Edward Davies's Blog, page 11
February 15, 2015
Short Story : The Dead Luggage Sketch
“Hello, I wish to register a complaint.”
Emma looked up from her computer screen where she’d been happily playing spider solitaire. From the words she’d just heard she half expected to see John Cleese looming over her holding a dead parrot. Instead she saw a man dressed for completely the wrong weather. It was winter outside, and had been snowing for the last five days, yet this man was wearing a safari hat, large sunglasses, a khaki shirt, and matching shorts. He appeared to be in search of Dr Livingstone.
“Can I help?” Emma asked, although she didn’t really want to help.
“I should hope so, yes,” the man said irritably, “you’ve lost my luggage.”
“I haven’t touched your luggage,” Emma insisted.
“You know very well what I mean! I put your company in charge of my luggage for this flight, and now it’s gone.”
“Are you sure you checked it in?” Emma asked.
“Of course I’m sure! What do you take me for, an idiot? Besides, I wasn’t allowed any carry on for the flight.”
“Can I take your flight details?” Emma asked, minimising her solitaire game and bringing up the screen where she could search for flight information.
“Yes, it was Oceanic Flight 815. This is my first leg of a round the world tour, and already I’m regretting flying with your company. Sometimes I wonder why any of you even get paid at the end of the day.”
“Can I take your name?” Emma asked, ignoring the man’s angry comments.
“Of course, it’s Mister Macavity.”
“And your first name Mister Macavity?” Emma queried, typing into the database.
“It’s Roger,” Mister Macavity said.
Emma stopped typing, looking up at Mister Macavity.
“Your name is Roger Macavity?” Emma confirmed, trying to suppress a smile.
“That’s correct,” Roger Macavity said, drumming his finger on the counter.
“Is this a windup?” Emma asked, looking around for a hidden camera, “Are you genuinely trying to tell me that your name is Roger Macavity?”
“Yes,” Roger said, “it’s m-A-c at the front, and just the one c.”
Emma stood up from her seat, “This is a joke right?”
“No, I’m deadly serious,” Roger said, “you’ve lost my luggage and I demand you find it for me this minute.”
“I meant your name,” Emma said.
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s a joke name, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see what’s so funny about my name,” Roger fumed, “Roger is a perfectly normal Scottish name.”
“I meant the whole thing,” Emma chuckled, “Roger Macavity? Well, it’s like Ivor Biggun.”
“Did someone call?” a man spoke up from behind Roger.
“Not now, Ivor,” Roger said, “this woman seems to have a problem with my name.”
Emma looked at the two men, “I’m sorry, but I’ll need to see your passport.”
Roger tutted, fishing in the pocket of his khaki shorts and pulling out his passport. He put it on the counter for Emma to look at, and she picked it up suspiciously.
Looking at the photo page, Emma could see that the man’s name was, in fact, Roger Macavity. I wonder if he has a brother named Phil? She thought to herself cheekily.
“That does appear to be in order,” Emma said reluctantly, handing back the passport, “now let’s see if we can locate your luggage.”
“That would be very helpful,” Roger smiled angrily.
Emma flicked down through the passenger list, trying to find Roger’s name, finally locating it on the second page. The noticed another name listed quite closely to Roger’s and came to an interesting conclusion.
“There was a Phil McCracken on your flight,” Emma suggested, it’s possible he might have ended up with your suitcases.”
Roger stared at Emma in disbelief, “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, “That name doesn’t even sound remotely like mine! Just because it’s Scottish – what are you, a racist?”
“Well, it’s a similar joke name” Emma shrugged, “maybe somebody heard your names and labelled the case incorrectly.”
“This is madness,” Roger fumed, “I demand to speak to your manager this instant!”
“I’m afraid Teresa is on a break at the moment.” Emma smiled helpfully.
“Oh, and I suppose her surname is Green, is it?”
“Don’t be silly,” Emma said, “it’s Crowd.”
“Oh, that’s much more sensible, isn’t it?”
“I don’t follow,” Emma frowned.
“And here’s me thinking you liked comedy names!”
“Excuse me,” an angry looking Scottish fellow approached the counter, “I have been given these cases but they are not mine.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment sir,” Emma said.
“Hold on,” Roger turned to the man, “those are my cases!”
“They are?” the other man said with relief, “Well, that’s marvellous.”
“You’re name’s not Phil McCracken, is it?” Ivor asked.
“Why yes it is,” said Phil.
Ivor chuckled.
“Well, I’m glad that this debacle has finally been cleared up!” Roger said, his anger starting to dissipate, “but I’d like to write a letter of complaint about this to your head office. Now,” he turned to Emma, “what was your name?”
“It’s Emma,” Emma said, “Emma Grate.”
Originally Posted 15/2/2015
Result - 3rd Place
Emma looked up from her computer screen where she’d been happily playing spider solitaire. From the words she’d just heard she half expected to see John Cleese looming over her holding a dead parrot. Instead she saw a man dressed for completely the wrong weather. It was winter outside, and had been snowing for the last five days, yet this man was wearing a safari hat, large sunglasses, a khaki shirt, and matching shorts. He appeared to be in search of Dr Livingstone.
“Can I help?” Emma asked, although she didn’t really want to help.
“I should hope so, yes,” the man said irritably, “you’ve lost my luggage.”
“I haven’t touched your luggage,” Emma insisted.
“You know very well what I mean! I put your company in charge of my luggage for this flight, and now it’s gone.”
“Are you sure you checked it in?” Emma asked.
“Of course I’m sure! What do you take me for, an idiot? Besides, I wasn’t allowed any carry on for the flight.”
“Can I take your flight details?” Emma asked, minimising her solitaire game and bringing up the screen where she could search for flight information.
“Yes, it was Oceanic Flight 815. This is my first leg of a round the world tour, and already I’m regretting flying with your company. Sometimes I wonder why any of you even get paid at the end of the day.”
“Can I take your name?” Emma asked, ignoring the man’s angry comments.
“Of course, it’s Mister Macavity.”
“And your first name Mister Macavity?” Emma queried, typing into the database.
“It’s Roger,” Mister Macavity said.
Emma stopped typing, looking up at Mister Macavity.
“Your name is Roger Macavity?” Emma confirmed, trying to suppress a smile.
“That’s correct,” Roger Macavity said, drumming his finger on the counter.
“Is this a windup?” Emma asked, looking around for a hidden camera, “Are you genuinely trying to tell me that your name is Roger Macavity?”
“Yes,” Roger said, “it’s m-A-c at the front, and just the one c.”
Emma stood up from her seat, “This is a joke right?”
“No, I’m deadly serious,” Roger said, “you’ve lost my luggage and I demand you find it for me this minute.”
“I meant your name,” Emma said.
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s a joke name, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see what’s so funny about my name,” Roger fumed, “Roger is a perfectly normal Scottish name.”
“I meant the whole thing,” Emma chuckled, “Roger Macavity? Well, it’s like Ivor Biggun.”
“Did someone call?” a man spoke up from behind Roger.
“Not now, Ivor,” Roger said, “this woman seems to have a problem with my name.”
Emma looked at the two men, “I’m sorry, but I’ll need to see your passport.”
Roger tutted, fishing in the pocket of his khaki shorts and pulling out his passport. He put it on the counter for Emma to look at, and she picked it up suspiciously.
Looking at the photo page, Emma could see that the man’s name was, in fact, Roger Macavity. I wonder if he has a brother named Phil? She thought to herself cheekily.
“That does appear to be in order,” Emma said reluctantly, handing back the passport, “now let’s see if we can locate your luggage.”
“That would be very helpful,” Roger smiled angrily.
Emma flicked down through the passenger list, trying to find Roger’s name, finally locating it on the second page. The noticed another name listed quite closely to Roger’s and came to an interesting conclusion.
“There was a Phil McCracken on your flight,” Emma suggested, it’s possible he might have ended up with your suitcases.”
Roger stared at Emma in disbelief, “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, “That name doesn’t even sound remotely like mine! Just because it’s Scottish – what are you, a racist?”
“Well, it’s a similar joke name” Emma shrugged, “maybe somebody heard your names and labelled the case incorrectly.”
“This is madness,” Roger fumed, “I demand to speak to your manager this instant!”
“I’m afraid Teresa is on a break at the moment.” Emma smiled helpfully.
“Oh, and I suppose her surname is Green, is it?”
“Don’t be silly,” Emma said, “it’s Crowd.”
“Oh, that’s much more sensible, isn’t it?”
“I don’t follow,” Emma frowned.
“And here’s me thinking you liked comedy names!”
