Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  She had been around for... yes, six months, or so. She had a gorgeous smile and her eyes sparkled. There was laughter in her eyes. What if—? He put his idea to the test, to find flaws in his reasoning. Maria was young, he was young, and spring was all around. Fine, the concept was intriguing and so far it made sense, at least to him. She was single, he was single and sap rushed through the trees. The conclusion was obvious: no time like the present for seduction. Aristotle would turn in his grave at the syllogism’s logical structure but Jonathan felt deliciously wicked. Yes, seduction sounded fitting.

  He looked over to the window with a fleeting pang of nostalgia for the departed bird and set out to concoct a suitable strategy. Victory favors the daring.

  As soon as she stepped into the room, he would open with small talk: the morning, the weather and spring. What a wonderful morning! It was nice of you; I mean the tin and the seeds. Thank you. There was a robin when I woke up. Yes, definitely, a robin. Spring is here. Can you smell damp earth? See the new shoots? Beautiful, aren’t they? My, but you look radiant. She would smile, wide, and the dimples on her cheeks will light her elfin face.

  “Maria.” Jonathan feasted on the sound, rolling the ‘r’ in the Spanish pronunciation. Other women could be painted in sounds, shapes or sensations. He dreamt Maria in dimples: behind her knees, on the crook of her arms and her cheeks, where his wandering eyes nestled when she was around.

  Afterward he would ask her about her job. Dedication and proficiency—coupled to awesome responsibility—were demanding issues in her chosen profession. Jonathan pondered that other than working and studying she did little else; too much work and no play.

  Having positioned his brigantine—under the cloak of witty conversation, he would fire his broadside. What about dinner?

  She would open her eyes wide, blush a little and nod before smiling. Her dimples would take over her face and the sparkle in her irises would put the sun to shame.

  Dinner, however, would be only the beginning. In reality, it would be a night out. Jonathan pouted. These things needed careful planning. Like a military operation, it begged discipline and flawless tactics.

  The first item on the agenda would be dinner at a nice place and Zoltan’s was the ticket; table for two, at the rear, cozy. The menu? Now, Jonathan smiled, that would be a vital element in his master plan and required careful scrutiny.

  First, a few tidbits and a glass of sherry, perhaps shrimp and Palo Cortado, yes, definitely shrimp... on the shell. The shell bit was important, perhaps pivotal. She would fumble and he would use his nimble fingers to help her. That would set the mood. Jonathan glanced at the abandoned tin lid. He might feed Maria the peeled bits, and she would peck them from his fingers. Nice thought.

  The entrée. Something light and fluffy, perhaps tiny pastry cases filled with marinated salmon. No; too messy. Foie, that was it. He would order foie gras with Melba toast and half a bottle of good Sauternes. Perhaps ‘92 or better still ‘95, would Zoltan have any left? 95... what a splendid year!

  After the sherbet, Zoltan would insist on his Goulash and a bottle of Bull’s Blood. Zoltan, the indestructible Magyar, swore that his forebears—the fierce mountain warriors of Bickaver—eventually sprouted horns from liberal ingestion of the thick wine. Jonathan mused if the legend were true; Zoltan should have had a splendid pair by now. After the goulash, Zoltan would insist they burp. The issue was critical; Bickaver Bull’s Blood could have nefarious effects unless the drinkers burped. Maria would blush but they would oblige to make Zoltan happy.

  Finally, they would have dessert, perhaps Baklava dripping with honey and topped with ground cashews, coffee and petit fours. He would hold her palm and read it. Naturally, he would run a finger over her long lifeline, then he would point at the head, heart and fate furrows and… There! Tucked at the beginning of the heart line, he would discover a definite, world-shattering romance in the wings... with a dashing palm reader!

  Night would be young and they would stroll for half a block—barely touching the pavement really—their hands busy at interlocking fingers. They would cross Fraser Avenue and breathe salty air, mouths redolent of heady wines.

