Friday Flash - The Duel

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A veil of fog hid Browning Hall from view. Disappointed tourists in brightly-coloured raincoats milled around on the lawn. They'd come early to avoid the crowds, but the English weather thwarted their plans to see the house in all its splendor with no people in the way.

Brenda Whitstaff weaved in and out of the throng, trying to usher her coach party into the house. They shooed her away, insisting that they wanted to see Browning's famous Palladian facade. The tourists looked this way and that, as if they expected the house to loom out of the fog.

It’ll be like something out of a Hammer flick if it does, thought Brenda.

"Excuse me? Excuse me? We want to see the house," said a rotund woman in green wellies. She pointed in the vague direction of the Hall.

"And indeed you can, Mrs Lazenby. But why not have a look inside the house while you wait for the fog to clear? They've got a fine collection of early Impressionist paintings, and they do lovely cake in the cafe," replied Brenda.

"We want to see the house," said the woman. Her mouth set in a firm line.

"Mummy! Look!" cried the little girl beside the woman. She tugged at her mother's sleeve.

All eyes followed the girl's finger. The swirling fog thinned over the lawn. Brenda made out a figure in the remaining mist. He was tall, wearing shiny knee high boots, and an enormous hat that was almost engulfed by the feather sweeping around its brim. A white collar spilled out of the fitted jacket that fell to mid-thigh. He leaned on a sword. Brenda could see the walled garden beyond the lawn if she looked through him.

"It's Charles I! It has to be!" exclaimed a woman to Brenda's right.

"No no no, Charles was a short man, very weak. This fellow is too tall," replied a red-haired man in plaid. He peered at the Cavalier over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.

A second figure emerged from the mist, looming behind the Cavalier. Clad in full samurai armour, the newcomer raised a katana in a fighting stance that Brenda recognised from the movies. The samurai sprang forward. The Cavalier feigned surprise at the attack but swung his sword to meet the katana. The metal sang in the cool morning air. The samurai dipped and wove, his katana seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. The Cavalier parried and thrust, the fresh sunlight glinting through his blade.

Silence fell among the tourists as they watched the battle. They stared with open mouths, unsure what to do. Some of them looked at Brenda, wondering if this was a new visitor experience put on by the owners of the Hall to boost numbers. She shook her head – this was new to her too.

The samurai lifted his arms to swing the katana in a killing stroke. The Cavalier darted forward, exploiting a tiny gap in the warrior’s armour. The Cavalier buried his sword up to the hilt. The samurai dropped his katana, wheeling around in a dizzy circle. Brenda saw the rest of the sword protruding from his back. The samurai dropped to his knees, and keeled over. The Cavalier looked down at his fallen opponent and bent to pull his sword free. The pair vanished from sight.

The tourists erupted in a clamour of questions and exclamations. Half of them crowded around Brenda for answers. The other half tottered around on the lawn, taking photographs and pointing at empty patches of grass.

* * *

"I say, old chap. Are you alright?" asked Fowlis Westerby. He stretched out a gloved hand to the samurai. The warrior accepted it, and clambered to his feet.

"Fine," replied the samurai.

"That was a most impressive show. Can't thank you enough."

"Is nothing. I won last time."

Fowlis chuckled, remembering their melodramatic duel in the ballroom at Chatsworth House. Then he remembered the sword through his gut and winced. The samurai might be the finest stunt actor in the afterlife, but he did get rather carried away.

"Until next time."

The samurai shook Fowlis' hand and winked out of sight, recalled to HQ for reassignment. Fowlis gazed across the lawn at the tourists, still gawping and snapping photos of thin air. He chuckled again. The story of a seventeenth century Cavalier and a seventh century Samurai having a fight to the death on the lawn of a nineteenth century manor would be all over the Internet by tea time.

That's sure to win me the title again, thought Fowlis.

He straightened his hat before he disappeared, bound for HQ.

* * *

This marks the third flash fiction outing of my Cavalier ghost, Fowlis Westerby. He's the star of his own supernatural YA novel, currently in the redraft stage. You can enjoy his other adventures here - First Impressions and The Priest Hole.

