-----> MaJaTo scribes

More?

2011-06-19T10:43:00.000-07:00

Will more be posted soon? The simple answer is yes.

New and old!

2011-06-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

Children's
Not sure when I wrote The Chimple. I think it was in the last 4 years, but I'm not sure.

Poetry
I've just written Hay, prompted by a bout of sneezing! It's an attempt at Haiku and probably the first piece of poetry (that doesn't fall under the rhyming children's stories) for over a decade!

Hay

2011-06-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

Sunny days , eyes sore.
Protective shades must be worn.
Still, the pollen wins.

The Chimple

2011-06-08T12:58:00.000-07:00

The Chimple

"Why is that Chimpanzee called The Chimple”?
Asked the girl, her nose obscured by a pimple.
“Why my dear it is so very simple,”
Replied her Grandfather, his mind still nimble.

“You see, The Chimple swing in a rope tyre thing
And The Chimple dance, jiggle and prance.

If you can call it song, The Chimple sing.
The Chimple try anything once, given chance.

“The Chimple eat bananas all day long.
Watched by a crowd, The Chimple do no wrong.
Throw a party and The Chimple drink tea
And in a funny hat The Chimple look like me!”

“Ah I see” said The Chimple watching Girl.

Yet thoughts of The Chimple made her head swirl.
“But how will I recall what The Chimple do?
I’d like to know, so please tell me so,
Because he’s my highlight in the zoo”

Well, the name of The Chimple is quite clear,
So remember this simple rule, my dear.

Swing, dance, jiggle, prance, sing song once then cheer.
Banana, part-tea, funny hat, The Chimple do all year!”

You lucky things!

2010-06-21T16:21:00.000-07:00

I know, it's been a while!

I've dusted off the old vaults and found a few unpublished stories to post on here.

Stories added
The straw that broke the camel's back
Super Soaker
Fallen Idol
Poems added
Electric Caravan
PM823

Fallen Idol

2010-06-21T16:14:00.000-07:00

The muddied football, stuck in a slick of dirt, stared up at me. Go on. Kick me, you old fart. I want to kick it so bloody hard, so desperately need to kick it.

A magnetic field keeps me rigid on the park bench. The ball, neither repelled nor attracted by the force stays in the mud.

A small team of boys, all no more than 12 years old, study me from a distance. They must be the owners of the ball. Moments pass and still they keep their position, like the moon in unchanging orbit.

I notice the football kits they wear; flashy nylon outfits with sponsorship emblazoned across the midriff. There wasn’t anything like that in my day. One of the lads, dressed in the blue of Chelsea approaches.

He looks terrified of me. Here am I, an elderly gent, drinking (whisky) peacefully on a park bench on my own. I should be the one fretting.

‘Excuse me?’ the boy says.

I wish I had kicked the blasted football back to them now. I don’t respond, hoping he’ll go away, but I know what’s coming.

‘Can I have your autograph?’

Christ. You kick a ball for a few years and 60 years later and the public still own you.

Super Soaker

2010-06-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

Ally gave Peter a steely stare, a look he dare not engage.

“Give me that water pistol now,” Ally demanded, holding out her hand.

Peter shuffled forward. He risked a quick upward glance to his mother’s face before returning to the safety of shoe-gazing.

Ally felt bad for giving her only son these glowering looks, especially when he wore his best ‘who, me?’ expression. But discipline was something the boy sorely lacked.

“Give,” Ally repeated the instruction, maintaining the forceful tone in her voice.

The Super-soaker 2000 felt quite heavy despite being nearly half-empty. Ally wondered how her little 7 year-old tearaway could carry it when it was full.

“Now go next door and apologise to Mrs Compton for soaking her cat, then get straight to bed.” Ally gestured towards Peter’s bedroom window, then added as an after thought, “and no Television.”

“Aw Mum! David Beckham’s on the telly later. Can’t I watch that?” Peter pleaded.

“No. No Television, no supper, and no bed-time story.”

Peter’s bottom lip began to quiver. “I hate you,” he screamed, and ran upstairs slamming doors behind him.

Ally emptied the water pistol then placed it in the confiscated toys cabinet.

He doesn’t realise it now but I’m putting him on the road to better things, Ally told herself. Ally knew this was for her own good too, because she’d let Peter get away with too much since his father abandoned them.

And last term’s warning at school for disruptive behaviour was never far from Ally’s thoughts.

Peter sulked all through breakfast, but it was a different story after school. He seemed much happier, and better behaved.

“Mum, after dinner can I help wash the dishes?” Peter said before cleaning his plate of remaining greens.

Keen to go with this positive flow Ally rewarded Peter with 30 minutes television after he helped clean and dry the dishes. When the 30 minutes were up Peter promptly went to his room to do his homework.

Ally couldn’t resist peaking around the door to make sure he wasn’t playing computer games. A floor board creaked and Peter turned around.

“Hi Mum. How many sides has a decahedron got? It’s the only question I can’t answer. Look.” Peter held his maths homework aloft.

Blimey, thought Ally. There’s proof if I needed it.

“Erm, I think it has 10, but check it in the dictionary to be safe.”

At bedtime Ally tucked Peter in and read him his bedtime story.

“As you’ve been a good boy today I’m going to let you have your water pistol back, on the condition you don’t spray Mrs Compton’s cat again.”

Peter threw his arms around her neck and hugged tight, and Ally held him close to her, keeping the embrace for as long as she could.

The next day, just after 1pm, Ally received a phone call from the school secretary requesting Ally to come and see the Headmaster. Something to do with Peter and his behaviour.

Ally’s heart sunk, and a list of scenarios scrolled through her mind, but they were all versions of one: Peter was in trouble again. This time it could be suspension, or worse, expulsion. Just as things seemed to be improving. This is the last straw, Ally decided.

When Ally arrived Peter was already sat outside the Headmaster’s office.

“What have you done this time?” Ally yelled as she stormed down the corridor.

“I haven’t done anything, Mum, I promise,” said Peter, shifting in his chair and hiding his hands behind his back.

Ally wanted to say, I know you’re lying, and as soon as I find out what you’ve done you’ll be grounded for weeks and ALL of your toys will be confiscated and only a modicum of control stopped her.

“Show me your hands,” Ally demanded.

Peter was slow to respond, and looked down at the ground as he showed his palms to his mum. Guilty! Peter’s fingers were stained red. The cliché was lost on Ally.

“Why do you do it, Peter?” Ally said, wiping away an unexpected tear. “I am trying to bring you up right and this is how you repay me.”

Ally wiped a tear away, surprised by her instant change of mood.

“But I really haven’t done anything, mum. Honest.” Peter was close to tears too.

Sniffling into a tissue Ally remarked, “Your Dad was always trouble. I thought I could bring you up better without him but I was wrong.”

Peter stood up and hugged Ally, reminding her of last night’s affection. How close we were to a break through, and how wrong was I.

“Mrs Robins?” asked the secretary.

Ally prised herself free from Peter’s embrace and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Mr Parker will see you and Peter now.”

