I refolded the yellowed paper and after slipping it back into its crinkled envelope, I set it back against the gravestone. As I stood up, I saw a chinchilla staring at me from the top of a gravestone twenty feet away. Its eyes seemed to glow in the dying twilight. I’d never seen one in the wild before.
The sun sunk below the hills and the cemetery was plunged into darkness. I bolted for my car, every second dreading to hear tiny, skittering footsteps on the path behind me.
Captain Rabid did not inspire confidence, beginning with his name and ending with his apparent desire to kill his entire crew. On his first day he dismissed the ship’s doctor in order to motivate the men not to get injured or sick. He routinely ordered them to charge enemy ships head on, despite the fact that it gave the foe a perfect chance to rake the ship from stem to stern. Eventually enemy ships would just turn and run, not wanting to fight a crazy man.
One of the midshipmen had a pool going to guess the reason for this apparent insanity. The top choice was that he was suicidal; the second choice was homicidal. Less popular choices were that he had a father who was a hero and was trying to follow in his footsteps. In last place was the idea that he just wanted to get fired and go home.
* * *
Captain Rabid opened his diary.
Dear diary, I have done everything exactly wrong and still I am employed. The ship’s pool is at almost 100 pounds. Tomorrow, I will claim it, then have a naughty phrase concerning the admiral’s mother painted on the side of the ship. I should be at home in my garden by the end of the week.
The Legend of Arthur King
“Good evening, and welcome to the BBC News at Six. He calls himself the reincarnation of the legendary king of the Britons, but his passport says Arthur King. Mr. King is on a quest to rid the country of what he calls ‘invaders and filthy foreigners.’ He was recently arrested after threatening to ‘blow up Essex’. Our history correspondent Alastair Forbington interviewed him today.”
The picture shifts to an inmate in Belmarsh Prison.
“It’s disgusting, you know, the way these foreigners are taking over everything. When I was king, Briton was ruled by the true British. Not like now. Now, the Anglo-Saxon horde has so completely overrun our fair island that you can’t throw a stone without hitting one of them. They’ve even gotten into our place names. Essex? That’s just ‘East Saxon’. England? That means ‘Angle-land’. And the sad thing is, we just let it happen, little by little. Starting right now, I’m calling for a crusade against these foreign devils. All true Britons come meet me in Gwynedd and slowly, we will take back our country.”
“I see. So you are declaring war on every last man, woman, and child on Great Britain, including yourself?”
“If that’s what it takes. One more thing, we need to stop using this barbarous ‘Angle-ish’ language. From now on, it’s Brittonic or nothing.”
copyright Al Forbes
Ralph Owl and Eleanor “Pussy-cat” McGrint set sail in a beautiful pea-green 80-foot yacht. They left from Dover because that’s where Ralph’s investment firm was based and he needed to catch up on emails before they left.
“Hey El, where’s the honey?” Ralph called from the yacht’s kitchen. It was an 80-foot yacht so of course Eleanor didn’t hear him. He found her on deck. “Where’s the honey, El?”
“Who cares about honey?”
“We’re on this stupid boat for a year and a day,” Ralph said. “You really want to spend the whole trip with no honey?”
“Why are we starting off arguing about bleeding honey?” Eleanor shouted. She threw a fiver at him. “Get some flown in.”
That night in the Channel, the stars were out in a beautiful panoply of natural wonder, the universe on display above them. Ralph got out his guitar and started to play.
“I’ve got a headache. I’m going to bed,” Eleanor said. Ralph punched the railing in frustration and threw the guitar overboard.
After a while, Ralph went to the intercom and entered in the code for the bedroom. “Why are you so unhappy? I’ve bought you everything you could ever want?”
There was no answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I love you. Really.”
A minute later, Eleanor stepped out on deck. She was wearing a white dress that glowed in the moonlight. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “Start again?”
He went to her and they danced.
They danced by the light of the moon.
copyright Al Forbes
“And dry leaves can make good insulation for cold winter nights!” Dr. James Hunt said, a touch too cheerfully, Alex his assistant thought. She bit her lip. Teaching homeless people how to survive on the streets seemed like a good idea on paper, but out here, it was a joke.