20 Things I Miss

Tweet Yesterday, over on her Kommein blog, Deb Ng posted a list of thirty things that she misses. It really got me thinking, so I couldn't help but make a list of twenty things that I miss. I would have done thirty but it would have essentially boiled down to things I miss about my home town.

1) 80s kids' cartoons like Count Duckula or Dangermouse.
2) School holidays.
3) Staying up until 4am just to talk random nonsense with someone online.
4) Receiving actual letters in the post, not just marketing circulars or bills.
5) Wispa Cappuccinos.
6) Having a garden, and not having to visit a park just to enjoy green space.
7) Proper phone calls to catch up, instead of relying on Facebook statuses to see what someone's up to.
8) My rabbit.
9) The clacking of old keys on a typewriter.
10) The deathly silence of a week day morning in the suburbs.
11) Being only half an hour away from the coast.

12) Pretty much the North East in general.
13) Cinema prices being less than a fiver.
14) Dressing up to go out to dinner.
15) Going to the theatre.
16) People talking to one another on public transport.
17) Mobile phones that simply let you call someone.
18) Being able to see the stars.
19) Manners.
20) When people were famous for having a talent for something besides getting themselves in the paper/on TV.

What about you? What do you miss?

Photo Prompt 25

Tweet Twenty-fifth prompt, ready and waiting.

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The twenty-fifth prompt is Soldier.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - No Flash

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Bridget Ledersmark made her way through the group from the coach trip. The tourists clustered in the entrance to the exhibition. They clutched pamphlets detailing the history of the ancient Egyptian treasures on display. The attendant nodded to her - she'd already run through the rules with the group. No eating or drinking, no running, no re-entry, no touching the exhibits, and no flash photography. Bridget grimaced.

I'd be amazed if any of this lot knew how to take photos without the flash on those fancy cameras of theirs, she thought. They spend all that money and leave them on automatic.

The tourists jostled one another into the exhibition. Bridget followed, smiling at their enthusiasm for fragments of dirty wood or tattered scraps of yellowed papyrus. An elderly woman engaged her in conversation about the faded sarcophagus in room 3. Bridget was amazed to discover Mrs Brown was a former academic, specialising in the Book of the Dead. They stood discussing the nobleman quietly decomposing in the display case.

The other tourists reached room 6. Various trinkets and broken pieces of pottery sat in the cases around the room, accompanied by photographs of the archaeologist that discovered them. A single display case occupied the end of the room. In it, the blackened remains of a priest leaned against an iron bar holding him upright. Fragments of cloth clung to the dark skin, and empty sockets stared out at the gawping tourists. A single crack ran the length of the case from the floor to the top.

"Mummy! Daddy! Look, a mummy!" exclaimed a blond child.

He tugged on his father's sleeve, pointing at the mummy. His mother knelt on the floor beside him, reading out the description from the information board. According to the museum's curators, the priest's remains were discovered in 1937, and he had toured museums ever since. The blond boy stared up at the dead priest in amazement.

A brand new Canon 550D hung around his father's neck. He flicked the camera on, ignoring the settings for aperture, white balance and ISO. Leslie Kinnock didn't even know what ISO meant, but he knew the 550D was an 18 mega-pixel beauty with several automatic shooting modes. A blue-haired girl stood near the case, snapping the mummy with an old manual camera. Leslie found its click and the whirr irritating. He smirked to think her film would be ruined.

Why, she's not even using a flash! he thought.

The blue-haired girl noticed him waiting and stepped aside to allow him to take his shot. He popped up the on-board flash. The girl opened her mouth to speak as he pressed the shutter button. The flash lit up the glass, the reflected white light filling his viewfinder.

"No!" shouted Bridget, entering room 6 with Mrs Brown.

Leslie turned to look at her. Bridget wore an expression halfway between fury and fear. The sound of breaking glass caught his attention before he could review his image. Twenty pairs of eyes swivelled towards him. A dried hand snaked out of a jagged hole in the case behind him. The blond boy screamed as blackened fingers fastened around the 550D. The mummy jerked its arm and Leslie lurched forwards, crashing into the case. The glass exploded. Leslie fell to the floor, his camera still gripped by the dead priest.

