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High and Mighty, High and Dry

AJ.Dixon20 Comments

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High and Mighty, High and Dry

By Adam Dixon

Lady Sophia grasped the wooden railing as the Emerald Nypmh crashed into the rocks. The ship recoiled with an awful shattering of wood and the shock jolted dozens of passengers as they flocked to the deck. Lady Sophia screamed as she was lifted from her feet, her hip colliding painfully with the railing. As she righted herself and chanced a peek out into the ocean, a second, more violent impact wrenched her fingers from the railing and flung her overboard. She hit the water seconds later and the air was driven from her lungs. She cast about to and fro in a frenzy, salt water stinging her eyes and filling her nostrils. With an effort she broke the surface in time to gulp a mouthful of air before she was dragged back under. Her voluminous silken gown was trapping her limbs and pulling her down into the green depths. She struggled desperately, her heartbeat booming in her ears. She cried out in terror and the ocean rushed into her throat. She choked and thrashed, and everything went black.

The next thing Lady Sophia became aware of was a rhythmic pounding on her chest. She felt water being forced from her lungs into her throat and she began to cough and splutter. She heard gulls screeching and the sound of crashing waves as she ejected the salty water from her mouth and her nose. Strong hands turned her on to her side and she continued coughing and retching with her head hanging limply from her shoulders.

“Go on, miss, get it all out,” a voice said gently. A man’s voice. After what seemed like an age Lady Sophia was able to sit up. Squinting against the sunlight with her chest heaving, she looked at her rescuer. She saw a rough-looking man with a large nose and a square jaw crouched next to her, also soaking wet. He was at least twenty years younger than her, and his brown eyes were gazing at her with concern.

“You a’right, miss?” Lady Sophia noted with some distaste that he sounded like a commoner. She nodded slowly. He man smiled in relief, exposing uneven, brown teeth.

“Thank the Lawd!” He exclaimed. “I fort you was a goner for sure! The name’s Simpson, John Simpson. At yer service.” He thrust a large, calloused hand towards her. Lady Sophia regarded the hand with a mixture of astonishment and revulsion. She cleared her throat painfully.

“Yes, well, you have my thanks, Mister Simpson,” she croaked. Drawing herself up and attempting to find her learned poise, she glanced around. They were on a tiny island, essentially no more than a collection of rocks. Debris from the shipwreck floated nearby: a broken mast here, a plank from a deck there. The wreck itself was nowhere to be seen; it must have sunk beneath the surface.

“What in the name of the Almighty happened, Simpson?” Lady Sophia demanded. “How did the ship befall such a tragedy? More importantly, where are we?” Simpson’s smile faltered and he lowered his arm.

“Can’t say, miss,” he said. “I reckon we’s a few leagues away from the Indies. The Cap’n shouted somethin’ ‘bout rocks beneath the surface, an’ the next thing I know I was overboard on the port side. I spotted this ‘ere island an’ I made straight for it. I saw you thrashin’ about an’ I couldn’t just leave ya. I’d have ‘elped more if I could, honest to God, but most were trapped on board.” Lady Sophia paled.

“Trapped…” she whispered. “Have you noticed any other survivors?” Simpson shook his head sadly. “Dear God…” They sat in silence for some time, the gravity of the situation settling on their shoulders like a leaden weight. Finally, Simpson stood up.

“Well, we’re still ‘ere, praise the Lawd,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “An’ we’d best not waste ‘Is mercy. We’ll need t’find some way t’catch fish, if there’s any t’be found. We oughta try an’ pinch summa that driftwood, an’ all. ‘Praps we can build a fire ‘an…”

“What, pray tell, do you mean by ‘we’?” Lady Sophia interrupted. Simpson stopped, frowning in confusion.

“Well, miss,” he said. “I mean you an’ me, o’ course.”

“First of all,” Lady Sophia said, her voice cutting. “It is ‘you and I’, and secondly, you must be out of your mind if you expect me to lower myself to manual labour,” she spat the words as if they had a foul taste. “And thirdly, I am not a “miss”, I am the Countess Sophia Hartford of Essex and I am to be addressed as ‘My Lady’. You would do well to know your place, Simpson, and perhaps then we shall deduce a reasonable way to escape from this dreadful island.”

Simpson’s jaw had fallen open. He stood for a moment in silence, stunned by the onslaught.

“Well?” Lady Sophia demanded, folding her arms. “What say you? Are you a simpleton, man?”

“No, I ain’t,” Simpson began slowly. “I ain’t a simpleton, milady, but you ‘ave knocked me back a fair bit, I’ll grant ya.”

Lady Sophia was incredulous. “How so? Surely even the simplest commoner knows how to conduct himself when in the company of a woman of noble birth!”

“’Praps, so, milady,” Simpson was struggling to find the correct words as he voiced his frustration. “But as you can see, we ain’t in England, and we ain’t even on board a ship no more. So as far as I see it, your title counts for nothin’.”

“How dare you..!” Lady Sophia began, but Simpson cut her off.

“How dare I?!” he shouted, causing Lady Sophia to take a step backwards. “I do dare, milady! I know I’m only a poor deckhand wi’ nothin’ to ‘is name, but on this pile o’ rocks, you ain’t  nothin’ either!”

“I…you cannot address me…in that tone,” Lady Sophia spluttered, her face a mask of indignation and fury.

“Shut up!” barked Simpson. “We’re in trouble, my lady, an’ you’d best see it sharpish! You need to ‘elp me if you wanna live long enough t’see England again. That’s yer choice, ‘elp me or die ‘ere!” With that, he stalked off to the other side of the island, picking his way carefully among the rocks.

“Insufferable man!” Lady Sophia raged. “When I return to England I shall see him punished for his insolence! I knew I should not have allowed myself to be talked into boarding that cursed ship! The Emerald Nymph, hmmph! A name as vulgar as that was certain to attract bad luck!” She stood for a few minutes watching Simpson searching among the rocks, the sun evaporating the salt water on her skin. She noted with displeasure the brittle, tangled mess it had reduced her greying hair to. Her fine dress was ruined also, and she thought sadly of the wasted work that had gone into creating it. She found a slightly less jagged rock and sat as straight and as primly as possible.

As the sun reached its zenith, Lady Sophia was sunburnt, thirsty and miserable. She had watched Simpson poking about in the rocks, and he had managed to catch a medium-sized crab. He had salvaged a small pile of driftwood after swimming a short distance from the island and he was drying them in the sun. Lady Sophia noted that the man was a strong swimmer, and felt ashamed for not expressing her appreciation properly. A short while later, her eyes bulged out of her head. She stood up and attempted to march across the rocks to Simpson, the effect negated by the treacherous footing.

“I say, Simpson!” she barked. “What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” Simpson was whittling a stout piece of driftwood with a jagged rock and ignored her. He had removed his scruffy woollen shirt and his simple breeches and had left them on a rock to dry.

“Are you listening, Simpson?!” Lady Sophia spluttered. “How dare you remove your clothes in my sight?! This is an indecent and disgusting display! Squatting in your undergarments like a savage! You will dress yourself at once!”

“I shan’t,” Simpson said, not looking up from his work. “It’ll only get cold again come the evenin’. I’ll not feel the benefit of ‘em if I’m wearin’ ‘em already, small comfort though they’ll be. You oughta do the same wi’ that ‘eavy thing yer swaddled in.”

“Remove my…” Lady Sophia was aghast. “Swaddled?! Why, you uncultured cretin!”

“’Praps I am, milady,” Simpson shrugged. “But I knows the weather in these waters, I been sailin’ ‘em since I was a lad. Take my advice or don’t. ‘Opefully I’ll ‘ave a fire goin’ before the evenin’, or else we’ll be ‘aving cold crab for tea.” He promptly went silent, and ignored all of Lady Sophia’s increasingly fervent attempts to force a reaction from him. Eventually she stalked back to her rock in a huff.

