to think of a way out of my predicament. If only I could remember that safe word!