The tourists stared, frozen to the spot. The mummy heaved on the camera. The strap snapped, flapping across Leslie's chest. The mummy closed its fist, crushing in the camera into shards of plastic and glass. It opened its fist, dumping the remains of the 550D onto the floor. It bent towards Leslie and, after drawing fresh air across 4000 year old vocal chords, rasped in his ear.

"No flash photography!"

Bridget and Mrs Brown picked their way through the room. Mrs Brown helped the mummy back into his shattered case, while Bridget helped Leslie to his feet. She glared at the dead priest. He would end up costing them a fortune in insurance claims.

* * *

This flash was inspired by all of those people who insist on taking expensive cameras to museums, and then using the flash to photograph things in glass cases. I consider these people to be complete tools. So yes, that IS my photo accompanying the story and no, I didn't use the flash. A longer shutter speed and a wider aperture will do the hard work for you.

Photo Prompt 24

Tweet Twenty-fourth prompt, ready and waiting.

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The twenty-fourth prompt is Jester.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - The Painted Man

Tweet This is written for Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday Challenge #198 - Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.

I walk along the street, my ornamental spurs jangling at my heels. I do not use them for riding, as I do not believe in the mistreatment of animals. I have suffered more than enough at the hands of human cruelty myself over the years. I shan't put a beast through the same.

Yonder lies the tavern, looming from the darkness like a blessed port in a storm. Yet I must not call it a tavern in these parts. I must remember to refer to it as a saloon. It would not do for the local populace to realise I am not from the area, although I am sure that one look at me will tell them that all the same. I would not imagine that these people will have seen many men covered in so many tattoos that their skin glows a luminescent blue. Indeed, I daresay few people in this entire country have seen such a man. Why else would they flock to see the Painted Man in a travelling show?

Our wrangler approves of my visit to the town. In polite company, he calls himself our manager, but away from the crowds, he treats us as cattle. Mr Virgil Soames is far from genteel. He calls our small fair a medicine show, yet he refers to us as freaks. We are used to his mindless chatter and pay him little mind.

He has sent me into town to drum up business for the show. The conjoined twins loiter elsewhere, papering the walls with handbills. The bearded lady will pay a visit to the barber in the morning. We hope that the townsfolk will be fascinated or appalled – either way, they will pay their pittance to gawp and we shall afford to eat until the next town. It is a wretched way to earn a living, but for folk such as ourselves, we have little else to recommend us, save our difference.

I push open the swing door. The pianist stops hammering out his tune. A bartender stands behind the bar, his mouth hanging open. Each of the patrons stops and turns. Every eye in the room is upon me, and I feel as though I might buckle and fall beneath the weight of their stares. I face this claustrophobia on a nightly basis, yet I suffer all the same for it.

“Hey fella, you ain’t welcome here,” calls a man. He stands near the bar, swaying from side to side. He peers at me through a drunken haze.

“Relax, friends. I mean no harm,” I reply.

“You, er, you sure do look a little, er, different, fella,” says the bartender.

“He’s bluer’n a pecker in a snowstorm!” cries the pianist. A ripple of laughter circuits the saloon. I shift inside my jacket.

“I mean only to tell you fine folk that the Virgil Soames Medicine Show has arrived in town,” I tell them.

I walk across to the wall opposite the door, and paste a handbill to a wooden beam. Virgil’s face beams at me in sepia ink.

“You one of them circus freak types then?” asks the bartender. He stares at the handbill.

“I could scarcely be a county marshall with an appearance like this,” I reply.

The saloon’s patrons laugh again. My discomfort lessens; they are laughing with me, not at me. The pianist scowls at me. He raises one arm and points across the saloon. A young woman sits in the shadows at the back. Alarm spreads across her face and she shuffles in her seat.

“You should take her, she can join your band of freaks,” shouts the pianist.

I walk across the saloon to where the young woman quakes. I smile down at her, and she offers me the tiny ghost of a smile in return. I hold out my hand to her. She gingerly places her small hand in mine, her skin so normal in a sea of blue. She looks down at my fingers, and notices the tiny painted fauns that frolic in the forest around my thumb. She gasps with delight.

“On what grounds would you have such a delightful creature admitted to a medicine show?” I ask.