Simpson did not get a fire started and so they ate cold, uncooked crab in silence as the evening drew in. They were forced to slake their thirst on its blood, much to Lady Sophia’s disgust. Simpson turned out to be correct about the weather, and soon Lady Sophia was shivering violently. When Simpson suggested that they huddle together for warmth during the night, she threw a barrage of rocks at him and called him every vulgar name she could think of. He retreated to the other side of the island, and neither of them slept that night.

On the second day, a small miracle occurred. Simpson spotted something floating roughly a hundred yards away from the island and swam out to it. Lady Sophia then had the panicked realisation that should Simpson drown, she would certainly die on the island. She waited in agony, scanning the water for his bobbing head. He swam back to the island, pushing what looked like a large wooden barrel. It turned out to be full of water, likely from the stores of the Emerald Nymph, and it was untouched. They both drank mouthfuls of the clean, sweet liquid and praised God for their change in fortune. Simpson insisted that they ration the water in order to preserve it, and Lady Sophia reluctantly agreed.

On the third day Simpson managed to spear a fish with a sharpened stake. It tasted like another offering from God to the two of them.

During the fourth night, Lady Sophia walked over to Simpson and huddled close to him against the chill. Neither of them said a word.

By the eight day, disaster. Neither had eaten for two days, but Simpson appeared to be coming down with a sickness. He was cold despite the heat of the day, and sweating profusely during the night. Lady Sophia felt her panic rising once again. What would she do if he became too sick to catch food?

On the tenth day, Simpson’s sickness was much worse. He drifted in and out of consciousness, babbling deliriously. Lady Sophia knelt next to him in her undergarments, dabbing at his sun-scorched skin with her sodden dress, speaking soft nonsense into his ear.

On the eleventh day, Simpson died. Lady Sophia wailed into the air, cursing God and the vast expanse of ocean which surrounded and mocked her.

Fourteen days after the sinking of the Emerald Nymph, a cargo ship carrying spices bound for France passed by the small rocky island. The sailor in the crow’s nest spotted a shape waving to them and alerted the captain. The captain looked through his telescope and saw a dishevelled, grey-haired woman dressed in filthy rags jumping about desperately. He swiftly ordered a boat sent out to the island and accompanied the party personally. When they reached the island, a grisly sight met their eyes. The woman was half-mad, gibbering and weeping uncontrollably, and nestled between the rocks was an empty barrel and a partially eaten corpse.

 

 

Blessed Night

AJ.Dixon10 Comments

Blessed Night

By Adam Dixon

 

Andi strolled through the forest clearing, a filled satchel on her back and a bright smile on her face. Bathed in the pale glow of the full moon and soothed by the cool wind blowing through her dark hair, she was content as she collected the various flora which grew there. Her satchel was full to bursting with nettles, wildflowers and mushrooms, as well as with more valuable items such as blisterweed and Lady’s Folly posies. Already her mind raced with the potions she could brew from such a spectacular haul. She smiled and congratulated herself. Nice one, Andromeda, she thought, business is looking good!

But one item still eluded her, and it was the ingredient which had brought Andi so deep into the forest in the first place. It was the Moon-Spun Lily, a beautiful, delicate flower which only bloomed once a month; during the full moon, naturally. Andi had pinned down the area in which the flower would be likely to bloom and her collecting so far, although fortuitous, had simply been a way for her to waste time before the moon had risen. Now that it had, Andi could freely collect her prize. She strode eagerly towards her destination, her eyes flicking to the red compass point on her smartphone screen. She grinned at the device. How did the alchemists of old manage to find anything in the dark? She wondered, shaking her head at the thought. Thank the Maker for modern technology!

Andi passed through the clearing and penetrated the thickly wooded forest. The air smelled wonderful, with wafts of damp leaves, soil and the aroma of dozens of night-flowers filling her expectant nostrils. She breathed deeply as she walked, savouring the fresh air, the night sky and the freedom of being away from her laboratory. She lived for these excursions, and she refused to permit anyone else to undertake them on her behalf. This was what real alchemists did, and she was one of the best. She’d never catch her esteemed father taking the easy option! She imagined her father’s stern face observing her, just as he had done when she had stirred his bubbling cauldron as a child. Well, Dad, here I am! She thought triumphantly. Getting the job done properly, just like you! Her phone pinged, and she banished the image and looked around.

She gasped as she beheld the Moon-Spun Lily nestled between two small trees. Its milky white petals glowed with an inner luminescence, quivering as the breeze caressed it. Andi noticed the tiny droplets of pollen leaking from its flowers as they danced in the wind, only to be picked up and swirled off to another part of the forest. As well as being stunningly beautiful it also looked incredibly delicate. Andi raised her phone and snapped a picture of the flower; it was a poor substitute for the real thing, but she wanted desperately to capture the moment in her memory. She longed to stay and watch the flower as it swayed in the night, but she had work to do and a deadline to keep. Steeling herself, Andi withdrew a small pair of pruning shears and a silk bag from her satchel. Leaning forwards, she carefully snipped the stalk of the Lily and let it drop into the bag. Now that the flower was gone, the space between the two trees looked desolate, as if the life had faded from it. Andi felt a little sad, but she abruptly shook it off and turned to leave the forest.

A long, loud howl pierced the stillness of the night. Andi froze, her eyes widening. Every hair on her forearms stood on end and her heart hammered in her chest as the howl continued. The noise was answered by a similar howl, this one higher in pitch. Andi realised with terror that they were both close by. She slipped a hand into her jeans and pulled out a tiny vial filled with a gelatinous blue liquid. Her hands were shaking as she unstopped the vial and raised it to her lips. She threw her head back and downed the potion, feeling it burn as it slid down her throat. She crouched and leaned forwards, fighting the urge to choke and splutter. Oh man, I forgot how awful this one tastes! She thought, disgusted. The howls came again, nearer still. They were getting closer! Andi shuffled into the thickest section of trees, cursing the potion for not taking effect sooner. As she began to notice her hands and torso losing their definition, a huge shape crashed through the undergrowth and came to a halt where she had been standing moments before. Andi’s breath caught in her throat; it was a werewolf.

Standing on powerful hind legs it towered into the air, fully eight feet tall from its pointed ears to its claws. It gazed around the clearing with eyes of a deep red and saliva dripped from its gleaming yellow fangs. By the Maker¸ Andi thought to herself, transfixed. It’s beautiful! The creature possessed a savage beauty that Andi had never seen before, and the descriptions she had read about such beasts did it no justice whatsoever. It pawed at the ground impatiently and growled deeply from the back of its throat. A freshly-killed young doe was grasped in one if its giant paws, carried as if it were no heavier than an apple. A crash of branches announced the arrival of a second beast, this one just as majestic as the first and even larger. The two wolves faced one another in silence, crimson eyes locked together. Andi wiped a bead of sweat from her eye and realised that her potion had taken effect: she was invisible.

The wolves growled and padded closer, neither one breaking eye contact. Mottled brown fur swayed in the wind as it sighed through the forest, and fallen leaves crunched underneath massive paws. The wolves stopped within an arm’s length of each other and continued their rumbling observations. Suddenly, a gravelly voice issued forth from the maw of the first creature.

“Evenin’, Moon-Sister,” it growled. “A fine night for a hunt, eh?”

“Too right, Moon-Brother!” the larger werewolf said, its eyes tightening and a coughing sound racking its body. Andi looked on in amazement. It’s laughing! She could hardly believe what she was seeing. The first werewolf tossed its head and lowered itself into a crouch. It still stood over six feet tall even then.