The secretary held the Headmaster’s door open. Immediately Ally clocked the Supersoaker 2000 on Mr Parker’s desk.

“Mrs Robins, Peter, please sit down.”

Ally gulped hard while managing a polite smile. She felt Peter’s small hand grip hers. His touch made her realise how clammy her palms were.

“Mrs Robins, this weapon was confiscated from Peter at playtime.”

“I’m sorry Mr Parker. I didn’t realise he had taken it into school.”

“Be that as it may, I must take action. I have decided to dock 10 house points and Peter will be in detention at lunchtime for 2 weeks as punishment.”

Ally almost sighed with relief but she could tell there was more to come.

“I would not have discovered Peter’s water pistol if it wasn’t for his ingenious misuse of it.”

“Ingenious misuse?” Ally heard herself say, confused and intrigued.

“Peter’s teacher, Miss Gilder, who suffers from diabetes, collapsed at playtime. Peter soaked her with his weapon which brought her around and she was able to request her medication.”

Surprised by what she just heard, Ally turned to Peter. “What about the red hands?”

“We had art class before playtime,” Peter said.

Ally looked at Peter, unsure whether to smile or wince.

“Peter’s actions may well have saved Miss Gilder’s life, so I’m awarding 50 house points on one condition. The water pistol must never return to school.”

“Oh it won’t!” Ally said as she stood up. “Thank you, Mr Parker.”

“No, the thanks go to Peter today.”

Ally followed Peter out of the room, still holding hands. At the door Ally turned and asked, “Incidentally, how has his behaviour at school been this term?”

“Impeccable.”

As soon as the door closed Ally swept Peter up in her arms, her eyes soaking with pride.

PM823

2010-06-21T15:45:00.001-07:00

Sunday, sodden mud underfoot
Trampled by the green welly brigade.

Stains to be cleaned.

Electric Caravan

2010-06-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

Moos cows in the field.
Cows in the city of unreal.
"Oh we chew the cud, and then what?"
Yield to the barbarous superiors
Who flaunt the law that says
All creatures have the will to survive.

"It's raining," cried Tommy. Tommy cried.
Like rain on the back of stone
The moo cows stand alone.
Baa sheep in the next field
Watching laws being repealed.
The rain is so dry; Warm.
Burning.

Fighting has broken out. Broken us.
Flesh crispens in the fire.
The smell of funeral pyre.
"Stop!" frog crossing.
Crossing what? What crossed?
Where's frog? Big slimy wet
Frog. Remember the rain. Lost.

Call me and meet me at Franco's.
The synthetic food is so, how shall
I put it? Yes how? And why?
The skies are blue outside.
"Where's the alighting white?" said Tommy.

Ask your mother the tale

About man's insatiable lover.

The straw that broke the camel's back

2010-06-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

Emily was in an awful mess,
And she didn’t know what to do.
It was her who put the final straw
On her pet toy camel Stu.

The straw that broke the camel’s back
Well at least his dromedary hump.
And now he looks awful silly
Without his single lump.

As a humped camel he would
Rove for miles and miles
Across desert dunes and pudding spoons
And he always raised some smiles.

Big camel hooves made the funny camel move
Across the playful pit of sand,
Always safe in the knowledge
That Emily was close at hand.

Spitting was a disgusting camel habit
Stu’s manners were quite atrocious.
Emily’s mum wished she’d bought a rabbit
Or something less ferocious.

And like all camels Stu’s pong
Was ever so stinking strong.
Emily bathed him every day,
Yet the smell refused to go away.

Emily and Stu were inseparable
Like a monkey and some bananas.
Emily and her smelly camel
Even had matching pyjamas!

Stu was stronger than a car
The strongest toy by far.
So, to prove he was the best
He attempted a daring stunt.

His way of demonstrating his talent
Was to carry a bale of straw.
It was all fine until Stu’s bravado kicked in
And he asked Emily for some more.

As the final straw was placed
Upon the camel’s back,
Stu grunted at the weight
Then Emily heard a loud CRACK!

Rushing to his side
Through a swarm of swirling meadow,
“Your hump is missing!” she cried
As her tears began to flow.

Emily’s cries were so loud
That at the bottom of the stairs
Her screams had brought a crowd,
A throng of upward glares.

Through the gathering of people
A superhero appeared.
One holding a tube of glue
And wearing a stubbly beard!

“Never fear, darling, Daddy’s here!”
Said the calmest toned voice.
Whenever there was a problem
This man was Emily’s choice.

In an instant Stu was humped once more
And Emily’s tears were wiped.
Daddy was a hero
Though his story was slightly hyped.

As Daddy left the scene
Of Emily placing Stu on the shelf,
Mummy snuck up behind him
With almost cat-like stealth.

“How did you know” she accused
“That the answer to Emily’s cries
Was in a tube of super glue?”
Clearly Mum had no need for spies.

Dad knew the game was up,
This was no time for lies.

“A hero never tells his secrets” Said Dad,
But Mum didn’t agree.
She pushed for answers and, at last,
He said “I sat on him at breakfast -
It was me who broke the Dromedary!”

"New" poem

2010-01-20T15:31:00.001-08:00

Yep -after only 16 months since the last scribe was added, I've added a new poem. I spoil you lot!!!!

Okay, anyone who has been on hear before will know to take the word "new" with a pinch of salt (especially as the poem posted is nearly 15 years old -it's just new to this blog!)

Ivory White

Ivory White

2010-01-20T15:21:00.000-08:00

Let there be a gentle breeze
To blow through her hair.
And let her fiery locks sinew
In flames so the devil may care.

Her pale skin gives a warmth
No hearth would ever beat.
It is so smooth and so soft
That to touch it comforts me.

Nature graces her visage
With eyes of sea green.
Many nights I have dreamt
We were adrift floating down stream.

Yet I know she is life's meaning.
To keep her would be selfish dreaming.

Poems added

2008-09-07T14:54:00.000-07:00

Inspired by some poems appearing on a friend's blog I figured I'd dust off a few old ones of mine, written pretty much around 1995-1996. These were written mainly during a period when I was studying (and thus influenced by) T.S.Elliot, so this might come across in a few poems!

Here's the first two of too many.

In Time

Pocket Guide to Plus and Minus

More to follow....soon(ish)

In time

2008-09-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

Young girls chatter
Blue waters splatter
Old grannies natter

But they are dazzling treasure,
Natures unknown pleasures,
Reporting on desperate measures,

An example of beauty itself.
A vast library of hidden wealth.
Living on a book shelf.

As old as each other
They come from one mother.

Pocket guide to plus and minus

2008-09-07T14:27:00.000-07:00

Crack of light, contrived corridors,
Thunder speaking ancient tongue.
Is there more? Evening’s chore.
Fire crackle, crack, crunch, carbon
Based lifeless Lord of concrete.
Consecrated groundless.

Do not be deceived, a new
Creation, relate with relative relation.
Kann ich Ihnen behilflich sein?
Or are you spellbound by a sunbeam?
Producer of photosynthetic life
Breeds the seeds to collapse a nation.