“She’s the daughter of a witch. Stands to reason she’s evil too,” says the drunk.

I turn back to the young woman. She stares at the floor, and I feel her hand trembling in mine. She is terrified of these people. I know that kind of terror, and empathy plucks a melody on my heart strings. I lean in close to her ear.

“My dear, you’re clearly no freak, but my employer could use an assistant. Would you care to join our motley crew of artists?” I ask in hushed tones.

Her other hand skates across her belly as her eyes dart between me and the townsfolk. If I’m not much mistaken, I am on the verge of hiring two new people for our travelling show. She nods at me.

“Ladies and gentleman! I am proud to announce an addition to our show!” I roar, turning to face the patrons with a flourish. I hold the young woman’s hand aloft. The townsfolk cheer, thinking their young woman is leaving to become a freak. She gives a nervous smile, and allows me to lead her to the door.

“I hope we shall see you all soon?”

I reach into my pocket and draw out a knife. I flick it with practiced ease, and it sails across the room. The blade hits the beam with a thud, and it holds the handbill in place. The townsfolk gasp, staring at the knife in stunned silence. I leave the saloon with my new friend, confident that we shall do a roaring trade in this town.

* * *

This story acts as a teaser for the next Choose Your Online Adventures tale, set in the Old West! I've been handling the story's "freak show" contingent, and figured I'd introduce you to one of them...

Book Review - Blood Meridian

Tweet Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West was first published in 1985. As Cormac McCarthy's fifth book, it comes well before his more famous works, No Country for Old Men and The Road (both adapted for the screen in recent years). The book is a fictional account based upon both true events and a memoir - Samuel Chamberlain's book, My Confession: The Recollections of a Rogue, detailing his time with the notorious Glanton gang.

Blood Meridian follows the exploits of a teenaged runaway from Tennessee who finds himself caught up in the Indian massacres along the Texas-Mexico border in 1849. We know him only as "the kid", and through him we are introduced to the rest of the Glanton gang. Real life figure John Joel Glanton, born in 1819, led his band of scalp hunters through senseless violence in the borderlands at a time when the price for Indian scalps was high. Unfortunately, Glanton seemed disinclined to restrict his butchery to Indians, with seemingly anyone he encountered falling prey to his murderous intent. McCarthy details with almost fiendish delight their depraved excesses as they traverse the unforgiving landscape in which they find themselves.

Blood Meridian has been hailed as "epic", and one of the finest novels of the 20th century, but I have to say...I can't exactly see why. The seemingly endless passages of description descend into repetition, and McCarthy's refusal to use quotation marks means trying to follow dialogue becomes a real chore - a task made even more difficult since few of the characters exist as anything more that caricatures or brief sketches, so their words can't be identified through their "voice". Indeed, it's nigh-on impossible to warm to any of the characters, particularly the blank kid. McCarthy sets up the insane Judge Holden as the primary antagonist, and while his lengthy diatribes provide an intellectual counterpoint to the mindless violence of the gang, eventually they become a parody of themselves and the comparison collapses inward.

I have no doubt that McCarthy included these repetitive exploits to highlight the senseless nature of the gang's behaviour, and to underscore the life of depravity thrust upon the kid after his own fruitless wanderings. I am sure there will be many who may say "Yes, it does go on a bit in places, and he does sometimes seem too fond of his own 'voice' when he's describing something, but that is the point!" Sorry, I'm unconvinced.

That said, for some reason it becomes a real page turner. The overly florid language, which I fully believe would not suffer from the occasional insertion of punctuation, leads into a flow of sorts, and his descriptions of the landscape often verge on sheer brilliance. Many of his metaphors fall flat, but when he nails them, he perfectly evokes mood and setting. It does subvert the expectations of a Western, and the extent of his research oozes from every page - this is not a writer who feels compelled to give his work a Hollywood sheen, and he revels in the harsh reality of it all. I'd even go so far as to say that I was really enjoying it, despite its flaws, right up until the end. Or should I say, the "non-end". For a book that smouldered and burned with the inflamed sense of indignation at such unnecessary atrocities, it simply fizzled out in the last few pages.

3.5 blunt pencils out of 5