Tag: freestyle

Fiction

Christmas with Grandpa: A Hilarious Family Tradition You’ll Never Forget

Mr. Greenly

Once a month my local writing group sets a theme for a piece of writing each member will submit. This month’s topic was “Christmas”. I decided to take an old story my Uncle often tells of my Grandpa (who passed when I was very young) and weave it into my own lasting memories of both my Grandpa and our family Christmases.

Christmas with Grandpa

In fifteen minutes we had to leave to go to Grandpa’s for Christmas. Christmas was always fun with my family. Mum, Dad, my older sister and younger brother, Nana, Grandpa, my uncles, aunties, and cousins. Plus, all the food and more presents! I’d already received loads of presents from Mum and Dad, and Father Christmas, but I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d get from the rest of my family.

The drive there usually took ages. That’s because both my uncles lived so far away and unless Christmas was at our house or Nana’s it’d take half an hour at least. But this year it’s just around the corner at Grandpa’s. I wondered what trick he’d play, or what marvellous story he’d tell. Grandpa never failed to stir up some fun! As we pulled up the drive my eyes were immediately drawn to the soft glow of numerous red, green and white lights that shone through the drapes covering Grandpa’s window. They formed the shape of a Christmas tree.

Before heading in we had to help Mum and Dad carry something. I never knew why Mum would bring so much. There’s always heaps of food and drink left over every year but she insisted. Everyone else agreed with me too. Cradling a giant ham concealed in a cloth bag with both my arms I passed the loungeroom and looked in. Peering over the bag, I saw Grandpa’s mesmerising tree. It was lit and decorated fancily just like one you’d see in a Christmas movie. Under it, a massive stack of neatly wrapped presents.

‘Joshie!’ I heard Grandpa’s familiar voice calling as I entered the kitchen. He came straight over and took the ham from my arms and proceeded to scruff my hair as he always did. ‘Joshieeeee!’

He stopped and pulled back as if suddenly remembering something.

‘Alright. We’re all here, I’ve got something to show you all.’

Many of the adult’s eyes met around the room and over the table as if they knew what might be coming.

‘Come on, you kids come inside,’ he yelled, gathering us grandchildren.

A trip to the back door and a few loud calls later saw the whole family gathered in the kitchen in anticipation.

‘This year’s a special Christmas,’ he assured us all. ‘Santa came last night; he left me a special present.’

Looking around I saw the faces of my younger siblings and cousins glowing in anticipation. But us older ones weren’t so easy. We knew that what Grandpa was doing was likely a joke, possibly a trick, and rarely just what he promised.

‘Wait here,’ he said, before disappearing into his bedroom and shutting the door.

We waited, all of us kids and the adults too. A buzz of curiosity and excitement floated about the room. A few moments later Grandpa reappeared. His hands cupped as if holding something within.

‘Now,’ he began. ‘If I show you this, you have to all swear never to tell another soul.’

He insisted. All of us children began nodding while the adults eyeballed one another, frowning in between sips of their drinks.

‘I’ve got Santa’s house pet!’ he told us. ‘He’s a bit skittish, and maybe scary, but Santa’s left him here for special keeping under my care.’

Noticing the children’s excitement as they jumped and begged to see, Grandpa lifted his hand and sitting right there in his palm was the biggest, hairiest, huntsman any of us had ever seen. Us older kids were blown away and my younger siblings and cousins squirmed in fear.

‘No, no, don’t worry, this is Santa’s house pet,’ Grandpa did his best to reassure them. ‘A huntsman won’t hurt anyone and I can hold him no worries! See?’

Grandpa held out his hand twisting it in order to show the creature off as it scampered across and around his hand, and then up his arm.

‘Ouch!’ Grandpa screamed, his yell loud enough that everyone in the room jumped in fright.

He flicked his arm violently hurling the huntsman to the floor. Then, just as soon as everyone’s eyes had managed to find it again, the thick sole of Grandpa’s leather boot pressed down hard on top of it. We all cringed at the sight of Santa’s huntsman’s legs and innards smeared across the kitchen floor.

‘The damned thing bit me!’

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climate change, environment, Environmental Lessons, Fiction, Uncategorized

Wrong Place, Wrong Time: A Time Travel Tale from the Brave New World

Mr. Greenly

Once a month my local writing group sets a theme for a piece of writing each member will submit. This month’s topic was “Brave New World”.

Brave New World

‘Welcome passengers to Brave New World Futurelines maiden future flight, flight BNWF001. The first-ever flight taking you into the future,’ announced the voice over the in-flight PA system.

The announcement certainly didn’t go unnoticed as everyone on board, bar me, clapped in recognition of what was to be a truly historical journey. Our plane was not too dissimilar to most planes, full of excited passengers and their carry-on luggage, knowing exactly where they were going and when they’d get there. Except, when most planes take off, the passengers on board expect to arrive at their destination within an hour or two, maybe more. Not our plane. Our plane would set down again in just a few minutes time according to our watches, but in the year 2165, some one hundred and forty years from when it departed.