“Excuse me,” an angry looking Scottish fellow approached the counter, “I have been given these cases but they are not mine.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment sir,” Emma said.
“Hold on,” Roger turned to the man, “those are my cases!”
“They are?” the other man said with relief, “Well, that’s marvellous.”
“You’re name’s not Phil McCracken, is it?” Ivor asked.
“Why yes it is,” said Phil.
Ivor chuckled.
“Well, I’m glad that this debacle has finally been cleared up!” Roger said, his anger starting to dissipate, “but I’d like to write a letter of complaint about this to your head office. Now,” he turned to Emma, “what was your name?”
“It’s Emma,” Emma said, “Emma Grate.”
Originally Posted 15/2/2015
Result - 3rd Place
Poem : Round The World Tour
I love to go to places new
And take a look around
I prefer exotic locales
To familiar ground
I’ve been abroad to Belarus
To Denmark and Latvia
I went to Sweden just to see
The HQ for Ikea
I passed through parts of Germany
Through France and the Ukraine
I visited Tunisia
Once I’d finished with Spain
I trekked through Ethiopia
The Sudan and Bahrain
Zambia, Namibia
I travelled via train
I went to Mauritania
Morocco, Senegal
Algeria and Libya
I just can’t list them all
I set my sights on Pakistan
Then further to Sri Lanka
I sat next to this horrid man
He was an utter bore to be stuck on board a plane with
Once finished there I travelled north
To Butan and Nepal
I hiked throughout Mongolia
And tried to see it all
I visited Indonesia
Then Thailand, Laos and China
I even met a lovely girl
With a massive interest in travelling around the world as well.
I set foot in the Philippines
In Taiwan and Japan
Then headed South to Sumatra
Burma and Vietnam
I then went to Australia
The outback is immense
By this time I’d run out of cash
So settled down in tents
I stopped off in New Zealand
Then on to the USA
I spent some days in Mexico
Peru and Paraguay
I stopped off down in Chile
Argentina and Brazil
I ate some nasty shellfish
And felt terribly ill
My final leg was off back home
To the good old UK
It’s nice to be back home I guess
But I miss my holiday.
Originally Posted 15/2/2015
Result - Didn't Place
And take a look around
I prefer exotic locales
To familiar ground
I’ve been abroad to Belarus
To Denmark and Latvia
I went to Sweden just to see
The HQ for Ikea
I passed through parts of Germany
Through France and the Ukraine
I visited Tunisia
Once I’d finished with Spain
I trekked through Ethiopia
The Sudan and Bahrain
Zambia, Namibia
I travelled via train
I went to Mauritania
Morocco, Senegal
Algeria and Libya
I just can’t list them all
I set my sights on Pakistan
Then further to Sri Lanka
I sat next to this horrid man
He was an utter bore to be stuck on board a plane with
Once finished there I travelled north
To Butan and Nepal
I hiked throughout Mongolia
And tried to see it all
I visited Indonesia
Then Thailand, Laos and China
I even met a lovely girl
With a massive interest in travelling around the world as well.
I set foot in the Philippines
In Taiwan and Japan
Then headed South to Sumatra
Burma and Vietnam
I then went to Australia
The outback is immense
By this time I’d run out of cash
So settled down in tents
I stopped off in New Zealand
Then on to the USA
I spent some days in Mexico
Peru and Paraguay
I stopped off down in Chile
Argentina and Brazil
I ate some nasty shellfish
And felt terribly ill
My final leg was off back home
To the good old UK
It’s nice to be back home I guess
But I miss my holiday.
Originally Posted 15/2/2015
Result - Didn't Place
February 8, 2015
Short Story : Hollow, Dolly
Little Alan hated it at his aunties house. She had a strange obsession – collecting life-size china dolls from all around the world, and her collection was both immense and terrifying. Whenever he was forced to visit, even on the best of occasions, he found himself watching the dolls warily, half-expecting them to attack him if he were to look away.
And this was not the best of occasions.
His mother had disappeared over the weekend and, as his father had died many years ago, Alan was being forced to come and live with his auntie.
In the house of china dolls.
Most old ladies collected cats, but china dolls was a whole new ballgame. They filled almost every room of the stately house, the largest flanking the entrances like a china army and lining the walls like they were queuing for the bathroom, while the smallest sat on shelves specially designed it seemed for the sole object of showcasing china dolls. Alan shuddered as he sat in the living room on his own, looking at each of the figures in turn. Some were smaller than his hand, others the size of newborn babies, whilst the largest were over six feet tall. Alan pulled at the collar of his shirt, then twitched at the cuffs of his child-sized suit. He picked up a doll that sat on the table in front of him, carefully turning it over in his hands. It was very lifelike...
He jumped as his auntie walked into the room, carrying a tray of tea and juice. She smiled at him through lipstick stained teeth, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.
“Do you like that one?” she asked, gesturing at the doll, “I made it myself, you know. It was the child of a friend of mine. I made quite a few of these, in fact. Would you like me to make one of you?”
Silently, Alan shook his head. He didn’t like the sound of that idea at all.
“Now, Alan,” she continued, her voice hoarse from decades of chain smoking, “would you like juice or tea?”
“Juice please,” Alan said politely, not actually wanting anything to drink. All he wanted was for his mother to come home so he didn’t have to stay here any longer.
Auntie poured the juice into a tea cup, handing the cup to Alan.
“Now be careful with that, young man,” Auntie said as Alan took the cup from her gnarled hand, “it’s part of a very expensive set, and I only use it for very special occasions.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” Alan said, carefully taking the cup and placing it on the coffee table in front of him next to a small china figurine.
“It’s sad about your mother,” Auntie began, lifting the teapot from the tray and pouring her tea, “taking off on you like that. Just like what your father did all those years ago.”
“My dad is dead,” Alan corrected.
“Declared dead,” Auntie said, sipping at her cup of tea, “they never found a body, remember? He’s probably out there somewhere, gallivanting around with some floozy.”
Alan swallowed a mouthful of juice, desperately trying to stop himself from screaming at her. How dare she say such things about his parents! She didn’t have the first clue about what had happened to them – she might have thought she knew her sister, Alan’s mother, but she did not know his dad. He took another sip of juice, choking it down to stop himself from lashing out.
“I’ve made up a room for you,” Auntie said between sips of tea, “it isn’t much, but it will do for now. Until we can get you into boarding school.”
“Boarding school?” Alan repeated.
“Oh yes,” Auntie said, “well, there’s not really enough room here for two people, and you can’t expect an old woman to take care of a boy all on her own, can you?”
Old woman? She was older his mother had been, but even so she was only in her forties. The smoking had taken care of ageing her prematurely, and her nervous nature had led to her arthritic joints seizing up on her over the years. Alan looked around the room; he didn’t much like the idea of having to go to boarding school, but then anything would be better than living here in the Wax Museum!
“Thank you for thinking of me, Auntie,” Alan smiled weakly. He didn’t mean it. If she’d really wanted him to stay with her she could have put some of her china dolls into storage.
“Now can I get you something to eat?” Auntie asked politely, “I have some biscuits to go with our drinks. Hobnobs? Bourbon? Custard Creams?”
“Anything will be fine,” Alan said, not really wanting any biscuits.
“I’ll bring a selection,” Auntie decided, getting up from her seat and leaving the room.
Alan breathed out, heaving a heavy sigh. He didn’t feel comfortable here, and he dearly hoped that boarding school would start soon.
While Auntie was absent from the room, Alan decided to have a walk around, to get a better look at some of the china dolls.
They really were hideous, the way the light glared off them in that gaudy way, but Alan couldn’t help noticing that one of the dolls near the doorway looked familiar.
It looked a little bit like his mum!
What a sicko, Alan thought to himself, buying dolls that look like your relatives. She hadn’t even had the decency to store it away; instead she’d left it where Alan would have to look at it whenever he wasn’t in his room, wherever that might be. It was probably a storage room full of chipped china dolls that weren’t quite good enough to have on display but that Auntie couldn’t bear to part with. He shuddered to himself, then took a more careful look at the doll that bore a striking resemblance to his mother.
Alan held out his hand to the doll, waving it in front of the dolls eyes, then chuckled. The eyes weren’t very lifelike, so he didn’t know why he’d done that, but it felt like the thing to do. Standing firmly in the doorway, Alan looked at the back of the china doll, trying to see the joins. It was pretty well put together, and almost completely smooth all the way round. It must have costs a bit, he thought to himself, backing slowly away so he wouldn’t knock it over.
As he did so, he backed into the male figure that was flanking the other side of the door. Turning as he felt himself bump into it, he desperately reached out to grab it before it could fall, but he was too slow...
