Lost and Found

You know it’s a bad day when the water goes over the top of your boots and fills your socks. When the rain is insidious, working its way through your waterproofs and finding a way to dance down your neck, ice cold tap shoes on each vertebra. The lashing of plastic sheeting that you’ve placed over your claim, desperately attempting to escape into the dark skies. 

“Only a fool would go out in this weather!” Esme screams in your head. “You can’t find your own feet, let alone a Roman fort!” The water pooling in your boots sends a chill up through your legs, meeting the chill sent down your spine by the rain to sit uncomfortably around your buttocks, cold, disappointing and uncomfortable. 

A frozen toe collides with a sharp, solid lump as you drive your legs through the thick mud. Normally, this impact would have been inconsequential, but the temperature is insistent on causing you discomfort. You reach down to move it out of the way, and see 4 letters carved into the stone. SPQR. You did it. 

Dreams Come True

So, it turns out that genies hold no small amount of animosity towards humanity, after all that sorcerous locking them in lamps kind of thing. And they’re real sticklers for the letter of things, as opposed to the manner of things. 

It turns out the song was right. I ain’t never had a friend like the Djinn. 

My first wish: Power. I got electrocuted. 

My second wish: Love. I got chased around the village by every dog, cat and badger in heat. Then the ladies came. Then the gentlemen. All ages, all genders, all species swarming me in order to do naught but love me. 

I agonised for my third wish, hiding as my suitors clamoured against the door. I screamed that I just wanted to be left alone, and the world stopped for a moment. 

“I can make that happen.” The Genie said, eyes of danger and of fire. “I can grant all of your wishes, in one word, if you wish.”

“I wish I would be left alone.”

A thunder flash. A lightning roar. Then blessed, blessed silence. It took me a moment to take in my new surroundings. Bronze walls, reflecting the tiniest pinpoint of light miles above me, stretching as far into the sky as the eye can see. And the voice of the Djinn. 

“Your third wish, my master.” And the light faded with the sound of distant shovels…

Accountability: A barbershop in the 50s

Everybody knows about the butterfly effect. That the flap of a butterfly’s wing can cause enough of a disturbance that it creates a thunderstorm in China. It’s often used to great effect to discuss time travel, and the impact that time travel could have. Step on an ant in the Cretaceous and all of a sudden the entirety of the future is gone. It’s a key evolutionary link, and you destroyed it. But how would we even know that we’re at that inciting event? How would we know that we’re at the flap of the butterfly’s wing. Sometimes it doesn’t even sound like a butterfly. 

Sometimes it’s a child’s voice, raised to be heard over the clicking of scissors or the buzz of an electric trimmer. The timid voice of a boy waiting for his father, the innocent curiosity of youth. The flapping of the butterflies wings in this case sounded an awful lot like a question. 

“Why?”

Sometimes, the revolution doesn’t start with a shout, but a question. In this case, a simple one, with a multitude of answers. 

“You wanna know so bad, kid, why don’t you go and find out?” Carter replied, cut-throat razor moving swiftly in his left hand against the strop. 

This was it. This was the moment my grandfather and my father talked about in the interviews, in the TED talks, in any speech they were invited to give. This was when Miros Parthen’s rebellion began. By being told by a barber to go and find something out. 

Just a wee one today, but it’s still keeping my eye in. Just waiting to hear back about a competition I entered a few weeks back, which is always intimidating. But it’s good fun. Once I’ve heard back, I might even put it up on here!

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Accountability: Follow the Fox

There’s a reason foxes show up in folklore and stories. There’s a magic about them, an eerie dance that they undertake as they move through the world. Fleeting figures, that exist in the liminal spaces of the streets, dancing through the shadows as if they pop into one world from another. 

And who’s to say that they don’t? 

Creatures of shadows and night, walking through hidden pathways as they scream into the night. Fleet of foot and quick of wit, labelled as fantastic by a Mr Dahl, but a terror. Eager and happy as a fox in a henhouse, a cheerful saying serving as window dressing to a slaughter. 

Of course, one must have courage to travel these roads. Foxes are born to travel through the shadowlands, to follow tumultuous paths through dangers unknown, with their cunning and slyness. We humans, clunky and large, with no finesse or guile, must give something of ourselves to find those pathways. We become less than human, less than fox, and more of something indescribable. 

Their names for each other ring out in the night as they scream. Quickpaw, Dangerous, Beastbreaker. A wide array of grandiose names for slender, innocent creatures. But here they are, out in the world again and in the blink of an eye, gone.

So, take my advice. Think twice. Think again. But do not come and find me. Stay away, I beg. 

But listen to me clear, if you must find me. If you must know who or what I am. You know what you must do. 

.

.

.

Follow the fox. 

Yeah, I didn’t do any writing for my book last week, so here it is.

This is my second attempt with this prompt. I have 600 words of some kind of space adventure, but I wasn’t really feeling it. So instead, you’re getting the above. A quick, rough, insight into the first stages of my writings. No editing, no plot. Just something a bit bonkers.