Drip. Drop of water on barren rock.
Cook you meal under skies so arid.
Drip stopped.
Endings can be so sudden.

Interplanetary Assize: 102479

2007-11-27T11:56:00.001-08:00

Interplanetary Assize: 102479

This in fact was my first attempt at competition writing - so long ago that I can't remember when it was written! I think it would've been around 1993. I didn't win.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As the courtroom clerk rose an eerie silence fell upon the overground public gallery. Bubbles rose to the surface of the underwater gallery and burst against the transparent floor.

"Interplanetary Assize, case one zero two four seven nine. High and Overarching Judge Borvech Taahn adjudicating in the civil war of Salgray, between the Senish and Trewls..."

So this is what it has come to, I thought as the clerk rattled through the opening remarks in his phlegmy voice. In the background I could hear the hum of the tanks pumping air into the underwater gallery. A thousand eyes stared up out of the murky water. It's funny how they all seemed to be looking at me. I guess everyone in the courtroom felt the same. Above me, the overground gallery circumferenced the courtroom and doubled the effect. This planet is Dalort, home of the Tegor and Goret species, the occupiers of the overground and underground galleries respectively. It had been just over fifty years ago since a bitter two hundred-year conflict between these two species ended, but the war of words still rumbled on. This made Dalort a damn fine backdrop for the judgement of latest war between the Senish and Trewls.

The amphibious Judge emerged from his pool as the clerk finished his speech. Borvech Taahn cared little for neither my race nor the Trewls because we were both types of humanoid species.
Hatred of other species was strong in our solar system and the Interplanetary Government moved sluggishly because of internal bickering. Our war was based on hatred within the species. I won't go into the politics of it all. Let’s just say we're both a little different in our appearances, and pray to different non-existent Gods and use this as an excuse every so often to attempt a spot of genocide. I know I sound cynical and I am making war out to be a game played by paranoid teams (it doesn't matter how many), but the pain of losing loved ones can occasionally bring home some truths. Yes I feel angry like everyone else, but I am also in a position where I have seen the atrocities that my own people have carried out.

All atrocities have ceased now. Salgray orbits it’s star, Kabalis, as an icy rock, frozen by cryogenic gases released into the atmosphere as Salgray reached the furthest distance Kabalis on an elliptical orbit. Every living organism captured in a motionless winter. This will last for seven months, which should be long enough for the hearing and Salgray will gradually thaw as it gets closer to Kabalis.

Judge Borvech Taahn, dousing himself occasionally with filthy water, has finally begun proceedings by instructing the Trewls to state their position. For a moment I observe Taahn and feel a surge of repulsion in me as secreted substances glimmer on his blubbery body under the unnatural courtroom light.

Hatred burns in the eyes of the Trewl delegates who are seated about five paces to my right. I can feel their glares burning the skin on my face like acid rain. To my left my fellow Senish delegates are aiming similar sentiments at the Trewls. Such feelings run so deep and seem impossible to remove, but I'm sure there is a solution. If it comes from another species (even one that hates our species as much as we hate another race within our species) then that is fine by me.

Reminding myself that Borvech Taahn will pass judgement on my people soon does not help to quell my distaste for the Trewls or for him. Thinking of my dead wife and children along with the impending judgement to be made on the Trewls is the only thing that I want to think about.
Every other word spoken by the Trewls spokeswoman carries an inflection that is intended to stab at Senish ears and sway sympathy with the Judge. I say words but that's not quite the case. The series of clicks snapped out by her forked tongue (the only substantial difference between our races) that form the Trewl version of sentences are audible to everyone in the courtroom chamber before a translation follows in our ear-pieces. Flashes of light distract my attention to the chamber below. The translation for the Gorets is being sent through the water in streams of light because of their poor hearing.

The lies our translator finds himself relaying bring grunts of seething fury from my colleagues. I remain impassive, almost relaxed. It would soon be my turn to approach the stand and say my piece. I knew I didn't have the answer but assured myself it was for my family. The battered photo clasped in my hands is my last view of them. The creases in the paper are a tenuous final intimacy. One last look at the photo and then I put it in my jacket, where the touch of the bomb strapped to my chest reinforces my comfort. I turn to smile at the Trewl delegates and the venomous expressions on their malevolent countenances make me feel perversely happy. Again I reach for the warm feel of the bomb.

Angie

2007-10-12T13:36:00.000-07:00

Written in December 2003, the short story, Angie, was written as a writing assignment. I've put it under the coffee break fiction section, but to be honest I'm tempted to create another section entitled "humour/offbeat".
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Absolutely stunning, darling," Angela said to the rear-view mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up. She badly wanted to prove to her daddy that she could pay her way, and so she was desperate to make a good impression on her first day at Lemmi’s Parlour.
A quick splash of CK1 and she was ready. Angela picked up her Gucci handbag and got out of her gold Audi TT.
A short walk down Clarkson Road gave her precious moments to think about her job, though she found herself pondering why an up market beautician would be located in an area like this. Angela had seen places like this on television, but she wasn’t aware Chester incorporated its own down-town Bronx.
Angela observed the street numbers as she teetered along on china blue shoes that complemented her eyes and ensemble perfectly. 175. 177. 179. 181. 181? There must be some mistake, thought Angela as she checked and rechecked the job centre’s advice slip. The name above the shop enforced the grim reality. Lemmy’s Tattoo and Piercing Parlour.
“You must be Angie, eh lass” said a burly pony-tailed man approaching her.
Immediately Angela reached for her pepper spray. Too late. Lemmy (one of his arm tattoos gave his name away) grabbed her wrist and dragged Angela into the shop.
"Sylv," Lemmy yelled. "Your new assistant, Angie, is ‘ere."
"Actually, my name is Angela, and I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake.
You see, I…"
"Flamin’ ‘eck!" exclaimed Sylv. "You’re a bit tarted up for this job, aintcha."
Angela approached Sylv, thinking it might be easier to explain to her, when she caught a whiff of Sylv’s perfume. Or to more precise, bog water. Angela imagined Sylv bought it by the gallon from a garage forecourt. She didn’t mean to, but Angela couldn’t help squirming under the nasal attack.
"What’s up with you?" Sylv asked.
"I’m sorry. Your perfume is very," Angela searched for a subtle yet accurate word, "overpowering."
"Ta very much."
"Sylv," the coarse syllable scratched at Angela’s throat. "As you can see from my attire," Angela’s manicured nails indicated her pristine Prada suit, "I’m not cut out for work at a tattoo parlour. The job centre intended to allocate my services to a beauty parlour."
"More’s the pity," Lemmy said.
Angela prickled at the colloquial use of the Queen’s English, and turned to Lemmy in time to see him pick some wax from his ear and brush it across his yellow teeth. She could not believe how unreservedly disgusting Lemmy was.
How typical of a greasy low life oath, Angela thought. He’s probably a biker and listens to heavy metal. Oh yes, his Metallica t-shirt confirms that.
She felt angry towards the job centre, but also very scared of what Lemmy and Sylv could do to her, and she had an unerring distrust of anyone in leather trousers.
Lemmy took several slow steps towards Angela. She noticed a stand-up fan rotating behind him just as his body odour washed over her.
She had only smelt a similar stench at a restaurant whilst on holiday in Hong Kong, however this smell was ten times stronger, and her delicate senses were telling her to be sick.
"Y’see Angie. We need someone today because it’s the first week of University, and we always get a rush of students coming in."
If she thought his body smelt bad, she could almost taste the dog dirt stinking from his mouth.
Angela thought about her predicament. At least this greaser is conceding a mistake has been made, and if I agree to suffer a day’s work here then I may get out here alive, she resolved. I guess Princess Diana had to put up with worse things when she went to Somalia, and besides, my girlfriends will lap up this story for months.
"I’ll work for you today only, and on one condition."
"What’s that then Angie?" asked Sylv.
"Call me Angela."
"Fair enough, Angela." Lemmy emphasised her name, showing a yellow toothy grin as he did. "You’ll be ‘elping Sylv with piercings. You done any before?"
"Oh, you mean earrings? No, I have not, but if you show me your handiwork I’m sure I could give it a whirl, just as long as I don’t damage my nails."
A strange smirk came across Lemmy’s face as he asked, "so, you want to see an example?"
"Yes please."
"Okay," Lemmy laughed and promptly dropped his trousers to expose an intimate piercing.
Sylv and Lemmy laughed raucously and even more so when Angela exclaimed, "Oh my giddy aunt" and fainted in a heap.