The china doll fell as if in slow motion to the ground, shattering as it his. Pieces of china flew across the room, a few pieces hitting Alan in the face and cutting him. He backed away from the pieces and, in so doing, backed into the female doll.
That started to slowly spin in place, threatening to topple and shatter too, but Alan didn’t noticed.
He was looking at what was inside the male doll.
The body of a man lay on the carpet, loosely wrapped in cellophane from head to toe. A dead face leered out at him, it’s mouth fixed in a decomposed grin. Terrified, Alan tried to speak, to scream, but before he could the female statue hit the ground.
He turned at the noise, which had made him jump, and saw that this too contained a dead body wrapped in cellophane.
But this body was fresher, and far more easily recognisable.
“Mum?” he managed, before he looked around to see his Auntie standing in the doorway.
“Oh dear,” she smiled, shaking her head slowly from side to side as she approached Alan, “it looks like I’ll need to make some replacements.”
Originally Posted 8/2/2015
Result - 1st Place
And this was not the best of occasions.
His mother had disappeared over the weekend and, as his father had died many years ago, Alan was being forced to come and live with his auntie.
In the house of china dolls.
Most old ladies collected cats, but china dolls was a whole new ballgame. They filled almost every room of the stately house, the largest flanking the entrances like a china army and lining the walls like they were queuing for the bathroom, while the smallest sat on shelves specially designed it seemed for the sole object of showcasing china dolls. Alan shuddered as he sat in the living room on his own, looking at each of the figures in turn. Some were smaller than his hand, others the size of newborn babies, whilst the largest were over six feet tall. Alan pulled at the collar of his shirt, then twitched at the cuffs of his child-sized suit. He picked up a doll that sat on the table in front of him, carefully turning it over in his hands. It was very lifelike...
He jumped as his auntie walked into the room, carrying a tray of tea and juice. She smiled at him through lipstick stained teeth, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.
“Do you like that one?” she asked, gesturing at the doll, “I made it myself, you know. It was the child of a friend of mine. I made quite a few of these, in fact. Would you like me to make one of you?”
Silently, Alan shook his head. He didn’t like the sound of that idea at all.
“Now, Alan,” she continued, her voice hoarse from decades of chain smoking, “would you like juice or tea?”
“Juice please,” Alan said politely, not actually wanting anything to drink. All he wanted was for his mother to come home so he didn’t have to stay here any longer.
Auntie poured the juice into a tea cup, handing the cup to Alan.
“Now be careful with that, young man,” Auntie said as Alan took the cup from her gnarled hand, “it’s part of a very expensive set, and I only use it for very special occasions.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” Alan said, carefully taking the cup and placing it on the coffee table in front of him next to a small china figurine.
“It’s sad about your mother,” Auntie began, lifting the teapot from the tray and pouring her tea, “taking off on you like that. Just like what your father did all those years ago.”
“My dad is dead,” Alan corrected.
“Declared dead,” Auntie said, sipping at her cup of tea, “they never found a body, remember? He’s probably out there somewhere, gallivanting around with some floozy.”
Alan swallowed a mouthful of juice, desperately trying to stop himself from screaming at her. How dare she say such things about his parents! She didn’t have the first clue about what had happened to them – she might have thought she knew her sister, Alan’s mother, but she did not know his dad. He took another sip of juice, choking it down to stop himself from lashing out.
“I’ve made up a room for you,” Auntie said between sips of tea, “it isn’t much, but it will do for now. Until we can get you into boarding school.”
“Boarding school?” Alan repeated.
“Oh yes,” Auntie said, “well, there’s not really enough room here for two people, and you can’t expect an old woman to take care of a boy all on her own, can you?”
Old woman? She was older his mother had been, but even so she was only in her forties. The smoking had taken care of ageing her prematurely, and her nervous nature had led to her arthritic joints seizing up on her over the years. Alan looked around the room; he didn’t much like the idea of having to go to boarding school, but then anything would be better than living here in the Wax Museum!
“Thank you for thinking of me, Auntie,” Alan smiled weakly. He didn’t mean it. If she’d really wanted him to stay with her she could have put some of her china dolls into storage.
“Now can I get you something to eat?” Auntie asked politely, “I have some biscuits to go with our drinks. Hobnobs? Bourbon? Custard Creams?”
“Anything will be fine,” Alan said, not really wanting any biscuits.
“I’ll bring a selection,” Auntie decided, getting up from her seat and leaving the room.
Alan breathed out, heaving a heavy sigh. He didn’t feel comfortable here, and he dearly hoped that boarding school would start soon.
While Auntie was absent from the room, Alan decided to have a walk around, to get a better look at some of the china dolls.
They really were hideous, the way the light glared off them in that gaudy way, but Alan couldn’t help noticing that one of the dolls near the doorway looked familiar.
It looked a little bit like his mum!
What a sicko, Alan thought to himself, buying dolls that look like your relatives. She hadn’t even had the decency to store it away; instead she’d left it where Alan would have to look at it whenever he wasn’t in his room, wherever that might be. It was probably a storage room full of chipped china dolls that weren’t quite good enough to have on display but that Auntie couldn’t bear to part with. He shuddered to himself, then took a more careful look at the doll that bore a striking resemblance to his mother.
Alan held out his hand to the doll, waving it in front of the dolls eyes, then chuckled. The eyes weren’t very lifelike, so he didn’t know why he’d done that, but it felt like the thing to do. Standing firmly in the doorway, Alan looked at the back of the china doll, trying to see the joins. It was pretty well put together, and almost completely smooth all the way round. It must have costs a bit, he thought to himself, backing slowly away so he wouldn’t knock it over.
As he did so, he backed into the male figure that was flanking the other side of the door. Turning as he felt himself bump into it, he desperately reached out to grab it before it could fall, but he was too slow...
The china doll fell as if in slow motion to the ground, shattering as it his. Pieces of china flew across the room, a few pieces hitting Alan in the face and cutting him. He backed away from the pieces and, in so doing, backed into the female doll.
That started to slowly spin in place, threatening to topple and shatter too, but Alan didn’t noticed.
He was looking at what was inside the male doll.
The body of a man lay on the carpet, loosely wrapped in cellophane from head to toe. A dead face leered out at him, it’s mouth fixed in a decomposed grin. Terrified, Alan tried to speak, to scream, but before he could the female statue hit the ground.
He turned at the noise, which had made him jump, and saw that this too contained a dead body wrapped in cellophane.
But this body was fresher, and far more easily recognisable.
“Mum?” he managed, before he looked around to see his Auntie standing in the doorway.
“Oh dear,” she smiled, shaking her head slowly from side to side as she approached Alan, “it looks like I’ll need to make some replacements.”
Originally Posted 8/2/2015
Result - 1st Place
Poem : Easter Egg
The chocolate egg is nothing but
Cruelty towards a kid
They wrap them up in silver foil
And charge them fifteen quid
Sometimes they come with sweets inside
But even then it’s pricey
The companies that makes these sweets
Are bordering on dicey
If you expect a decent treat
Into the wind you’re pissing
Cos once you pass the outside shell
The inside chocolate’s missing
Perhaps it was munched by a chick
Maybe eaten by rabbits
But now you have barely a lick
To feed your chocolate habits
The fact the box is oversized
And filled with empty sections
Just makes the situation worse
And won’t gain your affections
And so the egg is quickly gone
As that last piece you swallow
And that last chocolate covered slice
Will leave you feeling hollow
Originally Posted 8/2/2015
Result - Didn't Place
Cruelty towards a kid
They wrap them up in silver foil
And charge them fifteen quid
Sometimes they come with sweets inside
But even then it’s pricey
The companies that makes these sweets
Are bordering on dicey
If you expect a decent treat
Into the wind you’re pissing
Cos once you pass the outside shell
The inside chocolate’s missing
Perhaps it was munched by a chick
Maybe eaten by rabbits
But now you have barely a lick
To feed your chocolate habits
The fact the box is oversized
And filled with empty sections
Just makes the situation worse
And won’t gain your affections
And so the egg is quickly gone
As that last piece you swallow
And that last chocolate covered slice
Will leave you feeling hollow
Originally Posted 8/2/2015
Result - Didn't Place
January 29, 2015
Short Story : The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
When Antimony Holmes turned six years old, she received a very special gift, one that would stick by her through thick and thin throughout the years to come.
It was a boxed set of The Complete Sherlock Holmes, and having read them she instantly fell in love.