“Of course,” James continued, “newspaper is even better for insulation. I’ll pass out a list of recycling centers.” The assembled faces watched him impassively, just waiting—Alex was sure—for this to be over so they could get their promised free meal. They knew all this already; they must. It was a like a Boy Scout leader teaching a platoon of Special Forces about pocketknife safety.
“Well, I think that went well,” James said after the class. “What did you think?”
“It was a band-aid solution on the real problem.”
“Sometimes a wound needs a band-aid while healing takes place. I’m addressing the city council in a few months on the issue. I’ll share my research with them.”
“What research?”
“The research where I live on the street for two weeks,” James said. “I’m starting in a month.”
Alex stopped. “You’re crazy, it’s almost winter.”
“So?”
“So what if you die?”
“Then that will speak much louder than I ever could.”
“Tell me where you’ll be, at least. I’ll bring you soup.”
“Only if you bring enough for everyone.”
“How many homeless people are in the city?”
“About 13,000.”
“Be careful.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll try.”
Note: this story is not political, only silly.
Busting out Putin
What does Vladimir Putin eat? That was the topic of debate after my friend Antonio got his new batch of miniature clones (or mi-clo’s) in the mail from Thailand.
All the others were eating. Antonio squatted over the holding pen’s grated top, rolled up a pancake and pushed it through the bars. Mi-clo Mother Theresa and Pierre Trudeau ran and snatched it up. Putin didn’t move, just shook his Lilliputian fist at us and jabbered away in Thai (a sure sign of a knock-off).
“Do you think he only eats Russian food?” Antonio asked.
“You’d have better luck with pad thai, probably,” I said.
“Well, I only know how to make pancakes,” Antonio said. “He can eat them or starve, I guess. I only got him because he came free with the Freddy Mercury I wanted.”
Over the next few days, Putin still refused to eat. He was getting thinner and his 1-foot tall frame soon looked bony. I was getting worried but Antonio only shrugged.
Finally, I decided to get him out of there. The next day, when Antonio went to the bathroom, I lowered a rope down. Putin grabbed it but was too weak to hold on. I unlatched the door and dropped down into the pen.
Bad move. Tony Blair and Cher jumped at me but I shook them off. I seized Putin and jumped out of danger right before the rest of them swarmed to attack me.
“Let’s go get you some food,” I said. “You like tacos? Burgers?”
He said something I couldn’t understand but it didn’t sound like either tacos or burgers. “Let’s try tacos,” I said and ran for the door.
I didn’t know what we’d eat and I didn’t know how this would end, but I was certain that I was going to save this little guy if I possibly could.
Epilogue: Putin turned out to love Popeye’s spicy chicken sandwiches. He soon returned to health and is now living happily in an abandoned dog house in the woods behind Walmart.
The Man with the Basilisk Eyes
I tow my stone dog carefully up the ramp in front of Precinct 45, the rear wheel of the red wagon squeaking with the weight. A woman holds the door, trying to smother her amusement.
Squeak, squeak, squeak. All the way to the desk sergeant.
“Hey Sarge, I want to report a crime.”
He peers over at me. “You don’t say? How old are you?”
“Ten. What, ten year olds don’t have any rights?”
“Touché. What’s the crime?”
“A man in the park turned my dog Scruffy to stone. I was playing fetch with him and Scruffy ran over by this man with real yellow eyes, like a basilisk, like in Harry Potter. Scruffy gave a yelp and ran back, but he started running slower and slower like he was caught in molasses. By the time he got back, he was like this.” I tap the stone dog in the wagon.
“So . . . you want me to arrest this ba-zo-lisk eyed man?”
“Of course! He killed my dog. Ain’t petrification a crime?”
“Here’s the thing.” The sergeant leans over. “My buddy over at Precinct 28 told me a kid came in last week with a stone dog and the same story.”
“Well, if you can’t get justice one place, you go somewhere else,” I say, but it’s clear I’m getting no sympathy there. I wheel ol’ Scruffy out to where Brad is waiting.
“Any luck?” he asks. I shake my head.