Surprisingly Useless Man

2007-09-10T11:33:00.000-07:00

Surprisingly Useless Man - This story was written in April 2003
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sally turned the radio off as soon as she realised Alan was calling her, but continued brushing her hair until he called again.
‘Come on, Sal,’ Alan shouted up the stairs. ‘If you hurry up we can get a couple of drinks in at the Woolpack.’
Sally tossed the hairbrush aside and thundered across the landing to confront him. ‘We are not going to the pub tonight,’ Sally said, intent on keeping their anniversary a pub-free event.
He looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’
Sally threw up her arms in despair. ‘You know why not. If we go for a couple of drinks you’ll be rowdy at the theatre.’
‘Nice new bra, dear,’ Alan said to change the subject. ‘Should the frilly bit be tucked in on just one side?’
Sally looked down, snorted in contempt and buttoned up her blouse.
Alan changed the subject back again, believing he’d thrown Sally sufficiently. ‘Just one drink then? One little beer won’t do me any harm.’
Do him any harm? Sally pondered this for a moment and then it all clicked into place. ‘I know what you’re up to, you sly beggar. You’re plotting to get out of driving tonight.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes you.’ Sally smiled at the thought of catching Alan out.
‘Well that’s not the case because I’ve booked a taxi. He’ll be here any minute.’
Outside a horn sounded, startling Sally but not Alan, who seemed to be expecting it.
‘Ah. That’ll be him.’ Alan said.
‘But I’m not ready! I need another 15 minutes at least,’ Sally insisted.
‘You look fine, Sal. Tell you what, I’ll talk to the driver and let him know you’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.’
Sally sighed. She wanted tonight to be really special. It was their tenth anniversary after all. She rushed back to the bedroom and finished brushing her hair, grabbed her vanity case and squeezed into a pair of sleek heels. Sally gazed down at the silver shoes that she bought especially for tonight. Not cheap, unlike Alan! She picked up her handbag on the way out and popped the vanity case inside.
As she came downstairs Sally heard the distinct bleeping of Alan texting on his mobile.
Suspicious, Sally asked ‘Who are you texting?’
Alan looked up from his phone and said, ‘Baz. I’m letting him know we won’t be going to the pub tonight.’
Sally tried to hide her satisfaction but she could feel the corners of her mouth crinkle into a smirk.
Five minutes into the taxi ride Alan’s phone rang.
‘Hello?’ Alan said. ‘Hi Baz. No mate, I’m taking Sally to the theatre tonight.’ Alan fidgeted with his tie as he waited for a response. ‘What? Oh, alright. See you in a bit then.’
Alan pressed the call end button, leant forward and spoke to the driver. ‘Change of destination, mate. The Woolpack on Wellington Street.’
Sally could hardly believe her ears. ‘What’re you doing? We agreed we weren’t going to the pub tonight.’
Her special night was going down the plughole right in front of her. How could he do this to her?
‘Baz has got us both a drink to celebrate our anniversary. It would be rude to not go now.’
Sally’s pulse was racing. Alan always made decisions without her agreement. He held his wristwatch close to her face and clicked the illumination button.
‘It’s still an hour before the play starts. Loads of time.’
The pub was only five minutes walk from the theatre so Alan was right, but it was the principle of it. Sally had hoped that for once her husband was going to deliver on his promise.
‘Just the one,’ Sally sighed.
Sally knew she should’ve seen this coming. His previous anniversary efforts were not memorable because they mainly involved going to the pub. But at least on those occasions he hadn’t deceived her into going there. Sally wasn’t going to forget this in a hurry.
The taxi pulled up at the pub entrance. Sally could see Alan’s mate Baz peering through the window, a half drank pint in one hand, a cigar in the other.
‘That’ll be a fiver, luv.’
Sally looked around and noticed Alan had already made his exit. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a £5 note.
In the pub there was no sign of Alan. He wasn’t at the bar or on the fruit machine. Baz was still standing guard over the drinks.
Perhaps Alan was desperate for the loo, Sally considered, giving her husband the benefit of the doubt.
‘Sally! Happy birthday! ‘ Baz cheered, and lurched forward to give her a bear hug.
‘It’s our anniversary, Baz,’ Sally said, snatching her drink off the table and taking a big gulp.
‘Really? I thought you married Alan, not me!’ Baz let out and uncontrollable laugh.
Sally ignored Baz’s attempted humour. ‘Where’s Alan?’
‘Err, I think he went through to the backroom to play darts.’
‘I’m going to kill him,’ Sally snarled, and she stormed off towards the backroom. Baz followed her and shouted, ‘Don’t use the darts for that Sal. They’re heavy barrelled ones!’
Okay, killing him was drastic. Sally’s thoughts turned to thinking what she could do to him. Her heart was thumping in her head, but her thoughts became clear on what she would do. She was going to….
‘SURPRISE!’
Sally was taken aback as 50 plus friends and family converged on her, setting off party poppers over her head. She spotted Alan in the crowd and raced over to him, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Killing him with darts had turned into hugging him to death. Now this was an anniversary to remember!
‘I love you,’ Sally sobbed.
‘I have a confession,’ Alan admitted. ‘We’re not going to the theatre tonight. We’re going tomorrow. The party was your mother’s idea.’
Typical, Sally thought. The best thing Alan’s ever done for me, and it was a great woman behind it all along.