From A Study in Scarlet to The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place, Antimony ate them all up with gusto. And it helped that she could imagine that she was one of Sherlock’s distant relatives, what with them sharing a surname and all. It’s probably why we became friends in the first place.
After all, my name is Watson.
The only problem was, once she’d started reading the fifty-six short stories and four novels contained in the two large volumes, she started to see mysteries everywhere she looked.
At school, if someone lost a pen, she’d assume there was something sinister behind the disappearance, even if it had just rolled under a desk.
At home, if one of her parents was working late, she assumed that there was some sort of conspiracy involved to prevent them from being at home and suspected that someone would break into their house a kidnap her or one of her siblings, holding them to ransom.
But so far none of her imaginings had ever come true.
Until Antimony turned seven.
Her birthday party had been arranged for the Saturday afternoon before she turned actually turned seven, so as luck would have it she’d be getting all of her presents early this year. I was the first of her friends to arrive, and sat patiently at the dining room table. Her fifteen year old brother, Bromine, had been allowed to invite a couple of his friends along, and they were hogging the TV so none of Antimony’s friends could watch when they arrived. They were playing X-Box, and making an awful lot of noise about it. Bromine’s friend Mickey was picking his nose, then touching the pads on the controller. Antimony made a mental note to wipe the controls down before she had a go. The other kid was called Albert, and he looked shifty. He kept looking round the room, examining things, appraising them, as if he was planning on taking something. Antimony narrowed her eyes at him; she’d have to keep an eye out for anything that might go missing and remember to check Albert’s bag before he left.
Her younger sister, Astatine, was sat in a corner, playing with her doll’s house. She was pretending to feed her toys cups of tea from a plastic tea set, which made her look a little on the crazy side in my opinion, but at least she was being quiet. And not hogging the TV like some people I could mention.
Antimony’s oldest friend Violet was the next to arrive. She was holding a large box in her arms, wrapped in paper that was covered in ponies. Ponies were Antimony’s second great passion, after mystery novels.
“Hey, Mony,” Violet beamed, having not seen her friend since the day before, “Happy birthday.”
“It isn’t until Tuesday,” Antimony replied, graciously taking the box from Violet, “but thank you.”
“Welcome,” Violet said, running into the living room to play. She stopped short when she saw the three older boys, then looked at Antimony.
“Where can we play?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about them,” Antimony reassured her, “they’ll be fine, just grab a seat.”
Violet looked at the boys nervously as Antimony took the present into the next room, placing it on the kitchen counter. Violet thought about sitting in the living room, then changed her mind and had a seat at the dining room table next to me. She gave me a little smile. We weren’t close.
“Hello Violet,” I said weakly.
“Hello Willa,” she replied, then turned her attention to where Mrs Holmes had laid out plates of food. There were sandwiches filled with cheese, ham and lettuce, fairy cakes decorated with tiny ponies, bottles of orange squash as well as lemonade and cola, and a box of chocolates – Cadbury’s Favourites, to be exact. They’d been a present from Antimony’s grandma, who hadn’t been able to make it due to an ongoing illness that had left her bedridden. I couldn’t help noticing Violet watching the box, but she looked away when she caught me watching..
I glanced away from the food to where Antimony was standing close to the front door, still waiting for the rest of her guests. As they arrived one by one, she greeted them each cordially and guided them into the living room. Inevitably, they all veered away and ended up at the dining room table with Violet and myself.
Mr and Mrs Holmes soon emerged from where they had been preparing a birthday cake for Antimony – I say preparing, but what I mean is putting candles on the store-bought sponge they’d picked up in the morning. They walked cautiously into the kitchen, carrying the cake box between them, and started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. All us kids joined in.
As they approached the dining room table, Antimony’s little sister Astatine waddled into the room, carrying one of her doll’s in one hand. It was a character from Frozen – I’m not sure which one; Anna or Elsa, I never watched it – and it dangled from her hand by one arm. With the other hand she started to tug at her mum’s skirt.
“Mum, can you tell Bromine!” she said, not clear on what he should actually be told.
“What’s the matter, honey?” her mum asked calmly, “What has he done?”
“Nothing,” Astatine admitted, “I just think that Antimony should have the room – it is her birthday, after all.”
Mrs Holmes smiled at her four year old daughter, then gave Mr Holmes a look. He rolled his eyes behind his glasses, then headed into the living room.
“But dad!” we could hear Bromine shouting after his father had spoken quietly to him, “You guys said I could play games with my friends.”
“Not in the living room,” Mr Holmes said more silently than his son, “you know it’s your sister’s birthday.”
“I got her a card, didn’t I?” Bromine replied.
“No, your mother and I got her a card and you signed it! You didn’t even get her a present.”
“Well, it’s not like I have a job or anything,” Bromine replied haughtily – I don’t know what he had to be haughty about, admitting he didn’t have a job. He’d never even had a paper round as far as I was aware.
“Just go to your room,” Mr Holmes said in a defeated tone, “you can take the X-Box up there if you want.”
Noisily, Bromine stormed up to his room, his two friends unhooking the game console and following him up the stairs.
“Come on kids,” Mr Holmes said, coming back into the dining room, “let’s take it into the living room.”
Antimony’s guest started to file into the living room as Mr and Mrs Holmes picked up the plates of food and drink to take in to them. As they did so, Mrs Holmes noticed something was wrong.
“Malcolm, honey, have you seen the box of sweets?”
“They were on the table a moment ago,” Mr Holmes replied, gesturing toward the dining room table, “they probably just fell on the floor.”
Mrs Holmes crouched down on all fours, lifting the linen cloth and peering under the table.
“It’s not here,” she said, looking at her husband, “where could they have gone to?”
“I think I have an idea,” Mr Holmes fumed, marching up the stairs to Bromine’s room.
Antimony watched him leave, then approached the table, looking at something on the linen. A chocolate covered finger print was on the table cloth, a perfect smear in the middle of the table. Antimony looked at it closely, picking something from the cloth, then walked back towards me.
“I don’t think this was Bromine,” Antimony mused, silently confiding in me.
“Why not?” I asked, puzzled by her certainty that her rebellious brother wasn’t responsible for the missing chocolate box.
“Call it a hunch,” Antimony grinned, “Come Watson, the game is afoot.”
I rolled my eyes. Sherlock Holmes had, according to Antimony, only said these words once, in the 1904 story The Adventure of the Abbey Grange, but I guess it was such a famous quotation that she couldn’t resist. This was, after all, her first real mystery.
Voices could be heard from upstairs, raised voices as Bromine declared his innocence, “I didn’t take no stupid chocolates! You’re always blaming me!”
Mr Holmes walked back into the dining room, looking dejectedly at his wife.
“He doesn’t have them, Gabby,” he said.
“Then where could they have gotten to?” Mrs Holmes asked rhetorically.
Antimony walked into the living room, where her friends all sat around on the floor playing with her new toys, and I followed her. She walked slowly amongst them, watching them keenly, as I watched her from the corner of the room. She passed her sister Astatine who had somehow managed to worm her way into the birthday celebration with her doll’s house and Frozen toy, and she gave her a smile, then Antimony’s gaze stopped next to Violet, a concerned look on her face.
I think she’d found her culprit.
“Can everyone be quiet please,” Antimony said loudly, causing everyone to stop playing, “there has been a theft.”
Mr and Mrs Holmes heard this from the dining room, and rushed into us, looking appalled that their daughter was accusing an entire room of children of being thieves. I smiled as I watched the action unfold – I’d never much liked Violet anyway.
“A box filled with chocolates has gone missing from the dining room, and I suspect that someone in this room knows where they are.
“At first,” she continued, “I suspected, as my parents did, that my brother Bromine was responsible for the missing sweets. However, although he may have had the motive, he did not have the opportunity. At no time between the chocolates being on the table and going missing did Bromine actually enter the kitchen.”
Mr and Mrs Holmes looked down at their feet, obviously feeling guilty about blaming their innocent son.
“Therefore my suspicions next lay at the feet of Violet Johnson...” Antimony announced. I smiled, waiting for the accusation.
“...Although she may have had ample opportunity,” Antimony continued, “and clearly coveted the said confectionary as I observed from when she’d been sat at the table, it is clear from her clean hands and a lack of any hiding place for the chocolates that she is also innocent.”
I furrowed my brow. If it wasn’t Violet, then who could it have been?
“It was then that I started looking closer to home,” Antimony said, “I noticed when I first checked the area where the chocolate had been that there was a brown, chocolaty fingerprint, most likely left by the thief... even from a distance I could see it was too small to have belonged to my brother, thus clearing him once again, but upon closer inspection I could see, by comparing it to my own hand, that the print was also much smaller than my own.”