“Let’s try 51. I hear the sergeant over there is a fantasy nerd.”
“Okay,” Brad says, “but let’s hurry. Mom’s going to be pissed if she notices her lawn ornament missing.”
The First Time
The Tower Bridge had always had good connotations for Robert before that night. He was waiting nervously by the north tower, as they had agreed, when the woman emerged out of the evening fog and walked towards him, high heels clicking confidently on the pavement. She was prettier than he had imagined from her voice on the phone. She walked past him a step, then paused and waited for him to fall into step.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“A café near here I use for this sort of thing.”
“In public? What if someone notices?”
She gave him a mocking smile. “This your first time? Trust me, no one cares.”
She led the way to a small café and took a corner booth. She held up two fingers to the waiter and two espressos appeared as if by magic.
“Now,” she said, leaning forward. “What have you got for me? Come on; the first time’s the hardest, but it gets easier.”
“I saw my neighbor, Gavin Henry, reading an anarchist newsletter,” he mumbled. “He holds meetings at his house sometimes. Here, I have photographs.”
She held up a hand. “No need for evidence. We’ll find our own. You’ve done a great service to your country. You should be proud.” She took out a thick envelope.
Robert pushed it away. “Actually, I was hoping that you could give me information on my daughter instead. She was arrested five months ago. I can’t find anything about her.”
The woman grimaced. “Next time. For now, take the money.”
I wrote this originally for Sunday Photo Fiction, which is a story challenge based on a picture. The stories are supposed to be around 200 words. I try to stay close to that but this week it’s a bit longer, just as forewarning.
Clock Tower Jill
I called her Clock Tower Jill, even back when I was still trying to eat her. I didn’t know her real name because we never talked, of course. She was a quirky one, Clock Tower Jill.
It was July and the hot, muzzy air was hanging like a lead blanket in the forest when I first saw those long legs stepping towards me through the undergrowth. I wasn’t starving but I roared and readied myself to pounce. She picked up a stick and swung it like a bat, right into my snout. That stunned me and before I could recover, she sprinted away. It was too hot for me to run far and by the time I found her, she had reached the ruined town. I saw her at the top of the clock tower, sticking her tongue out at me.
I kept her treed up there for days, out of spite for my hurt snout. Then I realized she would eventually starve to death and I would not get to eat her anyway. So I brought her some food. It was accepted imperiously, without even a thank you. I named her Jill. She was like my pet.
After a month of living up in the tower, she came down and called to me. “You, creature. I want to go down to the lake to swim.”
I had long given up trying to eat her and I stood by to let her go.
“I want to ride you,” she said. I bristled at that, but gave in eventually, since she was my pet.
She sat on my back and held my mane while I trotted down to the lake. I stood guard while she swam and then I brought her back. She was a good pet.
“Good boy,” she said, patting my head before she went back up into her tower. “Bring me something good tonight, okay?” That rankled but I did it for her anyway since I liked having her around. And after all, she was pretty quirky, my Clock Tower Jill.
Solitaire-y
“And finally, here’s something to keep you sane,” the freight captain said, pointing to the complex 3D matrix of wires and spheres bolted to the table. He said “sane” as if he meant the opposite.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Solitaire.”
And then we shook hands and he sealed me into the echoing metal coffin that would deliver a hundred million tons of ore back to Earth, five years from now.
I spent a week doing basic maintenance and chores before I even looked at the game. It took me a week to read and understand the rules. The first game took a month, with constant references to the rulebook.
The second game took even longer.
The fifth game took four years.
I realized it wasn’t a game. Not really.
Each of the 72 spheres was like a planet.
I named each one.
I knew the inhabitants.
I agonized over every move. Every one affected everything else.
I cried when I eliminated one, thinking of its inhabitants, snuffed out suddenly and completely.
I heard some noises but I ignored them.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. “Who are you?” I asked.
“Atmosphere Enforcement,” he said. “You weren’t responding to radio calls. We had to break in.”
“Where am I?”
“Earth. Your journey’s over.”
I turned back, trying to block out his voice. I needed to concentrate on what was important.
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