Toying with my Obsession

2007-08-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

This story was written in mid-2003.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

12 years, 2 months, 2 weeks and three days. That is how long I have waited for this day, planning to end it like this. I’ve been incomplete all this time and now I’m going to be more complete than ever before.
My parents told me I wouldn’t go through with it, or I shouldn’t. Sod them. It’s their fault I turned out like this anyway, and now I’m going to show them. I’ll take pictures when I’m done; complete. Then, if they’re lucky, I’ll invite them around to see before I call the press.
It’s not about the notoriety because if I wanted to be well-known for my endeavours I’d probably be killing little children or something similar (at least according to my psychiatric profile). Then I could appear on television and get in the national papers, maybe even the international press. But I’m not doing it for the public attention. I just wanted to teach my damn parents a lesson. That’s all.
The number twelve bus pulls into the station at eight fifty, leaving me approximately 10 minutes to walk to my destination. Timed almost to perfection.
Rain is coming down hard but it won’t dampen my spirits. In fact the feel of the rain makes me feel so much more alive. Life doesn’t get any better than this. If I had to choose my favourite weather it would be rain. It’s a pleasure enhancing stimulant; the perfect accompaniment. I love the sensation of it trickling through my hair and down into my eyes and sometimes I get carried away and spike my wet hair, pretending I’m Robbie Williams. It doesn’t last long though. Nothing ever does, except my completeness. When I’m complete no-one will ever be able take anything away from me again. Not my parents, not Jesus Christ nor the Prime Minister. No-one.
At the corner of Dean St I stop to buy a paper. One of the babes from Voyager is on the front cover of The Sport so I buy it to satisfy my curiosity. I’m not interested in the fact she is naked (supposedly naked, though studying the pictures closely I think they look fake). Her vulnerability with her naked form is what I am interested in. My experience suggests women can be vulnerable even when fully clothed.
As I hand the paper to the cashier she asks ‘Will that be all, Sir?’
Will that be all? I can tell you a few things else you can do for me, mostly legal. ‘No thanks,’ I said, handing over the exact change and feeling a bit of a prat. Still, I could’ve had her, but I can’t let superfluous floozies get in the way of my mission today.
The paper fits nicely into the inside pocket of my flak jacket. My jacket is a bit similar to the one Richard E Grant wore in Withnail and I. Perfect for stashing a shot gun in.
Across the street I see an elderly man hunched over a dustbin, foraging for god-knows-what. You can’t help but pity those who god has chosen to smite, not selected to achieve great tasks like me. Perhaps I take my god correlation too far, but who else would’ve asked such a thing of me? Okay, so He didn’t come to me in a vision but it’s obvious.
I can’t watch the old man for long. If I did I could end up feeling more pity for him and might be moved to give him some money. I can’t have that just in case I don’t have enough left. I’ve been told this one’s going to cost me anywhere between £50 and £75, but it’ll be worth it. I can’t wait to get my hands on….
In the distance a police siren wails. It sounds far away but it is getting nearer. For some reason the flashy blue lights, the ear-piercing siren mixed with the chill March rain and the close proximity of wrongdoing is so erotic. I don’t know why. For a fleeting moment I’m tempted to go and watch (from a distance) but I can’t risk it. Not now, when I’m so close to completion.
I picked up my stride to make up for the distractions. I’d factored in picking up a newspaper; everything else was unplanned. I guess I didn’t think anything else could take my attention, albeit briefly, away from my task.
Still, it is now eight fifty seven and the quickened pace is getting me back on track, not to mention pumping adrenalin around my body, exciting every single inch of me.
Ahead I can see the familiar form of Spider, my supplier, entering his place; my destination. Spider (the web tattoo on the back of his neck giving rise to his nickname) is not the sort of guy I would normally want to do business with, however, he does have the best range and the right contacts. I’m sure I can put up with his skinhead persona one more time. Then I’m finished. Done. Complete. I’ll be out of this business once and for all. Cold turkey – the best way. Sure, the desire to continue will be there, the wont to do more, but I’ll be satiated too, paradoxically speaking. Knowing when to stop is easy, stopping isn’t. It’s the difference between abnormal behaviour and obsession.
I enter the building less than a minute after Spider. He clocks me and nods. I return the gesture.
‘Have you got her?’ I ask, sounding like a prat again.
‘Yeah, Rob. She’s waiting in the back room for you. My west-end snoop brought her in last night. Give me a few minutes and I’ll introduce you,’ Spider said, finishing with a snorted chuckle.
I catch a glimpse of the clock. Two minutes past nine. I must seem desperate to be here so early, yet it feels like I have waited an eternity. Well, over 12 years any way.
While Spider busies himself I pick up a magazine and flick aimlessly through the pages. More rumours of a new Wonder Woman series, the “low-down” on the new Star Trek movie, and gossip from the set of the Harry Potter. Just titles and pictures. I can’t focus enough to take an interest in any of it at the moment.
I hadn’t noticed a couple of lads enter the room. They couldn’t have been much older than twelve; older than I was when I started to take an interest in this stuff. I was in my mid-teens when I was deprived of it. That’s when I got hooked. It’s amazing how something seemingly trivial can set you off down a certain path.
With hands glued into their pockets the boys gaze around the room at the paraphernalia hanging on the walls. In their shoes I would be apprehensive.
Spider is still in the back room, giving me the opportunity to save these boys.
‘Alright lads.’ My opening gambit gained little response other than a quick glance, and probably even less respect. ‘You don’t want to waste your lives on this stuff. I have and look how I turned out.’
Okay, putting myself down has always been my strong point. I think it’s an inherited characteristic.
‘Wot you on about, weirdo’ said one of the boys.
‘This scene. It’ll eat your money up, ruin families, relationships, and maybe even lead to criminal activity.’
‘Criminal activity?’ the other boy asked, picking on the one thing that perhaps might bother them.
‘Ever heard of a crime of passion?’ I capture both of them in a wide-eyed stare for a few seconds and allowed a slightly sinister smile creep in for added effect.
The boys looked at each other and somehow communicate an agreement to leave. They only look back once – to make sure I wasn’t following. As if. Young boys aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t feel bad about what I just did because, the way I see it, I just did them a big favour. Spider would’ve got them hooked on this and they would be selling their bodies for a few pounds here and there. I’ve been totally shafted by Spider and his kind too many times, yet I keep coming back for more because I have my goal to achieve. My nirvana. My completion.
Spider returns, his fingers curled around an oversized coffee mug.
‘Right, Rob. Let’s get you sorted.’ Spider beckons me to follow him into the back room. Standing so close to Spider I notice how badly he smelt. Well, I think the smell is him, but the smell becomes over-powering on entering the back room.
I think Spider has noticed my distaste. ‘Rotting corpse,’ he admits.
I didn’t want to know anymore and he didn’t want to tell. I guess you could call it a mutual respect among peers. Besides, it wasn’t my particular fetish. We were stood in a small ante-room. Spider parted a curtain to reveal a larger section of the room.
‘There she is,’ Spider’s gesture drew my eyes toward a diminutive figure sitting on a worktop.
‘She’s beautiful.’
Yes, that sounded very pratish but I could not speak my real emotions in front of Spider. I desperately want to rush over and pick her up and swing her around, caress her every curve, hold her close with my eyes closed, to squeeze her, crush her head into my chest. That’s just the start of my list of desires I dare not utter. This, after all, was a business deal. All I got to do is pay the money, do my spot of business and walk out of here on a high, never to return again. Completion accomplished.
‘Do you wanna touch her, check out the goods eh?’
I suddenly became aware I was drooling. Not for long but probably long enough to be noticeable. I edge forward in small steps, as delicately as my exquisite princess deserves.
‘Hello,’ my voice stumbles over numb lips. ‘My name’s Rob.’
‘She can’t talk back, man’ Spider said. Boy does he know how to ruin the moment.
‘How much do I owe you?’ I said, not taking my eyes off her. She is staring back at me and I am sure I detect a smile, as though she knows what I’m going to do; what she is going to help me to achieve.
I want to get this over with now. With all the excitement I’m starting to feel a bit giddy and really want to get her home, take some pictures and wallow in my conquest.
Spider held his hand out. “Seventy notes and she’s yours to do what ever warped stuff you wanna do.’
All the money I have on me but I don’t think it is worth bargaining because Spider knows how desperate I am. The wad of cash feels dirty, over-used. I hand the money to Spider, pick up my love interest and leave, my fingers wrapped around her tiny waist.
Now the deal has been done I can breath easier. Four thousand four hundred and fifty-eight days since a car boot sale deprived me of my action figure collection and here I am, holding the final piece in my replacement set. I now have the whole lot, more than I had before, yet something doesn’t feel right. Although I have avenged the wicked act of my parents who forced me to sell my toys I thought I would feel more whole. More complete.