“Ahh, but it’s nice to see another of my kind!” it said, the growl in its voice sounding pleased. “As much as I enjoy these evenings, they can be lonely.”

“That’s never bothered me, to be honest,” the female werewolf said as she joined him in a crouch. “My other life is always noisy, so I enjoy the peace, but I am pleased to meet you! It makes for a refreshing change.” The first werewolf acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his great head.

“Have some of my catch, if you like,” he offered the doe to his companion. The female laughed again, the strange guttural sound sending a shiver up Andi’s spine.

“Don’t mind if I do, Moon-Brother! Thanks!” She accepted the bounty and tore off a large piece of flesh with her razor-sharp fangs. Andi felt her stomach perform a somersault inside her. Oh, the poor thing! She thought, turning her face away from the scene. The sound of ripping meat and crunching bones assaulted her ears, and she fought hard to keep from retching.

“We know you’re there, human,” the female’s voice growled. “You may as well join us.”

Andi’s heart plummeted in her chest and an icy shock hit her in waves. She began to tremble and slowly turned to look back. Two pairs of blood-red eyes were looking straight in her direction. She gulped and tried to respond.

“How…how can you see me?” Andi managed to squeak.

“We can’t,” the male werewolf answered, his pink tongue lapping blood from his jaws. “But you reek of fear and excitement. We could point in your direction from a mile away.”

“Come and join us.” The female repeated. It did not sound like a request. Petrified, Andi made her way towards them on legs which threatened to buckle under her at any moment. She stood before the two creatures, clasping her satchel with both hands in an effort to compose herself. The female leaned forward and inhaled deeply through her wet nostrils.

“You smell like a garden centre,” she said, amusement in her tone. “Have you been rolling around in the meadows?”

“No…no, I’m collecting wild flora,” Andi replied, still struggling with her sentences. “You see…I’m…an al-alchemist.”

“Ahhh, one of those!” the male guffawed and chomped down on another piece of the doe. “That explains it, then! What’s your name, alchemist?”

“I’m…Andromeda….Andi, for short.” Andi replied, unsure where the conversation was going. “Do you…erm…do you have names?” She nearly bolted from the forest as the two wolves threw their heads back and howled in unison. She stood shaking, hoping desperately that she hadn’t offended them.

“No, Andi the alchemist, we don’t,” the female said with good humour. “Of course, we do as humans, but we don’t use those names during the Blessed Night. That would be wrong.”

“This is the one night we can forget about those lives of weakness and boredom; we can truly be free.” The male werewolf added, gazing up at the moon with a sigh. Andi thought about this, her fear lessened by this information.

“I see…” she said, rubbing her invisible chin. “So you enjoy being werewolves? I always thought it was a curse.”

“Some people will see it that way, obviously,” the male answered, shaking his head. “But for me, this is when I’m really alive. As a human, I’m weak, unfulfilled and miserable. Getting bitten by a Moon-Sister was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“It’s the same with me,” the female snarled in agreement, tossing the remainder of the doe away into the trees. “My other life would seem complete to some, but I’m not valued as an individual. These evenings are my own, and I love them dearly. They make me feel alive!”

“I see…” Andi said again, shocked at their frankness. She was fairly sure by now that they were not going to eat her, but she didn’t want to risk upsetting them. She began speaking, addressing them very cautiously.

“So, erm…you don’t want to stop being werewolves then? You wouldn’t want to find a cure?” The professional in Andi was considering how a potion might be brewed to that effect, but both beasts shook their heads.

“Not unless I find something in my human life which makes me feel so free,” the male wolf shrugged. He fixed his frightening eyes in Andi’s direction, and she saw the pain within them. “But I really doubt that’ll happen. Nothing completes me like this change. Nothing.” Andi stood still, absorbing this information. The wolf regarded her, silently crouching in the moonlight.

“So, what happens after tonight?” Andi asked tentatively. The wolves looked at each other, and Andi felt a spark of understanding pass between them.

“We return to our other lives,” the female said sadly. “We go back to being human.”

“Back to wishing the days away until Blessed Night comes around again,” the male added, his ears drooping. Andi was moved by their profound misery and was at a loss as to what to say.

“Stay with us whilst we enjoy the last few hours of moonlight, Andi the alchemist,” the female said. “We will not harm you.”

“Are-are you sure?” Andi asked, brightening at the idea. “Wouldn’t I be interrupting your solitude?”

“Nah, not at all,” the male werewolf replied. He patted the ground next to him with his blood-stained claws. “It’s nice to have company for a change.”

“Oh, alright then.” Andi smiled and sat down between the two hulking creatures, her fascination returning and her fears vanishing. She considered asking the beasts if she could take a selfie with them to preserve the moment, but she quashed the idea as quickly as it came to her. Best not push it, girl! She thought

Andi sat with the werewolves for several hours, listening to them describe the freedom of prowling the night as its ultimate predator, of how the soaring wind felt on their fur or how the moon called to them prior to their transformation. Andi was mesmerised, mentally noting down all of the information they provided. She was almost certain that her situation was unprecedented in human-monster interaction and so she intended to remember as much as possible. She gradually pieced together that the male werewolf was an undervalued, underpaid accountant whose wife had left him penniless. It also turned that the female was the wife of an extremely successful business tycoon, and by being so found herself in a constant state of near-invisibility. Andi in turn told them about her alchemy business, and her initial struggle to get out from underneath her father’s shadow as a potion-brewer. She even shared some of her more scandalous business requests, at which the wolves howled into the night once again and laughed. She found herself enjoying their company immensely, and as the light began to return she felt sadness at the inevitable ending approaching. The female stood up, stretching her long, hairy legs as the sky began to change to a pinky-grey hue.

“It’s almost time,” she announced with resignation in her voice. “I’ve enjoyed sharing Blessed Night with you, Andi the alchemist, and with you, Moon-Brother. Let’s all meet again some time, the Maker willing.”

“I’ve enjoyed it too!” Andi said, leaping up. “I’ve learned so much from both of you! And thank you again for your gifts.” She patted a pocket in her satchel, where a tuft of werewolf hair and a vial of saliva could been seen poking out of the folds.

“It’s a pleasure, Andi,” the male wolf bowed his shaggy head in her direction. “Thanks for a pleasant evening. Now, I’d better head home. Moon-Sister, may we meet again.” With that, the male bounded off into the trees, his heavy footsteps echoing around the rapidly lightening forest. Andi turned to speak to the female, but she was also out of sight. Andi felt very alone in the large forest, despite the sounds of its denizens waking all around her. She looked up at the sky and saw that the sun was rising sleepily in the horizon. She sighed heavily and looked at her feet, noticing then that she was not invisible anymore. She stooped to pick up the silk bag she had rested on the floor, and her thoughts turned back to her delicate treasure. The Lily is just like the two of them, she thought sadly, beautiful and fleeting. She turned wandered despondently out of the forest, her heart going out to the two poor souls who lived their lives perpetually wanting to be something else. She found herself wondering how many other people felt the same way, but didn’t have the brief luxury of a magical transformation to escape their misery. She shook her head, a single tear running down her face.

“Goodbye, my new friends,” she whispered. “Until we meet again on Blessed Night.”

***

If you enjoyed this story, why not check out Andi’s introductory tale?

https://adamdixonfiction.com/2015/11/08/fever-of-venus/

 

I Can’t Touch Them

AJ.Dixon23 Comments

The prompt for this story was provided by esthernewton.