‘This is your captain speaking, today we are expecting smooth time travelling conditions, little if any timebulance, and we will set down as per schedule in the year 2165 in around about fourteen minutes from now. I’ve just been in contact with Sydney Futureport and as pre-empted, they’re expecting our arrival. The tarmac will be clear, and we expect no delays. Sit back, enjoy the futureflight, and dream of a wonderful time in the future.’

Even with just fourteen minutes, I planned to do just that. I’d already located the complimentary inflight magazine and began flicking the pages.

Climate Change. Over Exploitation. Plastic Pollution. Overpopulation.

‘Ugh! No thanks!’ I announced in disgust. As per usual, the headlines were rather distasteful. Gladly, I wouldn’t have to worry about all that where I was going, and I wasn’t going to spend my time reading about it on this futureflight either. I swapped the inflight magazine for the headset I’d located in the back pocket of the seat in front of me and I was just sliding them over my ears when…

‘Exciting isn’t it,’ said the small lady sitting beside me.

In an effort to show I wasn’t interested in idle conversation I overaccentuated the lifting of the headphone from my left ear as I leant closer.

‘Sorry, what’s that?’

‘Exciting isn’t it,’ repeated the lady, her grin almost as wide as the Futureplane was long.

‘Oh yes, indeed,’ I agreed, before quickly turning away and releasing the headset back onto my ear.

By shutting my eyes and leaning back into my chair I thought I had made it obvious I wasn’t up for idle chit-chat. I still heard the woman’s muffled voice saying something, possibly along the lines of ‘What if we aren’t the first to arrive’. But, I wasn’t even sure if she was speaking to me, and I certainly wasn’t opening my eyes to find out. A few more moments passed, and I’d barely flicked through all the optional channels and decided on something before the sound cut out and the Captain’s voice rang over the PA once again.

‘Passengers, we are now reducing time travelling speed and we will be appearing on Sydney Futureport future strip in under around thirty seconds. We hope you’ve had a memorable flight and wish you all the best in the future.’

Just as the captain instructed, about thirty seconds from his announcement the seatbelt light switched off and the cabin door opened. Within a few seconds, the other passengers and I on Brave New World Futurelines maiden future flight were scurrying across the tarmac. We followed the painted arrows on the ground to where they stopped just short of a set of electronic doors not too dissimilar to those we were used to.

‘Hello future migrants, welcome to 2165,’ said a softened electronically charged voice as a small light mounted on the eve above the doors flashed reds and greens in unison with it.

‘Have your passports ready and your medical clear…,’ suddenly, the electronic voice cut out.

We all stood there staring at the small light, not knowing what to do. We waited, half expecting the voice to begin talking again. A couple of minutes went by before a frazzled man approached the door from the inside. We watched as he took a set of keys from his pocket trying a few before using his arms to pry the doors open.

‘Sorry everybody,’ he said. ‘The future is not short of technical problems.’

Just as he paused, the small light dropped out of the eave above his head and hung there, dangling by a lone wire.

‘Or financial problems,’ added the man as he peered up. ‘Everyone, please have your passports and medical clearances ready and follow me. We’ll get you all checked in within a jiffy.’

As we followed, we all sifted through our pockets and carry-on luggage in search of the documents he’d requested we have ready. Looking around, it became obvious that not much was different in this present from the one we’d left a little over six minutes ago. The futureport seemed similar to the airports from 2025. There were possibly some technological advances, all be it in need of repair, and there seemed to be more of a security and police presence. But apart from that, not much seemed different.

‘Here we are then,’ said the man as he stopped by a tall counter that separated us from the attendants sitting behind.

Standing there waiting to be served reminded me of waiting for service at the bank as the attendants were separated from us by not only the tall counter but a thick, glass security screen. The only difference being, here there were several armed security guards observing us.

‘Who’s next?’ asked one of the attendants, raising her arm.

During the short walk from the doors where the man had met us to the desk, I’d been sure to get in front of everybody. I stepped forward. I hoped to speed things up by placing my passport and medical clearance down on the desk face up ready for the attendant.

‘Just off of flight BNWF001, the first flight ever to leave the past,’ I announced proudly. ‘Frank Laidlaw’s the name.’

However, the attendant didn’t seem impressed. She just gave me the faintest of smiles, looked back at her screen, and processed my documents.

‘Ah, okay then. Well, I’ll be needing to book a flight back to the past,’ I said as I looked around. ‘Where can I do that?’

The attendant looked over toward me, then directly at the group of security guards standing nearby.

‘Sir, I regretfully inform you that here in the year 2165 time travel is outlawed. Has been for some decades now,’ explained the attendant.

Immediately I was taken back. How would I ever get back? There must be some way! But voicing these questions and concerns to the attendant didn’t get me anywhere.

‘Sir I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.’

Then I noticed two of the security guards heading over.

‘But there must be some way? There must be something you can do?’

The security guards now stood right by me on either side.