Back on the Market

2007-08-16T04:06:00.000-07:00

Written in late 2004, Back on the Market is along the lines of the "women's fiction" that appears in weekly magazines.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The ink on my divorce papers has been dry for less than a month and I don’t feel ready to move on.
Yet here I am, getting ready to put myself on the market again. My friend Nigel has persuaded me to attend a nightclub he’s been frequenting recently to “put Richard Milligan back on the map.” His words.
Nigel’s a good friend. He’s been through similar problems, except in his case there’s a kid involved. Messy, to say the least. He’s been going on at me for months to attend this club with him but I decided to wait until the divorce was final.
I can’t help feeling I’ve gone over the top with my appearance; new suit, shirt, tie, big bottle of CK1 and a trip to the barbers.
Catching myself in the mirror my initial reaction is “very smart” but staring a little longer my opinion rapidly transcends to “desperate.” I’m nervous and sweaty. What if I can’t pull?
I already look desperate and over-keen to impress; adding sweat and profuse nerves will really tip the odds against me.
Okay, deep breath. I’m overreacting – I always do. Julie, my ex, cited this in the divorce proceedings; however I feel that finding Julie in bed with her boss was just cause for chucking a brick through the windscreen of his Porsche. Getting her fired from her job was cited too.
The doorbell chimes and I let Nigel in.
‘Wow. You’re a little overdressed, Richie,’ Nigel says stood there in jeans and shirt, sports jacket and sneakers.
‘Erm, I do like to make a good impression. Anyway, you told me to be smart and funny. I’ve boned up on a few if the jokes I remember from college.’
‘Forget them. Women like Frank Skinner funny, not Frank Carson. And when I said to be smart I meant intelligence.’ Nigel chuckled. My nerves were even more shredded now, and my faith in singles night at nightclubs is faltering fast. In my day we always wore suit and tie (okay – a Don Johnson grey-flecked suit with t-shirt, granddad shirt and a boot lace tie) and you couldn’t hear yourself above the music (Miami Sound Machine, ABC, New Edition etcetera – proper music.)
So I’m a bit dubious about Nigel’s smart and funny approach.
Experience tells me all I need is some good pick up lines. I guess things have changed a lot in the past two decades.
‘What’s the women to men ratio at the club?’ I ask.
‘Pretty much 50:50. There are loads of fit women to talk to.’
‘We’re not going to a gym are we?’ I joked.
‘That’s more like the humour you need to display!’ said Nigel.
Nigel boasts he always chats up about 10 to 20 women at this place. At least the odds are encouraging.
We order a taxi, sit down and have a drink while we wait. The alcohol helps me to relax and I start to feel more comfortable with the idea of clubbing at my age. After all, I’m not exactly over the hill and I like to think I’ve still got the moves too, though I suspect big box little box hand gestures are old hat now.
One thing still bugged me about where we were going.
‘What type of music will they be playing tonight?’ I ask, hoping it’s not “jungle” as I don’t think I’ll be able to make-out to that.
‘It’s pretty much a case of requests all night. So you need to get in their first. They’ll play the whole “Best of Talk Talk” album if you want.’
‘That’s cool, but won’t it be too loud to chat?’ I must admit, if they were to play Talk Talk I’d dance my pants off all night anyway.
‘Don’t worry about the music, Richie. Just focus on the ladies.’
The taxi arrives so we finish our drinks and leave my house.
At Nigel’s request the taxi drops us off at Ginola’s Citybar.
‘Good thinking,’ I say, recognising Nigel’s game plan. ‘Let’s sink a few more lagers here before hitting the club. After all, I’m not sure I can afford to re-mortgage just to pay nightclub prices.’
Nigel opens the door and we step in to the bar. ‘Actually, we’re here already,‘ said Nigel.
‘What? You said we’re going to a singles night at a nightclub?’
‘I said we are going to a singles club. You interpreted that as a nightclub. I played along because I knew you wouldn’t go for this.’
‘And what exactly is “this”?’
‘Speed dating!’
I want to walk out right now, go home and play Talk Talk, and turn it up loud.
‘Hang on a second. What about the music? You said there’d be request music.’ As I spoke I already knew the answer, but Nigel pointed towards the jukebox in the corner anyway.
Resigned, I follow the clockwise rotation of table hopping around the bar, engaging each lady with polite chat. It doesn’t take them long to figure out I’m not enthused by the task. And it was a task. This isn’t dating, I tell myself and after 5 unsuccessful attempts I retreat to the safety of the bar. Perhaps switching to shorts or mixers might help.
Sipping on a JD and C I look around the room and spy on Nigel. He seems to be in good form and it looks like he’s forgotten about his marital worries.
‘Looking for someone?’ said a soft voice to my right.
‘Not really I was just seeing how my mate was getting on,’ I reply before slugging down the rest of my drink. I feel the need to cough but resist.
‘Having a competition, eh?’ she asks.
I sense a touch of vitriol. Perhaps it’s aimed at me because I haven’t turned to acknowledge her, or maybe she has burned once too many times.
‘Well if we are, he’s winning,’ I respond.
‘Do you come here often?’
This sounded like a chat up line and I was determined not to bite.
‘No. It was his idea to come.’
‘Whose?’
‘His,’ I point accusingly at Nigel.
‘Stinky Parkinson!’ she squeals, and I spin to see a brunette covering her mouth as she rocks in hysterics.
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry Richard. I didn’t mean to be rude about your friend. That was his nickname given to him at school.’
‘But I was at school with Nigel and I don’t remember that nickname, yet you know my name…’
She’d stopped laughing, anticipating my next words, and catches me with her emerald eyes.
‘….And I remember you, Mrs Keenan.’
‘Please, call me Suzie.’ Her smile lit up her face and it dawns on me she is only about 10 years older than me.
‘Do you want to get out of here,’ I ask, surprising myself more than Suzie. I mean, she was a teacher at my high school.
‘Definitely. It’s not really my scene.’
‘How about a nightclub?’
‘I’d rather sit in a pub and chat.’
‘That sounds good.’
So we leave Nigel “Stinky” Parkinson in a bar half populated by single women and walk to a nearby pub, and spend the evening catching up on old times.
Not exactly the evening I expected, but Richard Milligan hopes to be taken off the market very quickly. Perhaps I’m over-reacting but I think I’m ready to move on.