 

I Can’t Touch Them

By Adam Dixon

 

Mummy and daddy won’t talk to me anymore. That makes me sad. Ever since the nice men and ladies in the white coats stopped giving me my medicine they haven’t said a word to me. I don’t know why. I thought mummy would be happy now. It used to make her so sad to watch me take my medicine, but she would pretend that it didn’t. I thought she would smile again now that I don’t need it. I don’t hurt anymore and I used to hurt all the time, especially at night. So why are mummy and daddy still so sad?

There are lots of things that I don’t need anymore. I don’t need to use the toilet at all, which is really good! It was so annoying having to ask one of the nice ladies to help me when I needed to poop, so I don’t miss that much. I miss eating, but not with the tubes in my nose. They made my throat itchy and I couldn’t scratch them. I miss the food I used to eat before I stayed in the big white building, like chocolate and crisps and apple pies and custard…and beans on toast and cereal and runny eggs with lots of chips and ketchup! Or the big cake with the four candles I got for my birthday! I really miss mummy’s orange juice too, but she doesn’t make that anymore.

I’ve tried talking to mummy and daddy, but they won’t speak to me. I’ve tried yelling at them, and mummy always hated that. I even tried yelling one of the big-boy words that daddy uses when he hurts himself. Mummy used to shout at him for saying them in front of me, and I used to laugh at daddy’s face. It didn’t work, though. I cried and cried and cried but they carried on sitting in the house, staring at the walls and holding hands.

I’ve tried touching them, too. My hands slip through them like when I put my hand through the water from a tap; it was really scary at first. I tried to hug mummy when I woke up in the house after the pain had stopped, but I just ran through her. She felt warm and I could smell her perfume. I tried to pull daddy’s beard the way I used to, but my hands went through his head. I can’t touch anything in the house either. I’ve tried to knock things off the shelves when I’ve gotten angry at mummy and daddy for not talking to me, but the same thing happens. Mummy has tidied my bedroom but I can’t touch my dinosaur toys or my chewy blanket. I don’t understand why.

Mummy and daddy look tired. They haven’t slept properly in days because they keep waking up during the night crying. That makes me sad, too. I don’t need to sleep anymore, so I stand in their room and watch them. Daddy called out my name one night and cried for so long. It hurts to see daddy cry. I tried to answer him but he didn’t hear me. Grandma and grandad came around before, but they didn’t speak to me either. They just sat with mummy and daddy and they all hugged and cried together. Everyone is crying all the time. I don’t like that they are upset.

The only one who even looks at me is Buster. He was scared at first, but now he wags his tail when he sees me. That makes me smile. I can’t touch him, but he walks over to me and sits when I ask him. He’s a good boy. He looks right at me with his big brown eyes and it makes me feel a little bit better. Mummy and daddy sometimes ask him what he is staring at, and he cries when they take him for walks. I think he knows that I don’t like to be in the house by myself. I tried to follow them, but I can’t get out. I think I’m stuck here.

I really hope mummy and daddy will speak to me again. I must have done something wrong for them to be so angry with me. Whatever I did it’s made them so sad, and I’m really sorry. I just wish they’d talk to me, and everything will be alright. I love my mummy and daddy so much, I don’t want them to be sad. It’s so lonely when they won’t speak! How long will I have to wait until they love me again?

The Elves’ Hot Chocolate

AJ.Dixon9 Comments

The Elves’ Hot Chocolate

By Adam Dixon

“Well, I’m glad that’s over!” Barry the elf exclaimed, slumping back into the padded seats and closing his eyes. His green pointed hat slid over his mousey fringe. The large red sleigh bucked as it sailed over the clouds, jerking him forwards with a yelp.
“Oi! Pay attention, Baz!” barked a gruff voice beside him. Gary rubbed his head and glared at Barry. “You knocked off my hat, you clumsy oaf! It’s gone right over the edge! What am I supposed to say to Mrs Claus when we get home?”
“Sorry, Gaz,” Barry said sheepishly. He took the reins in a firm grip and surveyed the night sky. It was still dark, although dawn was fast approaching and the horizon was beginning to brighten. The sleigh flew onwards, guided by a red glow from the lead reindeer which cut through the gloom. Barry checked the reins fastened to the nine animals and gave a satisfied nod; everything was secured and in working order.
“I can’t believe I’ve lost my hat,” grumbled Gary, smoothing his grey curls with irritation. “Five years I’ve had it, and it matched my coat perfectly. How will I find another one like it?”
“Oh, shut up about your silly hat, Gaz!” A third elf popped his bald head up from the back of the sleigh and frowned at Gary. “It made you look like a gnome, anyway!”
“A gnome?!” Gary spluttered. “Why, you…”
“Yes, yes,” The third elf dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Never mind that. How long ‘til we get home, Baz?”
“North Pole ETA one hour, Harry,” replied Barry, glancing at the Sat-Nav screen. “That’s as long as we don’t make any more unscheduled stops.” Barry and Harry both looked pointedly at Gary.
“Hmmph!” Gary folded his arms and sat down with a thump. “You could hardly expect me to hold it in until we’ve finished!”
“We could expect you not to have drank all that hot chocolate once we got started.” Barry replied with a grin. “You knew how long we’d be out here, but you still had almost the whole flask to yourself!”
“But it’s been freezing out here!” Gary protested.
“I didn’t get any of it,” Harry pointed out. “Didn’t want any, though. Hot chocolate’s what got us into this mess in the first place!”
“And I suppose that’s my fault as well!” Gary said sulkily.
“Nah, we’re all to blame for it,” said Harry, clambering over the back of the seat and plonking himself down next to Barry. “It was a great idea, but we should have been more careful.”
“We only wanted to make sure Santa had a proper rest before Christmas!” Barry said indignantly. “What’s so bad about that? The sleeping potion from Mrs Claus’s cupboard seemed like the best way to make sure he got a good night’s sleep!”
“Extra strength, though, wasn’t it?” Harry said, tweaking Barry’s nose playfully. “We didn’t read the label properly. Plus, Gaz can’t tell the difference between teaspoons and tablespoons!”
“Hmmph!” Was Gary’s reply.
“I expect the old man is still snoring away, even now!” chuckled Harry.
“Will he be angry with us, Gaz?” Barry asked, his brow creasing with worry. Gary fidgeted a little, and shrugged.
“Probably,” he said. “If we hadn’t pinched that potion, we wouldn’t’ve had to come out tonight and do his job. Serves us right, really, if he is angry. But at least it’s all done now.”
“I’ll say!” Harry giggled. “I’m pooped after all that! I don’t know how Santa manages it every year, all by himself, too! I must have fallen down more chimneys tonight than Gaz has had pee breaks!” He ducked down as Gary threw one of his shoes at him. Barry and Harry burst into fits of laughter as the shoe sailed over the edge of the sleigh, followed by Gary’s wail of frustration.
“You’re right, though,” Barry said, wiping a tear from his eye. “It makes you appreciate the effort he puts in every year. I just hope we did a good enough job.”
“Of course we did,” Gary said, peering over the edge of the sleigh with a forlorn look on his face. “We didn’t do it as well as the boss, obviously, but we still did it. That’s got to count for something.”
“Yep, that’s right, Gaz,” said Harry cheerfully, pulling his friends into a tight embrace. “We messed up, but we’ve done alright in the end, and no child will be without a present this Christmas.”
“We have missed something, though,” replied Barry, pulling away and taking up the reins again. Gary and Harry looked him, confused. A grin spread across Barry’s face.
“We’ve not said the words yet.” He said quietly, his eyes glittering.
“Oh…” Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Do you…think we should?”
“Those are his words, not ours,” muttered Gary doubtfully.
“Come on, fellas!” said Barry, laughing. “We’ve nicked his whole job tonight! We might as well do it properly!”
“True…” Harry grinned. “But we all need to do it. All of us or none!”
“What do you reckon, Gaz?” Barry asked. Gary paused, looking at the eager faces of his friends. His frown broke and he chuckled, shaking his head.
“Oh, all right then. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it!” He said, beaming. Barry and Harry cheered.
“Come on then! On three…one…two…three!”
The sleigh sped through the clouds towards the North Pole, and three joyous voices rang out into the night.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Spook the Human

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Spook the Human

By Adam Dixon

 

“So, what are you up to these days?” Fred the house spider asked his friend Stan as they met for a chat underneath a leather sofa. It was dark and quiet and that suited them well. The humans had been out of the house for most of that day, so they could fully relax. Stan raised two of his front legs in a non-committal gesture.