‘I’m finished with this one,’ said the lady, holding out my documents.

But before I could, one of the security guards reached forward and took them from her.

‘Right, come on sir, we’ll show you the way.’

This time I stayed quiet as both the men who now escorted me seemed to be the type not to argue with. They led me out the front door of the futureport where a couple of police officers took up tail following behind, and right up to a large police bus that sat out the front. Strangely, there were several of these lined up, all in a row one behind the other.

‘Right, on you get,’ announced one of the officers from behind me.

‘What?’ I responded in shock. ‘This can’t be, I haven’t done anything. If I was rude in there I apologise. Just let me go and I’ll find some accommodation nearby and be out of your hands.’

‘Ha!’ scoffed the officer. ‘Wrong place, wrong time!’ he mocked me. ‘Typical entitled pasty. You time jumpers just think you can rock up anywhere and live free without causing anyone any issues do you? All while our time suffers, overflowing with pastys like yourself looking to experience the wonderful future. Well, your future is our present, and you’ve ruined it!’

The look of disgust on the pair of officers’ faces was frightening. I didn’t know what to say, and I hadn’t the chance before the security guard shoved me through the door and onto the awaiting bus.

‘Accommodation you say,’ added the other officer as he looked at my passport before he tossed it on board. ‘Well Frank Laidlaw, we’ve got your accommodation sorted!’

‘Oh, thank heavens,’ I said in relief.

‘The timegration camp north of here!’ said the officer, before shutting the door swiftly and locking it behind me.

As I sat there pondering what had just occurred, the other passengers from flight BNWF001 arrived one after the other, each just as shocked as me. It occurred to me, that the woman I had set next to during the futureflight was right. While we were on the first plane that took off destined for the future, it was obvious now we most certainly weren’t the first to arrive here from the past.

Fiction, Uncategorized

The Unexpected

Mr. Greenly

Once a month my local writing group sets a theme for a piece of writing each member will submit. This month’s topic was “The Unexpected”.

The Unexpected

At the Doc’s.

‘Good evening,’ said the Doc. ‘How have you both been?’ she asked cautiously as always.

We sat still, waiting. We’d all agreed long ago, me, Clay, and the Doc, that neither Clay nor I would talk until she addressed us by the proper name.

‘Clay, you first’ she said staring with her brown eyes into mine as she remembered our agreement.

‘Well, pretty good Doc,’ said Clay in his usual positive fashion.

She smiled softly, almost flirtatiously, and Clay smiled iridescently back at her.

‘And Hank, does ‘good’ resonate with you?’ she asked, staring deeper into my eyes again.

Anyone would have noticed her look quickly change to one much more serious when addressing me. Surprise, surprise I thought. ‘Pfft, talk about an overstatement’ I responded. ‘It’s all good for him, he does all the apologising, cleans everything up, while I just keep on Hank’ing things and stuffing everything up!’ I went silent as the day’s events ran through my mind.

That morning in the drive.

I can’t do it. I sat there in the drive breathing uncontrollably, my hand clutching the key which sat in the off position.

‘Every day is a new day!’ on call, Clay broke the silence.

Easy for him to say, goody-two-shoes.

‘Another day, another chance to prove yourself,’ he said in his usual encouraging manner.

I rolled my eyes. Another chance to cock-up more like it.

Work.

‘There you go, be sure to have a good day,’ I handed the lady her change. Well, things are going ok.

‘Oh, I’m sorry dear, but I gave you a twenty and you’ve only given me change for a ten,’ insisted the lady.

‘What are you implying?’ I quickly snapped back at the old duck. ‘I haven’t ripped you off, you’re senseless, you gave me a ten and you know it!’ She just stared back at me dazed. Damn. I squeezed my eyes shut and grasped the till drawer with both hands, pausing for a moment before taking a breath.

‘I’m sorry miss, that was very rude indeed,’ said Clay on cue. ‘If you say it was twenty then I believe you, we’ll get this sorted straight away,’ he insisted as he reached into the drawer.

‘Clay, I gave her a…’ I began to explain again as I grasped the till and breathed heavily but he quickly cut me off.

‘Nope, the customer is always right,’ he said. ‘Here is the other ten dollars,’ he smiled and handed it over.

Typical.

The manager’s office.

‘We’ve had a complaint,’ said the manager, leaning back in her chair, studying me.

She thinks I’m a looney. ‘It was an accident all right! The old duck’s crazy! Thought I short-changed her.’ I felt a weight had begun pressing down on me and darkness clouded the room.

‘Let’s just calm down,’ she insisted. ‘I wasn’t there, but what I do know is that she’s been coming here several years, and we’ve never had a problem,’ she explained. ‘If there’s ever a problem with change just call me, we’ll count back the till or check the cameras, make sure we sort it,’ she insisted. ‘But one thing, we never talk to our customers like that.’

No, here come the nauseating butterflies. I lowered my head towards my lap clenching my eyelids and breathing heavily.