  At Bella-Bella, they would nestle into a corner, order Mojitos... or perhaps Margaritas, and listen to the wistful notes of Miguel Canosa’s horn. Maria would lean her head on his shoulder, and he would whisper Ezra Pound’s choice stanzas. Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones, all mire, mist, all fog? All ways of traffic? You, I would have flow over me like water....

  Later, much later, they would walk along the shore and the surf would lick their bare feet. The brisk waves slapping at his ribs would rock more gently and his heart would ride at anchor. Like a sailing boat whose sails slide slowly down on to a deck he would stop. He would draw her near to swim for an instant in her dark irises; his body would thaw and unseal, almost incandescent before searching for her lips.

  Jonathan batted his eyelids repeatedly and smiled. Yes; a splendid program. He would call Maria.

  With agonizing difficulty, he twisted his head to the opposite side of the pillow. There he sought—stretching his neck—a slender plastic tube. He gripped it between his teeth and blew twice into the mouthpiece.

  MICHAEL KEYTON

  I have cooked in hospital kitchens, worked in some of the dirtiest hotels in Wales, and played for a time in a semi-professional ceilidh band. Somewhere along the way I earned an MA in History and English, and taught history in a challenging state school where I learnt the art of turning history into a ‘page turner’.

  My publishing record is modest: Martin Brownlow’s Cat in ‘Twisted Cat Tales,’ (republished on DVD by Wrong World) Beside the Sea Side in ‘Strange Stories of Sand and Sea,’ Bony Park in ‘To Be Read by Dawn’ Vol. III, When I breathed I clinked. My First Year in the Classroom (Adams Media) Mr Nousel’s Mirror in ‘Zahir’ and Bad Meat in the forthcoming ‘The Blackness Within.’

  E LIZABETH’S HEAD is woven around a historical curiosity, i.e. the death of Elizabeth I. During the short period that led to her death, Elizabeth refused to take to her bed. She spent over two weeks sprawled on the floor in an adjoining room. She didn’t change her clothes and was reluctant to eat or drink. She continued to express great fear of her bedroom. After two weeks on the floor Elizabeth asked her attendants to get her to her feet, but still she did not take to her bed. Instead she remained standing in total silence for the next fifteen hours. Finally she was persuaded to take to her bed where shortly afterwards she died.

  http://baffledspirit.blogspot.com

  Elizabeth’s Head

  Michael Keyton

  Copyright © Michael Keyton 2009 The smoky warmth and crackle of flame on sticks, the occasional crunch of ashen logs lulled her to the edge of the precipice; she opened her eyes for one final look at the fire, its glow fuzzy and indistinct in the now dark room. Her eyes closed ready for sleep, and the whispers began, like a distant hive, each vowel and consonant descending soft like snow.

  She felt small, childlike, in a bed that had become frighteningly large. She turned and stared at the empty shadows beside her as first one, then another dark blur shivered into solidity; and above, the now familiar shape of a fine net descended gently upon her.

  Like the night before, and the night before that, she tumbled out of her bed and sat, hunched upon the floor, staring balefully at pillows that seemed to be waiting. She sat listless, aware of what would happen next.

  They materialised in front of her, trembling reflections in air that appeared briefly liquid; then in a series of sudden, rippling blurs they assumed forms as clear and as hard as ceramic; diminutive monkey-like beings, some scaled or feathered, and others in the form of tiny skeletal creatures with over-large craniums that shone in the dark. These scuttled quickly like crabs around her, blocking any easy retreat to the door. Quietly, almost imperceptibly they edged closer to their victim, all the time staring at her through sightless eyes.

  And inside her head, the whispering, sh
arp and sibilant, never ceased.

  “She sees us as demons.” “The Process has made us so. We appear as she perceives us.”

  “This fixation on Hell and damnation, it will make problems.”

  “But we’ve left it too late.”

  “If she leaves the room…”

  “The Neuro-web is here. It cannot be moved.”

  “But in her present state – the damage.”

  “Zara is right. Even under optimum conditions, the transfer doesn’t guarantee full sensory or emotional stability – never mind those fixated on spiritual salvation…”

  “Or those consumed with purpose. You remember the Russian.”