Smaller than her own? Then who was left?
“There was also a strange material on the cloth,” Antimony observed, “a small piece of shiny fabric that, although I didn’t instantly recognise it, has since struck a chord.
“Finally,” Antimony concluded, “as I walked around the living room, I noticed another fingerprint, similar to the one on the table cloth. This one was on...
“...The doll’s house!”
Everyone looked at the doll’s house, then at the little girl sitting next to it. Astatine started to cry as Antimony approached her.
“I only wanted my dollies tea party to be more real!” she blubbed, as Antimony opened the front of the doll’s house to reveal the missing box chocolates.
“My word, Antimony,” I said to her from across the room, “However did you know?”
“It was the piece of material that convinced me of the solution,” Antimony revealed, “once I saw the print on the doll’s house I suddenly remembered where I had seen the piece of material before. It was a piece of the snowflake cape on Astatine’s Elsa doll!”
“I don’t know how you put it all together,” I mused, shaking my head.
“Why my dear Watson,” Antimony Holmes smiled at me with pride, “it was elementary.”
Originally Posted 29/1/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
It was a boxed set of The Complete Sherlock Holmes, and having read them she instantly fell in love.
From A Study in Scarlet to The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place, Antimony ate them all up with gusto. And it helped that she could imagine that she was one of Sherlock’s distant relatives, what with them sharing a surname and all. It’s probably why we became friends in the first place.
After all, my name is Watson.
The only problem was, once she’d started reading the fifty-six short stories and four novels contained in the two large volumes, she started to see mysteries everywhere she looked.
At school, if someone lost a pen, she’d assume there was something sinister behind the disappearance, even if it had just rolled under a desk.
At home, if one of her parents was working late, she assumed that there was some sort of conspiracy involved to prevent them from being at home and suspected that someone would break into their house a kidnap her or one of her siblings, holding them to ransom.
But so far none of her imaginings had ever come true.
Until Antimony turned seven.
Her birthday party had been arranged for the Saturday afternoon before she turned actually turned seven, so as luck would have it she’d be getting all of her presents early this year. I was the first of her friends to arrive, and sat patiently at the dining room table. Her fifteen year old brother, Bromine, had been allowed to invite a couple of his friends along, and they were hogging the TV so none of Antimony’s friends could watch when they arrived. They were playing X-Box, and making an awful lot of noise about it. Bromine’s friend Mickey was picking his nose, then touching the pads on the controller. Antimony made a mental note to wipe the controls down before she had a go. The other kid was called Albert, and he looked shifty. He kept looking round the room, examining things, appraising them, as if he was planning on taking something. Antimony narrowed her eyes at him; she’d have to keep an eye out for anything that might go missing and remember to check Albert’s bag before he left.
Her younger sister, Astatine, was sat in a corner, playing with her doll’s house. She was pretending to feed her toys cups of tea from a plastic tea set, which made her look a little on the crazy side in my opinion, but at least she was being quiet. And not hogging the TV like some people I could mention.
Antimony’s oldest friend Violet was the next to arrive. She was holding a large box in her arms, wrapped in paper that was covered in ponies. Ponies were Antimony’s second great passion, after mystery novels.
“Hey, Mony,” Violet beamed, having not seen her friend since the day before, “Happy birthday.”
“It isn’t until Tuesday,” Antimony replied, graciously taking the box from Violet, “but thank you.”
“Welcome,” Violet said, running into the living room to play. She stopped short when she saw the three older boys, then looked at Antimony.
“Where can we play?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about them,” Antimony reassured her, “they’ll be fine, just grab a seat.”
Violet looked at the boys nervously as Antimony took the present into the next room, placing it on the kitchen counter. Violet thought about sitting in the living room, then changed her mind and had a seat at the dining room table next to me. She gave me a little smile. We weren’t close.
“Hello Violet,” I said weakly.
“Hello Willa,” she replied, then turned her attention to where Mrs Holmes had laid out plates of food. There were sandwiches filled with cheese, ham and lettuce, fairy cakes decorated with tiny ponies, bottles of orange squash as well as lemonade and cola, and a box of chocolates – Cadbury’s Favourites, to be exact. They’d been a present from Antimony’s grandma, who hadn’t been able to make it due to an ongoing illness that had left her bedridden. I couldn’t help noticing Violet watching the box, but she looked away when she caught me watching..
I glanced away from the food to where Antimony was standing close to the front door, still waiting for the rest of her guests. As they arrived one by one, she greeted them each cordially and guided them into the living room. Inevitably, they all veered away and ended up at the dining room table with Violet and myself.
Mr and Mrs Holmes soon emerged from where they had been preparing a birthday cake for Antimony – I say preparing, but what I mean is putting candles on the store-bought sponge they’d picked up in the morning. They walked cautiously into the kitchen, carrying the cake box between them, and started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. All us kids joined in.
As they approached the dining room table, Antimony’s little sister Astatine waddled into the room, carrying one of her doll’s in one hand. It was a character from Frozen – I’m not sure which one; Anna or Elsa, I never watched it – and it dangled from her hand by one arm. With the other hand she started to tug at her mum’s skirt.
“Mum, can you tell Bromine!” she said, not clear on what he should actually be told.
“What’s the matter, honey?” her mum asked calmly, “What has he done?”
“Nothing,” Astatine admitted, “I just think that Antimony should have the room – it is her birthday, after all.”
Mrs Holmes smiled at her four year old daughter, then gave Mr Holmes a look. He rolled his eyes behind his glasses, then headed into the living room.
“But dad!” we could hear Bromine shouting after his father had spoken quietly to him, “You guys said I could play games with my friends.”
“Not in the living room,” Mr Holmes said more silently than his son, “you know it’s your sister’s birthday.”
“I got her a card, didn’t I?” Bromine replied.
“No, your mother and I got her a card and you signed it! You didn’t even get her a present.”
“Well, it’s not like I have a job or anything,” Bromine replied haughtily – I don’t know what he had to be haughty about, admitting he didn’t have a job. He’d never even had a paper round as far as I was aware.
“Just go to your room,” Mr Holmes said in a defeated tone, “you can take the X-Box up there if you want.”
Noisily, Bromine stormed up to his room, his two friends unhooking the game console and following him up the stairs.
“Come on kids,” Mr Holmes said, coming back into the dining room, “let’s take it into the living room.”
Antimony’s guest started to file into the living room as Mr and Mrs Holmes picked up the plates of food and drink to take in to them. As they did so, Mrs Holmes noticed something was wrong.
“Malcolm, honey, have you seen the box of sweets?”
“They were on the table a moment ago,” Mr Holmes replied, gesturing toward the dining room table, “they probably just fell on the floor.”
Mrs Holmes crouched down on all fours, lifting the linen cloth and peering under the table.
“It’s not here,” she said, looking at her husband, “where could they have gone to?”
“I think I have an idea,” Mr Holmes fumed, marching up the stairs to Bromine’s room.
Antimony watched him leave, then approached the table, looking at something on the linen. A chocolate covered finger print was on the table cloth, a perfect smear in the middle of the table. Antimony looked at it closely, picking something from the cloth, then walked back towards me.
“I don’t think this was Bromine,” Antimony mused, silently confiding in me.
“Why not?” I asked, puzzled by her certainty that her rebellious brother wasn’t responsible for the missing chocolate box.
“Call it a hunch,” Antimony grinned, “Come Watson, the game is afoot.”
I rolled my eyes. Sherlock Holmes had, according to Antimony, only said these words once, in the 1904 story The Adventure of the Abbey Grange, but I guess it was such a famous quotation that she couldn’t resist. This was, after all, her first real mystery.
Voices could be heard from upstairs, raised voices as Bromine declared his innocence, “I didn’t take no stupid chocolates! You’re always blaming me!”
Mr Holmes walked back into the dining room, looking dejectedly at his wife.
“He doesn’t have them, Gabby,” he said.
“Then where could they have gotten to?” Mrs Holmes asked rhetorically.
Antimony walked into the living room, where her friends all sat around on the floor playing with her new toys, and I followed her. She walked slowly amongst them, watching them keenly, as I watched her from the corner of the room. She passed her sister Astatine who had somehow managed to worm her way into the birthday celebration with her doll’s house and Frozen toy, and she gave her a smile, then Antimony’s gaze stopped next to Violet, a concerned look on her face.
I think she’d found her culprit.
“Can everyone be quiet please,” Antimony said loudly, causing everyone to stop playing, “there has been a theft.”
Mr and Mrs Holmes heard this from the dining room, and rushed into us, looking appalled that their daughter was accusing an entire room of children of being thieves. I smiled as I watched the action unfold – I’d never much liked Violet anyway.