‘I assure you it was an accident,’ said Clay, his eyes meeting the managers. ‘I sincerely apologise for Hank’s behaviour, and you can be sure this won’t happen again.’

I watched the manager. She looked slightly confused, but then appeared strangely satisfied. Clay the brown noser.

The drug store.

‘No one there will remember you,’ I recalled Clay’s assuring words as I walked in. What a fruit. He’d convinced me everything would be fine, but when I walked in it was a vastly different story. Like an outlaw entering a small saloon, I felt everyone’s eyes glued to me. Watching.

‘Hello,’ said the attendant with a cloying smile. ‘How can I help you?’

‘The prescription,’ I replied hastily while gesturing toward the paper I’d already placed on the desk in front of him. Like he didn’t know why I was here. ‘You don’t have to pretend; I’m not an idiot,’ I couldn’t hold the peace. He just smiled back at me kindly.

‘I know you’re not an idiot, Hank. I’ll get right on it, ok?’

He thinks I’m crazy. The way he treated me made it obvious. Overly kind, but for no apparent reason. Searching the room again I saw them all staring like I’m some kind of circus attraction. They all think I’m crazy.

‘There you are sir,’ he said, handing me a small paper bag.

Clearly, he’d done his best to get me out of there quickly. ‘I SEE YOU ALL STARING YA KNOW!’ I threw my money down and left.

That night after seeing the Doc.

I stood in the bathroom brushing my teeth. Saddened once more by my lone reflection. As usual, I began to reminisce about the Doc and our time with her just hours earlier.

‘You know, you’d get much further with her if you just talked more,’ Clay couldn’t help but ruin the tranquillity with his pragmatic opinion.

I splashed my face. Just shut up. ‘And what, be more like you Clay? Is that what you want me to do?’ I said aloud, glancing into the mirror.

‘You know Hank, if you just did what she instructed, you may be able to communicate better.’

‘Oh, and then what Clay? You idiot! You think she’d have time for us once we’re cured?’

‘You know, I’ve got a good mind to tell her, Hank.’

‘You’ve been taking the medication? As prescribed?’ I remembered the Doc’s interrogating words.

‘ARGH!’ I reached for the wiry waste bin in the corner that overflowed with unopened packets of medication. I picked it up and hurled it against the glass. ‘Well go on then Clay! Mr nice guy! Tell her! tell her everything!’ I stared deeply into the broken mirror. I know you won’t. ‘You know Clay, she loves your smile.’

Clay’s sharpened smile became visible, broken only by the web of fractured glass.

You and I both know you like seeing her just as much as I do Clay.

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Fiction

Blue

Mr. Greenly

I wrote this piece to enter it into the City of Port Adelaide Enfield Nature Writing Competition. The requirements were a short story that must relate to any land, water or marine environment in the City of Port Adelaide Enfield area. My piece, Blue, was heavily inspired by my uncle’s connection with the region. Unfortunately, it did not make it to the finals but hopefully, others can still enjoy it.

Blue

The subtle splash of his brittle paddle as it gently slapped the glass-like surface of North Arm Creek was all he could hear. Lining either side of the thinning tributary, thickets of grey mangroves strengthened the fragile banks. With every stroke, his weathered kayak was propelled further south as the dwindling creek’s neck tightened and grew ever shallower. Stopping to relax his tired arms, he rested the oar across his feeble legs, turning control of his vessel over to the ebb of the tide. He glanced down into the still jade water beside him, smiling as he saw the silhouettes of curious fingerlings making their ascent from the silty bottom. His hand rested gently on the tattered shoebox that sat on his lap.

“Stupid old fool,” he whispered to himself.

It would have never happened if he had not become complacent and cast his line so close to the bird in the first place. His foolishness, and his unweighted hook baited with a small fillet of pilchard, had already sealed the bird’s fate. The soft slap as it hit the water was enough to draw the bird’s attention and the glisten of sinking silver would prove too tempting. Thinking back, he saw the bird launch from its perch before diving into the water, though at that exact moment he’d thought nothing of it. Then he felt a strange weight on his line that resembled no fish he’d encountered before. He remembered the feeling of his heart sinking when he noticed the bird had not surfaced. Knowing the moments that followed would be crucial, he reeled slowly trying to be as careful as he possibly could. At one point, he even stopped, grasping the line with his hands and tugging gently in the hope the bird would pop free. They weren’t to be so lucky. He knew then that the only way to free the bird from his hook was to bring it in. Upon landing it, he took the bird in his hands and was surprised the barb came free so easily. At first, he thought perhaps their luck had turned, but with a second look, he could see the struggle had indeed left the bird vulnerable. He set it free immediately and watched as the bird tried, but gave up quickly. It squatted, huddled in one place looking back up at him fearfully. The bird could not fly. Left unattended the injury would have surely proven fatal.

