Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – December 13, 2013

Theme / Genre: “I told you so!”

Include: –

Words: 674

Grubweilden

‘Grubweilden,’ Lord Maxington called.

‘Yes, Sire,’ Grubweilden answered.

‘Grubweilden.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Grubweilden, where are you?’

‘I’m here, Sire.’

‘Where is, here?’

‘Behind the walnut chest encrusted with mystic runes cursed
by Great Wizard Ophthalmist the Twelfth, Sire.’

‘Why are you hiding behind the walnut chest encrusted with
mystic runes cursed by Great Wizard Ophthalmist the Twelfth, Grubweilden?

‘You told me to, Sire.’

‘When, Grubweilden. When did I tell you to hide behind the walnut
chest encrusted with, oh this ridiculous. Get out from there boy.’

‘But, Sire.’

‘Get out, I said.’

‘Yes, Sire, but Sire, you did say last evening to get out of
your sight.’

‘I did, Grubweilden, I did, but have you no brain? How can you serve me breakfast if you’re
constantly hiding from me?’

‘Oh yes, very good, Sire.’

Grubweilden stuck his head up, above the worn walnut chest,
his young ruddy face could do with a splash of water and his hair could do with
getting intimate with a hairbrush; his clothes couldn’t get more crumpled if
Giant Paxor used him for a game of paper basket toss.

‘Have you been there all night, boy?’

‘Yes, Sire. Out of
your sight, Sire.’

‘Grubweilden, you really are very simple aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Sire. Thank
you, Sire.’

‘Breakfast, Grubweilden, breakfast.’

‘No thank you, Sire, I’ve already eaten.’

‘My breakfast, you dolt of an Underbriar, my breakfast.’

‘Sorry, Sire. Yes,
Sire. On my way, Sire.’

‘If you’ve been there all night, Grubweilden, what breakfast
did you have?’

‘Found some old bread and goat’s liver in my tunic pocket,
Sire. Very tasty is was too, and a few
weevils sneaked out of the walnut chest in the night, bit salty for my liking,
but nice and crunchy.’

‘That will be the green stains on your lips, Grubweilden.’

‘Green stains?’ Grubweilden
said in alarm. Maxington waited. Grubweilden vigorously rubbed his lips with
his sleeve. Still Maxington waited, and
stared. Grubweilden rubbed and Maxington
waited, and stared some more. The
Underbriar frowned at Maxington and realised his mistake.

‘Green stains, Sire?’

‘That’s better, Grubweilden.
I can’t stand insubordination.’

‘Sorry, Sire. Won’t
happen again, Sire.’

‘Those weevils were enchanted, Grubweilden, cursed with
wizardly woe. I will not be surprised if
you lay an egg, or mutate into a Black-beaked cave frog, or something more
sinister.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you oaf, now just get me my breakfast before that
happens.’

‘Righto, Sire. Usual:
slats, borgers, parch pens sunny-side in, Sire.’

‘Exactly, my boy, I’m a man of consistency. And I’m a man who’s bloody hungry, so get a
move on,’ Maxington burned his eyes into Grubweilden’s soul. ‘And wash your hands.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

Grubweilden disappeared from the bedroom. Maxington collapsed into the comfort of his
layered duvets and wrapped his head in feather pillows. He lay and contemplated his day.

First, he must call to Bostixwil, for their weekly game of
jewel poking and a cup of nettlebrack, no doubt. Then, onto the Halls of Blad, to arrange a licence
for his, recently acquired, Migrating Blue Grouse. And—

Lord Maxington’s thoughts disturbed by a crash from the
hallway, followed by an excruciating belching sound.

Grubweilden! Damned
Underbriar will have to go, he muffled into the down, face covered.

Maxington threw off the covers, climbed out of his
four-poster and brushed down his sleeping gown.
There was more belching.

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Grubweilden.’

Maxington knotted his scarlet and green paisley
dressing-gown tightly, slipped his feet into his woolly winkle-picker slippers,
and trudged to the bedroom doors. Yet
more belching ensued from behind the ornate timber, and now he could hear a
kind of dribbling, sloshing sound.

At the door Maxington grabbed both handles and yanked both
doors inward, whilst calling, ‘Grubweild—’

Staring straight towards him dribbled an eight-foot Black-beaked
cave frog, but before Maxington could conjure a spell—

‘Omnistratichni—’

The beak closed around him, swallowing him whole and there
was more delightful belching.