  “He is happy now.”

  “As a voice memo. He never earned his trip, recouped the investment.”

  “A shame.”

  “The process left him a mad-man, his psyche so shredded he was unable to voice more than five words, and that was a question.”

  “Yet a strangely apt one, ‘What is to be done?’”

  “And said so seriously.”

  “It proved popular.”

  “A passing fad! This Queen must make a return on what we have to offer. She must be persuaded to desire our gift. There must be acceptance…”

  “A tranquil mind.”

  “We have to over-ride her fear. Zara, you and the N-Scribe, stay close to her. Make a complete and accurate record of what is seen or thought.”

  “Our next manifestation will be more reassuring…angels perhaps.”

  “Cherubs, offering frankincense, myrrh—and immortality.”

  “If she leaves the bedchamber, Zara.”

  “She will leave.”

  “Then urge her return.”

  “How? In my present form?”

  “Talk to her. As to your form...”

  All sense of substantiality evaporated on the instant and I felt myself wafted on air currents high over the polished wood floor, a speck, a spy; a seed to soften and grow in the mind.

  The whispering stopped as the images faded and she stared again at the empty bed. She had understood perhaps one word in ten, like a five year old in the company of priests. Yet for how many years and how many times had she sensed in a tone, gesture, or the fleeting glance, messages that were supposed to be hidden? ‘video et taceo.’

  The whispering had stopped but an urgent sense of imminent peril sent her lurching to the door. The room breathed danger; her bed become a carriage to Hell.

  “Majesty!” She allowed herself to be led like a broken swan, her ladies clucking softly like shadowy chickens, smoothing her, stroking, draping robes about her bony frame. She stopped them abruptly and stood stark still, silhouetted in the silver of a star wrinkled window.

  I remained vigilant, observing the dusky outline of the Queen, a dark, mottled shadow sprawled across two large cushions. Her sleep was restless, dreams clearly unpleasant, and she fidgeted and stirred, once waking up completely to stare at the star patterned sky before shifting herself into a more comfortable position.

  Even when still, her figure subtly shifted and changed, resembling one moment that of a scrawny peacock, then fading into shadow. I watched as the moon struggled slowly from pane to pane, its dappled light playing across the polished oak floor like a fine, silver net.

  In the hour before dawn, she awoke and stared at the floor in silence. She remained completely still.

  Her ladies stood by, amongst them one keen eyed, more observant than the rest. This was the fourteenth day.

  I was witness next to a most extra-ordinary group of men, who having examined the queen from head to toe, were congregated in a tight, conspiratorial group at the far corner of the room. They reminded me of insects, with their bulbous bodies and elongated legs. One, who resembled a bejewelled ladybird, was shaking his head in a doleful manner.

  “She is stricken, diminished, shrunken in both face and body. And did you note her eyes, looking through you as though seeing faeries at play...”

  “Demons rather, judging by her mewling and howling.” The speaker, a praying mantis in black, with yellow face and matching teeth, spoke in the manner of a long-suffering parent to a fractious child in need of smacking. He stared at his more colourful rival.

  “And what more could be expected in this age of preening gulls, consumed with sumptuousness, feastings and voluptuous attire? Dark angels stalk this land, bringing famine and temptation in their wake.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Indeed I have heard it said that only recently a great lady was caught in buggery with a baboon, and later conceived by it. This is a time…” he shook his head and stared at each of his colleagues in turn, “… of covetousness, oppression, deceit.”

  The one, who up until now had said nothing, brought his mouth midway between his two colleagues and whispered as if he feared for his head. “I was most proximate to Her Majesty. Her smell was rank, her breath like rotten wood.”

  There was much grave nodding as if all had similarly benefited from the royal breath. Emboldened, the speaker continued. “The cause is to be found in her gullet. It is raw with corruption.”

  The bejewelled doctor nodded. “Aye, she experiences great pains of the face and throat, dryness of the tongue, hoarseness of the voice.”

  “Then, our sovereign would sleep all the easier if her breathing could be eased, and most often it is the bitterest medicine that proves the strongest tool.”