Foxes are magic! Who knew. Apart from the foxes, I guess.

Accountability: Two souls share the same body.

I still remember it so clearly, like a film or a picture. Or the afterglow of staring into the sun. I’d thrown my sword and was defending myself with the shattered remnants of a chair when I saw it. Their wizard, Cahullan, had finished whatever spell he’d been working on and cast his staff triumphantly towards the sky. The clouds had manifested in a clear sky, dark and pregnant, hurling their bounty down to the ground. Those last words in some mystical language had been heard around the battlefield, if you could call it that. Invading our drinking hall was a slight that couldn’t be ignored. 

Cahullan had cried in that dead language, and the sky had answered. The earth beneath his feet answered in chorus, and swirled beneath his feet. Rain lashed down, and I, with my two broken slats of chair, had moved my way across to him. He was stood arrogantly in the middle of the square, just outside of the hall. He’d taken his place on our assembly stage, our altar. 

He’d pay for it. If it were the last thing I did. 

I could see my comrades falling in droves. Cahullan’s heathens were relentless and for each that we cut down three appeared in their place. There was no start or end, but then an opening. I surged through, and got to the wizard. I’d thrown the pieces at enemies as I made my way through, leaving me with naught but my bare hands. 

They were enough. I seized his throat and began to squeeze, anything to bring an end to this nightmare. 

I succeeded. I choked the life from that man with nothing but my hands. 

And that, sir, is how it ended. 

Oh, is it now? You believe it to be over?

I looked around the room. My lord, Hallus Mourn, looked at me expectantly. “There is nothing else? What of the foul wizard?”

We dismembered the body, burying the pieces in seven separate spaces. I don’t know the position of them, my Lord. 

“And we have nothing further to fear from them?”

Oh, absolutely. Nothing further to fear from Cahullan. His heathens are routed, and are in hiding in the country. Do you believe it? 

Nothing further to fear at all. 

Liar.

My Lord, I request a recess. I am exhausted from the battle and my travel here. Please, my Lord, allow me this. 

Cold grey eyes regarded me. Could Mourn tell that something was wrong?

If he can, what do you think he will do to you? How do you think he will feel when he finds that by taking my life, you let me enter here. You think I would be here if not for you? 

I waited. Patient. Unblinking. 

He knows that something is wrong, wastrel boy. 

I waited. 

I waited. 

And after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. I nodded back, much more deferentially, and removed myself from the room. I’d been granted quarters down the hall, so made my way there. 

So, are you prepared to hear what I have to say? 

Cahullan, you need to leave my head. And you need to do so now. 

I think not. 

And then, there was nothing but pain. 

…

Ahhh, this feels much better. Please enjoy your stay where you are, little hero. 

So, I’m writing again! Made a bet with a friend (I’m a sucker for them) that if I didn’t write anything on my novel during the week I’d write over the weekend based on a prompt they gave me.

So, here’s the first! Enjoy!

Day 296: Everyone was laughing, except you

I have spent years trying to capture the perfect laugh.

I did, once, think I’d found it. Jonathan Brewster, with the chipped front tooth. As he laughed, his eyes crinkled at the sides and the outpouring of laughter was purely genuine. Nothing forced or fake, just enjoyment. I thought I’d captured that moment, just as he was laughing at the latest comedy special on Netflix but no. As with everyone else, the laugh had faded.

Before that there was Carly Rae Finnegan, with her hair tucked behind her left ear and a pencil between her ruby lips. Her laugh was more muted, struggling through the barrier of that pencil to reach my ears but to me it was music. Beethoven’s Fifth, combined with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and topping off with Wagner’s Valkyrie. But by the time I captured it, the fat lady had sung and it was over.

I’m just not quick enough, you see. Everyone always told me that, from parents to teachers to bus drivers. I almost failed my photography course, actually. Got told that I always just seemed to miss the moment. Got my own back when my final exhibition was called “The Moments Missed”. Fucking crushed it.

They were right though. It’s plagued me forever. Mum was in labour for 26 hours and believe me she never let me forget it. She wasn’t one for laughter, especially after Dad left. She got withdrawn and moody and I could never make her smile.

I’ve gotten off topic. I was talking about those almost perfect laughs I could find but never quite catch. I almost forgot Kelly Webb! Such a cheeky giggle! Every time anything slightly innuendo-driven occurred, she would erupt into a giggle that would make an angel turn crimson. She loved it, I loved it but I never captured it. It just faded away. I tried everything.

I’ve tried a few different media over the years. I got into pottery for a while, but I always let it go to pot. No pun intended. Tried sculpture, mosaic, even had that moment where I tried glass blowing. But it just didn’t work. Couldn’t quite capture the laughter.

I never got the hang of laughing myself. It’s why I was so determined to capture the laughter. It just never quite clicked with me. But I could see it on other people’s faces all the time.

That’s when I made the decision.

I remember all their faces so well. Mum, Kelly, Carly Rae and Jonathan. All of them so clear.