“A box filled with chocolates has gone missing from the dining room, and I suspect that someone in this room knows where they are.
“At first,” she continued, “I suspected, as my parents did, that my brother Bromine was responsible for the missing sweets. However, although he may have had the motive, he did not have the opportunity. At no time between the chocolates being on the table and going missing did Bromine actually enter the kitchen.”
Mr and Mrs Holmes looked down at their feet, obviously feeling guilty about blaming their innocent son.
“Therefore my suspicions next lay at the feet of Violet Johnson...” Antimony announced. I smiled, waiting for the accusation.
“...Although she may have had ample opportunity,” Antimony continued, “and clearly coveted the said confectionary as I observed from when she’d been sat at the table, it is clear from her clean hands and a lack of any hiding place for the chocolates that she is also innocent.”
I furrowed my brow. If it wasn’t Violet, then who could it have been?
“It was then that I started looking closer to home,” Antimony said, “I noticed when I first checked the area where the chocolate had been that there was a brown, chocolaty fingerprint, most likely left by the thief... even from a distance I could see it was too small to have belonged to my brother, thus clearing him once again, but upon closer inspection I could see, by comparing it to my own hand, that the print was also much smaller than my own.”
Smaller than her own? Then who was left?
“There was also a strange material on the cloth,” Antimony observed, “a small piece of shiny fabric that, although I didn’t instantly recognise it, has since struck a chord.
“Finally,” Antimony concluded, “as I walked around the living room, I noticed another fingerprint, similar to the one on the table cloth. This one was on...
“...The doll’s house!”
Everyone looked at the doll’s house, then at the little girl sitting next to it. Astatine started to cry as Antimony approached her.
“I only wanted my dollies tea party to be more real!” she blubbed, as Antimony opened the front of the doll’s house to reveal the missing box chocolates.
“My word, Antimony,” I said to her from across the room, “However did you know?”
“It was the piece of material that convinced me of the solution,” Antimony revealed, “once I saw the print on the doll’s house I suddenly remembered where I had seen the piece of material before. It was a piece of the snowflake cape on Astatine’s Elsa doll!”
“I don’t know how you put it all together,” I mused, shaking my head.
“Why my dear Watson,” Antimony Holmes smiled at me with pride, “it was elementary.”
Originally Posted 29/1/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
Poem : Private Eyes
Private eyes, private lives
Maltese falcons, guns and knives
Long trenchcoats and trilby hats
Tracking down those dirty rats
Private lives, private eyes
Criminals in lame disguise
Dressed to frighten as a spook
It’s enough to make you puke
Private eyes meet sexy dames
Buildings bursting into flames
Random deaths, scary near misses
Femme fatales’ seductive kisses
Privates eyes, private lives
Hanging out in scummy dives
Getting leads from men in bars
Chasing suspects in their cars
Private lives, private eyes
Always have to improvise
Opened up to public view
Whats a criminal to do?
Private eyes, private lives
Ruined by those cheating wives
Relationships slowly disolved
Until the mystery is solved.
Originally Posted 29/1/2015
Result - 2nd Place
Maltese falcons, guns and knives
Long trenchcoats and trilby hats
Tracking down those dirty rats
Private lives, private eyes
Criminals in lame disguise
Dressed to frighten as a spook
It’s enough to make you puke
Private eyes meet sexy dames
Buildings bursting into flames
Random deaths, scary near misses
Femme fatales’ seductive kisses
Privates eyes, private lives
Hanging out in scummy dives
Getting leads from men in bars
Chasing suspects in their cars
Private lives, private eyes
Always have to improvise
Opened up to public view
Whats a criminal to do?
Private eyes, private lives
Ruined by those cheating wives
Relationships slowly disolved
Until the mystery is solved.
Originally Posted 29/1/2015
Result - 2nd Place
January 21, 2015
Poem : A Lapse In Time
A lapse in time, a lapse in thought
Can leave one feeling overwrought
It makes one think of things we missed
Like having fun or being kissed.
Were choices right, we’re never sure
A day, a week, a year or more
Can hurtle passed at breakneck speed.
Before this sentence you can read
The moment’s passed, never returning
All the while your heart is yearning
For that moment once again
To stop the torture, end the pain.
The choices made are done and set
There’s no use in simple regret
Those lapses may by short or brief
But often there is lasting grief
Just for an hour in the day
Somebody dies while you’re away
You never get to make amends
With loved ones, family or friends.
So make the most of all that’s here
You can’t let time possess your fear
Or else you might feel overwrought
A lapse in time, a lapse in thought.
Originally Posted 21/1/2015
Result - Joint 6th Place
Can leave one feeling overwrought
It makes one think of things we missed
Like having fun or being kissed.
Were choices right, we’re never sure
A day, a week, a year or more
Can hurtle passed at breakneck speed.
Before this sentence you can read
The moment’s passed, never returning
All the while your heart is yearning
For that moment once again
To stop the torture, end the pain.
The choices made are done and set
There’s no use in simple regret
Those lapses may by short or brief
But often there is lasting grief
Just for an hour in the day
Somebody dies while you’re away
You never get to make amends
With loved ones, family or friends.
So make the most of all that’s here
You can’t let time possess your fear
Or else you might feel overwrought
A lapse in time, a lapse in thought.
Originally Posted 21/1/2015
Result - Joint 6th Place
Short Story : The Borders of Time And Reason
The fact that everything about the room screamed nerd really did nothing for Michael’s sense of self-worth, even though he was a science major. He walked into the comic book convention, passing a grown woman dressed as a cat of some sort, and headed to the nearest stand.
He’d never really enjoyed comic books, but a girl he fancied really seemed to enjoy them. He tried reading the stuff she liked, but it all tended to be Japanese and generally involved gay men who looked like flat-chested women who enjoyed tearing their shirts off. Knowing that this was definitely not the sort of reading material he wanted his parents to find tucked under his mattress, he’d decided to try something else out instead.
What he’d found was truly remarkable.
The story had been amazing, almost Tolkien-esque in its sheer immensity, and had appealed to him immediately. The art was beautifully meticulous, and the story was so detailed that each twenty-two page issue took him at least forty-five minutes to complete. But there was one problem...
He couldn’t find issue seven anywhere!
People had always told him – that is, comic book nerds had told him – that generally the hardest issues to find were issue two or, in more recent cases, issue three. Issue ones always sold out – everyone bought them for their sheer collectability – but more often than not people neglected the next few issues, so they always had lower print runs. For a long time that meant issue two were rare, but now people had picked up on this and started buying the second issues as well, it seemed that issue three was the new issue two. But in this case, issue seven? It was most likely because the first story arc finished in issue six, and many people thought it was the final issue as issue seven didn’t come out for five more months, but by the time I realised this, issue eight was already on the shelves...
I’m boring you, aren’t I?
Anyway, out of sheer desperation, Michael had turned up at a comic convention in the hope of finding that elusive comic book.
Surrounded by people dressed as Transformers, Ninja Turtles, and many other popular characters from last summer’s action packed movies, he approached a section of the convention hall manned by a skinny man in his forties, wearing a T-shirt with the words ‘There’s no place like 127.0.0.1 ‘ printed on the front. Michael didn’t get it.
The man stared at Michael, as if he was the retard for being in this place, then asked a simple question.
“Can I help you?”
Michael cleared his throat, “I’m looking for something,” he said.
“Aren’t we all?” the man replied, “You might want to be a little more specific, chum.”
“It’s a comic book,” Michael added.
The man looked left, then right, then stared at Michael. His stare said, ‘You’re an idiot’.
“It’s called ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’.” Michael explained.
“Oh,” the comic book guy grinned, “I imagine it’s issue seven you’ll be looking for.”
Michael furrowed his brow, “How did you know that?” he asked.
“It’s famous,” the comic book guy told, “don’t you know the story behind it?”
Michael shook his head.
“I thought everyone knew,” the man rolled his eyes, “well, what happened is, through some weird series of events, a vortex opened up in the very fabric of time itself, taking issue seven of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’ and every single detail about it, and sent it hurtling into the future.”
Michael’s jaw fell open, “Seriously?” he asked.
The comic guy chuckled, “No, not seriously,” he said, “the guys who write it messed up, and there is no issue seven.”
“But the story doesn’t make sense without it,” Michael whined.
The comic guy shrugged, “Cry me a river, pal. What do you want me to do about it?”
Michael furrowed his brow, “Do you think they’ll ever publish it?” he asked.