Mis-Selling Pensioners

2007-08-16T03:36:00.000-07:00

Written in late 2003, Mis-Selling Pensioners is cloning story on the borders of sci-fi, with a tinge of black humour.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thomas Stein lay sprawled across his bed, a crumpled duvet on the floor signalling his discomfort the night before. Chinks of pale yellow sunlight crept between blind slats and fell over his naked body.
With one eye open Thomas scanned the room until he found a clock. Red lines levitated and formed into numbers surrounded by dancing dust. Blurry vision forced Thomas to open a second eye, but he still could not make anything out.
His head ached from last night’s excess. Rhythmic pounding of retro 21st century dance music was only part of the problem; a litre bottle of Kentucky bourbon was the main culprit. Despite alcohol poisoning Thomas gradually became aware of his surroundings, familiar with the objects in the room; cognisant of another presence watching him.
‘Kaliber, is that you?’ Thomas asked.
‘Yes, Master Thomas. I am adjacent to the door,’ the robot answered, then stepped into the room.
Thomas sat up and rubbed his bleary bloodshot blue eyes.
‘What time is it?’
‘Master Thomas, I observed you viewing a clock less than 90 seconds ago.’ Kaliber paused to allow Thomas to interject. ‘The time is 7.45am. Today’s first customer arrives at approximately 9am.’
Customers? Thomas wracked his sore brain and found the answer. The new crop was ready and Thomas was in charge of sales whilst his parents were on holiday.
‘Didn’t I give you instructions to wake me at 7.30?’
‘I have watched you since 7.28, however, I was reluctant to wake you.’
Thomas’ eyesight was clearing up and he glanced towards the mirror only to see Kaliber’s metallic outline retreating towards the door. He’s probably getting a safe distance away in case I rip out his voice box again, thought Thomas. That lanky robotic broom certainly believes in self preservation.
Thomas stared at the reflection of an almost unrecognisable version of him. Several days’ facial growth covered his pasty complexion. Even without the unkempt appearance he would’ve felt dirty.
After a steaming shower and a shave stubble Thomas could look himself in the mirror again and see a business degree graduate once more. He wondered how long he could hold off his alcoholic Hyde. Long enough to pull off a first day sales record? Perhaps soon he could afford a new liver and the colour of health would once again adorn his complexion.
Kaliber waited in the arboretum with Charles and Susan Peterson and their only child, Kyle. The pre-schooler studied the series7a droid for signs of motor movement but Kaliber was tuned to approaching footsteps.
Thomas stopped behind a clump of fern-like Jurassic Dioon Spinulosum, taking a moment to size up his prey. Bringing them to the arboretum was his style.
He felt it made the buyer at ease with their purchase, as opposed to his Dad’s “line ‘em up and flog ‘em” approach. After all, this was a biogenetic life form up for sale, not some crappy old domestic robot like Kaliber.
‘Mr and Mrs Peterson,’ Thomas said, striding straight into salesman mode. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They exchanged handshakes and Thomas turned to Kyle. ‘And you must be little Kyle.’ He bent on one knee and reaching in to his jacket pocket. ’Have a lollypop.’
Kyle snatched the proffered candy, stuck it into his mouth and started sucking on the pacifier, just as Thomas hoped he would. Thomas didn’t want a kiddie interrupting his sales patter.
‘Follow me please,’ Thomas led them along a winding path, deliberately brushing past flowering blooms to release heady perfumes, which, along with an easel of vivid pink buds, orange blossoms and cherry petals, painted the background to the deal.
Granny Stein sat on a bench crocheting a blanket. Or at least, Thomas reminded himself it appeared to be Granny Stein; the clones were so life-like the only way Thomas could tell the difference was by the serial number on the back of the clones’ necks.
‘Hello Thomas, my dear. Will you and your friends join me? Kaliber promised to bring some tea and biscuits if I sat here.’
‘ Wow, Mr Stein, that’s amazing,’ exclaimed Mr Peterson. ‘I had heard your Grannies were pretty realistic but seeing your handiwork close up, I’m blown away.’
My handiwork, Thomas repeated to himself. Nice.
‘Yes, I’m particularly proud of this years’ batch. Of course, they’re based on my own Granny, who still lives with me and my family.’
‘Then you’re very lucky, Mr Stein. Kyle’s grandparents were among the many to perish over 8 years ago in the flu jab terror attacks.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Thomas said, with as much heart felt sympathy as the first time he had been reminded of his families’ good fortune. Granny Stein was among the 5% of over 70’s who missed their flu jabs that year, and he and his parents thanked God for ever since.
‘A Stein clone can never replace your own relative, however, if you invest in one you will grow to love her in her own right….’
Thomas spotted Kaliber returning with a tray of refreshments. The robot seemed a bit unstable. Perhaps the humidity of the arboretum was affecting his circuits, thought Thomas.
‘Refreshments, Master Thomas. Tea for Mr and Mrs Peterson, Granny Stein and yourself, and orange squash for Kyle.’
‘Did your robot say that a Granny Stein can drink tea, like a human?’ asked Mr Peterson, unaware his question sounded inane to Thomas.
I don’t think we’ll have to work hard on this sale, Thomas decided, as Peterson doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of human cloning. Peterson doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of human cloning. All I need to do is make the clone do a few party pieces and the sale is mine.
‘Why, of course Mr Peterson. My clones are not robots – they are living, breathing humans. The clones are in fact superior to my own Granny because in the cloning process we can make a few tweaks so our customers get a long lasting clone with a guaranteed 25 year life expectancy.’
‘I am sitting here you know, Thomas,’ chirped Granny Stein. ‘It is very rude to talk about your own Granny as though I’m not here. If you weren’t so big I’d put you over my knee and spank you, young man.’
Thomas had never seen one of the clones express such familiarity or speak out of turn so early. This was a trait they develop as they become older and crankier. He wasn’t overly concerned, preferring to see it as something he could into a sales point if the subject arose.
‘I’m sorry Granny,’ Thomas said.
He felt silly referring to the clone as his own Granny. This one had some bugs in it, but the Petersons seemed keen, so Thomas decided to play along.
‘Granny, why don’t you help me demonstrate how versatile our clones are?’
Thomas turned to Kaliber, ‘fetch a pile of mixed laundry.’
‘Do you think that is wise, Master Thomas?’ asked Kaliber.
Thomas was taken aback by the question. ‘Why? Why would it be a problem?’
‘It would not, Master Thomas.’
‘Then fetch it.’
‘Yes, Master Thomas.’
‘That robot’s going on the blink,’ Thomas admitted to Mr and Mrs Peterson.
‘I would’ve replaced him with a clone by now, were it not for the risk of mixing her up with the real Granny Stein!’
Still, Thomas was a bit concerned with Kaliber’s question.
‘Here is the laundry, Master Thomas.’
Kaliber placed the laundry on the bench next to Granny Stein.
‘Granny, could you sort this laundry, please?’
‘Yes dear. After I’ve had my tea and biscuits.’
So they waited while Granny Stein slurped her cup of tea, dipped and devoured three digestives, garnering her cardigan with crumbs. Then they watched again as she methodically sorted the laundry. Ten minutes; twice as long as the average for last years’ batch.
Thomas wasn’t sure a display of clothes sorting really demonstrated the benefit of the clones so he was prepared to disregard this, though mainly because the Paterson’s did not seem perturbed by the doddery manner of this particular clone. In fact, Thomas got the impression they actually appreciated this more than a super-efficient one. Perhaps an imperfect clone was closer to what they expected.
Granny Stein reached over and poured herself another cup of tea, muttering about her sciatic pain playing up.
‘Okay,’ Thomas said as he turned to address Mr & Mrs Paterson. ‘This arboretum is not entirely suited for effective demonstrations of the full range of our clones, however, there are some simple tasks we could demonstrate.’
‘To be honest, Mr Stein, we don’t really need much convincing, but while we are here it would be nice to get more familiar. Could you ask the clone to read a story to Kyle?’
‘Sure we can, can’t we, Granny?’
‘Yes dear, what is it?’
‘Master Thomas. I do not consider this to be a good idea,’ Kaliber said.
Thomas had forgotten the malfunctioning robot was still present. He strode over to the Kaliber and stood face to face, his eyes level with Kaliber’s infrared optic lenses.
‘Listen tin-head,’ Thomas growled his whisper. ‘I’m trying to make a sale here. Why shouldn’t I demonstrate the ability of the clones?’
‘Master Thomas. It is evident this particular clone is not perfect. Carrying out further substandard demonstrations may lead the Peterson’s to rethink their purchase. This would leave you with an imperfect clone, which would be hard to sell to more discerning customers.’
Thomas realised Kaliber had a point, though his own brain was still pickled from last night’s drinking spree. Once more Kaliber was proving to be the sobriety sidekick his aptly, and deliberately, chosen name suggested. Perhaps the robot wasn’t malfunction after all, thought Thomas. But the Peterson’s do seem keen on this clone regardless, and they have asked for a reading demo. It’s all about customer service, Thomas told himself. If I keep them sweet they might take the after sales service package too.
‘It’s my decision so we’ll continue with the demo. Fetch some appropriate reading material.’
‘Yes, Master Thomas.’
Kaliber brought a large print book, The Adventures of Timmy Trumpet.
Thomas observed as Granny Stein read the book from start to finish, with occasional pauses to adjust her spectacles. As the demonstration progressed Thomas discreetly watched the other spectators too. The Peterson’s were enthralled; little Kyle wrapped up in the story, his doting parents taking mental pictures for their photo album.
It was the other spectator, Kaliber, who held Thomas’ attention the most. His shiny exterior gave nothing away, but Thomas detected the robot’s lenses twitching more than usual. Kaliber never really showed much interest in clone sales before. Thomas always used him as an introduction robot to show the difference between clones and robots and then Kaliber would disappear to return to his domestic duties. In fact, right now Kaliber should be with the real Granny Stein, fulfilling personal services like clipping her nails or scraping dead skin from her feet.
Thomas conceded Kaliber’s duties could be getting the better of him. He suddenly realised that ever since Kaliber’s duties were expanded to include looking after Granny Stein the domestic robot had been acting strangely.
‘Do you require my services any further before you complete the sale, Master Thomas?’
Kaliber’s question pricked Thomas back to the present, and clumsily did the sums for him too. The promise of tea for sitting in the arboretum, Kaliber challenging the need for demonstrations, slow sorting of laundry, eyesight problems, and eagerness for the sale to go through without demonstrations. Added to other incidents such as a bolt found in Granny Stein’s soup and a scorpion in her bedroom there was only one answer.
Thomas stormed over to Granny Stein and said, ‘Granny, would you mind lifting up your hair at the back of your neck?’
‘What a peculiar question, young Thomas. Mind, I’ll tell your father about this,’ said an indignant Granny Stein, but she did what Thomas requested.
‘As I thought. No serial code.’ Thomas turned to confront Kaliber but the robot was nowhere to be seen. I might’ve known, thought Thomas. His request to be absent from the sale betrays his guilty feelings. I never granted it but he couldn’t bear being discovered.
Bemused, Mr Peterson asked ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Peterson. There’s been a mix-up. This is the real Granny Stein. I’ll fetch a clone and run through the demonstrations again.’
‘Well, I’d rather take this one,’ said Mr Peterson. ‘I’ll pay double.’
Thomas wondered, could I really sell my own Granny? True, the clones are more efficient and I could remove the serial code from one. Their genetic make up is the same so we could continue producing clones and no-one would ever know.
‘You’ve got a deal Mr Peterson.’
At the back of his mind Thomas felt a momentary pang of guilt but it disappeared when he thought of the extra money which would cover the cost of his replacement liver, and enough bourbon to last him well into his pensionable years.