“Not much, friend, the usual,” He replied lazily. “Just one day to the next; avoiding the humans and trying to find a suitable mate.” After a moment, his eyes lit up suddenly in the dark, eight globes of excitement fixed on Fred. “Oh, but I have done well today for grub! Two fat, juicy bluebottles flew straight into my web this afternoon, one after the other. Beautiful, it was, and I’d not long finished spinning it! How they wriggled and fought! It was such fun wrapping them up!”

“Well done!” Fred cackled. “Impressive! By the way, where is your new home? I thought you were in the front porch?”

“Yes, I was,” Stan sighed. “But that bloody woman decided to clean it, and she caught my web with that vile pink thing that she brandishes around when collecting dust. Anyway, I moved into the conservatory after that, just above the doors. Prime location, perfect for catching curious flies!”

“Good choice,” Fred was eager in his approval. “Maybe I’ll leave my web in the loft and move in there, if you don’t mind, of course.”

“Not at all, it’ll be nice to have some company.” Stan sounded pleased at the thought. “Tell you what, come over this evening and share my meal. Consider it a welcoming present.”

“Don’t mind if it do!” Fred replied warmly. They lapsed into an easy silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the house. The slight creaking of the floorboards, the whisper of a draught under the door, the electronic hum of the refrigerator. Then Fred spoke up again.

“Listen, I have to tell you about this hilarious game that my siblings and I have been playing,” He said excitedly. “We came up with it a while ago, and it is brilliant fun every time.”

“Alright, you’ve got my interest,” Stan replied stretching his rear legs a little.

“It’s called ‘Spook the Human’,” Fred continued. “It’s self-explanatory, really. You know how some humans are actually frightened of us? Even though they are several times bigger and stronger than we are?”

“Yes, I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Stan guffawed.

“Completely. But that’s the point of ‘Spook the Human’; the aim of the game is to reveal yourself to a human in order to scare them into running away from you. I don’t mind telling you that when it works, it is absolutely hilarious! Sometimes, if you get really close, they all but lose their minds!”

“That does sound quite funny,” Stan said, amused. “But surely they’d just step on you right away? It can’t be worth the risk.”

“Wait and see, my friend,” Fred winked four of his eyes at Stan. “I’ll give you a little demonstration when the humans appear again. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.” Stan agreed to wait, and so they stood motionless for a long time, silently enjoying one another’s company. Eventually, the colossal ‘bang!’ of the front door and subsequent tremors along the floorboards announced the arrival of at least one of the larger occupants of the house. As the vibrations came ever closer, Fred became more animated in his anticipation.

“It’s the woman!” He cried, his fangs trembling he hopped about excitedly. “She’s terrified of us! Wait…She’s coming in! Watch this!”

With a devious chuckle, Fred scurried out from underneath the sofa. He ran across the smooth laminate flooring towards the towering figure of the woman. He made it about three feet before the woman let out an ear-splitting screech and threw her arms up in the air. Spinning on her expensive heels, she fled from the room, a squealing mass of blond hair and designer clothing.

Fred went back under the sofa next to Stan, laughing loudly.

“See?” He said, blinking tears from several of his eyes. “She can’t stand us! It’s a riot every time!”

“That did look like fun, I’ll give you that,” Stan chuckled. “In fact, I think I’ll give it a go next!”

“Great! But there are some warnings about the game that I must give you,” Fred said, becoming serious. “It is good fun, but you need to be careful about which humans you try it with and where you try it. Some aren’t scared at all, and will attack you instead of running away. Two of my brothers got crushed by choosing the wrong humans, and three of my sisters were drowned in sinks. Just be careful, even though the thrill is in the risk.”

“Alright, I’ll be careful,” Stan said dismissively. “Come on, I want to play!” With that he inched closer to the edge of the sofa, scanning the room beyond. His hairy legs were quivering as he waited impatiently and he clicked his jaws together in irritation. Soon, the floorboards began quaking once again, and a blond-haired child of about four years old came galloping into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

Laughing, Stan shot out from under the sofa, his legs moving like a skeletal hand with too many fingers. The child saw him and stopped in her tracks. After a second or two of scrutiny, the child seized a slipper from next to an armchair and squashed Stan flat. Smack! Smack! Smack! Without a word the child walked out of the room, leaving a brown smear on the laminate where he had been.

“Bugger…” Fred cursed sadly. “I did warn him!” Fred shook his head with regret before stealthily moving off in the direction of the conservatory. Well, it would be a shame to waste those fat bluebottles…

 

Gemini

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Note: This piece was awarded 2nd Place in Esther Newton’s Flash Fiction competition.

See link for details: https://esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com/flash-fiction-competition/

Gemini

By Adam Dixon

I think someone is watching me. Not ‘watching over’ me, but actually watching me. I get strange feelings whenever I am alone, usually an odd tickling sensation between my shoulder blades, as if someone is glaring at my back. There is nothing there, of course. Not physically, anyway.

When I am drifting from deep sleep towards wakefulness, I sometimes see a figure floating above me. In the split second before I start into full consciousness, I catch a glimpse of the figure. I am certain that it is a baby. A spectral new-born that hovers above me, gazing down at my resting body. In that second, I can see accusation and pain in those big, seemingly innocent eyes… I don’t think the ghost of my twin sister approves of me surviving her.

I wonder what her purpose is, watching me like this. It makes me anxious, and since childhood my insomnia hasn’t abated. Whenever my heavy eyelids close and I unwillingly succumb to the oblivion of sleep, I know that she will be there when I wake up. Watching. Waiting. According to our mother she had been holding on to me tightly in the womb right up until the end. She didn’t want to let me go…Read More »

Bad For Business

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Bad for Business

By Adam Dixon

George pressed the call button and said, “Mrs. Whitfield, you have a visitor.” A few seconds later the phone receiver crackled and a confused, high-pitched voice barked a reply.

“A visitor? Who is it, George? I’m not expecting to see anyone until tomorrow.”

“A tall gentleman with a large moustache and a bowler hat, Mrs. Whitfield,” George responded patiently. “He hasn’t give a name, he said that you would know him from that description. Shall I send him in?” The response was barely a heartbeat in coming this time.

“Oh, good Lord! Yes, George, send him in at once!”

George smiled at the man standing in front of him. He was in his fifties, his face impassive and his eyes steely grey orbs floating above an enormous walrus moustache. He stood erect with both hands clasped behind his back, his long black coat giving him the look of a funeral director.

“Mrs. Whitfield will see you now, sir,” George said, gesturing towards the door to his right. “Please go ahead and let yourself in.” The man gave him a curt nod before striding resolutely towards the door. His back was straight and his eyes were set dead ahead. As he passed, George’s smile faltered and a shiver ran up his spine. He smelled…strange. It was a musty scent yet somehow acidic, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Whoever he was, he gave George the creeps. The man opened the door to Mrs. Whitfield’s office and without a word he entered her inner sanctuary, slamming it behind him.