“Maybe one day,” the man shrugged, “it happens sometimes. Remember how issue 20 of Spawn didn’t come out until after issue 25 back in the early days of Image?”
Michael stared blankly at the man, “What’s a Spawn?” he asked.
The comic book man turned away.
So now what was Michael to do? He couldn’t wait around, hoping that one day issue seven would magically appear in the shops. His personality wouldn’t allow it.
Luckily, he was something of a science wiz (convenient, huh?), so he headed home and started work on something that would hopefully help him out.
After several weeks of work, during which time issues eleven and twelve of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’ had been released, Michael finally had it...
A Time Machine!
He was amazed at just how easy it had been to invent an actual working time machine. From what little he knew about time travel, it should have taken at least thirty years to finalize (at least, that’s what the Back To The Future trilogy had implied). It didn’t look like anything special; it wasn’t a Delorean, it didn’t look like Santa’s sleigh with a spinning wheel attached, and it definitely wasn’t a hot tub.
Michael’s time machine was a wrist watch.
How simple is that? He could just strap it on his wrist, set the time and date he wanted to travel to, and the watch would do the rest.
But to where should he travel?
By his estimate, a journey of just ten years into the future should land him in a time where he could find out when issue seven had finally been released. He began pressing buttons on the watch, changing the date on the digital display to 1st January, 2025.
Michael was plunged into darkness as the watch tore him out of his existing timeline and threw him into his apartment ten years in the future. He looked around, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, and peering around his living room.
Nothing had changed.
“It must not have worked properly,” he mumbled to himself, feeling his way around the room until he found a light switch. He flicked it on and looked at the wall clock. Maybe next time he should set a time, and not allow the watch to default to four zeroes - midnight. He twiddled with the watch, changing the default time to noon.
On further inspection of his flat, Michael spotted some small changes. His DVD collection had increased, and now included such unknown movies as Predator Versus Terminator, Toy Story 4, and something called Redezvous With Rama. Then a boxset he hadn’t seen before caught his eye...
It was called ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’!
“They made a TV series!” Michael said to himself, hoping beyond hope that it would include the episode that adapted issue seven.
A light came on in his bedroom, and Michael almost dropped the box set as he saw himself – albeit ten years older – walking into the living room in a pair of old man pyjamas.
“Oh,” the older Michael said, “Is that today?”
“You’re.. you’re...”
“Yes, I’m you,” older Michael finished younger Michael’s sentence, then looked at the box set he was holding.
“I wouldn’t bother with that,” he said, “as you can see, it only got one series. It was pretty lame.”
Younger Michael stared at his older self in disbelief, wondering when his hair had started to fall out, “So, what happened in issue seven?”
“Issue seven?” older Michael shook his head, “they never published an issue seven. They never published anything passed issue thirteen. It got cancelled when the creator got killed in a bus accident in early ’15 – not long after we invented time travel, actually.”
Younger Michael gaped in disbelief, “So why didn’t you go back in time and save him?” he asked.
“Because you can’t go back to your own time,” older Michael said.
Younger Michael looked confused, “But you’re me,” he said, “so if you’re here, then I must make it back.”
“Oh, we do,” older Michael explained, “but to 2016. For some reason the whole of 2015 gets locked out to us. Weird.”
“So there’s no issue seven?” younger Michael concluded, “and there never will be?”
“Sorry,” older Michael shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll see you then.”
“I’m not going back yet,” younger Michael said, “I might as well learn something about the future before I go back and make some money out of this.”
“You don’t stay much longer,” older Michael said.
“Why not,” younger Michael asked.
“Because, in the middle of your next sentence, you disappear, reappearing in 2016.”
Younger Michael laughed, “I really don’t think...”
And he vanished.
“Told you,” older Michael said.
Michael suddenly found himself in his flat in 2016, this time in the middle of the day. A year had passed in his flat, and it was only lucky he had all his bills set for direct debit. Grabbing a coat, he ran out of his flat and headed to the local comic book shop, hoping that he’d be able to get the last issue of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’. He slammed into the shop door, running up to the counter, and smiling at the man behind it.
“Do you have the last issue of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’?” he asked.
The comic shop man stared at him in disbelief, “Are you joking?” he asked, “Do you have any idea how much that thing goes for? It was the last thing the guy published before he got hit by that bus. It’s really famous. You really should have bought it when it came out. Were you living under a rock or something?”
“No,” Michael sighed to himself, “just in the future.”
Originally Posted 21/1/2015
Result - 1st Place
He’d never really enjoyed comic books, but a girl he fancied really seemed to enjoy them. He tried reading the stuff she liked, but it all tended to be Japanese and generally involved gay men who looked like flat-chested women who enjoyed tearing their shirts off. Knowing that this was definitely not the sort of reading material he wanted his parents to find tucked under his mattress, he’d decided to try something else out instead.
What he’d found was truly remarkable.
The story had been amazing, almost Tolkien-esque in its sheer immensity, and had appealed to him immediately. The art was beautifully meticulous, and the story was so detailed that each twenty-two page issue took him at least forty-five minutes to complete. But there was one problem...
He couldn’t find issue seven anywhere!
People had always told him – that is, comic book nerds had told him – that generally the hardest issues to find were issue two or, in more recent cases, issue three. Issue ones always sold out – everyone bought them for their sheer collectability – but more often than not people neglected the next few issues, so they always had lower print runs. For a long time that meant issue two were rare, but now people had picked up on this and started buying the second issues as well, it seemed that issue three was the new issue two. But in this case, issue seven? It was most likely because the first story arc finished in issue six, and many people thought it was the final issue as issue seven didn’t come out for five more months, but by the time I realised this, issue eight was already on the shelves...
I’m boring you, aren’t I?
Anyway, out of sheer desperation, Michael had turned up at a comic convention in the hope of finding that elusive comic book.
Surrounded by people dressed as Transformers, Ninja Turtles, and many other popular characters from last summer’s action packed movies, he approached a section of the convention hall manned by a skinny man in his forties, wearing a T-shirt with the words ‘There’s no place like 127.0.0.1 ‘ printed on the front. Michael didn’t get it.
The man stared at Michael, as if he was the retard for being in this place, then asked a simple question.
“Can I help you?”
Michael cleared his throat, “I’m looking for something,” he said.
“Aren’t we all?” the man replied, “You might want to be a little more specific, chum.”
“It’s a comic book,” Michael added.
The man looked left, then right, then stared at Michael. His stare said, ‘You’re an idiot’.
“It’s called ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’.” Michael explained.
“Oh,” the comic book guy grinned, “I imagine it’s issue seven you’ll be looking for.”
Michael furrowed his brow, “How did you know that?” he asked.
“It’s famous,” the comic book guy told, “don’t you know the story behind it?”
Michael shook his head.
“I thought everyone knew,” the man rolled his eyes, “well, what happened is, through some weird series of events, a vortex opened up in the very fabric of time itself, taking issue seven of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’ and every single detail about it, and sent it hurtling into the future.”
Michael’s jaw fell open, “Seriously?” he asked.
The comic guy chuckled, “No, not seriously,” he said, “the guys who write it messed up, and there is no issue seven.”
“But the story doesn’t make sense without it,” Michael whined.
The comic guy shrugged, “Cry me a river, pal. What do you want me to do about it?”
Michael furrowed his brow, “Do you think they’ll ever publish it?” he asked.
“Maybe one day,” the man shrugged, “it happens sometimes. Remember how issue 20 of Spawn didn’t come out until after issue 25 back in the early days of Image?”
Michael stared blankly at the man, “What’s a Spawn?” he asked.
The comic book man turned away.
So now what was Michael to do? He couldn’t wait around, hoping that one day issue seven would magically appear in the shops. His personality wouldn’t allow it.
Luckily, he was something of a science wiz (convenient, huh?), so he headed home and started work on something that would hopefully help him out.
After several weeks of work, during which time issues eleven and twelve of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’ had been released, Michael finally had it...
A Time Machine!
He was amazed at just how easy it had been to invent an actual working time machine. From what little he knew about time travel, it should have taken at least thirty years to finalize (at least, that’s what the Back To The Future trilogy had implied). It didn’t look like anything special; it wasn’t a Delorean, it didn’t look like Santa’s sleigh with a spinning wheel attached, and it definitely wasn’t a hot tub.
Michael’s time machine was a wrist watch.
How simple is that? He could just strap it on his wrist, set the time and date he wanted to travel to, and the watch would do the rest.
But to where should he travel?
By his estimate, a journey of just ten years into the future should land him in a time where he could find out when issue seven had finally been released. He began pressing buttons on the watch, changing the date on the digital display to 1st January, 2025.