They should be, as I still have their faces in the book downstairs. I was never quick enough to catch their smiles, so they never look quite right when I put their faces over my own. But the gentleman who’s just moved in next door, he has a laugh like a waterfall. Crystal clear and full of raw power.

Maybe this time I’ll be quick enough. Maybe this time he’ll keep that laugh etched across his face as I cut it away from his skull.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 291: Write a love scene from the point of view of your hands

 

We are explorers in an unknown place. We have delved across fabrics and navigated buttons, danced across lines of lace and satin. From hills to valleys, we search throughout this fair land. Beneath us, the beautiful landscape stretches as we glide across its naked surface, drawing ourselves up and down in spirals of pleasure.

We are the harbingers of wonder and excitement. Our arrival calls forth memories of pleasures gone by as we sail across the skin. We navigate past old scars, take a moment to appreciate them then continue onwards. Our journey takes us all across this surface, this unknown, bringing pleasure anew.

We are firm. As everything moves around us we are firm, gripping and holding tight. We are a constant reminder of the power, the gentleness, the soft caress. We exist only to serve.

All love is from the viewpoint of us.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 290: Ethan Canin said that he wrote “The Accountant” (in the Palace Thief) because he wanted to write a story in which a pair of socks seemed important. Pick an ordinary object. Make it someone’s obsession. Write a story about the obsession.

The figure sneaked through the darkened halls, soft shoes on small feet that danced along the tiles. It stops every now and then, raising its head like a meerkat on the prairie, searching for any indication that the rightful inhabitants, for this place was not its own, were awake.

It continued on its journey, pausing by an open door here, a small cabinet there, constantly searching for something. It was determined, focused on its goal. Whenever a pale shaft of moonlight swept across the floor, the figure would glare towards the offending window before skulking around the patch of light.

It reached a wooden door and stopped. This was what it had been looking for. With the slightest creak, the figure stepped through the door and shook a small bat from its sleeve. “It’s time.” It said, glaring at the cold tableau before it before striking down with the weapon. “She’ll be the only one. And the best.”

***

“Who, in God’s green earth, cares enough about Barbie to club a collection into oblivion?”

The Idiot in Tin Foil

I know, I know. I’m slacking. But my aim is to be back on track by the year point. I think I can do it. Wish me luck, friends, Romans and countrymen!

Day 289: What did you wear to prom? How did you get your outfit and what happened to it?

Do you know what really sucks? Spending decent money on a dinner jacket. You’d think that you could get one relatively cheaply, but Mum insisted. “You’ve got to look your best,” she tells me. “You never know who you might meet.” Well, she certainly got that one right. Only instead of her pretty vision of me meeting her future daughter-in-law, I met the Outcasts.

I also managed to antagonise them enough that I’m writing this from a small crawlspace in one of the old IT classrooms, covered in dust and cobwebs. It’s all getting torn down, so at least it’s gonna be an effort to find me. I can hear them occasionally, the gentle thud of a combat boot on broken tile. It’s not a good noise.

I can’t believe that four hours ago, Stacy was passing me a drink and now I’m here, without a dirnk and with a murderous gang of thugs trying to find me so that they can, and I quote, “Rip your fucking heart out and feed it to you.” I was tempted to tell them that ripping my heart out would leave me dead and unable to eat, but my legs decided that that wasn’t the time for sassy comments and was, in fact, time for running. Far.

Did you realise that a dinner jacket isn’t great to run in? The trousers didn’t help, being slightly too tight, but they ripped shortly after I started fleeing down the corridor. That made life far easier. In that I had a greater range of movement, but less so as I’d be mortally embarrassed should I come across anyone I know.

Still, you win some, you lose some.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 288: Write a scene that begins: “Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that.”

 

Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that. When he called me here, to Vidaros, I never even began to think that he would have changed so much.

He met me on the runway, all smiles and the Joe I’d met at university all those years ago. He wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, then kissed me on both cheeks.

“You’ve been spending too much time with all those Europeans.” I said, jokingly wiping my face. “You were never one for contact before.”

“Yes, well. People change, Eddie.” He grinned. “Now, come on. Time for you to see why I’ve called you here.” We walked toward a jeep by the side of the runway, all decked out in military green with a gunner on the back. “Don’t mind Aldo. He’s not one for talking much.”

“Okay, but why do you need a tail gunner?”

“We’ve had some issues with the wildlife.” He cut off, quickly, then told Aldo to be prepared.

I’ve never seen anyone drive like that. It was like he needed to be at the place he was going twenty minutes ago, or he was going to be shot. Running a gauntlet, but why? “Do you have to go so quickly?” i asked, but he never replied. He just sat, grimly staring ahead, a stark change from the man I’d met at the runway.

It was all explained later, when we got to The Forge.

Just a short one today. Need to get back into the swing of things (and catch up) but this is, in my head, the beginning of a classic adventure. Find the artifact, save the world. Etcetera. 

The Idiot in Tin Foil