His hand stroked the lid as he surveyed his surroundings. A lone ibis soared overhead. He watched it gliding through the air in a circular motion, descending with every turn before disappearing below the southern horizon. In the distance, a narrow shoal supported a pair of sooty oystercatchers who strolled leisurely, inquisitively probing the silt with their bills in their search for molluscs or worms. A sudden bursting breath of air interrupted the silence and a fine mist wet the back of his neck. He looked around to see two dolphins passing side by side. Each of their dorsal fins split the surface of the calm water before they twisted and turned, braiding themselves around one another and fading once more into the depths. Clutching his hands, he dipped them into the luring water scooping what he could to wet his face and arms. He breathed sharply.

“Things could be worse,” he directed his words toward the box.

For decades he’d lived here. Just like the bird he had migrated here, the only difference being the maritime industry had brought about his arrival, while the bird came and went seasonally as it wished. Early on, the threat of approaching southern storms had forced him here. His fishing crew and their vessel would often flee St. Vincent Gulf to lay low amongst the sheltered waters that the Port River system offered. Later, sailing on the ketch Falie had granted him the ability to continue navigating the waters he had grown to love while also allowing him to be home more often with his two young daughters. More recently, he had come to know the smaller and less accessible waterways of the region intimately. He’d now explored every branch of this inlet many times over and he was sure the bird on his lap had seen every nook and cranny too. But now his seafaring days were well behind him, and his daughters long moved on. Sadly, he knew this old kayak he’d salvaged from someone’s rubbish pile was all that offered him a taste of the freedom and connection he once knew. It was only his affection for nature and the draw of the water that kept him here and if anyone could relate, it was this bird in the box on his lap.

Opening the lid, he peered in. The bird sat still, looking up cautiously.

He’d spent the last few weeks rummaging through guides, doing all he could to care for it. He had sourced the appropriate feed and kept it restricted allowing it to rest. Never did he hand feed it; always he left its food amongst the soft dirt he had scattered on the floor of its temporary cage. He was strict on himself never to touch it, and when he did it was only to transport it between its cage and this shoebox. When he was certain the bird had healed enough, he’d left the cage door open allowing it to fly around his tiny, rented flat. He had observed it for hours upon hours, and then days on end until he was certain it had built up enough strength. Then, upon the first opportunity, he began attempts to release it, as he knew that with every day removed from the wild its chances of survival would diminish. Moving on is never easy, he thought to himself, but now it was time. A tear grew in his eye and his heart warmed to see the bird staring back at him.

“Don’t be a pushover,” he spurred himself on.

He lifted the lid of the shoebox right off and waited, not knowing what to expect. The bird looked up and around. Clear skies meant freedom and he knew they were unmistakable to a bird. But the bird sat still.

“Blue, it’s time,” he pleaded with the bird.

But still, Blue sat still.

This time would be different, he told himself, knowing he had come prepared. Gently, he placed the lid back on the box, picked up his paddle, and began moving toward the muddy banks. There, the branches of a grey mangrove offered a perch. Carefully, he grasped a snaggy branch to pull himself closer. While anchored in position, he removed a small round container from within his bag before popping the lid. He reached in grabbing hold of two sticky pieces of tentacle before dipping them in the salty water and laying them out in plain sight on the horizontal branch of the mangrove. Once he had readied himself, he lifted the lid on the shoe box once again. He tipped the box on an angle giving Blue no option but to hop onto the branch. Ensuring the bird safely found its footing, he watched for a brief moment as it immediately began poking the awaiting tentacles with its beak. This was his moment, he thought. Thrusting the oar against the trunk of the mangrove carefully, he pushed himself and his kayak away. It was done.

He sat for a moment, watching as Blue finished the feed. He chuckled adoringly as Blue turned to him and let loose an insistent call. He knew the bird was demanding more. Instinctively, he soothed it, whistling as they had done together countless times. Then the pair sat, watching each other as he drifted further away before taking his paddle and using it to turn his kayak northward.

He choked back tears.

“Best of luck, Blue,” he offered the parting words.

He would cherish their time together forever. But he dared not look back now. As he began to paddle away he immediately missed the bird, and his heart grew heavier and heavier. Despite paddling faster, with every stroke the sadness that consumed him seemed to weigh him further down in the water. Once at the ramp, he hurried to get moving, quickly fixing the kayak to his racks and taking off. He dared not look to the creek. As he drove he kept his eyes on the road and far from his mirrors. He was alone again. Tears streamed down his face and he wondered what Blue was doing. A bird could not forget the mangroves, he was sure, and he took some comfort knowing he’d put him back only metres from where they had met. But none of that seemed to matter. He couldn’t hold back. Drowning in loneliness he cried uncontrollably as he turned onto the cul-de-sac and into his driveway. There he sat for a while, with no need to leave the car. Inside, there was nothing for him.

The call of the bird played over in his mind as he remembered their time together.

“Silly old fool,” he belittled himself once more.

Get a hold of yourself, he thought scornfully. He looked in the mirror, grasping a handful of his shirt and using it to wipe his eyes. Blue’s calls still rang through his head, as if he was still there, right beside him. Finally, he forced himself from the car and began to walk up the drive and toward his front door.