Michael was plunged into darkness as the watch tore him out of his existing timeline and threw him into his apartment ten years in the future. He looked around, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, and peering around his living room.
Nothing had changed.
“It must not have worked properly,” he mumbled to himself, feeling his way around the room until he found a light switch. He flicked it on and looked at the wall clock. Maybe next time he should set a time, and not allow the watch to default to four zeroes - midnight. He twiddled with the watch, changing the default time to noon.
On further inspection of his flat, Michael spotted some small changes. His DVD collection had increased, and now included such unknown movies as Predator Versus Terminator, Toy Story 4, and something called Redezvous With Rama. Then a boxset he hadn’t seen before caught his eye...
It was called ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’!
“They made a TV series!” Michael said to himself, hoping beyond hope that it would include the episode that adapted issue seven.
A light came on in his bedroom, and Michael almost dropped the box set as he saw himself – albeit ten years older – walking into the living room in a pair of old man pyjamas.
“Oh,” the older Michael said, “Is that today?”
“You’re.. you’re...”
“Yes, I’m you,” older Michael finished younger Michael’s sentence, then looked at the box set he was holding.
“I wouldn’t bother with that,” he said, “as you can see, it only got one series. It was pretty lame.”
Younger Michael stared at his older self in disbelief, wondering when his hair had started to fall out, “So, what happened in issue seven?”
“Issue seven?” older Michael shook his head, “they never published an issue seven. They never published anything passed issue thirteen. It got cancelled when the creator got killed in a bus accident in early ’15 – not long after we invented time travel, actually.”
Younger Michael gaped in disbelief, “So why didn’t you go back in time and save him?” he asked.
“Because you can’t go back to your own time,” older Michael said.
Younger Michael looked confused, “But you’re me,” he said, “so if you’re here, then I must make it back.”
“Oh, we do,” older Michael explained, “but to 2016. For some reason the whole of 2015 gets locked out to us. Weird.”
“So there’s no issue seven?” younger Michael concluded, “and there never will be?”
“Sorry,” older Michael shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll see you then.”
“I’m not going back yet,” younger Michael said, “I might as well learn something about the future before I go back and make some money out of this.”
“You don’t stay much longer,” older Michael said.
“Why not,” younger Michael asked.
“Because, in the middle of your next sentence, you disappear, reappearing in 2016.”
Younger Michael laughed, “I really don’t think...”
And he vanished.
“Told you,” older Michael said.
Michael suddenly found himself in his flat in 2016, this time in the middle of the day. A year had passed in his flat, and it was only lucky he had all his bills set for direct debit. Grabbing a coat, he ran out of his flat and headed to the local comic book shop, hoping that he’d be able to get the last issue of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’. He slammed into the shop door, running up to the counter, and smiling at the man behind it.
“Do you have the last issue of ‘The Borders of Time And Reason’?” he asked.
The comic shop man stared at him in disbelief, “Are you joking?” he asked, “Do you have any idea how much that thing goes for? It was the last thing the guy published before he got hit by that bus. It’s really famous. You really should have bought it when it came out. Were you living under a rock or something?”
“No,” Michael sighed to himself, “just in the future.”
Originally Posted 21/1/2015
Result - 1st Place
January 20, 2015
Poem : The Cemetery
The cemetery fills my head
With something bordering on dread;
The standing stones that reach up high
And taper off into the sky,
The tiny plots that hide a soul
Inside a six foot sunken hole,
The flowers dying by a plot
That someone somewhere has forgot.
The cemetery makes me churn
My stomach wretches as I learn
That something darker does proceed
Throughout the grounds, filled up with greed
It wants more victims for its land
Someone to lend a helping hand;
Someone to swell the rising ranks
And never asks for any thanks
The cemetery speaks my name
It whispers gently, soft and plain
That’s why I kill, that’s why I maim
It’s not for pleasure or for fame
The cemetery tells me to
It urges me to slay; I slew
In order to create more dead;
The cemetery fills my head.
Originally Posted 20/1/2015
Result - 4th Place
With something bordering on dread;
The standing stones that reach up high
And taper off into the sky,
The tiny plots that hide a soul
Inside a six foot sunken hole,
The flowers dying by a plot
That someone somewhere has forgot.
The cemetery makes me churn
My stomach wretches as I learn
That something darker does proceed
Throughout the grounds, filled up with greed
It wants more victims for its land
Someone to lend a helping hand;
Someone to swell the rising ranks
And never asks for any thanks
The cemetery speaks my name
It whispers gently, soft and plain
That’s why I kill, that’s why I maim
It’s not for pleasure or for fame
The cemetery tells me to
It urges me to slay; I slew
In order to create more dead;
The cemetery fills my head.
Originally Posted 20/1/2015
Result - 4th Place
January 15, 2015
Short Story : Hide!
He didn’t know what to do as he heard the footsteps approaching him through the cemetery. There was more than one set of them, and if he didn’t find somewhere to hide and quick, whatever those feet belonged to would find him. And who knew what they’d do once they did find him.
Filled with terror, he ducked down behind a large gravestone, pressing himself against the cold surface as he heard the slow trudge of heavy footsteps coming closer, and closer, until they stopped a short distance from his current hiding spot..
His heart raced in his chest, pounding in his ears as he caught the reflection of fire light across the yard. His only hope was that they didn’t notice him, those monsters that had been chasing after him for so long. What did they want? Why were they chasing him? These were all questions that ran through his mind as he tried not to move, tried not to draw attention to himself.
Ever since his father died, he’d been visited upon by these strange creatures, always wanting to crush his soul and destroy his very being. Did their pursuit of him have anything to do with his father’s death, and the accident that had caused it? He did not know, and would rather not find out. In an almost supernatural way these creatures seemed to follow him wherever he would go, and nothing he could do could put a stop to their malevolent visitations. They recognised him wherever he went, as if they possessed some sort of sixth sense, and hounded him until he was almost driven out of his mind. Hiding may not stop these evil spectres from haunting him; hiding may just be one option that will not work forever.
The wind picked up through the cemetery, and the voices of the creatures carried to him on the wind. He heard their words, their sepulchral chant, their satanic lies, and he shuddered as he understood their meanings.
These creatures, these spirits of the night, wished him harm. And they would stop at nothing until they found him.
Finally realising just how futile it was to run from them, he stood up from behind the gravestone and faced the evil creatures that wanted to destroy him. He stared at them, desperately trying not to look as terrified as he truly was. The creatures stared back at him, their flickering lights dancing in the dark, casting long shadows that stretched out towards him, grasping at his legs. He tried to speak, but all that emerged from his tightening throat was a small grunt of fear.
“Tis the monster!” the first creature spoke, gesturing with a satanic trident, “Tis the monster that killed Victor Frankenstein!”
Originally Posted 15/1/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
Filled with terror, he ducked down behind a large gravestone, pressing himself against the cold surface as he heard the slow trudge of heavy footsteps coming closer, and closer, until they stopped a short distance from his current hiding spot..
His heart raced in his chest, pounding in his ears as he caught the reflection of fire light across the yard. His only hope was that they didn’t notice him, those monsters that had been chasing after him for so long. What did they want? Why were they chasing him? These were all questions that ran through his mind as he tried not to move, tried not to draw attention to himself.
Ever since his father died, he’d been visited upon by these strange creatures, always wanting to crush his soul and destroy his very being. Did their pursuit of him have anything to do with his father’s death, and the accident that had caused it? He did not know, and would rather not find out. In an almost supernatural way these creatures seemed to follow him wherever he would go, and nothing he could do could put a stop to their malevolent visitations. They recognised him wherever he went, as if they possessed some sort of sixth sense, and hounded him until he was almost driven out of his mind. Hiding may not stop these evil spectres from haunting him; hiding may just be one option that will not work forever.
The wind picked up through the cemetery, and the voices of the creatures carried to him on the wind. He heard their words, their sepulchral chant, their satanic lies, and he shuddered as he understood their meanings.
These creatures, these spirits of the night, wished him harm. And they would stop at nothing until they found him.
Finally realising just how futile it was to run from them, he stood up from behind the gravestone and faced the evil creatures that wanted to destroy him. He stared at them, desperately trying not to look as terrified as he truly was. The creatures stared back at him, their flickering lights dancing in the dark, casting long shadows that stretched out towards him, grasping at his legs. He tried to speak, but all that emerged from his tightening throat was a small grunt of fear.
“Tis the monster!” the first creature spoke, gesturing with a satanic trident, “Tis the monster that killed Victor Frankenstein!”
Originally Posted 15/1/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