George sat at his desk staring after him, bewildered. Who on earth was that? He thought to himself. Mrs. Whitfield had seemed rattled, and that made George uneasy. This man was quite different from the usual suspects who dragged themselves into his employer’s office, seeking her legal aid concerning matters malignant and benign. For one, he seemed very sure of himself, whereas most of the people who passed through George’s line of sight were either quivering wrecks or hopeless optimists.

To pass the time, George decided to speculate on who this mysterious stranger could be. Perhaps he was an old client who needed help again, or he was a former adversary of Mrs. Whitfield’s? She had practiced law as a barrister several years ago, and this man had the look of a professional about him. Maybe he had crossed swords with Mrs. Whitfield in the past, and had come back for some personal reason. Embittered by a sound defeat at her legal prowess, possibly? That was interesting enough, he mused.

He could be Mrs. Whitfield’s estranged husband! He thought with excitement, his earlier discomfort vanishing. She had separated from Mr. Whitfield before starting up her own business, and perhaps he had come back wanting a slice of the cake. Perhaps he is an acquaintance of Mr. Whitfield, he thought, coming here on his behalf. Very juicy, that notion. He’d have to share that nugget with Debra from accounts. Maybe he was her lover? This one made George chuckle and he dismissed it immediately. Mrs. Whitfield was, although charming and attractive in her own way, completely asexual. Besides, the man George had let into her office didn’t exactly look like a man incensed by desire. No, come to think of it, he looked more like a man intent on doing some harm.

This last thought made him uneasy once again. George chided himself for considering such groundless notions, but he couldn’t help turning to stare at the office door, regardless. He sat in silence, straining his ears in the hope of catching a hint of the proceedings within. All he could make out were the muffled voices of Mrs. Whitfield and the stranger. It didn’t sound like they were arguing, so that was a relief. Soon, George’s curiosity got the better of him, and he gingerly picked up the phone receiver and held it to his ear. Mrs. Whitfield often forgot to toggle off the call button, which meant that George could eavesdrop on her meetings. Not a particularly noble, or indeed legal, thing to do, but it passed the time on slow days. Listening in on some of those conversations was like hearing a radio broadcast of The Jeremy Kyle Show. But this one wasn’t like that at all.

“I trust you realise why I’ve come to you now,” the man was saying, his voice a deep bass rumble.

“Yes, yes, of course I do,” Mrs Whitfield’s usually chirpy voice held an edge of tension. “But…does it have to be now? I’ve just gotten my life readjusted and my plans are secure. Things are going very well at present.”

“My dear woman!” The man laughed unpleasantly. “One could hardly expect this moment to come when it is convenient, could one? No, you have had ten years of success to this very hour, and now the payment is at hand. You must come with me!” The man spat the final sentence, and George could have sworn that his voice had become a rasping snarl for a moment.

“No, I will not!” Mrs. Whitfield was defiant. “Stay away from me!” George had no idea what was going on, but he had the feeling that things were about to turn ugly. He sprung out of his chair and rushed towards the office door. As he reached it, he heard a blood-curdling screech emit from within the office. He froze, unable to process what he was hearing. He then forced himself onwards, wrenching open the door and stepping inside.

The scene which greeted him defied all his expectations. The short, slightly plump Mrs. Whitfield was standing in the centre of the room holding aloft a large wooden crucifix. Her eyes were wild and there seemed to be a strange glow emanating from her hands. Backed against the wall, cowering and still screaming, was the strange man. He glanced past the arm which was shielding his sight, and George saw with horror that his eyes had turned blood-red. Half of his face was horribly burned and smoking skin was barely clinging to his skull. His walrus moustache was smouldering, the stink of burning hair and flesh filling the room.

“You ungrateful whore!” The man bellowed, his voice rasping again. “We had a deal, bound in blood! I will not be denied!” Mrs. Whitfield took a step towards the creature, brandishing her crucifix like a blazing torch.

“Yes, we did,” She glared furiously at the figure huddled against the wall. “But I’m a lawyer, dearie, and I always find a way out!” She flung out her right hand and a small glass sphere filled with water flew across the room. It struck the creature on his arm, shattering instantly and soaking it from head to foot. The creature bellowed in agony, and layers of skin began searing off its face and hands. Its moustache fell away as it burned, the impressive spectacle obliterated in seconds. At this final insult, the creature pointed a trembling finger at Mrs. Whitfield.

“You’ll pay dearly for this, woman!” It spat, baring its teeth in fury and pain. It straightened up, clasped its hands together as if in prayer, and abruptly vanished with a blinding flash of light. The after-image of the room still showed the purple silhouette of the creature before it had disappeared. George stood by the doorway, blinking rapidly and trying to make sense of what he had seen. He looked at Mrs. Whitfield, a dozen questions rendering him tongue-tied. Mrs. Whitfield lowered her crucifix and gave him a level stare.

“Well, that takes care of that pest, for now at least.” She said, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, dearie, but it can’t be helped.” She frowned at the wet patch of carpet. “Hmmm, my contacts omitted to tell me whether or not Holy Water stains carpets. How irritating…” She trailed off, shaking her head. She smoothed her grey suit jacket absent-mindedly before glancing back up at George.

“Well, George? What are you still doing here?” She asked, somewhat dismissively. “Don’t you have some files to be checking for me? A few for Mr. Black’s wrongful imprisonment case, I believe?”

“I…Yes, Mrs. Whitfield, I’ll…erm…I’ll get on those right away.” George responded, dumb-founded. He turned around and walked with shaky legs back to his desk. He leaned heavily against the wooden frame for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Oh, and George?” He started as the phone receiver crackled. He could almost see the amused smirk on her face by her tone. He pressed the call button.

“Yes, Mrs. Whitfield?” George replied, shaken.

“Be a dear and don’t mention that little incident to anyone, will you?” She asked nonchalantly. “Demons in the workplace are terribly bad for business! Many thanks!”

With that, the phone was silent, leaving George staring at it in astonishment.

Fever of Venus

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Fever of Venus

By Adam Dixon

She stirred the bubbling green mixture in the pan, the heat from the rising steam warming her hand just enough to be pleasurable. It was hard work, brewing magic potions, and Andi had to find some pleasure in the process whenever possible. She closed her eyes and stretched, cracking her back deliciously for a few seconds. The problem was that modern witches simply didn’t have the time to make potions anymore; the effort of finding and preparing the multitude of ingredients was beyond them. Almost all of them had demanding jobs to maintain, such as being lawyers, business tycoons and high-ranking politicians; occupations which satisfied their own sinister, crafty agendas and allowed them to succeed in the world. They still had their spells and arcane hobbies, but they no longer had the leisure time to invest in potion-crafting. That is where Andi came in: as a member of an established and well-favoured family of alchemists she was trusted to fill this area of neglect in the lives of modern witches. Andi had learned her trade from her father, a near-legendary potions master, and she had been successful long enough to consider herself an expert in her own right. She brewed potions for uses good, foul and anything in between for a number of witches who paid her handsomely for her efforts. So, it was hard work, but the rewards were fantastic.

She was currently brewing a complex potion which rendered the unfortunate drinker paralysed whilst fully conscious. The effect could be moderated depending on the strength of the dosage; for example, two drops would cause paralysis for ten minutes, but half the bottle would incapacitate the drinker for twelve hours. It was a potion which had been created by Andi’s father, and it had become rapidly desired by witches who wanted to add something devious to their collections. As expected, it had also proven quite popular among those who had a proclivity for ill-acquired trinkets. Her customer this time was a young witch who had a taste for successful artists; enough said, thought Andi with a wry smile. She began stirring the potion first clockwise and then anti-clockwise in intervals, as the recipe required. She soon lost herself in the rhythm of her work and began to daydream, working by instinct rather than concentration.