‘Grubweilden,’ Lord Maxington shouted from inside the frogs
belly. ‘I told you so!’

‘Yes, Sire. Sorry,
Sire,’ belched the Black-beaked cave frog.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – November 15, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Things You Do For Love

Include: –

Words: 696

Dedication

‘No, no, not again,’ she yelled at the dismal screen. ‘You’re useless, godfeckingdammit, I’m this
close. This close to throwing you out
the mother fu—’

Jenny suddenly remembered it was two-thirty in the morning;
Laurence was asleep upstairs, if she carried on her rant he might wake and
discover she wasn’t in bed yet. She
clenched her teeth, hissed through the gaps, then continued the conversation in
her head.

Bloody typical, the second I need to do something
important the PC decides against it.
It’s not as if I’ve a ton of time on my hands, or anything. It’s not like I can just wait for a few more
hours. I never get the time, never get
anything done. Never. And now this, I can’t go on anymore. Bloody bollocks.

Her hidden depression sometimes got the
better of her emotions and threw daggers at common sense.

‘Come on you fu—’ she hushed herself again.

The screen flickered with some activity. She stared.
All conversations with herself concluded. She looked at the text, one page of many. The same page. It didn’t move when she scrolled up or down,
and she couldn’t type either, nothing.
The computer, let’s face it, had seen better days, it needed an upgrade,
but she couldn’t afford it. Laurence
would only want to know why, and she could never tell him. It was her secret. Her and her muse’s secret. A secret she’d kept from him, and everybody
else, for nearly two years. Unbelievable, she knew, but to tell him now,
would defeat the object. After all, she
was so close to her goal.

The urge to write a novel had come following the death of
her mother; she began the rekindled passion on the way to her mother’s funeral
in France. Laurence and the kids stayed
at home and she journeyed alone with a small notebook, writing during waiting
and downtimes, either travelling or held up in the quite hotel where she
stayed. The words just tumbled out. On her return, a few pages had sparked an innermost
desire to complete the task; however, insecurities and paranoia lead to
concealment. She couldn’t fail in front
of them, it was better left untold, then, if nothing happens, then nothing
happens and the secret’s still a secret.

Now was not the time, she turned off the computer, she
needed sleep; the little she could get before kids mouths needed filling again and
clothes needed washing.

For months and months, those days and nights, had stayed
with her, for months. So many, they had
become a blur and her normality, but the secret was still safe, Laurence and
the children would get the surprise of their life, she hoped, she really hoped. Despite the most incredible journey she had
taken alone, she still worried about her family. How would they feel? How would they react to her news, her secret?

‘Laurence, I need to show you something,’ Jenny said,
stopping Laurence on his way to the door. ‘This came yesterday; I didn’t show you last
night, but…’

‘Can I see it later, I’ve got to go,’ he said, looking into
her eyes.

Using her ocular powers of persuasion, he crumbled.

‘Ok, what is it?’

‘It’s this,’ she handed him her novel.

‘A book, I don’t read much, you now that,’ he said looking
at the cover. ‘Who’s Deidre Dulwicky?’

Of course, he wouldn’t know her pen name.

‘Look, here, I’ll show you.’

She proudly took the book; remembering how she had deliberated
over using a pseudonym; the many times the title changed, repeatedly; and
discussions over the jacket cover images, heated at times, with her editor. She turned the first few pages and handed it
back to him.

‘There.’

He looked down and read aloud.

‘For
not finding out my secret, yet for giving me the strength to continue and help
me on the way, I give the biggest and most loving thank you; to my beautiful
children Tabitha and Billy,’ his throat contracted with pride and emotion. He took a deep breath and she could see him
fight against shedding tears from his eyes.
He continued, ‘and my darling husband Laurence.’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – October 18, 2013

Theme / Genre: Acquisitions

Include: –

Words: 906

Done Deal

Pain slowly filters through the darkness, as I feel myself
drifting into consciousness. Stabbing
pains, burning pains. I’m wondering what
has happened to me, where I am. My eyes
open and I realise this is not our bedroom, or the spare room, or one of the
children’s rooms; I don’t recognise it at all.

‘Ah, we have life again,’ an unfamiliar throaty voice says
from somewhere. ‘Welcome.’