Change of plans!

2007-07-31T12:37:00.000-07:00

Yep - I've posted this on all my blogs at the same time so that you know the position:-
I've decided going forward that the "TCM Mark's blog" should just be for stuff related to the Total Client Marketing website and my other websites, plus any related internet stuff.
"MaJaTo (MaJaTo scribes)" is still intended to be for my writing, though I've decided to make that by invite only. So, if you want to get access please get in touch.
"Original MaJaTo" is now going to be turned into my personal blog post - the place where I rant and rave, and go all gooey about my kids.
Finally, I'm going to be starting another blog too - titled "Neutral Me" - This is intended to be about my investigations into being Carbon Neutral, particularly about offsetting the effects of next years holiday to Florida, plus I'll be posting about
alternative fuels etc and general tips on going green.
So,that's it in general -4 blogs, and a bunch of websites to boot. Not sure how I'll fit in a job, looking after wife, 2 kids, house, rabbit, fish etc!

New Blog, well, not yet

2007-07-08T13:49:00.000-07:00

Hi - I've just set up this new blog, which I intend to use for adhoc story writing. It will be pretty much straight off the top of my head and onto the page - that's generally how I write.
What sort of story will it be? Well I don't really pigeon-hole myself to genres so it's fair to say it will be a mixture - whatever takes my fancy.
It will probably be a few weeks before I get started, however, I do have an active blog at tcm-blog-mark at the moment so please have a look at it.

Technorati Profile