Andi was brought back to reality after about ten minutes by a rattling sound coming from behind her. She turned around and saw that the Blood Receptacle was trembling on its pedestal. The Blood Receptacle was a large bowl fashioned from obsidian, making it very dark and strangely luminous as it sat proudly on top of a marble pillar in the corner of Andi’s laboratory. The bowl was filled three-quarters of the way up with blood, the viscous, crimson liquid partially visible through the glass. The blood was slopping to and fro in the bowl of its own accord, seemingly frantic. Andi sighed and turned the heat down on her Bunsen burner before moving towards the pillar. For all their readiness to embrace modernity, some witches still insisted on traditional modes of contact; Andi would much rather that they used the telephone.  She approached the insistent bowl and quietened it by placing her hands on either side of it. I hate this part, she thought to herself. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her lips to the surface and took in a mouthful of blood. Andi then straightened, and after waiting for ten seconds to pass she spat the coppery liquid back into the bowl with disgust and relief. The blood rippled in the bowl, and slowly the colour was drained until a clear, reflective surface was left. Moments later, the image of a face came into view, blurring slightly as the ritual was completed. A stern, female face of middling years stared out of the bowl and regarded Andi with cold grey eyes.

“Andromeda Hairlock, I presume?” A sharp voice issued forth, the sound wavering slightly. Andi beamed into the bowl.

“Yes, that’s me!” She said cheerfully. “But please, call me Andi. How may I help you today, lady sorceress?”

“I am in the market for a particular potion, Miss Hairlock,” The witch stated brusquely, her manner business-like and efficient. “Your establishment comes highly recommended.” The woman paused for a moment to peer more closely at Andi. “Although, I expected you to be much older, considering the strength of the appraisal.” The pride Andi had felt at the woman’s first words faded quickly and were replaced with annoyance. Her youth was a constant hindrance to her when dealing with prospective customers. She longed for the day when her glossy black hair turned grey, then she would perhaps encourage believability upon first encounters.

“Well, I do hope I can be of service, madam,” Andi said, ignoring her irritation. “Which potion are you looking to acquire, Miss…?”

“Ironbark. Clytemnestra Ironbark.” The witch replied, seemingly annoyed at having been asked. Andi gasped.

“My lady sorceress, it is indeed an honour to meet you!” Andi spluttered, inclining her head in what she hoped was a respectful manner. “Great elephants, I wonder what my father would say if he knew I was talking to a witch of such infamy and power!”

“Yes, I had hoped to enlist the services of your esteemed father,” the witch said matter-of-factly. “But I heard that he is currently indisposed, which is a frightful bother.” Andi’s smiled faded slightly.

“Yes, my lady sorceress,” She replied, caught off guard. “Father had a run in with a particularly nasty goblin who was trying to steal some of his notes. He is healing well, but remains unable to work for the time being.”

“As I said, a frightful bother,” Ironbark said coldly. “In my experience there are no other types of goblins but nasty ones. Loathsome creatures. Your father ought to have been more careful, I say. But no matter, his daughter will have to suffice.”

Andi had by now decided that she didn’t like this obnoxious, arrogant sorceress, but she could never turn down the opportunity to work for anyone so well-known. She bit back an angry retort and simply offered Ironbark a small smile and a nod, indicating that she should continue.

“I’ll say once again, I am in the market for a very specific potion,” Ironbark said brusquely. “I am prepared to meet any price for its production, and I am likewise prepared to wait as long as it takes for it to be brewed to perfection. I have never accepted lesser potions, Miss Hairlock, and I have absolutely no intention of starting with one as vital as this.”

“Understood, madam,” Andi replied warily. “I will do my utmost to provide the potion you seek. Which potion would that be?” I bet it’s a nasty one, thought Andi. She seems like a nasty sort of witch in person, and some of the stories about her are just terrible.

“Yes, well…” Ironbark hesitated, her image rippling slightly as she frowned and looked away. Why is she stalling? Andi pondered, curious.

“Miss Hairlock, I am looking to acquire the most potent reversal of a love potion which you are capable of concocting.” Ironbark said quickly. “As I said, money and time are no object, but I would prefer it to be created as soon as professionally possible. Can you aid me?”

Well, that was a surprise! Andi was stunned. Reverse a love potion? Clytemnestra Ironbark did not seem like the kind of woman who would even consider using a love potion in the first place, let alone reversing one. This was very interesting.

“Well, yes, lady sorceress, I certainly can aid you,” Andi said, taken aback, “There is no potion created which cannot be reversed. However, I will need to know which specific love potion was administered, so that I can correctly fashion its antidote.”

“Therein lies the problem, Miss Hairlock,” Ironbark stated, her cold eyes boring in to Andi’s. Was that desperation Andi saw in them? Surely not… “I…ah…do not know which potion I used, truthfully. I was hoping that you would be able to identify the draught from the information I can provide. First of all, I was informed that the potion I purchased had a short-term effect, possibly two or three days. I was additionally told that it was brewed from mermaid tears and foxglove at moonlight.”

“That sounds like Merlin’s Seduction,” Andi said, trying hard not to smirk. “You are correct, it’s only supposed to last for a couple of days. It focuses primarily on firing up the lust of the drinker; to render them completely enamoured and with an insatiable desire for-“

“Yes, yes, there is no need to spell it out!” Ironbark interrupted sharply, her cheeks turning slightly crimson. Andi had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. This was becoming a hilarious conversation!

“My apologies, lady sorceress,” Andi bowed her head, as much out of respect as to hide a wolfish grin. “But I assume that something has gone awry?”

“That is correct,” Ironbark said, regaining her stern poise and raising her chin slightly. “The effect is as described, but it has continued now for more than a month with no signs of…abating.” The flush returned to the witch’s cheeks. “The potion was red in colour, easily disguised in wine and it smelled faintly of wolfberries. Can you infer anything with that information?”

“Yes, I believe that I can,” Andi replied, her good cheer returning. “It sounds like you were wrongly sold a very powerful draught called the Fever of Venus. It is designed to increase the…erm…urges, of the drinker towards the first person they see. Depending on the strength of the dosage, the effect can last for months.”

“Great elephants!” Ironbark yelped, her eyes widening. She cleared her throat loudly, embarrassed by her outburst.

“But it is reversible,” continued Andi as if nothing had happened. “I will need to acquire some rare ingredients and brew it in a very complicated way, but I can do it.” She paused for a moment, allowing herself a visible smirk this time. “However, it may take me up to a week to complete the potion. Do you think you can…erm…hold off the…afflicted, for that long?”

“I suppose I will have to, Miss Hairlock!” Ironbark’s reply was haughty, and she was clearly incensed by Andi’s amusement. “I shall keep the wretch at bay until then, I am certain. Just ensure that you craft the item in that time, and not a day later!”

“Of course, lady sorceress,” Andi was insistent. “I will get to work this instant. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No, that will suffice,” Ironbark said almost rudely. “Send me an invoice for the ingredients you require and I will match the price without hesitation. Your fee will be generous as well, should your draught perform as expected.”

“It will, lady sorceress, on my Father’s good name it will.” Andi was quite keen to get rid of the unpleasant woman now, and betrayed her impatience slightly with her curt reply. Ironbark nodded, and after a moment spoke again.

“I…ahh…I would appreciate your discretion and professionalism in this matter, Miss Hairlock. This situation could prove disastrous to my reputation if ever it became public knowledge, and as I am sure you are aware, a witch is nothing without her reputation.”

“Of course, lady sorceress,” Andi replied in a serious tone. “My lips are sealed on this matter, don’t worry.”