The room is dimly lit and shabby. What am I being welcomed to. I rise to face the voice, sudden shooting
pains radiate from my chest, in a way that I imagine electrical shocks would
come from a taser gun. The pain is
excruciating. It takes all my strength,
and a grimacing face, to sit upright and confront the silhouetted figure standing
across the room in front of the window.
The blanket irritates my bare skin, as it slides down my body it catches
on something, on my body.

‘Welcome, Mick, or do you prefer Mike?’

‘Mick’s fine,’ I can’t place his guttural voice, despite it
being vaguely familiar. ‘And you are?’

‘Bub,’ he says, the shadows withholding any facial nuances. ‘Bub will do for now.’

Looking down, I see a CD sized patch of freshly scarred dark
red skin on the left side of my chest.
Burnt flesh arouses my sense of smell.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Apart from sheer agony of this thing,’ I look up, ‘I’ve
felt better.’

‘The pain will ease, eventually,’ the voice scratches at my mind;
I’m still at a loss. ‘It was … necessary
surgery, let’s say.’

There is no sound, the voice, the voice is in my head,
that’s the familiarity. Now I
understand. It’s the voice from before,
my friend, my muse, it’s still in my head, only now it has a form, male, taller
than me maybe. I nervously move my hand
to the circular gash and watch as it makes contact, nerve endings are on high
alert.

‘Am I dead?’ I ask the figure.

‘Reborn. You’re
lucky, I saved you.’

‘Was I shot?’

‘Not exactly,’ his voice does not change from its gruff
slowness.

There’s a pattern in redness, a burn mark, a logo in the …
branding.

‘I’ve been branded.’

‘Very observant, Mick.’

Numbers, a nine, another nine, and another.

‘You’re police.’

A chesty coughing now fills my head; it’s in the room too, turning
into an even louder rasping laugh, in full surround sound. Papers ruffle on a nearby table, curtains
ripple with the resounding notes.

‘No. No,’ he amuses. ‘Not quite.’

Something scuttles under my blanket. My head grows lighter. Dizzy and nauseous, I’m aware there is
something under the threadbare blanket. Throwing
it back, and swinging my feet from under it, I watch a number of cockroaches
scuttle back under the remaining cover and realise I am naked, exposing myself
to the shadowed stranger.

‘Woah,’ I did not expect to see that.

‘Ahh, you noticed,’ the unpleasant tones are back in my
skull. ‘Let’s say it comes with the
territory.’

‘But, it’s never been … I’ve never had … my wife said I
satisfied her with what I had.’

‘And look where that got you, Mick.’

‘It’s twice the size.’

‘You’ll need it.’

‘For what.’

‘For the Job?’

‘Job? What job?’

‘Your mine now, Mick.
You work for me and you need to be fit for purpose.’

‘What do you mean?
You don’t own me,’ I shake the cockroaches from the blanket and although
it’s grimy and frayed I have no choice but to wrap it around me, as I climb of
the bed. To my surprise the floor is
warm. ‘Who are you? And, where are we?’

‘Mick, my friend Mick,’ the figure moves from the shadows
and reveals are dark skinned, scarred and aged face contrasting with a deep red
suit. ‘Do you not remember? You wife.
She left you, took the kids who hated you too. Your violence and depression, I’d say, was to
blame wouldn’t you, and those voices.
You had already lost your job, written off your car whilst ten times
over the limit, let’s face it, Mick. You
were a mess, a liability,’ he’s now face to face with me, I feel his
surprisingly sweet breath on my forehead, he is taller. ‘But, silver cloud and all that, Mick, I
stepped in, plucked you from an inevitable drunken death in front of that
train. You should be thanking me.’

Memories return, he’s correct, but how could he know all
this.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘You’re now signed up to live a life of purgatory as a demon
of Satan, until such times as … well until I tell you that you’re not.’

‘What. Is this some
kind of joke? To hell with that, I’m not
… ouch!’ He’s grabbed my balls and is squeezing them. ‘Get the fu_’

‘YOU, don’t get to tell ME, what to do, rule one,’ he let’s
go, I back away in yet more pain.

‘You signed the acquisition last night any way, I have your
blood on it,’ this Satan or whatever he thinks he is turns back to the window.

‘What acquisition?
You nuts.’

‘Rule two, Mick, insubordination,’ he turns and before I know
what hits me I’m falling to the ground hitting the wall as some sort of energy
force throws me. ‘On the table: The
Acquisition of your Soul. Your signature
and mine, in blood. Mick and
Beelzeebub.’