Unexpectedly, he felt the hair on the back of his head flutter as something darted past him closely.

“It can’t be!” His heart pounded as he swung round.

He couldn’t believe what he saw.

“Krekk-krekk.”

It was his friend, Blue.

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Fiction

Being Yourself

Mr. Greenly

Once a month my local writing group sets a theme for a piece of writing each member will submit. This month’s topic was “Being Yourself”.

Being Yourself

To everybody else who frequented Boutique Lane, Mr. Peabody seemed like just another ordinary gentleman. He’d commuted this way time and time again, never stopping, but using it only as a thoroughfare to where it was he was going. Even the shopkeepers who noticed Mr. Peabody had concluded he was just a regular man; someone they weren’t too interested in dealings with. Why even Mr. Peabody himself had come to terms with the fact that he was rather on the ordinary side of things.

Express yourself. Treat yourself. Know yourself. Love yourself.

Apart from noticing the peculiar theme amongst the names of the shops on Boutique Lane, Mr. Peabody had never really bothered to look twice at them, as someone as poor as him hadn’t the money to shop boutique anyway. He’d walked past the bay windows of the boutique shopfronts almost every day all the while assuming they were nothing more than fancy names for fancy retail outlets. But what Mr. Peabody didn’t know was that the many similarly named shops on Boutique Lane were in no way ordinary at all. They were actually a front for those of magic, and unbeknownst to anyone, including Mr. Peabody, he had magic in his veins.

One morning as he did most mornings, Mr. Peabody left his tiny apartment on his regular commute, and in no time at all, he’d turned onto Boutique Lane. He’d always adored the other people who commuted here, not because he knew them, but because their outfits and the items they had acquired from within the stores were strange beyond that of imagination. This morning it was no different. Up ahead Mr. Peabody watched a tall ordinarily dressed man enter a store named Express yourself only to appear moments later in the most bizarre futuristically inspired outfit he’d ever seen. Mr. Peabody couldn’t help but chuckle as even he knew this outfit was far from fashion and he couldn’t provide any possible explanation for why the tall man would want to wear such a thing. Across the street, he watched a lady as she stopped in front of the shop called Educate yourself before going in. Oddly, on this day Mr. Peabody was seemingly overcome with curiosity as he took a seat outside a store called Treat yourself while watching and waiting for the lady to reappear.

‘What’ll it be sir?’ A short bald man appeared over Mr. Peabody’s shoulder.

‘Ah…’ Mr. Peabody was surprised. He hadn’t intended on buying anything. ‘Just a cappuccino thanks, white with one sugar,’ replied Mr. Peabody while being sure to keep his eyes on the store across the road. Strangely, within seconds the man re-appeared with Mr. Peabody’s order and placed it on the table in front of him. Mr. Peabody took a sip and instinctively reached for his wallet. But the man was quick to stop him, pointing to a small screen above the doorway of the shop.

Mr. Peabody – Paid.

Mr. Peabody almost spat his coffee out in shock. How could he have paid? And how did the small electronic sign quote his name when he was sure he hadn’t given it?

‘Never seen a balance that big,’ said the short bald man as he turned and walked away.

Mr. Peabody wasn’t sure what the man meant exactly but looking at the sign once more he noticed something strange below his name.

6,534,793 Mag-Cred.

Mr. Peabody was now very curious. What on earth were ‘Mag-Cred’ and how did he get over six million of them?

As he sat and looked around observing once more the strangeness of Boutique Lane and rattling his brain for some kind of explanation of what was going on, the woman appeared from the store across the road. Mr. Peabody noticed she was no longer dressed in the clothes she was wearing before. Instead, she had some kind of oriental-type outfit on and carried a small paper umbrella that extended up and over her head. He also noticed what was on the small screen above the store’s door.

Ms. Durmonhousar – Paid.

20,345 Mag-Cred.

Mr. Peabody sat watching on as Ms. Durmonhousar crossed the street and looked to be heading right for him. He couldn’t help but feel awkward, he wasn’t sure if she had seen him watching or what he was going to say when she approached him. However, much to his relief, she sat at a lone chair and table beside him without saying a word.

‘Cappuccino please, white with one sugar,’ she said when the waiter approached.

Mr. Peabody chuckled aloud and both Ms. Durmonhousar and the waiter had clearly heard him as they turned and looked at him in disgust before the waiter headed off inside.

‘I’m sorry,’ announced Mr. Peabody with a smirk. ‘I just expected you to ask for a green tea,’ he added, and luckily for Mr. Peabody, Ms. Durmonhousar seemed to enjoy his sense of humor once explained.

‘Ā, kono furui koto o kinishinaide kudasai,’ she replied swiftly with a bow of her head. ‘I just spent three months in the Kamakura Period experiencing some of historical Japan,’ she explained with a smirk of her own. Then strangely, her mood quickly changed. ‘Suddenly today you’re good enough to sit and drink with us are you? I’ve seen you wander the street, eyeballing us, but never have you engaged. I’d assumed you weren’t one of us.’