“Good.” The old witch seemed greatly relieved. “Until next time, then.” With that, the image of the woman began to ripple, and with each wave the clear liquid began to turn crimson. After a short while the stern, yet embarrassed face of the infamous sorceress had disappeared, and Andi was left staring at her amused reflection in a pool of blood. She stood upright and lazily wiped the blood from her lips. Etiquette required that she did not do so during their conversation, another reason Andi wished that modern witches would ditch the macabre use of the Blood Receptacle. Seriously, what was wrong with the telephone? Or Skype, even? Surely that would save everyone involved a lot of bother!

Andi shook her head and walked over to her desk. She flipped open a huge leather-bound book filled with intricate drawings and long, detailed lists. The book was ancient, well-worn and lovingly preserved. She quickly located the page for the Fever of Venus and she spent the next few minutes working out the ingredients needed to reverse it and noting them down on her iPad. As usual, this blend of the traditional and the modern made her grin, and her thoughts turned to the infamous Clytemnestra Ironbark’s unfortunate situation. She found it amazing that such a historically shrewd and cautious woman could be so easily duped. She also found it hilarious.

“Modern witches,” she said to herself, chuckling. “Still just as clueless as everyone else!”

Fair Emma

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Fair Emma

By Adam Dixon

The streets of Whitechapel were deathly quiet that night. The street lamps were sparse and their feeble glow barely penetrated the November mist. There were shadows on every corner, and in one of them lurked a solitary, patient woman. Jackie stood motionless, her eyes on the small lodgings across the street. Standing on street corners had become a familiar occupation of hers of late, but she was not there for her trade. A fellow night-worker was completing a transaction with a client, and they had entered the small house less than half an hour ago. She stood calmly, her gaze boring into the wooden door just yards in front of her.

Soon, a man staggered outside, cursing loudly as he caught his foot on the door frame. He almost tripped, but somehow managed to remain upright and wobbled off into the night, belching out a bawdy song and chuckling to himself. After a few minutes the street was silent once again, and Jackie slowly approached the house. It was in a state of disrepair, with the door a little off its hinges and one of the panes of glass broken in the window next to it. Raising a gloved hand, Jackie knocked softly on the door.

No response. Jackie glanced up the street in both directions. Satisfied that there was not another soul nearby, she knocked again, more firmly this time.

“Mary, let me in!” She called, her voice just above a whisper. She hesitated when she heard no movement from within.

“Come on, Ginger, let me in.” ’Ginger’ was the pet name affectionately given to the house’s occupant by the other working women, so Jackie was fairly confident that using it would help. Sure enough, soft footsteps approached the door and the coat draped across the broken window pane twitched. A moment later the door was opened, and Mary stood peering out uncertainly, dressed in her nightclothes. Mary blinked in surprise as she registered who it was.

“Oh, it’s you, Jackie! My, what a surprise you gave me! I though you was that drunk fella comin’ back! What brings you here at this time? Come in, come in.” She stepped to one side, allowing Jackie to stride past the threshold. It was dark inside, as there was only one candle lit. Once inside, Jackie turned to face Mary, who was bolting the door. The bolt was on the outside of the house, and Mary was reaching through the broken window pane to draw it. Jackie took a moment to study her. Also known as “Fair Emma” by her clients, Mary was young, attractive and buxom. She had fallen into poverty and then onto the streets for a living because life was cruel and uncaring. Jackie certainly didn’t care; it was like that for everybody, and it was only work, after all.

“Don’t mind me, love. Can’t be too careful these days, can we?” Mary offered, fiddling with the bolt. “Not after those poor girls have been done over, God have mercy on ‘em.”

“No, we certainly can’t.” Jackie replied, and casually removed the long knife from inside her cloak. She held it loose in her right hand, her intense stare fixed at the back of Mary’s head. The woman chattered on in her charming Irish way as she struggled with the rusty bolt, but Jackie just let the noise wash over her in a muffled haze. She could see a good section of Mary’s neck exposed as she leaned over with her head cocked to one side. The pale, recently-cleaned skin seemed to call to her, and she could almost smell the blood rushing through the veins and arteries within. Her breathing became shallower and her eyes glazed over. Her knife hand twitched, and she began to creep forwards.

“Oh, this bleedin’ thing!” Mary huffed, quite frustrated with her lack of success. “I’ll have the landlord’s guts for this! How’s a woman ‘sposed to feel safe in her own home, I ask you?”

Jackie didn’t answer, but took another step towards her. Her free hand reached out and hovered just behind Mary’s left ear. So close, thought Jackie, her excitement reaching almost painful heights. She edged closer still…

“There!” Mary declared triumphantly, standing up straight as she slammed the bolt home. She planted her hands on her hips, a satisfied grin on her face.

“Nice and safe now! No wrong-un’s gettin’ in ‘ere tonight, eh, Jackie?” She chuckled at the joke and turned around. Her eyes widened as Jackie’s hand clamped around her mouth and the raised knife fell.

Two hours later, Jackie staggered through the dark streets of London, her rapture so intense that it made her unsteady. She leaned against a brick wall in an alley for a moment, trying to collect her dazed thoughts. She was dimly aware that the clothes she was wearing were not her own. That’s right, she thought dreamily, these are Mary’s clothes…I burned mine as fuel for the grate; there wasn’t enough light…. Just as well, considering all the blood. Oh, but she had been brutal! She didn’t know why she had gone so far this time, as Mary was no different from the previous women. Perhaps it was because this time it had been private, with no chance of a witness and no chance of being disturbed? Or perhaps it was simply because Mary was young and attractive, and life had not yet succeeded in dampening her good spirits. Possibly. It didn’t matter, regardless, Mary was dead and the beast within Jackie was slumbering once again, satisfied with another active night.

Jackie wondered what the newspapers would make of the attack once Mary was discovered. It would be one hell of a story, and the press would undoubtedly link it to the string of recent murders around London. Jackie giggled as she thought of how close they had come with their headlines before, but that their misconception would ensure her safety. As far as London was concerned, the monstrous Jack the Ripper will have claimed another life and was still at large. Jackie straightened and walked briskly through the morning mist. Oh yes, the Ripper had indeed been hunting that night, and she had loved every second of it.

Don’t Look

AJ.Dixon4 Comments

Don’t Look

By Adam Dixon

I can’t turn on the light. I just can’t. I simply cannot risk seeing it again. Everyone knows that they can’t get you if you don’t see them. I’ll wash my hands in the dark, that way I won’t have to look. She’s taken down the bin liner I taped over it this afternoon; next time I’ll use nails. She doesn’t understand, but how can she? I mean, why should a grown man have such an irrational, crippling fear? It doesn’t make sense. She hasn’t seen it, but I have. I know it’s there.

I step into the bathroom slowly, my bare feet losing warmth to the cold tiles. Three steps and I’m at the toilet. My business is shortly concluded, I flush and move towards the sink. My eyes are lowered. I know she’s taken it down, and I hate her for it. It is my only protection. I turn on the taps with shaking hands, the thrill of dread running up my spine. I keep my head down, concentrating. I’ve nearly caught myself looking a few time before, almost seeing something in the corner of my eye… I will not look up! Warm water and lavender-scented suds calm me somewhat, but my shoulder-blades itch. I know it is there. But I won’t look up. I won’t…

A cat screeches into the twilight on the street somewhere. Startled, I look up.

It’s there! I’ve looked into the mirror and I can see it behind me! My wide eyes are pale moons in the glass, and over my shoulder stands the shadowy figure of my nightmares. It is tall and its eyes are a match for mine. Its grin is rictus, its outstretched hand a claw. I open my mouth to scream, to wake her up. She’s only across the hallway! But it’s too late. The claw pierces my shoulder and the darkness swallows me.