  The sour faced beetle seemed to be hissing, whispering fiercely through clenched, yellow teeth. “A syrup made with the flesh of tortoises, snails, the lungs of diverse animals, frogs and crawfish, all boiled in scabrous and coltsfoot water, and for the taste, some sugar candy at the last perhaps.”

  He looked around, his eyes shifting from side to side before focusing on his antithesis. “She had quiet words with you, I noticed.”

  His rival smiled smugly and began fondling his moustache; “Yes; you’d left the room—examining her Majesty’s piss pot I heard.”

  I sensed there was little love lost between these two men. Then he lowered his voice still further, forcing his listeners to bring their heads and moustaches in closer communion.

  “She wet her lips as one afraid; then looked at me directly. I took her hand, in order to verify what we all suspect. It was dry, lifeless, like a toad long dead. But hot, very, very hot.”

  “Yes, but what were her words?” The jewelled physician was almost dancing in excitement.

  “‘All the fabric of my reign, little by little is beginning to fail.’”

  “Aye, she said much the same the night before,” said his sour faced rival.

  After that the whispering became faster and more intense so that it became hard to see who said what and to whom.

  “But she will not take again to her bed; in that she is constant.”

  “For the first time in her life.”

  “My Lord Secretary made the mistake of saying she must go to bed and she turned on him like a viper: ‘Little man, the word “must” is not to be used to princes. But ye know that I must die and that makes thee most presumptuous.’”

  “It was no presumption on his part. If she were sanguine, or even leaning to the choleric, a certain lack of sleep could be tolerated…”

  “But the phlegmatic need at least nine hours of sleep”

  “The melancholic even longer…”

  “We are all agreed then, over this pernicious melancholy?”

  They each gazed at the other and nodded, then settled on detail.

  “You said her hands were hot.”

  “Aye, hot and dry, but possessed of a most firm grip. She had a hold of my thumb I may tell you; hanging on to it like it were gold. I thought we were in for another bout of weeping. She was in a tearful mood, but instead she raised her face close to my ear and whispered as if reading my thoughts: ‘Aye, I should weep, if tears could wash away the horrors that afflict me. If you were in the habit of seeing such things in your bed as I do when in mine, you would not persuade me t
o go there.’ Then she groaned, as if my presence troubled her.”

  There was much else that I witnessed but I shall let another, one of those attending the Queen, speak for her self. She was as a shadow, one moment drifting close to the patient, the next quietly observing the conversation of others. She was, in short, almost as discreet as myself. She left the room unobtrusively and I determined to have the N-Scribe follow, hoping it would sense her thoughts. There was intrigue and treachery here. If all else failed we might yet recoup on a good synaptic drama.

  N-Scribe quickly proved his worth for it transpired within moments that this lady served two masters, one of whom could prove an embarrassment should he become aware of our presence.

  Yes, I’m afraid that the magician, John Dee, still pursues vain dreams of regaining contact, of re-igniting his ‘angelic conversations,’ with us. He may sense, but has no way of knowing that his purpose has already been fulfilled; with the gateway opened, he is little now but trouble.

  Men like Dee are useful in welcoming us in but always they prove meddlesome or over ambitious. If Dee is to be dealt with, I trust it will be done with a little more finesse than Rasputin’s demise. In any case, I digress.

  The lady moved swiftly. In one hand she carried a small greasy stub of tallow, its flickering light and black sulphurous fumes making the dark oaken wainscoting sway back and forth like a tent in a storm. Her other hand held a small pewter jug.

  She all but scurried through the dingy warren until she reached the rear of the house. He was waiting for her, as she knew he would be, a stolid shadow blocking her way. Unable to put down both candle and jug, she could do nothing as his arm snaked round her waist and pulled her to him; pleasure and annoyance vied in equal measure. She felt suddenly unnerved by the pleasure of helplessness and at the same time, irrationally, annoyed by her body’s own responsive tremble, which she knew he sensed. She rested her head on his chest, allowing him the quick, obligatory fondle.