Mr. Peabody swallowed his latest sip and wiped his lips. ‘One of us?’ he asked in confusion.

‘Yes us, magic folk,’ said Ms. Durmonhousar. ‘Oh, to be so ignorant, and from someone so obviously rich in magic credits,’ she said as she peered at the screen above the shop door beside them.

Mr. Peabody began to laugh hysterically as he was now sure Ms. Durmonhousar had lost her mind. ‘Magic folk! Rich!’ the words burst from his mouth.

‘You think I’m joking?’ Ms. Durmonhousar asked sternly. ‘Well, I say we test you. While it may be true that anyone could fool the magic accounting systems and use Mag-Cred to buy a coffee, the same is most certainly not true for using magic credit for actual magic.’

Mr. Peabody glanced over her again. She was dressed so ridiculously and making such farfetched claims that he couldn’t help but laugh some more. If it weren’t for the stern look of certainty that painted Ms. Durmonhousar’s face he’d have got up and walked away right there and then. But instead, Mr. Peabody had a strange draw to investigate further. Plus, he’d never been into any of the shops on Boutique Lane before and he didn’t see why he shouldn’t just look, no matter how crazy Ms. Durmonhousar may be. So, when Ms. Durmonhousar stood up and hurriedly walked toward a small shop called Being Yourself that was only one door down, Mr. Peabody followed.

He stopped at the door and pondered the sign for a moment. He wondered what a shop with such a name might sell. Then he heard Ms. Durmonhousar’s voice calling from within.

‘I haven’t got all day!’ she screamed.

As he stepped inside Mr. Peabody noticed that the shop’s items didn’t seem to fit any one theme at all. ‘A costume shop perhaps?’ he questioned aloud.

While searching the room he caught a glimpse of a small woman standing at the desk sorting some garments. She looked up and over at him and then shifted her gaze toward a screen on the opposite wall. Mr. Peabody followed her gaze and was still surprised at what he saw.

Mr. Peabody – Browsing.

6,534,793 Mag-Cred.

Mr. Peabody watched the small lady’s eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning before she immediately dropped what she was doing and approached him with a sense of urgency.

‘Hello, Mr. Peabody. What can I do for you today sir? Is there anything I can get for you, anything at all?’

Mr. Peabody was shocked at the lady’s sudden attentiveness. He peered over at Ms. Durmonhousar, not knowing what to do.

‘Oh, Vilancturous!’ scoffed Ms. Durmonhousar as she rolled her eyes and made her way over. ‘Your hunger for magic credits will scare your richest customer away if you’re not careful. Rest your greedy little mind. We will be buying, just go back to your desk and leave us to shop alone.’

Mr. Peabody watched in shock as the small woman bowed her head and returned to her desk. ‘Are we supposed to buy one of these?’ asked Mr. Peabody as he pulled at the outfits on the racks.

‘Oh no these are not for buying Mr. Peabody, they’re from the realm of magic. Left here by wasteful customers with no need for them after their experiences.’

Mr. Peabody was left even more confused, but without further ado, Ms. Durmonhousar grabbed him by the shoulders and directed him toward a small door in the back corner of the shop.

‘This is where you’ll be going,’ she said.

Mr. Peabody stared at the small wooden door before Ms. Durmonhousar reached passed him, grabbing its handle and pulling it open. Apart from a strange mist that crept out of the doorway and into the store, Mr. Peabody could only see the darkness within. ‘And what exactly will I do in there?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Look closer Mr. Peabody, you’ll find the answer,’ assured Ms. Durmonhousar.

Mr. Peabody crouched down and leant closer while peering in. ‘You know I still can’t…’ Mr. Peabody had begun to speak but before he could finish Ms. Durmonhousar gave him an almighty shove and he went hurtling forward through the doorway and disappeared within.

‘JUST BE YOURSELF!’ yelled Ms. Durmonhousar as she laughed and slammed the door shut behind him. ‘VILANCTUROUS! Lock that door, conceal it, and open up another for new customers,’ she ordered immediately.

Abidingly, the small lady pulled a large ring filled with dangling keys from her waistbelt and locked the door swiftly before covering it with drapes and coat racks which she wheeled in front of it. ‘Ooh, you’ve done well this time Ms. He’s rich!’ approved the small lady. ‘How long will you keep him in there?’

‘Until he’s spent his Mag-Cred of course. All 6.5 million of them!’ hissed Ms. Durmonhousar.

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Fiction

A Choice Worth Making

Mr. Greenly

Once a month my local writing group sets a theme for a piece of writing each member will submit. This month’s topic was “A Choice Worth Making”.

A Choice Worth Making

It was approaching midday, April 10, 1912. As our ship was not due to depart for another forty-five minutes, Olaf and I saw no harm in wetting the top lip with a stout or two. Once inside, the small port-side bar was hazy from the smoke of burning tobacco and lit dimly from the light that bounced in off the port’s waters. The room was abuzz with an obvious sense of excitement and the chatter of foreigners, Olaf and I included. Across from us sat a cocky young American and his Italian friend. They’d introduced themselves as Jack and Fabrizio, and I didn’t like the look of them one bit.

A couple of smug young lads who carried themselves as if not one ounce of their skit had ever stunk. Both were shabbily dressed in woollen tweed and corduroy leaving no doubt they’d picked their clothes up second hand just as Olaf and I had. Yet, the pair were obviously overflowing with self-admiration. The American one, Jack, reeked a kind of self-worth that scratched away at a man, me especially. Just moments earlier I’d lost my entire stout between the cracks of the hardwood floor after he crashed into me without any apparent care or apology. Instead, he offered only an ultimatum.

“Keep easy chap, next drinks on me.” Said the young yank as he collected my empty glass from the floor.

“Or, I could put up the initial stake for you and your friend in a round of five-card draw against me and my buddy here?”

“Afterall, we all look to be in a similar need of luck”

The gall, it was time to put the pair of cocky lads in their place.

Five hands and four stouts in, our concentration was broken briefly as the walls rattled from the blast of an awaiting ship’s horn. The stopwatch the young Italian had thrown down to match our raise of two boarding passes ticked away as it indicated time had flown by. Olaf and I were now due on board within a few minutes. A puzzled expression painted the young Italian’s face as he looked upon his cards, he had nothing. Surprisingly, I found the American harder to read. Peering down blank-faced he checked his cards several times over, glancing toward his pocketknife which sat amongst the kitty for the slightest moment. I could tell he wouldn’t be happy losing it. Coldly, I looked over my own hand. Two eights, two sixes and a queen to accompany them. Nothing to write home about but the American would need quite the hand to beat it.

“You stupid fish head!” cried Olaf.

The damned fool had caused me to jump, almost spilling my hand for all to see.

“I can’t believe you bet our tickets!”

“You lost our money!”

“I’m just trying to get it back!” I squashed his idiocy quickly. “Now shut up and take a card you drunken fool.”

The pair of cocky lads’ brains began ticking over as they tried to piece together what we had said, but we were sure neither of them spoke Swede. Though, they hardly needed to. Olaf the halfwit had been procrastinating for some time meaning even the most inexperienced player would have known his hand was weak. Facedown I burnt my lone queen before taking my next card and sliding it amongst my two pair. Nothing more than a lousy four. I was hoping for another eight, or a six, but I never let my disappointment show. Instead, I offered a seemingly accidental smile. Surely that’d fill the young American’s head with another unnecessary shot of confidence. Just the smallest gesture could cause a man to cock up foolishly chasing a better card than he needed.

“Hit me again, Sven,” said the American.

Perhaps it worked? I watched him closely, but I gained nothing from his actions.

“The moment of truth boys,” he announced with arrogance. “Somebody’s life’s about to change.”

I despised his commentary yet I held my nerve as he did all he could to control the situation.

“Let’s see.” He glanced around the table.

Placing his hand face-up, the Italian revealed nothing but a queen high. The kid was an easy tell and I’d read him correctly.

“Fabrizio’s got niente” said the American.

Yet he looked unphased, with no obvious dismay as if he wasn’t needing his friends’ cards to play.

“Olaf,” said the American.

Olaf revealed a pair of threes. I was also right to assume he had nothing. Neither the American nor his friend seemed surprised.

“Sven,” the American looked over toward me.

I didn’t waste a moment placing my cards down for all to see.

“Uh oh,” sang the American. “Two pair!”

Despite the story of surprise that his words had told, something seemed amiss. His sarcastic manner didn’t sit well. Up to this point, I was winning, that much I knew. I glanced over the pot once more. Despite not knowing how it was all about to play out, my mind took over. A pile of foreign coins, a stopwatch, a pocketknife, our boarding passes. How would Olaf and I get it all in our pockets if we were to win?

“mmm” murmured the American. “Sorry, Fabrizio.”

An apology? My heart began to swell. Within a few minutes, Olaf and I could be on our way to the Americas ten times better off than we were before walking in here.

“What sorry?” cried the Italian nervously. “What you got?”

“You lose my money?”

I braced Olaf’s hand awaiting the American’s reveal.

“Sorry you’re not going to see your mama again for a long time,” said the American.

“Cause you’re going to America!”

“Full house boys!”

He slapped his cards down revealing a full house, tens over aces.

I sank into my chair. Bamboozled, by a cocky young American and his Italian friend. Our money, tickets, and the chance at a new life, all gone just like that. All we had left was a few measly coins that’d no doubt be spent on another stout in an attempt to wash away our sorrows. I should have just let the lad fix me a beer and left it at that. I couldn’t stand to look at them any longer. They’d best stop prancing about like a couple of heroes, or any minute their ship would depart for its maiden journey to New York City without them.

“L’AMERICA!” the Italian boy danced with joy.

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